Eternal Bondage

by Vita Anne Hoffman

  I saw each and every touch and taste, rub or rock, that passed between them as he continued to arousingly mouth at one dusky cherry-red nipple then reached a hand to her shaved genitals. He dipped into her distended lips to toy with her slick lubricated insides. I watched the flex of his hand as he wriggled his fingers against every sensitized nerve of her swollen cleft, while he skimmed his thumb around her clit. She groaned, then pushed and pumped her hips to better facilitate his rummaging hand. His cock jerked now-and-again in an accompanying rhythm. Soon, I judged, very soon, indeed, more than his hand would seek out her enflamed depths.

  Her legs quivered and she panted with exertion, nearing completion but not quite there. As an unwilling voyeur, my body, that same spot between my legs, ached with sympathetic need. I also wanted to be touched there, forcefully, unmercifully, until I reached a blissful climax. My labia bloomed full and swollen at that thought. I creamed thickly.

  To stifle a gasp, I pressed the heel of my hand to my mouth, but the ache of desire could not be denied. A strained sound, something between a sigh and a whimper, escaped me. Desperation gave me the strength to beg the one being who could end this sex act between two strangers ... and one unwilling voyeur. I dragged my gaze to where he stood, cool and untouched and entirely focused on me!

  Constantine's head was angled in my direction so that most of his face was shadowed, sinister, yet his eyes, a shimmering brilliant blue, obviously riveted on me. The minute curl of his lips revealed a perverse delight in what he had observed of me. I had been affected, nearly dragged into, the intimacy on display before me.

  "End this. Don't punish them because you're angry with me.” My dry voice grated out the plea.

  Constantine slightly moved his head to consider the pair, whose noises, particularly the slurp and slap of fingers thrusting into a wet pussy and the accompanying gasps and grunts of pleasure, nearly tempted me to return to watching them.

  "Punishment?” He repeated my accusation in a drawl. “Of a sort. Only nothing so harsh as they deserve. Besides which,” he directed his gaze once more to me, a calculation of all he had witnessed of my shame, “this was actually a test for you."

  "A test that I obviously failed. I'm as susceptible to shameless sex as the next depraved soul.” A sob welled behind that admission, not quite smothering it. Hadn't I done enough to humiliate myself already by being caught up in the frenzy of such a degrading encounter? They were under a compulsion. What was my excuse?

  "On the contrary, my dear Miss Soulsmith,” Constantine's sharp but human teeth flashed in an exultant smile, “you passed, rather magnificently. I had feared that your kind was entirely incorruptible, that you were well and truly above the sins of the flesh."

  "My kind? Incorruptible?” I doubted that I would have been so suspicious of his phrasing except for the way Max had earlier made that strange allusion to my surname, Soulsmith. I still felt really touchy about it. “What are you implying, anyway? You make it sound like I couldn't ever be physically stimulated. That I'm above it all. As if I don't have human needs,” I snapped, almost aggravated enough to not notice the newest position of the man on his knees before the woman, to not realize that he ground his entire face into her hairless mound, to not feel the increasing pull of arousal in my own puffed up pussy.

  The progenitor's mouth drew into a hard line. His eyes squinted, possibly, I assumed, with an equal annoyance to mine. What was it about my question that had so irritated him? Had I struck a nerve?

  Before he responded, Constantine seemed to choose his words very carefully. “I had a preconceived notion about you. You are, after all, this city's upstanding, law-abiding Soulsmith, a rising entrepreneur with a reputation for being honest and aboveboard, notwithstanding your having a rather unorthodox specialty in the occult. Yours is such an exemplary character that you even have ties to the police force.” He suddenly flicked his gaze up-and-down my seductive midnight blue and silver starred ensemble, anything but a prim and proper, Sunday-go-to-meetin’ type outfit. He hid his reaction, whatever it was, behind lowered lids. “I assumed, Miss Soulsmith, that you were, as they say, one of the pure of heart."

  I snorted. “And now you know different. I'm just human. So, let them go. They are pawns. Stop using them. Stop degrading them. You've more than demonstrated your ability to captivate.” I scowled at him, then added honestly but testily. “I'm impressed. I'm also ready to beg you to free me, as well. I don't want to watch this display which, as you've just admitted, is entirely for my benefit."

  "But I'm not done yet,” he said very quietly, very dismissively. “These two are known to me. Their morals don't warrant your empathy. I chose them for more reasons than the obvious. Neal Argent is a sexual sadist, part of the abhorred Red Fallacies, a sex club for the most unholy. Jennifer Caron is a meth dealer and has been warned, repeatedly, to never set foot on these premises. This is no real degradation for them. It never even required a true deep mind-submission to ensnare them, just a minimal, superficial suggestion. You saw how easily, how eagerly they came when called. This amoral behavior is their nature. They came here to engage in just such promiscuity."

  I judged his words and suspected truth beneath his assertions. But I still argued. “Okay, granted, neither of them sounds like a saint. One's a sadistic bastard and the other a drug dealer. Yes, their sickening. And that's your excuse for using them? Because it allows you to pretend to some moral code all your own? Justice gets meted out by the law, not by us. Who am I to condemn them in this specific moment? You're the one who has acted unconscionably. Like a monster who can make puppets of weaker beings. And in doing so you are involving me. To hurt me. To teach me a lesson. I want it to stop. End this now."

  Constantine's piercing icy blue gaze sharpened in its intensity. “I could be persuaded to release them, if, that is, we replace them?” He followed that statement, and my obvious rejection of it, with another even less appealing one. “Or we could join them?"

  I figuratively bristled, my body sprouting invisible but intense quills, lethal and long and repudiating, and he laughed at me, at how easily he could rile me.

  At that exact moment, the woman whined out a high, keening moan from the man's frantic lapping at her. She was primed. So was he.

  "Ready for some cock meat, Skank?” He rose to his feet, pushed her back upon the table, grasped his dark-veined shaft in one hand, and used the other to spread her legs painfully wide. He advanced. He was about to fuck her, and I was about to witness it. Only, with a moment of clarity, all the risks of unprotected sex hit me like a brick in the face.

  "They need protection, Constantine! Give them that, at the very least. Or is that part of your game? Do you think to play Russian Roulette with their passion by possibly exposing them to AIDs?"

  He shot me a strange glance, but spoke to the man. “CURB YOUR RUT.” Instantly, he was obeyed. Neal Argent halted, cock-in-hand, chest heaving, his frame shuddering from delayed gratification. The woman, Jennifer Caron, splayed uncomfortably wide and ready upon the bright red table, made an unhappy mewl and promptly began to rub, to ease, her own self. Constantine turned to a long, continuous roll of condoms that hung from a hook beside the Rendezvous Room's electronic control panel. He tore one loose and moved forward ... to me, not to them. He came, ruffling the purple foil-wrapped condom between his fingers like a baton, and offered it to me with a chic flick of his wrist, and a smirk upon his handsome face.

  "If you want him to wear it, you will have to put it on him."

  I gaped, struck deaf and dumb. The edges of my vision blurred, but Constantine's sculpted beauty, his aristocratic nose, expressive mouth, perceptive eyes, remained sharp and clear, framed against the glistening enamel red of the rock walls, framed by the unmistakable color of sex. Muttering an unintelligible string of obscenities, I reached out a trembling hand and snatched the offensive packet from him. I was extremely clumsy from a heady cocktail of fear, titillation, and inexperience. I knew the basics of a prophylactic, bu
t I'd never rolled one on a man! My former partners—all two of them!—had done the honors, at my insistence, with a minimum of muss and fuss.

  "How hard can it be?” My mental quip was somehow spoken aloud just as I tore open the gaudy purple foil. My uncooperative fingers stretched out the condom, and I realized how up-close-and-personal I was, had actually BEEN, to the couple the entire time. We formed a triangle with lascivious points. I could easily reach out and touch—or, in this case, wrap—the naked, quaking Neal Argent. His muscular frame quivered with all the pent energy of a libido contained. His shaft, big and ugly with gnarled veins and an angry dusk shade, twitched within the circle of his fist. It seemed eager for my touch. Neal Argent's feral face turned to me, watched me, anticipated me.

  Constantine spoke from close at my side, making the sexual triangle a misshapen rectangle. “Hurry, Miss Soulsmith. He'll not restrain himself much longer, nor shall I compel him to."

  Sweat dotted my lip. I forced myself to close the small gap between us, and aimed the rubber for the flared head of Argent's rampant penis. I didn't want to touch him, but I had to. Very gingerly, very awkwardly, I pulled it onto his tip. He exhaled a groan of unadulterated pleasure. The demeaning sound infuriated me, but I continued, trying to roll it further without contacting his shaft. Which was impossible. I gritted my teeth and began to industriously stroke and smooth it down his hot, hard length. Argent growled and pumped into my grip. I swallowed my humiliation—and my excited response—and edged the condom down, closer to where Argent grasped his own root.

  I watched myself rubbing at the thick, throbbing cock, and my previous thrilled jolt skyrocketed when Constantine's elegant hand joined mine in the lewd chore. His fingers, placed before mine, were rougher, firmer, more stimulating, as they jacked downward and forced Argent to let go his hold upon his own dick. Argent, his arms dropped to his sides, his back arched into our combined touch, his pelvis jutted to the fullest, tilted his head back to groan low and long. The sight of our combined efforts, of our palms and fingers crowded together on another man's hardness, also gave me a sick buzz. How could I like anything about such perversion? To save my self-respect, I pretended that I was unaffected.

  My hands continued their nasty course down Argent's phallus, bumping into Constantine's fingers, working the condom closer to the base. At that unexpected brush of our fingers, I could have swore that Constantine made a similar moan to Argent's, only a more metaphysical, more visceral noise of unfulfilled longing.

  I spoke to Constantine, but didn't look towards him. “Your mission's accomplished. You not only made me a voyeur but you made me a participant.” I pulled my hand away, as did Constantine rather more reluctantly, and I pinched the end of the condom to check that there was room to capture Neal Argent's ejaculate. “It's done.” My ardor had chilled. I returned to my stance of disinterested audience. And the show continued.

  Argent moved between Jennifer's quivering legs and he rammed home with as much brutal force as possible. She made a weak bleat, let her mouth go slack in a blissful stupor, bent her knees even higher, then settled back upon her elbows to let him pound away. He grabbed her hipbones to keep her anchored for each of his powerful, violent thrusts. Repeatedly, in a furious non-stop rhythm, he'd slam in, and quickly ripped out, beating into her insides like he wanted to penetrate beyond her womb. His harsh unrelenting plunges were eventually accompanied by his hoggish grunts of enjoyment. I clearly heard other slobbery sounds as he got more and more caught up in the friction and feel of his cock cramming into her slippery, spasming pussy. She was nearing a climax. Her eyelids flickered nearly shut. She cried out, again and again, the pitch rising with her nearing orgasm. Her entire lower body seemed to clench, and he groaned as she must have gripped hard on his cock.

  He grimaced, showing his teeth. “Such a fucking good pussy. I'm going to explode!” His howl was triumphant. He lowered his chin for half a second, controlled his release for that one fraction, swiveled his head toward me, and proved that he was terrifyingly lucid. “When I'm done, you're next.” And with that, his eyes rolled back in his head, he sputtered a drawn out breath, and gave over to the automatic humps of his body, spilling seed, ejaculating all his evil semen, spewing and spewing ... until, that is, Constantine grasped his skull, claw-like, a carnivore subduing his prey.

  Was he going to crush his skull, I fretted?

  Argent's eyeballs bulged within that clasp, and popped even more when Constantine pressed his mouth to the side of Argent's head to murmur directly into his brain a message that I couldn't distinguish. When Constantine broke their contact, Argent was glassy-eyed, stiff-limbed with fear. His once enormous penis slid from Jennifer Caron limp and deflated like a balloon. And not, I knew, from having been sated. He had been scared witless by the vampire progenitor. His cock appeared that it would never recover. Thankfully, the condom, barely managing to do its job, skimmed down the shriveled appendage, leaving a slimy trail.

  "What did you do to him?” Not that I cared. I was just curious.

  Constantine shrugged, the gesture rifling the longish waves of his coal black hair against the tops of his shoulders. “Nothing as severe as he deserved. I simply warned him what the consequences would be if he ever dared so much as threaten another innocent."

  I considered Argent's limp package and realized that Constantine had insured that Argent, being a brutal fetishist, one of the Red Fallacies, probably wouldn't ever be able to get it up again. Not if he absolutely required threats and pain to get off, anyway. Constantine had used me to psychically castrate, to effectively emasculate, Argent, a sexual predator. I could live with that. I smiled tightly at Constantine. It was the closest to a ‘bravo!’ that he would get from me.

  "Am I free to go?” I came off surly. Because I was.

  "Since I cannot persuade you to avail yourself of any of my establishment's amenities, certainly you are free to leave."

  I nodded, went to the strange, narrow door, then paused. I couldn't help a final backward glance, especially at poor Jennifer Caron, who, curled in upon herself on the table in an attempt to hide her nudity, looked like she had awoken into a nightmare.

  "What about her?"

  "She will get a similar reminder of her fate should she ever sell drugs in or around the city of Charleston. After which, they will both be allowed to go on their merry ways, never fear."

  "Okay.” I nodded that same acquiescent bob of my head. “Okay.” And I readied to duck through the doorway.

  "And Miss Soulsmith.... “Constantine's voice, silky and inviting, caught at me, but I didn't turn to face him. “I look forward to seeing you again. Soon."

  I fled with his words pursuing me. The crowd had dispersed, returned to the natural ebb and flow of a raunchy dance club. I scrambled away, having by now mastered my spiked heels well enough to sprint, if need be, but I did not break into a full out run. Just like his final parting words, Constantine's presence somehow dogged me, followed me. If I ran away, he would recognize and relish the fear inside of me. So, instead, I shakily weaved a path through the ill-lit noisy club, past the stage, now occupied by a cowgirl dressed in nothing more than a ten-gallon hat and silver-heeled boots as she jumped back and forth through her lariat, past a very curious ‘Marilyn', who waved at me, past the drunken weaving bodies on the makeshift dance floor, where, once more, hands reached out to stroke and entreat, until, finally, my heart fit to burst, I reached the exit. I bumped head-long through the club's heavy doors and fled as if from Hades itself, still feeling trailed by Constantine's essence.

  I hustled down the plush black-carpeted hallway, jammed the elevator up button, and waited anxiously. After agonizingly long seconds, it arrived. I rushed inside, punching for the ground floor, resting my forehead against the cold steel doors as I ascended. I charged like a linebacker out into the lobby and across the extraordinary pink and beige octagonal tiles. Once outside, I stumbled onward a few more paces then gulped down deep breaths of warm night air to steady my n
erves and dispel the last remnants of Constantine from my mind.

  Somewhat fortified, I retraced my way down the quiet street to where I had parked my little car two blocks over. At the time, I had wanted to reconnoiter the hotel before entering. But right now I simply wanted a quick getaway. I walked cautiously, because my encounter with Constantine had left me uneasy. The evening's earlier traffic was gone. I now traveled a deserted, darkened thoroughfare. The street lamps made irregular, misshapen pools of light. I didn't know which I disliked more—feeling targeted in their poor glare or swallowed in the surrounding darkness.

  When my car came into view, I fumbled through the contents of my impractical little clutch purse and dug out my keys with the attached mace. But a light scuff and scratch from somewhere up ahead, as of a footfall on a rough patch of sidewalk, alerted me to danger, to the presence of some ... thing. My car appeared to be miles away. Running seemed the wrong thing to do, as if the very act would make my stalker give chase, like a slavering enormous hound after a teeny tiny rabbit. Somehow I managed to keep a steady gait. Until I heard a second soft footfall from behind. I was trapped in both directions. The car was still several feet away. It might as well have been a million miles distant!

  "Oh, what the hell.” I gripped the mace tightly in my fist and made a run for it. I didn't get very far.

  A lanky, scarecrow-like figure materialized before me, stooped, unkempt, in a rumpled gray-and-white pinstriped suit, greasy-haired and pockmark-faced. The sight of his eye patch stopped me dead in my tracks.

  It was him. My assailant from all those years ago when a student at SCWV. There was no mistaking him, especially the telltale eye patch that I had bequeathed him. Confronted by my own private nightmare, inundated by the malevolence that seeped from him, I had a vivid sickening flashback—of skeletal yet strong hands grabbing me from behind on a vacant late night parking lot, of something tearing and ripping at the shoulder of my leather jacket, of being flung down to the ground, of twisting to face the crazed fiend that had attacked me, of scrambling backwards crab-like to escape. Of course, there had been no chance for escape.