Winston watched in amazement as she bucked and shuddered, slamming her hips against the edge of the sink.
“Girl, you OK?” he said. He was really worried she was having a seizure of some kind.
“Ju . . . just leave me alone,” she stammered. “I’ll be fine in a moment. Oooooh.” She let out a long groan and clung to the edge of the sink as her knees gave way.
“You better sit down, sister. I’ll get the first aid kit. Oh man.”
Winston left. Sebastienne looked at the blood leaking from her hand and carefully removed the piece of glass. She smiled.
It wasn’t penetration she needed after all. She had to be punctured.Well, so be it.
In the months that followed, Sebastienne had just about everything pierced that was pierceable – ears, eyebrows, nose, nipples, lips, tongue, navel, clitoris, labia (major and minor). Eventually, the salon girl refused to perform any more.
“You’re an addict,” she said. “You’re a piercing junkie. I’m not treating you any more. It’s dangerous.”
She was right.The more she got pierced the more intense her orgasms became. Apart from anything else, it was increasingly difficult for the salon girl to deal with her wriggling, gasping client. So Sebastienne started experimenting on herself. She stuck pins in her arms, needles in her thighs and a barbecue skewer through her cheek. She emptied a box of drawing pins on the kitchen floor and walked barefoot over them, setting up a chain reaction of multiple orgasms that almost put her in a coma.
She was no longer asked to work in the reception area. She was kept in the back offices, out of public view, answering phones and shifting and copying computer files.You look too scary, they said.You’ll put people off.
She didn’t care. She craved that incredible sensation on a daily basis, in spite of the fact that her skin had started to blister and suppurate in some patches. Even Winston stopped bothering her.
Then she discovered acupuncture.
Dr Huang looked at her dubiously. “So much metal,” he said, scrutinizing her face. “Not good for blood.”
“Yeah, well,” said Sebastienne. “I’ve got a back problem. I’m told you can help me.”
“Hmmm. Maybe,” said Dr Huang.
He told her to take off her top and lie face down on the treatment table. He examined her with light and delicate fingers.
“Where pain?” he asked, puzzlement threading his voice.
“Uh, just there, near the bottom.”
He leaned a palm on the base of her spine. “Where, here?”
“Yeah, yeah, around there.”
“Big pain or little pain?”
“Sort of in-between.”
“OK. We try.”
As he began to insert the needles along her spine, she felt that roiling, electric heat spread out from her loins along her inner thighs and upwards through her vitals until it reached her extremities. Her nipples sprang out, trying to force themselves into the leather of the couch. Helpless in the grip of a massive multi-dimensional orgasm, she felt her insides slide away like lava along the side of a volcano. Her synapses snapped and popped as a part of herself separated out and floated away towards the ceiling.
Somehow, she could see herself from above, stretched out luxuriously on the upholstered table, as Dr Huang carefully inserted a row of needles along one side of her spine and then the other. Her hips swayed and rolled, her hands gripped the edge of the couch above her head as she came over and over again.
This is it, she thought. I’m a goner. I’m never coming back from this.
She continued to watch, fascinated, as Dr Huang stepped back to view the spectacle. Satisfied that she was on another plane of consciousness, he took her by the hips and pulled her gently to the edge of the table and placed her feet on the floor. He pulled down her knickers and opened her thighs. Unzipping his trousers, he sank his slim, stiff cock inside her cunt, gently kneading her buttocks as he fucked her, a huge smile on his otherwise inscrutable face.
Dreamily, she watched as he pulled out of her and placed his cock, slick and shiny from her fluids, in the cleft of her buttocks. He squeezed her flesh around him and thrust lightly, the dark pink tip of his penis protruding from the top of her arse like a tongue.
A moment or two later, she saw the fluid spurt and land in a delicate puddle at the base of her spine. He withdrew, tucked himself away, pulled up his trousers and delicately rubbed his ejaculate into the skin between the needles. Then, showing a strength that belied his size, he pushed her back onto the table and into her original position. All this she observed in her dream state from her position several feet above. She shut her eyes.
She opened them to find that Dr Huang was shaking her gently, calling to her. “Wake up, lady.Wake up! Session is over. You must go now please.”
She sat up, yawned and looked at him as she did up her brassiere and pulled on her T-shirt.
“So?” She smiled crookedly at him. “Am I cured?”
“Yes. No problem now. I put on special cream while you were asleep. Very beneficial. Go deep inside. Good for all ailments.”
“Well, thank you very much,” she said.
“No need come back any more. All fine now.”
She made a moue of disappointment. “Oh, I was hoping to come back next week. For a follow-up session.You know.”
“No. No need. No come back here. All cured.”
As she left, she winked at him. He locked the door behind her.
Her encounter with the acupuncturist left her feeling satisfied for several days afterwards. It had removed the desperate need for puncturing herself, to feel the electrical charge of her orgasm. She was replete, happy.
But something had changed.
As the post-orgasmic elation wore off and she descended from a plateau of satisfaction to the rough and rocky valley of need, she began piercing herself again. Only this time nothing happened. She tried needles, progressing up to skewers and, once, a boning knife. The slight frisson that she felt as the blade entered her flesh did hardly more than tickle her; the deep-seated orgasm she was expecting eluded her entirely.
She began to panic. Perhaps it had been a passing phase; perhaps her sexual metabolism had somehow shifted into another gear. The problem was, how to locate it again? How to recapture that blinding sense of self-fulfilment that she had been experiencing?
She tried to make another appointment with Dr Huang only to discover that he’d gone back to China. She tried sex again. Nothing. At work she became quiet and submissive. It was as if she had maxed out her orgasm credit.
Sissy was no help at all.
“Count yourself lucky,” she said, after Sebastienne had revealed all. “You’ve had better orgasms than most girls get in a lifetime. And you’re still alive to remember them.”
“But what am I going to do now?” she wailed.
“Get help,” said Sissy. “You are the sickest puppy I know.”
She took to cruising Internet sites in the hope of finding something, or someone, to help. She flirted with practitioners of vampirism and dangerous DIY but the prospect of being bitten or drilled failed to arouse her interest. She plunged deeper, locating forbidden sites that lay, cloaked by elliptical codes, in the subterranean recesses of the web.
Then, just as all seemed lost, she came across a site that sent the blood gushing into her loins.With the utmost caution and the determination born of desperation she began a protracted negotiation.
The forest was dark and earthy. Moonlight threaded the air and illuminated a small clearing deep in its heart. She stood calm and naked in front of a tree, waiting in delicious anticipation. Weeks earlier, she had removed all of her studs and rings as part of the purification process. She had packaged them carefully and sent them to a PO Box number as instructed. They were to be melted down and reformed into something new; something that formed part of the ritual.
The figure was dressed in black, with a black hood and a mask covering his face. All this was understood, had be
en agreed. Only his eyes, which bore into her like blue steel, were visible. He gripped her shoulders and pushed her against the tree. Above her, a rope was suspended from a branch. He pulled it down and tied her wrists together, pulling on the rope until her arms were raised above her head. Helpless, she lay against the rough bark of the tree, exulting in the sensation of absolute surrender. Pulled taut by the rope, her breasts jutted forward, the nipples engorged to bursting point. Her thighs were slightly parted and she felt something warm and liquid slide down the inside of her thigh.
The man turned and walked back to the edge of the clearing. She watched as he bent down and opened a long black case and removed what was inside. She licked her lips as he positioned himself in front of her, drawing his arm back to his shoulder. She gasped as he let fly and the missile streaked towards her.
She screamed in ecstasy as the first arrow struck her tender flesh and embedded itself deep within her, unleashing the dark sin of her being. Punctured over and over again by the shafts, barbed with her own silver, her orgasm rushed through her like a derailed locomotive. She soared upwards, beyond pain, beyond time, beyond the frontiers of pleasure.
And, this time, she reached the heights from which there was no returning.
The Painted Doll
M. Christian
Watch her walk, Claire thought. Note her disciplined stride. Notice her carefully controlled pace. Observe the finely machined stride.Witness her gracefully gliding movements.
Watch her walk, Claire thought. See her stroll along, even and sure, stable and keenly balanced. Across the black ink asphalt of the newly paved Qui Dan Road, up and onto the eternally fractured pavement of the sidewalk, and then among, between, through, and then past the bellowing hawkers, rickety stalls, lazily fanning merchants, and rushing buyers of another corner market.
Watch her walk, Claire thought. Silk dress as ghostly as a half-finished thought, rarer than a honestly cool breeze; satin splashing down like water from inordinately high fall; couture as elegant as only a kimono could be – and as alien as one moving along Qui Dan Road.
Watch her walk, Claire thought. The puzzle paused, held back by the impact of her, released as she passes. A furrow of brow, a scratching of head, a question: did I see what? Am I dreaming? Is she real?
The woman continued to think about herself, about her walking, a flawless jewel, a perfect image, a carefully crafted ideal.
Watch her walk, Claire thought: Is she real?
Qui Dan Road to the High Street, a stumble of crisp British in a city of fish sauce and MSG. The change didn’t alter her steps, modify her movements.
Beautiful? Oh, yes: without doubt, without a question. The splendor of a rose, the loveliness of an orchid. The kimono is flawless, as is the china white of her immaculately applied artificial complexion. As she walks, hearts stop then race. As she walks, heads twist, eyes widen. As she walks, breaths are hissed in, sighed out.
Beautiful? Oh, yes: without doubt, without a question. But she is a knife-edged rose, a razor sharp orchid. Her stride is mechanically perfect, as is her perfectly vertical posture.Their hearts might race, their heads may twist, their eyes certainly widen, their breaths absolutely hiss in and hiss out, but as she steps nearer they instead step back. As she walks, they avert their eyes. As she walks, they pull themselves in.
The woman walking down the High Street feels them watching her, their glances furtive tickles, their quick stares barely felt hooks out of the corners of her always forward facing eyes. Passing a bookseller – tight fans of rough tan paper with lurid Cantonese chops on their glistening plastic covers hung in sagging arcs of cord – a reflection was revealed to her, a caught sight of what they were seeing.
But not what they were thinking. But she knew, nevertheless: each of them lost in illusions and fantasies as carefully crafted as her rouge, as flawlessly presented as the mae migoro and ushiro migoro of her kimono, as immaculately assembled as her performance:
She’s a dragon, some might think: the cruelty of a reptile, the flawlessness of a myth.You may approach her, with bravery beyond that of any battlefield, speaking with a stammer and a twitch, and if you were fortunate beyond your worth she’d slow, pause, turn with prudently measured grace, deeming your presence not completely disgusting. With that look, at that glance, would be a flickering forked tongue of cruel invitation, a scintillating promise of peaked breasts topped with fist-tight nipples, a belly steel plate flat and firm, a behind curving out in twin clenches of muscular intensity, thighs sculpted by rigid posture, and between them a scented valley of ruby silk.
But first, a minuscule task. But first, an all but insignificant request: to firmly stand guard for her honor and dignity; to fetch a inestimable gem, an incalculable jewel, or just a unexceptional sticky-sweet pastry; to perform for her a melody of praise, or a stammering litany of desperate worth; or a quick athletic demonstration of physical merit; or become for her an avenging knight, a battle to defend her honor against some heinous offense.
A minuscule task. An insignificant request. Accepted without doubt or hesitation, the reward a slow curl at the corner of her cold stone face, a bow of gratitude, and a bright flash of serpentine green eyes. Totally entranced by her, completely captured by her, the dragon would then reveal the metaphorical points of venomous teeth, sinking the illusion of her love deep into the shaft of your encouraged penis by showing you the true face of her cruelty.
The prize was yours but the tasks were actually anything but minuscule, not at all insignificant: firmly stand guard for her honor and dignity – for a year; fetch a inestimable gem, an incalculable jewel, or just a unexceptional sticky-sweet pastry – from a thousand miles away; perform for her a melody of praise, or a stammering litany of desperate worth – perfectly, without the tiniest flaw; a quick athletic demonstration of physical merit – unattainable by even the greatest athlete; or become for her an avenging knight, a battle to defend her honor against some heinous offense – in combat against a killing machine.
And so the dragon passes by, a smile on her cold-blooded face. No one approaches her, no one is willing to come near. And so they live, by letting her just walk by.
She’s a doll, some might think: a porcelain figure, an ivory representation. Beneath the silks and satins would be a body as perfect as only a master artisan could create. Breasts both delicate and womanly, nipples as delicate as rosebuds, a belly with an ideal swell, hands with the grace of ten Noh performers, calves a perfect taper, thighs an entrancing form, back a clean surface of alabaster, neck a musical curve, feet delicate and precious, a behind highlighted with sacral dimples, and a female cleft that was a pale oyster and a tiny pink pearl.
Like a doll, she would belong to whoever buys her. Cash, credit, merchandise – the right amount and the woman would instead walk behind, following her owner towards palace or hovel, both with the same unmoving mask of her face.
Palace or hovel, she would walk in the door, standing still and quiet with an item’s posture. Maybe she’d look better in the living room window, where the afternoon would bathe her in golden light? Or perhaps she’d be better exhibited in the bedroom, where her kimono could be removed like one from a real woman?
Yes, the bedroom. That was where she would be best displayed. Moving past, it was clear in their eyes, the allure of her perfect submission. A thing. An object. A piece of feminine sculpture. Unable to disagree, unable to refuse, bendable in all kinds of imaginative ways. From behind, cock sliding between her cool ivory cheeks. Face to face, marble breasts for unimpeded kiss, licks, and sucks. On top, her tight thighs spread apart and welcoming upward thrusts. Anything you wanted, anytime you wanted.
Desire was a rippling wave behind her, a heat distortion in the warm city air. It was obvious in their eyes that there, in her, was a world without “no”, a land without complaint, a woman without a soul.
Then they stopped, that wave of erections and licked dry lips chilled with a slap of frigid revelation. Stepping back with th
e rest of the crowd, these men retreated from the precise rhythm of her steps, with whimpering fear in their wide eyes, their shaking heads.
Ivory arms, marble legs, alabaster body: inflexible, unfeeling, stiff, unbending, unyielding, and – worst of all – cold. With her you’d never hear “no,” never be refused, never be denied, but you’d also never hear the beat of her heart, the music of her voice, the chimes of her laughter, the moans and screams of her pleasure.You’d perform with her your deepest, darkest, most subterranean – and all she would do would be to look at you with inscrutably glass eyes.
She’s a tiger, some might think: a beast with the stripes of a traditional Japanese dress. Hidden beneath her Asian camouflage was a woman’s body, exercised into an extension of her erotic drive. Where other women had euphemisms and poetic alliterations, she had simple, direct, and powerful words to describe herself. Where other women had bosoms, she had tits of ideal jiggle and sway, covered in thrilling smooth skin. Where other women had nipples, she had a pair of dark brown direct connections to her clit. Where other women had posteriors, she had two plush muscular globes that clenched and released with the beating heat of her clit. Where other women had sexes, she had a demanding, insistent cunt.
To see and handle these differences would be more fortune than seduction.You did not take the tiger to dinner and slip hot words between dessert and coffee. You did not lay flowers at the feet of this hot-blooded woman within the cool disguise of a geisha.You did not whisper poetry into the shell-like ear of this elegantly robed bitch.
There was no way to make her do anything, no way to slyly allure or simply trick her into a private room, no way to seduce her. The only thing anyone could do was to stand within the range of that sweeping predatory glance and hope that her eyes would positively estimate your worth as a device for her pleasure.Then, and only then, would her red-painted lips open ever-so, more than a whisper but less than full voice, and speak the one word you’d prayed to hear: “Come.”
Behind her, pulled along by her insatiable need, you would follow. It wouldn’t be a long journey, for her cunt has a very short attention span. Cheap hotel on the next street, expensive one even closer by, or just the nearest fetid and slimy alley – whatever was within range.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9 Page 11
