The Master stops, and as the pause lengthens, Lydia despondently comes to realise that he has decreed that part of the show to be over. She holds her breath and waits for him to begin the next stage.
She feels him kneel down behind her, and leans back to offer him her arse. He responds by spreading her cheeks, and keeping them apart with one hand, he rubs lubricant on her asshole. The lube is cold and unexpected, and she jerks away involuntarily. He pulls her back towards him and she feels him place the head of his cock against the tight ring of muscle, and braces herself for the pleasurable pain that she knows will come with his thrusts. Her arse is still relatively virginal, and any penetration comes with a heady mix of searing pain and intense pleasure. She does not know if the pleasure stems from the pain itself or the taboo of anal sex, and she doesn’t care.
He plunges into her and she screams as he embeds his cock in her with an air of propriety, his left hand wrapped around her thigh so she can’t try to struggle away from him. He pauses for a moment for her to take in the sensation of his cock in her arse, stretching her out, and then withdraws almost all the way, leaving only the head of his cock inside her. She relaxes for a moment - too soon, as he thrusts back into her again with the familiar sensation of pain and profound pleasure. She begins to wail, a steady keening rhythm, an ode to the pleasure of pain and the pain of pleasure, in sync with his thrusts as they become more measured, and gradually the tone of her shrieks alters from the low pitch of pain to the high pitch of pleasure. She gasps in between squeals and rocks back against him, relishing the new sensation of pain this brings with it, a deeper sensation that is not as sharp as the pain of the initial penetration. He takes this as his cue to bring a new element to their fucking, and as he thrusts into her, brings his palm down flat on her arse in a hard slap that echoes through the room and through her tender flesh. She manages to gasp out a guttural request for more. Each slap sends a jolt straight to her clit, the sensation of her stimulation mingling with the harsh sting of his spanking and the ache from his cock up her arse, so that she doesn’t know where pleasure leaves off and pain starts. He begins to spank her in time with his thrusts, and she writhes below him, not knowing whether to beg him to stop or insist that he never does.
‘You love this, don’t you, you little slut?’ he enquires in a voice loud enough for their captivated audience to hear.
‘Yes’ she murmurs softly.
‘Louder. I want our guests to hear. I want you to tell the whole world what a slut you are.’
‘Yes’, she moans, her voice husky and raw. ‘Yes, I am a slut, and I love this. I don’t want it to stop.’
He spanks her harder for her confession and she squeals again, her cheeks stinging profusely. She rocks back into him, and can feel the tell-tale throbbing that means his orgasm is building. He repositions his left hand so that he still controls her movements with it, but is able to stroke her clitoris with his fingers. She rubs herself against his hand frantically, then lets out a deep growl and comes again. The contractions ripple through her arse and set off his orgasm. He comes deep inside her with a grunt, and she feels his cock throb as it releases his hot streams of semen into her. She lets out a final moan and collapses under him, and his cock slides out of her well-lubricated and very well-fucked arse; her bonds, which had been stretched taut throughout their sex, loosen now as their prisoner sprawls on the floor offering no resistance.
She lies and pants, satisfied and looking up at him now as she is allowed to do once their act is over. He relaxes into a crouch to stroke her hair and looks back at her appraisingly, proud of what she has achieved tonight.
Behind them, the audience bursts into a raucous round of applause.
Down In the Park
Living across the road from a popular park has its advantages. For one thing, trees, grass and flowers aren't exactly in abundance in a big city, and being the country girl that I am, I like to feel some connection to my roots. And so it has become my habit of a Saturday afternoon to take a newspaper or whatever novel I am reading to the park, stretch out in the sun, and enjoy a few peaceful hours outside the cramped confines of my small flat. It's an escape, albeit a small one, from the stresses and frustrations of my life. It also offers some occasional entertainment.
Today the park is pleasantly empty, with far fewer occupants than usual for a Saturday. I stretch out on the grass in a spot where I am a few metres away from the elaborate main fountain that is a centrepiece of the park, shaded and hidden by a sprawling, ancient oak tree and some shrubbery. Comfortable on my stomach, I rummage for my book, and begin to read.
Despite my engrossment in the novel, I eventually become aware of a splashing noise that does not sound like it comes from the fountain's pumps. I look up and see a young woman sitting alone on the edge of the pool, running her fingers violently through the water, occasionally splashing it onto the concrete surrounding the fountain in an act of unconscious rebellion against some formerly controlling parent – ‘Don't play in the fountain!’
She appears young, perhaps twenty. She is slim, dressed completely in black, her bleached off-white hair mostly obscured by a knitted hat. Her hair is chin-length, and the ends stick out wildly in all directions as if fighting the oppression of the beanie. She gazes moodily into the water, completely oblivious to the silent voyeur who watches from a near distance. I alternate between reading my book and watching her, noting that her face grows steadily stormier as the minutes tick on. She begins to make little pacing journeys, getting up to stamp around for a few seconds, then throwing herself back down on the edge of the fountain. I wonder what could be upsetting her so, and ponder whether I should get up and try to offer some consolation. But what would I say?
After maybe ten minutes, another young woman joins her. She stands up to greet her companion, and they begin to speak rapidly. I can't make out any words, but the voices that carry on the wind are the sounds of a disagreement taking place – one soft and apologetic, the other low and harsh. The newcomer is red-haired, the kind of bright fiery red that can only come from a bottle. Her skin is luminously pale, and she is dressed to flaunt her voluptuousness. Her curves threaten to explode from her clothes at any moment, and I can’t help but notice how the plump backside that faces me looks good enough to eat.
They sit down together, close like confidantes, but still with the stiffness of conflict unresolved. I return to my novel, slightly ashamed of being so willing and eager to watch their emotional drama unfold. I’m itching with curiosity about the two women and how their disagreement will play itself out, and there’s more than a little bit of car-crash fascination in watching a couple fight so publicly, but I force myself to concentrate on the words in front of me. Eventually, though, I give in to the temptation: the urge to see how the argument will turn out makes me think of somebody watching a soap opera. It's too hard to keep my eyes on my book.
When I glance up again they are kissing, the behind-schedule redhead running her hands passionately through the blonde's short hair. The blonde seems to want to devour her, kissing with forceful, unbridled lust, her tongue occasionally leaving the redhead's mouth to explore up her face, and on her neck with licks and sucks and – yes – a bite. I see the redhead move involuntarily as the blonde sinks her teeth in, her head wrenching back, away, and her body jerking into the blonde, a hopeful offering. The blonde withdraws, sitting back and licking her lips. I am convinced, even from this distance, that I see blood on the redhead's slender neck. Obviously that's what you get for being late for a meeting with Blondie.
Red strokes the blonde's face with her fingertips, then with the back of her hand. They sit staring into each other's eyes for some time, lost in the way that lovers are capable of losing themselves. I remember with a pang the way I used to do that with my girlfriend, the gentleness of such intimate, sensual contact.
I watch as the redhead unbuttons the blonde's blouse, exposing small breasts and creamy white skin that glows in the sun. She runs her fing
ers down the exposed flesh; the blonde's nipples become hard, straining towards their tormentor. The redhead leans over to take a nipple in her mouth, taking in most of the small, pert breast along with it. The blonde gasps in pleasure – I can see the movement of her pretty mouth from here. Blondie lies back on the edge of the fountain, stretching her arms above her head as she luxuriates in the redhead's attentions. Red, in response, moves to dominate her, leaning over her (my clit throbs as her full, heavy cleavage becomes visible – those breasts!), and moving her crotch in a thrusting motion, playing at fucking her through her clothes. The blonde loves it, writhing joyously between the soft, curvaceous body of her companion and the hard, cold concrete of the ledge. The redhead pauses to unzip the blonde's pants and thrusts her hand inside. The blonde looks like she doesn't know whether to continue writhing or lie still, so she alternates between the two.
I find myself responding to their lovemaking, grinding my pelvis against the grass, the seam of my jeans wedging itself into the crevice of my vulva. I wriggle around to increase pressure on my clitoris, careful to not make too much noise with the expression of my mounting arousal.
Blondie's moans become distinctly more audible, and I look around nervously, more worried than they about discovery. If they're discovered, my entertainment's gone for the day. If they're discovered, then the pervy little sleaze in the bushes is likely to be discovered too. But I'm sure anyone, venturing to discover the source of the strange noises, would have my reaction. How could they not?
Red removes her hand from the blonde's pants and shoves her fingers roughly into the Blondie's mouth to shut her up. The blonde sucks them eagerly, and I lick my own lips, wondering how her juices would taste.
The redhead straddles the fountain ledge, which means that one leg gets soaked up to the knee, but she doesn’t seem too concerned. If I were in her situation, I wouldn't care either. Her free hand tugs Blondie's pants further down and embraces her clit once again, and I feel the echo in my own cunt. Oh god, I shouldn't be doing this. Those girls are in Utopia; they seem totally unaware of where they are physically. Surely I'm taking advantage of them by lying here enjoying the show rather than creating some kind of distraction that will snap them back to the real world without causing them too much embarrassment? Does this make me a bad person? I know if a man were to do what I'm doing now, I'd be the first to bay for his blood. So am I a hypocrite as well as a pervert?
The guilt goes straight to my cunt.
A loud, grunting moan snaps my attention back to the girls. The blonde is coming, her limbs flailing, her arm splashing in the fountain as she struggles for control against the sensations that tear through her body. Red is murmuring to her – I can see her lips move, and I imagine she's telling the blonde how she's a naughty little slut for coming so hard and she's going to be punished later. The thought makes my solo frottage pay off, and I come hard against the seam of my jeans, biting my forearm to stop myself from crying out and alerting the girls to my shameful voyeurism. I collapse into the earth and for a long moment feel totally organic, as much a part of the park as the grass and trees. Then I realise the girls might be doing something else worth watching, grin for a nanosecond at my unabashed lasciviousness, and look up.
They're gone. Panicked and bereft, I struggle to my knees to scan the small area of the park visible through the foliage. I think I see a flash of movement off in front of me and to the left, but I'm not sure. I shake my head, feel more than a little foolish, and glance down at my abandoned book. Somehow, I don't feel like reading too much at the moment. I grab the book, stand up, and start walking home, purposefully ignoring the curious looks the grass stains on my jeans attract.
The Gospel of Sophie
Like a lot of transplanted people, from anywhere you’d care to name, I am passionate about the fact that Fitzroy is my home. It’s my chosen home, rather than somewhere I ended up living as an accident of birth, much as my chosen family are more part of my life than my blood family.
I’m not the first person to feel this way about my adopted home. Fitzroy is where we gravitate because, despite complaints about gentrification, and Balwyn silver-hairs making their weekly Sunday pilgrimage to Babka, it is still where we find each other. It is where we come to make ourselves and see ourselves reflected in the eyes of others.
I love that the streets have a tangible hum of music and art. I love that if there’s room for a tiny stage, or even just a space on the floor, then bam, you’ve got a live music venue. And of all my favourite little holes in the wall and ever-changing destinations, the Old Bar remains constant. I respect it because it does what it sets out to do: to provide a steady dose of rock to supplement one’s musical diet. It doesn’t pretend to be anything but a filthy rock pub, and I love it for that. Plus, it’s tiny and dark and sweaty, which is perfect for me. Rock ’n’ roll might be my hymnal, but I am not a mega church girl.
I am particularly partial to rock boys who own the world, and if I am to be perfectly honest with myself, that is why I am here tonight at the Old Bar, ready to watch and listen and hunger. I am not averse to going to gigs by myself; in fact I prefer it in some ways. I love to let myself fall fully into the flow and thrust of the music, losing myself in a world of rhythm and stage lights.
When the second support act comes on, closest in the set-list hierarchy to the headliners, that I know I’m going to have a good evening.
The singer is longhaired, rangy and shirtless by their third song. His lanky limbs would make him seem awkward in any other context, as would the way he flails them about like he is not quite used to them, but here they make him look like the spiritual progeny of those who have gone before: a flesh homage to Nick Cave and Iggy Pop. He paces and convulses on the stage, all ribs and cock, howling into the microphone, artifice that might miss its mark were it not for his frenetic energy, a one-act psychosexual catharsis.
The other member who catches my eye is the bass player, who straps his instrument low on his body, his crotch thrusts to meet it. I appreciate a musician who wants to fuck their instrument. It makes me want to let them play me. The sole band member without a microphone in front of him, his voicelessness makes him look aloof, beyond the touch of mere mortals, like a chiselled classic statue behind a barrier at a museum. Here at the Old Bar, there’s no barrier except for my fellow audience members, and we surge and fall back in thrall to the music, threatening to spill onto the low stage ourselves.
After their set they head off stage – the singer stalks, whether by default or still in character I can’t quite tell – and are besieged by fans. A mix of beautiful young things surrounds them at the bar and hail them with drinks and everyone is talking over everyone else all at the same time. The queue is four people deep but I angle myself so that I’m at the outer edge of the throng of adoring fans so I can eavesdrop.
It is the usual ‘you guys were so awesome!’ circle.
I wait for attention: of the barman, of the rock boys drenched in sweaty post-performance euphoria. Their fans slip away, head out to the beer garden for a smoke, or back to their other friends. The queue at the bar grows shorter, the natural press and release of it ebbs me closer to the band. The drummer breaks away, follows a pretty girl outside, and is closely followed by the guitarist. I feel a predatory surge.
They turn, scanning the bar, and I recognise the look of those who are open to the world and the delights it has in store for them. I smile at them as they notice me.
'Hey, great gig.' It's not an original opening line, but it's not a terrible one either. The singer smiles, head tilting down and away from me. So his stage persona is an act; I make a mental note. The bass player offers me a lazy, full-frontal grin.
'Thanks.' They both offer, the singer quietly, the formerly voiceless bass player more directly. He's not the unknowable stone carving he appeared to be.
‘Why haven’t I seen you guys play here before?’
‘We used to gig around here a lot,’ he says, ‘but our dru
mmer moved back to Brisbane so now we’re more sporadic. We gig when he can get down here. Or when we can get up there.’ The singer nods.
'That's a shame,' I say. 'You guys are awesome. People should get to hear you.'
'That's very kind,' the singer says. He is only a little taller than me – although I am quite tall myself – and I only have to tilt my head back slightly to look into his eyes. What I see in there makes me smirk inwardly. For all his rock posturing, he is doe-eyed in the way that only a submissive man can be. He wants to please, and he wants it so much he can nearly taste it. I feel a little throb of appreciation in my clit. I love making tall boys bow down to me. In fact, it’s pretty much my favourite thing in the world.
'I'm Sophie,' I say.
'Do you come here often, Sophie?' says the bass player.
'What sort of a line is that?' I ask, teasing, and he smiles.
'A shit one. And a genuine enquiry.'
'Yeah, I do. Can’t live without live music. It's why I live here.'
'You live at the bar?' The singer guffaws at his friend's wit.
I shrug. 'I try. Sometimes they make me leave.'
'That's a shame. I'm Cooper.'
'I'm Nathan,' offers the singer.
'Nice to meet you both.' Because I have nothing else to lose, because I can smell sex and its potential coming off them in waves, I say, 'you guys got anything else on tonight?'
The Mercy of Strange Men: Erotic Stories Page 2
