by Alison Tyler
And so here I am, exactly where I always wanted to be, all tied down and nowhere to go….
Dinner at Eight
Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Tonight I’ll be at another dinner party with my husband on the Upper East Side. All of us dining in style together smug and safe, rich lousy white fucks. I’ll wear the black DKNY cocktail dress, the Gucci high heels. I am getting so fucking clichéd, even I can’t stand myself anymore. I need something concrete and decisive here, like a divorce. I need to do that. When am I going to get my shit together, exactly—when it hits the fan?
“Jesus, Mami, you amaze me,” he says, breaking in on my never-ending pseudo-psychotherapy pep talk. “You’re too much.”
It’s the wine that triggers this assessment of me again, my need to have a good bottle of red within arm’s reach whenever I’m getting ready to get screwed. And right now I’m taking a bottle of very decent ’94 Gran Reserva out of my oversized shoulder bag. The bag that now feels considerably lighter, minus the bottle of imported Spanish wine. I’ve brought the right wine for the occasion once again, even though we’re in a very sleazy, pay-by-the-hour motel in some godforsaken concrete hellhole corner of Brooklyn and it’s the middle of a bitingly cold December afternoon. There is maybe a trickle of heat in this room. I am so fucking freezing and in a matter of minutes, really, I’m going to be stark naked in here, all of my own volition.
“How are we supposed to open that?” he asks. “It has a cork.”
I retrieve the handy corkscrew from my bag. “This is how,” I say and I hand it to him. I’m smiling. I’m so fucking excited to be in this piece of shit room with him, alone. A roof and four walls all to ourselves for twenty-five dollars an hour. Hardly what you’d call paradise, but any place where I can get myself alone with him becomes paradise on some level. The fact that there’s even a bed in here, crummy as it looks, is just icing on the cake.
He hands the corkscrew back to me. “I’m not too good at this,” he explains. “You do it. I don’t drink much in the way of wines that have corks in them, you know that.”
I’m still smiling. Not in that patronizing way, I hope. Not that “isn’t it cute how he’s so coarse and from the street” way. I’m smiling because I love everything about him. It’s always so refreshing. He would never last a minute at one of our dinner parties. I’m not sure how much that matters to me in the long run. For now, it matters not one iota. I couldn’t care less if I attend one more stinking dinner party.
“How did you know about this place?” I ask, unscrewing the cork from the bottle.
“I grew up not far from here.”
“Here?” I’m shocked but I try to hide it. “You grew up around here? Was it always this horrible?” I backpedal a little. That sounded insulting. “I mean, with this elevated subway and all, it seems so dark. Even in the middle of the day.”
“It’s shitty, I know. But I grew up here. This is the old hood.” He examines the bed doubtfully before sitting down on it. The blanket is full of stains but it looks washed, at least. He’s still dressed. “I always wondered what it was like in here, in this fuck-motel,” he says. “It’s been here since I was a little kid. For as long as I can remember, men were taking hookers in and out. It sucks in here, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not the most glamorous place we’ve ever come up with, but at least we can be together for an hour. Make love.”
He grins sheepishly. “You make love, Mami. I fuck.”
“Yes, you fuck,” I agree easily. “I know you fuck.” And it makes me so crazy when we fuck—and when we can’t fuck, I continue on in my head. It makes me crazy when I can’t be with you. I’m crazy about you, Ricky. You, as a man. Not just your cock up my ass for a few stolen moments or your incredible mouth on me, but all of you. I love you. I want to be with you forever.
But first I have to decide on that divorce, before I say anything like that out loud.
The wine is open, the cork is out. I set the bottle on the scarred hunk of wood that passes for a night table. I’m letting the wine breathe but I’m not going to tell him that. He makes fun of me. He couldn’t care less about wine. Next to the bottle on the table there’s a clock that actually works, methodically ticking away our precious fuck-minutes.
“Christ,” I say. “Look at the time already.” Forget about letting it breathe. I take a healthy swig of wine from the bottle. I begin to undress. It is absolutely frigid cold in this room.
“I think I can actually see my breath,” he says at the same moment.
“It’s not that bad.”
He gets up and fiddles with the radiator to no avail while I strip out of everything. Everything but my shoes. I don’t have any idea what’s hiding deep in the fibers of this filthy carpeting, and I don’t want to know. And I don’t want my feet touching it, either.
“Ooh mamacita,” he says, laughing. “You look freezing.”
Stark naked except for a pair of killer high heels, I take another swig of wine from the bottle. I don’t say anything now, I just let everything happen. I surrender to the rhythm that I know is coming because we’ve already done this so many times before. He knows it and I know it.
“What else have you got in your bag?” he asks, dragging it onto the bed now and rifling through it.
I’m standing next to the bed, shivering. I keep on drinking the wine. I feel pressured to make some serious progress with it since we’re racing against the clock here. Every time he goes through that bag of mine, I feel a little invaded and defensive. It’s not like I don’t want him to go through my bag, or that he hasn’t done it countless times, but I always feel exposed. My wallet comes out on the bed, my hairbrush—the “icky brush,” he calls it, because I never clean it. There are so many strands of my long, dark hair tangled in its bristles. The greasy, well-used bottle of lube comes out next. The glistening silicone dick comes out, too; the one that always, without fail, goes up my ass and no place else. He usually sticks it up me early on in our trysts because he’s going to want his cock in my ass eventually. I can’t easily accommodate the size of his cock without a little help getting my hole open first.
At last the two items we both know he’s really been looking for come out. The stocking. (He doesn’t know it but when that stocking was new and part of a pair, it cost three times as much as the entire tab for our lunch earlier at the diner, tip included.) And the blindfold. The handy, light gray one that American Airlines was so kind to supply for me the last time I flew to London first-class—a sleeping mask, really. I seem to have no limit to my supply of handy airplane sleeping masks.
“Turn around,” he says. And I do. My hands are already behind me, waiting for the nylon stocking to tie them together. Not too tight, but tight enough to feel the restraint will hold.
“Okay, turn back around,” he says. And I do, my pussy already engorged. It happens that fast. Tie me up, even just a little bit, and I’m instantly a slick, sopping swollen ache down there between my legs. My clit is at eager attention under a perfectly trimmed thatch of pitch-black hair that’s right at his eye level now. I imagine that he can smell me from where he’s sitting, I’m already that aroused.
It would be so perfect if he moved his head just a little closer and put his tongue on my clit. Right on it. It would feel electrifying. But he puts the bottle of wine to his lips instead and takes a quick swallow.
“You want some?” he asks, holding the bottle up at me.
“Yes,” I say.
He stands up next to me and helps me drink from the bottle. Then he puts it down. He retrieves the blindfold from the bed and slides it snugly over my eyes. It’s a perfect world now. “Sit down,” he says, helping me find the edge of the bed.
My soaking pussy meets the blanket and I wonder how many other slick cunts have wiped against it over the years. It doesn’t matter. Right at this moment, I couldn’t care less about anybody’s slick cunt but my own. Now my acute sense of hearing is my lifeline to the entire world. I am o
nly a waiting mouth, a clit, and two very eager holes. And for some reason, as the wine and hormones battle for supremacy in my veins, I feel absolutely alive. Following the mystery of this man is now my only goal.
I hear the zipper of his jeans come down. In a heartbeat, his warm balls are pressed against my lips.
“Christ, your face is cold,” he says.
I don’t answer. I kiss his balls. I lick them. When I feel his hands grab on to my hair and push my face closer, I lick his balls more ravenously, isolating one of them and sucking it into my mouth.
“Ow,” he says. “Easy.”
I go easy on it, but I feel like devouring him. His scent arouses me. The touch of his hands on my head, that element of being under his control, makes me feel insatiable for him.
He guides my mouth away from his balls and soon his cock is at my lips, the head pushing in, my lips parting, my mouth accepting the full length of him. All the way in and then all the way out, sliding slowly at first, rhythmically, until it begins to resemble fucking. His cock going in and out of my mouth, picking up speed. His cock filling up my dark world, becoming all that’s in it. I’m moaning on that hard cock. I love the power of it filling my mouth. It’s thrusting more urgently now. In and out. I keep moaning, it’s uncontrollable, my delight. The spit collects at the corners of my mouth, drooling down now, onto my chin. I can’t help it—my hands aren’t free to wipe it away. His cock is a slippery mess of my spit as he fucks it in and out. I can feel his cock getting incredibly hard.
“I’m going to come,” he says haltingly. “Let’s stop for a minute.”
He helps me to turn over, to find my bearings dead center on the bed. He helps me to lean forward, to go all the way down into the darkness, my weight resting on my shoulders, my knees spread and my ass in the air. The blanket is scratchy against my face, but it smells faintly of bleach. I’m relieved by that smell. I feel him slipping off my high heels. I am instantly more comfortable.
Nothing happens for a while; how long, I’m not sure. He’s doing something but god only knows what.
I feel so fucking aroused in this position. Oblivious to everything in the sighted world. My hands tied tight enough to make me feel helpless, to feel at his mercy, to have to rely on my sense of trust. I’m hoping that whatever he has in mind for me won’t be more than I can handle. I know him. Something will be going in my ass. It’s just a question of what and when.
He’s moving stuff around on the bed. Suddenly there’s a sharp thwack sound in the air, simultaneous with a stinging smack on my ass.
“Shit,” I screech. It was too unexpected and it really hurts.
“Clean your hairbrush already,” he says. “It’s disgusting.”
I make a mental note to clean the “icky brush” or maybe to just buy a brand-new one. I’m waiting with a keen sense of anticipation, but there are no more smacks across my ass. The sting of that sole stroke of the brush is radiating across my cheek. If he wanted to hit me some more, I would be okay with it. If he wanted to spank me with that brush repeatedly, until my flesh was burning, until I was bawling like a little kid, I would be all right with that, too. I don’t tell him that, I don’t say anything at all, but in my secret heart I know it’s true. He could push me much harder than he usually does and I would follow his lead without complaining. I might cry or whimper. I might beg him to show a little mercy, but I wouldn’t complain. I would writhe in absolute ecstasy instead, I’m sure of it.
“Shit!” I cry out again, only this time it’s because the lube he just squirted up my ass is icy cold. “Oh god,” I’m moaning as I succumb to the anticipation of it, to the head of the silicone dildo that’s suddenly sliding into my ass. “Yes,” I stutter. Christ, it feels good. And now this is my whole world, the focus of all my lust: the insertion of the slick dick into my ass, pushing me open easily, finding its way up my depths and filling me with cold and that insane pressure of fullness.
Usually he slides the dick in up to its fake balls and just lets it sit there in my ass, taking his time with me, going about his business. But now we are paying by the hour and I’m a long way from home. Today, we’re pressed for time. He uses that silicone dick for what it was made to do. He fucks my ass with it. But the motion is too sudden. He’s a little too thorough with that fake dick, a little too rough. I cry out, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t stop.
I won’t admit it to him, or to anyone else on earth, but I love this very thing, when I can’t differentiate between pleasurable ass-fucking and ass-fucking that is way too rough. I’m crying now, I’m begging for him to stop, but my ass is arching up higher, helping the dildo get in deep.
I’m crying but the words that are coming out of my mouth are, “Fuck me, Enrique, fuck me.”
In a mere moment, the dildo is out and he’s between my legs on the bed, mounting me, my ass in his steady grip as he aims his cock at my slicked-up hole and pushes it in.
But now this is really too much. I can’t handle this. His cock feels huge and my hole isn’t ready for this size of intrusion. “Ricky, no,” I’m begging. “No, it hurts.”
But his slick cock is taking over my hole, forcing it to fit his generous proportions. I know I can take it, I can open for him. I can take him balls deep. “Shit,” I’m crying. “Shit, it hurts.”
And then just as suddenly as it was intrusive, his furious, relentless cock-rhythm has opened me completely. It becomes a smooth ride, a heavenly connection of slick force and speed. I wish there were more of him to fill me. I want to take him in me as deep as anything can get.
“How you doing, Mami?” he calls down from the darkness.
“Good,” I cry distractedly into the blanket. “I’m good.”
“You ready for Papi to come?”
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m ready for Papi to come.”
“Where do you want it? Where should Papi come?”
“Up my ass, you can come up my ass.” But I can’t tell if he’s wearing a rubber or not. This could be the real deal; if he’s riding me bareback and he comes up my ass—how well do I really know him? How well do we really know anyone, I wonder? Fleeting visions of my husband surface in my head. He’s supposedly hard at work in some lush office on Wall Street—who’s he fucking now and is he wearing a rubber?
“You want me to come in your ass, Mami?”
“Yes, yes, I want you to. No, no, wait,” I say, changing my mind.
He pulls his cock out of me abruptly. He pushes me down and then turns me over on the bed. Now all my weight is on my tied hands and he’s on top of me.
“You rich white ladies always want to flirt with fire. Why is that, Mami?”
His cock is still rock hard and it’s planted between our bellies, slippery and thick. He kisses my mouth. “You’re not answering me,” he says. “Can I come in your mouth?”
My world is still a dark, sightless place, but it’s filled with such exquisite sensations. “Yes,” I say, out of breath. “Come in my mouth.”
I feel him shift his weight over me. I feel the head of his cock at my parted lips. The terrible taste of latex smothered in lube is instantly overpowering and he laughs. He’s wearing a rubber. “Surprise,” he says. “Yummy, isn’t it?”
And then he’s off me. For a moment, I’m lying there, panting, listening. What is he doing now? It sounds like he’s slicking his dick with more lube.
Then he’s back between my legs, his hands gripping my ankles, lifting them up, pushing them higher, lifting my ass off the bed. The pressure of my own weight is finally off my tied hands, but my knees are practically to my shoulders now. It’s not very comfortable.
With little effort, he works his cock back in my ass and with ease my hole opens to take it balls deep again. God it feels good to get filled up with him. He fucks me for all he’s worth now. As much as I liked the fantasy of feeling his spunk seep out of my hole later tonight at that dinner party, I know this is the better way. I don’t know him at all, really. I don’t know who he�
�s been in his life, or who he’s been with. But I want to know his secrets, I really do.
“Enrique,” I cry quietly. My face is buried in his muscular chest as he fucks me.
“Yes, Mami?”
I want to say: I love you, tell me who you are. I want to know who you are. But instead, I say, “Fuck me, fuck my ass, Papi.”
“Don’t you worry, Boo, that’s just what I’m doing.”
Then just when it feels like my hole is stretched raw and can’t take another minute more of his relentless pumping, his entire body goes rigid. His heavy weight is smothering me. I feel crushed, but I know he’s coming. My ears are filled with the sounds of his consuming lust. The whole dark room takes on the sound of his urgency. His hips jerk against my hole in quick, hard thrusts. And then he becomes dead weight, falling on me.
“Jesus,” he says, catching his breath.
I’m buried, motionless, impaled underneath his two-hundred-pound frame.
When he pulls his dick out of me, he says, “Was that good for you, Mami?”
I say yes.
“I think I know what Mami needs now.” He helps me to sit up on the bed and then the wine bottle is at my lips. I take a couple swallows. “Let’s clean you up,” he says. “Our hour is almost up.”
I can feel him sliding my high heels back on my feet. With his body off me now the room is once again freezing. I’m getting my bearings but the world is still dark.
He leads me across the room. I follow in halting steps. My legs are aching. The room feels even colder than it did before. My high heels hit porcelain tiles. We’re in the bathroom. He’s switched on the light. I can tell this because there’s a sudden slight buzzing overhead from some kind of an electric fixture. The sink water is running.
“Sit down, Mami,” he says, guiding me onto the toilet. It’s ice cold.
