Sweet Life 1

by Violet Blue

  The three of us fucked in a rhythm together like some deranged beast. You in my asshole and him in yours. Joined and sticky, reduced to animals that simply couldn’t get enough. I didn’t want to watch, but I had to, as the three of us came, bucking hard in a pile-up on the bed. Groaning, because it was so good. Better than good. It was sublime. Unreal.

  But, in my defense, I have to say again that it was all Roger’s fault.

  Next Friday night, we’ll be there on time, Elena. I promise.

  Gerald

  ALICE BLUE

  She doesn’t look like much. Still, when I look at the picture she gave me I get a quiet rush, a reverberation of what it was like.

  I didn’t feel anything like that when I knocked on her door that night, four years ago. It was routine, a noise complaint. I remember thinking, as I walked up the steps to the little house at 4467 Pierce Street, that anyone who blasted Beethoven couldn’t be a lot of trouble to deal with. I was wrong.

  She’d opened the door on the third knock. I sized her up the instant the door swung open: white Caucasian female, 35 to 37 years old, approximately 140 pounds, curly brown hair, green eyes, no obvious distinguishing markings. She’d been wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a faded orange sweatshirt with the brooding face of her favorite composer on the front—whose 5th Symphony was now rattling the windows.

  At the Academy they teach you never to make assumptions, that even the most innocent face can hide a nasty perp. “Treat every situation as a potentially dangerous one”—and if you do, you’ll freak out in a matter of months. It had taken me a while, but I’d still managed to develop a set of cop instincts. The Academy would say to watch your ass, but my guts said that she was just some innocent little music fan.

  As it turned out, the Academy was closer to the truth.

  “Shit!” she’d said, with a comic intensity that made me smile despite myself. “Sorry, Officer.” She dropped back into the place, moving quickly toward a wall-sized stereo setup, and Beethoven retreated to a percussive rumble. “Just got a little carried away, I guess. You know Ludwig: gets the old blood stirred up.”

  I can’t remember what I said. I do remember, though, what I was staring at. You se a lot of shit when you’re a cop—but in quiet little Bakersfield you don’t see that much. I knew what I was looking at, of course. I’d seen more than my fair share in the magazines I kept hidden at home. Still, it was one thing to know something exists and quite another to see it personally.

  I guess I must have stared for quite a while, because I was suddenly aware that she was looking at me. Shaking it off, I glanced at her and met a sly smile and those sparkling green eyes.

  I didn’t say a word as she closed the door behind me.

  My I.D. reads GERALD PARROW. I still hate Momma for that, a name no one—let alone a kid—should get stuck with. To everyone except the Sergeant it’s Jerry—not Gert, and certainly not Gerald. Usually all it takes it a frown and a low growl to get it corrected.

  I learned quick. The Academy taught me a lot of things that weren’t on the curriculum. Such as that black officers like me will always get the shit work, especially in little burgs like Bakersfield, and that we’re going to get damned little respect—from citizens and especially from other cops. Momma always said I was a fast learner, and that was a lesson I picked up extra quick. After my first two weeks I put aside Gerald and built up Jerry: a tightly wound, no-nonsense, ball-breaking asshole. Of course, being a little over six foot helps, as does carrying 160 in firm muscles—wasn’t always that way, as I had to build Jerry up in more ways than just attitude.

  I was strong, I was mean, I was no one that anybody messed with, not even my “fellow officers.” I was also real lonely.

  I attracted some men, of course, and even some women, but you could see in their eyes that they wanted Jerry and not the whole package, Jerry but also Gerald.

  Until that day she played Beethoven too loud—and I saw the whip.

  I didn’t ask, “Is it real?” as she got me a drink from the kitchen. I didn’t need to; it had a very…lived-in look. Black leather strips, about a dozen or so strands. It looked heavy, it looked mean, it looked…I felt myself get hard just looking at it.

  Her name was—is—Juliet. You wouldn’t know it to look at her, old sweatshirt and running shoes, but she’d been doing this kind of thing for a while—not immediately obvious, but definitely noticeable as she spoke: “So, you want to play?” It wasn’t so much a question as a mocking observation.

  All I could do was nod as I sipped my drink.

  “Then let’s,” she said, smiling broadly, eyes dancing. “Or would this be assaulting a police officer?”

  I smiled back, reached up and plucked my badge from my uniform. Jerry was determined, Gerald was hungry.

  She started with a kiss—not a polite peck on the cheek, but rather a forceful, hot stab with her tongue. Grabbing the back of my head, entwining her fingers in my curls, she jerked me back, hard. Gasping for air, I instead found her firm, soft lips, and strong, passionate tongue. Down deep, I felt myself respond on a very primal level.

  “You’re mine, Slut,” she said with a bass growl. “For the next hour you are mine—a possession, an object, a thing. You exist for one, and only one, thing: to pleasure me. Do you understand me, Slut?”

  I agreed. I tried to make it sound like “YESSIR!” but I’m afraid it was just little Gerald by then, Jerry having stepped out with that first hard kiss, and instead it came out “Yes…sir….”

  “Now strip—show me what you’ve got,” she said, pulling up a battered chair and sitting down, facing me.

  Those men, and those few women, they’d wanted me to say those words, to growl commands, orders—but all that time, I wanted to hear them, too; to put aside the badge, gun, the attitude. To put aside Jerry.

  I stood, slowly because my knees were weak, and started to unbutton my uniform. I didn’t intend to do it slowly , but my fingers were shaking. One button, two, three. Shirt off. Then my boots, comically hopping braced against a doorjamb, but she didn’t laugh. No, she watched. Not stared, just watched, with a gleam in those green eyes like a falcon or a leopard. I didn’t know if she was going to fuck me or consume me—and that made me all the harder.

  Naked, I stood in front of her, my cock painfully hard. She smiled, cruelly, and got to her feet. She inspected me, looking at my firm chest, my dark nipples, my ass, my stomach, my neck, my face, into my eyes. “You’ll do,” she said after a while.

  “Thank you, Sir,” I said in a weak voice, the carpet swaying beneath my feet.

  “As an object you must meet my needs—satisfy my every desire. Do you understand me, Slut?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I said, distinctly aware of my throbbing cock, its moistened slit, the tingling in my nipples.

  Then she said it—and if I was wet with pre-come before, I practically dripped after. “Lick my cunt,” she said, a growl in her words, steel in her tone.

  She kicked off her shoes, pulled off her jeans. No underwear. Her cunt was shaved, nothing between her legs but soft, white skin. It was lovely, a very pretty cunt, but it wasn’t just her cunt I was begging for. She was already wet, I could tell: a sweet, musky smell. I got even harder—not for the sight of her cunt, the coming taste of her on my lips, but rather the command, the order.

  She pulled up that battered chair again and sat down, spreading her legs. I’d licked more than my share of women—I’m not one of those brothers who sees licking pussy as something weak, not hardly. I’d done others, probably will do others—but this was my Master’s cunt, the cunt I’d been ordered to lick, and so nothing could compare to it. Single-mindedly, becoming just an ecstatic licking machine, I worked on her—her slight moans and groans a glorious kind of applause for my technique, me wanting more than anything to please her.

  I guess I got a little too enthusiastic, what with the joy at being pushed down, at being released from the bonds of my dominant Jerry, and I went a little too far. H
er small yelp was like glass shattering, as if a part of my ideal world—the world of Gerald the lapping slave—broke, fell apart.

  “Bad,” she said, pushing me away and standing up, “very bad. Obviously you’re in need of some training—because a real slave, an ideal slut, would never ever allow his teeth to even graze the cunt of his Master.”

  Jerry was frightened of nothing, but Gerald—little slutty Gerald—was terrified. “I’m so sorry, Sir,” I pleaded in a soft little voice, bowing down toward her bare feet. “Please, I didn’t mean to….”

  I couldn’t see her face, but I could hear the sneer in her voice. “Begging is so pathetic, even for a slut. Obviously you’re in need of some severe discipline.”

  That was it. Right then I knew what was coming next. The magazines I’d bought, with their lurid fleshtones and shocking titles, had prepared me some—but not enough. They’d shown me the position: on my hands and knees, head down on the old carpeting, ass high in the air, legs slightly spread to bare my ass—but they had never gotten me ready for the first impact of the whip.

  I expected pain—but it was more than that. At first it was a gentle slap, a glancing blow across both my cheeks. That’s it? I remember thinking, almost frowning into the carpet, but then there came the next blow—harder, faster—and I knew that wasn’t it. Oh, no, that wasn’t it at all….

  The impacts came faster, a pounding rhythm that may have started on my ass but soon became a drumming tremor through my whole body. It was as if my entire being was being beaten with a regular 4-4 beat, a drum in her sensual, masterful concerto.

  My ass warmed, becoming almost hot, and my cock felt like it would explode—straining further with each thud of the whip. Each beat was like a great wave rolling through my body, starting at my ass and rippling through my belly, deep into my guts, thrilling my nipples and then out my mouth. At first I thought the sound was from somewhere else; it wasn’t until later that I realized that I’d groaned with each impact, an echoing, deep rumble to her regular beating.

  Jerry was nowhere to be found: It was just the slut, Gerald, receiving his exquisite punishment—and it was wonderful.

  She said something, and it stopped, the cessation almost as shocking as the first impact. Distantly, I was aware that she reached down and helped me up, led me like a sleepy child.

  My ass hitting the ground was less a shock than I expected, but I’d swear I could feel every whorl in the hardwood floor through the throbbing heat of my ass. With the whipping stopped, my body felt like it was going to deflate, sag from release—but then she produced a tiny plastic box. Inside: clothespins.

  “Don’t relax yet, Slut,” she said, somehow grinning sweetly and nastily at the same time. “Your punishment isn’t over—yet.”

  They were innocent looking. Just cheap, simple, wooden clothespins. No metal teeth, no vicious spring—nothing like in those magazines I’d seen. I almost laughed at them, thinking of Momma’s clothesline, but then she put the first one on my right nipple.

  My entire chest locked up in pain. I felt like a band had suddenly been wrapped around my chest, squeezed tight. I breathed carefully, slowly, to try and work through the pain. Somehow, without being aware of it, I’d shut my eyes. Realizing that, I opened them—and was staring right into her eyes: attentive, careful, concerned. Despite the pain, I nodded, realizing that I could take more.

  And I did: one on my left nipple, then another one on the right side of my chest, then another one on the left side: four, five, six, seven—at eight I thought my teeth were going to break from the tension, my heart to stop from the pain wrapped around my chest, twisting my nipples. Again, my eyes were closed—so, again, I opened them: Her eyes were bright, excited. I knew that, despite the pain, she was here for me, she was my Master—and I smiled.

  “I think that’s enough,” she said, and the first one came off—and I thought, then and there, I was going to die. Going on was bad, but coming off was murder. I thought for a second about screaming in pain, but then didn’t want someone showing up for that noise complaint and finding me buck naked with this white woman and clothespins on my nipples. Despite the agony I smiled—until the rest of them came off.

  My breathing was ragged and all I could do was moan and then moan some more—but slowly, eventually, the pain subsided, trailing off to a dull glow around my chest. I must have sat there for a long time, just breathing in and out, letting my body grow hotter and hotter with the pain and, yeah, the pleasure of what she’d done to me. Then, distantly, I was aware that she was getting me to my feet, leading me back, deeper into her apartment.

  Though a bit blurry, I was still able to look at the room: noticed the great bookshelf of dusty, dog-eared volumes, the rack of CDs, the small pile of dirty laundry…and the brass bed. But as she led me in, I didn’t see anything but her hand around my wrist—then the bed itself, vast and comforting.

  “You have pleased me, Slut,” she said, as if from a long distance. “You have pleased me with your performance—but there’s one last thing I require.”

  I knew what was coming next, as if a deep part of Gerald was following some passionate script: I crashed down on my back on the bed, my cock throbbing, arms outstretched to grip the cool metal top corners of the brass bed.

  Carefully, she crawled up on top of me, taking a brief second to kiss me on the lips before reaching back between her legs to ease my hard cock into her hot cunt. She started to fuck me—and again, like with the whipping, time vanished and I became her object, her slut. I lived for her pleasure, existed to service her: It was wonderful.

  We fucked that first time for what felt like hours, her strokes rocketing through me as the whip had, but this time the impacts echoed through my body, not just from my reddened ass. Slowly, she pushed me higher and higher, up a slope I’d never been up before.

  Then it happened—and shortly thereafter for her as well. The ecstasy was like a brilliant light in my eyes, a body rush, and a dreamlike collapse onto the soft comforter, onto her brass bed.

  That was the first—there were many times after. Officer Jerry may have knocked on her door that first time, but it was slutty little Gerald who returned time and time again.

  Check Your Inhibitions at the Door

  ANN BLAKELY

  Hunter has been to parties like this before. I can tell simply from the way that he’s smiling at me. His light-gray eyes crinkle at the corners as he gives me what I’ve come to consider his “cologne model” expression. It’s the gaze you always see in advertisements for men’s fragrance. A slightly weathered-looking model, handsome, with a knowledgeable glimmer in his eyes, grins boldly from the pages of some fashion magazine. But Hunter isn’t in a magazine. He is standing on the front step of Mica Malone’s house, holding my hand reassuringly and waiting for me to ask questions.

  I don’t know where to start.

  From inside the pocket of his worn leather jacket, he pulls out the invitation, casually handing it over for me to read. Even though I hold the card carefully , it shakes in my trembling grip. On the front of the invite is a closed door with golden light shining through a keyhole. Inside the card is written: “Check your inhibitions at the door.” Aside from the time, the place, and the RSVP information, that’s all it says. No explanation of fashion criteria. No helpful hints on how to behave. Maybe the rest of the guests know what to do at festivities such as this, but I have no idea. I’ve never been to a sex party before. At least, not outside of daydreams.

  As usual, Hunter is charmed by my naïveté. “What would you like to know?” he murmurs before knocking. There are too many questions. And it’s too late to ask, as our hostess suddenly appears, her image wavery, though still gazelle-like, through the smoked-glass panel. She opens the front door and beams out at us, all blonde upsweep and gleaming blue eyes.

  “Kids,” she says, welcoming us in her heavy, breathy voice. “Were you going to stand out there all night?”

  Before either Hunter or I can speak, she us
hers us indoors with a flurry of graceful gestures, quickly taking Hunter’s coat and holding out one delicate hand for my red silk wrap. That’s the way Mica is. She never waits for an answer. Still, this time is different. Maybe she understands my insecurities—read “terror”—and simply wants to pull me within before I lose my nerve and have to flee.

  As she hangs our outerwear on an antique wooden coat rack, I frantically wonder where the rack is for our inhibitions. How will I ever manage to check mine at the door? Then I catch a glimpse of a large, sumptuous room at the end of the hallway, and—surprise, surprise—it looks just like a regular party. Colorful twisted candles stand on all the surfaces, creating a warm, inviting glow. People are mingling, drinking, laughing. I see lovely, multihued dresses on the women, simple dark suits on the men. Perhaps I was wrong to be so scared.

  Another thought blooms in my mind. Maybe Hunter was teasing me. When he called at the last minute to invite me to a party, he explained that it was a kinky, free-for-all type of event where people played games they don’t teach you in grammar school. But though he sounded casual, he knows that this is my number one sexual desire. Whenever we’ve engaged in that confessing game, whispering to each other late at night under the covers about what fantasy most turns us on, this is what I tell him: “I want to be seen.”

  “Describe it.”

  “I want to make love to you while other people watch.” A hesitation. A breath. “While other people join in.”

  “You’d share me?”

  “For a night—” I say. “One night only.”

  It’s an image I’ve owned in my head for years, the concept of being on display for the pleasure of others. The idea of watching while another woman touches my man. Joins us. Helps us. But I am much too shy of a girl to have ever turned this fantasy into reality.