You’ve got to give in order to get. I run my hand around her, touching her neck softly, squeezing and showing her that I might be an emotional train wreck but I’ve still got some muscle. She moans because she understands as I trail my fingers down across her chest, her belly, slowly plying through the thatch of pubic hair to toy with her clit. I pluck it, tease it out. She hisses through her teeth and I let go.
“Don’t stop.”
“Turn around and unzip me.”
“Do it yourself.”
I pluck at her clit again and slip two fingers into her, hooking and pulling. This is tenuous ground, feeling one another out. You’re always this close to getting slapped, going to jail, falling in love.
I want to tell her my name so I can hear her spit it out, but it’s not that kind of situation. She murmurs and there’s a husky snarl in her voice now, a thick whisper meant to drive me out of my head if I wasn’t already gone. I’ve got her by the cunt and slowly turn her to face me.
“Unzip me.”
“Oh yes,” she says, not because she wants to give me pleasure but because we’ve moved on to the next round, when you’ve got to get your goodies out.
The beast in me starts taking over and the same old rage stirs and crawls up my back to settle in between my shoulders. She can see it, maybe it’s an old story. Am I no different than the pale, pudgy studio heads who visit a convention like this to get their asses beat with a cat-o’-nine-tails? I can feel myself skidding into cliché as I lunge forward, reaching for her tits, and stop in mid-motion. I growl, angry at the set-up, thinking about how this will all look on the page. Where the cameras should go, what the shot list schedule will be.
She undoes my fly and pulls my pants down. I kick them backwards against my luggage. My hard-on tents my jockeys and she pinches her chin, inspecting, making me wait, staring at me from one angle, then another. My chest crawls with sweat and it drips down my stomach into my waistband. She scowls at me because I’m taking too long. I don’t know what the next move is.
Maybe she expects me to tear my shorts off and ram into her mouth. Maybe I’m supposed to gurgle like a baby and ask her to powder my crotch and diaper my ass. How should I write an article addressed to the editors of D/S Magazine?
Zypho would already have his tentacles of love jammed into her ears, sucking out all the naughty thoughts.
Zucchini has no smell but somehow I’m back at home for Sunday dinner and grandma is putting out a plate of fried slices and I’m having a very difficult time of staying focused. I can just imagine the fire chief with his red hat and ax chopping through the outer doors any minute. The second hand of my watch is snapping the moments off and I know I’m losing the rhythm, I’ve got about two more ticks before she takes her ping pong paddles and goes home.
I’m so hard I’m hitting that nice plateau of pain. This is where she wants me to be, what I’m supposed to be experiencing. The heat and the sudden anger is clouding my vision but I can hold on. You fight the battles worth fighting. I take her by the chin and instead of forcing her mouth open I gently lift her to her feet, take her in my arms, and press her into the corner. I arch her higher and higher until she catches on and helps me out. I lift her onto the rail and she eases her legs out, slides her feet along the walls and I bend to taste her.
“Oh,” she says, almost giddy. “You’re a good little boy.”
“Talk your shit while you can,” I tell her. “In a minute you’ll be nothing but whimpers.”
It’s a pretty good line, and I think I should file it away, but then the page and the cameras finally recede and my face is inside her cunt. You can come back to the world this way.
I lap and lick and suck and take my time, and I’m not so polite anymore. Her outer lips are swollen pink and pliable as I kiss them the way I should be kissing her mouth. Passionate French kissing as it ought to be done. It lasts for a while. Then, with only the tip of my tongue, I move top to bottom, feeling her swell and constrict.
I take the edge of one inner lip and gnaw for a bit, switching back and forth. She immediately shudders and pushes her cunt out further, and I tongue her even harder. She trembles to a powerful tune as I flick my tongue, in control, watching all the right parts jiggling. My cock throbs viciously and I start humping air. I spread her further, holding my breath and going in deeper. Black spots dance in my eyes.
This is the kind of ridiculous shit that works its way into American myth. The fire chief hacking his way inside, finding me blue, unresponsive. Man drowns in freak elevator pussy fluid accident. The late night talk show hosts will bat it around for months.
She mewls and comes twice in quick succession as I continue to lick and suck, breathing her in, wiping my lips off on her thighs. She tries to talk, perhaps wanting to hurl an insult or indignity, but she whispers, then finally whimpers. The stupidest validation can make you feel like a man. This is your job to begin with.
She whines, “Enough . . .”
Thank Christ. I ease her down and she drifts forward into my arms and we hit the floor together, me on top. I still have my underwear on and she knows now what the next step has to be as she pulls them off me, swallows my cock, spits on it, works her hand over me, and then ushers me in between her legs. Sometimes there’s foreplay and sometimes you’ve already had enough.
“Oy!” she says, and I champ my teeth against the flesh of her shoulder, hard enough to make her grimace but without breaking skin. She lets out a low moan checked by anguished snorts and says, “You can leave marks if you want. It’s okay. Some guys like to see that.”
It’s almost enough to snap me loose, but I fight past the new thoughts, the faces of slobbering men in latex perusing bruises and bites. I grab under her knees and press her legs back, shoving in. She holds herself open as I work both my thumbs across her pussy lips. I drop on top again, sucking her nipple into my mouth, chewing, nibbling at the hard bud inside.
Maybe this is the only real way to face your own mortality. I might not be alive for any particular purpose, but if I am, this is as good a reason as any. It makes me laugh and I chuckle in her ear. It startles her for a second and then she joins in.
I thrust wildly into her and feel her rising up to meet me as she tightens around my shaft, so wet I feel her splashing against my groin. The veins in her throat thicken and every tendon and muscle stands out as she tenses and grunts her orgasm.
She doesn’t slow down though, quickening her pace as she stares into my eyes and tries to capture something – my soul, my guilt – and reaches up to run her hands through my hair, obligingly, with some modicum of care.
It’s all I need, that bit of love, as her tits bounce in time with my thrusting. My fists clench on the ripped loose threads of the elevator carpet and I hold on tightly, jammed against her and stiffening as I erupt. As I fill her, hearing the shattering glass of my bedroom window again, her pussy squeezes and draws out three, four streams of my come.
I lay there on top of her panting while she giggles in my ear.
Now there will be a new set of wonders.
Do we sleep together tonight? Will we have breakfast across from one another in the morning, share the day, exchange names and numbers? Should we kiss? Is it wrong for me to ask her to lick my cock clean?
She hops up without a word and starts the elevator again. It bucks and rumbles as if echoing an orgasm. This must be part of the high, the possibility of getting caught with cum sliding down your legs as the doors open and a mom and pop family stare in awe or disgust, hiding the eyes of the kids. I’m too tired to care much.
But no one is there when the bell rings.
I gather my clothes and luggage and she picks up her zucchini and paddles and we tramp down the hall. I don’t feel liberated being naked and walking around like I own the place. I feel utterly silly.
I follow her in silence and find that our rooms are next to one another. Her door’s been left propped open an inch. I hadn’t even thought about where she might have a
card key hidden.
She steps inside and the door closes with a gentle but resounding click. I go in and throw my stuff down, flop on the bed and stare at the ceiling thinking. There is often a lot to think about at times like this, rare as they might be.
I hear her taking a shower. I climb in the tub and put my ear to the tiles and listen to her humming.
It may not be much, but it’s something. I open my travel bag, take out Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and weigh it carefully in my hand. The bullets had been real, I could’ve cashed out of the game tonight. I flip through the book and read a few lines aloud, and then I turn on the television and order a porno flick. Zypho: the Post-modern Neo-expressionistic Morality Play is already taking shape in my mind, but I need a third act with some real heat.
The Mercy of Strange Men
Aimee Nichols
Lydia is ready. Lydia has been ready for some time. She has lost track of how long it has been since the Master prepared her in the usual way – naked and face down, her knees bent under her, upper body stretched forward so as not to put too much weight on her thighs. Arms out in front of her and tied to the edge of the platform with long leather cords. Legs shackled in the same manner at the ankles. This is the way they have always done things; the stretching pressure in her muscles has become as common a feeling as standing up or walking around. She has learned how to relax, how to breathe and move her weight about in order to delay becoming stiff and sore from so long spent in one position. Even so, she seems to have been here longer than usual. She is not sure how much longer her body will hold out without the promise of relief.
Surely the show should be ready to start soon?
Time moves excruciatingly slowly without the benefit of sound or images for distraction. Lydia tries to clear her mind and be calm, as the Master always tells her to do, but it’s not as easy as she would like it to be. In isolation such as this, displayed to no one in an empty room, her vulnerability is almost unbearable, but enticing at the same time. She imagines how she would appear to an onlooker who might happen upon the locked room by some twist of fate, unaware of what was inside or why, shocked at their discovery, but a shock mingled with arousal, perhaps. The blue and red hues of the overhead lights cast purple shadows over her body, highlighting curves and crevices. The position the Master has posed her in pushes her ass out provocatively and gives her spine the exaggerated curve of sexual mythology without her having to deliberately arch it. Her long rich red hair tumbles over her shoulders, obscuring her face from view. Her breasts are heavy and round, and their weight extends from her chest, creating a buxom and enticing silhouette. Her pale pink nipples are fully erect.
Already her body has started to respond to the promise of what the night will bring, the consequences of being displayed in such a manner. She smiles, secret and sly. The Master will be pleased when he comes back and finds her wet with no external provocation. She awaits his return, as her cunt grows wetter and her skin ever more sensitive to the air and atmosphere of the room. This is where she belongs.
After an eternity of waiting, when her body has calmed from its initial arousal response but her mind still flares, her lust-heightened senses detect the door opening and the outside breeze wafting in to assault her bare skin, which prickles into gooseflesh in response. She hears the quiet shuffling and low murmurs of the audience taking their seats, and imagines what they look like, and what their reactions are as they look at her, exposed and subservient and untouchable on stage, like an exotic creature in a glass case.
They will have come here to see her, having heard of her through the whispered grapevine of gloat and conquest. The thrill of that fact never fades. The familiar buzz of it starts in Lydia’s mind and moves through her body, coaxing her nipples and clitoris to erection again. Unconsciously she arches her back, pushing her ass higher in the air and her hairless sex towards the crowd. She can feel their presence, their numbers growing. She can feel their attention and readiness; the air is sharp with their sexual tension. She wonders how many feign disinterest, and how many are unable to tear their gaze away, staring without shame, confident they are at last in an environment where they will not be judged and found guilty for looking.
The Master assured her one night, stroking her hair after a show in one of his candid moments (brought about by a job well done), that the men were fascinated by her. She had a large repeat audience. Those who did not return were normally forced by circumstances to stay away; the Master had shown her a letter on a different occasion, from a regretful former patron who had accepted a job interstate, but who wanted to tell them how important a part of his life Lydia and the Master had been, and that they remained in his fantasies. She had been flattered that someone like her, who did not attract second glances on the street as she quietly went about her everyday life, should have such an effect on a person, on many people, outside of those everyday situations and bonds. It was flattering, she reflected, to become a part of someone’s sexual mythology, to have their thoughts turn uncontrollably to you and the brief moment you were a part of their life. To not even have to know them well or acknowledge their existence for this to occur. To know that even after one night in someone’s presence, you were a part of their life forever.
Lydia had agreed on this arrangement, so long ago now, because the Master had promised to bring her out of her sexual shell. He promised that their experiences together would provide the sexual release that she needed so badly. She had been sceptical at first, even as her cunt responded to the scenarios and ideas he described. How was this supposed to liberate her? How was being naked in a room full of strangers watching her become a sexual object going to do anything to realise her own fantasies? In the end, she could not deny how much the idea spoke to her and excited her, and how in thrall to the Master she already felt, and how that thrilled her. Refusal was an available choice but never a realistic option. From the first night, her willingness to obey and experiment had rewarded her. After that, she could not pretend there had ever been any other reason for agreeing than her own sexual satisfaction. The thrill was too great, the arousal too real.
The room continues to fill up, the murmuring of the voices growing deeper and louder. The presence and arousal of the men is almost a physical force now, and it seems there are a lot of them. Lydia strains to detect the Master’s presence on the stage, to hear the deep timbre of his voice even if his words are imperceptible. She cannot, and despite her arousal she tenses. Surely he wouldn’t leave her alone at the mercy of strange men? He would not go that far, she thinks, a faint chill of doubt crystallising in the back of her mind. He would not overstep her boundaries completely, despite his talent for pushing them further and further from what they used to be, despite the fact that they are unrecognisable compared to the boundaries she thought were unmovable before she started coming to him. But would he completely disregard her limits?
As she frets and begins to feel over-exposed in her bonds, she fails to detect the closing of the door, signalling no more admittance for the night’s entertainment. Her worries cease when she hears her Master addressing the audience in his deep tones. She listens to him explain the formalities and rules of the night, and thank them for their attendance, promising they will not be disappointed. She imagines the long-time attendees nodding impatiently, aware of what they must do to stay, waiting for their arousal to be sated, and the newcomers concentrating on taking in everything he says, lest they commit some faux pas that will see them ejected from what they already know will be a very memorable night. The dark bass of the Master’s voice ricochets though her body, and her yearning begins anew. She does not know what he has in store for her, but she craves to find out. Her waiting and anxiety will not have been in vain.
He finishes his speech and comes to stand by her side, positioning himself, as always, near her right hip. He is out of her peripheral vision range, and turning her head is forbidden. She tries to content herself with the knowledge of his presence and n
oting how she can feel his immense sexual energy even from a distance.
It is time for the show to begin.
“And what,” he coos in a voice loud enough for the audience to hear, “does my little slut wish to learn about tonight?”
Lydia recognises the familiar opening line, tenses in anticipation of the erotic menu to come. Her cunt clenches involuntarily. She wonders if the audience is tensing too, knowing the outline, but not the content, of what is to come
“Perhaps we could teach you about water-play? Some nice naughty droplets running down your body from one of our gentleman guests? Perhaps some live lesbian action between two supposedly heterosexual women – or is that more of a men’s fantasy, my little girl? A dirty one for us boys and our incorrigible ways? I’m sure nice girls like yourself would never deign to fantasise about something so base and so unattainable, so unrealistic and common, because everything you would think of wanting would be romantic and attainable and not even the slightest bit vulgar. That’s because nice girls like you think you don’t have to beg for anything, isn’t that right?”
At this he pauses momentarily to lightly brush his fingers across her vulva, spreading the wetness he finds there, and without thinking she thrusts herself against his hand. In response, he moves it away, and wipes her juices on her ass cheek, disdain obvious in the forceful drag of his fingers.
“As you know, my dear, and as our esteemed audience are probably aware by now, I take great pleasure in stripping young ladies like yourself of your illusions about these matters. I must say, I’ve never had any complaints so far.”
Lydia hears murmuring from the crowd, sounds of amusement and agreement. She imagines the men nodding their heads at her Master’s words, pleased to finally have someone voice the thoughts they’re not meant to think, looking down on her, and she flushes with embarrassment.
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