Markus must have read my mind. Even Tinker Bell could.
“There are rules at this play party, Buddy. You have to be cool. You have to ask permission before you touch...”
He had more to say on the subject, but I interrupted:
“I can handle myself, don’t worry.”
“...and in your case, you have to be clean. You need to wash up. Over there’s my private bathroom. You just take yourself a tub and don’t come out until you feel like it. There are other bathrooms for party players. You can wear one of my robes if you want to get out of those clothes.”
Markus Bloom couldn’t do enough for me. I was grateful that we had sealed our friendship with a hand job back at the clinic.
His private bathroom was big enough to park a car in. White tiles and black marble and big shiny mirrors. A giant tub. Markus liked good living, but I didn’t think he was rich. I had the feeling that he lived from temporary to temporary, just like me.
After a bubble bath I shaved and looked for myself in the mirror. I liked what I saw. Ready, willing, and able.
I looked good. Yeah, just one eye, but with one eye I could see what I needed to see over, under and around. I was clean and smelling sweet. One minute you’re on the street, and the next you’re a party favour at an orgy — the kind you only see in porno films. Maybe I had gotten my luck back.
Like Daddy used to say to me, it’s a great life if you don’t weaken.
I put on one of Markus Bloom’s bathrobes and went out to join the party.
And what a sight it was. For the first time, I missed not having that other eye. Every direction I looked in was flesh — tits and ass and floppy dicks. I didn’t know where to start sniffing for a piece.
Then I found out that Markus had taken care of that, too. I didn’t recognise her without any clothes on. She looked like a boy who’d decided to play being a girl. Tinker Bell, the other party favour. Her titties were almost a handful, and her pussy was shaved.
“You look human now,” she said, like she was relieved.
Her eyes and nose were red, and she was sniffling.
“You look like a drug addict to me,” I replied.
“Don’t give me a hard time, Buddy, please don’t. I need this money. Just let me do you.”
“You’re too skinny.” She just wasn’t my type.
“Please, Buddy. Markus sent me over to you. Said I should get you fluffed up. I’ll do anything you want.” Whining.
“There’s a party going on.”
“No, it hasn’t even started yet. People are just getting acquainted. Come on, just tell me what you like and I’ll do it.”
I didn’t even like her, but the flesh is weak. She was a gift — how could I refuse? Long time, no nookie.
“You can hurt me if you like,” she said. She was begging me. Hurting wouldn’t turn me on, but her willingness was.
I wondered if anybody was watching us the way I liked to watch. It had to be that somebody was, I guessed. I hoped so.
Well, I said to myself, let’s see how far she’ll go.
Start with her mouth. I moved my finger across her lips, making her open her mouth, and stuck the finger in. Her tongue was skinny just like her body, but it was wet and suctiony around the finger. I stuck it in further and she gagged, but I never felt her teeth. I looked in her eyes to see if she resented me doing that and all I saw was curiosity. I owned her. I could do what I wanted with her. Then Markus would pay her and she could go dope.
I put my hands around her neck and squeezed just for a minute, feeling her pulse strong against my hands. She wasn’t scared. Her body was bony everywhere, but her skin was soft, and when I pinched her nipples they stood right up. I twisted them and pulled them hard and she bit her lip, but she smiled.
She was turning me on. Old Blind Bob was poking up through my robe. I used two fingers to explore her pussy, jabbing them up her while I bit her nipple. She rode my hand, rubbing against it. She gasped when I put a finger in her ass-hole. It was tight, just right tonight.
I pulled it out and pushed it into her mouth for her to clean with her lizard’s tongue. The same with the fingers in her pussy. She licked them like a cat. She was a challenge.
She was like a doll, a fucking doll. Nothing got her excited, so that made me push things to the limit. She was beginning to feel like a responsibility, gift or not. Girls always are.
“Use your hands,” I ordered her. “Play with it.”
She grabbed the pole that I had stuck into her belly with both hands and skinned it back. She was good at hand jobs, so good it made me want to get it wet. I didn’t even have to tell her what to do. She dropped to her knees and opened wide. It was a tight fit but I slid it in, grabbing handfuls of her hair to guide her with. That lizard tongue flickered around the head and pushed inside the tip and I felt a jolt of electricity behind my balls.
“Use your teeth,” I told her. She was good: they came down like gates on my prick, sawing it and chewing it. Looking down at her face full of me, she looked a lot better than she had at first sight.
“Now, no teeth,” I ordered. And just like that, her mouth was tight and wet and slippery. I held the back of her head and pumped into her mouth, fucking her face and getting more excited as I jabbed it down her throat and felt the wonderful ripples of pleasure at each stroke. When her eyes bugged, I pulled out fast and she gasped for air. The smell was like she’d vomited and swallowed it. I didn’t care. She wasn’t running away. I owned her.
She had gotten my dirty mind to working overtime. I pulled her into the bathroom and locked the door behind us, dropping my robe. I was going to make this bitch scream.
I still didn’t see anything more human than curiosity in her eyes. She had done that before, all that we had done in public. I wanted to make her feel something, because I wanted to feel something.
I made her lick my balls and clean my crack with that lizard tongue, and then told her to stick two fingers up my asshole. When she got it open I told her to stick her tongue in there and let her fingers fuck me. I was getting hotter, and my excitement seemed to be sparking hers.
It was time to fuck her. I pushed her down on the tiles and pulled her skinny boy butt up to me, ramming it up her cunt and riding her. I gave it everything I got, and I thought I’d split her in half before she made a noise, and then another one.
“Oh,” she said to the floor. “Oh, oh, oh...”
Near us stood the sink cabinet. I opened the door under it, and reached inside, hoping to find a tool. It was there, like I hoped. I left her for a minute while I plugged in the hairdryer, and then plunged back into her.
The hairdryer was what did the trick. I held it about two inches from her skin and just moved it over her body. Up her bony vertebrae, melting them. Over her skinny buns. Her neck and shoulders and arms, everything getting red while I just kept pumping, knowing I was in control now, and that this was what she wanted. She was noisy.
The hairdryer was still whirring when I put it down on the tile and pulled out of Tinker Bell. She collapsed on the floor and I pulled myself up, holding onto the sink. The mirror made me look huge. It distorted me. And my wet penis was like a club. Looking at it in the mirror I suddenly realised I hadn’t worn any protection. I was so horny even for a skag like Tinker Bell that I had forgotten. What a dickhead.
Good thing I hadn’t come. Some people thought that if you came, you increased your chances of getting something. The same people said the best thing to do was take a leak right after. I decided to do that.
Walked over to the toilet to piss but I couldn’t get the boner limp enough to pass urine until I stood at the sink and poured cold water on it.
I looked down at Tinker Bell. “I’m so hot, Buddy Tate. Cool, me off, would you?” She was pleading. She wanted a shower.
The first gush hit her flat chest and then I sprayed it over her body. I had a lot in me. I just kept pouring it over her, and then into her mouth when she opened to drink. It was one of
those endless pisses that satisfies the soul.
Markus Bloom
Markus Bloom loved play parties. He was being a good host when he sent Tinker Bell to Buddy. He sincerely believed in his own religion of Eros. His motto was, “Where proud perverts gather, there is my church. There I shine.”
He used the word pervert often, using it and other words in ways that reversed their traditional negative meanings. Since he considered himself an artist of sex, he thought almost all the forms it took should be encouraged and celebrated; he believed that the body and erotic energy might be used to attain even higher states of consciousness — even to explore spiritual realms.
To keep his own healthy, boundless degeneracy fresh, he changed the sexual roles he played almost weekly. One week he bottomed, the next he was a lesbian, the next he was a top, then for a month he’d play husband; he never tired of the endless dance of sex. He categorised nothing except his own reactions.
For him, pornography was the literature and film exploration of the most mysterious and holy of human activities. He often quoted the great pioneer pornographic film-maker Lasse Braun, who told an interviewer, “As a pornographer, I have cast my lot on the side of love.”
Markus quoted Braun often, as he went about his business spreading pornography in all its forms like a fin de siècle Johnny Appleseed. Creating it, producing it, manufacturing it, distributing it. With Quixotic ardour he championed what television Jeremiahs like Thomas Flood said America feared most.
Consequently he was a celebrity in great demand in the San Francisco neo-pagan radical sex underground where all the fun happens. His idealism inspired those less bold, and challenged the censors, preachers, pundits, repressers and suppressors he called the ‘No People’. Like an evangelist of lust he spread his erotic gospel by writing books, publishing magazines, making videos and CD-Roms, staging erotic festivals and throwing the best play parties in the City of Perpetual Indulgence.
Wherever Markus went, he was accompanied by an entourage of porno starlets, pretty boys, and eccentric women of wealth. At first glance, Buddy Tate seemed an unlikely friend for Markus to add to his circle. Buddy was extreme. A genuine bad boy. But there had been an instant mutual recognition between them in the clinic — and the size of that snake he kept in his pants!
Everything he’d heard from his friends Laura Aurora and her consort, Baron — and wicked little Robin — confirmed his first impression of Buddy: here was Priapus, son of Aphrodite and Dionysus. Buddy was unique. Markus looked forward to educating him, perhaps smoothing over the rougher edges.
It was about time for the party to start. He stood at the door welcoming latecomers. They were neo-tribal — modern primitive, biker, swinger — pierced and tattooed and costumed. The liveliest spirits in a defiantly sex-positive community.
He’d never had a taste for rubber before but his interest was piqued with the arrival of a small, slender woman in a black rubber bra, tight rubber corset, and black rubber boots. At first he didn’t recognise her because of her mask of tight black rubber.
It was Robin Flood.
Laura Aurora
It was a play party with ritual overtones that began when Laura Aurora, topless — and matchless at ritual — walked onto a stage area to one side of the crowded mattress room. She called the gathering to order:
“There are more non-violent subversives out there than there are anywhere in the country,” she declared, adding, “and we have more fun, don’t we?” The crowd of celebrants roared. They were sitting or lying languorously on the mattresses in various stages of undress, in various configurations of partners, toying with each other but no more. They knew the order of events: first came the story circle, in which participants were invited to tell tales of their first sexual encounters.
Voices spoke up in the crowd. A woman told of her first encounter with a vibrator. When she was a teenager, she’d found the old fashioned implement hidden in her mother’s closet. She nearly electrocuted herself playing with it, but she discovered the joy of vibrators. Other women had vibrator stories. A man related a story of crawling into a storm drain as a ten year old and being able to look up women’s skirts through an iron grill in the sidewalk above. The stories were intelligent and sex-positive, and they loosened the crowd up, making each person feel a part of a benign group organism.
Then Laura, assisted by Baron in full regalia, cast a magic circle, bowing to the four directions and invoking the goddess. After the invocation, the love games began.
Robin Flood
Robin talked with Markus Bloom, who admired her costume and what the rubber did for her breasts, and walked past the orgy room into the kitchen. She poured herself some juice, ate some celery sticks, and listened to the conversations around her. The rubber was warm, but it had the desired double effect of hiding her and making sure everyone saw her. Restless, she walked outside for air. An iron staircase descended into an airshaft which led to the party’s dungeon, and a cloakroom. She took it. In the largest room a naked man was lying prone on a hospital gurney being fisted by a ‘nurse’ in white uniform who had unbuttoned her crisply starched blouse to expose her breasts. She moved so that their tips rubbed against his body. A woman was tied to a pole wearing only a garter belt and stockings, while a man in leather who didn’t have his heart in it stroked her lightly. There was a row of black leather slings, with no one in them. Stocks of contraceptives and Crisco filled one low table. The space was set up for comfort, safety, to be both intensely sexy and yet cosy. Safe harbour.
Robin was on the run; the shadow of the hawk’s wing was over her face. Like a hunted rabbit she dived into any hole she could find. After rejecting her father, there would be no more cheques from the Parousia Foundation. She could not go back to her apartment. She knew her father would set his dogs Hopper and Thumper on her and she feared being snatched and put in some mental institution run by her fellow Christians until the Crusade for San Francisco was over. Or Armageddon.
She lived underground, with friends who had a spare room or a fold-out couch. She dressed like a leather boy when she went roaring down evening streets on her Harley. She disappeared into the shadows of the Mission and North Beach, where she came out in public only on stage, as part of a vampire-lesbian strip act called Tragic Magic.
Like her, Robin’s colleagues in this act were young and well-educated and good looking, living in one of the most pleasant cities on the planet. And their most fervent ambition was to strike a meaningful blow at the consumer capitalist business culture that was eating souls everywhere. Their duty as artists was transgression and the re-establishment of ritual.
In addition to taking their clothes off and rubbing their bodies together for horny men, the members of Tragic Magic wrote poems and performed them while blood flowed over their bodies. They ate together, partied together, and slept together.
Robin had come to Markus Bloom’s play party because, after a steady diet of women, she wanted some dick. She was hungry for a man’s hardness — bone and muscle and gristle and alien psyche. She went back upstairs, not feeling part of anything and wanting to. Markus was gallant and lecherous, coming to embrace her when he saw her standing in the kitchen by herself.
“Can’t find anyone, my poor pussy? I can fix you up. In fact, how about me?” He leered, lifting his eyebrows like Groucho Marx, and she laughed.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for you, Markus. You’re big game.”
He laughed, flattered; she stepped away from him and went to play voyeur in the orgy room. She stood against a wall, letting the beautiful scene before her define itself in her vision. Everywhere was movement and laughter and soft moaning. The low soft lighting made skin and hair glow. It was a democracy of lust, of body types and tastes.
She was looking for a come-fuck-me man with a lean hard body like Buddy’s. Across the room standing near the door, Markus Bloom was talking with Laura and Baron. Not six feet away from her a tanned blonde with very white teeth was giving head to a
muscular young man who was masturbating her. They were so hot and so beautiful, orgiasts near them stopped their own moves to watch. They applauded when he proved able to perform auto-fellatio. “Hey! Check this out!” the girl cried. Not far from them, an oblivious threesome flowed together — a man pleasuring slender twins with arts he must have learned elsewhere than in America, Robin thought. She was sweating lightly inside her corset and boots. Trickles ran between her breasts. The rubber pressed firmly against her clitoris. No one approached her.
She saw a familiar face and smiled. It was Captain Stump, Laura’s friend, whom she’d met at the Spiral Dance. She saw his merry eyes and his fringe of black beard first. He was naked, and his stump was buried between the thighs of an overweight black woman, who sucked the toes of his foot. She was operatic in her appreciation of the pumping stump.
Everywhere she looked Eros reigned; but there was no one for her.
Markus Bloom
Markus couldn’t get Robin out of his mind. He suspected that she had that effect on most people. Seeing her in the rubber outfit made him appreciate the appeal of this fetish for the first time. It was an impervious second skin, tightly displaying while concealing the wearer’s body. He had his pick of any number of women at the party, but he’d given himself to all or them before. As he grew older and expanded the number of his conquests, along with the number of things that stimulated his sophisticated appetites, he was more demanding — but never jaded.
Seeing Robin by herself, he decided to try again. He would be perseverance plus.
“I think you’re looking for someone, Robin,” he whispered in her ear.
“You’re right, Markus.”
“Will I do until he comes along?”
“This is your lucky night.”
He led her to an unoccupied mattress covered with blankets in the corner and pulled her down with him. He stroked her thighs and pressed the hard palm of his hand up against her crotch, feeling rubber’s soft resilience. Her firm breasts felt firmer when toyed with through rubber, but her ass felt more elastic. It was like caressing her with gloves on.
Dark Matter (Modern Erotic Classics) Page 18
