Patience was for ladies. Hesitation was for women. Tigers – even ones hidden within silks and satins – had no need for foreplay, patience, or hesitation.They wanted, so they took.
And if you were lucky, she would take you. Hands down to your cock, a squeezing judgment for size and firmness. Lips to yours, a tongue penetrating your mouth, an attacking kiss wanting nothing of you but to be kindling to her roaring heat.
On her knees, she would take you. But only because that was what she wanted. Your come was not expected or important. A flesh device to penetrate an orifice, you would be used until she was bored and ready to move onto other penetrations of other orifices.
Or perhaps she’d require something else. Falling back, satin fabric pulled roughly aside, she might bare an insistent slickness, the gleaming lips and fast-beating clit, and demand your service. Failure to accept or in performance too terrible to contemplate.
At the end, your cock would be needed: hard, strong, and fast – nothing else important to her. Burning hot, insanely wet, you’d enter and execute the task she’d ordered, working until her screams tore at your ears and her nails scratched along your back.
Then that would be it. Humiliating? Being reduced to only a device for someone’s pleasure usually is. But the blistering heat of her, the ferocious need of her cunt would put – and keep – a smile on your sweaty face.
But – and again men standing step back, retreat in shivering dread when she walks back – one does not ever tame a tiger, even after it is fed. Who knows what she might hunger for after? Meat, blood, flesh, dignity, any number of horrible violations – any of them within her grasp, and you too exhausted to resist.
Tigers are wild things, after all: enjoyable to watch in zoos, penned behind restraining bars, but far too bloodthirsty in bed.
She’s a machine, some might think: isn’t it wonderful what they’re doing with shape memory alloys, mnemetic plastics, optical fibers, and conductive polymers? Absolutely wonderful things coming out of Japan, India, the Wilding, and the young turks of the École Polytechnique, these days. Look up and there are dragonflies pausing for location fixes before darting off at near-invisible speeds, packages clutched under their iridescent fuselages. Look down and there are myriad scurrying mechanisms trailing polished tracks of perfumed cleanliness through the city’s persistent grime. Look around and there are cinematics lazily scrolling across a lady’s fluttering fan, posters for the newest Malaysian blockbuster cycling through tantalizing glimpses of furious martial arts and stiffly chaste duets, the hushed commuting fuel-cell and ethanol traffic, and the softly creaking carbon fibers of a prosthetic hand on a crumble-faced veteran of the Chinese genocide as he lays down a mah-jongg tile.
Look at her and you might see a device as carefully machined as a German car, a Swiss watch, a Japanese entertainment center, Indian software, or an African running shoe: breasts as ideal and resilient as silicone, skin of perfectly cured plastic, muscles as precise and strong as actuators, a genital-pleasuring interface between her thighs, a mouth with the same technology.
It was a safe bet that without her protective kimono covering, the pseudo-body of hers was as superlative as a supermodel, as sensuous as a Playmate of whatever month, as adept as an amalgamation of every courtesan who’d ever lived, as refined and machined as her manufacturers could make her.
Movement like the architecture in fine software, presence as authoritative as graceful as a jet fighter, skin as smooth as the polish on a fresh-from-the-factory-floor Ferrari, she passed by – and with her passing the tracking of lust and greed in the eyes of the male crowd, and sour envy on the faces of everyone else.
Here was the best of both of a man’s world: the twin allures of a clever device together with a well-articulated woman – or, to be more specific, as those men revealed so obviously, “coupled” together, a mating between flesh and sex and advanced technology and power. Purchasing this – or simply leasing with an option to do the same – and putting it in the garage or the bedroom, would mean not just a product but also a woman of every dream, not just a sex partner but also a sophisticated piece of fine engineering.
But that wasn’t all. Look at them watching her move by. Lust was there, both for machine as well as woman, but there was also the dawning realization that there could be even more there: things that squeezed, buzzed, vibrated, hummed, heated, cooled, swirled, oscillated, tingled, and more, more, more so much more.
But then they pulled away, out of her way, out of her traffic, their fantasies dropping behind to be passed by the rushing acceleration of a nightmare, the barreling truck of a terrifying understanding.
Engineering, went their minds as they retreated, is fine and good, stimulating and thrilling. Sex, they thought as they ran away from her, is fantastic and wonderful. But to fuck a machine, to be intimate with gears and cogs, synthetics and electricity, hydraulics and radiators, could be good, but also could be like thrusting into a meshing, tearing, burning, shocking, scalding, blistering industrial accident.
Dragon, Doll, Tiger or Machine she moved along the High Street, with every step Claire thought: Watch her walk.
They don’t know what she is, she thought, not really. They may have guesses, suppositions, fantasies, but no real knowledge. But while they can’t see what she is exactly, they can clearly see what she isn’t: cautious, shy, withdrawn, clumsy, mathematical, or terrified.
They certainly don’t know her name, though some of them hearing it might inhale with a slow hiss, connecting “Domino,” the famous – infamous – erotist, to the woman walking down the High Street with a hushed, barely whispered “So that’s her.”
Domino walked, traveling through the city, leaving in her wake puzzlement and fear, lust and wonder. From one avenue to another she moved, heading away from the twists and turns of old town towards the new, leaving behind frying fish and caterwauls of merchants for gleaming steel and arcing high-stress ceramics: the previous behind, the imminent ahead – even though what was back there in the years before would be with her no matter how many steps she made into the future.
Watch her walk, Claire thought: watch Domino the erotist stroll through the city.
Watch her walk, she also thought: and never see me.
Chocolate Girl
Sam Jayne
She was eating chocolate; a family-sized bar that would no doubt take hours to burn off at the gym. Of course, this was of no concern to me. I watched in awe as she sucked provocatively on a bitten-off chunk of the sugary snack, allowing her eyelids to droop as the milky flavour flooded her mouth, the chocolate melting. I’d never witnessed such beauty before. It was doubtful I ever would again.This woman was my dream, everything I’d ever wished for, and she was here to see me.
“A box of marshmallows, please,” she demanded, a flirtatious edge to her voice. “And” – she paused for a moment – “do you have any whipping cream?”
My eyes widened and I cursed them silently. Really I should have answered immediately, controlled myself and demonstrated my professionalism, but such composure was out of the question. My head flooded with thoughts of the fluffy cream on her silky body, her sweet tooth gently nibbling my ear. I shuddered.Whipping cream.And marshmallows.
The chocolate girl smiled. She had caramel skin, liquorice hair and bubblegum lips. Despite her love of candy, she somehow maintained a perfect figure; slim but still shapely. Her breasts bulged in the confinements of her black T-shirt, which sported the cheeky slogan, “Bite Me!”, emblazoned across her chest in pink lettering. She was in her mid twenties, enigmatic and seemingly wise to the world. I wanted her badly.
“Cat got your tongue?” She grinned, reaching over the counter top to take my hand.
Bonbon’s Sweets was a quiet shop, never attracting many customers. Since the government had issued out severe warnings about the effects of eating junk food, parents were less willing to allow their children to indulge in so much confectionery. Looking at the woman before me now, I could see
no evidence of the dire consequences of sweets, but I had to admit, the chocolate girl was undoubtedly an exception.
Leading me away from my safety zone behind the till, the woman moved towards the shop door, turning the sign around to declare Bonbon’s closed.The manager would be irate should he ever find out, but this fleeting thought made no impression on me, and disappeared to the back of my mind as quickly as it had arisen. The girl snaked her arms around my waist, pulling me closer to her warm flesh. Softly, she massaged the back of my neck with her moist lips, kissing me gently, but with longing.
“You’re stiff,” she stated, and I cleared my throat in embarrassment. It was true, my whole body was stiff, yearning to be freed from its aching self.
She unbuttoned my shirt and twisted a clump of my short chest hair around the tip of her left pinkie. Her hands were cool, mine clammy, and I struggled with the zip of her tight jeans. Impatiently, she batted away my shaking fingers and pushed me forcibly into the storeroom. There she undressed quickly and fully, removing first her jeans and T-shirt, then her black, lacy underwear. Her body glowed with natural beauty.
“I like you,” she told me, smiling at the painful bulge that was desperately trying to escape from my own trousers. She pulled over a wooden chair and instructed me to sit on it. I willingly complied, squirming in my seat as anticipation grew. Her delicate hands stroked my crotch, which burned with desire. Finally, she unzipped me, and my penis poked out of the opening, defying the material of my boxer shorts.
She tugged at both items of clothing, and I rose from my seat a little to assist her in this quest. Only when the garments were bunched around my ankles did she appear sufficiently satisfied. As I sat back down, she took my throbbing erection in her right hand and began to work my cock, rubbing at the shaft until my breathing became heavy and rapid. She moved with expert precision, sporadically dropping lower to knead my testicles. With her left hand, she gently fingered her clit, emanating the unmistakable heat of arousal. I groaned as the threat of climax loomed, partly desiring the rush of relief, and partly fearing the premature end of the session.
But my worry was needless. Ejaculation at this time wasn’t to be. Instead she took a short break, biting off another chunk of chocolate from her half-eaten bar as she studied my exposed body. I stared back at her, unsure of whether I should be contributing to the intimacy, or if I should merely remain seated and await further instruction.
“I enjoy restraining men,” she confided, “but we appear to have a distinct lack of suitable restraints.”
The young woman examined our surroundings. Boxes of chocolate drops, jelly beans and boiled sweets lined the wooded shelves. Her eyes twinkled in the dim light, her buttocks tensing as she struggled to retrieve a colourful box located on the highest shelf behind her.
“Unfortunately, Strawberry Bootlaces are not very strong, but they’ll do. I suppose you’ll just have to be obedient.”
The chocolate girl began to bind my wrists and ankles to the chair using the lengths of fruit-flavoured rope. Once this task had been completed, she returned her attention to my groin, squeezing my balls much harder than before. The feeling was not unpleasant, but surprising, and caused me to jerk forward in my chair. She seemed pleased with this reaction, and repeated the process even more forcibly.This time I experienced a shot of pain, and cried out, much to her amusement.
“I’m glad that hurts you,” she declared, running her fingers, gently now, through my pubic hair. “Would you like more?”
“I would . . . Mistress,” I replied, after a slight pause. Should I call her Mistress?
Apparently not.
The girl clutched my testicles until they bulged painfully between her fingers. “Call me . . . Miss Truffle,” she insisted.
I gasped and spluttered. “Yes, Miss Truffle.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Miss Truffle straddled my thighs, resting her pert bottom on the caps of my knees and propelling her firm, erect-nippled breasts towards my chest. Slowly, she fed my rigid penis inside her. Thrusting my hips, I drove my cock deep into her moist vagina, gasping and moaning at the sensations that overwhelmed me. Her own grunts of pleasure joined the chorus, and she appeared to hold her breath as the first waves of orgasm washed over her. She shuddered in delight, still rocking on my thighs, and kissed my lips passionately, pushing her tongue into my mouth.
I was now drawing breath in quick succession, and was seconds away from releasing my load when she removed my cock from her body and stood before me, grinning defiantly.
“Please,” I gasped, writhing in my chair.The need to come was excruciating.
“A shop-boy should wait his turn,” she told me. “After all, the customer should always come first.”
Had I not been frantic with sexual frustration, I would have smiled at this joke, but in my current situation, all I could do was whimper helplessly and rub my thighs together, trying fruitlessly to bring myself off.Thankfully, however, my frenzy was short-lived. Miss Truffle sank to her knees and took the length of my cock in her mouth, sucking quickly, and flicking her tongue across the bulbous head and slit. As I called out in ecstasy, the chocolate girl gripped my balls for a final time, making my climax a mixture of orgasmic delight and acute pain. My come spurted into her mouth, and she swallowed, savouring my juice like she savoured her beloved chocolate.
Exhausted now, I sat quietly as she bit me free of the Strawberry Bootlace restraints.
“I’d like to take a packet of these home with me, if you don’t mind,” she said, while pulling on her clothes. “And, did you say you had some whipping cream?”
I pointed to a tub of Elmlea on the second shelf of the storeroom, then to a box of marshmallows to the left, that she had requested earlier. She scooped up her items, nodded by means of thanks, and handed me a few coins to pay for the purchases. Then she left without speaking a further word, flicking the door sign around to show “Open” as she departed. Of course, I’d have to get dressed immediately now, but just for a moment I gazed, captivated, after her.
My dream girl. My chocolate girl.
Purple Tulip
Tsaurah Litzky
I walk down a narrow, dirty alley smelling of piss, turn right, and I am in the heart of desire – the red light district in Amsterdam. I stand on Voorburgstraat on a busy Friday night and the crowd swallows me up. Men of all sizes, shapes, colors surround me. I float along carried by a testosterone wave.
To my right is the canal, on my left, in buildings centuries old, in a string of windows glittering with light, a garden of earthly pleasures unfolds.
A few men stand in front of a window watching a voluptuous older woman dressed like a gypsy, a flowered scarf wound round her head. She gathers the front of her full skirt up with one hand to reveal tattered black fishnet stockings held up by baby blue garters that cut into her swarthy legs.With her other hand, she plunges a big red rubber cock in and out between her thighs. She leers, grimaces, sticks out her tongue.The men whistle and clap as I move on.
In the next window, a woman in a gray rubber cat suit stands with her back to the street. A big, circle had been cut out of the seat of the pants exposing her voluminous, pale ass. Her hands behind her, her fingers spread her butt cheeks, the swollen, ruby bud of her anus pulled open. She flexes her hips in rhythm to a song only she can hear, making her gaping asshole open and close.
“Do you think we can both fit in there, mate?” the man beside me asks his friend.
“Nah,” says the friend. “My Churchill is so big, I’d crowd you out.”
The first time I was in Amsterdam, May 2001, America was a respected world power. I believed the prosperity we enjoyed would continue to grow. Now everything is different. My country is hated all over the world, our economy bankrupt by war. At least, here in Amsterdam, Voorburgstraat appears unchanged, an enduring testament to fair market exchange and the everlasting need of skin for skin.
On my last visit, I’d head for this street in the
evenings. I’d walk up and down, turned on by the costumes, the artifice, the blatant aura of sex.
Then I met Jan and we were together until I left.
Jan was an overweight accountant I met in a bar. His hands were grimy, his fingernails stained with black ink, but his chubby, uncut cock was so practiced. He made me come again and again, then he’d pull out, and shoot between my breasts. He liked to rub his creamy sperm all over my torso. It worked like a magic potion, erasing the memories of my ex-husband I still carried deep within my flesh.
One time, Jan took me to a dim courtyard guarded by a tarnished statue of Spinoza. The women in the windows here were all freaks. One was a glistening albino, totally hairless, not a blemish anywhere on her skin. She wore a cowboy hat on her bald head. Another woman looked like Larry King. She even wore thick eyeglasses with a dark frame. She had on men’s trousers but was nude from the waist up, three pretty breasts spreading across her broad chest. Jan paused before a window in which a serene, exotic beauty sat on a footstool. She looked Indonesian, her long black hair falling to her waist. One of her arms stopped at the elbow and the left sleeve of her gauzy shirt was pinned up at the shoulder. “This is Purple Tulip,” he said. “She is an old friend of mine, very nice person, so gentle. Shall we visit her?”
I could see her pendulous breasts through her top, her tiny nipples looked like licorice bits.
“No,” I whispered.
Jan shrugged. “Let’s go back to your hotel,” he said.
A few months ago, I was invited to Amsterdam to read at a poetry festival; I phoned Jan right up. He was delighted. “Good” he said.“My wife and mistress are away.You want to stay here?”
I didn’t know how I would feel when I saw him. “Nah,” I said, “your harem could come back and surprise us.”
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