by W. L. Telford
MM/f, cons, humil, D/s, BDsm, blackml, slavery
>> another story by W.L.T - Worlds Apart
The image of a naked woman fills the notebook computer screen.
She is on her knees, seen from behind and to her right side. Her asshole and dilated shaven sex are clearly visible. The upturned soles of her feet. The side of one white breast flattened against a burgundy bedspread. Her face, but for one startlingly blue eye which seems to be staring not at the bedspread an inch away but inward, is hidden by outstretched arms and a sweep of black hair. The arms extend to wrists bound together by three wraps of white rope, the end of which disappears off screen. The woman’s hands are clenched into ambiguous fists.
Winston studies the screen. In the original photograph his come can be seen in her cunt, but he is not certain it has scanned. It doesn’t really matter. The woman has obviously just been fucked and is positioned to be penetrated again, though this time by eyes and minds and imaginations.
The prepared Email list contains nine entries, anonymous code names or numbers he has made contact with at various sites on the Internet. His hand moves over the keyboard. For a moment he hesitates before clicking SEND. He has not done this before. Are there unforeseen, unforeseeable consequences?
As his finger descends, he tries to imagine flesh turned into 0′s and 1′s being transmitted and almost simultaneously reassembled at nine other computers to be viewed, savored, fantasized, masturbated over. Though probably not immediately. And where and by whom? His gut tightens. His cock is hard.
Staring at the screen he is about to unzip his pants and masturbate when the telephone rings. He lets the answering machine record the too familiar voice of his wife’s personal assistant.
“This is Christopher, Mr. Plath. Mrs. Plath asked me to let you know that her meeting is running late. She apologizes and expects to be home by 8:30 or 9:00 at the latest.”
He erases the message and stands, a tall broad shouldered man, still trim though his weathered face and graying hair and moustache put him somewhere in middle age. Placing the eyeglasses he has only recently needed for close work on the rosewood desk, he walks across the room to the liquor cabinet and pours a couple of fingers of Laphroaig, the most richly flavored single malt Scotch. It is not quite 6:00 p.m. If she had come home by 7:00 he would have waited for her.
Crystal glass pleasingly smooth and heavy in his hand, he stands by the sliding glass doors to the balcony. The apartment is on the highest floor of one of the few tall buildings on the Cambridge side of the Charles and on this cold clear November night he has a spectacular view across the river toward the gold dome of the capital and the Boston skyline, including the building which houses her office.
He takes a sip of scotch. He is glad he made the decision to send the picture before the telephone call. That would have been petty. But he smiles at the thought that while she is sitting in a meeting room, talking to some CEO or CFO or whatever initials are currently in vogue, or in discussion with her partners, or directing her staff, buttoned up, no nonsense, all business, somewhere in the world nine men–or women–will be viewing her quite differently.
There is nothing sexier than a woman saying, “I will do anything for you,” and meaning it. Or thinking she does.
Over the now almost four decades that I have been sexually active, several, one could even say many, women have offered themselves to me completely. I don’t deceive myself that every woman wants that. I don’t know that even most women do, though I suspect that, despite trends in sexual politics, they might, at least for a while. But I have always known that it is what I want from a woman, and there must be something in us that recognizes one another and brings us together.
My greatest pleasure has been in exploring the limits of that ‘anything.’
With some woman I knew that they really didn’t have any idea of what ‘anything’ might entail. When I was in my mid-twenties I was in bed with a woman of forty, which seemed old at the time. It was I think only our second time together and she had just left a long dull marriage, when, just after I fucked her harder than she had been fucked for ten years or perhaps ever, she surprised me by spontaneously saying she would do anything for me. My hand was between her legs and I put a fingertip against her asshole and said, “Anything?” And she gasped, “Oh, I didn’t mean that.” She was quite beautiful with a face reminiscent of Ingrid Bergman, and we continued to see each other for a time and had good, if conventional sex, without ever going further. The limits had already been defined. For her, just saying the words to a man was surrender enough.
The only way to define limits is to exceed them, and with the women I have loved, there really weren’t any, except perhaps death and certain scatological pursuits that I don’t condemn but in which I am not interested. I like to fuck asses, but I prefer that they be clean.
Before Lynn, the last two significant women in my life were Julie, whom I married, and Anne, with whom I lived for five years. There truly were no limits with either of them. Both were tattooed with my initial: Julie on the tender skin just to one side of her cunt-she had a high pain threshold, but I can still see the muscles in her abdomen involuntarily clench as the tattooist’s needle marks her-and Anne on her ass. Both were pierced: Anne, who was first, a single ring in her left nipple; Julie with rings in both nipples and in both labia minor. The holes in her labia were cauterized by a physician while we were vacationing in Sydney, Australia,–whom, not at all incidentally I had her suck off as payment for his services-and though they were usually filled with golden loops were large enough to take the bail of a lock. When we returned home to California I installed a padeye in the floor of our bedroom to which I could lock her, her inner lips stretched almost to the point of tearing, her ass pressed down hard on her heels until her knees and feet turned white. True immobility. She hardly dared breath. Sometimes I merely left her there. It was torture enough when the blood flowed back into the numbness when she was released.
Anne and I eventually drifted apart-I assume she had the tattoo removed or disguised-and Julie died in a car accident on her way to pick me up at the airport, proving once again as my former employer likes to remind us that flying is safer than driving. I flew literally millions of miles, including Viet Nam, without a scratch, and she is crushed by a drunk on the approach to the Golden Gate Bridge. We had been together eight years. It was a perfect match. I think we would have stayed together…I almost said ‘for life’, but we did.
I don’t know when I started to compromise, except that it was sometime after her death and I turned fifty. It was not until this past year that I realized how much I have accepted compromise. Certainly there was no compromise when Lynn and I first met.
The flight from Boston to San Francisco was routine. An hour in, Jan, the chief attendant and Julie’s closest friend who had been worried about me, came into the cockpit and mentioned that there was a very pretty girl alone in first class. I recall that she said ‘girl’, and that is what I thought Lynn was too when, after a while, telling myself that I needed to stretch my legs, I went aft. She was pretty and she looked like a student in jeans and a faded Harvard Athletic Department sweatshirt. A student in first class means a daughter of wealth. She was asleep, turned on her side in a reclined chair. I could not tell much about her body, but she had kicked off her shoes and her feet were bare. No polish on toe or finger nails. No lipstick. No makeup of any kind. But she had very sexy feet.
It is not often that one can trace one’s sexual preferences, which are generally shaped by so many brief and tenuous influences, but I know about me and feet. A warm May afternoon. I am a freshman at Point Loma High School-my father was a pilot before me and like many who were in the Navy during WWII remained in San Diego afterwards. An algebra test. The room is quiet. I glance up from my worksheet and see the naked foot of the girl sitting directly in front of me, arching up on her toes from a flat sandal. I have an immediate erection. My mind moves from her bare foot to her bare calf up beneath her skirt to her bare thigh to her-at least in my imagination-wet pussy. I don’t remember the girl’s name or even her face. I think she was blond. I certainly don’t remember how I did on the test. But I have always remembered that foot. I was still a virgin at the time. I went home and masturbated furiously. And I have seen that foot again hundreds of times when I have been fucking a woman from behind and she comes up on her toes.
I returned to the cockpit and, but for a faulty warning light that required an unscheduled landing in Denver, that might have been it. I stopped being surprised by the random capriciousness of life in Viet Nam. But it was in fact the right time for both of us, for that matter probably the only time in either of our lives when we could have met without glancing off one another.
We left the aircraft at the same time. Despite the apparent differences of our ages, which I assumed might be thirty years but is in fact twenty, I started a conversation, which went well enough to lead to my inviting her to the pilot’s lounge, where I learned that not only was she not a student, she was thirty-three and the manager of a well-known five star rated mutual fund, who had just become the first woman partner in the long history of an old Boston firm. Ironically in a society that so relentlessly pursues youth, her appearance was a handicap she had to overcome to gain respect and authority.
She was taking a month’s vacation to Tahiti and New Zealand before assuming her new responsibilities. She let me know that this was her first vacation since a divorce two years earlier and the first of any length since she left school.
The call soon came for me to return to the aircraft. As I had expected, the malfunction was in the warning light not the fuel system it was intended to monitor. Before I went, I asked how much time she had in San Francisco. With the delay, there would be less than an hour before her next flight was due to depart. The same thought remained unspoken between us: I flew regularly to Boston. I knew her name and firm. To say I would call her would be banal, but we both knew I would.
A half hour after takeoff, Jan came to the cockpit. “From the first class cabin, Captain,” she smirked and handed me Lynn’s business card. “Turn it over.”
On the back was written, with what I would come to know is characteristic decisiveness, ‘Timing is everything. I’m changing plans.’
That first month was perfect.
I have never forgotten her, but Julie had been dead long enough; Lynn’s divorce had been over long enough.
Everything was new, even sex itself.
After we collected her luggage, it took almost an hour to reach my house in Tiburon. Neither of us felt the need to talk much in the car. We kissed for the first time when I opened the door for her. I led her directly to the bedroom. Our clothes seemed to fall from us. She is naked on the bed, on her back, her knees apart, watching me. I have kept my body and at first glance it is not much changed from that of the world class swimmer I once was, though I do not pretend that closer inspection does not reveal a harsher truth about the passage of time. She says, “You are beautiful.”
I say, “So are you.” Unlike California women, her skin is untanned, white, luminous. Her breasts medium sized and perfectly formed with large dark nipples. Her waist small. Voluptuous flesh on fine bones. She looks about nineteen.
I start to lick her, but she grabs my hair and says, “Just fuck me.” I move up, her legs over my arms. She gasps as I slide all the way in with one motion. Usually I take my time, but I just let myself go. She cries out several times. A man never really knows, but she seems to come. Holding her down with my hands against her arms, I keep slamming into her. Her breasts shake violently. Tendons in her neck strain. Her eyes actually roll back, and she tells me later that she thinks she lost consciousness. I let myself come. She also tells me later that she had stopped taking the pill and didn’t even think about getting pregnant. I tell her that I have had a vasectomy. Sometime during that month I even tell her, and mean it at the moment, that this is the first time I have ever regretted the vasectomy because I might have wanted to have a child with her. It was that kind of month. Fortunately we were saved that mistake.
Soon enough we explored. She accepted everything. She greedily wanted everything. But there was warning in her very innocence. A thirty-three year old woman with her looks who has done so little?
She said that I was only her fourth man: a high school boyfriend; Tom, her husband of ten years; and a very brief affair just after her divorce was final. Only the boy in high school had come in her mouth; and only he had ever tried to use her ass, but stopped when it hurt her. I told her that I had never spent much time with a woman who did not give me her mouth and ass, and never would.
This was the morning of our third day together. I was due time off and had cleared my schedule indefinitely. She responded by rolling over and engulfing my cock in her mouth, sucking until I came. That she had trouble swallowing I attributed to involuntary reflex. Rolling onto her knees, her ass in the air, she said, “Any time you’re up to it, old man, I’m ready for the rest.”
Like some men, I have always been capable of multiple orgasms, or at least remaining hard between them, but the second time can take a while and I did not want to make the experience difficult for her, so half playfully, half experimentally, I slapped her ass. The palm of my hand made a loud sound against her cheek. She gasped, shook the hair from her eyes and looked at me directly and said, “For anything.”
Lynn likes to say it was love at first sight. I don’t disagree. Maybe it was. But the first time the thought formed in my mind was then.
I made it as easy for her as I could. When my cock was fully inserted in her well lubricated ass, I remained motionless and reached around to make her come with my fingers on her clit. The sensation of her sphincter spasming around my cock was almost enough to make me come myself. That and her scream. Except for some ragged breathing or deliberate talking, I remain quiet and in control during sex. Lynn is noisy. She begs to be fucked. She moans and gasps and screams. The sounds of pleasure and pain are, of course, indistinguishable.
It was completely an artificial time, an aberration, a break from normal life. We had nothing but one another. No work. No other demands or distractions.
We had sex five or six times a day, or even more, every day, day after day. From what I read, I have always had a statistically unusual sexual capacity. Since puberty I have come three or four times a day and, at fifty-five, still do. But those days were unusual even for me. For Lynn, they were literally incomparable. She said that she and Tom seldom made love during the last years of their marriage, partly because he was having the affair that eventually brought the marriage to an end. So I said that I assumed she masturbated, and she replied, “Only a few times. I can be a sexual camel. I lose myself in my work.” She was certainly not a sexual camel with me. She was dying of thirst. And I did not want to hear what she was really saying.
The first time I tied her up was at an inn a couple of hundred miles up the California coast.
For a week we hardly left the house, but when we came up for air we threw a couple of bags in the Jeep Cherokee and drove.
In mid-afternoon we checked into a place a few miles south of Cape Mendocino. The atmosphere was calculatingly rustic. The bed a four poster. As I fucked her I imagined her tied spread eagled and regretted that I hadn’t brought any rope.
An hour later we went out to walk around the town.
Few books or movies about bondage and dominance become mainstream. In the past few decades I can only think of two: The Story of O and 91/2 Weeks. Before me Lynn had never heard of ‘O’. (One of the individuals on my Email list unimaginatively calls himself Sir Stephen).
We passed a newsstand. Kim Bassinger was on a magazine cover, and I said, “She is a very beautiful woman,” and Lynn again surprised me by saying, “Yes. I liked her in 91/2 Weeks.”
I stopped and turned to her. “You liked it?”
“Hmm. Tom and I saw it together. It was very sexy.”
“Anything in particular?”
“No. Just the whole thing. The relationship. Everything.”
“Did you do anything about it? Did he ever tie you up, for example?”
“No. We talked about it. But I told you, we didn’t have much sex.” After a pause, she added, “I was willing.”
Back in the room we went through our bags and came up with a flexible belt and a scarf.
For the first time I remained fully dressed while she stripped naked. Frustration on her face when, after I had secured one of her wrists to one bedpost with the belt, the scarf was not long enough to reach the other. “There must be something,” she said. “My shoelaces.” Her breath was uneven.
I let her wait while I slowly removed the lace from one of her Nike’s, joined it to the scarf with a sheet bend and pulled her arm hard to full extension.
“Oh, God,” she moaned when she tested the bonds and found them ungiving.
I unzipped my Levis and sat in a wood rocking chair and let her watch me stroke myself, until finally, eyes widened, she begged, “Aren’t you going to fuck me?”
“Please fuck me. Please. I beg you. Please.”
I climbed onto the bed and put one finger in her. “You like it don’t you: being tied up and helpless? Your cunt is streaming.”
“I love it. I love it with you.”
I crawled higher, pushing her legs apart until the tip of my cock brushed her. She gasped and tried to lift her hips to enfold me, but I moved back, teasing , before pushing in and down. I could feel the teeth of the zipper rub my cock and knew they were also rasping her. The bedposts beat against the wall. It was an old building. Neither of us cared if anyone could hear.
The second time I tied her up was in the Muir Woods not far from my home.
A stream runs through the stand of giant Redwoods. The park service keeps paths open running on both sides of the stream, with small footbridges to cross over at intervals. Even on sunny days, the foliage is so tall and thick that the walkways are in deep shade and moisture drips from rocks and leaves and ferns and moss.
On a weekday only a few other people were in the woods. We were both dressed in jeans and windbreakers. Lynn had grinned when in the parking lot I showed her the end of a piece of rope in the pocket of my jacket.
When we were about a mile up the stream, fog began to drift through the trees. I put my arm around her shoulders and kissed her.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said.
“I want you to be mine completely,” I said.
“I want you to be my slave as well as my love. My slut. My whore. My animal. My anything.”
“I’m your slave, your slut, your whore, your animal, your everything.”
“Say you’ll do anything for me.”
“I’ll do anything for you.”
And I think that at that moment she would have. I think I could have driven her down to the city and she would have gladly been pierced and tattooed. I think I could have taken her to one of the sex clubs to be gang banged or sent her into a lesbian bar to eat everyone in sight. I think I could have brought out a German Shepherd and she would have obediently assumed the position and, if I told her to, have licked him clean when it was over. I think she was completely a female animal, and at that moment caution and reason and convention simply did not exist. I may be wrong, perhaps she would have balked if I had done any of those things then, but I don’t think so. But I didn’t. I thought we had time, and anticipation is much of pleasure.
What I did do was take her hand and lead her off the trail. In less than ten steps we were hidden from view behind a thousand year old redwood.
“Strip,” I told her.
A tiny green lizard darted beneath an exposed tree root. The temperature had dropped with the clammy fog. Her nipples were hard and goose bumps covered her arms as she handed me her windbreaker and shirt.
Bending to unlace her shoes she started to say something. The ground was covered with wet leaves and pine needles. But she stopped before uttering a word and stepped from her shoes and pulled her jeans down and off. I already knew she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Neither of us were.
“Face the tree,” I said.
She turned her back to me.
Stepping forward I brought a length of rope from my pocket and quickly tied one wrist, walked the rope around the tree, which was a good eight to ten feet thick and tied it tight to her other wrist.
Taking a second rope I stooped and tied it around one knee, but before passing it around the tree as well, I opened her pussy lips.
When I had finished she was embracing the tree, knees slightly bent, face pushed to one side, her cheek, nipples, cunt, thighs, pressed hard against rough ancient bark.
Her eyes watched me as with her clothes draped over my shoulder, her shoes in one hand, I walked away.
Knowing she could hear my footsteps in the leaves, I went about a hundred yards before I stopped where I could still barely see her, a pale form dwarfed by giants.
The third time I tied her was on our wedding night.
Three weeks from the day we meet and one week before she was to return to Boston, we were married in Reno.
Before we drove to Nevada, we went into San Francisco to shop. She had packed for Tahiti, not a wedding. She found a simple ivory colored cocktail dress which didn’t even require alterations at a boutique near Union Square; we bought plain gold wedding rings at Tiffanys. And at Gumps I bought her a four hundred year old Chinese necklace of gold and jade. The necklace was beautiful, intricate, and unique. The word is usually misused. This necklace was literally one of a kind. At the time I thought only that it was beautiful and appropriate for Lynn.
She gave me the notebook computer, so we could keep in touch by Email, until I joined her in Boston.
We were married in late afternoon at the courthouse in Reno. As I had directed, Lynn’s body was naked beneath her dress.
Our first married night was spend at the Sahara Tahoe.
We had mutually decided not to have sex for the previous twenty-four hours.
I had already told her I was going to take her in each of her holes successively; and as soon as we got to the room, I had her kneel down and suck me off. She did so, but still drooled a lot and gagged when I came.
I did not touch her and made no effort to bring her pleasure.
“Now you can undress,” I said as I zipped up my pants. “Lie on the bed. Face down. I’m taking your ass next.”
I tied her wrists together and to the headboard, then spread her legs, so her body was an inverted Y, and tied each ankle to a corner of the frame. The room was high up in the tower overlooking Lake Tahoe. Night had fallen and I opened the drapes before turning off the light and going downstairs to the casino, where I played roulette for a while, enjoying the image of her waiting naked for me to return and buttfuck her.
When I reentered the room she was completely still. I did not turn on the light, but could see her though the slight illumination coming through the window. Her face was away from me. She might have been asleep. Anyone could have entered the room.
Without a word, I undressed and crossed to the bed and took her. A single suppressed moan as I ejaculated deep inside her ass was the only sign she was conscious.
I was a fat little boy who inevitably became a big fat man. I would like to think that I possess other qualities, but I assure you that if you saw me your first thought would be ‘fat.’
My parents were of normal size and shape. As was my older brother. And as, for that matter, is my son.
Because the only purpose of life that can withstand scientific inquiry seems to be to pass one’s DNA to the next generation, I have passed on mine though a contractual agreement for artificial insemination with a woman who has never laid eyes on me. She seems to be a nice person and a good mother. She has married since our transaction and now teaches elementary school in Madison, Wisconsin. Each January she sends an annual report, including photographs, to one of my attorneys. David, my son, appears to be a happy normal child, who has been told his father tragically died just after his birth. I can only hope that whatever chance combination of recessive genes created me do not reappear in future generations. As a child I could feel my own parents glancing at me and wondering how this cuckoo had come to befoul their nest.
My father was a physician, an internist, and I was subject to every conceivable test and study to find a cause and cure for my obesity. Every gland and organ in my fat little body was probed and scrutinized. Many of these tests were painful, and all were humiliating. Not to mention futile. No abnormality, no correctable malfunction was ever discovered. I just was a fat kid.
To define terms, I am at age 31, 5’8″, and I weigh about 350 pounds. Not enough to make the cover of the National Enquirer, but enough.
Nothing makes much difference. If I starve myself, I get down to 300; and during those intervals when I refrain from any effort at moderation, I probably approach 400. Neither of which extreme makes any qualitative change.
In DAS CAPITAL Karl Marx says that you can be the ugliest man in the world, but if you have sufficient wealth, the most beautiful women will serve you. Marx was condemning capitalism, but the very same words could be used to praise it.
If I can relate Marx and Jean-Paul Satre–a not unreasonable association–the Frenchman wrote in his autobiography, THE WORDS, that as a child he knew he was ugly and his only hope of ever getting women would be through his intelligence and words.
As a child I reached a similar conclusion. No woman was ever going to love me for myself. No one was ever even going to have sex with me for myself. And no one ever has. If I wanted women-and I did, desperately as a child, more deliberately now-I had better become rich.
That wealth is power is a cliché. My simple definition of power is that it is the ability to make someone say yes who wants to say no. If I were to approach a beautiful stranger and ask her to suck my cock or to let me beat her until tears pour from her eyes and screams from her lips, she would react with outrage and disgust. If I offer her a thousand dollars or five thousand, she will go out and buy the whip and chains herself. And a good many have.
Freud is increasingly out of fashion as science has found chemical and genetic causes for statistically aberrant behavior. Possible reasons why I enjoy dominating women sexually, as well as besting men in business, are only too obvious. But even if they are true, I have always thought that knowing the reasons for your behavior is much overrated, except in certain limited cases that used to be called hysteria. Particularly if you have no desire to change. And I would not change places with Tom Cruise.
I mentioned other qualities. I am not ugly. My features are regular and not in themselves unattractive. I have been told, perhaps honestly, that I have nice eyes and a good sense of humor. And no one has ever doubted that I am intelligent.
I grew up in Shaker Heights, which is a suburb of Cleveland and one of the wealthiest enclaves in America. After graduating from the University of Michigan with a degree in finance, I went to Wharton for an MBA, and from there to a merchant bank in New York.
Although my coworkers would not want me to marry their sisters, they were quite willing to make use of my mind. And now that I think of it, a good many of them would now be thrilled if I married their sisters.
A man I knew at Wharton had a college roommate who was in genetic research. He had made a discovery that seemed to promise treatment for a type of diabetes. We pooled our resources, which at the time were not great. My entire capital was only $8,000, and while I could certainly have borrowed from my parents, just as certainly I did not.
We formed a corporation, worked eighteen and twenty hour days for almost a year, brought in more investors, manipulated the media, and went public. A week after the IPO, I started selling my stock, which had already doubled in value and was still rising. In another month I was out with $25,000,000. I never regretted that my partners made even more when the company was bought by a Swiss based multinational, although the diabetes research eventually proved a dead end. I had my start.
I set up my own firm as a venture capitalist.
For a while I managed other people’s money as well as my own.
Although I am exceptionally-if immodestly-good at what I do; with biotech, computers and the Internet, it hasn’t taken a genius to accumulate great wealth during the 90′s. When my personal net worth exceeded $100,000,000, I stopped investing for others. Like my exact weight, I don’t know what I am worth. The figure would vary considerably at any given moment. I am not yet one of the four hundred richest Americans, but I am close. The amount doesn’t matter. For Marx I have too much; for myself I have enough. Even my father is impressed, and perhaps a little afraid of me. And beautiful women do serve.
The first image arrived in mid-afternoon at my Los Angeles home high up on the Palos Verdes Peninsula about ten miles south of the airport and the offices I maintain at Century City.
I happened to be there at the time and noticed the incoming Email.
The woman had a good body, but it was the very ambiguity of the image that was arousing. Her cunt was open. She had obviously just been fucked. But her face was largely hidden by one arm and her hair, and you could not tell what she was feeling or thinking: pleasure? satisfaction? fear of what might happen next? Her hips were still voluntarily up. I imagined standing behind her and watching for a reaction as she heard the sounds of my removing my belt, seeing her flinch as I let the leather trail lightly across her. She would collapse at the first hard blow, writhe about, try to escape, thrash forward to wherever her arms were secured.
I typed this into an Email and sent it as acknowledgement.
During the next few weeks a good many other images arrived, and I came to know the woman’s body and the man’s mind rather well.
The pictures had all been taken in the same two expensively and stylishly furnished rooms: a living room and a bedroom. In one of the living room pictures the woman’s body is pressed against sliding glass doors leading to a balcony, a glimpse of a river below, but nothing to distinguish the city, though something says north rather than south, and for some reason I thought New England rather than Midwest. It was only idle speculation.
Except for a single seven shot sequence that arrived in one Email, the images were random. I assumed that the man who identified himself as her husband was going through photographs he had on hand and sending whatever happened to strike his fancy.
She is kneeling, ass on heels, blindfolded, naked but for sand colored high heels, hands handcuffed behind her back, seen from the side, one breast in profile, nipple erect.
She is sitting on a leather sofa, naked, seen from directly ahead, her arms are behind her, her knees are tied wide apart. You can see inside her cunt, which is extremely red.
She is sitting on the same sofa, blindfolded, a leather collar around her neck, chain leash draped over one shoulder. She is wearing a white dress, which has been opened and pulled down to bare her breasts, and pulled up almost to her waist, exposing her legs, which are crossed. Her hands are folded sedately in her lap
She is naked face down on a bed, legs straight, her ankles are tied together and her wrists are tied together in the small of her back.
Same bed, she is naked on her back, knees up and apart, her fingers spreading her pussy lips.
A reflection in a mirror, she squats down naked but for black high heels, her hands cuffed behind her in front of a naked well-muscled man. Her head is at his waist and presumably his cock is in her mouth.
Naked but for black high heels she stands facing the camera, her arms behind her, feet spread far apart, head thrown back, her quite lovely throat taut and vulnerable.
And a good many more; thirty-eight in all over two months.
In all the photos the woman’s face is averted from the camera or has been cropped before transmission. Her very anonymity is arousing as well as her husband’s exposing her to strangers without her knowledge.
The one sequential series of images was taken, as I surmised and was confirmed by the husband, after a party. it was in fact her company’s Christmas Party.
They have returned home.
In the first photo she is sitting on the leather sofa, wearing a long black dress, sleeveless, modest neckline, her hands are tied behind her back, the skirt has been pulled to just above her knee, revealing dark nylons, black high heels.
In the second she is facing the camera, still wearing shoes, but now naked up to the waist where her dress is bunched, knees apart.
In the third, her dress is still at her waist and her legs bare, but now her knees are together and her ankles tied, and the top of her dress has been pushed down beneath her breasts. She is leaning slightly forward offering them. Her arms are still behind her back.
Then she is on the oriental carpet directly in front of the sofa, seen from above and behind, obviously moved by her husband, ankles tied, wrists tied, dress above waist, ass white in contrast with the dark material and rug.
Same position, viewed from the side, the fingers of one hand reach helplessly into the air.
In the final two she has been moved to the bedroom. In both she is completely naked, except for shoes and one other item, an unusual Japanese or Chinese jade and gold necklace. In reviewing the earlier images, I find that the necklace was visible in some of them, but is not as prominent as it becomes when she is wearing only it and shoes.
In one photo, she is on her side against the burgundy bedspread, ankles still tied together, knees bent.
In the last she is on her back, knees up, tied ankles in the air, cunt exposed.
Such information as I gleaned came in drips and dabs. After all this was not a major preoccupation, but a minor amusement, an interesting oddity. I sent the husband a few photos of women from various of my past sessions just to keep the contact.
In sum I gathered that the woman had agreed to be the man’s slave, but had changed her mind, and she had a career that consumed almost all of her time and energy.
I knew that I was not the only one with whom the images were being shared, and I assumed that I was not the only one to whom the husband-who was known to me by the initial ‘W’ as I was to him as ‘B’-extended the invitation to suggest specific poses the woman could be placed in.
As I found when I Emailed that I would like to see her with a cock up her ass, there were a good many limitations: she wouldn’t accept pain; anal sex was unlikely; no sex with other people. Still there was a twinge of pleasure at giving orders and knowing that a woman was following them perhaps thousands of miles away without even knowing it, so I made a few suggestions: her spread eagled on the bed, legs stretched wide to the point of discomfort; if not a cock in her ass, perhaps a vibrator? And in time received images of her as requested. He liked having her follow commands from anonymous masters.
After a couple of months, it tapered off and was pretty much forgotten in the midst of more immediate concerns and pleasures.
I was certainly not thinking of her when one morning the new copy of FORBES arrived with a cover shot of five women, standing on the roof of a midtown Manhattan skyscraper. “Breaking through the Glass Ceiling” it said. The shot had been taken from above, either from a higher adjacent building or a helicopter. The women had their arms up, hands outstretched, literally, as well as figuratively, reaching for the sky. Fine, I thought. All of them were about my age, thirty give or take a few years. All were well groomed. Dressed similarly, tailored suits, blouses, sensible heels. Feminine but serious. Two or three were decent looking. And one was wearing an unusual necklace,
I turned to the story. Each woman was profiled and pictured individually. The necklace was quite clear in the closeup of Lynn Plath, 35, the first woman ever to become a full partner at Boston’s prestigious Broadthroup and Brown.
Adrenaline jolted through my body. Power is exciting. I hadn’t even been looking for it, and here it was. The plan formed almost instantaneously. It was like studying a chessboard and suddenly seeing the inevitable checkmate ten moves ahead.
Of course everything changed in Boston.
Even in the glorious insanity of that first month in California, I always knew it would. And I assumed Winston did too. But, in retrospect, perhaps he didn’t. At least not that it would change so much. How could he? Even I didn’t know that.
It was love at first sight. Imagine the late unlamented Marlboro man suddenly coming to life beside you, but with charm and intelligence. And smiling eyes. Weathered from flying and sailing, not horses.
It was all perfect. I have never known anything like it, and if Winston has–I know he loved Julie, his last wife, to the day she died, and perhaps beyond–he has been sensitive enough not to say so. Until then, I had never wanted a man more. Not even close. I had never wanted a man to just take me and make me his, turn me inside out and upside down, right, left and backwards. I had heard other woman talk about feeling that way, but I thought it was just talk.
Once he tied me naked to a giant redwood tree, just off a trail in Muir Woods, and left me there for what was only five or ten minutes but felt like forever. I was pretty much hidden from view, but anyone could have come along. When he returned, he ran a finger slowly down my back, starting at my neck. Before he reached my ass, I came. Just from being touched by a single finger. I wouldn’t have believed it possible.
I was not very experienced then. Winston was only the fourth man in my entire life. So I didn’t have much basis for comparison. Even now when I have so exhaustive and exhausting a basis for comparison, he is still exceptional. It was most definitely not: marry in haste; repent at leisure. At least not for me. And I don’t think for him. Despite everything that has happened, I still love him, though I can’t expect him to believe that.
The problems were my work and winter.
I did not realize how much more demanding being a partner would be. In addition to managing my fund, I had all sorts of new responsibilities, and all kinds of new people to meet with, and many more places to be. The work day kept becoming longer and longer. And, unfortunately, I am one of those people who really need nine hours sleep. I know it got to the point where all I did was work, come home late for dinner, have a drink, eat whatever Lean Cuisine Winston had heated or takeaway I had picked up, and sleep. And get up the next morning and do it all again. My mother’s generation grew up to be like their mothers. Girls of my generation grew up to be like their fathers. Or exceeded them, as I did. I don’t deny that I take satisfaction that I made it to the top, while my father never rose above the middle.
And perhaps partly it was that being back here alone for the first couple of months, except for those weekends he arranged to fly to Boston, I fell back into my old pattern. Sex didn’t play much part in my first marriage. And I can’t say I really missed it then.
Meeting one another changed both our lives, but Winston’s more than mine. His flying days were almost over anyway. He was due to retire in a year and simply moved the date forward. He is well off by most standards. The house in Tiburon sold for almost a million; and he has close to another million in various stocks; and a good pension. He and Julie had planned to travel. Not just travel, for he has flown all his life, but to live in various places for a while, however long they wanted, rather than fly in one day and out the next. Maybe buy a bigger boat and liveaboard and sail. He is an energetic man. He is not content simply to sit in a comfortable chair and watch television. If he were, I never would have fallen in love with him.
By the time he had taken care of his financial affairs in California–and it was his idea to sell his house; we could easily have kept both homes–and drove across country, two months had passed and winter was beginning here. Winston grew up in San Diego and had never lived through a real winter. He had always flown into winter and then flown right back out. Brief interludes of snow and cold do not prepare you for New England. He was used to California living and suddenly he found himself cooped up inside for months with nothing to do and a wife who wasn’t much around.
Everything just kind of tapered down.
I truly tried to find time and energy for us. We went away for a few weekends to inns where I deliberately didn’t take any work or a cell phone or a computer. I bought him a camcorder to make videos of us having sex. I knew he masturbated over them. I knew he needed more than I was giving him, and I didn’t want him to start having affairs. But I just couldn’t give more.
One evening, not long after our first anniversary, Winston finally said that I ought to quit, that I would have to choose between our marriage and my career. Perhaps I should have. My total compensation my first year as a full partner was about the same as Winston’s net worth. But it wasn’t about money. This was my identity, this is what I had worked for all my life; and I wanted to enjoy it.
That was a year ago. I was 34 and Winston 54. I asked him for five years. Not even five more years. Just let me have five years as a partner. One had passed, so only four more. He would still only be 58. And we would have several million more dollars. We could buy any kind of boat he wanted. We could build a house anywhere he wanted. We would have the rest of our lives to do anything we wanted. He argued that we already had enough to do all those things and that the only thing he would do if he had more money would be to drink more expensive wine. He was right. But, as I have said, it wasn’t about money. And finally he agreed. He would stick it out for four more years so long as he knew that it was written in stone that that was it. Thanks for the memories, Broadthroup and Brown, and goodbye.
Pleased with the success of my negotiating skills, I continued onward, wheeling and dealing, being a shining star, a shaker and mover, a young success, a role model, the envy of all.
I was invited to speak to national organizations; I was on committees and boards; I was often on television. And I was thrilled when I was chosen to appear on the cover of FORBES magazine.
At a certain point capital achieves critical mass, after which, barring cataclysmic misjudgment or misfortune, it continues to grow. I can’t precisely quantify that point, but unquestionably my capital has exceeded it ,and I now have only five employees.
Four work in the Century City offices. Each has an exalted title, which opens doors and looks good on resumes, and each is extremely well-compensated in an effort on my part to preclude the use of those resumes. Mary, my secretary, is Director of Management. John and Mark, my two analysts are respectively Presidents of the International and National Investments Divisions , and Charlie, my computer expert, is of course Chief Information Officer.
My fifth employee, Jefferson Jefferson, is the Executive Assistant to the Chairman. He lives in the six room guest house complete with its own swimming pool, just down the hill on the Palos Verdes property, discreetly out of sight or close to call, whichever is my preference, and is paid $1,000 per week to act as my general factotum, driver, body guard, procurer and accomplice. He also enjoys exceptional fringe benefits.
Jefferson is a retired porn star, whose working name was “Long Tom”. Recent DNA analysis conclusively establishes that he is in fact one of the many black descendants of our third President, and he takes great pleasure in attending the annual family reunions at Monticello.
Prior to his film career, Jefferson was a pro football player until he blew out his left knee. He weighs only slightly less than I, but on him it is distributed somewhat differently. Being 6′ 6″ tall helps.
Only Charlie and Jefferson were involved in my plan for the newest partner of Broadthroup and Brown.
I asked Charlie to obtain all the information he could on the firm, specifically including an Email directory listing everyone from the partners to the newest hire, and full background on Lynn Plath, with particular reference to meetings away from Boston scheduled for the near future. I thought it better to confront her away from her own turf as it were. The background information wasn’t really necessary, but I like to be thorough.
I ask for a lot of varied information. The request was not unusual, and wouldn’t have been questioned anyway. That’s the job.
A preliminary report appeared on my screen a few hours later.
I bought a new IBM Thinkpad–just in case she threw the thing out the window-and programmed the presentation myself.
The whole thing was a turn-on, and several of Los Angeles’ most beautiful submissive whores presented their pimps with record profits during the two weeks before I flew to, of all places, Saint Louis, where Lynn Plath was to be honored as one of the top ten Mutual Fund Managers of the Year by the Atkinson Institute.
I was accompanied by my Executive Personal Assistant.
We checked into the Saint Louis Hilton and were unctuously shown to the top floor suite Mary had reserved for me. According to Charlie’s information, Mrs. Plath was in Room 1415, two floors below.
I attended the award dinner that evening and enjoyed it very much, thank you. It was a formal affair and I wore a tuxedo. I sat near the head table with several other people I knew from Wharton. Mrs. Plath was quite stunning in a long burgundy dress. Obviously a favorite color. It matched the bedspread. She also wore her favorite necklace.
Her acceptance speech was brief and modestly witty. Within the context she couldn’t have done better. As she spoke, I visualized in detail how she looked beneath that dress. I had, despite unusually intimate knowledge of her, not until then heard her voice.
As the speech continued my considerable stomach began to tense in anticipation and excitement. I was not, after all, entirely certain what the next hour would bring. Jefferson describes it as the feeling an athlete has just before a big game. My throat was dry, but I drank only tonic water. I wanted a perfectly clear head. I noted with approval that Mrs. Plath, as was natural, drank several celebratory glasses of wine.
Finally everyone in the world having been thanked for ensuring the various honorees various successes, the dinner ended. I glanced at my watch. It was just after eleven. Mrs. Plath extricated herself from well-wishers and made her way from the room. A messenger had been well-paid to be waiting at the door to her room.
I waited a few minutes before taking the elevator to my suite.
The telephone rang as I unlocked the door.
A messenger was waiting at the door of my room.
“Mrs. Lynn Plath?” he asked.
“I was directed to hand this to you personally.”
“By whom?” The question was merely conversation as I reached into my purse for the card to open the door and some money to tip him. I wasn’t really listening and can’t remember if he answered.
I assumed it was another congratulatory note. Fortunately I didn’t tear open the envelope until I was in the room. Talk about a fall! I felt as though an elevator cable had broken. I abruptly sat down. That is to say I collapsed onto the bed. The photographs fell from my hand.
After a moment I leaned over and retrieved them. There were two pictures of me, somewhat fuzzy, but more than clear enough. In one I am naked on my knees facing away from the camera, my wrists tied. In the other I am on the bed, naked but for black high heels and the necklace Winston gave me as a wedding present. My ankles are tied in the air. My wrists are also tired behind my back, though they are not visible. My sex is completely exposed.
There were two other pieces of paper: the cover of FORBES on which I appeared; and a sheet of hotel stationery on which was printed: Telephone Room 1601.
A man’s somewhat out of breath voice answered on the fourth ring.
“Mrs. Plath, I assume.”
“Yes. And who are you and what do you want?”
“My name is Brad. I am just two flights up. Please join me. I’m sure we don’t want to have this discussion inadvertently overheard.”
Before I could respond, he hung up.
In disbelief I stared at the photographs. I knew exactly when the photos were taken and where and of course by whom, but I couldn’t conceive how this Brad person had obtained them. I noticed that my face was not visible in either picture, though every other part of me was. Still there was the necklace. I assumed that he wanted money.
Leaving my purse in the room, taking only the card to unlock the door, I walked to the elevator and rode up to the fourteenth floor.
I had myself under control by the time I knocked. Or so I thought.
The door was opened by a monster. Literally and figuratively. One of the fattest men I have ever seen. I recognized him immediately as having been at an adjacent table at the award dinner. He is nothing if not memorable.
“Do come in, Lynn.”
I pushed past him.
“What is this all about?”
“Would you care for a drink first?”
The room was large, with a bar to one side and a couch and several stuffed chairs loosely arranged around a low teak table on which was situated an open notebook computer. A desk and other furniture was scattered about. One wall of the room was all window glass. Closed doors led to other parts of the suite. The only unexpected objects were three camcorders mounted on tripods. One was directly behind the couch; the other two at the sides of the room. Red glowing lights indicted the cameras were recording.
“What is going on here?”
“Do please sit down.”
“But you will want to see something, actually several things, on the computer.”
He moved well enough on his feet, but had difficulty sitting, and just sort of leaned back until he sank onto the couch.
“Sit here, by me. I promise I will not touch you.” He smiled pleasantly.
“I want to know what this is all about.”
“The quickest way to learn is to sit.”
His bulk caused such a depression in the cushion that I slid closer than I intended and brushed against his tree trunk thigh, before recoiling.
His smile broadened.
“Settled now?” he asked, and when I did not reply, reached out and turned the laptop toward me.
The image on the screen was the one of me on my knees. He clicked and the image changed to the other one of me in the envelope.
I sat frozen as click followed click and images of me that had not seemed obscene at the time but did now in this hotel room kept appearing on the screen. There were dozens. I hadn’t realized there were so many.
When the horror show ended, we both sat silently until I finally asked, “How did you get these?”
“I will tell you, but in fact how I got them is not nearly as important as that I do have them.
“Now, all of those, along with the cover of FORBES for people who might not recognize the exquisite Ming Dynasty creation you wear around your lovely
throat–which I must say I particularly admire in the pose where you are standing with your head thrown back while wearing nothing else but black high heels–is ready to be sent as Email. You might want to peruse the list of recipients before it goes out and let me know if I have missed anyone who might be interested.”
A click and the screen changed. Beyond my shock I was impressed with his thoroughness. As he well knew, he hadn’t missed anyone. It seemed that everyone I had ever known was there, and a good many I had forgotten. Everyone at Broadthroup from my partners to the mail room. The adult members of my family, parents, brother, aunts, uncles, cousins. Members of committees and boards on which I served. Friends. He kept scrolling as I stared numbly. It went on and on.
A click and the screen changed. The word SEND was highlighted.
“As you now know, Lynn, I can change your life with the tip of one finger, though I don’t suppose that most of the recipients will check their Email until tomorrow. I’m sure it will be interesting when you return from your triumph. Just imagine.”
“How much do you want?”
He laughed. “I knew you would ask that. I am as familiar with your finances as I am everything else about you, and I assure you that I don’t want your money. You have done quite well for yourself by most standards, but your entire net worth does not approach the daily fluctuations in mine.”
It was then that I began to be afraid.
“Then what do you want?”
“Why it should be obvious. What else is there? I want you.”
I felt as though I were on that falling elevator again. Stalling for time while my mind raced, I said, “You were going to tell me how you obtained the pictures.”
But the unexpected reply only threw me into greater confusion.
“Your husband gave them to me.”
“Winston gave them to me, although I did not then know his name. He sent them over the Internet.”
Anger flashed through me. “The incredible fool!”
“You must not be too hard on him. He did keep your face hidden. It was all anonymous. Except for the necklace, of course, and that only appeared in the one sequence. And what were the odds that anyone would ever make the connection. He couldn’t have foreseen the magazine cover. No one could have. Besides he was lonely and bored and neglected.”
“You know that?”
“I concluded it.”
“Were there others?”
“You mean who received the photos? I believe so. In fact I am sure there were. Not many I don’t think. Winston even let us suggest poses for you. Remember the dildoes and the spread eagle. You have already acquiesced to my wishes.”
My brain was in overload. Too much information. Too many shocks. Too fast. As he intended.
“You need a drink. Tangarey and tonic is your usual. There is an unopened bottle on the bar. Go fix yourself one.”
I did not trust myself to speak and shook my head negatively.
“You are much too intelligent a woman, Lynn, to mistake a demand for a suggestion.”
I got to my feet and crossed to the bar. While my trembling fingers fumbled with the bottle top I heard a sound and turned to see him pushing the coffee table away from the sofa.
“While you are there, pour a very small cognac for me.”
I noticed that he omitted please.
I finished mixing my drink and took a swallow. I considered not pouring his, but I did, turned and walked toward him.
“Sit there,” he said, indicating the chair on the other side of where the table had been, about six or eight feet in front of him.
Only too willing to put distance between us, I sat down, keeping my feet and knees together, glad my dress was long. The camcorder directly over his shoulder stared at me like an unblinking eye.
He waited patiently until I took another swallow of my gin and tonic. As I lowered the glass, he said, “Remove your shoes.”
I have relived that instant–and the next–endlessly, agonized over it as I have no other. I am justifiably considered to be decisive, and once a decision is made, I don’t have second thoughts. But this. So precisely pedestrian an act. Something I had naturally done thousands of times.
I could see the faces, of Jason Walters, the senior partner who has been my mentor and is the individual most responsible for my promotion; and of Christopher, my personal assistant; and of Judy, my secretary, and of my parents, and my brother, Jack; and all the others. I could never return to the office. Not even to the industry. Though even at that moment, I did know I could refuse. This Brad person might not even follow though. It might be a bluff. But I sensed that it was not, that he would take pleasure in humiliating me one way or another. But as I say, even at that moment I knew I could simply walk away from everything and disappear with Winston that much sooner. But ‘everything’ was what I had worked for all my life. And I was furious with Winston for putting me in this position, however unwittingly. And even at that moment I knew, although I did not fully admit it to myself until a long time later, that some tiny perverse sliver of myself was aroused, or at least stimulated, sensitized, by the prospect of being used helplessly by this man. His very grotesqueness. To be touched by such a creature.
I have wondered if I had not already fallen under his control. I had come to his room. I had sat beside him. I had made and brought the drinks. But those were different. Removing my shoes was so innocent. And yet it wasn’t. It was letting him tell me to undress. It was more than crossing a line, it was passing over a threshold to a whole new dimension in which I was truly helpless, where things would happen to me, where I would do things that I could not even imagine. Removing my shoes was surrender.
I studied his face as I pressed the toe of one burgundy pump, dyed to match the dress, against the heel of the other, and pushed it off; then with stockinged foot slipped out of the second shoe. He raised the snifter and took a sip of cognac, exhaled, which became a wheeze, and smiled.
Once into that new dimension, he gave me no time to retreat. Before the night was through, he would have images of me infinitely more compromising that those supplied by Winston. I simply removed my shoes and was lost.
“What are you wearing beneath that enchanting dress?”
Instinctively I started to say that it was none of his business, but then I began to understand my new condition. “A bra, pantyhose, panties.”
“Remove your pantyhose and panties.”
I took a big swallow from my drink, which was almost pure gin, before setting it on the floor. Raising my hips from the chair, I reached beneath my dress and pulled my undergarments off in one motion and tossed them to the side, extraordinarily sensitive of my bare thighs pressing together.
“Pull up the hem of your dress. Higher.”
I lifted the material above my knees.
“Higher. To the waist.”
The orders came more rapidly. “Open your knees. Wider.” I felt blood rush to my face when I knew he could see my sex as so few had. And never a total stranger. For that matter I was a stranger to myself. I seemed to become the camera over his shoulder, watching someone else strip naked.
“Can you unzip the dress yourself or would you like help?”
I shook my head and reached back.
“Good. Pull the top down to just below your breasts. Ahh, they are lovely. Beautifully formed. Erotic nipples.
I did, still clutching the dress to me.
“Let it fall, fool. Step out of it. Turn around. Slowly.”
When my back was to him, he said, “Stop.” I think I shuddered. “Move your feet further apart and bend over, away from me. Further. Your feet further apart and bend further.”
Refusing to obey no longer even crossed my mind.
“Reach back and spread your butt.” I remember that he used that word. “Show me your asshole.” He added, “After all it’s nothing I haven’t already seen.” I could feel his eyes and the camera, the cameras, boring into me. “I’m told you find it painful. When were you last fucked in the ass?”
Head down, from beneath the shadow of my dangling hair, I mumbled, “I…I don ‘t know. I don’t remember.”
“Well was it yesterday, a week ago, a month ago?”
“More than a month. Several.”
He seemed to like me in that position.
“Get down on the floor. On all fours.”
Grateful to be less exposed, I knelt.
“Hands and knees, I said.”
The carpet was rough under my palms.
“Crawl over to the windows, and then back. Slowly. ”
I did, stopping when I was back beside my chair.
“No. All the way to me.” Now it was going to happen: more than just displaying myself. I reminded myself that I had no choice.
He tired to seem impassive, but as I neared him I felt heat radiating from his body and saw drops of sweat on his face, and smelled a peculiar odor, not necessarily foul, but sharp.
“You are really quite beautiful, wonderful skin. Your photographs don’t do you justice. This is going to be a great, great pleasure. It already is.”
Unwilling to stare up at him, I remained on all fours with my head down. His black patent leather shoes were directly before my eyes. He had unexpectedly small feet.
“What?” I raised my head.
“Go ahead. Lick them. My shoes.”
I thought: I will do worse. Without having the least idea how much worse I would do.
The surface was smooth. There was no real taste. It was like licking a piece of plastic.
“All over.” And he raised one leg. “Including the sole.”
Still they were formal wear and had seldom been worn outside, though there was an earthy taste.
“Good. You are doing very well. Move your tongue up my leg. The left one.”
As lightly as possible I followed the seam of his tuxedo trousers. When I reached the knee my head was briefly caught between his bulging thighs.
“Up the fly.”
There was dampness there. Sweat and precome seeping through cloth. A massive bulge. But there were massive bulges everywhere beneath his clothes.
Powerful hands grabbed my head, mashing my face against his crotch, rubbing it side to side,until I could not breathe.
As he released me, my head came up to gasp and I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, a naked worshiper kneeling before a smiling Buddha. I gave an involuntary moan.
“You will learn that my body places certain obstacles in the way of my pleasure, though it compensates in other ways.”
Whenever he made such flat declarative statements with such absolute assurance: You will learn…how to fuck a man of my bulk..how to take a cock down your throat without gagging…how to lick an asshole…how to eat a cunt…and on and on…I saw into an endless tunnel of degradation leading far into the future.
Pushing hard with his hands against the cushion, he levered himself up and stepped past me. “Turn and watch,” he demanded, as he undid his black tie and peeled off his clothes.
I have already said that I had up to then only been intimate with four men, so it is not much to say that I had never seen anything like his body. Even now, I haven’t. It is difficult to describe. Perhaps a hairy Michelin man. Rolls upon rolls of flesh piled on top of one another. Pasty white, speckled with black hair, which is particularly thick on his chest–his breasts are bigger than mine– shoulders and groin. That he did not seem human almost made it easier to accept. I was sacrificing myself to some mythic beast..
He squatted down like a sumo wrester–that is what he reminds me of
most–and placed his fat ass on the edge of the chair I had occupied. When he spread his knees, a massive purple cock rose from a hairy thicket. The head was swollen with blood and shining with the fluids of his arousal.
“Crawl to me.”
I like to think I hesitated a fraction of a second. If I did, it was only a fraction.
When I was between his knees, he leaned his shoulders back which elevated his cock to within an inch of my mouth. One word: “Suck.”
As I know only too well, his cock is larger than average, almost exactly the same length as Winston’s, but like everything else about the man, thicker. I did not think I could take such an organ. Of course it is no where near the size of Jefferson’s, but then a few more minutes would pass before I would become acquainted with that gentlemen.
My lips stretched to encompass the column of flesh.
It did not taste like Winston, but the rubbery texture was the same. The flavor was acrid, sharp, and the odor stronger.
Tentatively I began to bob my head up and down.
“Take it deeper.”
I tried and came up gagging, which is when I heard, “You will learn to do better. You will learn to take it all, to bury your nose in my gut, without gagging.”
Before I could resume, he said, “Come up on your knees. Spread them apart. I was to see something.”
When I complied, he swiftly reached down and stuck the middle finger of his right hand up me and laughed. He withdrew it and held it in my face. ” I have not touched you. No one has. Yet your cunt is running. This is turning you on, isn’t it, slut?”
“No.” I protested. But the finger said otherwise. I truly hadn’t even been thinking of myself. My body was just reacting, female to male.
“Taste yourself. Lick it clean.”
His finger spread juices over my lips and snaked into my mouth. Obediently I used my tongue.
“Enough. Finish what you started.”
He swelled in my mouth. More and more of his fluids mixed with my saliva. His hands came down to my head again. Somewhere under all that fat is muscle. His grip was a vice. He began to thrust his cock up each time he pulled my head down, forcing further and further inside me, until I was taking him much deeper than I ever had Winston. With the first spurt, he held my head still. Later he told me that he had deliberately not come that day, wanting to drown me. He nearly did. It went on and on, spurt after spurt splattering against the roof of my mouth and tongue. His come was thick as though it had taken on the texture of his flesh. Unable to move, I had no choice but to swallow. And swallow. And swallow.
When he finally released me, I fell back and caught the arm of the chair to steady myself. I rested my head against the chair and closed my eyes. When I opened them the illusion that that was all he would want vanished when his cock did not. Although it was not as tumescent had it had been, it was still arrogantly erect. It’s purple head demanding. I crawled over to where I had left my glass beside the couch and drained it, trying to cleanse his come from my mouth.
Later he would often refuse to permit me to drink, wanting me cold sober, fully aware of the abominations I was performing or enduring, but that first night he wanted compliance. “Fix yourself another,” he said. And I struggled to my feet and did. The second of many as that endless night dragged on. After a while it became a blur. As I wanted it to. And I don’t directly remember what happened, although I know from having seen the videos.
I do remember what happened next.
He rolled from the chair onto his back on the floor.
“Come over here and climb on.”
Straddling him is like doing the splits. Everything about his body stretches mine. My legs are stretched by the obscene mound of his belly as my lips had been by his cock.
To reach his cock, which is forced to an angle by folds of fat, I slide down, sandpaper bristles of hair chaffing my vagina. “Impale yourself,” he orders. And I do.
He does not move. I doubt he can move in that position. And he obviously enjoys making me do all the work, sliding up and down, bringing him pleasure, being forced to draw more of his come into my body.
I move for what seems to be a long time. My breasts drag across his belly. My nipples become painful. My legs cry out. When I hear a sound, a door opening. “What?” I start to rise but his hands grab my breasts so I can’t.
Someone is behind me. I can turn my head just far enough to see a black giant, a wall of polished muscle, a shaven bullet head, white teeth in a broad grin.
I struggle to extricate myself. The hands will tear my breasts off if I move.
“Lynn Plath meet Jefferson Jefferson.”
A second pair of hands slide over my back toward my buttocks. A finger circles my anus, presses, enters. I am helpless beyond imagination. A strange cock in one orifice; a strange finger in the other.
The finger withdraws, but is immediately replaced by the tip of a cock. It is slippery, covered with lubricant. It feels immense. Pain explodes in me as it tries to force its way in. I am being torn, ripped apart.
“It won’t go.” The black man’s first words.
“No. I’ll rip her, rip her bad. You don’t want that.”
The cock and pain withdraw, but not completely.
Finally from beneath me, a grudging grunt. “You are right. Not tonight.”
Of all the things that have been done to me and that I have been made to do, two humiliated me most, at least in the beginning: when Brad took me out in public on what seemed to be a normal date and people actually thought I was his girl friend; and when my body betrayed me with an orgasm. Of course Brad was aware of this. On our ‘normal dates’ he relished playing the role of attentive lover. And with the orgasms he was calculating and skillful. He laughed at me as he made me come.
Jefferson made me come all the time. But he is magnificent. It is like being fucked by a great smooth black panther. He can lift me with one hand. He has picked me up and fucked me while standing, my legs wrapped around his waist, bouncing my body on his cock like a rag doll.
He made me come that night, but not until Brad made me come himself.
I was in doggie position. Brad was behind me. He sensed exactly when my body started to respond. I did too and tried to fight it. But there had been too much stimulation. For hours my flesh had been looked at, touched, been penetrated by cocks and tongue and fingers. For hours there had been only sex. And under the accumulated assault, Brad’s cock became disembodied, the circumstances forgotten, there was just this cock pounding into my cunt, it didn’t matter whose, and my orgasm rose and built and exploded.
By the time I came with Jefferson I was pretty much unconscious. I do remember when I first saw his cock I thought I can’t possible take that and was grateful he had not forced it up my ass. He would, I thought, have destroyed me. Of course, I was wrong. I could take it. And, as I have learned, even bigger things. My body is capable of opening much more than I believed possible. As Brad points out, if a baby can come out, a hand can certainly go in. Fortunately his hands, like his feet, are relatively small. Though Jefferson’s are not.
The video shows Jefferson above me, braced on his fingers and toes, my feet bent all the way back over his broad shoulders, pistoning his giant black shaft into me as though he is doing pushups; and, from another camera, my face screaming, “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.”, sobbing, begging for release.
From the rest of the blur of that night, only two moments stand out.
I am being smothered in doughy folds of flesh. I am on my back on the carpet. Brad is sitting on my face. “Lick it,” he says. I am never sure what I lick when he tells me to lick his ass. The creases are too deep and dark. On him truly the place the sun never shines. I stick out my tongue. I don’t know what it touches, but the taste is not pleasant. Nor is the smell.
And sometime later I get unsteadily to me feet.
“Where are you going?”
“What do you think?”
“Do you have to piss or shit?”
Even in that confused drunken exhausted state, I found myself wondering, How has it become possible for strangers to ask me such a question? “Piss.” Defiantly. A word I do not–correction, did not–use.
“Good.” Then to Jefferson, “Bring one of the cameras.”
And he and Jefferson follow me into the bathroom.
“Get into the bathtub.”
I am confused. “I don’t understand.”
“Just get into the bathtub.”
I step into the bathtub. The porcelain is cold beneath my feet.
Brad reaches over and flips the lever that closes the drain.
“Squat down and piss.”
“You heard me. Squat down and piss.”
His arm flashes out and slaps across my breasts, swings back and grabs and squeezes. “You should have already learned that you do not say ‘no’ to me.”
He forces me down.
“You aren’t coming out until you do.”
I don’t have any idea how many drinks I had had by then, but my bladder is bursting. The stream hisses down, splatters, runs hot over my toes, collects in a yellow puddle above the closed drain.
When I have finished, I start to stand.
“No.” Brad pushes hard on my shoulder. “Lie down in it.”
I am doomed, I think. I lie down and stare up at two huge naked men.
Jefferson is recording me lying in my own piss.
Brad moves closer, stands against the side of the tub, points his cock at me. I realize what is about to happen and close my eyes. It hits my bruised breasts, moves up over my throat onto my face, up to my hair, then down again.
“Open your mouth.”
I have no memory of how the night ended or when. Sometimes I feel as though I am still in that room, so perhaps it never did. But I found myself back in my own room. It was still dark outside the window. I was wearing only my dress and shoes. I kicked off my shoes, thinking that is how this all started, and fell onto the bed.
My flight arrived back in Boston at 10:05. I was exhausted, destroyed in every possible way. All I wanted was to go home and sleep forever. But I went to the office instead. I called Winston from there and pretended that everything was wonderful, although I did say that I thought I might be coming down with a virus of something, which gave me the excuse to leave the office early and sleep with a nightshirt when I usually sleep naked. Without knowing why, from the beginning I wanted to keep this from Winston.
Two days later, when life seemingly had returned to normal, my secretary buzzed me. “There is a Mr. Rankin on line 5. Bradley Rankin. He stressed that I mention the full name. He said you would want to take the call.”
I picked up the phone. “Is that your real name?”
“As a matter of fact it is?”
“Where are you?”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Relieved aren’t you? Relax. It is too soon. Besides you are not my sole interest. I just want to let you know that a FedEx package will arrive at your office tomorrow. You will want to be certain no one else opens it. Until next time, then.” And, as I would learn is his custom, having completed what he wanted to say, he hung up.
The package arrived in the morning. It was, as I expected, a video tape. As I had not expected, the tape was professionally edited. I was too exhausted to care that this meant others had witnessed my humiliation. Among the thousands and thousands of things I have learned from Brad is that he is a major investor in one of the largest producers and distributors of pornography in the world.
The label read, L. P.: Highlights. Copy 108.
The package also contained a cell phone.
Heavy snow fell the Saturday after Lynn returned from Saint Louis.
I awakened early, as I usually do and got up, even though there was as usual no place I had to go and nothing I had to do.
After making coffee, I opened the drapes and saw the snow.
The Charles River is my favorite part of Boston, though like everything else, I like it better when the weather is warm and joggers and cyclists fill the path beside Memorial Drive and rowers fill the river, darting across the surface like water spiders, eights from MIT and Harvard and Boston College and Boston University, fours, doubles, singles; and small sailboats from the university sailing teams and Community Sailing. It is a remarkable display to find in the middle of a city, framed by the downtown skyline, the old brownstones of the Back Bay and the cupolas and domes of the university buildings.
Naturally in retrospect I have looked for signs of what was happening, and, in retrospect, they are there; but I did not see them at the time; I don’t think anyone would have. And I was not looking for them.
Lynn had returned from the Atkinson award dinner exhausted and rundown. Although she said she thought she was coming down with something, pressing issues at work necessitated her continuing to go to the office; but she collapsed into bed even earlier than usual when she came home.
Knowing she would sleep late this morning, after I finished my coffee I pulled on my winter parka and went down for a walk.
I had seen snow before Boston. Often I drove with Julie, and for that matter with others before her, up to Lake Tahoe for the novelty of being in the snow, though I was not in the least tempted to take up skiing. In Boston snow soon became something less novel. My first winter saw over 100″ fall, which admittedly set a record, but about 40″ is average. So it is walk in the snow or not at all.
Crossing Memorial Drive I turned upstream toward Harvard Square.
The air was still and fat flakes drifted slowly past my eyes. The temperature was not far below freezing, but snow was starting to accumulate, and as the river narrowed it began to skin over with ice. A few disgusted ducks stamped across ice to open water, and a dozen or so seagulls stood stoically, apparently waiting for spring. They couldn’t want it more than I did. The forecast was for three to five inches of snow.. That early on a Saturday, my Timberlands left the first prints in the pristine surface.
As I walked I suddenly remembered being awakened during the night. My cock was in someone’s mouth. The room was dark and at first I was uncertain if I were awake or dreaming. I didn’t know where I was or whose warm lips were sucking on me. I must confess that my first thought was Julie. She often did that: woke up in the middle of the night and wordlessly sucked me off. She said she loved taking my cock in her mouth when it was still soft and feeling it swell and fill her.. And she said she loved the taste of come in her mouth when she drifted back to sleep. I had told that to Lynn–not specifically about Julie, but as something I like. That first month in California, when she could not get enough sex, she did it often; but in Boston I was only roused from sleep by anonymous wet lips a few times during the first month or so. And then not at all. But it was Lynn now, sucking me intensely, taking me deeper than she ever had. When I came, she took it all, licked my cock clean, and rolled away from me onto her side.
I think now that she had made the decision to forgive me, that she wanted our marriage to last and was trying to reaffirm our bond, even as other bonds were being tightened around her.
At her suggestion the following weekend we drove down to Hyannis, which is peacefully deserted at that time of year, and had a wonderful time together.
A few days later, she surprised me again by shaving off all her public hair and starting to use polish on her finger and toenails. I was pleased, thinking she was doing it for me.
“A pleasant domestic scene,” I said, “You look good that way.”
She was sitting on the edge of the bed naked, one foot on the floor, one drawn up so she could reach her toenails, which she was painting while I watched. I had no systematic plan for ever increasing dominance over her. We both knew that had been totally established in Saint Louis. There was simply this wonderful freedom of having a beautiful intelligent woman to whom I could do whatever I wanted. When I noticed on her calendar–posted on the Broadthroup and Brown internal network and therefore, through Charlie, to me–that she was scheduled to be in New York on the second Thursday in December, I dialed the number of the cell phone I had included with the video and told her I would have a room at the Plaza where she would be expected after her business was completed.
“But I am due to fly directly back to Boston.”
“Then you will have to tell Winston that you have to stay over and catch an early flight the next morning, won’t you?”
I enjoyed having power over both of them, taking the man’s–the handsome man to whom women had I am sure always been attracted–wife from his bed and keeping her in mine for the night. I imagined him alone, masturbating over pictures of her, while I was playing with the real thing. Later in Boston I enjoyed coming in her mouth just before sending her home to him.
I had her suck me off as soon as she came to the room that afternoon.
I met her at the door wearing only a bathrobe and, after only a single word of greeting, to which she grudgingly replied, pushed her down to a squat, dropped my robe and stuck my cock in her mouth. One. Two. Three.
She was wearing a gray tailored suit and a white silk blouse and gray
heels. She had to hike her skirt up to her thighs to make room for my legs and the material drew tight across her ass.
I let her suck as she wanted and was pleased to feel that she took me deeper into her mouth than she had the first time. The contrast of this immaculately dressed woman with my nakedness was stimulating. “I’m sure all the men who meet you in business would like to have you like this,” I said.
After I came I put on my robe again.
She looked around. “Only a single room. Reducing expenses? ”
“Just a loving couple spending the night together in the city,” I said ingenuously.
“Undress and follow me into the bathroom.”
She blanched, “At least let me have a drink first.”
I laughed. “It isn’t what you think. And I don’t want you drunk tonight, so let’s wait. I’ve already called down for champagne to be brought up in a while.”
Despite what had already happened between us, she was uncomfortable undressing.
I admired the line of her spine leading down to the crack of her ass as she walked ahead of me to the bathroom like a prisoner being led to the guillotine. “How tall are you,” I asked.
“That’s what I thought. Another thing we have in common.”
She turned and flared at me. “We don’t have anything in common.”
“You are quite wrong. In addition to our heights, we have the same social and academic backgrounds, both our fathers were physicians, you received your MBA at Harvard, mine is from Wharton, the same areas of expertise, many of the same interests, including I am coming to suspect sexual proclivities.”
“First I don’t know anything about you, except you say your name is Bradley Rankin and that you are wealthy. From personal experience, you are an obscene pervert. As to sexual proclivities, that is absurd.”
“I have no secrets. I will tell you anything you want to know about me.”
“I don’t want to know anything.”
“I doubt that is true, but you will learn anyway.
“About sex, you forget that I have an increasing fund of information. Item: Winston’s photographs. You like being tied up. You like being on display. You like being passive and dominated.”
“Professional dominatrix’s of my acquaintance tell me that the majority of their clients are powerful businessmen, who seek release from the constant struggle of their working lives in sexual submission. I am not saying all powerful men are that way. Among others I am not. But a significant minority are, and so are you. You may recall a wet cunt in Saint Louis. You may recall an orgasm or two. Or maybe more. And If you don’t, I’ll soon give you another. Not for your pleasure, but for my own in being able to force it upon you. I know I am physically repugnant, and that I make sex dirty and perverse–and you ain’t seen nothing yet, lady–but that is how you secretly deep down want it, can’t permit yourself to admit it , and are thrilled when a man takes total responsibility and forces poor little helpless you to perform these terrible acts.
“I may be quite wrong. You may hate every second. If so, it doesn’t matter. Maybe even all the better. But I don’t think so. I think part of you–not all–but a fundamental element, likes being my slave.
“Say it, see if it doesn’t turn you on. Go ahead, say you like being my slave.”
“Of course you will.”
“You can’t make me. Your power of me has its limits. If my husband or anyone at Broadthroup finds out, it ends. And you want this to go on. You can’t mark me, you can’t beat me up. I won’t.”
I sighed. “I don’t particularly want to hurt you tonight. But I assure you I can without leaving marks. Besides I am not the only one who wants this to go on. You are truly helpless. And you don’t want to give that up. You are curious about what I will make you do, even as you know you can’t even imagine what it might be. You want the experiences you know I will force upon you. So let’s cut the crap, Lynn. Don’t make me cause you unnecessary pain. In time you’ll feel more pain than you want, I assure you. Say you want to be my whore, which you do. Think about being made to sell your body to other men. I promise I will force you to. Say it!”
Several seconds passed while she stared at me. Intentionally I did not raise my hand or make any threatening gesture.
Finally, “I want to be your whore.”
“Did your body react to your saying that? Did you feel it? Just a little? Or a lot?”
When there was no answer, I said, “Say you are my whore.”
“I am your whore.”
“No, say you are my cunt.”
“I am your cunt.”
“You are my animal, my bitch.”
“I am your animal, your bitch.”
“You are my slave.”
“I certainly am your slave.”
“Good. Now, there are a pair of scissors, a razor and shaving cream on the sink. Shave off all your pubic hair and be sure to get the hairs around your asshole. You’ll keep it that way from now on. Both because I prefer smooth cunts and, whenever you undress, as a reminder of me.”
“Yes. Whenever I go to the toilet I’ll think of you.”
“I’m sure piss will make you think of me.”
She blushed and then protested, “But Winston.”
“Tell him you were lonely in your hotel room and did it for him.”
“I will have to call him tonight. I always do when I’m away.”
“I’m sure I’ll enjoy the conversation.” Which I did later than evening with her sitting on my lap with my thick cock up her ass and my fingers on her clit. It was not a long call.
One of the compensations of my body is that it enables me completely to overwhelm a woman, to render her helpless merely by lying on top of her, engulfing her.
When Lynn’s blood red toenail polish had dried, I told her to lie back on the bed. Her body trembled when I moved naked toward her. “Keep your arms at your side,” I said, as I climbed onto the bed and then onto her.
I merely lay there, crushing her into the mattress, my legs outside hers, which were tight together, the tip of my cock near her cunt but because of my belly unable to penetrate it, all my weight on her, making it difficult for her even to breath, my face just above hers, watching her, examining her, observing her reaction. One woman told me that she had never felt so helpless, that she knew she certainly wasn’t going to move. Then I kissed her quite gently and rolled away.
Before she could regain her breath, I pulled her wrists above her head with one hand and pushed her legs apart with the other and began to finger fuck her, first with one, then two and three fingers, moving in and out, withdrawing and touching only her clit .
“You like it,” I whispered. “You know you do. You want it. Your body is starting to react. I can see the muscles tighten in your abdomen, your thighs, the flush is coming; to your face and throat. You can’t help it. Push against me. Thrust up.” And she did. “That’s it. Fuck my fingers.” She was gasping. I moved faster, three fingers inside her hot flesh, my thumb rubbing her clit. She was close. “Now.” I wanted her to respond to the command. “Now. Come for me.” And, helplessly, uncontrollably, she screamed, shuddered, and did.
Giving her no time to recover, I pushed her onto her side, facing away from me, folded her body so I could get my cock in her and fucked her. At first her body did not want it, wanted only to recover from her orgasm, but then it began to respond. I did not care. Holding her hips tight, I slammed into her, shaking her body, the entire bed, until I flooded her cunt.
When I pulled out and rolled onto my back, some of my come ran down her thighs.
We had not moved, when a few minutes later, as I had planned, the knock came at the door.
Startled she sat bolt upright.
“That’s all right,” I said. “It’s only room service with the champagne.”
She started to get up.
“No,” I said. “Get under the covers.” I pulled them back and then pulled the sheet over her just above her breasts. “A minute,” I called to the door, then leaned down and rearranged the sheet so that one of her legs was bare. “Perfect.”
“This is why the single room, isn’t it?”
I smiled and put on my robe.
The room service waiter was, of course, polite and discreet and almost succeeded in keeping his eyes from darting from her still flushed body to the still obvious bulge under my robe.
I tipped him generously.
When I entered on my calendar the flight to San Diego to meet with the CEO of a biotech company started by former researchers at the Salk Institute, the phone call I both dreaded and anticipated came within a few hours. And when I flew into San Diego on a beautiful January day that denied the possibility of Boston’s winter, Jefferson was there to meet me.
He was wearing tan slacks and a coffee colored short sleeved silk shirt that drew tight across his broad shoulders as he took my carryon bag and computer case.
“It is good to see you,” he smiled.
Automatically I started to say, “And you,” before I remembered the true nature of the situation and turned it into “Thank you.” But I was very aware of his body as we walked through the terminal. And of my own. Beneath skirt, pantyhose and panties, my shaved pussy felt extremely vulnerable.
I am a southern girl, raised in a suburb of Charlotte, who had the usual white southern girl’s fears and fantasies about black men. Jefferson was my first. I found myself picturing his huge black cock. My shock when I first saw it. My disbelief even now that it fit inside me. And remembering how it felt, how full I felt, how hard it made me come.
“Here we are,” he said, unlocking the trunk of an immaculate white vintage Rolls Royce. “I expect you’ll be needing the computer, but not the other bag for your meeting?”
He made it into a question, and I nodded assent.
After holding the rear door for me, he walked around and removed a piece of paper from the windshield that had permitted the Rolls to be left in what was posted as a loading zone, before climbing into the car himself.
“Brad said I am at your disposal for the day,” he grinned back at me, “before driving you home, where the situation will be reversed. He suggested I mention that. Am I correct you want to go directly to Verigen?”
“Traffic is easy here compared to LA. It’s up Torrey Canyon. Plenty of time to make your 10:00 a.m. meeting.”
Of course I have been in expensive cars and limousines, but they paled beside the elegance of the Rolls. I sank back into leather upholstery surrounded by perfectly finished and matched grain wood. A slim crystal bud vase with a single red rose stood on a niche beside me.
“You call him Brad,” I finally said, as we made our way north. “What does he call you?”
“No one has ever called me Jeff.” Then he added,”At least not for long.”
“The boss is casual; the employee is formal.”
“He doesn’t make me feel like an employee. He knows I can walk anytime I want and stay only because I want. He appreciates that. We are not friends. He doesn’t have anyone who could be called a friend. But he is the most intelligent man I have ever met. He can’t help what his body is. Neither can I. Or, for that matter, you. I turned mine into some money as an athlete. I don’t know what you have done with your beauty. I would guess played it down. But I would also guess it has helped you some even if you didn’t want it to. He has overcome his.”
In the front of Verigen’s new offices, he gave me a card with his cell phone number. “I can come back at any preset time, or you can call. I’ll be in La Jolla, about fifteen minutes drive.”
I was distracted, not at my best, with the Verigen people, and had to apologize and have several points repeated that I should have and normally would have absorbed the first time. Unexpectedly I found myself impatient for the meeting to be over. ‘You’re losing it, Lynn,’ I told myself. Finally, after the obligatory lunch, I had enough information to make investment decisions, and business concluded, I telephoned Jefferson.
About ten miles up Interstate 5, Jefferson adjusted the rear view mirror. Our reflected eyes met.
“He wants you to take off whatever you have beneath your dress. And for that matter so do I. He always wants you naked beneath the outer layer of clothes in his presence. That is, assuming there is an outer layer.”
“Here? In the car?”
“Where else? No one can see through the tinted windows back there. And it would not matter if they could.”
“And if I refuse.”
“You won’t. You don’t even want to.”
My dress zipped in the back and was awkward to undo even in that spacious back seat. I found him appraising my breasts in the mirror. “Do you like what you see?”
“”Oh, yes. I just wanted to see if they were as good as I remembered. You have great tits.”
I pulled the dress back up. My bare feet were difficult to fit back into my shoes, so I didn’t bother.
When he observed that I was finished, he said, “Behind the right door in the cabinet ahead of you, you will find some objects. Put them on.”
The varnished teak door opened as smoothly as a bank vault. I remember thinking so at the time, before I even knew of the other bank vault door. Five pieces of black leather, cuffs for my ankles and wrists and a two inch wide collar, and a chain leash, such as Winston had sometimes put on me.
“Now? We are more than an hour away.”
“Yes. He wants you to have time to think as you are being delivered.”
At first the leather was cool against the skin of my wrists and ankles and throat, then it began to feel warm. The leash was not heavy, but I felt its weight. I looked out at passing cars and trucks. I doubted they could see me, but I felt exposed, like a pursued animal breaking cover, trapped in the open.
“Behind the door to the left is a bar with a small refrigerator. A bottle of Chablis is chilled. You’ll see the corkscrew and glasses.”
“So I’m permitted to drink tonight.” I tried to sound sarcastic, but he ignored my tone and responded evenly, “Within reason.”
I opened and poured the wine.
While I sipped, I looked down at my legs. I always feel so white in California, not just in contrast to Jefferson, but to everyone who is tanned as Winston was when I met him. He’s faded now, I thought. And then I thought of the possible interpretations of that and felt sorry for him, trapped in Boston. And then I realized this was the first time I had thought of him that day. Brad and Jefferson and the forthcoming night were filling my mind to the exclusion of everything else.
Black leather cuffs. White skin. Bright red toenails. ‘Trashy feet,’ my mother would say. I wouldn’t have painted them myself if Brad hadn’t insisted, but I had to admit I rather liked them.
A few glasses of wine later, after stopping at a security gate and driving up a long curving private road, passing Jefferson’s house half hidden in trees off to one side, we came into a clearing and stopped in front of a sprawling house that looked like something designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, all stone and wood and glass. I struggled to put on my shoes, then gave up and, playing the slave girl, stepped from the Rolls Royce and walked barefoot to where Brad was standing at the open front doors.
“Very good,” he said, eying me appreciatively.
We passed through a huge living room, quite austerely decorated and furnished, mostly in white, gray, and black, but with a few dramatic splashes of color: a red chair; an indigo vase; and paintings on the the wall.
“Max Beckman,” Brad said. “My favorite of the German Expressionists. He fell dead on the corner in front of my place on Central Park West, a few blocks north of where the lessor but more famous artist, Mr. Lennon, was shot.”
I started to ask, then why the hotel room if you have a place there?, but realized.
“Let’s go through and have a drink by the pool, while Maria finishes preparing dinner.”
Openness rather than privacy was the design principle of the house and off to the left I saw a woman doing something at a table in an area, not a room, that was the kitchen.
Blue haze obscured the lower slopes of the peninsula and the ocean a few miles ahead and a thousand feet below us. For Los Angeles the place felt remarkably serene and isolated. Only two or three roofs were scattered among the trees below.
The woman, Maria, came out and smilingly placed a plate of hors d’oeuvres on a glass table. She was fiftyish, wearing a loose floral print dress and low heeled shoes. She did not seem to find my cuffs and collar unusual.
Neither Brad nor Jefferson touched me or said anything or treated me in any way other than the way any two men would treat a woman in a normal social setting while we sat in the gathering twilight by the pool and while we ate dinner. Their eyes did linger on my legs and feet, on my loose breasts moving beneath my dress, on my hands and my mouth. That was it: nothing had actually happened, except that I was wearing some leather and running around barefoot, yet it was all about sex. And had been for hours. Every cell in my body was waiting, anticipating. And, half guiltily, I knew I was wet.
Maria had just cleared away the dishes, when Brad abruptly ended my banalities about the excellence of the food by saying, “Climb up on the table.”
I turned toward where Maria was cleaning up, “But..”
“Climb up on the table.”
The black lacquered dining table was capable of seating about twenty. The three of us were clustered at one end, Brad at the very end, Jefferson and I across from one another. Pushing back my chair. “How do you want me?”
“On your back, head toward me.”
The wood was hard on my knees. I lay down. It was strange looking upside down at Brad’s face, which was coming closer. As his hands pushed my dress down, I felt Jefferson’s hands pushing my dress up. Involuntarily my eyes closed and I moaned when, after being made to wait so long, simultaneously both my nipples were squeezed and fingers slid into my cunt.
“Will you be wanting dessert?”
I cringed and opened my eyes. Maria was standing beside the table, looking at my exposed body without expression.
“No. Thank you, Maria.” Brad said.
She continued to stare at me for several more seconds, before walking away.
“Move her this way, so her head is beyond the edge of the table.”
Strong hands slid me effortlessly.
“Pull her dress all the way off.”
I raised my hips to help them, and was rewarded by a hot tongue pressing against my clit.
‘Let your head fall back, so your throat opens. You’re going to take it all.”
I panicked. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can. And you will. Make it easy on yourself.”
My face was gripped by two hands, palms against my cheeks, and bent back. An engorged cock filled my vision.
“Open wide. Wider.”
One hand moved to my jaw. Below my waist, out of sight, the tongue was slowly licking.
“Relax and it will slide right down.”
My lips stretched. I tasted the sharp tang of precome. My mouth was filled with meat. Something hit the back. I started to gag. it forced its way past, down my throat. His balls bounced off my nose. It slid out, all the way. I just had time to gulp air before it slid all the way in again. Back out, but not all the way this time. And then back down. Deep throat. Linda Lovelace. Something done by whores. Trash. Only words. How can this be happening to me? I tried to imagine what it must look like inside me. An MRI of soft tissue buried in soft tissue, the head of his fat purple cock probably as far down as the collar around my neck.
And then I felt the pleasure rising from the tongue on my clit, which was lapping faster. It felt so good. A thick finger. No, two fingers sliding into me below the tongue.
“That’s it,” Brad growled. “Make her come. I want to feel her throat convulse around my cock.
I could not help myself. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t. My tongue flailed wildly against the cock stuffing my mouth. I was making muffled mewing sounds. The tongue and fingers drove me over. My heels pressed against the table, thrusting my hips up. My hands reached out and grasped whatever they could of Brad’s hairy legs. My entire body throbbed and spasmed. Including my throat.
The cock remained in me until I stopped shuddering. When I was finally still, it slowly slid out, withdrawing like a snake, making a plopping sound as it passed my lips, bouncing against my nose, leaving a trail of my own saliva on my face.
I did not know if he had come. I did not taste it in my mouth, but if he had shot it all the way down my throat, beyond taste buds, perhaps I wouldn’t. I did not know. It had never happened to me like that before.
I felt a tug on my collar. “Stand up. It’s our turn now.”
I just wanted to remain where I was, but the leash was insistent. Rolling to my side, my feet swung down to the carpet.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
A clicking sound and the cuffs were secured together.
“Down on your knees.” With my hands behind me, I struggled to keep balance. They stood impassively, offering no assistance, as I sank to the carpet. Two thick cocks in my face.
Obediently if apprehensively I opened my mouth wide. Jefferson’s huge hands reached out and pulled my head toward him and he thrust his cock forward. The courtesy was gone. I recalled his saying I would be at his disposal. I pictured myself kneeling naked there.
Jefferson pushed me away. I barely had time to turn before another cock bruised my lips.
Back and forth they moved me like a doll, a toy, until I was screaming inwardly for them to come, to get it over with. Jefferson had just taken his turn, when unexpectedly Brad called, “Maria, would you please bring us a plate.” Continuing to suck Jefferson’s cock, I could not believe my ears. What could he possibly want with a plate? From behind me came the Latin voice, “Large or small?”
Brad laughed, “Oh I think large. Definitely.”
Just as I knew he was about to come, Jefferson pulled out of my stretched mouth and, stroking his shining black shaft twice, spewed huge gobs of creamy come onto a Wedgewood china dinner plate Maria was holding at waist level. I had no time to think before Brad shoved himself into my mouth, fucked my face furiously, pulled out and shot onto the plate too.
Obviously I was not their first victim, because without a word, Maria bent and placed the come splattered plate on the floor in front of me and then took a step back. The three of them stood watching me silently.
“You are smart enough to know what to do.”
I had. “No! I won’t!”
A hand slapped across my face so quickly it was a blur. Sound and pain were simultaneous. The blow knocked me sideways. The hand grabbed my hair as it swung back and brought me up to my knees. Tugged by the leash my head yanked toward Brad. “You will,” he hissed. Unable to bend over himself, he handed the leash to Jefferson, who pulled my face toward the plate until he felt my resistance end.
The come had already started to cool. I extended my tongue. The tip recoiled at the first contact. I did not even know whose sperm I was tasting. “Lick it all up. I want the plate clean.”
I hated him then. Naked on my knees, hands locked behind my back, leashed, my ass in the air, watched by two men and a middle aged servant. What had I said about trash, about whores? But I had said I was his whore. I had said I wanted to be his whore.
“There,” I said defiantly, straightening up, my mouth smeared and sticky.
“Well done. But there is, of course, more.’
And there always will be, I thought.
While I was licking up their spent come, the two men had zipped their cocks back into their pants and Maria had moved across the room to a chair, where she was sitting with her legs spread apart, her floral dress pushed up, slowly fingering her hairy cunt.
“Maria is always rewarded for assisting us.”
Somehow I was shocked to think that she had known all along, from the first instant, that I would end up naked eating her. She must have been thinking about it while she served me drinks and dinner.
I had never had sex with another woman before. It was a litany then: I had never. But I did not seriously think of refusing. My face still stung from the slap. I knew I could not refuse, that they would make me do whatever they wanted, so I might as well save myself from being hurt. I crawled toward the woman’s open legs. I truly was helpless, but I did not even really want to resist this. I had tasted my own juices on cocks. I had wondered what it would be like with another woman, though I had never expected it to be like this.
The woman’s face remained expressionless, but she stopped stroking herself and, placing fingers on each side of her slit, spread herself wide open as I neared. She was red and pink inside her olive skin. She had a thick black bush, tendrils of hair clung to her moistness. Her clit stood high and gleaming. The smell was musk, animal, mushroom. The taste the same.
Not knowing exactly what to do, I traced up one open lip and down the other lightly with my tongue. Then dipped deep into the center. The taste was stronger there. Her juices wet my nose. I thought, the hell with it, and plunged my tongue all the way inside her, as deep as I could, and flicked it around, withdrew, and plunged in again, using my tongue just as the men had earlier used their cocks on my mouth. If my hands had been free, I would have used my fingers on her. As it was there was only my tongue. And teeth. And lips.
Sliding up I flicked her clit with my tongue, grazed it with my teeth, surrounded it and sucked with my lips. The Latin woman remained absolutely silent. Her breathing did not alter in the least. Slave though I undoubtedly was, I wanted the power of making her come. I sucked and licked and finally felt her shudder almost imperceptibly. Was that it?, I wondered, and realized that this is what it is like for men, not really knowing.
She moved her hands and let her slit close, stood and let her dress fall down, before picking up the plate from off the carpet and wordlessly walking back to the kitchen area.
“Crawl over here.”
Brad and Jefferson were sitting at the ends of a large gray leather sofa. While I was eating Maria, they had poured themselves cognac and held snifters in their hands.
Stumbling, if one can do that on one’s knees, I made my awkward way toward them. When I reached the sofa, they both reached out and effortlessly lifted me up between them.
“Here,” Brad said, titling his glass toward me. My hands still locked behind me, I felt my helplessness and my nakedness.
They toyed with me. A hand stroked a breast absently, moved up over my throat, circled my ear. Another rested on my thigh, a finger pointing toward my cunt, but not advancing. Sipping cognac, they sometimes offered me some, which I obediently took. Which I had no choice but to take or have spilled across my face and body. I let myself drift away. The hands were just hands. The caresses felt good, pleasant, comfortable.
I came back when a finger–I glanced down: it was Brad’s–dipped into my cunt.
“Time you were fucked.” Abruptly I was a leashed animal again. “Sit on this.”
His cock stood hard above his unzipped pants. I was pulled to my feet and spun around. “Your back to me.” Spreading my legs wide to get outside of his, I leaned back and gasped when it slid into me. “Move. Don’t just sit there.” A hand slapped my ass.
“It’s difficult,” I complained. “Free my hands.”
“You won’t have to do it long.” For some reason he laughed. Half moving on my own, half being pushed and pulled by his hands, I bounced up and down, until he lifted me and his cock fell out. “I’m wet enough now,” he said, and pulled me back down. I screamed as he forced my ass open and shoved all the way up. His coarse pubic hair and doughy flesh pressed against my cheeks.
Leaning back, he rolled me with him. My legs flew up and out. Brad grabbed my thighs and held them open. Jefferson loomed above me. I had only a second to realize what they intended before he lowered himself. “No. NO. It is not possible. You’ll rip me in two,” I cried. But I was wrong. It was possible.
Their come ran from my ass and cunt, spilling onto the sofa. I remember thinking: they have ruined their clothes. Who cares? They didn’t. It was one of those automatic thoughts, childhood conditioning: don’t spill food on your dress. I was a long way from that.
Even after their cocks softened and left me, I still felt them inside me. Jefferson alone was almost too much, almost inhuman. And to feel his gigantic shaft pressing against the monster’s cock in my ass. The opposite frictions up the two canals, pressing, rearranging, deforming me.
As though he knew my thoughts, Brad said, “We will find a third for your mouth.”
When I put on the leather cuffs in the Rolls Royce, I had taken off my watch and had no idea of time. I had in fact forgotten time. And Winston. And Broadthroup. Everything except what was happening to my body in the present moment. If asked, I would have guessed that hours had passed, when Brad glanced at his Cartier wristwatch and said, “There is one more thing I want you to see before we take you to the airport.”
As if from a daze, I awoke and asked, “What time is it?”
My meeting with Verigen had begun twelve hours earlier, yet it seemed infinitely more distant. I found myself wondering what was happening to me.
A tug at my neck. I struggled to my feet. I was learning. I was being trained.
I followed Brad and Jefferson followed me, across the living area, through the kitchen area, and into a somewhat more private region of the house, delineated by opaque partitions that reached two thirds of the way to the ceiling, covered with abstract mosaics , until we were in a space that served as a bedroom and office.
Embedded in a brick wall was a huge circular steel bank vault door, Brad stopped and handed my leash to Jefferson. He pressed some numbers on an adjacent electronic pad.. I assumed we were going to enter a safe, but when the vault swung open, a light came on automatically, revealing a flight of stone steps leading downward.
“I have found the descent psychologically effective. After you,” he said. And Jefferson led me past him.
The stone was cold beneath my bare feet. The foot thick steel door closed almost soundlessly behind us, but I felt it compress the air, and heard a low thud as bolts automatically engaged, and a low hum of machinery circulating air.
The place was air tight. And no doubt sound proof. The steps were steep. I was buried alive. With each descending step ever more helpless.
Halfway down the flight of steps a large high ceilinged room began to take shape filled with various modernistic variations of structures and implements from a museum of horrors. A rack. A cross against a wall. Stocks. Chains from overhead. Eye bolts. Metal collars. Whips. Something electric that I assumed was a cattle prod. Other objects of which I had no concept except that I was sure they were intended to cause pain. It was all black plastic, chromed metal, burnished steel. Cold. Detached. Clinical.
“You can’t.” I gasped.
He laughed. “I can do whatever I want.”
“But Winston will see the marks and find out.”
“Oh, we can do quite a lot without leaving marks. For now I only want you to see and wonder.”
On the late flight to Boston, I reached out to take a glass of champagne from the flight attendant . Her eyes shifted to the fading marks on my wrists left by the leather cuffs, then down to similar marks on my ankles, before returning to my face. She gave a slight smile, as if she knew what had caused them. But perhaps I was becoming too sensitive. To myself I seemed to have changed so much that it must be outwardly obvious to everyone. But I guess it wasn’t.
On Tuesday I flew to Boston and took a suite at the Meridian Hotel, which is located in the financial district surrounding Post office Square, and less than one block from Broadthroup and Brown’s headquarters.
After settling in, I telephoned Lynn. She answered after eight or nine rings.
I was the only one with that number. There was no need to identify myself. “What time do you expect to leave the office this evening?”
“I am sure you heard me.”
After a pause, “Where are you?”
“Answer the question.”
Another pause, then reluctantly. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it yet. About 8:30 or 9:00, I suppose.”
“What are you wearing?”
I did not say anything.”
Finally, “A two piece suit, brown; brown two inch heels.”
“A bra, panties, pantyhose, a half slip.”
“White. White. Beige. Cream.”
“Where are you?”
“In my office.”
“Can anyone see you?”
“Are you standing or sitting.”
“Standing. Looking out the window, if you must know.”
“Good. Walk over to your desk, spread your feet apart, lift your skirt to your waist and bend over, resting your upper body on the desk.”
“I think you will.”
Silence, followed by sounds, seemingly of shoes on carpet, material rustling. Even if she hadn’t, she was having to pretend, which was etching the image in her mind.
“All right.” Her voice was muffled.
“I’m sure you look good that way. When you leave work tonight come to Suite 1500 at the Meridian Hotel to have your ass fucked on your way home. Suite 1500,” I repeated once over her exclamations and hung up.
I became an asshole.
No doubt many of the people I work with would say I had been one all along. But now I became my own asshole. It filled my mind, just as he intended. I was constantly aware of it because he was constantly fucking it. On my way to the office in the morning. In the middle of the day. On my way home at night. He told me that was all he was going to do to me. I found myself thinking of it, obsessing about it. During waking hours, his cock was up my ass, or it just had been or it soon would be again. I felt myself being stretched, becoming permanently enlarged. I found myself acutely sensitive as I sat down. I found myself thinking of my asshole as I walked along a corridor, an unseeing eye, wondering if his come was draining out, staining my skirt. Or blood. I started wearing inserts in my panties.
One morning I awoke before dawn from dreaming about a cock up my ass and rolled over and pushed the covers from Winston, who was sleeping naked as always. He was lying on his stomach, and without intention, I found myself crouched above him, touching him at just three points: the tip of my tongue on the back of his neck, the tips of my nipples against his shoulders. Slowly I traced my way downward. He started to stir and roll over. I touched him lightly with one hand, keeping him in place. Unerringly my tongue and nipples moved toward his ass. Parting his cheeks I stuck my tongue up him and reached beneath his body for his rigid cock, which I stroked until his hips began to move and he spurted onto the sheets and my hand. I licked his come from my fingers and shushed him when he started to speak, then went to shower, where I carefully shaved the stubble from my cunt and asshole for Brad. And touched up my fingernail and toenail polish. For fat, grotesque, monstrous Brad.
An hour later I was naked on my knees on a hotel bed, screaming as he shoot his peculiar thick load deep inside me.
Sometimes he had me strip completely naked. Sometimes, he just had me bend over and lift my skirt and pull down my pantyhose and panties, baring only my pale white midsection. Sometimes he didn’t even speak to me, just pointed to the door to the bedroom or the floor, stuck it in, pumped, came, zipped himself up and, ignoring me, returned to his laptop computer or a book or the television.
Sometimes he sat in a chair and had me sit on him with my back to his chest and impale myself.
One evening a beautiful young Asian girl was sitting naked on the floor of the sitting room when I entered. Her ankles were tied together by a wide length of black silk. Her feet were flat on the floor. Her knees bent in front of her breasts. Her back against the wall. Her arms disappeared behind her back, where I assumed they were also bound. Another length of black silk around the lower part of her face and over her mouth as a gag drew attention to her frightened doelike eyes, which followed me. I started to speak, but realized that that was what he wanted. And what was I going to say? Ask if she was there of her own free will? Was I? I liked to think I wasn’t, but truly I did not know. Instead I stood waiting until he pointed to an armchair, to which I walked and assumed the position, on my knees, feet over the side, skirt up, pantyhose down, hands back spreading my cheeks apart. Brad reached down and turned my face toward the girl, whose eyes never left mine. When he finished and withdrew, I adjusted my clothing and departed without giving the Asian girl another glance. But on the way back to the office I found myself wondering what he was doing to her.
Sitting in a meeting or talking on the phone, I would find myself glancing at my watch, measuring the time until the next assfuck.
Like everyone else I would go out to the elevator, stand talking to other people, make an excuse to avoid lunch, walk the cold windy block to the Meridian, glance around nervously to see if anyone I knew was in sight, then enter, receiving as the week went on at first a curious then an increasingly knowing look from the doorman, ride up to the penthouse, and a few minutes later ride down, seemingly the same, but with my asshole pulsating and dripping.
Back in the office in less than a half hour, it seemed it had never happened. Yet at the same time it seemed it was always happening. I felt always as though a cock was shoved far up me. It did not seem possible that no one who looked at me could not see what I had been doing a few minutes earlier. Yet apparently they could not. No one at Broadthroup. Not even Winston.
For the next three days, he did nothing else to me and had me do nothing else to him. He did not touch my mouth or breasts or cunt. He made no effort to bring me pleasure or to make me come. One evening, it must have been Thursday, I found myself growling like a frustrated tigress as he slammed into me mercilessly.
How quickly we adapt. It became a part of my routine. I did not know how long it would go on. When he finished with me on Friday, he wiped his cock on my bare ass and said, “I’m going back to California tomorrow. See you soon.”
Brad, Lynn, Winston
It was getting to be too much, I thought as I stared down at the lights of some city in the Midwest, blinking up from the flat darkness on the flight back to Los Angeles. Although I fly often enough to have considered buying my own jet, I have decided against doing so. Buying two adjacent first class seats gives me ample room and privacy and I don’t like airplanes enough to want to own one. I am, in fact, austere and monkish. Well a sensuous monk, if that is not too great a contradiction, which does have ample historical precedent. My body has long separated me from other people and I have come to need some isolation and silence. I possess different monkish qualities than that of merely disdaining excessive possessions, though I really own very little for a man of my wealth. Accumulation of things does not interest me; accumulation of experience does. That is what Lynn had started out being: a new experience: the corruption and perversion and absolute domination of a woman superior to any other I had possessed, with the additional pleasure that she was another man’s wife. Yet now I was thinking of her too much, which perhaps what was caused me to do to her what I did next. These last three days, having her repeatedly and meekly bare her ass for me, knowing she would receive nothing in return, no caresses, no pleasure, no orgasm, knowing that she would only be used, had been extremely erotic and satisfying. Which is something for someone who has managed to have the experiences I have had. What has happened, I thought, to the misogynistic Bradley Rankin aphorisms: A woman is three holes surrounded by fat. Or: Sex is friction with window dressing.
I used the inflight telephone to tell Jefferson not to bring Brandi to the airport as I had previously requested. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. Of Lynn.
It was all getting to be too much, I thought, as I stared at the endless taillights and headlights creeping along the Longfellow Bridge over the Charles River on my way home. An appropriate image for life, the blind flow, headlights leaving the bridge as others enter.
It is interfering with my work; it is dominating my life; it is obliterating my marriage. I have never been so aware of my body. Every nerve end is agitated. My skin is hypersensitive. I want to scream at the slightest brush of my clothes against it.
For three days. For forever it seems. He has done nothing but humiliatingly stick his cock up my ass. He has reduced me to a piece of meat. And I can’t stop thinking about him, about his fat cock, about sex. it is like some grotesque variant of Beauty and the Beast. I find myself actually feeling sympathy for him. I find myself needing him. If I am honest with myself I will admit I find myself wanting him. And what he does to me. What he makes me do. He exudes power. Mastery. Images of that clinical torture chamber inside the vault keep appearing on the fringes of my mind and fleeting questions about what he would do to me there. No. It isn’t ‘would.’ It is ‘will.’ If I am honest with myself I will admit that something inside me reacts to the certainly of that ‘will.’ Is that what I want? What has he revealed in me that I never knew was there? I must regain control of myself. Or do I really what to?
It is too much, I thought, as the oar blades fractured the smooth surface of the Charles into a million points of light. Or, much, much more accurately, too little. All she does is work and sleep. I didn’t think it could get worse, but it has. I can’t imagine it will get any worse, but somehow I expect it will. This is not a marriage. At least not my idea of a marriage, though I suppose it is how most people live.
Pulling hard on the oars, I vented my frustration and anger as I drove the shell up the river, in a futile effort to exhaust myself.
She has no interest in sex at all anymore. Then: Maybe she is having an affair. I rejected the thought. The only affair she is having, I decided, is with Broadthroup and Brown and her precious career.
So maybe I should have an affair. But the truth is I didn’t want to. Julie and I had sex with lots of other people during our marriage, but openly and usually together. I have never wanted to have to lie and sneak. I didn’t want an affair. I wanted Lynn. I wanted the woman I married. Who had somehow disappeared. A nearly universal lament, I supposed. My life had become a cliché.
As the first isolated pinpoints below hesitantly interrupted the solid darkness that I knew was the Mojave Desert, then quickly multiplied into the million glistening lights of the Los Angles Basin, I felt the now familiar tension in my stomach, the quickening of my pulse.
I had gone into the bathroom and removed my undergarments as soon as the fasten seat belt sign went out after takeoff, even though I could have waited several hours. I wanted to feel my nakedness, my bare thighs rubbing together. Again I felt the flight attendant’s eyes on my legs. This time it was a man. And I must admit that when the passenger sitting next to me, an overweight lawyer in his sixties, dozed off, I reclined my seat, turned onto my side, and touched myself. Not enough to come, but keeping myself on the edge, extremely aroused, half imagining myself in that vault, attached–that is the word I used–to those bizarre structures–though I could not quite imagine how. My imagination did not go further to what would happen next. Somehow it changed in my mind lying there on the 747 speeding west, I was in the vault yet I felt the rough bark of that giant redwood to which Winston had tied me in Muir Woods. And the damp mushroom smell.
So it was almost sick with excitement that I disembarked at LAX, eagerly searching the crowd for Brad’s fat form and found Jefferson’s handsome form instead.
He took my carryon bag and arm and with little conversation led me through the terminal to the waiting Rolls Royce where Brad too was distant and abrupt.
We had hardly pulled away from the curb when he pointed to a plastic bag on the seat between us.
“Strip and put those on.”
I found that I no longer even considered asking a question or offering a protest about the heavy traffic surrounding us.
Opening the bag, I took out a shiny black plastic shoulder bag, a tiny stretchy scrap of bright red material that pretended to be a dress, black thong panties, really nothing more than a g-string, bright red backless sandals with 4″ heels, a lipstick the same shade as the dress and shoes, and a wig, straight. shoulder length, ash blond hair.
By the time I had completed the change, the Rolls Royce had moved from the airport onto the freeway and was speeding north, not south toward Brad’s house
Brad leaned back and watched me wordlessly, his eyes examining my body during its interval of nakedness, though it was still all but naked once I had struggled the dress into place. It was little more than a tube, cut straight at top and bottom, extending from just above my breasts to just below the juncture of my thighs. And with a tendency to ride up.
“A mirror folds down from your right,” he said, when I came to the wig.
The wig was beautifully made and fit perfectly. The hair was long, hanging down below my shoulders, When I pulled it on, the transformation was startling. I did not recognize the woman in the mirror. I sat for a moment stunned.
“The lipstick,” he prompted.
I was already wearing lipstick. A darker red. I had put it on just before the landing for him. This was a brighter red, matching the shoes and dress.
I glanced down at my body. The dress was stretched skin tight over my breasts, leaving cleavage exposed, and though my nipples were just covered, they might as well not have been.
“Am I permitted to ask what is happening and where we are going?”
“No. But I don’t mind telling you. Do you recall saying you are my whore? That you want to be my whore?”
Almost imperceptibly, I nodded.
“Well you are on your way. Most whores start at the top and work their way down. You are going to do the reverse. First you are going to be a cheap whore, then later I’ll arrange for you to be an expensive one.”
I was too shocked to speak. I hadn’t expected this. But then the nature of the whole–what was the word? ‘Relationship’? Hardly. ‘Business’. ‘Thing’. was the unexpected. Was that I had no control. Was fear. And excitement. And I was afraid. And excited.
Jefferson turned onto the Santa Monica Freeway and drove east for several minutes before taking an off ramp and heading north toward Hollywood on surface streets. I did not know exactly where we were until we came upon the glaring lights of Sunset Boulevard.
A few blocks east on Sunset, he pulled to the curb in front of a drugstore.
“You’ll find money in the purse. Go in and buy some condoms. Get at least a dozen.”
The Rolls always attracted attention, so all eyes on the busy sidewalk were focused when the rear door opened and I climbed out. People actually stopped in their tracks as I clip-clopped in the absurdly high heels into the store. And two or three men followed me. I don’t know what they took me for: a starlet or a whore or both. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the storefront. No, of a stranger’s reflection. What else could a woman who appeared in public looking like that be?
Walking up one aisle and down another, I finally found the condoms on a bottom shelf. As Brad had no doubt known. I tried bending from the waist, but the dress rode up exposing my ass to the delight of two teenagers. Squatting was not much better, but I did it quickly and took my purchase to the check out, where the clerk, another young kid, smirked, “Have a good night.” With all that has happened, it is not possible to say I have never been more embarrassed and humiliated. I teetered back to the Rolls as quickly as I could. Both Jefferson and Brad were amused.
Jefferson turned right off Sunset and then left onto Hollywood. I began to notice young girls standing on the sidewalk, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of two or three, expectantly facing the oncoming headlights. My body involuntarily trembled.
We pulled into the parking lot of an old rundown two story motel, whose flickering yellow and blue neon sign proclaimed it “Dreamland Arms.”
“Ask for a room and an extra set of keys.”
“But..” I started to protest.
“He won’t ask for any identification or credit cards. Just pay whatever he asks in cash.”
A cigarette burned carpet lead to a small registration desk behind which sat a young black man, who glanced up at me from a text book he was studying. His eyes moved from my face slowly down to my feet and then back up to my breasts as I walked toward him.
“I want a room.”
“Just for yourself?” His voice was soft and tired. As though at his age he had already seen too much.
“For how long?”
“Just the night.”
“The…the airline lost it.”
“You with that car out there?”
I opened the shiny black purse and counted out ten twenties.
He handed me a key.
“Ahh…Could I have a second room key.”
“Just by yourself…you need two keys?”
He turned to the board behind him. “That’ll be $50 extra.”
I counted it out.
“It’s room 242. Up the outside stairs, along the balcony. Toward the back. Try to keep the noise down.”
Back in the Rolls Brad I handed the second key to Jefferson, who went to check out the room.
As the door closed behind him, Brad unzipped his pants. “Here. I’ll be your first customer.” and handed me a twenty dollar bill. “Suck.”
He did nothing to help me. I leaned over and buried my face in his crotch.
My head was still bobbing up and down when I heard the driver’s door open.
Incredibly Brad inquired, “It all right/”
“Yes. What you would expect.”
And he nonchalantly shot in my mouth. The way someone carrying on a conversation might cough or sneeze. “Don’t make a mess. Lick it clean. I’ll put it away. Jefferson, you want any of this” meaning me, “before we put her out?”
Carefully tucking his cock into his pants and zipping them, Brad said, “Now you have undoubtedly already figured out what is going to happen. We’re going to take you back a few blocks and you are going to fulfill your lifelong dream of becoming my whore. The police pretty much leave the girls alone. The usual routine is that most of them–the customers, not the police, though probably them too–will not want anything more than what you just did: a quick blow job in their car. If they want more, take them to the room. Make them use condoms. We don’t want you getting any diseases. You might be hassled about territory, by other girls or their pimps. We’ll be around and take care of it.”
“How long does this go on? I have meetings tomorrow. And,” I glanced down at my watch, “it is already midnight in Boston.” Although with fear and adrenaline I was not the least tired.
“Until I tell you to stop.”
“I don’t know anything about this,” I pleaded near tears. “What to charge. Anything.”
“Down here, whatever you can get. Most of the girls are junkies. Fifty bucks for a fuck; less for a blow job. More if you sell your ass or do something special.”
“They’ll tell you. Here,” and the big automobile rolled to a stop. “Out.”
And awkwardly I felt myself climbing from the seat, heard the door shut behind me. Before I could complete my turn, the white Rolls accelerated away and I was alone in the glare of an endless stream of headlights.
Two or three cars slowed as they neared me, then continued on. I felt naked. And of course I nearly was. They would see mostly skin, long legs bare to just below my pussy, bare arms and shoulders to just above my breasts, my nipples hard with fright and excitement poking through the blatant red dress.
A horn honked. Instinctively I took a step back, away from the curb and glanced around, trying to orient myself, to take in my surroundings. Pedestrians stared at me. Down at the corner, four young girls were clustered together, darting hostile stares my way. Two of them started toward me. “Hey, bitch,” one of them shouted. I did not know it but I had just heard the salutation of the night.
I became aware of a car stopped directly in front of me when its passenger side window rolled down. A voice from inside called, “You working or what?”
I glanced at the two girls. One had a nose ring. Both wore clothes similar to mine. Both had tattoos on their shoulders. I took the step to the car.
To see inside, I had to bend over. The dress rode up in back. I knew passersby could see my bare ass. Someone whistled. I reached back and tried futilely to pull the fabric down.
The driver was in his late twenties. He wore a rumbled white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and a loosened tie.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” From behind me one of the girls shouted, “Get away from that car, bitch.”
The man was looking down my dress. I leaned forward so he could see more. I was learning. “What can I do for you?”
He swallowed. “How much for a little head?”
He hesitated. The girls were closer. Desperately I said, “I’m good. It’ll be the best you ever had. I’ll take it deep.”
“All the way.”
I practically leapt into the car, which smelled of cigarettes, and rolled the window up and pushed the door lock down.
As he pulled away, I saw the girls’ contorted faces.
“You having some problem there?”
He glanced at me. “They wouldn’t like having competition like you around. You’re the best looking thing I’ve ever seen on this corner. Just like you stepped out that Victoria’s Secret catalog.”
I had been so eager to get away from those girls that I had forgotten what was really happening. I was about to have sex with this man for money. I had seen girls working the street in various cities and sometimes felt sorry for them, particularly in winter when they were freezing in their skimpy outfits, but always I had felt superior to them. And now, incredibly, I was one of them.
I finally managed to say, “I…I have a room a few blocks down.”
“That’s o.k. I know a place.”
He turned onto a side street, went down two blocks and turned again, and slowed, looking for a spot to park.
The neighborhood was quiet and dark, giving no indication of the bustle and lights only a few blocks away. Shadows of trees beside an almost deserted sidewalk. Small bungalows and older apartment buildings dating from Hollywood’s golden days of the 1930ties.
The man said, “At last,” and pulled into a space distant from street lights, although there was still enough illumination so that someone passing on the sidewalk could see what was happening in the car. Perhaps that was part of the attraction.
He reached for a sport coat on the back seat, found his wallet, held it close to his face so he could see the domination of the bills and handed me a twenty and a ten.
“I don’t know what you are doing this for,” he said. “But a deal is a deal. Here it is,” and he swiveled his body and took out his cock. In the darkness I could see the lighter patch of flesh against his pants, no detail. “Let me see your tits,” he said.
Obediently–and feeling a flash of something at my obedience–I pushed the top of my dress down.
“My god,” he said, reaching out and cupping them. He squeezed and I could not believe but my body responded. You really are some kind of whore, I told myself.
The hands pulled my nipples down. My head followed. “Oh, god,” he said as my lips encountered hot, slippery wet flesh.
The hands fell away from my nipples as I flicked with my tongue, tightened my lips and sucked.
His hips thrust up and now the hands were on the back of my head, pressing down. “You said…you said,” he gasped. “you would take it all.”
Adjusting my throat, I did not fight him, but let him slide all the way in. “Oh god. Oh god. That is so good. I’ve never felt anything like it. Never.”
Now that he knew I would do it, his hands relaxed and let me lift my head, only to lower it again. Holding my head still, my nose buried in his public hair, I flicking my tongue. I liked it. Cocks vary, but a cock is a cock. I liked having some stranger’s cock filling my mouth. I had no idea I was such a slut. Slut. Whore. Bitch. Tramp. I called myself names in my mind.
It wasn’t until the first spurt of his come splashed onto the roof of my mouth that I remembered that I hadn’t even thought of using a condom. I had no choice but to swallow again and again. He must have been waiting a long time. Or I was just such a great cocksucker. I hoped I was right that Aids isn’t easily transmitted orally.
“God,” he finally said. “You are the best. The very best. Ever.” And he gave me another ten dollar bill.
Hoping to avoid the irate girls, I had him drop me off further down Hollywood Boulevard, and everything went smoothly for a while. There were still a few other girls around my new location, but they left me alone, and I was never on the street very long before getting picked up. It was gratifying to know that I could be successful at another career if I ever wanted to leave finance.
The customers were mostly easily to deal with. As Brad had said, a quick blow job in their car was the usual. After that first time, I didn’t forget condoms, although the plastic taste was unpleasant. I actually found that I missed the taste of sperm when they came.
As the night continued, the men changed from those mostly married, stopping off for a quickie on their way home from work, to singles coming out after dinner.
I had sucked off three more before a paunchy middle aged man driving a new Buick had me take him to the motel, where he asked for specific details of what I had already done that evening. He was disappointed that I hadn’t actually fucked and insisted on kissing me and running his tongue all over and into my mouth, which I found particularly repulsive. He gave me twenty extra dollars to stick three fingers up his smelly ass while jerking him off with my other hand, and begged me to save my used condoms from my next customers so he could return and buy them from me in a couple of hours for $100. I told him that was impossible.
Another man, older still, perhaps sixty, pointed out that I was wearing a wedding ring and asked if my husband knew what I was doing. It had never occurred to me to remove my rings. I told him my husband was away on a business trip and did not know. He said fucking another man’s wife was exciting, and proceeded to do so with a vigor that belied his years.
With repetition everything becomes routine. I climbed in and out of cars, old, new, expensive, cheap, and had sex, took strangers’ cocks into my hands and mouth and pussy, felt strange hands knead and squeeze and prod my tits and ass, kissed strange mouths, shared saliva, smelled good and bad breath, was stared at by thousands of eyes. My body was truly no longer my own.
I had just been returned from the motel by a kid who didn’t look old enough to drive, when a Mexican accented male voice shouted in my ear so close it frightened me and I caught one of my heels and almost fell. A short man, with a pockmarked face, pencil thin moustache, greasy slicked back hair was glaring at me. He grabbed my arm and started shaking me.
“I’ve been hearing about you, bitch. What you doin here?. Think you can just come in and plant your white ass here? Who you workin for, bitch? Whoever, he in trouble. You in trouble. You work here, bitch, you work for me. Understand?”
From time to time, I had noticed the white Rolls Royce cruise by, and once it was parked silently in the motel lot when I came out after servicing a customer, but I had not seen it for a while. My relief was overwhelming when I saw Jefferson almost magically appear behind the man.
“May I have a word?”
The latino dropped my arm and reached into a pocket as he spun angrily around. The hand remained in his pocket, but he gave no sign of alarm or hesitation when he saw Jefferson. “What business is this of yours, mother fucker? This your whore?”
“A word,” Jefferson repeated quietly. “To our mutual benefit.” And he stepped back from the curb to the entry of a closed shop. The man followed suspiciously. I saw them talk, heads nodded, Jefferson handed the man some money, and he walked away. As he did he called to me, “You ever come back here alone, bitch, and I’ll cut you a second cunt so you can make twice as much money.”
When I turned, Jefferson’s was walking away in the opposite direction.
Exhausted I was wondering how much longer Brad was going to make me do this, dimly recalling that I had business meetings in what must now be only a few hours. By Boston time it was nearing dawn. Fewer people were on the sidewalk. The automobile traffic had thinned slightly, although the boulevard was still busy.
A battered white van stopped in front of me. I knew the occupant must be looking me over; but for a minute or two, nothing happened, and I just stood there. Take a good look, creep, I thought. Get an eye full. Then the passenger side window rolled down, and I wearily took a step forward.
There were two men in the van, both white, young, college student age.
“How you doing, beautiful?” the driver called to me.
In order to see him, I leaned down and rested my hands on the car door. “O.K.”
I was too tired for this. I don’t recall what I was going to say. My attention was on the driver when the passenger’s hard hand closed over my left wrist. Instinctively I tried to pull away, “What are you doing?” and then I saw the knife.
“Don’t do anything unnatural.”
I glanced around. No one on the sidewalk was within thirty or forty feet. And they were not paying any attention. I was just another street whore, part of the scenery. And what could they do, even in the unlikely event they were inclined to come to the aid of a whore? Desperately I sought some sight of Jefferson or the Rolls Royce. But they were not to be found.
“I’m going to open the door and you are going to get in the van,” the man spoke deliberately.
“No!.” I pleaded.
“Oh yes. Now I can’t pull you through the window. But I want you to stay calm and listen: I promise I will not let you go without cutting you. You don’t want that. It will hurt and be messy, blood all over everything, leave a scar that will mar your beauty. Ruin your whole night.”
“I’ll give you my money.”
“We want more than your money. But we thank you for your generosity and will take that too.”
And then things happened too fast. The door opened and I was pulled into the van. Other men were in the back. Hands dragged me to a bare mattress. I heard the passenger door slam behind me, felt the van accelerate. Three or four guys held me down. A hand covered my mouth. Instinctively I bit and tasted blood. “The bitch bit me,” someone shouted. A stinging slap to my face. I struggled and twisted, but there were too many of them. And there was a knife. It appeared in front of my eyes. I froze.
“That’s right. Calm down. Be still. Very, very still.”
I was on my back. There were four of them, in addition to the two in front, all young, all white, wearing jeans and khakis and t-shirts. The van stopped. A traffic light. There must be other vehicles, other people only a few feet away but hopelessly distant. The van started to move again.
My shoes had fallen off. Hands held my wrists above my head; hands held my ankles.
The one with the knife had short blond hair and was not bad looking. His eyes held mine.
“Make room for me.” The voice came from the front seat as the guy who had first grabbed me came back.
The guy with the knife reached down slowly and pulled the top of my dress away from my breasts. The van was swaying.
“Don’t move,” he said. “Be very, very still.” And sliced through the flimsy material.
A collective intake of breath as five sets of eyes avidly devoured my body.
“What great tits.”
A hand caught my g-string, pulled it tight, separating my pussy lips, cutting into me, until it snapped, and I was completely naked.
“Don’t hurt me,” I begged.
“That’s up to you, babe,” the blond said. “That’s up to you. You want to survive the night more or less intact, you make us happy. It’s going to happen one way or the other, but how is up to you.” He moved the knife slowly from side to side. “You know what I’m saying?”
I just lay there still frozen, still not believing this was real.
“Let go of her ankles.”
I felt hands release them, but others still held my wrists. The van was stopping and starting, still in traffic. I wondered where we were.
“You going to be a good little whore and make us happy?”
I nodded. I tried to hold it in, but a tear slid down my cheek.
Someone laughed. Someone said, “Poor baby.” The blond said, “Good. Spread your legs.”
I opened them a few inches. “Further, bitch.” I raised my knees and let them fall wide apart. As though that were the starting signal, hands and mouths engulfed me. One breast was grabbed, the nipple squeezed. A mouth surrounded the other nipple. Fingers plunged into my cunt. “She’s wet,” a voice cried triumphantly. Hands caught my hair and twisted my head back painfully so a cock could be pushed into my mouth.
We all slid to one side as the van swung in a wide right turn before straightening and accelerating to a much higher speed. I realized that we must have gone onto one of the freeways. When the van steadied they began to rape me.
Although I let them do what they wanted, although I even tried to please them, to bring them release, it was rape pure and simple. I was helpless and I was terrified of the knife, the knives, for there were at least two. But even as I groveled, even as I said, “I’ll do anything. Just don’t hurt me. Just let me go when it’s over.” I was amazed and horrified to find that some dark hidden corner of me was actually excited by my situation.
Anonymous cocks filled my cunt and mouth, shot their loads of cream down my throat or deep inside me, and were immediately replaced by others. There was no talk of condoms here. Who knows what diseases they were giving each other and me. I gagged. I sucked. I was on my back with a body heavy on me. I was on my hands and knees, with a cock slamming into me from behind and another fucking my mouth. Hands tugged and twisted my bruised dangling breasts.
“Move back on it, bitch.” I felt the head of a cock at the entrance to my ass. Enough come had flowed into the crack to lubricate me. I pressed back, felt the tension, the pop as the tip broke through my outer ring. “All the way. Take it all the way.” I felt it slide into my bowels, and then another cock was shoved in my face.
I had no sense of time. The rape was continuous. One or more of them was constantly at or on or in me. One terrifying moment stands out. One of them is on top of me, my feet over his shoulders, forcing my legs back over my head. As his cock pistons in and out, he shifts his hands to around my throat and slowly begins to choke me. He is the one I bit. My bloody tooth marks are still obvious on his hand. I cannot scream. I cannot breath. He keeps fucking, staring coldly at my face. My hands claw at his. “It would be so easy, bitch,” he says and relaxes his death grip.
The only respite was when the driver said, “I’m taking an off ramp to change places. Jimmy, you drive. I want some of that too.”
When the van was back on the freeway, the new one, the one who had been driving, lay down on the sweaty, come stained mattress, and pulled me on top of him. The others, tired, sat against the sides of the van, watching me move my ass up and down, watching his cock slide in and out. One of them rolls onto his knees behind me. “Hold her still, ” he growls.
The new one’s hands grab my butt and hold it while the other guy pushes up my ass, the way Brad and Jefferson had sandwiched me. And then when they start fucking, thrusting up, filling, compressing me, hands turn my head and a cock fills my mouth. I remember Brad saying, “We will find a third cock for your mouth.” But I don’t think this is what he had in mind.
Come filled and ran over, dribbled out of all my holes.
All the others slowed down, were spent, now that they had each orgasmed in me two or three times, but the new one kept using me, as if to make up for lost time. The others just watched. One of them said, “It would almost be worth being a chick, to be able to keep on going like that.”
I was on my knees, my face in a pool of come; he was behind me, hands twisting my ass cheeks, as he battered into my cunt. A hand began slapping my ass in rhythm to his thrusts. The slaps hurt. I was so exhausted from the fear and all the fucking. Counting the earlier customers, I had felt twenty or thirty male orgasms that night. Something in me let go. The slaps still stung, but the pain began to almost feel good. Something in me forgot the situation, forgot that in a few more minutes they might slit my throat and dump my naked body. This might be the last time I ever had the change to come in my life. I heard an angry voice, my voice, “Fuck me, you bastard. Fuck me. Harder.”
He did. Desperately slapping our bodies together. His pelvic bones bruised mine. I shuddered.
“My god,” someone said. “After all that the bitch came.”
Gasping, the man fell away from me. I collapsed face down on the slimy mattress. And gradually became aware that everything was quiet. Too quiet. The only sounds a throbbing engine, tires on the road.
I rolled over. Chillingly, they were all just looking at my come streaked body. No one made a move. No one said a word.
“What’s going to happen now?” I sat up. “I did what you wanted. I was good for you. You’re going to let me go, aren’t you. I won’t tell.” Then I remembered the sliced dress. “Give me something to wear. Anything. A t-shirt. And just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. You know I don’t want any trouble.”
Eerily, no one spoke.
I sat there, beginning to think that this was how my life was going to end. Wondering what Winston would think, then realizing he wouldn’t know about my turning tricks, only that I had been kidnapped and raped and murdered. I imagined him identifying my naked body in some morgue, assuming my body was ever found. Maybe they had taken me out into the desert to bury me.
The van began to slow and make a turn. An off ramp.
“Please.” I said.
We continued on, bouncing on surface streets, slowing, rolling stops at corners deserted at whatever time of the night this was. At least, I thought, we are not in the desert. But then there is the ocean.
“Please,” I said again.
The van stopped.
The guy nearest the back door reached up and turned a handle. The door swung open. I saw trees and thick vegetation.
“Get out,” the blond one said.
“Please. I won’t tell.”
Hands pushed me; hands pulled. Completely naked I half fell from the van. Concrete was rough beneath my feet. I turned to face them. Six pairs of eyes stared at me.
No one moved.
The van door swung closed. The engine gunned. I leapt to one side as it turned and sped away.
Trying to breath regularly, I became aware of my surroundings. It was a still dark night. No lights were visible except the stars. I was on a narrow lane. Shadowy trees loomed above me. Every inch, every atom of my body ached. I was stark naked, covered and filled with strange come. Probably had been exposed to AIDS or hepatitis or who knew what. Was lost. But I was alive! Alive! I wanted to shout it out. Alive! And, if I weren’t infected with something, relatively all right.
The night air was cool enough to make me shiver and set me in motion. I could have waited for someone to chance along. Already my mind was planning. I would try to keep from having to see the police. If only they had left me some clothes. Not for modesty. I hardly cared about that. It really wasn’t my body any more. Too many men had seen it; too many had used it; and there was something in it, or my mind, or me, that I did not understand, that responded in ways I did not understand. Words like masochist, submissive, started to take shape in my mind, but I blocked them out. This was not the time. The immediate problem was how to return to normalcy, or what I used to think was my normal life, and my nakedness would make that difficult.Right or left. There was nothing to choose between them. I turned right and started walking through the night.
Only a few minutes later I heard the sound of a motor and stopped and turned. What will the driver think when he sees this, I thought. Then I panicked when it occurred to me that it might be the van coming back. I pushed my way through some brush and tried to hide behind a tree. Headlights came into view, moving slowly, as though the driver were looking for something. But the engine was different. And as the headlights neared, I stepped out into them.
The white Rolls Royce stopped. The right rear door opened and, sobbing hysterically, even though I somehow realized at that instant that he had staged the whole thing, I ran and threw myself into the seat and Brad’s arms.
It didn’t work.
Turning her into a whore did not reduce her to just another woman. In fact just the opposite.
When I first saw her on the street after we put her out and drove around the block, all impossibly long legs, perfectly molded shoulders, full breasts straining to burst from that silly red dress, slivers of brown areolae visible above the top, she was devastating. And in the blond wig, strange, unknown, yet somehow familiar. Even Jefferson gave a whistle of rare appreciation.
We watched her get picked up and discretely followed to the side street. She was not visible when we slowly cruised by. The guy seemed to be sitting there alone. So I assumed her head was already in his lap and, amazingly, I was jealous. Incredible. Unbelievable. This is some other guy’s wife who would never have given me a second look, except as an oddity, whom I have blackmailed into being my sex slave, and I’m jealous of the pleasure she is giving a man I made her sell herself to!
I couldn’t believe it myself. I couldn’t believe it of myself.
And it went on that way as the night continued, as she climbed into one car after another, as I knew what she was doing with one man after another. I didn’t want her doing those things with those men; I wanted her to be doing them with me.
Long before the night was over, if I could have called off the abduction and gang rape, I would have. It was only good luck that Tim had already left home and didn’t answer when I called him. I all but decided to take her off the street before they showed up, and double the amount I was paying them and provide them with a couple of other girls; but I didn’t quite. I suppose I was too curious about her reaction, and even more about my own.
After witnessing the abduction, Jefferson and I went to an S & M house in west Los Angeles, where I strung up the submissive who most closely resembled Lynn and beat her half to death. So much so, that even Madame Claire, the dominant who runs the place, commented and charged me extra because the girl wouldn’t be able to work again for several days.
Jefferson went off with a couple of girls and seemed quite happy when we left for the pickup point.
I was still on edge. Something could have gone wrong. One of the kids could have lost control and really hurt her. Something could still go wrong. Another vehicle happen along before we found her. Or the police. Unlikely at this hour, but possible.
Then there she was standing completely naked. I had no sexual feelings whatsoever. And when she ran, crying, and threw herself at me, I felt…well, tenderness. it was unprecedented.
She had no way of knowing that we were less than a mile from my estate. Amazed at myself, I cradled and comforted her as Jefferson drove us the hill to home.
It was a very near thing. The closest I can ever recall to making such a mistake.
Unavoidable business kept me from seeing her in the morning, before after two hour’s sleep Jefferson drove her to her own business appointments.
I told myself that she had only reacted to the situation, that she had run into my arms only because, after the trauma of fearing for her very life, I was familiar. But as I replayed the night over and over in my mind, it kept seeming that she had actually been glad to see me at the airport and that she had been disappointed at my coldness.
Around noon, Jefferson called to tell me that she had refused his offer of a ride to LAX for her flight back to Boston.
I asked Maria to prepare something I could eat cold and gave her the night off, and had my evening drink alone by the pool that evening. Like some stupid lovesick pimply faced adolescent, my thoughts were of her, flying back east through the night. I hadn’t had such thoughts since a teenage crush on Jenny Lakeland. Really I had never had such thoughts because my body prevented my making even the slightest real expression of them to young Jenny. And Lynn was real. The possibly was real.
At least I was wise enough not to contact her and blab my maudlin heart out.
I was still wondering what I ought to do, when three days later my telephone rang. Bluebirds broke into song; flowers burst into bloom; butterflies fluttered around my fat head; violins wept with joy; the whole world became soft and warm and fuzzy: it was she! My own true beloved!
But her voice did not murmur sweet nothings or proclaim her eternal devotion. Rather it was brisk and businesslike.
“I don’t have long,” she said. “between meetings.”
“Yes,” I interjected breathlessly.
“I have been thinking.”
“Yes.” I almost added ‘dear.’ I had never said, ‘Yes, dear,’ to anyone in my life. Not once. Even in the most egregious, the impulse to be normal can become overwhelming.
“I can’t get the images out of my mind. The next time I come out there I want you to put me in the vault.”
And I was saved! In a nanosecond, the birds stopped singing; the flowers stopped blooming; the butterflies stopped fluttering; and the hard cruel world clicked back into harsh focus. Hallelujah. Hallelujah .”That’s not up to you. I’ll do with you what I want when I want.”
“I know. I just wanted you to know.”
And she hung up.
Lynn faded from my life like an unfixed print exposed to direct light or as the vibrant colors of some fish dissolve into dead grayness when they are caught and pulled from the water.
Her work now entailed much more travel than ever before, with trips to the west coast or New York several times each month. More and more frequently I found myself alone in our penthouse in Cambridge, resentful of what at the time I thought was her obsessive career. When she was at home, she was always exhausted. She never refused me sex, but it was no better than necrophilia, and gradually I stopped bothering.
I deeply regretted selling the house in Tiburon because I would have surely gone there. I doubt very much that separation would have shocked her into change, and divorce would have inevitably followed. I find myself wondering if that might have been best. But such thinking is futile. I did sell the house. I did stay in Cambridge. And we did stay together, if peculiarly.
My life become one of memory and fantasy.
Memories of days, nights, experiences, with Julie and Anne, and other women, some of whose names I could not even remember, some of whom I was surprised to realize I had known twenty or thirty years earlier, were incomparably more vivid than Lynn’s infrequent, wraithlike presence.
I masturbated to those memories considerably more than I had sex with my wife.
And I masturbated to rented videos, seeking out those which featured women who bore some resemblance to Julie and Anne and Lynn in bondage or being sodomized.
And I desultorily cruised the Internet, occasionally sending out the images of Lynn, but not often. I did not take any new pictures of her. That was far beyond our sex life, which consisted of my turning her sleeping body on its side in the mornings on those weekends she was home and sticking my cock in her unresponsive cunt for a few insipid minutes while I fantasized about someone else far away and long ago.
I found myself thinking that perhaps this is all that most people ever get out of life. I realized that I was no longer a young man, yet I could not accept that this was all that was left. It would have not gone on much longer, even before that evening when I came back with some Thai food for my solitary dinner during one of Lynn’s California excursions and found an Email from the man I knew of as ‘B.’
My interest was engaged when I noted the identification. I had not heard from him for months, but the images he had sent in the past had always been intensely erotic
After apologizing for the lapse in contact, the Email stated that B had a new slave. He trusted that I would appreciate the pictures of her which were included. He invited me to suggest ways I would like to see her posed.
Eagerly I scrolled on, and as the images appeared, I hit the print button. Before the prints came from the printer, I had unzipped my pants and was stroking my cock.
There were three.
In the first only the lower part of the woman’s legs and her arms extend beyond an incredibly fat body on top of her. From above it looks like the back of a copulating elephant seal.
The second shows the woman from an angle near her feet as she is sandwiched between two men, the elephant seal now below her, a huge muscular black body above, the white cock stretching her cunt, the black cock her ass, so much so that the the circle of her anus is white from lack of blood flow and appears in immanent danger of tearing. The slave’s body is flattened between the men. Only a sliver of long blond hair can be seen. Almost unbearably exciting to me is a black letter B visible on one cheek of her perfect ass.
The third is a closeup of her body, arched back in pain and/or pleasure, from groin to breasts. She is sheened in sweat. Rock hard nipples strain upward. In the foreground to one side is another woman’s shoulder and right arm to the wrist, which disappears into the slave’s cunt, whose lips cling to it tightly.
Stoking myself furiously, I came, exploding in the best orgasm in weeks.
Wiping my cock in a Kleenex, I arranged the prints side by side on the desk so that I could see them all simultaneously, and continued to stroke myself to a second orgasm, Thai food forgotten and cooling.
I wondered if B was the fat man or the black one, or perhaps neither but behind the camera. I found myself envious that he had so beautiful a slave to play with. I remember thinking that her body was almost as good as Lynn’s.
Of course I did not do as she asked. Not immediately anyway. I gave a dinner party in her honor instead. Actually two.
The first was held at my Manhattan apartment.
I told Lynn that it would be formal, so she should dress accordingly, except of course that she was to be naked beneath her dress. I also told her that the guest list would include several people of sufficient celebrity that she would know them, though not personally. In any event the dinner was, I said, simply a way of reciprocating previous invitations.
The table seats twenty.
Looking like the Goodyear blimp in a tuxedo, I was at the head of the table. Looking as pure as Botticelli’s Venus Rising From the Sea, wearing a peach colored silk Versace sheath, which left her lovely shoulders bare, Lynn sat at the other end.
On her immediate left was a National Book Award winning female novelist; to her right was one of the better known major network Washington correspondents, who had let a rival cover a Presidential visit to the Middle East rather than miss one of my dinners.
Other guests included the ambassador to the United Nations from an important European nation; two movie directors; several members, both male and female, of families which have had money long enough to qualify as ‘old’ by New York standards; this year’s sensation at the Metropolitan Opera (female); and a recently elected member of the NBA Hall of Fame. All the others were equally accomplished in their own fields, but did not share public fame. Obviously I cannot identify any of them more specifically.
Only with difficulty had I resisted the persistent entreaties of various society reporters to cover the event once the guest list leaked out.
Bernard, my chef, exceeded even his usual incomparable standard,
and the meal–from the caviar through the medallion of pheasant heart sauteed over a nest of Balinese lemon grass–was exquisite, if I say so myself. I do, but so did the guests.
The conversation was a rare blend of intelligence and wit as fine as the wines.
Although we were too far apart to speak together, from time to time, Lynn’s eyes met mine. She seemed to be enjoying herself exceedingly.
A slight lull came over the table as the servants–I never use that odious neologism ‘servers’–cleared away the last dishes.
My comment, “I trust that all of you are ready for dessert,” received a murmur of general and eager agreement.
Raising my hand toward her in what I hoped was a gallant gesture, I said, “Perhaps, Lynn, you will be so kind as to come here to assist me.”
A quizzical look crossed her face, but when the other guests began to applaud lightly, someone actually uttering “Here. Here.” and the Washington correspondent leapt to his feet to pull back her chair, she rose and walked majestically toward me.
For a moment she stood at my side. I let her become aware of all eyes on her, before I gestured for her to lower her head. Smiling uncertainly, she bent. When her ear was at the level of my mouth, I whispered, “You are dessert. Crawl under the table and give everyone head. Start with Elaine,” the ‘old money’ seated to my right, “and end with me. After all, guests should be served first.”
Straightening she looked at me as though I had gone insane, but when she glanced around the table she realized that I was serious and her body gave a single involuntary shudder. She steadied herself, her face blank after a fleeting rictus, pulled the tight sheath high enough to knell, and disappeared beneath the tablecloth.
I pressed a buzzer.
The servants entered with bottles of one hundred year old port, calvados, champagne, cognac, and various liquors, as well as cheese and fruit, which we sampled as the wave of orgasm slowly circumnavigated the table.
Although we had all done this before, it is always entertaining to observe how various people take their pleasure. Though most tried to be silent and seem indifferent, a few, mostly men but one woman, the famous novelist, let themselves go, leaned back and screamed as the hidden mouth caressed them. At the other extreme, two of us gave no sign whatsoever–one of the movie directors being the one in addition to myself–and came without a twitch while continuing uninterrupted conversations. Years of practice.
I think she wanted to hide after completing the circuit. Simply to remain beneath the table until everyone had gone. But I was not having that. I wanted her to face them, now not as an equal, but with the come splattered face of a slave reduced to a mere instrument of their pleasure.
Groping beneath the cloth until I felt her hair, I pulled her out and to her feet, standing myself and folding her arm in mine.
Her makeup was in ruins, lipstick replaced by smears of male semen and female ejaculation. Drops of come clung to her hair and hung suspended from her chin.
Acting as though everything was quite normal, I said, “Let us see our guests to the door, dear, and thank them all for coming.”
The second party took place a few weeks later in California and was quite different. The guests were mostly Hollywood. The dress was casual. Lynn was staying at my estate between business meetings. I told her to be bathed and have on her makeup an hour before the guests were to arrive, at which point I would provide her with her attire for the evening.
I was reclining beside the pool, wearing a garish Hawaiian print shirt and linen slacks and Gucci loafers, when she came out to me naked. I was impressed by how naturally she now took her nudity. She moved beautifully, proudly, her broad shoulders back, her full breasts thrust up and forward, accentuating the narrowness of her waist and the lushness of her hips. “A few other women might be your equal,” I said, “though off hand I do not know any, but no one could be more beautiful. It simply is not possible.”
She seemed pleased to please me and smiled. “What are you reading,” she asked, glancing at the book I had set aside at her approach.
“A biography of Timur Lenk, known to the West as Tamerlane or Tamburlaine, 1336-1405. By whatever name one of the greatest conquerors the world has known, and inadvertently responsible for your costume this evening. Sit down, while I call Jefferson.”
She sat on a recliner beneath an adjacent sun umbrella and I pretended to resume reading, until a rattling of chains announced Jefferson’s arrival.
“Ah, very good, ” I said. “Will you put them on her, Jefferson.”
She sat quietly while he locked solid steel cuffs, padded on the inside with leather inserts to avoid chaff, to each ankle and each wrist; then locked a length of chain sufficient to permit walking between her ankles and another sufficient to permit use of her hands and arms between her wrists. A three inch wide steel collar was locked around her neck.
All she said was, “They’re heavy.”
“They’re meant to be,” I replied.
“Is this all?” she asked.
She simply nodded.
I was secretly impressed.
“There is one thing more.”
She raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“You will not be attending the dinner. You will be serving it.”
I waited until all the guests had arrived and were seated before I had her come out. Even to this blase and jaded group, her beauty was exceptional. And in chains literally breathtaking. I heard a collective intake when she appeared.
Standing, I addressed the table, though all eyes flickered back and forth between where Lynn stood, her eyes fixed on the far wall, and me. “As I was telling our beautiful slave girl, I am reading a biography of Tamerlane, who generally gave his opponents the opportunity to surrender. If they did so, they were well treated. But those who persisted in opposing him were treated with extreme cruelty after their inevitable defeat. A few days ago I came across a passage about a captured king who was kept locked in a small cage which Tamerlane used as a footstool while the king’s naked wife served meals to him and his guests.
“Hold out your hands, Lynn.”
Chains clanked as she did.
“You will notice that the lady is married. Although we don’t have her husband to use as a footstool–at least not yet–I don’t think any of you will be disappointed to be served by his naked wife.
“You may began,” I told her.
All eyes forgot about me as she turned and walked, slowly because of the chains, her buttocks moving rhythmically, back to Maria
I knew I was in trouble when as the weekly partners’ meeting broke up Jason delicately inquired if he might have a private word. Looking at him quizzically, I said, “Your office or mine,” for though all partners were theoretically equal, some were more equal than others.
“Oh, yours is closer. That is if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
On our way past the open cubicles of the support staff, we made small talk.
I remember that it was a lovely late summer’s day, and that as I entered my office I saw the replica of the schooner AMERICA under full sail on the harbor far below.
When I turned and sat down, not behind my desk, but at one of the armchairs to one side of the room, Jason sat at another, studied my face with his faded gray eyes, and finally said, “You look tired, Lynn, and, well, we have been wondering if perhaps too much responsibility has been forced upon you: the mutual fund; the partnership duties; the California expansion.”
“We?” I queried.
Jason was my mentor. This was not pleasant for him. He actually cleared his throat before offering, “Well, some of the partners have approached me.”
“It does not matter. More than one. Not many. A few.”
“There is criticism of my performance?”
“No. Not criticism exactly. Concern. Concern that you have taken on too much, that you are working too hard, more than anyone should.”
“Are there specifics or just generalities?”
“There is the Verspect IPO.”
“You know no one could have foreseen the Russian currency collapse. Even George Soros lost a billion.”
“Yes. But that is not all. I don’t mean to pry, but as a friend, off the record as it were, are there any personal problems? Has Winston finally adjusted to Boston?
Is there anything I can help you with?”
“You know you haven’t taken a real vacation since you two met, now more than two years ago. Perhaps you should take some time, a few weeks, and let us stumble on here as best we can, and relax and think things over. Maybe it is time you turned over the management of the fund to Charlie. You trained him. You know he is ready. And if we don’t give him the opportunity I am afraid we will lose him to someone else who will. And there is California. You have been traveling a lot lately. Those transcontinental flights will wear anyone down.”
His ancient hand, sun blotched from seventy summers at Martha’s Vineyard, rested on the arm of his chair. I reached out and covered it with my own.
“Thank you for talking to me, Jason. I will give serious thought to what you have–and haven’t said. I promise.”
After he left, I crossed to the window again. Across the harbor, a 747 was taking off from Logan. In my mind, it was heading west.
I had initially submitted to Brad to preserve my career; now that very submission was jeopardizing what it had been intended to save. But in the meantime, values had shifted. I was addicted. Obsessed. I didn’t know the right word. And I didn’t know addicted to what. The sex? The submission? For although it was always extremely sexual, there wasn’t always sex per se. At the dinner party where he made me serve naked and in chains, nothing happened beyond the stray hand cupping a breast when I bent over to place food on a dish or momentarily caressing my ass as I passed. But I was so excited, so aroused, knowing that everyone was seeing me that way, naked and chained. And I expected that after dinner they would use me. I was surprised and disappointed when they didn’t. And that was just it: the uncertainty. It was incredible not to know what was going to happen. It was always different. Always unexpected. I could not give it up. And then, I realized, that of course, that was not my decision. Brad still had the photos, had far, far more than he had in the beginning. He would never let me go. The thought that I really was his helpless possession flooded my pussy. And he still hadn’t even taken me back to his vault.
Closing the door to my office, I fell into the same chair I had been sitting in while talking to Jason, lifted my skirt and splayed my legs over the arms, and touched myself.
I would have to work harder. That was all. But right now I had to come. I am ashamed to say that Winston did not enter into the equation.
I can’t remember the sequence.
Really there was no sequence. It was all one event; one single event, which became my life. Where, with the exception of that first month with Winston, my life had always been school or my work, which was the same thing, and everything else only interruptions; now sex, the peculiar submissive, helpless sex to which Brad subjected me, was my life and I was impatient with everything else. I wanted to get back to it; even, I must confess, back to him. Jefferson was more beautiful–that is wrongly stated, for Brad had no beauty whatsoever, except perhaps the beauty of power and intellect–and Jefferson could always make me come; but there was something about him that remained detached and mechanical.
After using me, Brad sometimes made me spend the night in the same bed with him, naked of course, and usually in bondage, my wrists and ankles encased in steel or leather cuffs so I would always be aware of my condition. One night when I awakened, he was on his side, facing away from me, his body a huge hulking shadow. Amazingly I felt the impulse to roll toward him, to press my naked body against his hairy back, to cuddle with the whale. And after a while I did.
I knew I was obsessed. But I did not have the least desire to end my obsession. I actually wondered if I was going through some hormonal change, though I was much too young for menopause. Or as if I had been given some aphrodisiac that kept me constantly sexually aroused. As Brad says–and that is part of it: inside that grotesque form is one of the finest and most original minds I have ever encountered–it is a conceit to call ourselves rational animals. We are Homo insipiens, not homo sapiens.
Cocks, hands, tongues, fingers, breasts, cunts, dildoes, fists, bodies, ropes, chains, sperm, whips–though it was a long tantalizing time before he whipped me–filled my body, my mind, my life. I did not want it any other way.
As I said, the sequence doesn’t matter. It was all one.
Mid afternoon. New York. In my street whore outfit, including wig, I walk through Times Square to the 42nd Street subway station where I board the C Train and ride all the way to the Bronx and back. Brad and Jefferson board as well and sit at the far end of the car. As instructed I take a seat facing toward the center, where everyone can see up or, if standing, down my skimpy dress. There is a small calculated risk that someone I know professionally might enter the car, but I don’t care. Perhaps I am beginning to want to be found out, to have this all come into the open. Various men position themselves opposite me; others sit beside me and ‘accidentally’ brush against my thighs or breasts; still others stand directly in front of me, their legs against mine, their greedy eyes devouring my cleavage. In the Bronx I cross and uncross my legs, then sit with them spread apart and give a teenager carrying a book bag home after school a show that probably provides material for his fantasies for months.
Mid afternoon. New York. Wearing a blue pinstriped business suit, similar to a man’s, but tailored snugly to my body with the skirt ending at mid-thigh, and black, sensible heels, I sit in the comfortable living room of an Upper East Side apartment on Fifth Avenue, almost directly across Central Park from Brad’s.
Four other women, girls actually, are there. Three watching daytime television; one, a black student at Columbia, studying a chemistry text. The black girl is fashion model beautiful; the other three cheerleader pretty.
When the buzzer rings, Heather, the madam, dressed as I would at Broadthroup, comes from a back room where she has been doing some accounting. The television is turned off; the chemistry text disappears.
Heather has advised me to sit demurely, feet on the floor, ankles crossed, but with ample thigh showing. The black girl, whose working name is Clarisse, sits beside me, composed and cool. The cheerleaders exude bubbly enthusiasm and youth. Something for everyone.
From being one of LA’s cheapest, I have become, as promised, one of New York’s most expensive whores.
I did well, making more than $2000 that afternoon. A lot of men want to fuck the boss, though frankly they did not do it well. Heather urged me to work for her full time. Considering that the money was cash and could be kept tax free, I did some mental calculation and realized that I would make more than I ever had in my life prior to getting my partnership.
Early evening. San Francisco. In the back of a rented limousine in which Brad has collected me after my meetings in Silicone Valley, I lean against the corner of the seat, my skirt pushed up, my legs apart and facing him, and lightly stroke my clit, as he has directed me too. The dark glass partition separating us from the driver is raised.
“Whose clit is it?” he asks. We both know it is a rhetorical question.
“Keep touching it, but don’t come.”
“Where are we going?”
“A place I know in the city.”
“And what is going to happen?”
“Do you dance?”
“Yes. Dance. You know what dancing is. Waltz. Tango. Fox trot. Rock and Roll.”
“No. Not much.”
“That’s what I expected. Too studious to go to the prom.”
“I went to the prom.”
“That makes one of us. Anyway dancing isn’t what it really is about. You can fake it.”
Unlike Boston, San Francisco’s residents never permitted the Interstate to block off their waterfront, thus avoiding Boston’s Big Dig that is now rectifying the error of the 1950ties at an expense of eleven billion dollars and has disrupted the city for years. When the highway ended near the base of the Bay Bridge, the limousine followed surface streets until it pulled up in front of an old movie theater.
I was surprised when Brad told me, “Put your panties back on.” As I did so, he pressed the button that lowered the partition. I noticed the driver’s eyes home in as I lifted my hips and wiggled on the pale blue tonga. “I won’t be long,” Brad told him. I noted the pronoun. So he was leaving me here alone.
By the time the driver had come around to open the door, I was dressed. We respectively walked and waddled across the sidewalk to where a doorman/ bouncer, who looked like a biker, acknowledged Brad with a friendly enough “Hello, Mr. Rankin.”
The lobby was shabby carpet, cigarette smoke, and a peculiar smell, which I soon came to know was disinfectant.
Behind what had been the snack bar stood a tired blond, selling condoms and various sex toys. A zombie. I’m not sure she even noticed us as Brad directed me to an unmarked door.
The manager’s office was a small cluttered room, dominated by an unexpected teak desk of elegant Scandinavian design, with a similar chair and a sofa, which were in sharp contrast to several old gray painted metal filing cabinets, and rows of shelves cluttered with papers against one wall.
“Here she is, Sam.”
“Hey, Brad,” a rail thin, weasel faced forty-something man sitting behind the desk replied. As I had come to expect and accept, his eyes moved up and down me. “A real beauty. A gem. Where did you find this one?. Though,” eyes up and down again, “the clothes are wrong. And the shoes. We can find something. Clothes don’t matter,” he leered. “She won’t be wearing them anyway. But the shoes do. One of the other girls will have something. Close enough anyway.”
Brad nodded. “You know what to do. I’ll leave her in your hands. I’ll be back later.” And with that surprising quickness of his, tuned and was gone.
I did not even consider asking any questions. I had learned to accept whatever was to happen to me. So I stood silently after I heard the door close, until Sam said, “So, what do you want us to call you?”
“We already got a Linda.”
“I said I don’t care. You make one up.”
“Vicki. How’s Vicki?”
“It really doesn’t matter. Fine.”
“So, sit down, Vicki.”
I sat on the sofa, crossing my legs. Weasel Sam sat down again behind his desk.
“I see a lot of pussy,” he said. “Get tired of it, like a kid working in a chocolate factory. But I must admit that you are something else. You ever been in a place like this?”
I nodded negatively.
“Thought not. Well guys come in here to jack off. A few couples. Even some women. They look; in one of the rooms they can even touch, but you can’t touch them back; and they play with themselves and leave. We give them a variety of ways to look: private booths; peep shows to dancers; part of the old theater stage for lesbo action with a b and d flavor. They pay a general admission charge and extra for the booths and peep shows and special tips. We don’t allow any prostitution on premises. Really. I can’t guarantee that some of the girls don’t make appointments for after hours. What they do then is their business. But here is mine. The cops pretty much leave us alone, but there is always the risk. Anyway, I don’t expect that is your concern, unless that is what you’ve been told to do, in which case it is none of mine. Brad says to move you around, let you work all the venues, so that is what we are going to do. I’ll give you the ten cent tour I give all the new girls, but first we generally have a private audition. So let’s see it.”
My pussy spasmed at that ‘it’. I had been reduced to ‘it.’
I uncrossed my legs and stood up.
Except for the pantyhose I had left in the limo, I was still wearing what I had worn that day for my meetings at Meganet: a two piece beige suit, cream colored blouse, pale blue bra and panties, sensible tan shoes.
Pulling the suit jacket from my shoulders, I dropped it onto the sofa, then looked directly at Sam while unbuttoning the blouse.
“That’s good,” he croaked as my breasts came into view. Maybe he wasn’t quite as bored as he pretended to be. “Very good. The eye contact, I mean.”
“The skirt next or the bra?” I asked.
“Whatever. The bra.”
The clasp was in the front. Getting into the tease, I kept my hands over my beasts when the bra fell open.
“Come on. Come on.”
He made a small unintelligible sound when I let my hands fall away. I remember the passing thought that I liked the power I was finding that my body had over men, while liking even more the power Brad gave men over me.
The zipper slid down and the straight slim skirt soon joined my other clothes on the sofa.
“Wait a second. Turn around. Slowly.”
The blue tonga was a mere wisp of butt floss.
“Very nice. Very, very nice.” And when I was facing him again, ” O.K. The rest.”
I kicked off the shoes, remembering momentarily removing my shoes so long ago, so many incredible experiences, another life ago, in a Saint Louis hotel room, and pulled down the panties.
“He said you were something special.”
“Who?” I asked eagerly.
Disappointment. I had wanted him to say Brad.
“Sit down again. In the chair. Put your feet up over the arms.”
I gave him a look.
“Just do it. You know what you’re here for. This is what you’ll be doing in the private booths, showing it close up and personal, assuming poses while they talk dirty to you and jack off.”
I assumed the almost gynecological position.
“Nice that you’re shaved. Makes everything so easy to see. Spread the lips apart. They like to see inside. To penetrate with their eyes what they can’t with their cocks. You’re all shiny and wet. You get off on this?”
“Yeah,” I said, which is not normally a word I use, but seemed appropriate. “Yeah,” my voice guttural. “I get off on this.”
“You can touch yourself if you want, but I wouldn’t come yet. You’re going to need your energy. What size shoes you wear, about an 8?”
Tracing a light circle around my clit, I replied, “Yes.”
Weasel Sam hit a buzzer on his desk. A minute later a handsome young blond guy with a neatly trimmed beard came into the office, glanced disinterestedly at me spread open as wide as the Grand Canyon, and said, “What?”
“Go back and see if anybody has a spare pair of shoes about size 8.”
When he had left, Sam said, “Remember you’re in San Francisco. We hire a lot of gay guys. Fewer problems. Enough of that,” meaning me. “Let’s see another pose.”
“Whatever. Turn around, on your knees.”
“Knees further apart. Try to look as though you’re just getting ready to be fucked. That’s what they like. You can’t go wrong if you think of all the various ways you’ve been fucked and duplicate those positions.”
I obediently followed his instructions through a few more poses, before he said, “All right. Stand up. Come on over here. No. All the way. Around the desk.”
He swiveled his chair as I walked closer until when I was within arm’s length, he reached up and cupped my breasts with his hands. Almost respectfully he squeezed them. “He’s one lucky sonofabitch. Whatya see in him? Or what’s he got on you? Never mind. Forget I asked.” Then more demandingly. “Turn around.”
“Bend over. Spread your legs some. Reach back and spread your ass apart. Show it to me.”
I gasped when the side of his fingernail caught on my cunt.
He fingerfucked me for a while. I got hotter. “Amazing,” he muttered to himself. “Motherfucking amazing.”
A second and a third finger joined the first, then the first, his forefinger, withdrew and, lubricated from my cunt, pressed against then popped into my ass.
“Press back, bitch.” he snarled. “Take them all the way up your cunt and ass.”
I ground my hips back.
“Further. Fuck my hand hard.”
I did and moaned.
“Did you just come?”
“Hardly anybody around here really gets off, the ones who work here I mean, but you are something else.”
I felt his sticky fingers withdraw. I did not want them to. I wanted more, but then realized that one way or another I would get more that evening. It was still early.
“Turn around. That was fun, but I hear you are a truly great cocksucker.”
From Jefferson, I assumed. So that is how they talk about me. How else? About my superior management and organizational skills?
I got down on my knees. He shifted his hips to help me get his gabardine slacks and Jockey shorts down. Now that I had seen so many, I judged his cock to be about average. When I lowered my head, he thrust up, seemingly disappointed I swallowed it all without gagging.
I was still on my knees when the office door opened and the blond guy returned.
“Leave them,” the weasel gasped. I think he wanted the blond guy to see him being sucked off, because the first drops of semen splattered my mouth just as the door closed. As I swallowed, I wondered if he was bi, but Brad would not expose me to that kind of danger. At least not knowingly.
A couple of guys just coming through the door looked startled as Sam led me across the lobby. I was only wearing the blue tonga and black high heels that were composed of straps that crisscrossed over my feet and up my ankles a couple of times before being tied. Then we were into the darkness of the back rooms.
It was not really so bad, and Sam was hardly Virgil, but I flashed on Dante being lead on a tour of the circles of Hell.
The first was literally a circle, a circle of closed doors. Above most of them red lights bulbs were lit. Sam found a door with one unlit and opened it and gestured for me to enter, before squeezing in beside me.
“The screen can’t go up unless the door is locked.”
The booth was tiny. Our bodies were jammed together, and a seat built into the door creased my legs.
Sam’s hands pushed between us and managed to extract a couple of coins from his pocket. When he inserted them into a slot in the side wall, a screen rose revealing a round stage on which four naked girls were desultorily dancing. Separating us from them was a clear piece of plastic with circular cutouts at breast and crotch level.
One of the girls came over when she noticed the booth was occupied, stooped over and peered in. “Oh it’s just you.” And returned to the others.
“They get a minute a quarter. A minute of time before the screen drops. If they want a particular girl to come over they beckon. They give the girls $5 or $10 to stick it right up close. Another $5 or $10 to reach through and touch. You want to keep it well lubricated, particularly if you’re not turned on. Which somehow I don’t think will be a problem for you. There’s a buzzer on the other side to call for help if someone grabs ahold and won’t let go.” And he squeezed my ass. “Come on.”
We entered a darker labyrinth, a single corridor, that made alternate right and left turns past small cubicles. Some of the doors to these were closed too, but through those that were opened I caught glimpses of women caged behind clear plastic. We had to squeeze past a couple of guys cruising the area.
“There’re telephones in there. The guys pay $10 directly to the girl, through a slot at the bottom. No hole in there. No touching. But they can talk. A bit more intimacy.”
Beyond the labyrinth, steps led up to what I assumed had been stage level and a ticket booth.
“The Marquis Room. After de Sade,” he grinned. “Not really heavy stuff. Cost another $10. All lesbo. The law permits sex acts between women that it doesn’t been men and women because technically it isn’t sex. Nothing going on in there yet. Too early. Come on. You’ll start at the front and work your way back.”
As we retraced our steps I asked, “Why do you do this for Brad? I assume he pays you? Does he often drop off women here?”
He had insisted on walking behind me, presumably to admire the view.
“Of course I do it because he pays me. He owns the place. I thought you knew. The guys who started this up had a falling out and sold a couple of years ago. As to the last, that’s his business. Ask him.”
The lights on the dance floor changed from blue to red to orange to green then blue again.
Leaving my panties with Sam, who waded them into a ball and stuffed it in his pocket, I joined the other girls, who didn’t seem pleased to have more competition. Even less so when a screen slid up and a small dark haired girl went over and returned with a, “He wants you.” meaning me.
The music was loud, some group I had never heard. I had to lean close to the top opening to hear what the guy was saying and still wasn’t sure, so I just said $10, and he handed it over.
Not really knowing what he wanted, I stood there, sort of moving a little with the music. A hand came through the plastic and grabbed my left breast, then didn’t really seem to know what to do with it. I noticed the fingernails were clean but bitten to the quick. The hand squeezed, not too hard, weighed and tested my flesh, slipped down. Fingers grasped the nipple and pulled. That hurt a little. I gave a small gasp, but kept on semi-dancing, swaying. The young guy was peering up at me and kept steadily increasing pressure, studying my reaction. Just as I thought I couldn’t take any more and was about to reach for the buzzer, he said something I couldn’t hear and released me. Automatically I reached down and rubbed my bruised nipple.
Cautiously I moved closer, pushing my body against the plastic, bending my knees as his hand came through the lower opening and found my cunt. He had only just touched me with the screen started to descend.
I took a step back, waiting to see if he put in another coin. Perhaps he was out, because the screen stayed down. The thought of his frustration pleased me.
I wondered what to do with the $10 bill. Then noticed a number of small jars on the floor near the door and dropped the money into an empty one, before rejoining the other dancers.
About every five minutes one of the girls left and was replaced by another, so I guess I was out there twenty-five minutes or so before someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I saw Sam standing in the doorway. I left my money behind. I heard one of the girl say something to another, but only caught the words, “Brad’s” and “later.”
I didn’t mind being groped–in fact that moment of fear and pain when the first guy kept on squeezing my nipple had brought an undeniable response from my body–but the garish disorienting lights and the cacophonous music were terrible, and I welcomed the quiet of what I thought of as the cages.
I had to stoop over to enter mine. The floor was covered by a bedspread over a wall to wall mattress. There were also a couple of pillows. I removed my shoes–Sam hadn’t given me my panties back so I was still naked, and leaned back, facing the open doorway as I had been told to do.
A man passed, glanced in, continued on, then quickly reappeared and entered my lair. Lynn Plath, I told myself, you are quality stuff.
He knew the routine and closed and bolted the door, then reached for the wall phone. I picked up mine.
“You’re new here?”
“If you know that, you know to slide $10 through.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Forgot.”
He fumbled in the windbreaker he was wearing over a dress shirt. Although my side was lit and his dim, I could see he was middle aged and mousy, but he was not shy. At least not in this context.
As soon as the finances were taken care of, he unzipped his pants and whipped out his cock and sat down and began to stroke himself.
“You like what you see?” he asked.
“You like cock?”
“You like being a whore?”
“Absolutely.” And, I thought, it is true. Sitting here, waiting naked for total strangers to appear and expose myself to them. “I’m just a bitch in heat. Always.”
He seemed taken aback and his hand on his cock slowed. “You sound like you mean it.”
“I do.” And even though he hadn’t told me to, sitting on the mattress, facing him, I let my legs fall apart and began to masturbate too.
“You like to suck strange cock?”
“Would you suck mine?” His hand speeded up.
“Of course. To the hilt. Suck you dry.”
“And let me fuck you?”
“I’ll just keep on sucking after you come until you’re as hard as a rock again and then we’ll fuck our brains out.”
“You take it in the ass?”
“All the time.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“At first. But then it’s good. Love hurts. You know the song.”
I rolled onto my knees, my ass toward him, and, turning my head to one side so he could see my face, reached back and spread my cheeks.
“It’s red,” he said. “And wet.”
“A guy had his finger up my ass a little while ago.”
“Oh no,” he groaned and his sperm shot up and out almost two feet to splash against the plastic.
Turning over I sat and watched him continue to come, the sticky fluid coating his hand.
When he stopped, I said, “That was quite a load.”
Collapsing back against the door, “Never so much. You going to be a regular.”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
He was clearly disappointed.
“Come over here,” I said.
“Come over here. Wipe it against the glass.”
As he stood, I got on my knees and opened my mouth and kissed the partition as he smeared the last of his come on other side of the plastic a fraction of an inch away.
“Hmm. Tastes good,” I said. “I love your come.”
He stumbled back on weak legs. Zipped up his pants and sat down.
“I want it,” he said. “I’ll pay. Whatever you want. Make a date to see me outside.”
“I don’t think I can do that.”
“Anything. Name your price.”
“It’s not that. I belong to someone. It’s not my decision. I do what I’m told.” I liked saying that.
“Lucky bastard. Well, ask. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
The floor of the stage in the Marquis Room was bare wood and hurt my back as I lay naked in the center of a bright spotlight circle. Faces in the audience peered down at me from seats rising in tiers as in an operating theater. The room was small, intimate indeed. None of the spectators was more than a few feet away and could hear the sticky sounds as the blond, whom I recognized as from the dance floor, slipped her fingers into my sopping cunt.
“Feel good?” she cooed.
She too was naked and, without slowing her hand, lay down beside me, turning my head with her other hand, and kissed me. Her lips were soft and full. Her tongue pushed past mine. I opened my mouth and accepted it. She fucked my mouth with her tongue with the same rhythm she was fucking my cunt with her fingers.
Pulling her head back, she smiled down at me. Then lowered her mouth to my nipple and enclosed it, sucking, licking, then catching it between her teeth and pulling upward. I arched my back to follow her. She bit down and I gasped.
“Oh, I am going to have such fun with you,” she said and, rolled over, straddling me. Her pussy was wet against my belly. “Put your hands up over your head. That’s right stretch your arms.”
She reached down and took a nipple in each hand. Squeezed. Lifted. And twisted. Instinctively I started to try to stop her.
“Don’t move your arms,” she hissed and twisted harder. “Don’t move.”
As my arms fell back, she studied my face. “You like it, don’t you. You want it rough. You can’t help but respond.”
“Yes.” I whispered.
“”Louder. Tell everyone.”
In the momentary pain, I had completely forgotten the audience. “Yes. I like it rough.”
She released my nipples. As my breasts fell back into their normal shape, she began to slap them from the side. First one, then the other, letting her hands brush against the nipples. First lightly, then with ever increasing force. The audience was completely still. The only sound the slap of palms against breasts. And then my moans. My breasts became so hot. I wanted it to be Brad. Why didn’t he beat me himself. For an instant I wondered why I wanted to be beaten. But it didn’t matter. It felt so good. I arched.
“You like it too much. Roll over.”
The blond lifted her weight, and I turned face down and felt her sit on me again, her cunt smearing my back as she turned toward my ass. I could smell her.
Blows rained upon my ass cheeks. I am being spanked, I thought. Publicly. As her hands hit harder, faster, I thought, What about bruises? How will I keep them from Winston? then didn’t care. My breathing grew ragged.
Without warning she lifted from me, grabbed my hair and twisted so I that I rolled onto my back again.
“Not yet, you little slut,” she hissed. “You don’t get off until I tell you to.”
One hand holding my head down by the hair, the other dove to my cunt again. I felt a finger, then two or three. I was not certain. Her hand was pumping into me furiously. The intensity was building, almost overflowing, when she leaned down and kissed me again, hard, and thrust her hand, hard. Enormous pain. Gasps from the audience. My cunt incredibly full. Fuller even it seemed than with Jefferson.
She broke the kiss and pulled my head up. “Look,” she said triumphantly. I did and almost passed out. There was a snake tattooed on her arm. It’s head seemed to be licking at my cunt. Her hand was all the way inside me. I tried to remember if she was wearing any rings, tried to feel if there was anything ripping my membranes.
She let my head fall back.
Now that she was in, I had to admit, it felt good.
She moved, twisting her wrist. I groaned.
“Ever been fisted before, cunt?”
“What’s it like. Inquiring minds want to know.”
“Like nothing…I’ve ever…Oh, God.”
She fist fucked me. Pistoning almost to the point where her hand pulled past the pelvic bones and outer ring of flesh, then hard in, filling my cunt all the way to the back.
“You’ll do anything. You get off on anything. Don’t you?” she taunted
“You’d fuck a dog if I brought one in here?”
“Well you’re in luck.” She ripped her hand from me. I screamed. And looked down. I was so wet it felt as though I were bleeding, but I saw no blood, just juices.
“What?” I panicked. They couldn’t. Not a dog. Not in public. Not even in San Francisco.
But from the shadows outside the spotlight came a dog. Actually a girl–her breasts were exposed through cutouts–on all fours in a goofy dog costume, black and white spots, big floppy ears, droopy tail, and a long red erect cock.
“Here, boy. Come here. A nice treat for you. You’ll like it.”
The dog girl crawled around aimlessly, sniffing the floor, then seemed to pick up a scent and made a beeline for my cunt, into which it stuck its nose. Someone in the audience laughed.
“Raise your legs.”
I did, and the dog nosed around, then pulled back.
“Help the doggie, bitch.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Suck the nice doggie cock.”
The girl leaned back on her haunches, which made the cock stick up at an angle.
I got onto my knees and lowered my head.
“That’s it. Lick it. Tastes good, doesn’t it. Any cock tastes good to a hot bitch like you.”
The blond grabbed my hair again from behind. “Get it good and wet.” And forced me down. The artificial cock was too long even with my newfound skills and I gagged. She liked that, let me up, then forced me down until I wretched again.
“Ready to get fucked?” she asked pleasantly.
Droll running from my mouth, I nodded.
She pushed my head down. “That’s why they call it the doggie position.”
I heard the girl move behind me, felt the plastic cock enter me, and cringed in fear that she would shove too far and seriously injure me.
But the girl was careful. I’m sure she knew. Her costumed paws held my waist.
I screamed and trashed. I could not help myself. I didn’t want to. “Fuck me,” I cried.
My concentration on my own sensations was broken when the blond jerked my head up and mashed her cunt in my face. “Lick, bitch.” My tongue obediently sought her clit.
We screamed and came together.
Followed by dead silence.
The spotlight went out.
“So why don’t you?”
I was back in the limo with Brad, dressed in my brown suit and shoes, but nothing else, no blouse or underwear or stockings.
“Because I agreed not to leave any marks. You insisted that Winston not know.”
“She didn’t leave marks. I looked in the dressing room mirror. The redness faded quickly.”
“I don’t care.” But I felt a twinge of fear, not of being spanked–well, perhaps a little, which was part of it–but about explaining to Winston. Maybe I wanted that to come out too. Broadthroup. Winston. Everything was so confused. Except when I was with Brad and only had to do what I was told.
“Are you sure?”
“All right.” He pressed the intercom to the driver. “Do you know Chaucer’s?”
“Take us there.”
The limo changed direction, headed south of Mission, and stopped in front of what appeared to be an old warehouse.
The driver came around and opened the door.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“But the way I look,” I started to protest. My suit was rumpled, my hair a mess. I had not had a chance to shower.
“You look perfect: You reek of sex.”
The driver’s eyes again darted up my skirt as I slid across the seat.
Brad’s unmistakable form must have been recognized by the surveillance camera. A metal garage door rose noisily as we neared, and then closed behind us.
Tentatively I followed him across a grease stained concrete floor to a black painted metal security door, with an inset square of glass, reflective from our side.
This too opened for us. A huge black man, the size of Jefferson, dressed in a black turtle neck sweater and black pants, said, “Good Evening, Mr. Rankin.” and nodded to me.
“Hello, John. Busy tonight?”
“About the usual for a week night when there’s an auction.”
The last word piqued my already aroused curiosity.
Brad glanced at his watch. “I had forgotten. The usual time?”
“Well, we may not stay that long. I’ll see.”
A blood chilling scream came from somewhere behind the black man, causing me to flinch and grasp Brad’s meaty arm.
He laughed and John smiled. He patted my hand. “Remember you asked for it.”
He led me down a corridor, the sides and ceilings of which had been molded to look like the entrance to a cave. The thought of Dante returned. I felt as though I were descending to another, lower circle of Hell.
The corridor opened onto a huge open space, the interior of the warehouse, whose far reaches were lost in gloom. Nearer, as in Hell, pools of light flamed.
A crowd milled about, circled, gathered into knots, and dissolved. A long bar ran along one side of the space. Various implements and chains and pulleys hung from overhead. Here and there were chairs and sofas and hard benches. Almost everyone, except Brad and me, was dressed in black, many in leather, or was naked.
A man, perhaps my age, wearing black leather pants and boots and a black leather vest over a well-muscled bare chest, came up to us, stood appraising me, then said to Brad, “A new one?”
“For the auction?”
“A pity.” And, after looking me up and down again, wandered off.
Another scream. Now I could see that it came from a woman hanging naked upside down suspended from her feet off to our left, but I could not tell what was being done to her.
People brushed past. There were a lot of spikes on collars and wrist bands. Thick leather gloves seemed to be part of the uniform.
A beautiful young blond girl, whose hands were cuffed behind her back, was being led by a much older woman by a leash attached to a steel ring at her clit. Winston had once told me Julie was pierced, I expect testing my reaction, which had been one of such distaste that he never mentioned it again. And I had not liked the pieced noses and tongues I had seen on the street girls or earlier at the porn palace. But this, on the genitals, so blatantly sexual–
“She looks as though she’s already had a hard night.”
The androgynous voice from behind startled me. When I turned I still could not determine the person’s sex. Eye shadow, lipstick, mean nothing. Encased in shiny black latex, from tight fitting hood, to high heeled pointed toed boots. No identifying bulges of either breasts or cock.
“And I trust it is just starting, Brad?”
“No. Almost finished.”
“I’m afraid so.”
The bald head of a naked man, kneeling behind the creature, came into view as he resumed licking the boots. The creature hit him with a riding crop. “Not now, you fool..” The head disappeared. “Just here for an introductory tour then?”
“Not exactly. Come and watch if you’d like.”
Brad pushed through the crowd, now followed by me, the androgyne, and the naked crawling man.
Moans, the wet sounds of sex, of sucking and fucking, flesh against flesh, or perhaps whips against flesh, I could not distinguish them, or see except for glimpses through spectators.
Brad finally found an empty armchair and plopped himself down .
“On your knees.” His voice was cold.
As I knelt, others pressed close until they formed a tight wall around us..
Brad extended his small fine right hand. “Kiss it.”
Leaning forward I pressed my lips to its back. My head snapped to one side with the force of the blow. My cheek stung.
I had not seen the hand move, and now it was there again, about a foot in front of my burning face.
“Kiss it.” He repeated.
With a slight, but unpreventable hesitation, I leaned forward again. My lips touched his hand. My head snapped with the blow.
The slapping sounds attracted a bigger audience.
Not my face, I pleaded inwardly. Fearing a black eye.
I obeyed. This blow brought involuntary tears. The crowd murmured approval.
My face was on fire.
I tasted blood. Something inside my mouth had split on my teeth.
Until, finally, far beyond what I would have thought I could have endured, “Up here. Over my knee.”
Stunned, dizzy, I scrambled to my feet, confused.
“Over my knee, I said.”
Awkwardly I sprawled face down, and felt my skirt being lifted, my naked ass exposed to the admiration and lust of strangers. I felt like a bad little girl about to be punished. As, I strangely had the presence of mind to remind myself, you are.
With much more sound and force than had the woman earlier, his hand descended with a loud, excruciating slap.
My hair hung down over my eyes, which were blinded with tears as he continued to methodically spank me, holding me in place by his left arm firmly above my hips, first slapping one cheek until I screamed, then the other until I begged for mercy, and back to the first.
Even through my pain, I could tell that excited onlookers were being inspired to do things to one another. I heard the sounds. And something splashed onto my thrashing legs.
Finally it was over. I almost think that I may have briefly lost consciousness, as I often was to do later under more stringent punishment, not from the pain but just the overwhelming stimulation which sent my brain into overdrive until it could not handle any more and crashed.
I felt myself being pushed roughly from his lap, dumped on the floor.
Brad was breathing heavily as though he had been running. He seemed actually angry.
Wordlessly he pushed himself upright and plunged into the orgiastic crowd.
Confused, and deathly afraid of losing him and being left there alone, strange hands clutching at me, trying to hold me back, I scrambled after him.
Back in Boston the next evening, the left side of my face was only slightly swollen, though the cracked lip hurt, and I was amazed that there was no sign at all on my ass of what I then thought was a severe beating. I told Winston a tooth was bothering me.
A bright, sunny Southern California afternoon.
Driving a rented Ford Taurus, I made a wrong turn and got lost in the hills above Malibu until I finally managed to find my way back down to the coast highway, where I got directions at a gas station. I was in my street whore costume and got a look from the attendant.
I had canceled my meetings. This was not Brad’s idea, but mine. He only told me he had something he wanted me to do when I was free, so I made myself free.
I was disappointed when I learned that I wasn’t to be with him. I was being sent to make a porn video. Even with the wig, I wondered if someone somewhere wouldn’t recognize me, then realized I truly didn’t care anymore.
Brad told me flatly that the video guy was famous in the porn world for degrading women. Was he becoming soft like Winston, I thought, and letting other people be rougher with me than he wanted to be. I really needn’t have worried, but I did then.
When I finally found the house near the top of a hill, I realized that the guy must be rich as well as famous. It was a rambling ranch style, and a Ferrari sat next to a Land Rover in an open garage.
I parked the Taurus near some lessor vehicles that belonged to the video crew, and walked up to the open front door, where I hesitated, then rang the bell.
A young skinny girl, carrying a clipboard and wearing baggy shorts and a tank top, and with the inevitable nose ring, came.
“You must be..”and she glanced down at the clipboard, “Uh…Vicki”"
“Come on in. You’re late. He doesn’t like that. They’re all set up by the pool.”
She led me through a couple of pleasant and airy rooms to a patio, complete with Weber grill and small swimming pool. More people than I expected were there, seven or eight. A couple with cameras; another fiddling with what looked like an amplifier. The others with no obvious function. No one looked up, until the skinny girl said, “She’s finally here, Rex.”
I thought, angrily, Get off it. I’m not that late. A few minutes. But remembered my place. I was just some slut trying to break into porn, sent out by an agent Brad knew.
Having no idea which one of them was the star, I faced them.
You’re late!” growled a man sitting on a chaise lounge. He was thin enough to be the girl’s twin if he had been twenty years younger, with thinning hair, dyed black. He had on a long sleeved cowboy shirt, dark blue with silver buttons and silver stitching, jeans, and beautiful tooled cowboy boots. A few scraggly hairs poked through the v of his shirt, which was halfway unbuttoned, exposing an unimpressive sickly white chest. He was the palest man I had ever seen in California.
“Sorry. I got lost.”
“Don’t care why. So come’n over here so I can look at you.”
Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched me walk across the flagstones.
“O.K. Far enough. Turn around. Slowly.”
“Well at least asshole George didn’t lie about your looks this time. He’s sent me some pigs. You haven’t been here long?”
“What other work have you done?”
“Well, nothing professional, really. Didn’t George explain?”
“Yeah. But I want to hear it from you. You familiar with my work?”
“Yes.” I lied.
“Then you know what to expect. You had the enema, right?”
“Good. Shit wastes time. Have to keep cleaning up and reshooting.”
“I…I don’t think it will be a problem.” I could not believe I was having this conversation.
“O.K. O.K. Too late now anyway. We’ll soon see. George said that among your many talents you deep throat?”
“Well I want you to gag, drool, fight me some. Not too much. But if my cock goes down too easily, fake it. They want to think I’m forcing you. Got it?”
“I think so.”
I looked down at my ring. “Sort of.”
He snorted, “Sort of? What’s that mean?”
“He’s still back East.”
“And you came out on your own or he sent you?”
“He doesn’t exactly know what I’m doing.”
“Love it. I love it. This is going to be great.” He turned and grinned at the others, who grinned back like good little sycophants.
“Let’s get going. We’ve got three cameras: Charlie, Mike, and Jesse. Some of the footage will just be in the European release. Different rules, in case you don’t know. We can show more over there.
“We’ll start with you coming from the house, just the way you did. Pretend you’ve been sent from a modeling agency, thinking its just swimsuits or something. Act as though you are shocked when you discover what I really want, just for a minute or two, then give in. Mostly its just raw sex. Do what I tell you to. And remember to gag. I don’t claim to have the biggest cock in the world, just the luckiest.”
I’ve never had such a workout. Not even from Jefferson. Skinny Rex turned me upside down and inside out. Literally. I’ve seen the finished product, both the domestic and foreign cuts. And by the time he was through with me, part of my colon had prolapsed and was sticking out angry purple.
His cock wasn’t ‘t exceptional, but he had a way of using it, thrusting to the side and twisting, then pulling out and stretching my cunt and anus with his hand.
I gagged when he stood above me on my knees and held my head and throat and forcefucked my face, even though I could have taken it. Saliva and drool dripped front my chin to my tits. After the first sixty seconds I was completely naked.
Two of the cameramen were on top of us taking extreme closeups.
I gagged again, when he lay back on the diving board and had me stick my tongue up his ass. Captured in full detail and living color.
I threw my head back and screamed when it was my turn to be on my back on the diving board and he jammed his fist up me. One cameraman taking a full body shot for Europe, while the other framed my face for America.
Spreading my cunt with a plastic speculum, he lifted my hips until all my weight was on my shoulders, while he fucked my ass. Then he flipped me over and squatting fucked my ass from behind. Frequently withdrawing and stretching me open for the camera.
Fortunately my ass was clean, because he went back to my mouth with his cock. All the time telling me what a dirty slut I was to suck shit off his cock.
I gagged again when he pulled his cock out and blew a big wad of spit into my mouth, then followed it with his cock. Then stuck it up my ass again, withdrew, and spit into my ass.
Although almost all of it was done in one take that lasted only a half an hour, I was drenched in sweat and drool and juices, when he finally had me get on my knees, still on the diving board, fucked my mouth a few more times, before he pulled out, saying, “Keep it open wide you little whore. Swallow it all.” and shot his load onto my tongue and face, wiping the last of it in my hair. And then, totally unexpectedly to me, he pushed me off the board and laughed as I fell into the pool. The cameras caught it all.
Coming back, gasping to the surface, I swam a couple of strokes and held onto the side, thinking that at last it was over.
“Come on out. We’ve got two more shots.”
I pulled myself up. Water streaming from me. I reached up. The wig still seemed in place. But plastered down I thought it probably did not disguise my features much.
“Over here.” Rex was pointing to a spot near a drain. “On your knees. Head back. Mouth open. Come on, Ronnie. Your big moment.”
One of the hangers on stepped forward and unzipped his shorts.
My mouth started to close.
“Keep it open, I told you.”
In the American version you just see a yellow stream descending from the side of the frame into my mouth, then bubbling out, over my face, running down my throat and breasts, until I am kneeling in a pool. The European version includes the cock, which looks enough like Rex’s to pass.
“You like to drink piss?” he asked when Ronnie ran dry.
“Good. That’s what I like to hear. One more shot. Over into doggie, reach back and spread your ass open. More. Get your fingers closer. Beautiful. A beautifully fucked asshole. Now who else has to go? No. I’ll start. I think I can piss even though I just came. Let me see.”
And three of them pissed into my open anus.
He made me hose off before I was permitted to go inside to shower and try to shit piss.
When I was dressed and ready to leave, Rex told me he would like to use me again, maybe in one of his overseas shoots, and that I was a good sport and had a great future in the business.
I did not know then that Brad owned the rights to the video and that, so far, it has not been released.
Winston, Lynn, Brad
Almost miraculously our lives were rejuvenated.
For three or four months, Lynn and I were closer than we had ever been in Boston. And it was all due to those electronic images. The man I knew as ‘B’ and I vied with each other in inventiveness. I told him what I wanted him to do with his slave and he told me what to do with mine. And the results were stunning. The women beautiful. The situations extremely arousing.
Often Lynn would come home from the office and, excited by a new series of images that had come over the Internet that afternoon, I would all but pounce on her. She probably was as tired and preoccupied with work as ever, but I refused to accept that limitation, and she accepted, even responded to my rediscovered assertiveness. I must admit that as I fucked her, I would usually arrange her body as much as possible in the same positions B had arranged his slave and I fantasied that I was fucking her rather than Lynn.
Lynn responded to my taking pictures of her again too. She seemed to really get into posing and role playing. She really seemed to want to please me, to find and share pleasure together again in every way. Even a simple thing like B suggesting I take her out in public wearing just a dress and photograph her, which I did with her sitting on a bench in Boston Commons with her legs spread apart where she might be seen by passersby, ended with her sucking on me while I drove back to Cambridge and explosive sex when we got home.
I eagerly looked forward to receiving new pictures from B, which unfortunately only came at random intervals, and I enjoyed reciprocating, showing off my beautiful wife to him.
For a while I felt like a ping-pong ball, being batted back and forth between then, though, of course, Winston didn’t know it.
Brad had almost completely erased Winston from my life. In one way or the other, one place or the other, Brad and I were managing to meet almost every week. I arranged far more trips to the west coast than were actually necessary for the conduct of business, something that I knew had come to the attention of and was an increasing matter of concern to my fellow partners. And when it was impossible for me to travel, Brad usually managed to spend at least one night in Boston. But now, Brad resurrected Winston. Brad taketh away; Brad givith. Glory be the name of Brad. And I feared why.
Largely out of guilt–for I had long forgiven him for sending out the pictures of me that had been the proximate cause of all this–In fact I was grateful to him–I tried to be kind to Winston, to be sexy and willing. And there was, I admit, a certain perverse pleasure in knowing what was happening, in exposing myself to his camera, knowing that Brad would view the image. And hoping that he–Brad–might be jealous seeing me giving pleasure to my husband.
I knew it could not go on. Not the way it was. Not at Broadthroup and Brown. Not with Winston. Not with Brad. None of it was stable. But I, who had once been celebrated for decisiveness and initiative, had no desire, no intention, no will to make a change. I did not even know what change I wanted. Which was real: the person I had seemed to be all my life, who excelled at school and work; or the person I was with Brad? The only indicator was that I remained passive.
One evening though, half hysterically, I did confront Brad.
We were in his suite at the Meridian in Boston.
I was half dressed. He was bending over his laptop. His back toward me, attaching the cable from his digital camera, with which he had just taken several pictures of me with my hand up my cunt–something which I frankly said was impossible, but changed my mind when he showed me photographs of other women doing so, declared that what anyone else could do I could do, and asked if I wanted him to have Jefferson help open me up. The shots had been from the neck down.
“There,” he said, straightening and turning. “He’ll have it before you get home.”
“Why are you doing this?” I found I was half crying. “Are you getting bored with me? Is this your way of breaking it off, of sending me back?”
I was relieved to see that he was clearly surprised.
“No. I’m not bored with you. I am doing it because it amuses me, and because I can. That’s all. It’s not for you to question, but to comply.”
Even among the bizarre, this was bizarre. Like the diplomat in the play M BUTTERFLY who claims not to know that his lover of many years is actually a man rather than a woman. I saw the play in London. Apparently it was based on a true incident. Did they never have intercourse? Did she/he always give head, in which case it was easy? Or did he/she take it up the ass with such facility that the diplomat thought it was a cunt? Or did he/she find some excuse for never having traditional intercourse? Genital malformation perhaps?
But here I was sending pornographic pictures to this man of his wife doing things of which he had no idea she was capable, or would even consider doing. Certainly it is easy to come up with a Darwinian explanation why any man wants his sperm to conquer anothers. Studies demonstrate that spermatozoae swim faster in the presence of ‘foreign’ semen, instinctively trying to win the great race to the egg; and other studies demonstrate that the amount of ejaculation dramatically increases when multiple men successively share one partner.
Yet I do have an inquiring mind. I was curious. I studied Lynn’s naked body and the pictures I took of it and wondered how he could fail to recognize her, despite the face never being shown, the blond wig, and the initial I drew on her ass. So much of what we see and understand is context, I guess that in the end it is not surprising. From the neck down bodies are more similar than dissimilar–and that from me who is as dissimilar as anybody can be. A lot of women have breasts the size of Lynn’s, and a narrow waist, a great ass and long elegant legs. Not in percentage of population, but in sheer numbers when one takes even a fraction of one percent of hundreds of millions.
I know she liked it too, liked spreading herself open for me through him and for him through me. But the truth was that she liked everything. The truth that we both had stumbled across was that she was an extremely sexual woman, who had been repressed and remained undiscovered until chance brought her to me.
Although everything was random at the beginning when I simply took pleasure in dominating and humiliating her at my whim, it is not by chance that I have created my wealth and life. My mind cannot help but absorb information, calculate, and devise plans to achieve goals. And I had a goal: I wanted Lynn. Not just the way I had her. Not the way I have had others, either by buying them or having them given to me as punishment by other dominants. Not by blackmailing her. For once in my life I wanted a beautiful, intelligent woman to come to me freely. Great, blubbering fool, I wanted Lynn to love me for myself.
So I sent her back, a little; breathed life into Winston again, a little, and, I hoped, only for a little while.
“Wear the Chinese necklace,” he said.
“Why?” Sometimes I wore it; sometimes not. He had never specifically mentioned it again after Saint Louis.
“Because I tell you to.”
So the jade and gold necklace hung from my neck as I eagerly disembarked from the Delta jet and hurried into the terminal, where I found only Jefferson, who greeted me atypically with a kiss on the mouth replete with wet tongue and hands roving over my ass that attracted attention from other disembarking passengers.
“He couldn’t make it to the airport,” was all Jefferson said about Brad’s absence on the way to Palos Verdes; but when the Rolls Royce headed up the private drive to the estate, he turned off at his own house and parked.
My assumption that he was merely stopping to pick up something before continuing to the main house was proved unfounded when he came around and opened the door for me.
“What’s going on?”
“Brad’s in Europe. He’ll be back tomorrow. He told me to take care of you tonight.”
My disappointment must have been obvious.
“Don’t be so sad,” Jefferson grinned. “It’s dinner just for the two of you tomorrow. And I’ll do my best to keep your mind occupied tonight.”
Which he did. Methodically plundering my body all night long. Coldly bringing me to orgasm after orgasm with his thick cock and tongue in hole after hole. Waking me from sleep, using his magnificent muscles to drive me into blithering frenzies; then lying back and making me move on top of him or on my knees fuck back on his cock up my ass while he remained motionless, until my muscles were on fire and rubbery with exhaustion.
By morning I felt as bruised as if I had just played in the Super Bowl, and I called Broadthroup’s Beverly Hills office and canceled all my meetings and slept all day.
“It was unavoidable. Last minute,” he said.
Maria had gone. Dinner was over and we were sitting with snifters of calvados, a bottle of which he had brought back from Paris.
“You could have let me know.”
“How? By posting something on your computer that Christopher and everyone else at Broadthroup would read, or perhaps call you at home and leave a message with Winston? Besides you were coming out anyway and I knew I would see you tonight. And Jefferson promised to take good care of you.”
“Oh, he did.”
“I’m sure he did. To shift the subject slightly, the necklace goes perfectly with that dress.”
I was wearing light green linen, sleeveless, neckline curving just below the necklace, which lay against my skin, and matching medium high heels.
“Are you going to tell me why you wanted me to wear it?”
“No. I’m going to do better than that. I’m going to show you.”
I don’t know if it was something in his tone or in his manner, but I felt my body tense with anticipation.
“When you finish your drink.”
I upended the snifter. I took too much and, despite being thirty years old and smooth as silk, the calvados burned.
Brad shook his fat head sadly. “A waste. But since you are so eager, come on.”
I followed him into the bedroom area and watched anxiously as he crossed to the bank vault door and touched the keypad, becoming increasingly certain that something important was about to happen as the massive steel door swung silently open.
“After you,” he said.
I walked around him and into the vault, hesitating on the stairs while he stepped through, shuddering slightly as the door closed and I knew I was entombed.
My heels tapped down the stone steps, and I gasped as I neared the bottom and saw that the vault was already occupied.
Two naked figures that had been lying on their sides were struggling to come upright, at least to their knees. This was difficult because they were joined together at three points and their hands were behind them, held horizontally in the middle of their backs by black leather cuffs attached to straps suspended from thick black leather collars around their necks.
By the time Brad had made it down, they were on their knees, facing one another, as they had no choice but to do.
“Go ahead. Get closer. Look.” he said.
I took a tentative step.
The people were pleasant looking. Both, I thought, a little younger than I, late twenties or early thirties. The woman with short blond hair, and a trim figure, small breasts, good legs and ass, pretty rather than beautiful; the man with medium length medium brown hair, a nice face. If they were standing, I thought they would be nearly the same height, about 5’7″ or 5’8″, which was fortunate for them because otherwise the locks would have been even more uncomfortable for one or the other or both.
Steel rings pierced both her nipples and both of his. A small padlock secured her left nipple to his right and his right to her left. Lower, a steel ring running all the way through the head of his penis was locked to a similar ring running through the hood of her clit. Even when they moved in unison, the rings pulled, twisted, distending sensitive flesh. Both were completely devoid of pubic hair.
In the reflection from the highly polished metal walls of the vault, I thought I caught a glimpse of something else, and stepped around behind him, moved back a few steps, then behind her.
On the left cheek of their asses was the letter ‘B’ about one inch high, similar to the way Brad had drawn the initial on me for the pictures he sent to Winston. But these were not drawn. They were permanent tattoos.
The couple kept their heads down, eyes toward the floor, foreheads touching, and did not speak during my examination.
“So, what do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Do you like them?”
“Who are they? What are they? How long have they been here?”
“Forgive me. I have forgotten my manners. That is Tiffany and that is Bob. I am sure you can tell them apart. Tiffany and Bob, meet Lynn.”
They raised their heads and looked at me and said, “Hello,” as though we were meeting at a party.
“Tiffany and Bob are married. To each other. And they both belong to me. Don’t you?”
They both nodded agreement and said, “Yes.”
“I bought them at an auction more than a year ago. Bob works for me now at one of my concerns out in the San Fernando Valley, where they live with their two children, Mike, age 7, and Debbie, age 5. A typical all-American family, except for the fact that I own them.”
“You really mean it.”
“Of course I do.”
Remembering the reference that night at Chaucer’s, I said, “There are such auctions?”
“Yes. Mostly voluntary, though I know of instances even in this country where the individuals on the block may not be completely willing, and in other parts of the world, the Middle East, parts of Europe, the former Soviet Union, Japan. Well, there are different rules. Sometimes people let themselves be sold for only a few hours, or a single night; sometimes for a weekend or a week or a month. It all depends on their motivation. Some do it for the money; some the thrill. Some do it permanently. A married couple on the block is rare. I only happened to hear by chance from a dominatrix who knew their former owner that Tiffany and Bob were going to be sold . They have proven reasonably satisfactory. I have, of course, put my imprint on their bodies and had them pierced. What else did you ask? Oh, yes, they have been here since about 5:00 this afternoon. Waiting patiently.
“Generally they are quite obedient. But tonight they are to be punished. Partly it is my fault. I have been spending so much time with you that I have neglected them. They are not permitted to have sex, even with each other, or even to masturbate, without first obtaining my permission, which I usually refuse. But they did. Last Tuesday night, after tucking little Mike and even littler Debbie in bed, they retired to their own and, succumbing to overwhelming temptation, fucked. Twice to be exact.”
“How do you know that?”
“As much as I would like to rely on the honor system, alas my trust in human nature has too often been abused–though they quite probably would have confessed, wouldn’t you, just to be punished? I’ll bet there was even an extra frisson to the conjugal pairing in delicious anticipation of the retribution that would inevitably follow. But, no. I don’t rely on honor. They undergo a polygraph test monthly. And this month they failed.”
“Do you own many other people. slaves, whatever you call them?”
“I don’t know about many. Some.”
Brad took a long black leather whip, which lay coiled over the arms of one of the metal machines. “You had better step back,” he told me.
The man and the woman were still on their knees. “Straighten up.” Brad”s voice became sharp. Their bodies trembled, almost it seemed in anticipation rather than fear, as the end of the whip trailed slowly across their shoulders. “The interesting aspect of this is seeing how long it takes before love gives way to self-interest.”
The whip flicked out and struck a light blow.
Both of them gave what sounded like a sigh, and pressed their bodies closer together, flattening her breasts against his chest, the inch of his cock forward of the ring slipping between her labia.
For several blows of ever increasing severity, they remained pressed together, motionless. But with the fifth or sixth, one of them moaned, and they both began to flinch. The bodies broke apart, though they could not separate by more than a sliver of space, then contorted. Nipples tugged nipples, cock tugged clit, as each tried to escape the full force of the whip, which of course meant exposing the other to it. They fell onto their sides, rolled, the locked rings tugging until it seemed that flesh must tear, Bob trying to get below Tiffany, Tiffany below Bob.
I looked up from their writhing forms. Brad’s face remained calm, interested, observant, as his arm rose and fell as methodically as a pendulum. They began to beg him to stop, they howled promises of obedience, they promised anything. Tears spilled from their eyes; Bob’s first.
When Brad finally stopped, their backs were crisscrossed with red streaks from shoulder to thigh.
“Move apart,” Brad ordered.
Tiffany sobbed, “You know we can’t”
“As far as you can.”
On their sides, Tiffany on her left, Bob on his right, they wiggled a few inches apart. I was surprised to see that Bob’s cock was rock hard.
“Make him come,” Brad said.
“However you want, but I can’t see any way other than with your hand.”
They tired to help by pulling their legs back as I knelt between them and circled Bob with my hand, squeezing the shaft just below the ring, which felt strange as I bumped it with each stroke. As did the flesh of his hairless groin. It took only a few movements before he gasped through his tears, shuddered, and spurted hot fluid onto my hand. Tiffany gasped as some hit her clit, which had, of course, been tugged and stimulated as I masturbated him.
“Now her,” Brad ordered.
I moved my fingers to her mound. The hood pushed back. I rubbed Bob’s goo into Tiffany. The whipping had also brought her so close to release that I wondered again if there were people who could come just from being beaten. I wondered if I could. She cried out and thrust forward, pinning my hand between her and her husband.
I stood. Bob’s come still sticky and hot on my hand. And turned to Brad.
“Whip me,” I demanded.
“Because I agreed not to mark you. And there is no way I can guarantee to keep that promise once I start.”
“I don’t care.”
“But the conditions you insisted on are that Winston and the people at Broadthroup not know.”
“You know as well as I do that your hold on me doesn’t have anything to do with Broadthroup any more, and hasn’t for a long time. I want you to beat me. Harder than you did them. Harder than you have ever beaten anyone. They belong to you more than I do. And I don’t know how many others do as well. I want to be more yours than anyone is or can be.”
“Yes.” Then in a seeming non sequitur, “You have been to Madrid?”
“And you no doubt went to the Prado?”
“Well, I will tell you what I most remember about the Prado: the intricate hellish fantasies of Hieronymus Bosch, of course; how amazingly insipid were the early decorations of Goya; and, most vividly, the late painting by Goya of a wild eyed, mad eyed, bloody mawed Saturn devouring his son, whose already headless torso he clutches like a penitent a cross. Devour me.”
“Come on.” He spun away and started up the stairs.
“I said to come on. Do what you are damn well told.”
Confused I followed.
The vault door swung open after he tapped in the code. Moving with unusual urgency, he waddled across the room to the vast desk top on which sat an open Cartier case, a laptop computer, and, incongruously and inexplicably, the ash blond cheap whore wig. The case was full of video cassettes.
“There are all the tapes of you. Even the one Rex made. No other copies exist. The rest, everything, images, emails, everything is in the computer. Look.”
Leaning over, I saw that on the screen a file labeled ‘Lynn’ was open. In a window beside it the DELETE box was highlighted.
“All you have to do is click. Take the case. And go.”
“Is this it? Is this the end?” I heard my voice quaver.
“The cage door is open. You are free to fly away.”
“I don’t want to fly away. I don’t want to be free,” I cried.
He stood silently and studied me for a long minute. “Last chance.”
“I don’t want a last chance. Devour me.”
He scooped up the wig in one hand and my hand in the other. Totally bewildered I was half dragged back into the vault and down the stairs. I don’t even know if the door closed behind us.
Tiffany and Bob looked up curiously from the floor, but were ignored.
“Put this on,” Brad ordered, handing me the wig.
While I did so, using the walls as mirror, he pressed a button and a steel chain descended slowly from the ceiling.
“That’s good enough.” His voice and manner were abrupt, as though he were struggling with something within himself. He grabbed my wrists and secured them to the chain with leather cuffs. The hushed murmur of a hidden motor. The chain retracted, lifting my arms. When they were high over my head, pulling my body to full stretch, the chain stopped.
While Brad set up a digital video camera on a tripod, I felt as though an icy wave were breaking over me with the first glimmer of understanding.
The recording light came on.
Brad let it record me for perhaps a minute. Cold sweat soaked my upraised armpits.
“You know, don’t you?”
“I think so.”
“Do you want me to stop? There is still time.”
When I did not speak or move, he came around the camera and pulled the wig from my head, then retreated, letting the camera record me unadorned. The necklace was, of course, always clearly in view.
“Tell me,” he said.
And he pounced, grabbing the neckline of my dress, ripping, tearing down. Something, the zipper, scratched the length of my back. Involuntarily I cried out in surprise. The chain tightened, lifting me higher. The toes of my shoes scrambled at the floor, then encountered only air. Ten or twelve inches up the chain stopped. Brad stripped the ruined dress from me. One shoe fell off. The dress caught on the other, until he stooped and threw it and the shoe to the side.
I saw my reflection in the walls, dangling suspended, completely naked and helpless,
Brad unthreaded his belt, a wide brown leather strap, from his waist. I understood that this was more personal than a whip
The moment the belt was free, he struck. I had expected the first blow to be light, as it had been with the others. Momentarily I could not even remember their names. Tiffany and… What did it matter? But the belt fell with brutal force, exploding against my breasts, curling around my back, sending a white hot shock to my brain and starting my body to sway and twist.
There was no let up. Blow followed blow, the belt whistling through the air, until they all became one. My body was drenched: tears, snot, drool, sweat, blood. Pain built on pain. Became unendurable. I screamed. And screamed. Not for him to stop. Just screamed an animal scream. I did not want him to stop. I wanted to be overwhelmed, absorbed, totally consumed, to become one with the monster, to live in the belly of the beast, to be lost, shattered, destroyed. There was nothing but pain. And the woman I was, the Lynn I had been for thirty-six years, disappeared, vanished, I know not where: but the woman who, with the slackening of the chain, collapsed into a delirious heap on the vault floor, was not the same, was someone else, completely.
That woman screamed when her naked welt covered legs were torn apart and a great, crushing weigh fell upon her, forcing her slashed back against the floor. A thick angry cock thrust up her. A body fucked her, slamming in and out, oblivious to any but its own primordial male needs, while she cried out in agony. Her mind visualized the huge cock, could feel and see it swelling as its selfish orgasm neared, wondered dispassionately from a great distance if it might become so engorged it would split her before it shot out spurt after spurt of thick come, filling her, filling her completely, filling her to overflowing; and she thought what joy it would be to have such a bestial coupling result in impregnation.
She could not move, had no will to move, did not try, even after the crushing weight lifted. She must have descended into unconsciousness, because the next thing I knew, whoever I was who once had been Lynn, I was being lifted and carried up the stairs. From over Brad’s shoulder, I saw two naked bodies lying face to face on the floor, staring up at me in awe and in fear.
Numb, I felt nothing. Mercifully, at least briefly, the pain was gone, the gift of an devastated nervous system.
He lay me on the bed, propped up against the pillows.
“Here,” he said.
When I remained in a stupor, he slapped my cheek.
“Here, Lynn. Focus. For a minute. Then I’ll get something to help you sleep.”
And he pushed the laptop computer into my hands.
Instantly I was shocked to full awareness. I knew what I would find. There was the image of me in another lifetime hanging suspended wearing the wig; followed by me without the wig, the wig that had been so prominent in so many past images; then me naked, my body unmarked, waiting. A gasp at an image of my body caught in spasm at the instant of the belt’s impact, partially hidden by Brad’s shoulder, my mouth open in a silent scream. Crumbled, destroyed, obliterated on the floor. Then barely visible on the floor below a hairy naked back and ass. Then legs spread, cunt lips spread, body covered in bruises and welts and come. Bruises that will take weeks to heal, I thought, if I am not permanently scared. And in all the pictures, the beautiful, unique Chinese necklace was crystal clear.
The email was addressed, as I knew it would be, to Winston.
“What will happen?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “That is what makes it interesting.
Without being told, I clicked on SEND. And instantly a great calm descended over me.