Freedom is Slavery

by Louis Friend

  We drove out past the suburbs and into what used to be farm country. It was still a haven for some of the old grand mansions. She lived in one of these old homes. The only way to describe it was “Gothic,” due to its ornate door and windows. I couldn’t see all of it in the dark but the lamps outside gave me a hint of how big the place might be.

  I parked in her circle drive and followed her up to her front door, watching her shapely behind as she took the stairs. Again, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was at being picked up by such a beautiful woman. Going into her house, however, was another story.

  Rather than the warm and cozy interior I was expecting, the entire first floor of her house was a single room. It was absolutely austere save for stairwells leading up and down and a single raised dais illuminated from an unseen light source above. The stage was about three feet above the floor on some kind of solid base. It looked to be granite or marble and it looked like something straight out of either a morgue or a sacrificial chamber!

  I found that I had stopped dead in my tracks. She took me by the hand, the shock of her cold fingers waking me to more of my surroundings. She pulled me forward, looking back at me and smiling a dangerous smile. Her white teeth caught the low light of the room and the seemed to be illuminated from within. She lead me to the low stage and reached up to start unbuttoning my shirt.

  While I felt drawn into her eyes again, I began to hear scratching sounds and wondered if she had pets and where they could be kept in this austere abode. Suddenly, my mind was filled with an image that was clearer than anything I might see with my own eyes—it was three women.

  They were garbed in tatters. What they wore was white at one time but now was smeared with dirt and gore. They were all gorgeous, albeit anemic. They were in a frenzy, like starved animals smelling a kill. Then I saw closer… one of the women had two terrific gouges on her throat. The next had the same marks but around her exposed breast. The third bore them on her mons veneris.

  Without reason, I knew that these creatures were the source of the scratching sounds and I knew that I would be joining them if I didn’t leave right then. Yet, my feet stood firm as her hands worked to undo the final button on my shirt and began to undo my belt. Was it that I couldn’t move or wouldn’t?

  I thought about those craven creatures below and their sad fate but then I wondered, How bad could it really be? After all, didn’t they each get to see this woman every day? Didn’t they experience pleasure beyond imagination?

  Were these my own thoughts or someone else’s?

  She had my pants off. I was naked before her while she remained fully clothed. She pushed me back onto the dais and the stone chilled me. My body filled a depression in the stone almost perfectly, my head resting at the top as if it were made for a body to lay in.

  She climbed atop me with a speed I didn’t think possible. She straddled me at the waist, pushing my hard cock against my body. She looked down and smiled again. It was only then that I noticed just how sharp and menacing her incisors looked. I snuck a look down and saw her naked pubis. Her pubic hair was the same raven color as the hair on her head. It stood in stark contrast to her alabaster skin which was, like the stone, cooler than it should have been.

  She grasped my cock in her long-nailed hand and placed it against her opening. She began to slide down my shaft and she gave such a sigh of pleasure that it sounded as if her life had depended on it. I imagine it was the same sound a person crossing the desert might make when getting their first drink of cool water.

  She bent over me, and I could smell her scent even stronger. Her sickly sweet odor was heady. Her hair cascaded around me, making it seem that we were in a curtained room with only her pale face visible before me. Her smile changed into a leer that filled my eyes. She lunged at my neck and I felt her cool lips on my comparatively hot flesh. And then I felt her tongue.

  I could tell that she wasn’t so much licking me… as tasting me. The feel of her tongue was unnatural. It felt like a piece of meat from the grocery store deli case. She licked along my neck and I shuddered, though my cock didn’t falter as she squeezed it tighter inside of her, so tight that I felt trapped there beneath her.

  Trapped, but not caring…wanting. I wanted whatever she was doing. I wanted it more than life itself. I felt her muscles grasping me, fucking without moving. Then I felt a terrible and wonderful pain as she sank her teeth into my throat. I could actually hear the sound of my blood flowing out.

  It was then, as my blood gushed out of my neck that I came inside of her. She leaned back and howled triumphantly, crimson dripping from her mouth, looking like stage blood against her ashen features. The sound that came out of her wasn’t human. It wasn’t even like that of any animal I’d ever heard. Whatever it was, the scratching from below was joined by a similar sound, muffled but unmistakable. She fell upon me again, feasting from me as my cock continued spurting inside of her in one of the longest, most satisfying orgasms of my life.

  I must have blacked out shortly thereafter. When I awoke, I heard those same scratching sounds from earlier but they were much louder and closer now…

  Writers’ Conference

  She looked like a character in one of her books; a tall, lean, bottle blonde, with a smear of red across her lips.

  I never thought about her voice but it came out with an endearing Southern twang. She wore a tight leopard-print skirt, white blouse, and a short jacket. Her legs were spectacular and as she sat down at the conference table she revealed her garters for just a moment, a brief blissful moment.

  I had come to the city for a writer’s convention. I’m not much of a writer; I throw words together and hope that they make a sentence or two. The woman speaking, now she was a writer. However, I could barely concentrate on her words as her looks were so distracting. I’d read all of her books and thought I knew everything about her bibliography until she let it slip that she occasionally wrote erotica under the nom de plume “Christa.” I wrote this down, hoping to have a chance to ask her for the names of a few publications where I could find “Christa’s” writing.

  Alas, after she was done with her hour-long chat, she was mobbed by other admirers. I sat back down at my table, waiting for the next speaker, making a note to look for titles by “Christa” in the future.

  The second day at the conference I was up early and at a local coffee shop when I heard her distinct laugh from one of the back tables. She was speaking on her cell phone. I took my latte to a nearby table to read the local free rag. Despite her sitting there, I was able to get engrossed in an article to the point where I only distantly realized that I was being addressed.

  “I’m sorry?” I said, looking to her.

  “No, I’m sorry to disturb you. But, you were at the conference yesterday, right?”

  I told her I was and we made small talk for a few minutes while I tried to find the perfect opportunity to ask her about “Christa.” I finally slid in the question. Rather than being upset, however, her eyes grew a little wide and she seemed delighted to give me all of the information I could ever want.

  “What spurns your interest in erotica?” she finally asked me.

  I couldn’t help but confess my dabbling. “The only problem,” I followed, “is that I tend to base everything off of real-life events to some extent. That can make for some, uh, interesting research.”

  “You really kiss and tell!” she laughed.

  “Kiss, and a whole lot more, I suppose.”

  “You’re doing it all for research, though. That’s a noble pursuit.”

  “Thanks, it keeps me busy but it also gives my stories a verisimilitude that might otherwise be lacking.”

  “I wonder what it would be like,” she said, “to have you write a story and have another person write the same story from their perspective and then either run them side by side or cut them together.”

  “Definitely interesting. That’s something I’ve tried to do but it’s difficult to take any perspective other tha
n my own. All of my tales have a real ‘confessional’ feel to them and I have to admit a weakness for capturing the voice of the other person or people.”

  “Then that might be even a better challenge: do the same thing but you can only write from the other person’s POV. It’ll make you stretch.”

  “That’s true, though there aren’t many people who I tell about my hobby and a lot of the people I play with aren’t confessed writers.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we’re talking!” she chuckled again, giving me a look that even I couldn’t mistake for anything other than a proposition.

  “Indeed, it is. Do you have time today to try a writing exercise like that?” I asked.

  She agreed. We were both staying at the same hotel (conference rate) and exchanged room numbers, agreeing on a time after the day’s events were well over.

  If you think I could concentrate on anything for the rest of the day, especially with her sitting a few tables away, you’re wrong.

  *

  I could tell he was nervous and I almost had to laugh. I’d been looking at his writing all afternoon on my iPhone and it was difficult to sit still. I almost changed my underwear before we were supposed to meet but I wanted him to be sure to smell how excited he’d gotten me.

  Here he was, fumbling and stammering, completely unlike the way he portrayed himself in his stories. Did I get myself into a bad situation or would things change once we got started? I was anxious to see. I was glad that I had prepared the room beforehand. A set of cuffs hung over my bathroom door, my traveling pair.

  I didn’t want small talk. I put my hand on his chest and pushed him against the bathroom door. He saw the cuffs and knew what to do. I secured his wrists and put a blindfold on him. I felt like a mad scientist in an old movie. I almost wrung my hands and cackled; “Now I’ve got you where I want you.”

  He looked so innocent as he hung from the door. I could see the appeal that he held to others who had taken him in the past. I began unbuttoning his shirt and watched as his nipples grew hard from the air conditioning. I gave one a tweak. He shuddered and moaned as if I had done the same to his cock. I pinched the other one and he reacted even more. Oh, this could fun.

  I undid his pants and pulled them down, along with his underwear, all in one pull. I touched a nipple again and watched as his cock twitched, like there was a direct current between them. I flicked them, one after another, with the nail on my index finger, watching his cock bob and arch each time. I kept thinking that he was at his hardest but each time I touched him he seemed to grow even more.

  I got down on my haunches, a position I wouldn’t have taken if he could see me, and began batting at his cock. I wanted to see how much he could take. He began whining almost immediately. “Shut it,” I commanded.

  I pulled up his cock and started flicking his balls with my nails. He tried to pull away but there was nowhere for him to go. He was whimpering but trying not to cry out loud. A challenge. I wanted to hear him cry out.

  Redness started to rise across his balls as I flicked him harder. I allowed his cock to flop free, using my other hand to touch myself. With my right hand I flicked his balls, with my left I flicked my clit. Still, he wouldn’t cry out. I was left with no other choice… I grasped his cock and put my mouth over it, biting down gently but firmly around the head. As I applied more pressure with my jaws his moaning turned to a shriek that pushed me over the edge. I came, legs spread and squatting.

  I wasn’t done torturing his cock. I removed my mouth and used my fingers, slick with myself, to open up the hole at the end of his dick. I slid my pinkie inside and his body jumped like I put a live wire to it. I pushed it deeper, always amazed at how pliable that little opening can be. I began pushing and pulling my nail in and out, essentially fucking him. The noises he made were almost like the cry of an animal.

  I unbound him, pushing him onto my bed. I had shackles at the ready, attached to the head and footboards. I bound him, spread eagle, and face down. I donned a pair of rubber gloves and slicked my forefinger with lube. I didn’t allow him to prepare for what was to come, quickly attacking his ass, sliding my finger into him. His gasp turned into a moan. I held myself inside of him for a beat. When I started to pull out, he moved back, showing me that he liked having me inside of him. Smiling, I added another finger and began to fuck him.

  There’s something so sweet about fucking a man in the ass. Something so personal about it, feeling their pulse through your fingers. Feeling them clench and release with an internal rhythm. Finding that nubbin, the prostate, inside, and pushing on it ever so gently… or not. Finally, making them cum without their “permission” as they cry into a pillow or against a gag.

  I released him, giving him a warm rag to clean up.

  “Now, was that inspirational enough?”

  * Note: Second section courtesy of Christa