by Alex Algren
The Domme grasped my hand, planted the dildo in it, and used both her hands to force mine closed around the shaft of the dildo.
“I said put the dildo into her.”
Without looking down, she unzipped the vac bed and sat down to light a cigarette under the NO SMOKING sign.
The crowd had surged closer, perhaps sensing that something especially dirty was about to happen. If only they knew. I looked down at Aiden, saw her eyes glassy and dull behind the frosted latex.
“Can she see through this thing?” I asked.
“Put the dildo in, Tarantula.”
My hands were shaking as I pried up the edge of the vac bed. I forced my hand under, scenting Aiden’s body, sweat and cunt pouring out to mingle with the sharp stink of latex. I tried to keep my flesh away from hers, but it was impossible in such close quarters; in a moment, my forearm was slick against hers, glassy as we rubbed together, like naked bodies fucking after an hour of slow, hard afternoon sex—
“Put it in her,” snapped the Domme. “I haven’t got all day.”
I could feel the heat as my arm crossed her side, her belly, her hips, pressed in tight. I took longer than I should have wrestling the dildo between her perfect thighs. The dildo was not a small one. I nuzzled the head between her thighs, reached my other hand in, with some difficulty, to spread her lips. I could feel the tiny keloids where her piercings had been.
I hovered over her belly and read the Sanskrit upside down, for the thousandth time, and the first: The butterfly counts not years but moments, and has time enough.
I pushed the dildo into her; in the slack latex, she arched and squirmed. Her ass lifted high and she let out a moan. Ice and heat in alternating waves ran through me, making my rubber pants distended.
“Zip her,” said the Domme.
I did, with some difficulty because I had never used this device, only seen it used. When Aiden was tightly sealed, I looked down at her eyes, frosty behind latex. Her eyes, what I could see of them, gave me no recognition. I listened to the sucking sound of her breathing. I was still staring when the Domme snapped her fingers in front of my face.
She had a spider on the back of her hand: a black widow, not a stamp, a tattoo. She was a lefty.
She took my hand and put the control box in it, forcing it closed. Then she held out a vibrator, a big rechargeable number with an angled shaft.
“Well?” she asked. “Make her come.”
“I’ve been drinking,” I said.
“Not enough,” she told me.
“But I—I know her,” I said nervously. “She’s my ex-girlfriend.”
“Then I’m sure you owe her a lot more than one orgasm. Start paying it back, Tarantula.”
I turned and regarded her; I fancied for an instant that we made eye contact through that frosted sheen. Between her spread legs, the rubber was distended with the base of the dildo.
I hit the suction and the distension disappeared, as the evacuating envelope of rubber forced the dildo deep into her. This time, her wail drowned out not only the scream of the vacuum bed, but the fucking John Tesh on the stereo. She pushed up so hard against the latex sheath that even as the latex went taut, she bent her body at an angle, hips desperately hunting for the ceiling, until I turned it up high and the dildo disappeared all the way inside her, and she went slamming down against the padded table underneath and did not get up again.
Now that I was close, I could see more detail—I could see the butterfly on her left hand, too dark, too defined, too colorful to be a stamp.
The Domme was at my elbow, whispering with the scent of an Indonesian clove caressing its way into me. I wondered if Aiden could smell it.
“Twist the dial with a rhythm,” she said. “The dildo will feel—”
I lost the last part of what she said, because I was leaning close, breathing hard, twisting the dial to see the perfect outline of Aiden’s body go clear and defined to white and undefined, each time the dildo slipping out just enough that she wailed when it went back into her—not an inch, barely a centimeter, but enough. I watched the rhythm of her body, the trembling that came when she passed the first plateau, the violent shaking at the second, and then, I knew, it was just a matter of making it happen, and the moment was in my hand.
For an instant, I almost killed the vac bed, put down the vibe, flipped Domme Lady the bird and went home to watch Skinemax. I was a moment, a split second, from doing that, when I looked up and saw Aiden’s eyes and something said she saw mine, through the frosted latex, through the haze of the machine’s tight embrace. I flicked the switch and brought the vibe down, on high power, as high as it would go, just to hear Aiden scream.
She did, and thrashed, and fought so hard against the crush of the latex sleeve that I thought for an instant she was going to rip the thing open. She couldn’t maintain it; she was strong, but not that strong. Her arched back went flat again as I pressed the vibe hard to her clit, switching it low, high, low, high, medium, low again, and then with the shuddering spasms of her naked body, high again, because her eyes were wide behind frosted rubber, staring up at me again, and whether it was me she was looking at or a hazy blur, I wanted it more than she did.
She came not by screaming or thrashing or fighting or shaking all over. She just went slack, stopped moving, froze there for an instant, and then a great violent jerk shook the table, and she was still. I gritted my teeth against it, because for an instant I thought I was going to cry.
I switched off the vibe, turned the suction dial to zero, reached out for the zipper.
“Did I tell you to free her?” came a voice from over my shoulder, velvet in clove smoke.
“Go to hell,” I said, and reached for the zipper.
The Domme’s hand grabbed mine before I could unzip Aiden. Our eyes met tight in the darkness and our breathing went heavy for a minute under the Enigma.
“Get out,” she said, pulling my hand away. “Leave.”
I dropped the vac bed control, threw down the vibrator, and stepped back. I looked at Aiden, heard her breathing regularly through the tube. I could see her eyes, but I was probably nothing but a blur, a white frost, a caricature.
The crowd was pressed in close, but they all cleared a path for me like I was fucking Moses.
It was five minutes waiting for my overcoat, five minutes to the car, five more minutes walking in a long perimeter around the parking lot breathing long and deep and freaky. Some guys on the corner puffing a spleef stepped out close in front of me and asked if I was having a good night. I mad-dogged ’em and they shuffled back into the shadows like a killer faced with a war criminal. I gave them the bird as I passed.
My car door was slim-jimmed, my glove rifled, ancient parking tickets scattered across the passenger’s seat. There’d never been a radio to begin with. I started the car and leaned on the gas to warm her up. Deep in my overcoat I felt a buzzing. I pulled out the phone and just stared.
I stared through six rings, till it was gone, then again, another six, then nothing as the engine purred. I put away my phone. I put the car in gear and crawled across the lot, feeling it buzz again.
At the exit, I turned right, not left, and crept down an alley marked DO NOT ENTER.
She was there, crouched by the Dumpster, black raincoat a dark pool all around her feet. She stood under the Kanji and blocked out the YOU YOU, which with the way the shadows were falling made the Dumpster say FUCK FUCKING, which at long last kind of made sense.
Reg stood watch over her, smoking a long thin cigar and playing absentmindedly with a butterfly knife. He eyeballed me as I drove up on the sidewalk. I pulled up, leaned over, popped the passenger lock, pushed the door open. It creaked.
Aiden got in. I saw that she’d neither buttoned her raincoat nor bothered to put on anything underneath. I could smell the rubber all over her, the stink of skunk mixed with the heady aroma of her sex, the familiar scent of her sweat mingling. You can always smell them, people you’ve been with; it’s like a body memory, a
nd I remembered the perfume of her in every cell.
She sat flat in the seat, breathing. In my pocket, my digital watch chimed midnight. Happy May Day, people.
“I like your tattoo,” I answered.
She shrugged. “Yours?”
I held up my hand; between my sweat and hers and the pussy juice, I was sporting Monet’s tarantula.
She leaned across, kissed me, her coat falling open. My fingers found the smooth lines of Sanskrit, traced them, pressed lower. By the time our lips parted, my fingers were wet.
“Drive,” she said softly.
I stared at her a minute; her eyes were still frosted, but no longer by latex. I put the car in reverse. Reg raised his hat as I backed out of the alley, flipped a bitch, went right, left, left, and hit Figueroa going north.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
A. D. R. FORTE is the author of erotic short fiction that appears in numerous anthologies, including Hurts so Good and Pleasure Bound. Her tales of erotic fantasy can be found in collections from Cleis Press and Circlet Press.
THOMAS S. ROCHE’s novel, The Panama Laugh, was a finalist for the Horror Writers’ Association’s Bram Stoker Award. Roche’s other books include the Noirotica series of erotic crime anthologies and four collections of fantasy and horror. A prolific blogger, Roche writes regularly for TinyNibbles.com, BoiledHard.com and many other blogs.
SINCLAIR SEXSMITH (mrsexsmith.com) runs the Sugarbutch Chronicles at sugarbutch.net. Their work appears in the Best Lesbian Erotica series, Persistence: All Ways Butch and Femme, and Take Me There: Trans-gender and Genderqueer Erotica, among others. They are the editor of Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica (Cleis Press, 2012).
DONNA GEORGE STOREY is the author of Amorous Woman, a steamy novel about an American woman’s love affair with Japan. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including Passion: Erotic Romance for Women, Obsessed, Penthouse and Best Women’s Erotica. Read more of her work at DonnaGeorgeStorey.com.
SASKIA WALKER (saskiawalker.co.uk) began writing in the late 1990s. She’d traveled the world, gained degrees in art history, literature and visual arts, and worked in several diverse careers, but the stories in her head needed to be written. Since then, she’s penned a dozen novels and more than eighty short stories. She lives in the north of England with her real-life hero, Mark.
KRISTINA WRIGHT (kristinawright.com) is a full-time writer and the editor of several Cleis Press anthologies including Fairy Tale Lust, Dream Lover, Steamlust, Best Erotic Romance and Lustfully Ever After. She lives in Virginia with her husband and two young sons and spends a lot of time in coffee shops.
ETREATS: LITERARY TEMPTATIONS
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