by Alison Tyler
“And maybe you’ll show and maybe you won’t?” There was no inflection in his voice. He might have been asking the time.
I was already at the door, tying the belt of my coat into a neat knot. I stared at him; even crouched on the floor, even drawn in pain, the lines of him were beautiful. I went back to him and curled myself up smaller than he was and put my head next to his, so our faces were touching. The high heels on my boots made it awkward. I kissed him on the lips, something I had not done with anyone in a long time.
“No, Morgan,” I said. “Leave me a message with a place and a time and I will be there.” I caught the fleeting movement of his mouth with my fingertips: a grimace under any other circumstances, but in these, a smile.
YOU SAY THIS IS A TESTAMENT
Maria See
The next time you pee, I’m coming with you,” I say.
You don’t respond.
You knew this was coming, after all. You started preparing for it yesterday. The first time I heard you pissing, while I was half-awake in bed, I knew what you were doing. I knew you were trying to get used to having less privacy. To not having a closed door between us.
I didn’t tell you I had noticed. I waited until you did it the next time you had to pee.
“Have you been leaving the bathroom door open?” I asked you when you were done.
“Yeah.”
You didn’t tell me why. I already knew. You were afraid you’d freeze when I was there, in front of you, demanding that you piss.
You’ve always been extremely pee shy. In fact, you swore you would never pee in front of me. Never. Never. You were adamant. It wasn’t a limit; it was an edge. And it became a marker to me. A means to measuring your trust in me.
Never didn’t last. You started to waver. Your responses to my desire started to change. At first you simply weren’t so strong in your no. And then you stopped saying no and didn’t respond at all when I initiated conversation to check in. Soon, “But you won’t pee in front of me, will you?” was met with a new response from you: “I might.”
And now—now you give in, don’t you?
If you could get used to peeing with the door open, knowing I could walk by, or even come in, at any time, you would be less likely to freeze when it would matter, when it would mean disobeying me. You don’t like disobeying me. You want me to know that you can please me, that you’ll do what it takes.
I usually bring you a glass of water after you orgasm several times, after I’ve worn you out. But last night your water was waiting for you on the floor, in a large stainless steel dog bowl. I watched you drink your water, checking to see if your head fit okay, if you liked the bowl—my preparation for today, unbeknownst to you.
The size of the bowl was perfect for you, and you did like it. “I like that I can see you in the bottom of the bowl, looking down at me,” you said.
I liked that, too.
It’s time to play, and you are dressed for the occasion, wearing your collar and nothing else. I have two balls: a tiny one and a tennis-size one. I also have a plastic doggy chew toy.
We play fetch with the tiny ball, and when I throw the tennis-size ball you push it back to me with your nose; it is too big to fit into your mouth. Playing fetch is about you showing me that you’re a good girl; that you’re obedient; that you’ll get the ball and bring it back because that’s what I want you to do.
The chew toy is shaped like a barbell. Sometimes you chew on it, but we also play tug-of-war with it. You bite down hard and fight me for it when I try to pull it away. Sometimes I let you keep it, but other times I’m determined to rip it from your grip.
After we play, I set down two of the same bowls we used yesterday. One is full of water. The other is for small cheese puffs you chose at the store earlier today. The water bowl is full to the rim, whereas I have yet to give you any food.
You are on all fours in front of your bowls. “Drink your water,” I say. I wait for you to finish at least half before I empty cheese puffs into the other bowl. When I do, you eat them up. “Drink more of your water,” I say.
You finish all of your water, and you think you’re done. But I take your bowl, and I bring it back full again. I give you more food. You are drinking your water slowly this time, and it is annoying me. I want your bladder full, and I think that you want to make this difficult.
I grab your hair and shove your face into the water. “Drink it!” I scold. You start to push your bowl, and I shove your face into it again. You whimper and start to drink.
When you are done with the second bowl of water, you come over to me and place your chin on my knee. I pet your head and ask you if you’ve had enough water. You nod.
“Good, let’s go for a walk. We’ll walk to the bathroom,” I say, and I get your leash.
You take your time on the walk to the bathroom, stopping along the way to pick up one of my flip-flops with your teeth. “Bad! Put it down!” I yell. I pull it from your mouth and place it back on the floor. We move along.
We get into the bathroom. I look at you and motion to the toilet seat. “C’mon,” I tell you. “Come up here.” You sit on the toilet, legs open. I’m standing between them, in front of you. I’m playing with your hair.
“You’re going to be a good girl, aren’t you?” I ask you. “If you don’t go, I’m going to keep forcing you to drink more and more water. I know you don’t want that to happen. You’ve already had so much to drink. That’s not what you want. Is it?” You shake your head no.
I bring your head toward my chest and hold you there. You begin to pee. You pee for a few short seconds, and you stop. You are nervous.
“Are you done?” I ask. I don’t wait for you to reply before I continue: “Let me know when you’re done.” My tone has changed; I am patient, caring now. I am pleased with you, and I start to wish I had strapped on a dick before we started. I feel hard, and I want your lips around my cock.
You tell me you’re done, and I reach for the package of wipes. I am so slow and intentional pulling out a wipe that you can hear the wetness as I unfold it. I want this to be slow and painful. I know this makes you uncomfortable. I want this because it makes you dependent.
I wipe you gently, except for when I press down on your clit as I slide by it. You are silent.
RIVER OF BEAUTY
Sharon Wachsler
Mayra stands in the center of the room, taking it all in: the furniture against the walls, the people in evening dress seated in a line of chairs in front of her, and at her side, dominating the room, the wheel. Nearby, a small table holds her sponges, brushes and arty cakes. Underneath it is a sealed case of champagne. Cattiveria isn’t normally open on Mondays, but the owner is a friend.
The new art is up and lit—an assortment of timepieces in acrylics, with a twist. Her favorite piece hangs behind her. The pussy is lifelike, in mauves, purples and browns. The lips unfurled and swollen, the cunt fairly drips arousal. She’s particularly pleased with her use of trompe l’oeil: the second hand appears to be moving—ticking back and forth over a pulsing clit—while the minute hand snakes into a glistening slit. A short, fat hour hand, shiny with cum, rests on the labial fold at 10.
Mayra’s gaze falls on the femme sitting by herself below the picture. Her straightened black hair hangs like a curtain, concealing her face. She is shrouded in a black dressing gown, the collar flipped up to hide her neck, the bottom trailing on the floor hiding her feet. How long it’s been since Avril sashayed through the door to Cattiveria in red leather, pink fishnets or spike heels, her head thrown back in laughter or tilted forward in flirtation.
Mayra turns her attention toward the wheel. If not for the setting, it could be mistaken for a kitchen table—except for the Roman numerals around the perimeter and the sheepskin-lined restraints. That would make for interesting dining.
Mayra beckons Avril to her side. Clutching her robe about her, Avril moves in her uneven gait toward her Mistress. Avril’s stuttering steps tonight are not so
lely due to her right leg. Her hands, never affected by the accident, tremble, and her olive skin is deeply flushed. Mayra’s groin tingles. A blush of embarrassment can turn to a blush of arousal, the heat of shame to the heat of pride.
Mayra steps forward. “Thank you so much for coming,” she says. “Especially those who helped me create—” She gestures to the five-foot-diameter horizontal wooden wheel next to her, covered in canvas painted doeskin, stippled and lined to suggest human flesh.
“As you can see, it’s on its way to being the last in my series.” Mayra nods at the hourglass painted at the bottom between the V and the VIII. It’s an odd image. The small pile of sand in the upper bell doesn’t rest in the neck, but defies gravity, clinging to the roof of the bell. A straight line of sand falls from it, through the neck to a much larger pile on the bottom. The hourglass is tilted back, conveying movement, with the base sliding forward.
In the heavy silence Mayra feels her pulse in her neck. All the quiet discussions and loud arguments that led here fill her head with buzzing. She remembers the night, lying in bed, when she finally asked, “As an artist, as your lover and Mistress, after all we’ve gone through—do you trust me?”
Avril whispered, “Yes,” with eyes blazing, and kissed her ferociously. After making love, Mayra began to sketch the wheel.
Avril’s touch on her arm brings Mayra back. “It’s time,” Mayra says.
Time for their Cattiveria friends to see Avril without the scarves, turtlenecks and long dresses she’s been wearing for two years. Time for Avril to see them seeing her. Avril lifts her head. Everyone’s accustomed to Avril’s face by now, except… Tonight she’s not wearing the heavy foundation the medical cosmetologist gave her to cover the purple-red scar running up her throat and across her right cheek.
Avril unties the sash with fumbling fingers. Then, holding her breath, she lets the gown fall to the floor, gasping like she’s ripped off a bandage that took away hair and skin.
“Breathe,” Mayra instructs. Avril nods and exhales in a whoosh. She clenches and unclenches her hands as if yearning to grab the gown pooled at her feet.
Mayra takes in Avril’s generous curves at breast and hip, the pouch of her belly, her strong hands. The scars that keep growing, adding dark layers of irritated collagen, are part of Avril’s uniqueness. Though the keloids are painful and itchy for Avril, Mayra can’t find ugly what marks her partner as a survivor.
“Come,” Mayra says, helping Avril slide carefully into the center of the wheel, ass-first. Lying on her back in the center, she splays her arms and legs, resting her hands at two o’clock and ten o’clock, her feet at eight o’clock and five o’clock. Mayra has no intention of forcing Avril’s right leg to four o’clock. She’s learned that symmetry is unrelated to beauty.
Mayra starts at ten o’clock with Avril’s left wrist. The shackles come together, metal on metal, shutting with loud finality. Then she spins the wheel 360 degrees. Avril tenses and flattens at the unexpected movement. Mayra could have simply rotated to two o’clock to cuff the other wrist, but she wants to build Avril’s sense of unreality and lost control. Along with the disrobing, loss of equilibrium should tip Avril nicely into bottom space.
Abruptly stopping the wheel, Mayra snaps her fingers above Avril’s face. “Hey!” she barks.
The femme stares guiltily, even though she’s behaved perfectly.
“Is your right hand at two o’clock, where I told you to put it?”
Avril’s eyes widen. She gropes for the shackle. “I—I think it is,” she stutters.
“Yes, it is. Good girl.” Mayra runs her hand down Avril’s arm to her breast, caresses it once, then squeezes her nipple hard before pulling her hand away. Before Avril can react, Mayra clangs her wrist inside its shackle. Leaving no time to catch her breath, she spins Avril again.
“Gosh,” Mayra says to the crowd. “This is like Wheel of Fortune. I wonder what I’ll land on?” She licks her lips. Their friends chuckle.
She stops the wheel at eight o’clock and strokes Avril’s thigh. “I notice you shaved your pussy for tonight. Why did you do that?”
Avril blinks. They talked about the stripping, the wheel, the shackles, the paint. They didn’t discuss roles.
“Your pussy,” Mayra muses. “It’s all smooth and pretty and”—she cups Avril in her palm—“warm, isn’t it?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Avril nods, her eyes glazing slightly.
“Because you wanted everyone to see the lovely parts you still like?” Mayra spreads Avril’s lips, discovering wetness.
“Yes,” Avril whispers.
“Let’s do that properly.” Mayra abruptly pulls Avril’s foot to eight o’clock, spreading her legs. She spins the wheel, stopping it so Avril’s feet are a yard from the guests.
“You just lie still and let everyone get a good look at your pretty cunt,” she says.
Avril blushes furiously, sweat popping out on her skin. Mayra lets a minute pass as Avril’s jagged breaths fill the room, then spins her back to put her ankle in the cuff. She fiddles with the shackle noisily before clanking it shut.
Again, Mayra spins the wheel and stops it when five o’clock is in front of her. Mayra sits on the edge, gently stroking the bent foot, crosshatched with keloids.
“We need to be careful with this foot, don’t we?” She asks.
“Yes, Mistress,” Avril murmurs.
It’s been so long since Mayra’s heard the honorific that she’s stunned; heat balloons in her chest and shoots to her cunt. She looks at Avril’s lolling head, her limp limbs and her dilated eyes. Avril has become her blank canvas. Mayra’s arms tingle. She wants to start painting now.
Saying nothing, Mayra lifts Avril’s foot into the cuff and locks it in. Then she kicks off her loafers, baring her feet, and rolls up her jeans cuffs. She strips off the checked shirt and turns her cap’s brim backward.
Taking a moment, she checks Avril’s position. She has planned perfectly: the hourglass is completely visible just below Avril’s pussy, creating the illusion that it’s slipping out between her thighs.
Her first task isn’t true painting, but documentation: to outline Avril’s body on the wheel. Mayra brushes in a thick black outline around Avril’s head, arms, torso and legs.
Now Mayra pulls the table with her tools closer and clambers onto the wheel, sitting between Avril’s feet. After sending a prayer to Saint Catherine of Bologna, Mayra wipes her sponge three times across a square cake of doeskin body paint, then swipes the color onto Avril’s left leg in large strokes. From thigh to arch, stretching out and down, again and again. She lays down the rich, creamy color in arcs, ripples and curves, the basis for later detail work.
While her body recognizes the movements of art, there is also a strangeness. These paints and tools are more intimate; the silken consistency of the cake paint is unlike that of acrylic. Avril’s skin is smoother and more elastic than canvas, and even though her girl lies as still as she can, she’s breathing. Her pulse is beating. There’s an aliveness connecting them. Mayra finds herself matching her strokes with Avril’s rising and falling chest.
Mayra reloads her sponge and reaches to sweep paint onto Avril’s outer thigh, hip and the side of her ass. Avril moans, rolling to meet her caress. Mayra slaps the opposite asscheek hard. Avril yelps.
“Hold still. You know what we’re doing here,” Mayra chastises, continuing to paint Avril’s ass and thigh. Peripherally, she sees Avril hang her head.
“What are we doing here?” Mayra prompts, not looking up.
“Making art,” Avril says.
Mayra smacks Avril’s inner thigh with the handle of a filbert brush. Avril cries out, a dark welt rising.
“Not just any art, a beautiful work of art. Look at everyone and tell them what they’re here to see.” Mayra pauses to watch.
Avril lifts her head as much as she’s able, saying tremulously, “You’re here to see a beautiful work of art.” There’s a tear in the corner of her eye.
“That’s right,” Mayra purrs. “But you don’t believe it, do you?”
Avril shakes her head, eyes cast down.
“But you believe in my artistry, that I create beauty?”
“Oh, yes!” Avril nods.
“You think I can’t transform this.” She runs her finger up the thick, brick-red jagged line that begins at Avril’s right ankle, crosses her calf and thigh and ends below her hip.
Avril shakes her head. Tears are streaming down her face. “Not so much that one.…” she whispers.
“Oh,” Mayra breathes. She lightly touches the other long keloid scar. Tracing the purple rope from Avril’s collarbone down between her heavy breasts, over her belly, past her navel.
Avril shakes her head.
“Maybe I have more faith in my artistry than you do?”
Avril starts to protest, but Mayra slides her thumb across Avril’s clit, and Avril moans instead.
“That’s for your honesty,” Mayra says and returns to painting.
Where thigh meets hip, she sweeps toward Avril’s cunt. Avril attempts to slide toward Mayra’s hand, but the wrist shackles hold her. Mayra grins but keeps working. Repeatedly she sweeps the sponge up Avril’s inner thigh, letting her knuckles bump Avril’s pussy. Avril’s cunt is swollen now, open and trickling juice. She mewls but has given up attempting to move.
Mayra hops off and spins the wheel to keep Avril disoriented. She rolls her shoulders to stay loose while grabbing new tools. Stopping the wheel at her girl’s left shoulder, Mayra creates the clock’s hour hand. She paints a straight, thick black line the length of Avril’s arm. Then, instead of a typical arrow point at the end, she paints a small vulva, lips open like an inverted heart, its clit facing the X. She spins the wheel and switches to blood red for the minute hand—a thinner line with a little pulsing vulva pointing to II.
