Unspeakably Erotic

by D. L. King

  You lay still on top of me, pressing both cocks into me even though you had stopped moving, my legs wrapped around your waist. Our sweat-soaked bodies stuck together and you kissed my face, my lips, my neck, my eyes, as I pressed my lips to your skin and tasted your salty realness.

  Slowly and carefully, talking to me the whole time, you pulled the cocks from inside me. You moaned my name when I cried out my love for you. Your eyes were closed and you looked almost like you were in pain. You told me later it was because it felt so right you wanted to start all over again. You wanted to tear me apart and put me back together again, as your very own sex toy, your new forever.

  I was empty and the night air made me shiver. The stars seemed to press down on me from above and the world felt too big, too vast. You untied me quickly and grabbed a blanket from the backseat before lying beside me on the hood. You held me close, and there’s never been a moment as perfect as the one we found together that night. We watched the sunrise over the desert, and on the way back, you tied my hands behind my back, lay me on the backseat, and covered me with a blanket. Without me asking, you’d known I wasn’t ready to be free yet.

  I’m startled from my reverie when you knock at the front door. Tonight is fantasy date night number twelve, and I have no idea what you have planned. You’ve made all of the fantasies I told you that first night come true, and then taken me to new places I’d never even considered once the original fantasies ran out. Sometimes, that meant it was more than just the two of us, but there was never a question about where our ultimate loyalties were. Since that first date night under the desert stars, we’ve belonged to each other, heart and soul. My panties are soaked through from remembering our very first fantasy night, and I quickly slide them off and tuck them under a pillow on the couch. God knows where they’d end up later anyway.

  THE LAST OF MARENGO

  Mary Tintagel

  I’d met Fenna only a couple days before in the Vivelavie bar on Amstelstraat. She’d promised to show me Amsterdam, but so far all I’d seen was the inside of her tiny bedroom, in her tiny apartment—located above a café on the Lindengracht. The exception being when I’d had to go to meetings at Zurtech Inventure, the printing company where I was working. I’d traveled over from the States to assist with new infrastructure and hardware testing. It was Friday evening, and I was too tired to hit the bars; instead I was sitting up in her bed Googling Amsterdam attractions on my laptop, the ones I’d have to tell everyone I’d seen when I got back home.

  “Do you know where you want to go tomorrow, Julia?” Fenna called from the kitchen. She opened a couple of bottles of Maibock and poured them into tall frosted glasses.

  “I dunno, honey. Of course, I’ll have to go and see the Anne Frank House and the Van Gogh Museum before I go home. But on a Saturday, I really want to cut loose and have some fun rather than soak up history and culture.”

  “Fun we can have right here,” she chided, laughing, as she put the beer down on the bedside table. As I sipped at the lager I drank her in too. The long blonde hair was mussed and untidy, maybe her mouth was a little too narrow, but her eyes were the thing—a greenish blue: jade and sapphires crushed to powder. Her slim, slightly athletic build she seemed to share with practically every girl under twenty-five in this city—maybe it was all the cycling, which also accounted for the raw-looking patches of scar tissue on her elbows. This was not New York; nobody seemed to wear any kind of protective gear. Girls wore cutoff jeans, as short as possible. And skintight white T-shirts—like they might be fined by the Amsterdam Police if their clothes looked a little baggy.

  I turned my laptop to show her the result of my last search.

  “How about this? The Museé Du Sexe . . . ” I suggested.

  Fenna just laughed.

  “Oh my god, are you serious? That place is such a terrible, tasteless tourist trap.”

  As if to underline her point, the website started to play cheesy music. I muted the audio. What was her problem though? It didn’t look that bad.

  “Look, if that is the sort of thing you are interested in,” she began, “then there is really only one place to go— Huis van de Praktijk van Egypte.”

  My Dutch wasn’t really up to it.

  “The Egyptian Practice House?” I half guessed.

  “That’s pretty close, actually,” she admitted, still laughing.

  Yeah sure, I got the reference to the Jewish Law, it’s not very obscure—Like the practice of the land of Egypt you shall not do . . . Sounded like this place was built specifically for the purpose of flouting that injunction.

  I started to type it into the search engine.

  “You’re not going to find it on Trip Advisor. This is something a little esoteric. There’s almost like a pact . . . an unwritten rule in our community . . . it is poor taste to talk about it too openly. You don’t ever mention it online. You don’t take just anybody there. Every tour is private and it can be booked up for months in advance.”

  “Then how on earth are we supposed to get tickets for tomorrow?” I asked.

  In response, she just reached for her phone and I heard one side of a conversation with a girl called Roos who worked night security at Huis van de Praktijk van Egypte. The tone meandered across the spectrum all the way from pleading and begging to extreme surprise at something Roos said, and finally to gratitude.

  “Well we’re not going to need tickets. Tonight, Roos can leave the fourth floor fire-escape door open and then relock it automatically after we’re in.”

  “Wait a minute, we’re going to just sneak in the back like a couple of kids?”

  “Why not? It’ll be fun. I’ve had to do it a couple of times before to get people in. It’s not like we’re going to get arrested . . . I guess Roos could be fired if we’re caught but that’s pretty unlikely. Anyway, the point is Roos says the place is under refurbishment. Lots of the galleries have been emptied of exhibits already. But the sad thing is that one of my favorite rooms isn’t going to reopen after the refurb. It’s kind of a hands-on area and the equipment is looking a little tired—most of it is from the 1920s or even before. And I guess it’s always been a little dangerous; nowadays everyone is health and safety mad.”

  “Fenna, I’m a forty-seven-year-old IT consultant, I don’t need a huge amount of danger in my life,” I said.

  “We really need to reignite your sense of adventure. Come on, get dressed. We have to go tonight, not tomorrow night. Tomorrow morning the Atmeydani Chamber will be taken apart for good. This is our last chance to make use of it.”

  I started pulling on my jeans.

  “What does Atmeydani mean? Is that Egyptian?” I asked.

  “I think it’s Turkish. I’m not quite sure what the word would be in English. I guess you would borrow from the Greek—it would be hippodrome.”

  Ten minutes later, we were cycling through the night at high speed and ignoring red lights until we reached a wide and surprisingly well-lit alley off Koggestraat. Fenna abandoned her bike against the wall without even bothering to padlock it, and was up the fire escape faster than a cat. I did secure my bike—hell, it was a rental— and pretty soon Fenna was calling for me to hurry up in a ridiculously loud stage whisper. The red light on the security camera above the door winked knowingly at us; somewhere, Roos was watching us. And then we were in. We were met with darkness and a mixture of odors from the building work: brick dust, wet plaster, and the light perfume that is exuded from freshly cut wood. I could see nothing until we reached a long corridor where the soft orange sodium light of the city seeped in through the windows to illuminate glass display cases and vases standing on pedestals that might have been straight out of the Smithsonian or the British Museum.

  Finally, I sensed that we had passed into a great and airy open chamber—although everything was still black as pitch. Fenna started to feel for the light switch. The overhead fluorescent tubes stuttered and strobed for a moment, and then the scene was revealed by their flat and garish
light. The “chamber” was a small oval auditorium about the size of a tennis court surrounded by tiered cherrywood seating. About five feet lower than the last row of seats, the performance area was covered with a thick layer of sawdust—it could almost be a show-jumping practice arena, except I could not see how you would admit horses to it. Over the arena were a series of parallel ropes, a little looser than tightropes, with a pulley arrangement and rounded hooks on leather straps hanging from them. It was puzzling. Fenna obviously knew what the purpose of it all was—but plainly I was too dumb or naïve to recognize what this was all about. Fenna was rooting through a cabinet next to a glass display case, searching for what we would need. On the floor, she placed what looked to be age-worn brown leather basques with strategically placed brass rings attached to them (at the hips, belly, and the center point of the back).

  “Okay, this one is about your size. Get your clothes off and put it on,” she ordered. I complied. She had selected a basque for herself and was doing the same thing. I couldn’t help watching as she stripped. Her form was supple and sinuous, her limbs long. Her breasts were small, almost too meager, but I yearned for them just as soon as I saw them. I wanted to suck and chew on the pastel-pink nipples right away, but there was no opportunity; they were partly hidden from view behind the old cracked leather of the basque. When I saw how high her tits were pushed up and how the top edges of her nipples were still in view, like the delicate crescent edge of shell that is half buried on the beach, I wanted her even more. For all the time we had spent together in the last few days, my tongue and fingers exploring every single part of her, the chain reaction of attraction and desire that had started when I first saw her had still not reached satiation. Instead it was feeding on itself. There was the potential for this lust to run out of control and start to work me like a puppet.

  “Turn around,” she said. Naturally, I did. I stood with my hands on the back of one of the cherrywood seats. She gently forced my legs apart, and I bent forward of my own volition. Again, she was rustling around in the cabinet. Without warning a big handful of icily cold lube was spread onto my anus. I flinched as something long went deep into me. I thought she’d slid her finger in so I reached back to grab her hand. I ached for more. There was no hand. Just hair. A coarse length of hair at least two feet long. It seemed I now had a tail. A real horse’s tail. My insides clenched and shuddered spasmodically. I reached back again to feel the flange of the horse-tailended butt plug. It seemed much too small and I feared that the whole thing would be lost up inside me. The fear made my muscles contract even more tightly around the head of the plug. I would not know this until later, but the beeswax around the head was melting inside of me, unmasking keratinized stippling—like rounded barbs. As soon as they touched my rectal tissue there was a burning sensation followed by the most explosive sexual climax I had ever experienced. My knees locked painfully. My G-spot felt like it was in overdrive—my inner thighs were wet from the fluid dripping out of me. I was actually drooling with pleasure, until Fenna fitted a brass bridle bit into my mouth—and I was appalled. Gagging and coughing on both the unpleasant metal cylinder between my teeth and my own saliva. Next my eyes were almost completely covered—blinkers? I could only see ahead, and even then, just a tiny slit of light. Something was bound in place over my right hand—something as heavy as a tree branch which totally enveloped it from the wrist down and made it impossible to move my fingers. Then the same happened with my left hand. There was a sudden jerking as I was elevated off my feet and left to dangle about four feet in the air. I’d been lifted by the hook attached to the back of my basque. Finally, my ankles were connected to the back of my thighs with leather straps. Now, something was tightly joined to my knees. I dipped nearer the ground just for a moment and the blinkers were yanked off me. Then the rope pulled me back up and I was swung up over the arena. In less than two minutes I had ceased to be a human being and had become a horse. The things attached to my arms and legs were my new horse limbs. Of course, it seemed obvious now, a hippodrome is a place where horses race.

  The rope suspended above the arena was carrying most of my weight; my “hooves” were barely in contact with the sawdust. Within a minute or so I discovered that I could walk and ultimately run as a quadruped with hardly any effort. Yes, initially I stumbled and slipped on the sawdust and my legs splayed out like Bambi on ice, but I soon got the hang of it and started to find it exhilarating. I became accustomed to the bit in my mouth. It started to seem an essential part of the spell. I also discovered that due to the cunning arrangement of gears and pulleys I was not restricted to a single linear path: using my weight I could drag the rope laterally and go anywhere I wished. I’d heard about pony-play and it had never struck me as my kind of thing—pulling around a cart with a dominant sitting on it. This took the whole thing to an entirely new level. I started to wonder when Fenna would join me down here. I could hear her talking half to me and half to herself. She stood over a long glass display case, apparently straining to open it.

  “Damn! This wasn’t locked the last time I was here. Someone has locked it and I can’t fucking get Marengo out. I’m only ever Marengo,” she added, as if by way of explanation. Then without another word she picked up one of the horse limbs she had allocated for herself and wielding it like a club smashed open the case. At first I thought she’d lost her mind, but to her it was all perfectly logical. Tomorrow morning this place would cease to exist. Everything would be in a storage bin or a dumpster. Either way—whatever Marengo was, this would be its last outing.

  From within the display case she removed a full-size leather and metal framework representative of a stallion’s head. It reminded me somewhat of pictures of props I’d seen for the stage show War Horse. She donned the head and paused by the edge of the arena. I saw her insert her own horsehair tail and wait, in anticipation of the orgasm building inside her. When it arrived, she didn’t emit a stifled gasp, like me, but rather a throaty, braying, inhuman whinny. This was her moment of ritual transition: woman to horse. She affixed a belt around her narrow middle and additional leather loops about her thighs. Into this arrangement, she locked the longest dildo I have ever seen. It must’ve been over twenty inches long. Thick girthed, chisel ended, and brownish black with the apparent flexibility of a fencing foil.

  “Let me introduce you to Marengo. They say it was made from a cast of the erect penis of Emperor Napoleon’s favorite horse. They say he used it on Empress Josephine when he could not satisfy her with his own member. Let’s see how much of it you can take.”

  That sounded like insanity. The thing was long enough to reach from my cunt to the top of my chest cavity. And looked pointy enough to skewer plenty of my internal organs along the way. I galloped to the far end of the arena to avoid Fenna. Of course, she could not affix horse forelimbs to her hands because there was no one to assist her. She did, however, manage to strap her ankles to her thighs and attach hind limbs and then, with a practiced motion, lowered herself down into the arena. Like me, she had a supportive tether line running from the midpoint of her back to one of the ropes that ran high above the hippodrome.

  She teetered after me on the curved equine stilts of her hind legs, looking like a rampant heraldic stallion come to life—a priapic were-horse that would somehow have to be satisfied with my modestly proportioned snatch. I continued to dodge away from Fenna, but I was persistently pursued. The pursuit became, albeit in microcosm, a courtship. Somehow it was the courtship that had been absent from our relationship in this all-too-hasty world. I knew that I would give in to her. And I trusted her. This was all just theater. She would never hurt me.

  The sting of the horsewhip came out of nowhere. My right shoulder burned. I turned in outrage to see a young dark-haired woman standing on the edge of the arena wielding the whip. It could only be Roos.

  “Cut the bullshit. I want to see you get fucked by Marengo,” she snapped.

  Although I’d guessed we were being watched on camera, I
did not take kindly to Roos appearing arena side, in person. I spat the bit as far as I could out of my mouth and told her so.

  “Did I ask about your fucking preferences?” she sneered, her face a frozen mask.

  Experimentally, I lifted up my foreleg onto the barrier wall in a vain attempt to climb out of the arena. Roos grabbed it and pulled me forward. I almost lost my balance, and as I recovered it I saw that she had obtained a belt abandoned by Fenna and tied my fetlock to the low barrier around the arena. Futilely, I swung at her with my other forelimb, but she caught and held it easily—effectively immobilizing me.

  “Give it to me then, darling,” I said to Fenna. “I want it, I’m just not too happy about this bitch watching.”

  Marengo’s girth was so great I felt like I was being clamped open. Fenna didn’t go at me like a pile driver, but inched in until she arrived at the median line—ten inches along the shaft. Then she stopped thrusting and made a subtle undulating motion with her hips. This is where the horse cock dildo’s flexibility came to the fore. The undulations were exquisite and powerful. It was only seconds until I came. In the midst of the pleasure I had a terrifying realization: The head of the butt plug had shot up inside me as a result of the orgasm, and it felt like it had taken a good length of the horsehair tail with it. I had visions of myself trying to explain all this in an Amsterdam emergency room. The visions dissipated as the pleasure struck. The head was spiraling and whirling inside me, biting and stabbing as it went. One second it felt like a punishment from Dante’s Inferno, the next moment it was a bliss I would barter my soul to keep, and all the time the kinetic waves from Marengo were delivered inside me. Nobody could take this for long; there was a sense of rawness and building friction. Finally, just pain and fire. But still Fenna didn’t stop.