No matter what else may be happening in the world on any particular day, a shocking sex crime will always rate page-one headlines in the newspapers. And yet, very few people have any clear understanding of what sex crimes are really all about, and the sex criminal is probably surrounded with more misconceptions than any other individual in today's society.
Some research has been done on the subject, of course, and many people have devoted a good deal of thought to it. In fact, nearly a century has gone by since the great Krafft-Ebing himself, in the preface to the first edition of Psychopathia Sexualis, wrote, "Certain it is that so far as sexual crimes are concerned erroneous ideas prevail, unjust decisions are given, and the law as well as public opinion are on first view prejudiced against the offender."
To the average person, the words "sex criminal" probably evoke a picture of a dirty old man who molests children, rapes women, or exposes himself in public. The average man in the street would almost undoubtedly judge him to be insane or mentally retarded without giving the matter any further thought, Actually, however, the situation is much more complicated.
Murray L. Cohen, Ph.D., and Richard J. Boucher have had considerable experience in this field. They have worked with offenders, with police and correctional officers, and with lawyers, psychiatrists and psychologists. To add to their own personal experience, they have surveyed large numbers of people and have classified the conceptions and misconceptions they have found. Writing in the March 1972 issue of Sexual Behavior magazine, they set forth some of their findings: "The common denominator of these misconceptions appears to be the need to make the sexual criminal an alien being, someone as different from the 'decent, upstanding' citizen as possible. He doesn't feel as they do, live as they do. They share none of the same human needs.
"These misconceptions are not the sole property of the uninformed. Physicians, lawyers, teachers, and other professionals who have little or no direct contact with such offenders, nonetheless see the sexual criminal in an alien light, in terms of constitutional abnormality, disease, brain damage, or genetic defect.
Regardless of the implicit physical factor, the common element is that there is some endocrinological, neurological, genetic, or other pathology. Here, too, is the belief that the behavior of such afflicted persons is irremediable, that treatment is of no avail, that such persons should spend the remainder of their lives in maximally controlled institutions.
"Another type of misunderstanding contains a more heterogeneous set of errors but can be grouped together because they involve a denial of the disturbances within the sexually deviant individual. In this group are included those who see the sexual offender as the victim of a repressive society, a society ruled by Victorian, Judeo-Christian morality which self-righteously imposes on man the suppression of his natural sexual inclinations. Some take the position that there are no sexual criminals, only sexually criminal societies.
Others recognize sexually offensive behavior but fault pornography laws, advocate early sex education, open familial sexuality, and legalized prostitution. As if sexual crime is a direct result of a lack of sexual outlets or an absence of sexual expression or of ignorance regarding human sexuality! Such observers mistake symptom for cause and are crude apologists by denying personal responsibility." It is easy to agree that personal responsibility should not be denied, but the question of exactly who is responsible will remain in a great many cases. There is frequently a dilemma involved, and Peter Kevin's new novel, Punish Me, Daddy, illustrates just one example of such an ambiguous case. While Mr. Kevin is first and foremost a writer of fiction, he insists that his work be convincing, and his own researches have paralleled those of Cohen and Boucher. His findings have resulted in a particularly intriguing book.
There are many characters in this novel who would qualify as sex criminals under the laws of our society.
But in the picture Mr. Kevin so deftly paints, the crimes they commit have only one victim, and there is considerable evidence that the victim, whether wittingly or otherwise, provokes the crimes herself. There are many things about Jeri we do not know. We are given only the essentials of her present situation. It is a situation that should be pleasant, for Jeri has obviously been through psychiatric treatment and is considered to be cured. How effective the cure has been is a question each reader will have to answer for himself. But the sordid life into which Jeri plunges�_"through her own choice or through her own desperate need�_"certainly leaves considerable room for doubt.
Are the men Jeri encounters sex criminals? Or is Jeri herself the criminal, merely provoking the latent sadistic tendencies of the men she encounters? There are many questions here, and Mr. Kevin deliberately provides no absolute answers. This is a book to make the reader think�_" to think about the very large question of individual responsibility and the even larger one of what constitutes the fabric of the society he lives in.
While some of those thoughts may be frightening ones, we hope sincerely that in the long run they will be constructive.
-The Publishers
CHAPTER ONE
I went into the little bar and found him. I didn't know he would be there, and he couldn't have known I would come in. I don't believe in fate or predestination. I wanted to have a drink and to think about what my past life had been, especially now that it was all in shambles around me.
My body had recovered completely over those months with the counselor, but there didn't seem to be much hope for me. I guess that was my motive for seeking out the dismal little bar; I wanted to try to recapture some of that glow of desire I had experienced so many times before I was hurt, where there was no pain.
He was a stranger, but then all the men in my life had been mostly strangers, even the ones I loved a lot.
He wasn't young or old, neither strikingly handsome nor perversely ugly, but there was that quality in his eyes when I first saw him that told me that he would have been one of my masters at some other time. The eyes were bold, communicative and powerful at the same time. I had seen eyes like that before and I had bowed to their every desire.
He was sitting in the middle section of the bar, sipping some kind of a highball, when I first went in, but I'm sure he wasn't looking at me until I ordered a drink. If he had looked at me when I came through the door I was unaware of it because of the dimness of the bar to which my eyes had not yet grown accustomed.
I drank my drink quickly after he looked at me, wanting to leave as soon as possible, but not wanting to leave, either, for I could feel that tingle of excitement course through my body and it brought back memories of all that I had been, of all the pain-pleasure that had been part of my life. I ordered another drink and tried to recall some of the events of that life, but only flashes of memory came to me: a whip in the hands of a man who had just tied me up or the taste of a gag in my mouth to prevent my shrieks of pain from disturbing the world outside or the parade of penises that once filled my mouth, my cunt and my anus, and my mouth slithering over a woman's breast and my tongue plunging deep into her widespread vagina. The drink fuzzed it over and the blood rushed to my head as the thoughts came and stayed and then fluttered out of view of the mind's eye, my memory. I was all of those things in the past: masochist, lesbian, cocksucker... and I cringed at the word even as it was physically causing me sensuous discomfort.
After that second drink, nothing seemed to matter very much any more, and when the man with the cold eyes came over to the stool next to mine I was almost pleased.
He knew.
Somehow I had the feeling that he knew all about me and knew what I was and what I had been. He ordered another round of drinks and spoke to me softly with just a touch of the menace that I had always found so attractive in men. And it was all that was necessary.
We finished and left the dismal little bar, taking a cab to his apartment. There was hardly any conversation between us, and that was all right with me for I didn't feel like talking, as though words spoken out loud might then-and-there break that peculiar spell of dark passion that was flushing through me. I wanted to remain silent and let him do what he had to do to me. I didn't have to say anything.
He pushed me gently through the door and into a small single bedroom, more like a hotel room than an apartment, but not quite as neat. The bed wasn't made and there was an odor in the room of sour socks and whiskey, but I wasn't disturbed by it. All of this seemed so fitting for me, so right for picking up where I had left off, that I ignored its ugliness and let the tingling sensations of growing passion carry me along.
I heard the door shut with that finality of hotel doors, listening then for the smooth hard sound of the dead bolt sliding into place. I had only taken a few steps into the room before he was behind me, hands sliding up and down my torso, squeezing at the flair of my hips and riding the soft fabric of my tailored suit to close over my bulging breasts.
His mouth came down, slightly rancid from whiskey, and pressed into the soft flesh of my neck, sucking on the nerve to send its message down to my crotch. I moaned and made the involuntary reflex of turning away, but he held me firmly by the breasts and continued for a long time. We stood there like that too long and I wanted to do something, to strip out of my clothing and let his penis probe into me, but I stood there without making that first move, the initiation to sex had to be his move, his move that would master me.
I was expecting violence from him, but he just told me to get undressed when he broke from the embrace.
He was removing his trousers before I responded, but I caught up to his pace and was undressed, naked, fevered and waiting for him. He rose from the chair where he had sat down to remove his shoes and came over to me, holding me back just at arm's length to better view what he was about to enjoy. I turned at his hands' request and let him see the swelling curve of my hips and buttocks and then stepped over to the bed.
He grabbed the blanket and sheet and pulled them completely off the bed, leaving only the pillow, rumpled and slightly stained, at the head of the bed, and dropped the linens on the floor. I sat down on the edge of the bed and waited as he lay down behind me, waited for his hands to pull me over to his side or touch me or beat me. It had been so long, I thought, and yet I waited for him to get comfortable and when his hands finally reached out for me, I fell backwards, turning at the same time and coming to rest beside him, my breasts pressed against his hairy chest.
My hand and arm reached over his, but he pushed it down to his crotch and guided my fingers around his penis, now hard and hot, throbbing with excitement. I knew the movements necessary to keep him excited and performed the strokes, holding the muscular shaft loosely in my fingers and running them up to the pulsing head, squeezing the tip and returning down almost to where his pubic hair tufted up. My head was cradled in his other arm, but it would not stay there long and it didn't as I could feel the pressure of his arm pushing my head down over his chest and down farther still.
I folded myself and brought my face down to his penis where my hand was still working him, but I didn't immediately take him into my mouth. I was curious and I just wanted to masturbate him for a little while, knowing that it would only be a moment before he would signal me to put my mouth over his cock. His arm pressured me to suck him, but I resisted, waiting for the expected slap to get me going. But he was still again, allowing me to look and to keep stroking him.
Of my own freewill then I covered his penis with my mouth, taking him deep into it, sucking, salivating and rolling my tongue over the head. He moaned with obvious delight and put his hands on the back of my head, holding the hair in a loose grip. My head bobbed up and down over his genitals and turned now and then to add still another jolt of excitement to what I was doing. As I twisted my head going down on his cock, my teeth grazed his meaty shaft and my tongue licked his glans. Without being aware of it at first I realized that my hands were between his legs, fondling his testicles, and my fingers probed under his buttocks and settled at his anal opening to set up an erotic rhythm in time with my bobbing head.
His was the first penis I'd had in my mouth since I had been released from the hospital. He was the first man I had been with for a long time, and the emotion that I must have held back during that convalescent period swelled up in my loins and I could feel myself getting damp and ready for penetration. He started to pump his hips in counter-rhythm to my head, but then he stopped and I could feel my hair being pulled back, forcing me to release his penis from my mouth. He pulled me by the hair right back to his chest and rolled me over on my back. My legs were spread and the knees pushed back to my chest, my calves placed over his shoulders and then he shoved his penis into me, sinking into my wet crotch with such forceful suddenness that I gave out a little cry of pain.
He was kneeling, his thighs almost supporting my buttocks, and his penis tautly pressed against the upper wall of my vagina. Our movements were tantalizingly slow after his first thrust into me, and I wondered how long it would be before he got down to the short strokes and how painful they would be. My shins closed in on either side of his neck; holding his head in that strange frame, I almost was ready to laugh, but his position shifted just enough to give me another area of excitement to concentrate upon. As he gradually leaned his full weight over me, I dropped my legs down to his calves, wrapping my feet over them and squeezing my thighs tightly around his hips.
Perspiration rolled over his forehead and dripped onto my face, but I closed my eyes and let myself wallow in the pleasure of his body taking pleasure of mine. But there wasn't really much in it after a while. I was thinking of the times that a man's hand could bring me to orgasm, but that was through pain. He was not giving me any pain and because of that not any great degree of pleasure. When he reached his climax, it was only necessary to push him aside and he rolled over. I was disappointed and went quickly into the little shower and cleaned myself up.
He was on the bed, smoking and drinking from a bottle, when I returned, but he made no move to stop me when I went for my clothes and began dressing. He offered a drink from the bottle, but I shook my head and finished dressing. I could feel some nausea then as the sour socks and the stale whiskey aroma blended itself in the newer smells of sweat and perfume and urine.
I said good-bye and went to the door, looking back at him, but he only nodded and I left.
Everything in my apartment seemed to mock me when I returned that evening. It was all so nice and clean and warm, and I felt so dirty in comparison. The drink I made and drank and the second one I held in my hand didn't offer much consolation to the way that I was feeling. It was depression; I had been told to expect it. Yet knowing about it did not make it go away. I finished the second drink and mixed a third, but the depression remained with me as did the frustration of the afternoon.
But what was it I was looking for that afternoon? Excitement? No, it was curiosity. I wanted to prove something to myself, that I was normal, but I had only proved to myself I was not. He had been a vigorous lover, but I could think only of why he had not knocked me around. Didn't he know that's what I needed? I had been certain I had made it clear to him that it was punishment I wanted to feel, and yet he did not respond that way.
I turned on the stereo and sipped my third drink, not knowing just what I was going to do. My office had given me an extended leave of absence, but I wanted to do something. And the more I thought about it the more I knew what I would end up doing would be to try to live out the frustration of that day and try something else the next. It seemed so logical that I began to relax for the first time, even gloating over knowing it was the turmoil of trying to keep up some normal facade over the feelings I really had that was turning me upside-down.
All that crap about my father and my wanting to sleep with him might have been true at one time, I told myself, but now, after all these years, it was that strange full satisfaction that I craved and only got when I could feel the sting of a man's hand slapping my bare flesh or the feel of warm leather that could cut me, hurt me.
I thought so much about it, about the pain, I found myself getting physically excited. I was alone, but I didn't care to go out in search of some man to keep me company until the next day. There was just one obvious thing to do, and before I knew what I was actually doing I was already doing it. My fingers had slipped up underneath my panties, my legs were spread, and the nails were scratching at my clitoris. I watched the ice in my drink melt as my fingers toyed with my pussy, growing sticky now and then shocking me with an uncontrollable orgasm.
I had not masturbated for many years, and while it helped to relieve the frustration I was feeling that night, I also felt disgusted with myself for having done it that way. But the orgasm was so intense I simply leaned back in the chair and let its euphoria creep over me for a long time. The relaxation did not last as long as I would have liked it to. I finished the melting drink and, feeling the effect of the alcohol at last, I let myself be dizzy and told myself nothing mattered any more, I could do damned near anything that struck my fancy�_"and going over to my closet struck my fancy.
On returning from the hospital, I had boxed up all those little things that labeled me perverse, the collection of whips, leather thongs and straps, riding crops and birch rods. Those were the implements of my debasement in front of so many men and women, and I was in such shock that I simply hid them. Now, with a few drinks and a lot of frustration, I unpacked the box, lifting each item as it came to hand and trying to remember where or when I had used this or that or, rather, when this or that had been used on my naked flesh.
The riding crop was most popular, but it could cut so deeply that I had been gagged many times when it was used on me. The whip was long, thin and cruelly knotted at the end of the braided leather, yet still soft to the touch. I put on the small wrist straps, fastening them tightly enough to almost stop the blood from circulating through my hands, and tried to imagine what sort of subjugation I might have been put through while wearing them.
It was all so distant and vague that evening, I hardly remember slipping out of my clothes and going to bed. What dreams I had that night are just as removed from my memory, but when I awoke the next morning I was drenched in perspiration and the bed clothing was tossed and twisted about the bed.
It had not been a restful sleep.
The warm water of the tub revived my spirits and my resolve. Even as I getting over the previous night's depression I knew that the sessions with the counselor had to end. We had worked hard on my problem, but now I no longer felt that it was a problem. The only problem I had then was my physical frustration and I knew exactly what to do about that. Smiling, I slipped deeper into the warm water and planned how I would go about making another contact that would please me, hurt me, and give me the satisfaction that I so dearly craved.
I felt buoyed up with elation as I dressed sometime around noon, selecting one of the more provocative outfits that I had in my wardrobe. It was a silky number, exposing the deep cleavage I have with the right brassiere, and softly outlining all the nuances of my figure. Though fitting easily, it did not give me a hard look; in that dress I looked slightly helpless or naive. That was the impression I wanted to create when I went hunting. And that's what I had been planning all during the bath, a hunting trip, hunting for the right man, a man who would do with me what I most wanted to be done: to be whipped and hurt until all past memories had been blotted out in one long anguished shriek of pain and passion.
There wasn't any particular place I could go, as some people go to queer bars for that or to swap joints for an easy pickup. I decided on a little cocktail lounge on the north side, a place I had been to before, but not very often. It was once a hangout for a bright group of artist types and I had found a guy there who liked to whip women. I hailed a cab with enthusiasm and gave the driver directions. He knew of the place and we drove off in silence.
I went into the place all confident and ready to pick up the first man who looked like the type I was searching for. Typically dark, it was surprisingly empty, but then I realized that it was hardly much beyond one o'clock in the afternoon. I sat at a table and let the bartender take and deliver my order as he didn't even have a waitress at that time of day, but he seemed glad to have me around. I drank my double martini slowly, smoking and just letting my mind wander around the room, hardly noticing anything except that this was so different from the place I had been to on the previous afternoon.
When he came in I hardly noticed him as I was still deep in the non-thought of my post-depression elation, but he noticed me. The bartender came over to my table and asked me if it would be all right for the gentleman to buy me a drink. I smiled and shook my head. Not now, I told the bartender. Of course not now, I told myself. I wanted to get a chance to look at him from a distance, to gauge him in the light of his cruelty, to try to imagine what he would be like swinging a riding crop across the passion-wet flesh of my thighs or jamming his penis into my mouth or into my anus.
He was not bad-looking, smartly dressed in conservative clothing and chatting merrily with the bartender. I couldn't see his eyes, he wasn't looking my way. He towered over the bartender even while he was seated. I had always liked tall men. I couldn't hear what he was saying to the bartender, but it must have been funny�_"the bartender laughed softly and shook his head as though the man had just told him the most incredible story he had ever heard. It was masculine company, a place where I had no business, and though I wanted to change my mind about having a drink with him I knew that this was not the right time to bring it up.
I finished my drink and sucked the pimento out of the large olive, turning my head towards the bar just in time to see that the man was looking at me. I smiled and made a motion to the bartender, nodding for another drink. I suppose that I knew the man would bring the drink over to me, although there was nothing outward about my wanting him to do so. He just took the drink from the bartender and came over to my table. We were the only patrons in the place at the time.
"Please," he said softly with just a trace of a foreign accent, "please let me buy you this drink?" I hadn't expected it to be a question, but since he held the glass, I simply nodded and smiled. "May I join you?" And I smiled again like some schoolgirl and nodded my head. His voice intrigued me: very cultured and quite appealing with its trace of accent.
When he sat beside me, I noticed how the candle flame caught the edges of his gray hair, turning it buttery yellow, and how the same light accented the features of his face, sharp lines, straight nose, high forehead and a mouth slightly moist and open, but still retaining a hard look. A cruel mouth, I thought, and settled down to taking my drink without looking at him more. I remember he spoke a lot of his native land, far off and buried now in some totalitarian regime that escapes me, but he hinted at dark things that went on there and how, soon, he would find a way back to his rightful place.
It all sounded so very romantic that I hardly noticed and didn't object when I realized I was listening intently to him but not hearing a word he was saying or that he had his hand on my thigh. His voice was hypnotic, soothing and strangely powerful, yet I know he hardly ever spoke much louder than a whisper.
His name was Jorge and it naturally meant nothing to me whatsoever. I only knew I was about to find someone who might be able to give me what I wanted so desperately that day.
Jorge's features cleared as I grew accustomed to the dim lighting in the room and I noticed his hair was not totally gray, but just shading into that mature color from the temples up. Still his mouth remained the same, holding its original look of sensuous cruelty with its open lower lip and straight upper lip. His eyes, sometimes a man's most interesting aspect, were dark, heavily browed and heavily lidded like someone who lived a great deal outdoors.
"... then you will have dinner with me?"
The inflection rose and caught me off-guard. I do not remember saying I would have dinner with him; I don't remember his asking until that note of finality in his voice. I liked that tone and smiled again, foolishly and feeling younger than I had felt in months. I nodded my head and added, "Yes, Jorge. I think it would be fun. I'd love to have dinner with you."
I spoke only because I was afraid that nodding my head in answer to his every question would make me look quite a fool and, though I wanted to be dominated by this man, I didn't want him to think me some kind of simpleton. I must have already given him that impression, I thought, but, no, Jorge was much too wrapped up in the influence of his own ego to notice I had one, too. And it would have mattered little to him if someone had pointed out the concept to him.
We ate a small supper at a busy nightclub, danced through several numbers, and drank champagne. The wine made me sober. I had been used to drinking heavier than that: scotch and martinis; but somehow I didn't mind not getting that sweet buzz of alcohol that came with stronger drink. I was happy to be with Jorge, to be at his side and to feel his cool fingers brush against my thigh or squeeze my hips when we danced.
I think his choice of a noisy dining place was intentional because the loudness was getting to me just enough to make me susceptible to accepting his invitation to have a quiet drink at his place. The noise was suddenly overwhelming, loud, tinny and totally out of place for my mood.
And the lights were too bright.
Or was that the suggestive way he mentioned things and made me believe them? It's hard to recall just what it was about Jorge; he affected me that way on many occasions.
No volition was left in me when he steered me out of the nightclub. I wanted to go and, still ambivalent, I didn't care what he wanted to do, whether it was go to his place or to remain even though I know I wanted to go with him to his apartment. I let myself be completely docile with him, following him out to the cabstand and let him gently push me into the back seat of the cab. An old euphoria was creeping over me, and I don't even remember what his address was that first night.
He was calm and talking very quietly to me about his country when the cab came to a stop in front of one of those townhouses. It was dreary looking from the outside, and I was almost afraid to go in, but there was a lamp over the door that shone meagerly over a well-tended lawn and I noticed that the glass in the entrance door glistened like black crystal. But the light didn't shine above the entry and all I could make out was the towering bulk shadowed against the night sky.
Jorge took me by the hand and led me up the steps to the entry, opening the door for me and, once again, gently pushing me inside.
There was a small vestibule and then another door behind which, when opened, flowed a soft delicate lighting, a rich-looking oriental rug and paneled walls whose waxen sheen caught soft highlights from the chandelier. It was so different from the exterior of the house that I was caught off-guard. Jorge was full of surprises, I thought, and I hardly knew him.
We went into the library, a room right out of a movie set, complete with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, shuttered windows, ornate leather-topped desk and leather chairs and sofas. I slipped out of my jacket and sat on the edge of one of the sofas while Jorge went to a breakfront and brought out brandy.
I sipped the brandy slowly, savoring its heady aroma and even blinking back tears as my breath caught its vapors and blew them back into my eyes. All the while, Jorge went on in that soft, hypnotic voice about the virtues of his country's brandy, extolling virtues to it that I really didn't feel. But it was pleasant there on the soft, rich leather of the sofa, listening to his voice, letting myself be lulled into the magic of the time and the place.
I don't remember just when it started, but sometime during the early part of the night Jorge brought out some rare books. Some were expensively bound classics that any college girl would have recognized, and as I oohed and aahed over them, he very happily went to get more from the high shelves around the room.
But they were not all quite that classic. Gradually, Jorge was leaning over me as he leafed through a brilliantly illustrated volume of the Arabian Nights, with fantastic color plates of virile men and voluptuous women in every conceivable position of sexual intercourse. I could feel Jorge's breath coming rapidly down my neck even as I could feel the stirrings of desire swell up in my own loins and tingle the nipples of my breasts. I was enchanted by the pictures, but somewhat disappointed until he turned to a story about an evil and beautiful servant girl who was being tortured. Suddenly my heart began to pound as I looked at the picture of the naked girl, stretched painfully spread-eagled over a table of some sort. Her nipples had been ripped from their full cushiony breasts, her face, tear-streaked and beautiful, made a silent scream, and her eyes reflected the horror of what the Nubian was about to do to her vagina. She looked as though she was pleading with the reader to stop the awful act which only happened in the fiction of the book, but it was real enough for me to want to close my thighs. I swear that I could almost feel the hot poker singeing the pubic hair, and for a moment I held my breath as I expected the evil heat to sear my sex.
That was the key, of course, and even as the perspiration formed on my brow, I knew that Jorge knew what I was and why I was held so fascinated to the picture. His hand slipped under my dress to the flesh above my stockings and pinched the area just where the inner part of my thigh swelled out under the pressure of well-fitting stockings. I leaned back close to his body and spread my legs for him, inviting him into my body in any way that he wanted to enter.
I was not surprised when he eased me back on the leather sofa, slipping my shoes off and kissing the toes under the stockings until I thought that I would die with the exquisite pleasure of it. Nor was there surprise when he pulled me to my feet and gestured for me to get undressed.
"Leave your stockings on, Jeri, and your garter belt." He had his back to me while he talked and I could see he was pouring another brandy for himself, not even bothering to look at me as I shed my dress and draped it over one of the chairs. I struggled with my bra for a moment before I could free my breasts and dropped the filmy item on top of my dress. But I remembered my weeks in the hospital as my fingers edged to the elastic of my panties, and I hesitated, thinking of what I had been through before, all the humiliation, the pain.
"Take off the panties, Jeri." His voice was calm and well-modulated, not very different from what it had been when I had first met him, but the difference was there, soft and menacing. My fingers slowly grasped the elastic and I rolled the panties down over my hips, exposing my Venus mound and its soft tuft of hair. And that was all there was left to expose, I thought, and I quickly stepped out of the panties and stood before Jorge, naked in all the private things that were a woman's, my bare breasts and my eager vagina.
"That's much better," he said, and walked over to another bookcase. He reached for a volume on one of the middle shelves, but instead of a book, he slid back a panel and told me to come over to him. I padded over in my stockinged feet, feeling small and quite helpless now that my high heels were off, and looked into the cabinet behind the false front of the bookcase.
An admirable collection of riding crops, whips and leather wristbands was on display.
He fondled them with obvious intentions, to let me see that he knew, really knew, what I was and what I would like to have happen to me. I looked at the implements he had hidden in the cabinet, nearly wishing that I could reach out and touch them, to feel the warm texture of the leather and harsh metal of the strong clasps on the bands and the tight braid of the woven riding crop. My hands wouldn't move, though my eyes danced over these tools of pain and the desire was wringing me weak.
Jorge lifted my chin between his cool fingers and looked down into my face, but my eyes remained fixed on the leather in his cabinet.
"You'll like these, Jeri," he whispered. "But have you ever worn something like this?" He held up a leather corset and forced my eyes to look at it. The leather was red with black seams and stout black lacing at the back. It had no brassiere and the lower portion was more than high enough to expose me from the waist down.
It was simply a cinching device to give me an extremely narrow waist and yet still allow a clean flow of body line to my hips and my breasts. There was no need for me to answer him. And he did not expect an answer from me. I had already surrendered to him when I saw the picture of the girl in the book. All he had to do was lace me up as tightly as he desired.
I was a little wrong about the corset. It had a small uplift of some firm material that held the lower part of my breasts high, pressing them up and slightly in to give me a heightened look of deep cleavage. Jorge was gentle in putting it on me, lacing me up slowly and constantly adjusting my breasts by lifting them by the nipples until, when they were finally seated at the angle he wanted, they were burning and hard.
When he had finished putting on the corset, my rib cage felt constricted and my breath was coming in short gasps. I found it impossible to take a deep breath for the corset, although only slightly uncomfortable when I relaxed, was as rigidly wrapped around me as if it were made of steel bands.
Turning me around, Jorge smiled and said that I was just perfect, just perfect; he repeated, and reached back into the cabinet and took out four of the wristbands. I knew what he wanted and without his asking I held out my hands and let him slip them over each wrist. Then I lifted one foot at a time for him to attach them to my ankles.
"That's beautiful, my dear. But now for the best."
I turned around in time to see him reach into a small drawer and take out the beautifully made diamond collar. It was a high collar, and when he fastened it around my neck my head was forced back to keep it from pressing into the soft part of my chin. Once he had it in place, I realized how effective the collar was. I could only hold my head on a line that kept my chin nearly on the same plane as my collarbone. Except for not being able to bend my head down, the collar was not uncomfortable, and though snugly fastened around my neck, I only felt the soft leather lining next to my flesh.
Jorge turned me around to face him once more, but this time my head held rigidly upright, and I was forced to look directly into his face. He was smiling, but his eyes were glistening like the sheen on the paneling. For a moment there in that room with its strange books and ominous leather accessories I was almost afraid. But I told myself that there was no fear like the fear of that terrible aching for the feel of a man's hand or whip raised against my erring flesh.
"This way, my dear," he said, taking me by the elbow and leading me over to a small table. It was about the height and dimensions of a typewriter table, but it was covered with soft fur. I hadn't noticed it before for the fur was dark brown and the table had stood in another corner of the room. But I knew instinctively what the thing was for. It was not a table but a special device. Instead of having legs, it was solid like a block of granite and at each of the four corners near the floor there were buckles. They will attach to my bracelets and ankle bands, I said to myself, but see how short the length of the table is; then I realized why he had put the collar around my neck.
I wanted to back out of what I thought he was going to do to me, but my muscles would not move away from his touch nor did my arms resist when he pulled me gently over the small table and attached my wrists to either side of the furred bench. My head jutted over the edge of the table and, though my legs were extended straight behind me, I knew that Jorge would have a better position for me.
When he assured himself that my wrists were securely fastened to the table, Jorge went around behind me.
I could not see him since the collar allowed very little room in which to turn my neck. My arms were stretched almost to their fullest, keeping my shoulders pressed down against the soft fur and the unyielding rigidity of the table. My breasts were pressed against it tightly, too.
I waited, hardly daring to breathe, much less say a word. Whatever Jorge had in mind, he was going to do it in his own time, at his own pace. But then I felt my legs being spread wide until I was forced to bend my knees. Jorge buckled the ankle straps to the fasteners on the bottom of the table. I was like some strange, naked jockey riding a horse from hell, my rear up in the air and my head extended out in front. Still I could find no courage for words and I'm sure that I didn't want those words, just as I'm sure that no words would have stopped Jorge from continuing to play with me in the way he wanted to.
My neck muscles were beginning to feel the strain of the position I was in, but I couldn't lower my head to rest because of the collar. I coughed and nearly choked. Then I found that by raising my hips higher, within the confines that I was in, I could relieve some of the pressure on my neck, knowing that when I did so I had to spread my legs even wider, exposing my sex and my anus to Jorge's gaze. I knew he was watching me for I could feel his gaze like something tactile and hard. But the pain in my neck was too much and I raised my hips again to get some kind of momentary relief.
His cool fingers shocked me when they suddenly jabbed themselves into my vagina, spreading the lips far apart and insinuating themselves deep into my body. I cried out with the pleasure and pain of the sudden onslaught and then gasped as his thumb rammed itself deep into my anus. When I caught my breath again, I knew that my hips had involuntarily pressed down hard against the furred table, a position that I was unable to hold very long before my neck began to ache and I had to rise up to meet his insolent fingers. Then, quite as suddenly, he withdrew his hand from my bottom entirely, leaving me quaking with a keen frustrated pleasure so sharp, indeed, that I cried out again as I had before when he penetrated me.
Jorge came around to the front of the table where I could see him. His face was smiling with an evil that I had only suspected before, his mouth, once sensuous and firm, was now hanging loose and-his tongue kept flicking over his lower lip. Then he turned away from me, going again behind me where I could not see him.
But he didn't immediately assault me, leaving me wondering in anticipation what he was about to do next.
If I had not been in the position I was in I would have laughed at him, at his costume, actually, for it looked like something out of his books. He wore what looked like hip boots and his eyes were covered with a black mask. It was a fantasy, I thought, some strange nightmare from which I would awake at any moment. Yet the costume, despite my initial thought of amusement, excited me, too, giving that damp feeling of ecstasy from my mouth down to the inner lips of my vagina. In the dim light of the room, I was almost unaware that all he wore were the boots and the mask. His genitals were exposed, the penis fully erect.
"I suppose you think that my costume is a far-fetched, Jeri. It is a bit of an exaggeration, I admit, but I feel that it helps set the stage for what is to follow. First, however, I'm going to make a little insertion into you. Oh no, not in your mouth. Not just yet, at any rate.
"This ingenious little device I found in one of those men's magazines. Interesting, isn't it?" He held up a penis-shaped tube made of plastic. It was about seven inches long, at least two inches or more in circumference. Then he opened the flat end of it and showed me the battery that was inside. "It's a portable vibrator, Jeri, and you know what I'm going to do with it." I flinched as he inserted the cool object deep into my vagina, but it was soon warmed by the heat from my body. He turned it on and the soft humming turned instantly into a throbbing sensation that filled me with involuntary spasms of twitching.
The cheeks of my buttocks closed together in an effort to expel the thing, but it buzzed on sending its obscene message coursing through my loins. It would not come out by any attempts on my part, I knew, and seemingly with each spasm it drove itself deeper into me until I was panting with the tingling, raw-nerved sensation of an impending climax. My pelvis slammed down against the table and I tried to control myself but I couldn't. The damned thing buzzed on, sending me along in one fit of orgasm after another. And when I thought I couldn't take another instant of it, Jorge brought the riding crop harshly down across my helpless haunches.
I cried, but the scream that I wanted to rip out of my throat gagged against the confining collar around my neck. But the tears came in increasing floods as he brought down the crop again and again. My buttocks and my thighs were afire with pain, but my cunt was searing with the vibrations of the device he had inserted in me. The pain and the burning became too much for me and I must have passed out. Very convenient, I thought in that instant when I was still partly conscious and still aware of the stinging blows raining on the entire length of my body.
There was a pool of wet beneath me when I came to; a damp odor mingled with the smell of fur and sweat.
Jorge had removed the vibrator and the collar in that moment of blackness or minute or hour of sleep. All I could feel was fatigue and a kind of lazy apathy. I no longer strained against the leather straps that bound me to his table. At that first moment of consciousness, I'm not certain whether I was even still attached to them.
That's how limp I felt.
Gradually I was aware of his hands laying cold cloths over me, soothing the fevered flesh and bringing me back to the ugly reality of what I had done. In that half-dream haze of just awakening, I caught the fleeting pattern of my life, from my uncle so many years ago to the humiliating attempt to seduce my own father to the countless times that I had allowed a man or a woman to chastise my body to clear away some of the memories in the sweeping shock of physical pain. And I just barely caught a mind's glimpse of the character who had beaten me so badly and the slow recovery, of long talks that meant nothing and the agonizing hours I had spent putting it all down on paper before.
Now I was back where I had started. Little more in my own mind than I had been before, another cipher for the cruelties of my own perverse brain, victim and tormentor, I was both, for I tormented myself.
All these thoughts were rapid, like the flashing of a high-speed camera, hardly visual in the physical sense of time and yet lingering on in the extended space of the mind like slow-motion. I had come full cycle: from dabbler in pain to the full realization of what I had been �_"and now this. This was the beginning again as though nothing before me had ever really happened. My face was wet with tears, but I could only feel the wet. I didn't want to look around, certainly not to become aware of where I was or what I was doing at the time. But I knew it and my mind wouldn't let go of the notion that I had fallen back to some darkness of my past and Jorge was simply a vehicle for my reincarnation of the devil in my own dreams.
He washed my face gently. And I began to think of how strange it must be to be a man and to use a woman in the manner that Jorge had just used me and then, quite suddenly, become gentle. Was it fear that I might be hurt? I would never know, but I was grateful in one instant for what he had done to me, both the punishment that he had given me and that now he was being kind to me. I even looked up at him, though I was still hazy of vision.
Jorge unstrapped me and helped me off of the table and led me over to the backless sofa and I lay down.
* * *
It must have been several days later that I began to recall what had happened after he had taken me off of his table. During the evening or early morning, I awoke one more time and we drank some more. And we had sexual relations. Then he put me in a cab and sent me home. But other things kept cropping up in my mind after a few days, like getting home and going to sleep for a long time and getting up and leaving my apartment. More to drink and still another man to abuse me. I was black and blue, but I could think of no way to stop myself from what I was or what I was going to do.
All sorts of visions passed through my brain during the long nightmare. I wasn't sure what day it was. It could have been the day after I had met Jorge or it could have been a week later. As it turned out, I had put on one hell of a binge, an orgy of drink and sex and degradation that blended together in scenes of laughter, tears, flesh-searing pain, mouths and penises, breasts and testicles, and throughout it all the helpless feeling of not being able to move a muscle.
It was a hangover to end all hangovers, I realized after a while. My apartment was a mess. Now reality was setting in. My head spun in that dizziness of alcohol, but the reality was all there for me to see. My body was not nearly as badly bruised as I had imagined during the sleep of recuperation; but what time was it?
To get hold of myself, I reached instinctively for the bottle next to my bed and took a nauseating swallow of its stinging contents. I managed to hold enough of it down for it to give me some sort of cure, the hair-of-the-dog-method, sickening but effective. As my head cleared, I knew that it was not the next day after Jorge but a very long time afterwards.
I was a mess, worse even than the apartment. I could hardly look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes were puffy and old, bloodshot and stinging from the light and their air. With a great deal of difficulty I filled the tub and immersed myself in the hot water, soaking a little of my numbness away with the passing minutes. I even filled the tub several times to keep the water warm and soothing. What madness, I told myself as I got out of the tub for the last time, to have allowed myself to fall back into my old ways. I was shocked at what I had done and at the mess I made of my life.
I know now, of course: there were dear friends who had tried desperately to call or see me, but when the phone rang, I could only think of the nightmares and I eventually had the phone removed.
Another few days passed, somewhat more conscious than that first two weeks. Yes, it had been two weeks when I finally came around enough to realize that what I was doing to myself was going to kill me or someone. I brooded about it and in the protective shell of self-pity I gradually recovered physically. But only to jump a bit deeper into the hatred I felt for myself. I suppose I might have really killed myself if I had not had that run-in with the police. I was picked up by a nice-looking young man and we went to a motel. I undressed immediately and, in that tipsy state of no inhibitions, I told him to beat me, hurt me, but he kept asking how much it would cost. Cost? I laughed and dropped down to my knees and tried to take his trousers off, but he stopped me and opened the door. Another officer came in with a policewoman.
Sobered up the next morning, in the confines of a cell, I recalled what had happened. The matron in the jail was very nice and, after I had washed, allowed me to make a phone call, but there wasn't really anyone I wanted to call. I called a bail bondsman, very sympathetic, especially when I was able to meet the necessary cash requirements for my bail. I had been charged with solicitation for immoral purposes.
Now there was a real fear that gripped me after I became totally aware of what kind of charges I faced. I hired a lawyer, someone I thought would not know who I was or anyone who might remotely know me. He assured me there would probably not be a case as I had refused to accept money from the officer who arrested me, but he also told me that there would be a hearing where I would be told to seek psychiatric help. It happened just that way, but I had no intentions of seeking any kind of help. The only thing that I wanted then was to get out, to get as far away from the whole scene as I possibly could.
Perhaps I have been more fortunate than the average woman, having known a total despair and the hope of coming back from that despair. One would think that after my experience with the police and the depths to which I had allowed myself to fall, I would have seen what my life was coming to. But all I could see around me in the quiet of my apartment was the bitter reminders of my past.
After the hearing, I went home and looked at all the things that had made me the way I was. I looked at the whips and bonds that I enjoyed and hated, at the bed where I had, quite frankly, degraded myself and degraded the people who took part in those activities with me, and I wanted to kill myself. But death is an adventure that I would like to hold for another time. I may not have believed it at the time, but even in the bottom of my depression, I valued what little of life I had.
So it was easy to pack a few things, make arrangements for the apartment and get away. I had been lucky; I was neither so famous that I aroused any suspicion by asking for a passport, nor so unimportant that I had been thrown at the mercy of the court. Money, which I had enough of, got me through the red tape and on my way to Europe for a vacation.
CHAPTER TWO
There is a hurly-burly in an airport that I love, a time to leave or deplane, a time to meet someone, and a time where time itself seems to stop that I find more enchanting than any trip. I felt this excitement as soon as I arrived there, waiting for my flight to London; it was the opening of a new adventure I felt very hopeful about. A time for forgetting what I had done to myself and a time to leave all that was ugly behind me with most of the belongings back there in the old city, the old place. Airports are places of complete strangers and I was happy to be just another one of them, off to destinations known only to ourselves and to the indifferent personnel of the ticketing windows.
I was simply on my way; and when I had finally checked in with all my luggage (a lot more than I really intended to take). I went to the bar. But that was a mistake because all the things I was escaping from seemed to be quite close there in the dim light of the airport cocktail lounge, even to the point where a man tried to pick me up. It was all so much the same that the depression that I had been fighting for the many days before I could get away rolled back at me like a tide.
By the time the plane was ready for boarding, I was nearly ready to cancel and run back to try to pick up the pieces of my life where I had left them. My own inability to respond instantly to anything, my special kind of acquiescence kept me from moving from the departure line. And then I was there, next to a window, listening and not quite hearing the order to extinguish cigarettes and to fasten seat belts.
It was a short flight because I slept most of the way, missing dawn over the coast of Ireland and only vaguely remembering ordering breakfast while still in flight. The rest of the journey was hazy; I was never one for the tourist sights of any place. This was a trip to forget and recuperate in my own way without the help of professionals or friends.
We landed and we went to a bus and the bus took us to the various hotels where we had expressed desire to stay. I don't think I remember much about the drive, except that it was bright sunlight and all the while I had been expecting fog and rain and maybe other hounds than the ones that ran through my head.
Everyone was very nice to me. I learned that the British are very nice people, especially to rich Americans as I was considered. They went out of their way to make my stay at the hotel comfortable, but I managed to avoid all their hospitality, taking my meals in my room and venturing out only when I was certain that the other Americans who were staying at the hotel would be gone to dinner or off to some show. Then I would go down to the lounge, amid a few frowns but nothing discourteous when I sat at a table by myself, and drink tepid martinis until the barman would announce that it was "time to close." Then I would return to my room and read or watch the BBC "telly" and generally be bored to tears with myself before going to sleep.
I stuck to this routine for a couple of weeks until one evening at the bar he came over to me and asked if I was comfortable. He startled me so much that I just walked away from him and went directly to my room.
Only later I learned that he was genuinely concerned for he had seen me in the bar so many nights, following the same ritual and seeming so lost.
He was there again the next night and this time I smiled at him, allowing him to introduce himself. I was happy with his company.
Warner was his name, fittingly proper I thought for what he looked like: tall, lean but not thin, long hair that was the fashion at the time and a thin mustache cut in the most proper British professional army officer manner. He was Sandhurst, (Britain's West Point), retired, presently import-export. Nice type, I thought; not that old, perhaps a shade over forty-five. He was what I would consider just the right man for me.
* * *
Until Warner came into my life, I had hardly spoken a dozen words to anyone in London. He changed that for me, taking me out to restaurants and shows and all the other tourist places I had sworn never to bother with. He was good for me those next few days, and I was certain I would come out of the depression that had haunted me right up until I decided on the vacation.
Warner stayed at the hotel during the week, a not uncommon practice with Englishmen he told me, but the weekends were spent in his country home. Naturally, when the first of those weekends came around, he invited me. I suspected that he was setting me up for a seduction, and I did not care. I was beginning to enjoy his quiet, relaxed yet sophisticated manner. He had been good for me and if a toss in the hay was all that was needed for repayment, I was more than willing to spread my legs for him.
Thinking about the weekend with Warner and what Warner was, made me wonder how his cool English calm would have reacted if he had known me before, if he had known what kind of woman I really was. He might have been shocked at the beginning, but as it turned out, Warner never found out about me or my past in the States. He had his own problems.
To my surprise Warner's "country" home was not an old place but a modern structure. It might have been right out of Beverly Hills: large, airy rooms, an enormous living room that ran into a very modern "island" cooking area. He explained that only the property and some of the fireplace rocks remained from the original.
"Much too hard to maintain," he said. "So we had it torn down a few years ago. Shocked quite a few, too, when they learned that we were not going to restore the old dump. It was a bit of an historical place at one time, although just why anyone would want to preserve the crumbling old place I wouldn't know." I had been prepared for just such a place and, I suppose, that I was a bit disappointed that he had not taken me to one. But it was comfortable in that softly lighted paneled way.
Warner took my suitcase and showed me to my room upstairs, pausing to show me his own room at the opposite end of the hallway. The implication was that I would be perfectly safe in this home with an English gentleman, and I wanted to burst out laughing. He put my suitcase on the big double bed and opened the windows. English modern, I said to myself, apparently does not include air conditioning. Yet it was a beautiful room and a very feminine one, too, I noted, but Warner must have read my mind. It had been his late wife's room. "But there are no ghosts," he said. "She left me before she died, but I never bothered changing the room. I hope you'll like it."
I nodded and said all the nice things that one can say about a bedroom and then agreeing to come right down to the living room for cocktails as soon as I had freshened up, I closed the door.
Stretching on the bed, I rested from the long drive from town and tried to put my thoughts into some sort of order. Warner had swept me off my feet and the previous five days had been the classic whirlwind romance.
Now, like characters from a Maugham story we were quietly ensconced at his "country" home, no doubt waiting for the sun to go down to eat a light supper and then quiet music and cold champagne. It all sounded so refreshing to me that I was beginning to anticipate the evening.
He was standing by the fireplace, waiting to see if the logs that he had lit were beginning to burn properly.
His back was to me and I guess that he had not heard me come down the stairs. I walked slowly towards him, clearing my throat to gain his attention. He didn't turn immediately, but acknowledged my presence by commenting on how well the old builders made fireplaces and that he was glad they had preserved this one.
I went to his side and watched the eternal fascination of the fire without saying a word. I was feeling very happy at that moment and when he offered me a martini I accepted with only my freshened mouth to smile at him for my thanks.
Dinner was light, cold chicken done with a wine gelatin many hours before we arrived obviously and I wondered if he had a servant or two tucked away in some remote corner of the house. It was a delicious meal, of course, as I was certain that it would be, and we went into the living room for champagne and quiet music.
There was nothing rushed about his advances. He pulled me close to him on the sofa in front of the fire, and I just naturally snuggled up against him, pressing my breasts under his arm and putting my hands in my lap, the better to toy with my glass. Warner filled the glass again for me and I drank it slowly. It was a moment that I wanted to keep in this state of suspense, fearing that anything I might do would shatter the contentment I was feeling. I wanted to burn the moment on my mind for a long time.
Almost without seeming to do it, Warner had taken the glass from me and was pressing his mouth down over my own, gently touching the lips with his tongue and caressing my chin and throat with his free hand. I responded to his kiss, opening my mouth a little wider and pulling his tongue inside. I pressed his face closer to mine, letting him know with my response, that I agreed to his bidding.
His free hand slid down my throat, brushing lightly over the contours of my breasts, but not touching them much more than the weight of a feather. His other hand, however, eased around my waist and cupped one breast. I melted with the tingle of his touch, realizing how long it had been since a man had handled me. My mouth grew feverish now and my hand, once resting behind his neck, exercised its own will and my fingers wove themselves into his hair.
I could feel my skirt being lifted and his hands invading the soft flesh of my thighs. But I did not resist, for this was what I wanted him to do: this normal thing a man does with a woman who responds. I wanted to feel his long fingers squirm their way between my legs until they reached the mouth of my burning crotch.
We must have necked like that on the sofa for a long time because when we broke from the embrace, the champagne in the glasses had gone flat. Warner was breathing heavily but he remained composed and after dumping the old champagne into the ice bucket filled our glasses again. I was not composed, of course. My face was flushed with the excitement of passion, and I could feel my cunt grow sticky with the juices I wanted to pour out for him. The tips of my nipples were hardened with passion and that longing desire to have Warner pinch them or bite them until I could scream with the old lust that coursed through my body.
Warner lifted his glass in a toast and drained its contents with a single gulp and before I could finish my own drink, he was on the floor between my legs, tugging down the flimsy panties that had been his barrier up until now. I wanted to stop him, but the screaming flesh of my loins held me in check. I helped him instead, easing my hips up so that his fingers could slide under my butt and grip the hot skin and the undulating muscles. I saw my panties drop beside Warner and then watched as he pushed my skirt up around my waist and knelt there gazing hungrily at the mound of hair on my crotch.
His hands moved down and spread my legs wider, raising them until my knees were pushed back against my breasts. I watched with growing frenzy as he slowly lowered his face into my wet pussy, spreading the lips with his tongue and fingers then lashing me with that hard sweet probe. All the anticipated passion that tingled through me before now welled to the bursting point as his tongue danced merrily over my clitoris and swabbed down the walls of my vagina. His breathing came from his nose and I could almost detect his exhalations brushing the hair of my cunt. I was rising to that peak, holding it for a moment and knowing all the time I wanted to push myself over to the climax and when the stiff bristle of his mustache found the soft pink inner folds around my clit I could hold back no longer. A convulsive orgasm arrived that found me clutching his head between my thighs and my hands pushing his face away from the throbbing membranes of my cunt.
As I slowly came back down from the high of my passion, eyes tightly shut, I guessed that Warner had gotten up from the floor. I could hear water running in the distance through the pounding flesh of blood.
Picking up my panties, I straightened my skirt as best as I could and walked back upstairs to my room. I did not shut the door to the bedroom; I wanted to let him know that I was waiting for him. I took a quick shower, expecting Warner come at any minute, but I had already toweled myself dry and put on a sheer robe when I realized that he was not coming up to my room. Curious, I thought, and went down the hallway, but he was not in his room. So I went back downstairs.
Warner was sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace again when I entered the room. Quickly I went over to him and pulled his face close to mine, kissing him deeply on the mouth, sucking his tongue into my hot cavity and letting my robe billow open. He responded weakly at first and then with more assurance as I felt myself being pulled down onto his lap. My arms wrapped around his neck and my lips clung to his mouth.
I broke from him and buried my face in his neck, reaching up with my fingers and the tip of my tongue to run little circles over the soft tissue of his earlobe. "Let's go to bed," I whispered, clinging to him ever more tightly when he lifted me in his arms and carried me up to his room.
He sat me on the edge of the bed and watched me as I slipped out of the sheer robe, taking his own clothing off at the same time. I continued to sit there while he hung up his trousers and jacket and carefully inserted the trees in his shoes. His underwear and socks went into a hamper along with his shirt. I remembered then that he was a military man and those actions seemingly so much of a turn-off in the circumstances were just as natural to him as it would have been for any other man to dump everything right on the floor and jump in between my legs.
I stood up to meet him as he approached and we fell into each other's embrace. I strained to reach his face, rising up on my toes but unable to meet his mouth until he lowered his head. Once again our lips joined, parting to meet each other's tongues in a whiplashing assault that speeded our emotions. My neck began to hurt with the effort of reaching for Warner's mouth and for a moment I felt that I might faint. Then he let me down again, still holding me tightly around the waist, his fingers playing a rhythm of lust over the curvature of my buttocks, working ever lower until one of his fingers pressed into my anus and I rose once more to meet his mouth.
We separated at length and I sank to my knees, sliding down his lean body until my hands and mouth were adjacent to his genitals.
"How big," I moaned, and took his partially limp penis into the wet warmth of my lips, running my tongue over the tiny slit in the head and ever so slowly widening the aperture of my mouth to accept the glans. My teeth grazed his foreskin and I pressed them together until I could taste some blood and then he gently urged me away from him. I hung onto his cock with my sucking mouth, however, letting go only with my teeth and continuing to lick the swollen head. My hands reached up to meet the sack of his scrotum and I marveled at the size of his testicles, tightened now with the excitement that he must have felt with his cock in my mouth.
With one hand on his balls, I gripped the muscular cheek of his ass with the other, sliding my fingers around to meet the crack and gently but firmly spread the hairy flesh and inserted my finger into his asshole.
He reacted quickly, pushing my head down to gain better entrance with his penis. Now I could taste my own saliva as it mingled with the brackish taste of blood. I had bitten him harder than I had wanted to, but his erection told me he wasn't feeling anything more than the fierce sucking I was giving him as my head moved in and out and my tongue danced over the sensitive glans.
Warner held my head for a while and pumped his penis into my wide-open mouth. When he released me, I took up the rhythm, but now it was a rhythm with rapid beat. My hand was removed from his butt and I took the opportunity to use both hands on his testicles, cupping them and caressing gently and running my fingers up and down his hairy thighs.
He ejaculated in great spurts into the back of my mouth, nearly choking me, but I swallowed and held onto his cock until his body stopped the shuddering climax I had given him with my mouth and tongue and lips and teeth. Slowly he eased away from me and collapsed onto the bed, leaving me drained and perspiring on my knees by the edge of the bed. I got up, still gasping with the exertion of my oral exercise on him, and went to the bathroom where I found a glass of cool water. It helped flush down his semen and sent a new shudder of passion through my body. My nipples tingled and my crotch was wet with a new wetness not born of the cunnilingus he had performed on me.
I lay next to him, curling up under his arm once more and waited for him to continue to make love to me.
Yet as inflamed as my body was, aching for the feel of his penis buried deep in my cunt, I felt I could not move until he started the action.
When the action came, it was slow but direct: he simply rolled over on top of me, spread my legs and penetrated, sinking into my wet cleft until his balls were grazing my buttocks. I wanted to cry out with the joy that I felt as he filled my core. My legs wound around his hips, pulling him deep inside, deeper even than before and I could feel every sensation that it might be possible for a woman to feel as his hairy chest scratched against the slickened dampness of my flesh. His mustached mouth hung onto my mouth and my upper lip bruised as I smashed his face against mine, trying to devour him. We rocked to perfect rhythm together, my well-soaked cunt rising to meet the onslaught of his big stiff penis. And then it was over, a shuddering overtook me and I cried out as my legs stiffened and my arms enveloped him. He sank down on top of me for a moment before rolling over to the other side of the bed.
We made love several times more that night and well into the morning before getting out of bed and walking over the damp, dark green hills of his estate. We talked very little on that walk, knowing that each of us felt quite satisfied. When we returned from the hike, I helped him fix brunch which we ate with ice cold beer.
We made love for the rest of the weekend, hardly getting out of bed except to eat and drink or shower together. It was the most splendid time I had ever had in my entire life, that weekend, and I was sorry to leave on the Monday morning, but I was happier than I had ever been before. On the way back, we stopped at a little pub, drank beer and ate sausages. When we resumed our trip back to London, I cuddled next to him and then, because I was so happy, I opened his trousers and sucked him off while we drove through the early afternoon.
Our affair continued for a few more weeks in much the same way that it had begun. Warner stayed at the hotel, although this time, he spent most of his sleeping hours in my bed, leaving early in the morning to return to his own room and then off to his work. In the evenings, he and I dined at this or that restaurant, took in a show or went to a sporting event and then returned to the hotel. On weekends, we left London early and returned to the scene of our first encounter and pretty much repeated what had happened: he eating me in front of the fireplace and I sucking him off after he had carried me to bed and always on the return trip, we stopped for beer and sausages and I would blow him as we drove through the countryside. It was all very idyllic in a perverse sort of way, but I thought it was the most natural thing in the world to do.
The affair was into its fourth weekend when the odd things about Warner began to come to light. I noticed on the Friday we arrived he seemed a little more distant than on previous occasions. Even the night before, we had quarreled slightly after a show and he slept in his own room. I was sorry about it and I wanted to make it up to him, but I wasn't getting through.
We sat by the fire again after dinner, but I had to almost force him to put his arm around me and when I tried to open his fly, he pushed my hands away and told me to wait.
"I have to tell you something, Jeri," he said. "It's about me. You know that I was in the service, but I don't know whether you know much about a private boy's school. I have had a few experiences that may seem odd to you, but... " I leaned over and kissed him, for I wasn't sure what it was he wanted to tell me, but I didn't want to hear at the time, not there where I had first been so happy.
"Look," he said quietly, holding a thin birch cane in his hand. "You know what this is? It's an instrument of punishment, but it's also one of pleasure. Do you understand? I mean, Jeri, that I like to be caned before sleeping with a woman. I would never have told you, darling, but I find myself in love with you. I want to marry you, but I want you to know what I need."
There was just a look of stupid shock on my face; I wasn't certain whether to laugh out loud or cry. I guess that I wanted to cry for all the happiness seemed to be ebbing away from me and I was looking at Warner with the old eyes of my shabby past. Suddenly all the wonderful things that he was to me vanished and I could see him only as one of the long line of eccentrics who have used my body in the past.
But I couldn't deny my true feelings. I was in love with Warner and when he put his arms around me and began to cry that he couldn't help himself, that it was something that had just started and that he could no more stop it than the tide, I relented. Or did I really want to return to what I had left behind me? I quickly drank a couple of glasses of wine and tried to analyze what my feelings were about Warner's confession. I couldn't then, for his weeping was getting to me and I cradled him against my bosom; feeling that strong, masculine-hard face pillowed on soft swells of my breasts, I couldn't say no to what his desires were, no matter how much they put me back.
And yet I was angry, too, for what he had suddenly done to me, telling me this in his blunt, soft-voiced words. I wanted to shut him out of my mind, but he was there. I could not shut him out and I could not bring myself not to hate him just a little. He stopped his weeping for a moment, and I reached down and pulled his face up to where I could kiss away the tears that welled in his eyes. He did not look at me as I did it, but I think he knew that I would do anything that he asked me to do.
I reached down again, but not for his face as I was before, but for his trousers where I unzipped his fly and took out his penis. From the confession or from the bitter taste of having to tell me about it, he had no erection at all and his penis was a sorry little deflated organ. But I realized some of the pain that he must have gone through to tell me. I had been through it myself with other men, but I was a woman and I didn't want Warner to know about my past life. So I stroked his cock, hoping that with the growing excitement of my fingers around it, he would snap out of his depression and return to me the man my body wanted so badly.
I only made it worse, of course, by doing what I had done and Warner suddenly jumped up and put away his penis, zipping his fly and trying to tell me that what he needed was an old-fashioned caning. If not for pleasure, he said, then for subjecting a "lady" like myself to his needs. It was a subtle change that overcame him, and I recognized in myself just how he had suddenly put the apology on me and made me feel the one that was mixed up. I said I would do anything for him and I kept repeating it until I knew I would have to pick up the birch.
His eyes lighted up when he saw what I was about to do.
He unzipped his trousers and dropped them around his ankles, making no effort at all to step out of them.
Then he lowered his shorts and turned his back to me, bending over the back of a chair until he nearly touched the cushions. I walked around him and noticed he was still limp and the anger welled up in me. I swung the cane with all my might, feeling an exultation of power as it whistled through the air and met his muscular buttocks with a resounding clap. He moaned and cried out for me to hit him again and again. I hit him, watching his buttocks turn scarlet as the welts grew together.
"Enough," he moaned, turning around for me to see the size of his erection. I knew what I had to do then and my woman's mouth could no longer be held back. I fell on my knees and took his enormous cock into my already salivating lips.
"Not that way," he said quietly and pulled me back to my feet. "For this I want to take you quite conventionally, my dear. This is a special occasion." With that, he began to unbutton my blouse, my skirt, my bra and then he ripped my panties off. I was swept up and laid on the sofa by the fireplace. While Warner slipped out of his ankle-binding pants and shirt, I spread my legs wide for the throbbing penetration that he would make, although even as I did I almost regretted that he had stopped my mouth from sucking him, draining him. Passion swept over me and the hatred felt while hitting his rear faded in the flush of that passion. In an instant, he came to me and drove his hard cock deep inside my cunt with a sudden plunge that nearly shook the breath from my lungs.
I squirmed my hips up to meet him, swallowing his penis deeper and deeper inside me until I wanted to cry again, as I wanted to do before, with the joy and the happiness of it all. He had his little whipping hang-up. I thought, but was it any different from mine? I would not answer myself and, perhaps, could not answer myself as he continued to plunge into my cunt, wet and wetter still and more than willing.
With morning comes the sorrow or the regret, and my next morning was full of both, sadness for him and a gnawing guilt for having gone along with his request. He was still asleep when I dressed, fatigued as I had never seen him fatigued; though almost sorry enough to remain I knew I had to leave. I called a cab and returned to my hotel without him.
CHAPTER THREE
We had a very quiet ceremony. A few of his friends came, more ex-comrades, but none of his family made an appearance, even though he said he invited them. They did not look on Americans with much approval, but I could have not have cared less. After the ceremony, Warner and I went right back to his country home and settled down to our affairs of the flesh.
This marriage of mine, of course, took place just a week after I had left his house with all the regrets and sadnesses that I was able to muster to myself. He, quite naturally, I guess, would not let go of me and though I put him down for a couple of days, he was so humble and looked so pathetic I agreed to go to dinner with him. And then, also quite naturally, we spent the night together in my room, but he never slept for his mouth was too busy eating the very insides out of me, bringing me to climax and climax after climax until I was limp. With his cock in my mouth that night I nodded my head to his proposal of marriage, nodding it up and down vigorously enough to bring him to his ejaculation. As I finished swallowing his semen, he asked me again and I was able to answer him in the affirmative; and so what kind of bond was that�_"accepting a marriage proposal while on my knees?
I leave the wild question open for it would do no good to me now to bother with an answer. There was simply the fact that I was on my knees, blowing a man, sucking his big cock until he had an orgasm while he proposed marriage to me. It was very funny and it seems funnier now than it did at the time, but then I was not quite myself in more ways than one and Warner's proposal seemed all that was important to me.
For the first couple of weeks of our marriage, we behaved very much like nice couple. That was a surface thing, of course, for we kept our personal lives pretty much to ourselves, inviting only a few of Warner's close business associates to dinner at the appropriate interval after the ceremony. Under the surface, we played out our little drama but with the blessed freedom of having our relationship approved by man and government and whatever their gods might have been at the time.
I was the quite proper hostess, although a few times I caught a word or two here and there that I was "doing very well by W., despite being American." Fuck the British, I would tell myself, for if Warner was anything like the rest of them, they were as much, perhaps more, screwed up than all the kooks who had been my lovers in the past. I pretended I never heard a bad word about me.
Warner, of course, was not very interested in having many of his friends visit us for we were, in a sense, on our honeymoon. We wanted to explore all the far-out ways to make each other happy in bed.
One night as we sat in front of the fire, euphoric from a long session of sixty-nine, Warner brought up his old caning bit again. We had been drinking a little, just enough, I suppose, for me to readily agree that I would like to beat him. Somehow that first experience with doing it to him seemed far removed from that evening, and I believe even now that I was almost relishing the idea of bringing pain to his buttocks. I could feel myself get a little carried away, and that old excitement of inducing pain returned to me. I even thought of little Susan, a girl of my past whom I had laid the whip to, and of all the men who had beaten me for our mutual pleasure. Now, I felt that this would be my turn to give the pain for mutual pleasure and let Warner suffer the consequences.
We were both naked, naturally, and the birch rod or cane was right under the sofa. I felt this the time to make myself the dominant partner and knew he wanted it that way.
"Get up, Warner," I said in a cold, haughty voice I did not know could come from me. "I'm going to punish you for your own good."
I knew when I said it that it sounded absurd. There I was, stark naked and more than a head shorter than he was, slightly ridiculous-looking with my round ass and heavy breasts, telling this long, muscular male what to do.
Yet he got up and gave me a pleased and, at the same time, cowed look. I knew then I was in control and I liked the feeling more than I care to mention. It was pleasurable: like someone eating me or fucking me to that wild, weird point where pain meets pleasure and everything comes back full cycle.
"Put your hands over the top of your head," I commanded. "Now kneel down and spread your legs far apart, darling," I said with a little less authority in my voice. I think I was beginning to fail, but I held on to the initial edge I had achieved with Warner, that edge of dominance that he desired.
He knelt, his hands still on top of his head and with a little difficulty managed to spread his legs as far apart as possible. I wasn't satisfied with the result and, reaching behind me, I pulled out a cushion and placed it in front of him. "Put your head down on that, darling, and spread those long legs of yours." He did what I told him to do, sighing now and then that what I was doing was just right, just the thing.
When he was positioned, I picked up the cane from beneath the sofa and gave it a few practice flicks through the air. The sound of its whoosh sent a thrill through me that I had never felt before; an exhilaration of profound sensuality.
Warner's forehead was pressed against the soft cushion and for a fleeting instant I wondered if I shouldn't take that away, too, and let him press his head against the hard floor. He adjusted himself, however, spreading his legs so wide that his rectum gaped out at me, and I could see his testicles hanging in between. I had never felt this feeling of power over a man before in my life and, perhaps with the drink and the flush of this new excitement, I felt a new surge of hatred for Warner. In my eyes he became all the bestial things that men had found in me and in seeing him there in that position I saw myself�_"but without the testicles and the now erect penis. What perverse ideas caught me, I don't know, but seeing him there like that made me want to tantalize him, to torture him just a little before I caned him soundly "for his own good," as he would have told me.
Without thinking more on it, I moved the tip of the cane between his legs at the juncture where his scrotum joined his torso and gently began a light tapping. Oh, nothing much, just softly flicking the thin end of the cane against the sack that carried his masculinity. Then, using the cane tip like the tip of my finger, I slowly moved it towards his asshole and there, with slight twirling motions, gradually inserted it into his anus.
I was caught in the fever pitch of what I was doing to him, hardly daring to look at what he did or to listen to what he was saying. But he was saying nothing coherent; his voice moaned out the deeper I penetrated his hairy little anus, in pain or pleasure I could not tell at the time, but he made no move to wrench the cane away from me or to stop me. I probed deeper, sinking it a fraction of an inch at a time into him, driven on by the fever in my body and the wild thoughts that rode my brain. I laughed at him out loud, calling him a swine, but he just moaned in total subjugation to the tip of the cane. My body began to drip perspiration, first beading on my forehead and then rolling down my face and dripping onto my breasts, tickling the hardened nipples and rolling again under their curves onto the flat of my belly, wetting me all over as it oozed from every pore, soaking my thighs and clinging thinly like dew on each hair of my Venus mound.
I could not help myself then. I saw the emotion that he was going through and I wanted to feel some of it myself. My free hand went to my crotch and my fingers dug into the damp cleft and sought out the little bud of pleasure. I masturbated as I gloried in debasing him, my husband.
I achieved a small climax while Warner knelt on the floor with the tip of the cane stuck in his ass, but I didn't care any more. The only thought that I could see in my mind was what he had brought me back to. With the shame flushing through me, I yanked the cane from his bottom and began to whip his back and legs, hardly caring at all at where I was beating his flesh. At first, there were still the low moans that came from his mouth, then he began to pant and finally he cried out for me to stop, but my arm would not listen and I continued to beat at him until I dropped behind him in near exhaustion.
He turned around and stared at me as I lay on my back facing him. I had dropped the cane, thrown it away from me, actually, but I think for a moment he wanted to use it on me. Instead his expression changed and he crawled over to me, took my sweating body into his arms, held me very close, then pushed me onto my back and opened my thighs wide. His mouth came down right into the center of my sex, his tongue digging deep into the folds of mucous-wet, reddened flesh and searching out that little bud of my deepest pleasure.
Now it was my turn to moan with ecstasy and I let all the cries out, scrunching my hips up to meet his mouth and tongue and I felt myself leap over the edge of sensation again and again until I was forced to sit up and push his head away from my aching crotch. Reluctantly, it seemed, he withdrew his mouth only to place it on the wet sweaty skin of my belly and rake his facial stubble up until his mouth covered one of my breasts. I held his head between my hands, forcing him away, but he was much stronger than I and I could only melt into the delicious pain of too much ecstasy.
Then he knelt in front of me, his penis hard, red and angry-looking. Again he spread my legs and this time he inserted that weapon of his into the already over-excited folds of my cunt. What pleasure, I thought at the time and what pain was this, and I also wondered whether in the height of his passion, Warner would remember what I had done to him. I wondered for a long time until I came to the realization that that was what he really wanted all the time and I was just the instrument for his pleasure. Strange, I know now, how much the victim one is not when one is being used in different ways. For the first time in my life I realized that as the tormentor I was actually the victim.
But these were thoughts I managed to keep to myself for a long time. Over the next weeks, I managed to grow more intrigued with the position of dominance that I held over Warner. It was as though all the misgivings I had harbored about him before we were married had disappeared in that flood of diabolical passion that had overcome me. During the time that followed, I began to take a morbid pleasure in making him what I had once been, a subject to the erotic whims that might strike my fancy, and yet the more perverse I became in my demands, the more he seemed to relish our moments together.
We hardly ever went out any more, unless I wanted to go out, and no friends were ever invited unless I expressed a desire to see some other people besides him. And in this latter point, I would often mentally torture him right in the middle of the sex act, his penis pounding into my belly and my own orgasm already achieved, by telling him that "it would be nice to have someone over now." Then we would stop, for all I had to do was push him away from me and leave him his hard-on and his frustrations. Meekly he would dress and call over a few neighbors for an evening of bridge and drink until the late hours and then I would feign fatigue and go to sleep in my own bedroom.
But this did not happen often, for I enjoyed my role as mistress and master of Warner too much and I enjoyed my own sensuality too much to let frustrations get in the way, even if they were psychologically pleasing to me. More often, I would try to debase him to the point where he would almost seem to want to punish me, but it never happened. As I said, he enjoyed the roles that we played out with each other.
Gradually, though, the thrills of mastery wore thin with me. I was becoming more and more the beast with each passing week. When I caned him during the last weeks we stayed together I noticed that I was not putting everything I had into it; my blows fell weakly across his bare buttocks, and I no longer got much pleasure out of buggering him with the tip.
There was a final night, of course, the inevitable time when all that I had done to Warner came to a crash.
He had come home early that night, a bit tipsy from too much company with his old army comrades and feeling very horny. I wasn't much in the mood to satisfy him, but he kept insisting, finally throwing at me what he really thought of me, telling me in no uncertain terms what kind of pervert I was for falling into way of life and enjoying even more than he himself did. He angered me with that for I knew so much better than he did what kind of pervert I was, and all those things that I have felt about myself grew into a ball of anger like indigestion, hard and hot inside my guts. I screamed at him and picked up the damned cane and began using it on him even before he could undress, whipping it mercilessly across his face and shoulders when he turned away from me until I was too tired to continue.
But I had accomplished nothing more than to excite him to higher passion. As I dropped into a chair, he quickly took his clothes off and came for me, naked in his manhood, his penis erect. He yanked me out of the chair and ripped all my clothing off, his nails scratching the breasts as my bra was rent and my thighs nearly bleeding when he tore off my panties.
Then he saw what he had done and fell down on his knees crying again and begging to be punished for what he had done. I was naked myself, except for my high heels and my stockings. But my anger was not naked; it was clothed now in a cold fury, blinding me to what I was doing. I grabbed the cane and whipped his naked body, screaming at him to turn his body over and when he did I beat his chest with methodical blows slowly lowering the welts down his chest until the cane struck his penis. His hands came around to attempt to cover his genitals, but I beat them hard enough and told him to move them. He removed them and I resumed whipping his cock, but not quite so brutally as before. I had become fascinated with seeing what would happen to him if I only whipped it lightly. In a matter of a few strokes, he was shuddering, his body twitching madly but not in pain. And then he came in great spurts of semen, splashing his sticky ejaculation all over his hairy chest. I watched in wonder and finally disgust at what I had done, at what I myself had become.
Warner raised no objections about a divorce and everything as handled very discreetly in that very proper British manner. I was hardly bothered at all with any of the details, and for that I was relieved. All the anger of that final night with him had left me on that long, crazy drive back to London�_"and loneliness.
CHAPTER FOUR
Despite my best intentions, I fell back to the old pattern of drinking and feeling sorry for myself, but I doubt that there is a woman in the world just coming out of a divorce who has not felt the same way.
Admittedly most do not go quite so far as I did during the weeks that followed the breakup with Warner.
I took up with a lot of men during those weeks, most of whom I cannot remember, nameless bodies that copulated with me for an evening and vanished from my life. It was like the first weeks after I had dropped away from my headshrinker. I felt myself sliding into another emotional crisis, but there wasn't anything I could do about it, boozy nights and bleary mornings that turned into more of those booze nights with lust-wet bodies clinging to me and I to them.
One night two guys took me to their apartment after an evening of drinking at various bars. I wasn't yet quite so drunk that I couldn't remember the next day, but again it didn't matter that I became their little whore for the night. And there was nothing they could think of that I had not done before or that would have shocked me. I blew both of them a few times that night, sucking first one large penis to an explosive climax and not even rinsing my mouth between sucking the second one to climax. They were fairly young men, virile, and in one way or another kept my body busy all night. We fucked until I thought my vagina lips would bleed and then when I thought the men must have had enough, one rolled me over and used my rectum while his friend, no doubt excited by the sight of me getting buggered, pulled my head over to his cock and I blew him while his friend tormented me from the rear.
Next morning, both of them had already left for their jobs when I awoke, but there was a note accompanying some money on the bed, telling me to stick around and other kinds of bullshit. I took the money and left.
On another occasion, I picked up one of the few men whom I remember. His name was Leo and he wasn't much older than I was.
Black eyes almost glowing in the dim light of the little bar, Leo came over to my table and sat down. I had not asked him, but he just looked at me with those eyes and said he would like to take me to bed. Just like that, take me to bed, no offer of a drink, no polite conversation, just the proposition. I was taken aback for a moment, but then I found that I liked his aggression. I tried to give him my haughtiest smile and continued to sip on my drink while he introduced himself. But I hardly listened, catching a few words between sips and the pounding of my heart. There was an animal tension about Leo, a kind of savage quality that I detected. And it wasn't only because he was built like a football player, which he was; it was just a feeling that I had about him in the first five minutes of talking with him, rather listening to him as I did very little talking. He seemed coiled up and ready to spring in the same way a cat does when it's about to pounce on a bird. Maybe that's corny, but that was the way I felt about him and about myself at the time; he was the cat and I the helpless bird.
When I finished my drink, he asked if I would like to go to his place now or have another drink. I said I was ready to go with him. He helped me with my coat in a more intimate manner than I would have thought him capable of on a first meeting. As he slipped it over my shoulders, his hands came around my waist, squeezed, then moved up my body and cupped my breasts. It happened so quickly that no one in the bar saw him, but I held him back by pushing them away.
We drove to his apartment in his car, all the time he talked about his past, about football and especially about the car dealership that he now owned back in the states. This was the first vacation he had taken since he had started the business more than five years ago. Was I a whore, he asked? And didn't bother to wait for my answer until he asked me what kind of money did I usually get. I told him that I wasn't, but that he intrigued me. I soon found myself telling all about Warner, except the more intimate details, and some of the rest of my life and that I, too, was on a holiday.
He fixed me a drink and I made myself comfortable on the chair, a small chair with room only for one. He continued to chat about himself while I drank, but when I'd finished the drink, he stopped talking and came over to me, pulling me to my feet and kissing me hard on the mouth.
"Let's get undressed, Jeri," he said. "I want you so badly I can taste you right down to your fucking toes." He was in earnest.
"Aren't we rushing?" I countered.
"Not a bit, baby," he said and began working his hands up and down my spine, cupping my buttocks with strong hands and rubbing his hard penis against my belly. We kissed another time, but he was impatient.
"Let's go, baby. I got to have you right away. Then we can talk some more." As he stepped back from me to take his own clothing off, I threw whatever cautions I had out of my mind and undressed, too. I was naked before he was, but I didn't mind that. He was down to his shorts when he turned around to me and I liked the way his chest barreled out, full like an oversize statue, and the way his stomach muscles rippled into a narrow waist. He smiled then when he caught my eyes scanning his body.
"There's a better view," he said, dropping his shorts to the floor and walking over to me. He was big all over, too, his penis enormous�_"even in a state of half erection. "Here, take a grip on it, baby," he said, taking my hand and bringing it over to his cock. I could hardly wrap my hand around it. He had the biggest penis I had ever seen.
"Now that you've been introduced, let's get to bed where my friend and your friend can get better acquainted."
He pushed me into the bedroom and then picked me up and bounced me on the big bed, climbing in right after me. I rolled over onto my back and waited for his attack; funny word, but that was the way I felt. Leo wasn't rough with me. His hands roamed over the swell of my breasts, fingers pinching the nipples erect before descending the length of my body to curl through the hair of my pubic region. They were large hands and the fingers were as thick as good-sized sausages, but they were gentle hands, too, and he manipulated them lightly over the erogenous zones until he let them slip between my thighs. I accommodated them, spreading my legs a bit to let him get at my now rapidly warming twat.
We found each other's mouths, kissed with parted lips and exchanged tongues back and forth and gently nibbling each other's lower lips. Then he pressed his mouth over mine, entirely covering my lips and rammed his thumb into my vagina and a thick finger into my rectum. I shuddered with the shock of the sudden entry and tried to pull back from him, but he rolled over nearly on top of me and pinned me to the bed. Then the finger and the thumb worked in unison until I calmed and warmed to the idea.
My cunt became slick with the juice of love as he rubbed his thumb up and down the inner lips, grazing with a nail the bud of my excitement. Gradually my body secreted enough lubricant for it to drip to where his finger was intruding into my anus and the pain was not so great.
I spread my legs wider, raising one knee even to give him still greater access to my body. He took it, shoving his hand hard against my crotch and driving both thumb and finger deeper into their respective openings. I matched my low moans of pleasure by running my one free hand up and down his hairy torso, delighting in the feel of his muscle structure and then coming to rest on his now fully erect penis. I gave it a few tentative strokes, bringing my fingers up and around the large glans before letting go to cup his scrotum.
He moaned as my fingernail gently scratched the bottom of his sack and he pressed his cock against my thigh.
I handled him in this manner for a few minutes before he rolled completely on top of me, kneeling then to spread my legs wide. I guided his cock into my cunt, straining to open it yet wider to grip his charger without hurting myself.
His penis was thicker than I had imagined, dilating my labia to the fullest and stretching the walls of my vagina. I moaned as Leo pushed his cock deeper into me, impaling my well-lubricated pussy until I thought he would push it right up to my throat. I squirmed to meet his attack, bending my knees and pressing my feet flat on the bed to balance myself and better receive his massive penis. "Oh damn you," I cried, "you bastard. Give it all to me." He did it, ramming that immense hard shaft up my core until I could feel it pressing at the mouth of my uterus and still there was more as he pushed harder, almost as though he was trying to spear my navel from the inside.
That was just the entry stroke. Slowly he withdrew his machine until the fat head of it was once again resting at the entrance of my cunt, throbbing with power. I hunched my hips at it, taking it quickly down to the hilt this time until his great scrotum with its heavy treasure of testes crashed against the hollow formed by my upraised buttocks. Leo pulled out and we repeated the dance of penis into cunt, increasing the tempo until the perspiration rolled down my body to settle in a little pond formed by the indentation of my navel.
Leo's hands came under my ass, gripping the swell of the cheeks and squeezing until I cried with the commingled pain and pleasure. Hips rolling in tune with his piston, I reached a climax, shuddered and wrapped my thighs around his hips, squeezing his cock ever deeper into my pussy by pressing my heels into his buttocks. Yet I was no match for his penis or his superior strength. He pumped his machine into me and out in great long strokes, leaving me nearly breathless, with a racing pulse and with the cry of my second orgasm frozen in the paralysis of my passion.
As he reached his own orgasm, he pulled my rectum apart, sinking his thick finger into that tiny opening and spreading the cheeks of my ass wide, forcing me to arch my back when he rocked back onto his legs. But even in this position he was more than adequately filling my soaking wet bottom. I shut my eyes and squeezed my abdominal muscles to milk every last drop of sperm from his cock.
I was straddling him by then, having moved me to an upright position, a sitting position that allowed me to wrap my arms around his neck and sink my teeth into his throat, sucking the muscular sinew through the stubble of his beard. Gradually his penis relaxed in the warm wetness of my cunt, but we held onto each other to let our passions subside and his penis grow limp in my humidity.
Later on we bathed together in a large sunken tub, soaping each other's bodies with rich lather and sinking down to our necks in the warm water. He fondled my nipples with practiced expertise while holding me between his legs, his back to one wall of the tub and my back up against his chest. I fought his hands away but, when his fingers pinched me too firmly, I was responding to his touch all over again, shivering with delight as the excitement that tingled out of my nipples flowed through my blood and rested in my crotch.
"I'm going to spank you, Jeri," he whispered in my ear. "I want to whack your big bottom until it turns a nice old shade of pink and then I'm going to eat you up." My nipples were raw with passion as he continued to tease them with the balls of his fingers. I had my own hands over his, trying to remove the insistent fingers from the sensitive tips of my swollen breasts. I heard his words through some sort of daze, half passion and half fear or maybe anticipation.
"I bet you would like that," I said through clenched teeth. "But I don't think I would."
"You'll love it," he said. "Every broad that likes her nipples pinched like this loves it."
"I'm not just every 'broad'; I don't think I'd like it one damn bit." But he knew I was lying. I could hardly wait to feel his big hand slapping the cheeks of my butt, stinging them hard enough to bring out the imprint of his hand and burning my soul again with the best of all possible pleasures. I wanted to feel a man's hand doing that to me again, comforting me with the chastisement that I wanted so badly. And I thought then how really not so different I was from other women. Perhaps we all desire the subordinated role to a virile man, to even feel the wrath of his hands pounding down on the naked flesh of our plump behinds.
"Let's get out. The water's beginning to get cold," he said and stood up, raising me up by my breasts with no effort at all. I leaned back against him, hoping that his cock would be hard again, but it was still limp.
"Don't bother drying off. It's more fun when you're a little wet." We stepped out of the tub together still pressed against each other and went back to the bedroom. Leo sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled me towards him. I resisted but he was too strong. He simply turned me over his lap, holding my head down with his big hairy arm. His free hand traced the curves of my butt, sinking the fingers into the soft flesh. "You're going to like this, baby," he said and began, slapping first one cheek with a severe blow.
"That hurts," I cried and I wasn't fooling. I heard his laugh and felt the sting of his hand again as it cracked with a loud report against the flesh of the other cheek. I flinched and tried to get away from him, but his arm held me tightly against his lap and his other hand increased the tempo of the spanking. My nates burst into flame as he rained blows on me until there was only the fiery flesh of my ass and the searing joy that made me quiver.
I don't know when I stopped crying, but it must have been when the pain in my ass turned to something like most exquisite pleasure. "Oh, daddy, beat me, beat me." The words must have tumbled out of the recesses of my libido and how many times I repeated them I don't know, but he had stopped spanking my burning backside some moments before I realized that I was talking.
There was no need for words after that. Leo pulled me onto the bed, folding my knees up under my breasts and spreading the legs just wide enough for him to place his head under my crotch. "Now baby," he said, "just rock that hot little ass of yours over daddy's face. I'm going to eat your insides out." He pulled me back until I was straddling his face, his whiskers abrasive against the soft flesh of my thighs, but I was on fire too much to realize what I was doing. He gripped the reddened flesh with those lovely, cruel hands and pulled my cunt down to his lips, sinking his tongue deep into the wet furrow until it touched and tormented my clitoris. I leaned back and spread my thighs wide around his head. My hands reached down and behind me until I could grasp his enormous cock and massage it with my fingernails, cutting slightly into the flesh of the hard shaft and slowly raking them up to the throbbing head. His tongue drove deeper into my cunt, slashing harder against the bud of my passion and driving me nearly wild. I pressed my hips down to engulf his entire head as he squeezed my reddened butt.
I had both of my hands wrapped around the engine of his manhood, just holding it and squeezing it as his mouth brought me to one shuddering climax after another. But I became insatiable with each mounting thrill of his tongue and moaned like an animal. Finally, there is always a finality to this kind of love-making, I pulled away from him, throwing myself on my back next to him and panting for breath.
I moaned out those immortal words of how wonderful it was to be eaten like that when at last I got my breathing back to near normal. When I turned to him, he was smiling and looking a little sheepish.
"I never ate pussy quite that way before," he confessed. "But I never knew it could be so exciting. Look at my friend there. He's rarin' to go, ain't he?"
"Poor friend," I said. "Let baby take care of it for you." I scooted down to the foot of the bed and began at his feet, licking the toes like they were ten little cocks all in a row.
"Hey, stop that. It tickles," he said, rising to a sitting position.
"Shut up and lay down, you bastard. I want to do it my way." I gave each toe a wet kiss and moved up to his ankles, easing my hands higher and higher up his thighs until I could touch his balls. My mouth followed the course laid out by my hands and when I spread his legs and sucked one of his testicles into my hot orifice, he cried out in passionate protest. I licked the entire area of his genitals, kissing the erogenous zones at the apex of his thighs and then, teeth only at first, nibbled on the big thick shaft of his cock, slowly moving my mouth upwards to take the full diameter of his penis into it.
I licked the head of his cock then, just sticking my wet tongue down and lapping it like a dog drinking water. It twitched away from my lips with each touch of my tongue until I had to hold between my fingers.
My tongue wrapped around it as best it could considering Leo's size and I bathed it without taking my tongue away before I finally puckered my lips and kissed the glans, sucking at the little slit on the top and then opening my mouth wide to let it enter the warm hollow of my face where it exploded with his hot ejaculation.
My head went down then to suck and swallow him up as I had wanted to do with his head. After his initial orgasm, the creamy substance of which I hungrily swallowed, I just held his cock in my mouth hardly daring to swallow or move lest it over excite him. I wanted him to feel with his cock the velvet warmth of my mouth, but when he spewed the last of his come into it he pushed my head away.
* * *
I stayed with Leo for a week, about all the remaining time he had in London, and enjoyed his company even out of bed. We had no illusions about the affair. It had simply been one of those things that happen to two people in a foreign land. We filled that last week with all the memorable things that tourists fill themselves with, Tower, Abbey, shows, restaurants and pubs. We had enough activity in and out of bed to keep the depressions away, but they returned when he departed for the states.
* * *
London was no longer the same for me. It had that tired old city look about it after Leo went home. He had wanted me to come along with him, but there was nothing there for me and I wanted to go on living in exciting London. Without him, however, there was just the memories of the bad times that overrode all the good times Leo and I had had together.
It didn't happen to me overnight; the depression that has always haunted me crept up slowly over the next few days when I was attempting to relive some of the happy moments with Leo. Suddenly everywhere I turned I was faced with a fleeting reminder of Leo that quickly turned into thoughts of Warner. Leo had pulled me out of that depression, but without him it all came back. I decided to leave not so merry old England and try the sights of Europe.
* * *
Claudia was a year older than I; dark-haired, black eyed, creamy colored complexion, she was dramatic to behold: tall but well proportioned, almost statuesque but for her narrow hips which made a startling contrast to her large breasts.
We met at a gallery where a showing of some tortured-looking nudes caught my eye, figures done in blacks and grays arranged in seeming erotic poses but with some elements of justification as though the figures were bad and the artist was punishing them. They were very unusual works and I admired them, seeing something of myself in quite a few of them.
I must have been staring at a certain drawing for a very long time, for Claudia came up to me and asked if I liked it. I wasn't sure that I liked it and I told her and very soon we were having lunch at a bistro.
Claudia was the artist, an expatriate daughter of some wealthy banker. She had come to Paris to indulge her fancies, she said, when she was eighteen and out of art school. "For painting and studying," she explained.
"But I liked it here, and decided to stay forever. There's nothing back home." We had lunch several times after that before Claudia asked me up to her studio for dinner. I suspected that she was a lesbian, but I didn't care. She had caught me at a time when men seemed all fouled up. Oh, yes, by this time, Leo had become nothing more to me than another man and I was ready to despise him for the very reasons that I had liked him and loved him; he was the man I should have had a long time ago, the good guy, and he got away from me. So I lumped him into the same stew of disgust with men in general. For the first time since I had come to Paris, I felt really attracted to someone. The men in the various bars I frequented found me cold and I rejected all comers, nicely but firmly refusing to play the hot tourist lady looking for French cock.
All of Claudia's paintings and drawings were of the same erotic, tortured female style. "It's like Bonanza on television," she said. "It's a style that happens to appeal to a lot of people who don't really give a damn for anything but repeated doses of the same thing. I've found a niche with these, and I found quite a few people who buy them. I'm a successful artist, you know, perhaps one of the few in this whole beautiful, dirty, rotten, corrupt city. Most important to me, I don't have to depend on the family for living here. It must fracture their fuckin' souls back home because I deposit all the checks they send me in a savings account at my father's correspondent bank here. And I've never touched a penny of it for the past ten years." She poured generous drinks for both of us, but while she rattled on about her "fuckin'" family and remained sober, I was getting dizzy. Perhaps it was intentional. I wanted to get dizzy with drink and let her seduce me, for I felt certain she would. I wanted to feel her heavy breasts pressing on my knees while her tight-lipped mouth chewed away at my cunt. And the drawings. All around me stood the visions of her drawings. Girls in twisted poses of sixty-nine with heavy ropes binding them together or chained single figures suffering delicate tortures of feathers on the soles of their feet.
I wandered around the studio while Claudia talked on, answering questions as best as I could, commenting about a particular painting when she asked. And all the time, the glass I was drinking from remained filled and I got drunker and drunker, the dizzy feeling roaring up and down my mind like a run-amok elevator with the tingle settling down in my crotch. I knew that I was getting hot from whiskey and from the poses of the figures in her art. I was getting up to the point where I might have wanted to ask her if I could eat her snatch, but I held back, knowing somewhere deep inside that she would eventually make the first pass at me and I would get my own way. Gradually I could feel myself blend mentally into one of the pictures, ropes binding my arms and legs to the four corners of an old-fashioned brass bed while a woman, Claudia? straddled my face with her bare bottom and rammed an enormous dildo into my bleeding pussy. I could hear myself scream with the pain and body-jolting pleasure of it and in the haze of the alcohol it all seemed very real.
* * *
I woke in bright sunlight in a strange bed. There were no ropes binding me, but the bed was the same one I'd seen in many of Claudia's pictures. Had it happened? It couldn't have happened the way I had imagined it. I had been much too drunk for anyone to have gotten any kind of pleasure out of me. And there were my clothes, neatly laid out on the back of a chair, my brassiere topping the pile, but my panties were still on.
"Good morning, little one." I turned towards the door or towards the voice and saw Claudia standing there in the nude. She was holding a tray of coffee and two cups.
"I hope you don't mind my costume. I always work this way. It makes me feel closer to the subject. By the way, I undressed you. You've got beautiful titties, too. I like girls with beautiful chongs. Here, have a cup of coffee. You'll feel much better. I put some good American bourbon in it. Great for curing the flapping woohoos."
I mumbled something and sat up in bed, carefully, for no reason at all, covering my breasts with the sheet, and accepted the coffee. My head was pounding with all the thousand agonies of hangover. Lights flashed inside each time I blinked my eyes and I could hear my stomach rumble with the protest of excess acidity. The cup rattled on the saucer when I brought the two together between sips.
"Feeling lousy, eh?"
I nodded my head slowly.
Claudia came around and sat on the edge of the bed beside me. She was bigger than I, more than I really thought when I saw her with clothing on. Naked she looked bigger than life itself and I couldn't take my eyes off her perfectly formed breasts and the hard, flat stomach beneath them. But I was embarrassed by looking at them and I turned my eyes to her face. She was staring right into them, a smile of knowledge crossing her lips.
"Go ahead and look, Jeri. I know they're great titties, a lot of men and women have told me so. Want to suck them?"
I looked down at my coffee cup, blushing furiously, for that was exactly what I wanted to do, but I could find no words to say or courage enough that morning to reach out and touch those solid-looking globes of female flesh.
"You're blushing," Claudia chided and took the cup and saucer from my hands. "Now get rid of that stupid sheet and let me look at your titties, darling."
I looked up at her face, beautiful, smiling and tried to find that spark in her eyes, but they were heavy lidded that morning, sensuous and blatantly sexy. Hesitantly, I dropped the sheet covering my breasts and threw my shoulders back, knowing that as soon as I did so my nipples would go erect. She was reading me very well, yet I could only detect the look of lust on her face, wickedly smiling and knowing all of my deepest thoughts.
"Much better, Jeri," she said and placed finger tips over my left breast, sliding fingernails over the soft white flesh and lightly brushing the hard nipple. I closed my eyes, shutting out the lovely feel of her hand on my breast but not the tremor of excitement that ran through my body nor the blush that turned my face crimson. My thighs closed together under the sheet in an effort to shut out the building passion in my genitals, the glow of sexuality throbbing just under the surface of my consciousness. My breath grew more labored as Claudia fingered the sensitive nerves, but I could no more bring myself around to stop her then I could have brought myself to touch her own lovely breasts.
It was a strange game that we sat there playing�_"each of us knowing we would soon be in each other's arms, our mouths closing over each other's and our hands running up and down the naked flesh, in and out of the nooks and valleys we knew would excite each other, for our bodies were almost the same, each female, each on fire for want of wet kisses.
The sheet crept down the length of my body, exposing me down to my feet, but I remained motionless with my eyes closed to the seduction. This was what I was after. I wanted her to take me, beat me, tie me up like she must have tied up other women for her art.
I felt her fingers gently play a design up my leg until they reached my crotch, sliding easily over the nylon of my panties and resting on the waistband. I held my breath, waiting for her sensitive fingers to start peeling the flimsy garment from my hips.
The blow across the face shocked me into consciousness and I opened my eyes wide to see Claudia smiling at me.
"Wake up my little one. I want to eat your cunt, I want to suck the life out of you. Now get your damned panties off before I rip them to shreds. You can't fool me, Jeri. I saw how much you liked the pictures, how much you really want to be one of those girls, don't you? No matter, anyway, pet, you'll be one of them today and you'll love your Claudia for making you a complete woman." The charade was over; it was time to do what she told me to do and to withhold nothing from her. My fingers hooked the waistband and, arching my hips, I slipped the panties down and kicked them onto the floor off the foot of the bed. I couldn't find words to tell her what I had wanted all the time was her. I knew it then and wallowed in the mushy feeling ft sent shivering through my body. I looked at Claudia smiling there and when she pulled my face close to her and pressed her mouth over mine, I returned the kiss as passionately as I have ever returned a kiss to a man, sucking in her tongue between my lips and gently nibbling on it.
But Claudia had more perverse ideas. She pulled my head down to her beautiful breast, lifting one in her hand and feeding it into my mouth. Then she cradled my head like she was a mother nursing a child, and in that instant I guess I was her child, helpless and longing for the comfort of her big body and the glow she would give me with her lips. I sucked the nipple into my mouth, worrying the nipple with the edges of my teeth and quickly sucking as much of her breast into my hot oral cavity as I could manage. I heard her moan and she gripped my hair tightly to ram my face closer to her breast.
"Suck your heart out, pet. My turn next. Ah, that's so much better. Enough." She pushed my head away and back onto the pillow.
Claudia stood up and came around the foot of the bed, kneeling in between my legs which she parted abruptly. "You have a nice pussy, Jeri, and I see that it's a very experienced one. You're all damp and glistening with love juice. I guess I turned you on; so I'll have to do something about it." She buried her face in my crotch, her tongue dipping into my well and her fingers parting the hair and pulling the lips aside. That first jolt sent me into spasms of convulsions as her hot mouth worked its blinding magic. My hips rose to meet the onslaught of her mouth, thighs spread but trying to close around her head, cunt pulsating with the most incredible sensations as it tried to swallow her into my body.
Fatigue or excitement or long absence from any sex of any kind had put me right on the edge of orgasm, for it did not take very long before I was coming and coming again as Claudia's mouth and tongue licked my vagina and teased the pent-up emotions out of me.
When it was over, Claudia was smiling and sitting next to me on the bed, her body towering over me, the perfect moons of her breasts threatening and comforting at the same time. I was lying back on the pillows, drained and satisfied, listening to her voice which came to me on velvet wings and rolled soothingly into my brain without quite my knowing the meaning. I was sated as I had been few times in life.
"When you rest, Jeri, you can return the pleasure for me. You will, won't you, Jeri? I need you." I was tired but I knew what it was to suffer from the frustration of wanting sex, of wanting someone to cater to all the little idiosyncrasies of that most powerful emotion. There was never any doubt in my mind that I would go down on her, spreading those pillar-like white thighs and easing my face into her black-haired cunt, but there was that dreamy satiation that enveloped me, sapping my will to do anything, at least for the moment. I remained flat on my back, letting the pulse slow and bringing back the hangover with its headache and the rumbling in my stomach. I wanted to close my eyes, but I remembered the slap. So I kept my eyes open, putting the focus on the ceiling and not on Claudia's heroic-sized breasts.
Yet I didn't want to not look at them, either, for they held me in some spell-binding way that made me feel the subservience I craved. Claudia spoke again, soft words of comfort or command, I don't know which, but in those words she held out the magic again for me and I moved down to the foot of the bed and squatted between her heavy thighs.
Claudia was on then, rolling me over onto my back again and straddling my face. She held my hair tightly and pinned my arms at the sides with the weight of her legs. Her ankles rested on the insides of my elbows and the cheeks of her small round bottom brushed lightly against my collarbone. Her cunt was just inches from my mouth, but she held herself back while she talked to me.
"You really like this, don't you, Jeri? I think you're a fuckin' masochist. Hell, I know you're a fuckin' masochist." Then her voice changed back to that soft murmur. "But that's my ideal, darling. I'm a bit of a sadist myself and I'm so happy that we found each other. Now I'm going to put my pussy in your face and you're going to use your tongue like you never used it before."
"Yes, yes," I heard my own voice in agreement with what she wanted and what I wanted. My head was straining to get close to her cunt, but she held my hair firmly, cruelly and that fluttery feeling of pain raced from my scalp down to my crotch. "Yes, Claudia, yes," I cried until she released my hair and I buried my face into her thickly bushed cunt.
She had perfumed her pussy, but just so lightly that it aroused me to furious action. My tongue plowed deeply into her furrow, licking aside the soft strands of hair and drinking in the feminine juices of her body.
My head felt on fire as my mouth churned into her, licking, sucking, even biting when I could move enough to get hold of a thick pube. I nuzzled closer, filling my wide-open mouth with the salty taste of her and cleansing my nostrils with her perfumed uremic odor. She moaned with delight at my frantic efforts to please her and pressed her crotch down hard over my mouth. I licked more fervently then, for she almost smothered me when her hands came under my head and held my face in her even closer.
"Oh, you're a very good cuntlapper, Jeri. Oh yes, oh yes." Despite her hands holding my head and her ankles gripping my elbows, I managed to bring my own hands around to just barely grab her buttocks, slipping my fingers under the curves and trying to drink each drop of sex from her body. I found her anus and attempted to put a finger into it, but suddenly I couldn't breathe any more. Claudia was telling me that I couldn't do that and while she was talking, she held my nostrils between her strong fingers and squatted even lower over my mouth. I tried to bury my head back into the soft mattress, but her cunt followed my mouth down, successfully closing off any chance for a gulp of air. My hands began to claw at her buttocks, frantically beating against the firm flesh and digging into it when I thought that I was going to pass out.
"You mustn't do that to me, little one," she said. "Or I might kill you." She pulled her crotch back enough for me to breathe through my mouth and released my nostrils. I turned my head, avoiding her look and with my cheek pressed against one of her thighs I managed to regain some sort of normal breathing. Claudia waited for the minute to pass and then pulled my head back into her pussy, but some of the pleasure had gone out of it for me. Hesitantly, I did what I had to do, sinking my tonguetip deep into her cleft and searching the wetness until it rested, hot and hard, against her clitoris. I licked her and listened to her moans of satisfaction, her sighs growing in intensity as she climbed up towards an orgasm that I could no longer share with her. My actions were mechanical and when she had taken her fill of my mouth, squeezing her heavy thighs in one last spasm of pleasure around my head before getting up and sitting beside me on the bed, I wanted to run away from her. Instead, my body remained where it was and my mind wandered through the events of the night before and returned me to the morning with the same hangover and a considerable dose of fear.
Claudia stirred and then her face was down against mine, kissing the mouth that had so recently left her love passage. "I'm sorry about suffocating you, Jeri. Really, I'm very sorry. It's just a thing with me, that back door stuff. I can't stand anyone doing that to me."
I nodded and got up from the bed, my head still reeling from the effects of the binge, both alcoholic and erotic, and went into the bathroom where I showered and fought down the impulse to slash my wrists with the straight razor in the cabinet. Where was I going now, I thought? Back to the states? Back to England? I just laughed to myself for I knew all along I would remain here with Claudia just as long as I could for I found a certain kind of solace in her domination of me, almost as much as if she were a man. I needed her to take care of me and protect me. I guess I needed her to protect me from myself.
Claudia was painting when I came out of the bedroom, fully dressed. She worked with the same kind of intensity that she made love, her whole concentration had been on me earlier and now it was entirely directed to the canvas. She never stopped working, but said, "Get your things from your place and move it here, Jeri. I have lots of room and we'll have lots of things to do." She was naked at the easel, her arms at her side one moment and then furiously attacking the canvas with clean broad strokes. She didn't turn around even when I said I would think about it, but she knew that I would return. I could almost see it in the masterly way she stood there her broad back to me and her buttocks, small compared with the rest of her but round and firm. I was being dismissed for the time being, letting me feel just another medium: one that could be put aside while the artist in her dabbled with another medium. I left quietly and took a cab back to my hotel.
No matter what I told myself, I could not deny how much her paintings had meant to me. I felt I had been her subject in all of them for I had lived the pain before and I felt a growing anticipation for it all over again.
And I could not deny enjoying the way she made love to me, the way she dominated me into making love to her, forcefully, painfully and dangerous. I wondered if she would have killed me and why she was so sensitive about what I had done to her anus. But these thoughts were undermined by the overwhelming idea that I could be the subject of her paintings, bound and abused just as I had been before.
Time went by painfully with Claudia. All the things I thought she was were not entirely true. In the first place, she was not as I had suspected a real master of me in the sense she would use the whip or anything to hurt me. But she knew how to abuse in more subtle ways. She was a bondage fetishist, but I found out how that can be just as painful as any physical whipping I ever had at anyone's hands.
On the afternoon I returned to her studio, she was very cordial, offering me a drink and seducing me all over again. I was helpless against her kisses, for they drove me up the wall of passion and eased me down only after a long time. I became drugged with her mouth as it ran its course over my body, sucking my breasts until I thought my blood pressure would pop out my eyes. Her tongue was heaven as it slipped in and out of my mouth or in and out of my vagina. We both got a little drunk that afternoon, exploring all the byways of our erotic relationship. She ate me and I ate her, one after the other, and then we ate each other in the classic sixty-nine fashion.
I was exhausted from the efforts and the drink when she told me she would like to use me for a sketch. I agreed to do what she said, and allowed her to tie me up. She used very thick ropes to tie my hands together over my head. Bound thus, she stretched my arms out full length to the headboard of the bed and then spread my legs and attached each ankle to the posts above. I was wide open, my sex yawning and my legs aching from the difficult overhead position. I could hardly move, my buttocks were just raised enough to put a strain on my legs, but I felt strangely comfortable and almost wished that she would drop her sketch pad and whip me or eat me or do whatever she had in mind to do. But I had to wait for her to finish what she was sketching on; when she showed it to me, I almost had an orgasm. She had penciled me in the exact position I was in, but she had added other figures, a man, who was behind me pushing his enormous penis into my mouth, and a woman who was using a dildo between my legs.
There were more and more positions I had to get into as the weeks passed, but each time when I expected the beating or punishment while bound up for her erotic drawings, she untied me and let me rest.
Still, I could feel she was doing something to me all this time, but I was never certain it would happen.
We made the drawings come to life on a few occasions. Claudia would invite Zig over to her studio. Zig was an Algerian, tall, dark, muscular and very refined in an almost effeminate way. He would use his cock to half strangle me while Claudia rammed me up the vagina with a dildo. Those were the times when I thought I would surely die of a heart attack so great was the passion that the two of them released in me.
Zip would let me blow him, but he would never want to have intercourse. By-this time, I was Claudia's helpless little slave, I guess, and any perversity she could dream up I was willing to go through with. We had that kind of understanding, but I was never certain just where Zig stood in all of this. He hardly spoke to me, but when he wanted something, Claudia indicated to me that I was to do what he wanted.
Mostly he wanted to be sucked off.
Claudia, if she happened to be there, would sketch me when I went down on Zig, exaggerating the size of his penis and giving me a tortured look that I knew I didn't have while I was blowing him. On other occasions, we played another kind of threesome: my mouth the receptacle for Zig's penis, Claudia's mouth the passion-whipping tool for my cunt and Zig's mouth latched onto Claudia's pussy. The pattern never changed.
Claudia would not let Zig eat me, although he expressed a desire to do so on several occasions; nor would she let me eat her at these times. Likewise she never went down on Zig.
* * *
Her greatest pleasure, I think, came when Zig was not around and we had just finished a meal. She would tie me up, spreading my legs very wide and fastening them so securely I could not possibly close them then tying my arms and wrists behind my head in such a way they formed a pillow for my head. Then she would straddle my face and bury her mouth in my genitals. She ate me until I could have screamed with the raw nerve endings that were on fire, but there was no stopping her. She ate me until she had an orgasm of her own and then she used the dildo on me until I fainted. I hated that dildo �_"and loved it, for it gave great pleasure to Claudia.
And so our life went on for those hot, humid, sex-filled weeks until I was simply putty for her to mold in any way.
CHAPTER FIVE
Right from the beginning I knew Claudia would tire of me.
She took the opportunity to tell me often enough, especially when she had me tied up in a particularly painful way, usually with my vagina wide open and my legs spread back until my head was almost in between the calves. It was one of her favorite positions for me, she said, and that was when she would tell me that I was almost over-the-hill for her, that I no longer could rouse her to full potency.
She was actually saying that I was no longer an intriguing subject for her strange art. I knew that and knew she meant every word of it, but they were idle threats so long as I was tied up, for when she finished sketching me, she would go down and eat me until I thought my insides were going to explode. And my insides did explode in some strange chemical way, but Claudia was careful to push it all back together again by using her enormous dildo on me.
Claudia and I had been together longer than either of us expected to be. We had shared all the pleasures that women can share with each other, the tenderest of kisses and the most violent of sexual abuses. She did nothing to me that I had not wanted done. She was not the one that forced me to go to her or to stay with her.
Everything that happened to my body was something I deserved to have happen; I was the fleshly tool for her perversities; I was also the leader in them, too, in the sense that if I had removed myself from her, she might have gone on to other pleasures. I was the tempting sweet on the flypaper to which she became stuck.
I've mentioned that Claudia never gave me a beating; that's not completely true, at least not true in the sensual sense that I have come to know beatings and pain. She beat me that last day I saw her.
Her friend Zig had come over one morning after she had left the studio on some errand. He was high, but not on booze. I knew he had been smoking pot or something for he never took alcohol. But he was high and he refused to leave when I told him that Claudia was not going to be back for a long time.
"That's fine with me," he said and pushed me over to the bedroom. I knew that Claudia had this strange quirk that made her use me in any possible way except normal coitus with a man. It was perfectly all right for me to suck him, but he could neither eat me nor fuck me. I don't remember when she said it or if she had said it at all.
It was simply not permitted.
Zig was high, however, that morning and whatever fantasies he had crept through his ordinary calm and he forced me into the bedroom. I was not afraid of him; I had been much too intimate with his penis to be afraid of him. But I had a strange feeling that what he wanted to do was not going to go well with Claudia if she ever found out.
Zig was insistent, but I argued with him. He slapped my face and punched my stomach. Gasping for breath, I fell across the bed, doubled in pain and yet feeling a morbid wish for more pain to fill me even as I gasped for a breath of air. He didn't raise his voice to me, but the tone carried a menace that made me feel queer inside almost as if I was on the verge of an orgasm.
I rolled off the bed and sat on the floor and looked up at him as he came over to me.
"Why? Why?" I shouted at him.
He didn't answer me. He just grabbed me by the hair and pulled my face into his crotch. He had an erection, a great bulge I feel through the fabric of his trousers. He tugged my hair until I thought I would have to get up. My neck was strained and my back was straight while my legs were stretched out in front of me. He rubbed my face against the fabric of his trousers and finally said, "Get up and get on the bed." I got up and sat on the bed.
"Get on all fours," he said.
Uneasily I moved around and got into the position he wanted me in, letting his long hands move me until my backside was facing him and my buttocks were nearly hanging over the edge of the bed. He lifted the skirt I was wearing above my waist and pulled my panties down. I heard his zipper open and felt his hands grip my hips and pull me back.
Suddenly his hot mouth was around my anus and I tried to jump forward, but he held me tightly as his tongue went into me, hot and wet. I begged him to stop, pleaded with him, but he continued until I was burning with a desire desperately in need of quenching. He stopped for a moment, just long enough for him to get up off the floor and ram his penis into my rectum. I flinched with the pain and then relaxed to enjoy this terrible, forbidden thing.
Thought it caused my rear to burn like fury, I helped him achieve what he wanted by backing up against his pelvis until his balls were slapping against my upper thighs and his rhythm speeded up.
"Stay right there," he said after he had ejaculated into me and pulled his cock out. I obeyed, but I didn't want to move, either, waiting again for the expectant second thrill. I heard him in the bathroom running water and then he returned. "You've very obedient. I like that quality in a woman." I turned to look at him and saw that he was dressed again. He was looking at my backside in an abstracted way that made me feel that I wasn't even there. I made a move to get up but he shouted for me to stay, an explosive burst from his voice that frightened me for a moment, but I stayed on all fours with my ass hanging over the bed and Zig looking me over. That was how Claudia found us. She guessed the scene immediately.
"You buggered her, you pig. Get out of here. I'll talk to you later." Zig nodded his head and left the room.
"Get up, Jeri," she said.
I rolled over on the bed, pulling my panties up and lowering my skirt. There was something very strange about the way Claudia was looking at me, like I was some piece of trash, a bit of filth that belonged in the sewer. I didn't blame her and tried to explain I was afraid of him, had to do what he wanted.
"It doesn't matter, Jeri," she said. "You've been had that way before or you'd be bleeding like a stuck pig.
How many men have buggered you? Don't tell me. I don't want to know about your sordid life. How could you? How could you? And in my bed."
Her rage mounted as I sat there and suddenly she was upon me, slapping, kicking my shins and finally knocking me off the edge of the bed.
"You little cunt," she screamed. "And you wondered why I nearly committed murder when you tried to finger me that time. Well, it's pigs like you that make pigs like him; using a woman like a boy. That's what it is. He's used you like a boy like the rest of his goddamn Arab bastard friends." I got up and went to the bathroom, but Claudia raved on and I think I found out why she had such a dislike for that kind of sexual activity. Zig's friends were her first delight when she arrived in Paris. They had their own clubs, exciting, dark places where she could buy the best pot and find some of the best-hung studs in the land. But they had strange tastes and one night they gang-fucked her, each taking his turn using her mouth and her anus, but not one of them bothered with her vagina.
When I came out of the bathroom, Claudia was sitting in the studio drinking and sulking. I packed my suitcase and started to leave.
"Don't leave yet, Jeri," she said. "Sit down and have a drink. I guess you know now why I am what I am.
But you're different. You're dangerous in your sweet, innocent way, a lot more dangerous than you probably realize. You almost made me become a real sadist and not one in the fictional shit I draw. But I'm going to fix you up well, very goddamn well, indeed. Now get a drink and sit down." I find it hard to believe that Claudia would have tried to stop me if I had wanted to leave, yet there was a tone to her voice that harked back to the first time I met her, the first time she held my arms down and forced me to perform cunnilingus on her. No, not forced. She had just allowed me to do it in a forceful manner, and there was a distinct difference. I had no fear of her, but I had that one last hope that she would do with me what I had always wanted her to do, except to do it in the erotic manner instead of in the fit of anger that she was just getting over on the day of my departure.
"Have a drink and put the fuckin' suitcase down. You look like something out of a waifs story." I went over to the bar and fixed a stiff whiskey and water and drained it down in a single swallow. I fixed another, just as strong, and carried it over to the chair opposite Claudia's. She was staring at the floor and it seemed that she suddenly was no longer aware of my being next to her.
The drink burned my throat more with the second one than it did with the first, but I sipped it all the way down and got up and fixed another one. I couldn't feel any courage being restored to me from the booze, just a feeling of relief that she did not attack me again, mingled with the regret that we could not have had what I wanted all the time we had been together.
"You know what, Jeri? I think that I'm going to go back to the States. Isn't that funny? Isn't it?" She turned to look at me for the first time since I had sat and there was a look of wildness in her, the same animal tension that I had felt with Leo and which melted away in the arms of Claudia.
I said that that would be a different thing.
She laughed that same maniacal way she had when she first seduced me, and I knew then she was just putting me on. She had no more reason to return to the States than I, perhaps less, for she was part of a family and I knew that in the way we both were there was no room for families. I was going to change my mind and tell her that what had happened did not matter between us, that I would be faithful to her forever. The words for it would not come from my mouth, and I don't think they would changed anything very much in the long run.
I wondered why she had stopped me from leaving, but then she really didn't stop me, at all. She told me to stay and stay I did, but I could have gone. But I stayed and had three drinks and listened to Claudia.
Zig opened the door very quickly and filled the doorframe with his body. He had come down from his high only slightly. "Ah, I see you are ready to leave. Thank you, Claudia. We'll remember you for this." I looked in puzzlement at Claudia, but she had turned her face away from me and would not answer the question that spread across my face.
"Zig will take you now, Jeri," she said. And I knew what she was doing. She was fixing me up very well, indeed.
I suppose it sounds ridiculous, but I was afraid not to go along with Zig. He was one of those men who hold women in fascination, mostly to their own harm, and I was certain that no good would come of it. Still I got up and went with him. He picked up my suitcase, went over to Claudia and spoke a few words that I could not hear. A moment later, he took me by the arm to escort me out of Claudia's life.
Zig lived out in the suburbs, how far from Paris or in what direction I don't know. We drove off in his sportscar in the warmth of a bright Paris afternoon, hardly speaking more than a few words to each other.
Everything was fuzzy to me at the time. I mourned the loss of my dear Claudia almost as much as I had regretted the loss of Leo, and wasn't paying much attention to the streets we followed or which roads or where he was taking me, for I knew I was being taken somewhere.
In the bright light, Zig looked darker than I thought the first time I had met him, but then our introduction had been most informal. His conversations, up until this last morning, were always directed to Claudia and I met him through his penis only. I sat silently crouched in the bucket seat, stealing a glance at his long hands as they shifted gears or gave the steering mechanism a controlling touch. When we reached the outskirts of the city, he eased back the intense driving and settled into a reasonable speed, talking ostensibly to me, but actually talking to himself, for such matters were more foreign to me than the country I was in. I wasn't rude and I did not object to being taken away from Claudia. It had all been arranged, Zig told me, and he said he was very happy that I had agreed to the whole situation.
Agreed? Situation? There was the old blur of the whiskey that spun me along like the trees along the road, one after another until they all looked alike or sounded alike and, perhaps I thought, I had agreed to the situation.
We parked in front of the curving driveway and got out, but he left my luggage in the car, explaining a servant would take care of it. I must see something, he said, taking me by the arm and leading me into the big house. When he opened the door, a man in a black turtle-neck sweater greeted us, furtively looking me up and down. "Ignore him," Zig said and walked me quickly back across the entrance hall and into another room.
"This will be your apartment, Jeri," he said in the same quiet voice he had used to intimidate me that morning. "Your bags will be in shortly. Make yourself comfortable." The door closed behind me, leaving me alone in the day quarters of the apartment and yet not afraid. There was a sweet smell in the air, not at all unpleasant, as I walked across the room. The decor was slightly Victorian, by which I mean that it was all velvety and dark, with heavy furniture and thick pillows, some of which were scattered on the floor near the fireplace. I found the source of the sweet aroma in an incense burner over the fireplace. It, too, looked turn-of-the-century, a cheap brass Buddha with a bowl in his lap where a smoldering piece of charcoal incense burned. How strangely out of time the whole room was, I thought, almost like a movie set waiting for the actors to begin or the curtain to rise. But everything I touched was quite real, substantial, in fact. My eyes looked down and for a flash admired the thick Oriental carpeting.
How wonderfully executed, I thought, before I realized that it was quite original, each stitch laid in with loving care and the precision of craftsmanship I had only read about. Overhead I saw the crystal chandelier glowing, not with candles as I was certain it must have done many years ago, but with soft electric bulbs, more than I could or cared to count.
I went over then to the big pillows on the floor, noting the plush velvet and the softness beneath, undoubtedly feather down, I thought. Touching them was not enough and I didn't resist the temptation to drop onto one, sinking my fanny deep into the fabric marshmallow. What colors, too, I saw, reds like blood, hot oranges, pinks, purples and shimmering blacks. They were everywhere around the room, meanings for which I was only to learn later.
It was a large room, much larger than it looked when I was first shown in by Zig, but its size was deceptive because of the dim lighting and the dark woods. As I turned around to behold what I had come into, I noticed the walls were not just panels but cabinets holding glassware and bottles and pipes. A chess set stood near a window, although no light came through the heavy velvet curtains that covered it and when I pulled the curtains apart, all I could see was blue sky to tell me that it was still daylight. I wondered then if the sun ever shone in that room or, if it could, did anyone open the curtains to let it in?
I went to a door at the opposite end to the one I had entered and saw, in the dimness, the carvings of vague figures or were they? Touching them I could see more clearly they were wild berries and fruits and leaves and flowers or humans twisted into ivy and bent out of shape with the lashing vines. The door was heavy, the carving real and varnished then worn down and varnished again and again. It was a very old door, I thought, and perhaps very valuable or historical. What wondrous things had it seen pass through its portals. Or horrors.
I opened it and stepped into the pink room, as I came to call it as time went by, for it was, indeed, just that: all pink and fluff, feminine to such a degree that only a man could have designed it. The walls were covered with real silk brocade, alternating between the faintest hue of red to dark rose. Pale pink, a blush of red only to keep it from being white, was the color of the carpet, thick-piled and so soft to the touch that it felt like fur, exotic and expensive.
This, too, was a large room, dominated in the center by a huge bed, again with a subtle pink cover, but set off with jet black satin sheets that peeked over the blushing spread.
I walked over the fur-soft carpet and sat on the bed, surprised to find it not soft at all, but firm, almost too firm to be comfortable, I thought. Yet it was very functional, I noted, as I stretched my body over it without either my feet or my hands extending over the edges when I scooted into the middle of it, and that was across the narrower dimension of the bed. Despite its firmness, though, it was comfortable and I was sure that I would have no difficulty sleeping in it, if indeed I was going to be allowed to sleep.
From my vantage point in the middle of the bed, I saw two more doors besides the one I came in from, one on each side of the bed. Doors were an intriguing thing in that time for me and I got out of the bed and opened the nearest one.
It was, as I might have expected, an ornate bathroom, done in black and pink marble or some other similar rock. Again it was bigger than it really had to be, a room for bathing emperors, I thought, or courtesans of some Oriental seraglio. The fixtures were gold-plated, spouts shaped like the necks of swans and handles fluted in a semblance of wings. There was a tub in the center with matching fixtures and on the opposite wall a vanity dresser with mirrors that stretched the length of the room and on either side of the dresser the mirrors went from floor to ceiling.
I could have used the tub for a swimming pool. It was at least twice my length and deep enough for me to stand in with only my head above the water. It wasn't full of water at the time, of course, but I wished it had been. I would have leaped into it gladly even fully dressed. I had never seen such a tub before, not even the tub at Leo's fancy apartment could closely compare. That was one big tub.
Zig was in the front room when I came out of that bathing arena. Again, like this was his own scene, he lounged on one of the big pillows, smoking a pipe. I knew, of course, that it must be pot. He was higher than I had ever seen him and when he motioned for me to come over by his side, I had no choice but to obey. It was, after all, just what I had wanted to do, coming here and doing what Zig wanted me to do.
I felt that first euphoric twinge when I dragged on the pipe. It swelled into me and exploded in all sorts of lovely colors, expanding out from my lungs and filling my head with sensuous ideas. Time collapsed around me, melting into shades of red and blue, flashed with streaks of brilliant white. Zig pushed the pipe back to me and sent me off on another trip of wild fantasy, lights and weirdly twisting limbs and breasts and cocks and cunts.
That was my first experience with the stuff, and I liked it. I liked the way my mind drifted off into remote corners of the room, catching sight of a color or a shape and holding to it until I thought that I would go crazy.
Zig's hands moved over my body, but I felt I was someone else and his hands didn't really touch me at all. I shed my clothing and eased my body over the pillows in front of Zig.
Zig was wearing a satin robe and nothing else. As I sat down next to him, he placed one hand on the back of my neck and pulled my head down into his lap, opening his robe to show me his enormous erection. Once again I was on the outside of myself, looking at me through the warm splendor of the high I felt. I saw myself roll away from his embrace and crawl between his thighs which I spread wide, running my fingers up to his testicles before my mouth engulfed them, wetly tonguing the sac and sucking one of the balls into the warm cavity. His hand moved away from my head and I rose enough to take his cock into my mouth, forming the perfect O with my lips and lavishing his swollen penis with tongue and teeth. I was someone else sucking Zig's cock, I was across the room watching as my head moved rhythmically up and down the shaft, my lips pursing at the top to kiss the head and then opening wide to let it sink into the back of my throat.
There was no time any more, just the taste of his cock and the colors that floated through my head. I grew bolder with my hands, running them over his flat, hard stomach and tickling him between his legs, cupping his scrotum and then inserting one finger cautiously, testingly into his rectum. He moaned and the sound that came from his lips seemed so far away I thought that it also might have been someone else. Yet it was Zig's voice and it was his orgasm that flooded the back of my throat.
When he finished his convulsive ejaculation in my mouth, I leaned my head against his thigh, still holding his penis between my lips until he finally motioned for me to let go of it. I stayed between his legs for a long time, puffing on the pipe when Zig offered it to me and falling away from myself in that strange way that the drug affected me.
* * *
The room was brilliantly illuminated when I woke up from the long hashish sleep. I had been moved into the pink room, although I wasn't immediately aware of it because of the bright light. Hazily, I looked around at my surroundings, knowing that I was in the bed, but uncomfortably arranged. I tried to move into a better position yet couldn't. My hands and feet were tied securely and I was laying face down on the bed.
"She's coming to. Let's get started."
I didn't recognize the voice and in the position that I was in, I couldn't turn around to see. Hands came to me and pulled me roughly towards the edge of the bed and over it until my feet touched the soft carpeting.
"That's far enough. Give me the whip, now."
This time, it was Zig's voice I heard and I knew what was going to happen to me and my body twisted in an unconscious effort to escape from the bondage. It was futile. Zig swung the whip and my buttocks burst into searing pain. He swung again, laying the whip end an inch or so above the first welt, still across the fatty part of my haunches.
"She must like it," the first voice said. "She hasn't made a sound yet. Are you sure you're hitting her hard enough? Maybe I should try."
The whip cut into my flesh again sending a charge of pain searing through my whole body. I cried out for Zig to stop, but my protests only aroused him to a greater frenzy. My whole body then erupted in a blaze of pain and screaming nerves. I shrieked with each blow, pleaded for him to stop and tried desperately to move away from the bed, but I was helpless, numbed with the after effects of the drug and unable to move myself more than a few inches across the edge of the bed. I twisted away as best I could, but his whip was smarter than I and it caught me a stinging blow on my breast when I turned and then it went back to the flesh of my buttocks and my thighs.
Zig stopped as quickly as he had begun whipping me, leaving me to dying cries of pain and not a little bit of passion, too, for when my mind simmered down from the effects of the whip, I realized I had orgasmed.
My eyes were blurred with tears and I couldn't quite make out who was lifting me, but suddenly I was back on the bed, my hips high in the air, my knees supporting my breasts. I tried to slip forward, but hands held me down in that vulnerable position, exposing my wet crotch to the blazing lights behind me. I heard words and noises but nothing seemed to make much sense to me at the time.
"Camera's loaded again. Get the other girl in here," Zig said. "Jeri is going to do a nice little number with her mouth."
A girl crawled over the edge of the bed and spread her legs around my head, smiling down at me. She was very beautiful, I remember, olive complexion and blue-black hair. Her body was flawless, her breasts firm and high, her mouth sensuously full. I wished that my hands had been free so I could have touched her all over from her smooth forehead to her plump thighs. But I wasn't given a chance to use my hands. Zig had said mouth and that was what it had to be. The girl placed her hands on either side of my head and guided my face into the black hair of her crotch, wriggling her buttocks underneath me until my mouth was poised just above her cunt. She held my head like that for a seeming long time until Zig gave her a signal and she pushed my mouth down into the steamy depths of her crotch, squeezing her buttocks up until my tongue came out and worried her clitoris.
Why they wanted me tied up I don't know; I would have gladly gone down on this girl anytime. It was most uncomfortable, my neck muscles were strained, but I licked her box with all the energy I had left, sucking at her juices until my face was wet not only with the tears from the beating but with the hot female smell of the girl.
I had no sooner buried my face in the girl's crotch than I felt a pressure behind me. My head was locked between the girl's plump thighs, shutting out most of the sound and preventing me turning around. I wanted to look, but couldn't; I knew what was going to happen to me.
The penis slipped into my cunt, stretching the vaginal walls with its enormous thickness and sending shivers of delight coursing through my body. I tried to thrust my hips back, but my head was held fast between her legs. I wondered if it was Zig's cock bulldozing its way into my crotch. It didn't matter, for there was nothing I could do except take the pleasure and the humiliation.
Gradually everything came back to me, sinking in slowly. Zig had brought me here and we had made love and smoked hashish and there was some talk about a camera. I realized that Zig was making movies of me.
Then I could hear the whir of the camera behind me and I understood the meaning of all the brilliant light.
I was being pounded from behind, the unknown penis bucking furiously into my inflamed cunt. I rose to a fever pitch, twitching my abdominal muscles to try to suck that big cock deeper and deeper into my body to fill me, split me, hurt me and send me crashing down in a prolonged orgasm.
When it came I nearly fainted and then I felt hot spurts of the unknown penis as it erupted deep inside me, flooding me with still another orgasm.
* * *
The bonds had been removed and Zig was sitting on the edge of the mattress.
"Everyone liked your performance, Jeri," he said and offered me a pipe. "Take this. It's to help you relax."
"Why did you do that to me? Why?" I was crying now with genuine tears for I realized fully what I had done, wallowed in the lowest pit and had found myself enjoying every minute of it. Even the beating had been mostly my own doing, but in that stupor of regret, I was demanding to know why he had made movies of me.
"It's business, Jeri. And besides, you enjoyed yourself, didn't you?" I guess I had enjoyed myself, more than I wanted to remember. I turned my face away from Zig, but he put his hand on my chin and turned me around again. "Take the pipe. It'll help you forget." He was right, of course. Within two puffs, I was off on another trip with the mind-sapping euphoria, forgetting for the moment what I was and what I had done. Somewhere in that sleep I found solace in dreams of Leo, of Claudia, of something happier in my life that I had been missing for so very long.
But it did not last long enough. Soon Zig was at me again, bright lights flooding my bedroom and obscene little men doing strange things to me. My sex organ opened for the mouths and penises and fingers of a thousand repulsive people, men and women, and my flesh was nearly ripped from my bones under the lash, but the worst part was the remembering and thrashing my conscious gave to me. I used the pipe more frequently as the weeks wore on, putting myself in a constant state of half-living, half-sleeping.
I guess I had become psychologically addicted both to the pipe and to the routine of making movies for Zig. The former helped me live through the scenes of the latter part of my life, helping me live through those moments when I thought my body would be ripped apart or I would strangle on a penis rammed far down my throat while I was bound a helpless mass of flesh. And on the day I realized my addiction, I knew I could not stop the other part of my life �_"for Zig provided both the pleasure of the escape and the means, but gave it only for the use of my body.
Naturally, I did not always feel it was a fair exchange, but I was powerless to do anything about it. Zig held all the stuff I needed, my mind craved for. And if that also included a whipping, I was happy to receive it for I found much to be thankful for in the times he tied me to the bed and lashed my bottom. The pain brought me around and made me think of getting away. It had a way of clearing the hashish webs from my mind for those blissful minutes when the whip turned my buttocks and thighs to fire, enflaming my desires.
Yet I knew that it could not last forever. Everything in my life had disappeared before and I was not surprised when Zig came in one morning and told me that I was to leave his house. It was very matter-of-fact.
I was going to take a trip with an "admirer," he said.
The "admirer" was old, fat and balding. His mouth was thick-lipped and he constantly ran his tongue over the lower lip. His eyes were buried deep in his head, but they were hot eyes, flashing darkly at me when we were introduced.
"Ali is going to take you to Algiers, Jeri," Zig said. "He has a beautiful house where you can work on a book that he wants to write. I've explained to him that you're something of a writer. You'll like it there, Jeri. You'll like it a lot."
* * *
Like it a lot, like it a lot. The words rolled over and over in my brain, carrying sound and yet no meaning to my brain. I took the pipe from Zig's hand, sucking the sweet smoke until it filled my soul and my lungs to the bursting point. Like it a lot, like it a lot. It drummed through me, but it was not just a sentence; it was a command, a heavenly order to fulfill what I had to do.
Fat man. Balding. Liver lips. Fuck me. Fuck me. Like it a lot. Like it a lot. The hemp wove its way down my intestines, disemboweled me and left me open like a gaping cunt; palpitating, eager, ever eager to like it a lot. I heard myself crying in the dimness of the room, but no sound came from my lips. Each scream of agony I had inside me retched through my mouth and puked upon silent ears. My ears. Their ears.
Off in the corner. There. Who? The man in the turtle-neck sweater. Ignore him. Ignore. Ignore myself I could not do. But the weed. Ah the sweet smoke, pervading my being like velvet, closing over me, covering all the bad; shielding.
Again a scream, but only from the pain that roared through my head, rocking from one corner of the room, turtle-neck-scared, and bounced from the chandelier over many colored pillows and ended at the end of fat man's cock, balding man's cock, thick and short and not quite hard enough but firmly inserted between my lips. Fingers then. Rectally.
Vaginally. Into the navel. Into the armpit. Into the ears. Where else? I was so exposed. Open. Then the fingers closed over my nostrils. Gagging. Suck. Suck harder and faster. Breath. Sweet odor of air. Fade away.
I, a moth then, fluttered around the short, stubby candle of his penis, licking it, sucking it, holding it in the warm well of my mouth while all the world around me went crashing down like so much crystal, tinkling, brittle and sharp as the pain ripped across my thighs, as fierce as the fire that boiled in my loins.
Turtle-neck was behind me, his penis ramming at the small door of my anus. I backed up to meet his attack, met it and conquered him for there was nothing that anyone could do to me any more. I was the creator and the victim. And still the room spun off into dazzling colors, blue-white flashes of light and dark velvet like the soft pillows where I wanted to rest my head.
Dizziness then. Soft black velvet to coddle my addled brain. I sank down sometime that night and rose again to meet turtle-neck and stubby cock, each of them working their souls out in the vast vacuum of my mouth and asshole.
There was another pipe, sweet, pungent and alluring. I sucked the smoke down into my body, wallowing in the waft of comfort that it gave me and surrendered myself to it, unconditionally, willingly, longingly.
If the sleep of reason does bring forth monsters, I had my share of them.
Ali was not an evil master in the same sense that Zig had been. I suffered pleasure-filled pain with Ali, but the experience was a personal one. I was not exploited�_"except for his pleasure and only his pleasure.
I don't know when we arrived at his villa, but the sun was shining like it had never shone before. There wasn't a cloud in the sky when the plane set down, his own private jet. It was early in the morning, but I was still high on the last pipe that Zig had given me, and all I could see then was the sharply defined sun jutting over the ridge of a distant hill and streaking long shadows across the sand. We were taken by car to the villa.
They introduced me to other women and I fell into the pattern of their lives and I thought I would always be there, part of the harem, although Ali did not call it that.
On the first night, I and a dark-skinned girl were ordered to Ali's bedroom where he told me to straddle his face and suck his cock. The dark girl, black really, went down on his testicles, nearly swallowing them as my mouth encased his thick penis. Ali bit at my labia, sucked the juice from my body and sent me rolling along on a wild sensual trip that nearly tore my guts from my body. His orgasm was weak, hardly enough to take down my throat, but enough to satisfy him.
On the second night, he buggered me, while I was forced to perform cunnilingus on the black girl.
And then the nights grew wearisome, each fading more and more into the depths of hashish and sex until I felt there was no more sex in me nor any ability to feel it for Ali or anyone.
I made a protest and I was whipped, strung up like a cow for the slaughter, my head down and my legs spread. Ali administered the whipping himself, cutting finely into the soft flesh of my thighs and breasts and yet not making any damaging marks. For more than an hour, one of the girls told me, I shrieked with the exquisite pain before Ali put a gag in my mouth and continued to whip me for another quarter of an hour.
CHAPTER SIX
Ali's personal physician attended to me, healing the welts that streaked across my body and giving me a strong injection that knocked me out. This was a real blackout; no mind-blowing colors or images of erotic fantasy filled my head this time, just the blackness.
I was still groggy when I realized I was in Ali's plane, but I was so weak I couldn't have done anything about it if I had wanted to. I eased my pounding head back into the seat and looked down at the dismal, smog-covered city of Paris again.
The pilot and the woman with me lead me through customs with no problems and deposited me in a hotel.
My luggage came up shortly after I was taken to the room and with it an envelope containing five-thousand dollars and a short note from Ali. He sounded very sweet in the note, telling me that he hoped that he had not hurt me too much and that I would return home where I could seek out some sort of professional help for the peculiar affliction of wanting to be hurt. It had been an interesting interlude, he said in the note, and he hoped that the money would help in some small way.
I suppose that the money did help, although I was by no means quite so destitute as he imagined. I still had plenty of money from my erstwhile marriage to Warner, all of which was safely in the bank.
What I needed most when I came back from Ali's villa was rest, a time to rearrange my thinking and a time to come down from the insidious glow of the hashish. It took a little time, but I worked the desire for it out of my system, although there were times during the following days that I wished that I had some.
One is not supposed to have withdrawal symptoms from hash, but I did: yearning late at night for just a few puffs to help me to sleep or to put me back on a fantasy level where my daytime thoughts disappeared.
I had spent almost six weeks with Ali as his whore. Yet the time did not seem that long, having passed quickly into a blissful melange of dope and sex.
As I became more rational in the time I spent at the hotel, I tried to locate Claudia, but her phone had been disconnected. I went to her studio apartment, but it had been vacated and the concierge did not have a forwarding address. Perhaps she did return to the States, after all, I thought and let the matter drop. She was, however, the only friend I had in Paris. I had no desire to look up Zig, even though he might have been able to tell me about Claudia.
I stayed a few more days at the hotel, gradually adjusting myself to the lonely life I'd had before I ever met Claudia or Zig or got involved with Ali. It was depressing, however, and even a brief fling with a young American painter did not hold back the depressions for very long.
Once again, I had to move on, and for some strange reason I wanted to return to the States. Maybe the old world was too jaded for me. Whatever the reason, I didn't hesitate, but went immediately down and booked myself aboard a passenger-freighter leaving Le Havre.
My young American painter was disappointed I was leaving so soon, but I sucked him off and spent the last night with him in his dingy little studio. I felt sorry for him, sorry in several ways. He wasn't very good in bed with me and he was a lousy painter, but he was kind and gentle; I wished him well, despite his shortcomings.
* * *
I had never been on a ship before, but I knew something about what to expect. Naturally I was a little disappointed when there was no band playing and no thousands of people gathered around the gangplank waving farewell to us passengers. There were hardly any passengers, in fact; just twenty.
I met the captain at dinner, with the other passengers and officers. There was, of course, no place to feed us except in the officers' wardroom, but it was a congenial place, paneled, warmly illuminated and quite conducive to conversation. But there was a strange quiet all about the room as we were served dinner, soft mutterings and an occasional toast, but the atmosphere lacked a considerable degree of celebration. Despite my own enthusiasm about the trip, I couldn't get over the idea that no one else seemed to share it and that whatever it was I had in the bosom of my ego, I had it alone. I seemed to be the only unescorted female on the passenger list, and I wasn't surprised that the officers and the captain made a little fuss over me.
It was a time for romance, I felt, sailing out of the busy harbor and into the vastness of the ocean, breathing the clean air of the sea and being soothed by the deep rumbling of the engines.
The captain escorted me around the deck and invited me up to the bridge where we both stood back as the harbor pilot took the ship out. It was eerie on the bridge, only the soft glow of the radar screen and the dim red light on the binnacle. As the pilot gave orders to the helmsman, the captain told me about the various features of the control deck, most of which went over my head. I remember only that he held me around the waist and his grip was more than just that of a friendly guide helping me to get my balance in the roll of the ship. His fingers insinuated themselves into the soft curve of my hips and played down towards my crotch; a bold forward attack, I thought, for a brave captain who had only just met me that afternoon. But I wasn't disappointed with his maneuver. I suppose it was just reaction to the lackadaisical lovemaking of my little American painter. I wanted the captain's strong hands on me, using me, hurting me if he wanted to, and I knew almost as soon as he touched me that we would end up in bed together.
The wardroom was still filled with people when the captain and I returned, but now it had taken on a more happy feeling. Someone had turned on the record player and the Filipino boy was serving drinks with a flourish and serving them like they were going out of style. I took a large scotch and water from him, sipping it slowly as the captain made a courtesy visit around the room to his passengers. He didn't take a drink there with the other passengers, however, telling them that he had to go to the bridge soon and put the harbor pilot onto the pickup tug.
I left shortly after the captain, going to my stateroom where I found all the promised accommodations were very adequate. It had a shower and a double-bed, air-conditioning controls and a very nice rug, considering it was a freighter. I showered and lay across the bed naked, waiting, I guess, for the captain to knock.
I had barely dropped onto the bed when the knock came, except it was not the captain, but the steward. He had a big bottle of champagne in a bucket which he said was the compliments of the captain who requested my company on the bridge at midnight. I agreed, shaking my head dutifully while trying to keep him from peeking around the door. I thanked him and tried to avoid his squinty little eyes that reflected all the knowledge of what I was. This little bastard knew, and I could tell from the look on his face that he knew what the captain and I would be up to before very long.
He returned my smile and left finally as I pushed the door shut and carried the bucket of champagne over to the bed. There was a note around the bottle repeating what the captain had told the steward; it was signed, Tom.
I drank very little of the champagne as it was not quite ten o'clock when the steward delivered it and I did not feel up to getting drunk on my first night at sea.
* * *
As soon as I entered the bridge, the captain turned the control over to his first officer and directed me out and down the short hall to his own cabin.
Once more he was holding me firmly as though I was going to sway with the roll of the ship, his fingers again creeping down and over my hips, pressing the tender nerves and sending little shivers of anticipation throughout my whole body.
As soon as he closed the cabin door, I undressed, dropping my clothing in a pile over a chair. He seemed pleased I was ready to abandon all the usual preliminaries and took his own clothes off. Tom was tall and lean; a nice body, I thought, although not very muscular. He had a large penis which was fully erect by the time he stepped out of his shoes and joined me on his bed, eager to begin.
I stroked his cock and gave some gentle squeezes to his scrotum before slipping down the length of his body and taking the swollen head into his mouth. He moaned out his pleasure as my tongue licked the head of his cock furiously, and I, too, felt a keen surge of excitement and tried to take as much of his penis into my head as I could. My mouth was stretched wide and, though I forced my head down until his cock was jabbing my tonsils, I could only manage to get about a third of him into me. I had made my mouth a vagina for him, a sucking, salivating, tongue-lashing vagina that caused him to moan and roll his hips. My fingers wormed around his genital area, stroking his scrotum, squeezing his buttocks and settling, finally, into his anus.
My finger intruded into his ass, pushing firmly as the sphincter alternately contracted and eased until I reached the node of his prostate. He gave a cry of pain and thrust his hips forward, driving his cock deeper into my throat. I choked for an instant with the sudden onslaught but continued to suck and lick the throbbing shaft of flesh that was forcing my jaws apart. My tongue roved around and around the blood-swollen head, slipping, slithering over every contour, the tip futilely trying to enter the tiny eye, surrendering itself then to a most satisfying task of lapping the sensitive edges.
Tom was moaning and thrashing about on the bed. He grasped my head between his hands and pounded his cock deep into my throat then held it there until he gushed out his orgasm.
Sweet, hot fluid filled my throat and mingled with the saliva. I pulled back from his cock a little to swallow as much of his juices as I could. The rest of it rolled listlessly down his still-hard shaft and settled into tiny white droplets in the perspiration-stained hair of his testicles. He held my head until the last twitchings of his body subsided and then pulled his cock out of my mouth.
Grand. Beautiful. I was becoming the best blow-job artist in the world. My mouth and my cunt were the same and when I reached down between my legs I found that I was wet with my own excitement, stimulated as much as if Tom had been eating me.
I rolled away from his cock, lying back on the bed near the foot, to rest my aching jaws and savor the lingering flavor of his semen.
Eyes closed, I could still feel the ghost of his penis filling my mouth, its thick shaft spreading my lips and grating against my teeth, its blood-sex-maddened red head throbbing against my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Mouth. Mouth. I was filled with such an intense satisfaction that I wanted to cry out with the intense pleasure of it all.
Cock and mouth. Oh wonder.
Tom swung his leg over my head. I knew he did it but I was still deep in the trance my cock-sucking had given me and did not see it. Then he was off the bed as I lay there and then in between my legs, spreading them wide before burrowing his face deep into my cunt. His tongue licked up the slit and darted teasingly around the labia. I spread my legs wider still, holding on to the knees with my hands and offering my sex to him, rocking my hips, too, to let his face bathe in the hot lubricity of my inner being. I cried with the joy of his masterful tongue as it slashed up and down the pink lips, darting in and out of the deeper hollow that I held between my hot thighs.
His mouth took me on the tour of ecstasy: expertly guiding me up the deep slope of anticipation until I had to close my thighs around his head when I reached the top of my orgasm. I squealed aloud with the pleasure, the mind-blowing pleasure of his face in my cunt, but I had to push him away for that throbbing set of nerves between my legs could stand the excitement no longer.
But he had another pleasure in store for the both of us. His cock was hard again, and without so much as wiping his mustache, he eased himself over my body and parted my lips with his tongue as his fleshy tool entered my gaping, hot-wet-pulsating-passionate pussy. My legs wrapped around his hips and my pelvis rose to meet his thrust. I could smell myself on his mouth and I wondered if he, too, could smell himself on my mouth. But we were locked in a classic embrace and our thoughts were nerves talking to each other through our sexuality.
Pounding. Beating a tattoo against my cervix with the knob of his penis, I was wrenched again up the slope of desire and plunged off the cliff with a thundering orgasm and then another until he slowed his thrusts, moaned down my mouth and shuddered to his own climax.
* * *
Her name was Nadine and she was married to a broker in the States. She was about forty, but I never found out exactly how old she was except that she was older than I. We had met on the deck, each of us taking a stroll on the first morning out to sea in the wind-swept, clear air of the Atlantic.
Nadine was mostly bored with the ship, telling me she had been on such vessels so many times she now wished she had taken a plane back to the States�_"except the boat would take longer thus delaying her reception by her husband. He bored her, too, she said. She did not seemed bored with me, however, but then I could see through her, see that underneath the facade of worldly sophistication, beauty and femininity, she was another lesbian.
Yet she was interesting, too, forceful, educated, a talented artist and an excellent pianist as I found out that evening when she gave a recital for our small group.
I search for the right words to describe how I was myself feeling on that voyage, but I cannot. It all seems so distant now. I was neither depressed nor overly elated despite the captain and I enjoying a marvelous time together in bed. I was in a state of limbo, hardly caring what I felt and only now and then feeling a deep pang of regret over what I had done in Europe. What a silly marriage there had been and what a disastrous liaison there had been with Claudia. And with thoughts of Claudia, I could summon up a great excitement about Nadine, whom I recognized as cut from the same cloth, pattern intact for making a woman, another woman, ragingly horny.
When the recital was over, Nadine and I took our drinks out onto the deck for another stroll, barely talking because I was too shy or too intimidated by her superior knowledge of the world and of myself. She made no awkward overtures for me, but simply placed her cards on the table and dealt me the backhand I really desired.
We went to her cabin that night and she continued to talk about her life, very boring she said, her art, not quite good enough, her piano, again no earth-shattering accomplishment. And we spoke of her husband, very boring she said and very tied up with his business.
About her children, two of whom were soldiers and a daughter who hated her guts. Again, very boring.
Then she came right out and asked me if she would be allowed to lick my cunt. I was, she said, a very passionate woman and she also said she knew I had spent most of the first night out with the captain. I was embarrassed, but Nadine was bold and simply came over to me and placed her fingers between the crack of my buttocks and pulled me into her face. Her mouth was sweet and when her tongue drove between my lips, I opened my mouth.
I was dazed with the heady medicine of the sea and the drinks and the smell of Nadine's body so close to mine that I could almost feel her heart pounding against my breast.
She unzipped the back of my cocktail dress, her fingers cool and efficient, working over the tender nerves of my spine and quickly unhooking my bra. Our mouths sucked against each other, drawing up the ember of my passion into a flame between my legs. I did not object, I could not object to her cool fingers and arms as they wrapped around me, igniting my flesh with feverish desire. She slipped the top of my dress down over my shoulders, taking the brassiere with it and exposing my hard-nippled breasts to her eager hands.
She cupped each globe of flesh, touching each sensitive nerve and scraping her fingernails across the swollen tips to send flutters of pain and pleasure coursing through my body. I clung to her mouth while this preliminary act of eroticism took place, sucking her sweet tongue deep into my own hot mouth, longing to taste the delights of the passionate nest between her legs, but taking her tongue into my mouth as though it were a penis. I shoved my own tongue into her mouth when her tongue withdrew and in that way I signaled willingness to taste her body.
We broke from the tantalizing embrace and without a word both of us removed our light clothing in the dim light of the cabin. When she was fully undressed, I came to her, fearful, of course, because she had such a beautiful body, small and well proportioned, surprising I thought for a woman who had had three children.
There was hardly a trace of striation on her belly. Her tuft of hair was a dark yellow that told me her blonde coiffure was not from a hairdresser's bottle. I sank to my knees and placed my lips against the cool flesh of her thighs, lingering there in the sweet smell of her skin for a moment before opening my mouth and pressing the hot probe of my tongue against that perfumed epidermis. Nadine put her hands behind my head and pulled it into the soft yellow mound of her sex where my tongue stabbed out and tried to separate the lips of her cunt.
But it was an impossible position. So I just sucked on the plump outer labia until she moved back to her bed.
I crawled over to her wide open legs, the feet resting on the floor, and burrowed my mouth into the pink-wet-piss-smelling crotch. She obliged me by pulling her dark yellow hair-covered lips apart so my tongue could play its erotic tune on the more sensitive and responsive nerves. I liked her fingers and then forced my tongue out to its greatest extension, bobbing my head up and down, to cover with love the entire length of her wet cunt. And once I reached her clitoris, my mouth circled around it and my lips parted so I could bring my teeth as well as my tongue into the concerto. Somewhere through the heat-piss-sweet-sweat of her thighs and cunt I could hear her moan with animal abandon.
We reversed positions after her climax: she knelt on the floor between my legs, placing my feet on the edge of the bed where she licked my toes, sucking each little digit until the nerves there screamed in my ears.
But I let her suck me and tickle my feet until I thought I would die. Still her mouth worked over the sensitive flesh of my feet and I could feel the dampness forming between my legs. Her tongue was everywhere, covering every inch of one leg until she was near my cunt and then starting from the sole of my other foot and up over the soft flesh of my thigh before she used her fingers to spread the lips of my pussy even wider. Her warm, sweet mouth centered over my clitoris then, her tongue lapping at the erect little tissue until I closed my thighs around her head and the pounding orgasm surged out of me.
* * *
Squinty-Eye, the steward, was waiting for me in the corridor outside Nadine's cabin when I left. He was leering at me, knowingly, sensuously. I was frightened for a moment, but he smiled and beckoned me to follow him. I shook my head and began to walk away when he was suddenly beside me, telling me that I really ought to see what he had to show me, for, he said, I would find it most interesting, a most profitable thing. His fingers wrapped around the upper part of my arm and I let him steer me into a cabin next to Nadine's. As we entered I realized what he was going to show me. I didn't have to climb on the chair placed against the wall under the ventilator. It was all too obvious: removing the louver on this side of the bulkhead one could peer easily into the whole adjoining cabin. It was his window he told me and that's why there was an empty cabin next to every single girl on board. That was just the two of us, and I remembered his expression the previous night when he brought the champagne from Tom. He had seen me stark-naked even before he knocked on my cabin door.
He made me sick, but it was obvious that he would tell Tom what he had seen if I did not do what he wanted. I looked down at the floor where the grating was leaning against the bulkhead and knew. Damn, I knew. He must have been watching us as we came back from our stroll. He saw everything; of that I was certain. He saw my head buried in Nadine's crotch and hers buried in mine.
I turned to him in the dim light of the cabin and saw he had shut the door and bolted it. He was leaning up against it, and he had his trousers down, his obscene penis erect, his face smiling evilly. I went over to the bed and began to undress, but he called me over, telling me he did not have enough time just then for a real "ball," but said that that was all right as I had already shown him what a talented mouth I had. I went down on him, sucking his cock until his ejaculation filled my throat. I felt nothing of the experience except that all the joy I had had with Tom now seemed numb and the steward's hard penis in my mouth was nothing to me but another male member using me for erotic thrills.
He just leaned against the door with his trousers around his feet as I blew him, as I sucked his filthy cock and filled myself with the hot passion from his beastly testicles. It was like something with another person. It was just an act of compliance, retribution paid for the folly of loving Nadine. I sucked him off, but it was only my mouth that he used.
Knelt in front of him,�_"let him push his cock into my reluctant mouth. He had to do the work, pumping his hips in and out and creating all the friction he needed in my mouth. I swallowed his lowly sperm, growing nauseated as I did and yet feeling this was all quite proper for me to experience. In the instant I dropped onto my knees in front of the steward's penis I fell back to all the remorse of my life. This act, this cocksucking act I was performing was an act of penance for having lived too liberally, too much for the evil ethic I followed, and for being what I am.
* * *
I fucked the first officer the next morning after our cordial breakfast. He simply came to my cabin and told me that the steward told him everything, leaving me no choice.
Once again I was trapped in a situation of my own making. So I spread my legs and began to wonder who else would be next.
And so the days and nights of that eight-day voyage were spent as the receptacle of man sperm and gushing wetness from women. All four officers of the crew took me in turn, and the bastard Tom was fully aware of what I was. I had blown him when he went to the bridge at night. I had to blow him after breakfast, but he never again gave me the satisfaction of pushing his cock into my body or of turning in his passion and eating me. Nadine, however, was always there, begging me to come to her cabin. And I did, enjoying her mouth on my pussy to bring me to the only satisfaction I had on that trip. I was almost sorry to see her leave in Bermuda the day before we docked in Port Everglades. I would have enjoyed her one more night, much more than the fleeting joy I got from sucking the captain's penis and being buggered by the third officer an hour later.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pain, humiliation and my own voice shrieking protest was the alarm which woke me.
My wrists and ankles were bound to the bed, my head hanging down over the foot, immobile then, caught between the sweaty perfumed thighs of a woman I did not recognize immediately. She was exerting just enough pressure to keep my head from moving and, with another scream that ended in silence, I could hear and realize why I was making the noise. The buzz roared up the back of my head, shearing my hair, and I would suddenly feel the cool air raise goose bumps on my scalp.
I was being shorn of all of my hair.
My legs were spread painfully wide and no amount of effort could move them from the straps that held me.
I screamed again, but the visage of the woman straddling my face, her cunt inches above my mouth, only peered down at my discomfiture and smiled in the same chilling way I had seen before, a face of evil and complete indifference to my plight. The hair clippers, electricity buzzing in an obscene manner, continued its path, loosening the thick folds of hair from my head until I was shorn close to the scalp. Then there were tears that blurred over the evil face above me and though I strained to the utmost, I could not tell who was cutting my hair. I tried to scream again, but the woman lowered her body and muffled my protest with the fat pubes of her cunt. I gagged a little and stopped my futile cry.
She eased her weight back when my head was wrapped in a warm towel, moistly covering the coolness that appeared when the last of my hair had fallen to the floor. The towel was removed and my scalp was bathed in a hot lather. For this aspect of my humiliation, the woman eased back farther but retained her firm grip. I could not move even my mouth as her knees pressed into my jaws. But I could feel the hot lather being stripped away with cool edge of a straight razor.
I did nothing to deserve this, I kept telling myself. Why? Why? Over and over again in a tear-streaked flash that spread throughout my mind. I could not blot it out and I wished this dreadful nightmare would stop, but it could not stop any more than I could have helped what I was.
The ceiling of the room was white and that was all I could for the eternity it took for the unknown person behind me to shave my head clean. I never felt more naked than at that moment. My eyes traversed back and forth and up and down the length of the room, interrupted by the body of the woman straddling my head and then seeing nothing but the white in the opposite direction.
Where had it all started? The blubbering question rocked through my head, but I couldn't think at all at the time because each effort at rationale faded in the glare of my shaven head, my shocking nakedness.
When the unknown person had finished wiping all the excess lather from my head, I screamed again only to have the evil face lower her cunt into my mouth to stifle the sound. This time she completely covered my face, allowing only enough room between her pussy and my face for me to breathe through my nose.
I heard the buzz as the clippers were turned on again before I felt the vibrating metal slide easily across the hair of my pubic mound and then down each side of my lips, peeling off the fur of my femininity, laying me yet still more naked. I could not see who was doing it to me, and my legs were stretched so wide that I could not have made them close.
The buzz stopped, but then I was covered all over my naked crotch with warm lather. Again the straight razor sliced through the lather, lifting the few bristly hairs that had remained after the clippers had done the work it was designed for. Then another warm towel was placed on my crotch and gentle hands massaged away all the remaining soap. Quite suddenly it was lifted away and the cool air of the room burned over my parts made warm by the towel. I continued to strain at my bondage, but all I managed to do was make my limbs fatigued.
Fat Pubes moved her crotch from my face and for the first time I was able to see almost all the way around the room. But as soon as she moved away, I heard the cold swish of a whip and shrieked as the leather cut into my flesh just above the shaven pubic mound. My screams piled up against each other as the blows continued to fall across my body, welting the soft white skin of my inner thighs and streaking my belly.
Tears erupted from any eyes, blinding me and running down into my wide-open mouth, flavoring that orifice with the tang of salt.
I wrenched my body in all directions, but that was a futile movement little as it was. My bonds held me firmly to the bed. There was no escape from the whip. It seared across my flesh to run what was once white into angry red. When I lifted my head, I saw then for the first time my tormentor.
The steward from the ship smiled down at me, kept smiling even as his hand rose and he brought the whip down viciously across my body. I screamed, but that seemed to make him smile even wider. Then he stopped, dropping the whip by his side and crawled between my legs. His cock was throbbingly erect and as he poised his machine in front of my cunt I became aware of my own lubricity, providing a slippery causeway for his manhood. He plunged into me, sinking his penis to its fullest extent and banging his bag of testicles against my buttocks. I shuddered with the initial thrust, my muscles involuntarily contracting around his cock, sucking him deeper into my body and sending fiery messages of pain and pleasure to my mind.
He pulled his cock out of my cunt and shoved it back again as though carrying cut some kind of punishment on me, thrashing me with the knob of his manhood, crashing against the tip of my uterus and grinding his hips, his stubbly pubic hair into my crotch and inflaming my already inflamed clitoris.
There was nothing I could do, except follow the responses my body was giving him, to give in to the terrible assault on my being and to seek out the pleasure that welled up from my wide spread legs. I closed my eyes to his evil-smiling, snarling, salivating-mouthed face. Then his hand came up and cruelly squeezed one of my nipples, making me scream again even as I wanted to cry out in pleasure. He told me to keep my eyes open and to look at him if I knew what was good for me.
My mind rocked with the plunging rhythm of his penis, and slowly things began to come back to me.
* * *
I had left the boat and went directly to a bar where I thought I could forget what had happened to me and what I had brought about my own shoulders. The steward had come in with one of the male passengers who had used my body. The latter was a short, fat, nearly bald book-dealer who had been insulting enough to offer me money; money and the promise he would not make it public knowledge what I was. He knew about Claudia in Paris and, of course, about Nadine. I refused his money, but I could never refuse his threat of exposure.
Be nice, they kept telling me. Be nice and have a drink. Have another drink. We'll take good care of you.
We're inviting you to a fabulous party. You must come. You must. It's just the sort of party you would enjoy.
And as I drank with them, I realized I would enjoy a party, a something on the steady floor of land. But the men turned me off and after they had bought me a couple of drinks, I told them to go to hell, to go back to the sties where they came from and to leave me alone.
Oh yes. I had one more for the road with them and when I finished it I was groggy or doped. And it certainly must have been the drug for I remember only that I changed my mind; through the haze of my mind, I changed from wanting to puke at them to accepting them; knowing myself for what I was I could only have such animals as these; I deserved them. Perhaps I needed them, also; like I had always done in the past, needing that feeling of total debasement that has marked my life all these years.
I agreed to go with them or agreed to go before they did what they could to me. And now it all seems so stupid; I didn't know anyone in Florida and there was little possibility of the steward and the passenger ever running into me again. But there was that old velvet haze of guilt that cloaked my reasoning, shrouded all the ego things that I might have used against them and allowed me to accept.
Acceptance is not the real word for what I did. It was a state of mind that took charge of me and accepted for me. Somewhere in my mind a tiny voice told me to let them do their damnedest, but I could hardly hear that unconscionable voice.
I was wooed that afternoon, caressed with soft voices, cajoling voices, urging me, begging me until I was powerless to refuse. I knew I should not accept, but I did accept. The cringing ego I had once called my own slunk off to a corner of my brain and whatever thoughts I might have had about not going went into the same corner. Again it was a matter of no longer caring to do for myself, but to have done for and done to.
* * *
But this?
I cried again as the steward pulled his wet penis from my vagina and for the moment that physical letdown after lovemaking brought a bright, fearful thought to my shaven head. Run, little cunt, run. But I could only move my head or the muscles of my body at that moment to relieve the ache the bonds caused.
When the steward got back onto the floor, Fat Pubes came around and straddled my face again, forcing her cunt down over my mouth and whispering an order for me to lick her, suck her, drain the depraved juices from her body. I resisted but she told the steward to pick up the whip.
Withstand another beating that day I couldn't. Each nerve ending in the flesh from my knees to my navel was already screaming with the pain the steward had given me. I sunk my face into her hot, moist crotch and tongued her until her juices soaked my face and drained into my mouth and nose.
* * *
The room was dark and I was still bound to the bed, hand and foot, totally naked. Cool air gushed from a vent somewhere in the dark and played a tantalizing cool refrain over the baldness of my pussy and my head. I was crying by then and, despairing, couldn't even raise my voice to scream at the night.
The steward? I remembered the steward and his male friend at the bar. We had drunk quite a bit and one or both of them had doped me and taken me through the sultry early evening, fresh from a shower, and through a long winding road to a big house. It came back to me slowly as did the woman's cunt in my face and the whip.
It was to be a party, they had told me, a wonderful party. But who? I struggled against the leather straps that held me fast to the bed, legs and arms, outspread, but the only sound that I could make was the squeaking of the bindings against the posts that held me prisoner.
Numbness crept into my hands and feet before I ceased the futile struggle and lay relaxed in the confinement.
The damned darkness, I kept thinking, was making me more dizzy than I had been when... when they brought me in.
Insight flashed then.
I remembered how the two men had almost had to carry me across the wide veranda and into the big house with the double doors. But my mind closed up again and I couldn't think of anything more.
There was just darkness for what seemed like hours and only the cool draft from the vent to tell me I was still in the room, tied to the bed. My body ached and then I could feel an itch form between my legs. It came softly at first, hardly a brush stroke of irritation, and there in the dark. I reached out my hand to ease it and was snapped back to the reality of my bondage. I wouldn't think about the itch. I told myself. It would go away, I said. But it persisted and soon there was another brushstroke of irritation and then another. The cool air had dried out the lubrication of my crotch and now the delicate-flesh was protesting its discomfort. I tried to squeeze my pubes together by flexing the muscles of my buttocks. It made the itch worse. I thrust my pelvis upwards and down very rapidly, hoping the air passing over the exposed flesh would ease the pain I now felt where only moments before had been just the slightest inkling of an itch.
No relief; and as my mind raced along this single track of wanting so much to just place a finger on the point of the irritation. And knowing, knowing how helpless I was, I found volume for my voice and screamed, the sound dinning into my ears and numbing my brain for an instant, almost enough to let me forget in that fraction of time, the itch in my crotch.
I struggled furiously then, whipping my body up and down in the confines of the bonds until I was drenched with perspiration. My screams were hurled against both the darkness and the soft whoosh of the vent until there was suddenly a bright light overhead.
Glare-blinded, I did not see who came in for a minute until my eyes adjusted.
I twisted around as much as I could and saw the fat passenger friend of the steward's. He was wearing a robe of lightweight material, something like one would wear in and out of steam-rooms or massage parlors.
"You've been a very good victim, Jeri," he said. "I am going to let you out of your bonds for a while if you promise to obey everything that I say. Do you promise?"
"Yes. Yes. For god's sake, I will. Just let me out of this," I wailed like a beaten pussy, tears from some new well in my eyes erupting over my face and the itch in my vagina driving me nearly crazy.
He untied my ankles first and I snapped them shut working the thighs against each other to soothe the terrible pain in my crotch. I shut my eyes and sighed deeply with relief, continuing to move my thighs together. He moved back to the foot of the bed where my wrists were still fastened to the bedposts.
"Before I untie you, dear, I think that I would like to use your sweet mouth. You don't mind, do you?" I shook my head and arched my neck back. He put his thumb and forefinger on my lips, around my chin and then eased my mouth open.
With his other hand, he loosened the front of his robe and stepped close to me. I watched in stunned silence as he pushed his massive body closer to my face, actually using one hand to press back the folds of fat around his hair-covered belly. His penis was limp and seemed very small when he opened my mouth and pushed it inside. I licked it, sucked it, grazed my teeth over the glans until I felt that it was getting hard. Then he pulled it out slowly as it grew in dimensions and spread his legs just like the woman had done earlier. He brought his scrotum over my mouth; there was no need for him to tell me what to do: I strained upwards and touched the heavy sack with my lips, drawing a tracery of saliva over the area before sucking in as much of his testicles as I could hold in my mouth. He sighed and settled even lower over my face until his great hairy thighs formed an arch over my head.
"Just lick them like that, Jeri. Oh, that's very good," he said. "But something else needs attending to and you're in no fit position to help."
With that he untied my hands and stepped back from the foot of the bed. I massaged my wrists for a few minutes to get the circulation going again and twisted my head. I looked around at the fat man to see him slouching in a chair across the room, his robe wide open and his cock up and ready for my mouth.
He was covered with hair from his ankles to just below his neck, a thick matting that almost blotted out his ordinary pubic hair. It was such a strange sight to see him like that, obese, hairy and with an enormous erection. I wanted to laugh, but fear held back any urge that I might have had.
"Come here," he said. (I went to him.) "Kneel." (I dropped to my knees and felt his hands grab the back of my neck.) "Suck." (I lowered my head to his huge penis, passing my tongue around its circumference once to gauge its size before opening my lips and taking it into my mouth.) He was big. His meaty lancer stretched my lips to their widest to take him inside the wet, warm cavern of my mouth. I played with his huge bag of testicles as my tongue tormented the head of his penis and my teeth scraped the sides.
Gently massaging the heavy sack and running my finger back under him, I could nearly touch his rectum. I concentrated on pleasing him in this manner, hoping my mouth would be the desirable cunt his fat cock needed. My head bobbed up and down, teeth grazing the glans on the upstroke, tongue pushing it away when I lowered my head down too low. My concentration almost dimmed me to the faint sounds of grunts that he made, interspersed, with sighs.
I twisted my head in a semi-circular motion to go along with the up and down movement, extracting every iota of pleasure from his body until I could suddenly taste the salty slow emission from his cock just before he placed his hands on my head, shoving it down roughly. His penis battered against the roof of my mouth and erupted with his thick sperm, gagging me momentarily before I could swallow it all. He continued to hold my head in that manner until his cock began to relax. Only then did he release me.
I let his penis slide out of my mouth and rested my head on his hairy thigh. My fingers were soaked with my own saliva and still clutched gently under his scrotum.
"Very nice, Jeri," he whispered. "Now you can see something interesting." I looked up at him and he reached around the back of the chair and pulled out a large hand mirror which he slowly turned towards me. My scream might have shattered the mirror, but he had pulled it back again leaving me only with a scream in my throat and his laughing fat face above me.
For the first time I saw myself without hair on my head, totally bald, shaven clean. I screamed at his laughing face and kept right on screaming even when his fat hand swung down and cracked on the side of the head.
* * *
The next morning was not so bad. I had been given a shot by somebody and slept alone in a large, comfortable bed, hazy dreams flitting in and out of my mind with no source in reality. I floated dreams through the projector of my brain, catching only brief glimpses and remembering very little when I woke up.
The effect of the baldness was profound. If, I thought, I had experienced subjugation before, it must have been a very mild form. The nakedness of my body being tormented by men and women everywhere else was another thing.
This baldness was nakedness at its most depraved. My subjugation was complete in the cruel naked fact of my clean-shaven head. I looked almost masculine and almost reached down to my crotch to see if I had sprung the necessary organs, but there was no need of that. I had changed only on the outside and I felt I could look at myself in some different, unknowable way. Then I draped a towel over my head, nun fashion, and the effect of masculinity disappeared only to return the instant that I removed the towel.
I tested the temperature of the shower and stepped in getting a shock on my head as the spray tingled against the naked scalp. I soaped myself all over, paying particular attention to my genital area. Was it, perhaps, to try to wash away the filth of the steward? I lingered over the thought for a long time, letting the spray beat down on my body, stinging my bald pate or turning to bite pleasurably at the nipples of my breasts and the bare, skin-slick pubes between my legs.
Before I got out of the shower, I heard the bathroom door open and close with only a few moments in between. It was not my place to question, but a shock of fear ran through me as I remembered being stretched out on the bed for hours. And the whip.' Oh, Jeri, I told myself,' huddled in the corner of the shower, don't forget the whip. But I heard nothing after the door had closed and no one was in the bathroom when I stepped from the shower.
* * *
The dress was beautiful, all red and black of some very lightweight fabric. There were no underclothes to go with it and I discovered why. When I put on the dress, it was cut in such a manner that my breasts and my cunt were exposed no matter how much I tried to adjust it. It was part of something partylike. There was a pair of stockings and a tiny black garterbelt and a pair of extremely high-heeled shoes. I felt awkward and decided to carry them instead of wearing them when I returned to the bedroom.
No one was around when I went to the bedroom, but someone had been there, for the bed was already made and a breakfast tray was sitting on the night table.
I was suddenly very hungry and the bacon and scrambled eggs tasted as good to me as anything I have ever eaten. The coffee was hot, sweet and laced mildly with Kahlua or some similar liqueur. I liked it and did not mind the slightly elated feeling it gave me.
When I had finished the meal, I lay back over the freshly made bed and looked at the ceiling. It was white, but I knew this was not the room where I had been so badly mistreated. I sat up then and began an inspection of the bedroom, noting the thick pile rug on the floor, some old but very acceptable furniture, a large full-length mirror and a walk-in closet.
At first, I didn't pay any attention to it and then in a flash my eyes swept back to the dresser. There on one side was a wig stand with a luxurious full-length wig. I went over to it, admiring the soft glisten of the golden hair and the careful way that it had been brushed. I could have closed my eyes and touched it and felt it still vibrant with some young woman's head and blood. I lifted it carefully and carried it over to the mirror, sweeping it over my head and behind me so not to disturb its lustrous sheen.
I winced as I looked at the incongruous costume I was wearing and at the nakedness of my head. The blonde wig was there with me in mind, I knew, and I put it on, marveling at the strange effect it had on me, on my appearance. I hurried away from the mirror and returned to the bed where I had put the high heels.
Somehow I felt bare without them when I had put the wig on and I wanted to see the whole effect at one time.
The hair came down to my waist, flowing easily and naturally over my shoulders and shimmering down in long, straight lines. I turned my head quickly and laughed as I saw the heavy locks swirl around my body.
In a few minutes the hair was as natural to me as my own had been. I felt exhilarated, enlivened and years younger than my age. It had an intoxicating effect upon me. I danced around in front of the mirror, swirling my hair and my skirt, gleefully watching as the shimmery fabric danced with me and played peek-a-boo with my exposed cunt.
I must have been doing that when the fat man came in, smiling and startling me when he clapped his hands.
"I knew it would be perfect for you, Jeri," he said, walking or waddling slowly over to me. "You are almost too perfect for the part: the slave who married a millionaire and ran a plantation by herself until she was found out to be partly black. That's her hair, preserved for all of these years by some mysterious quality that might be the reflection of her youth and the reminder of the injustice done to her.
"She was a slave once, Jeri. A slave a very long, long time ago. But she was white and her hair, as you can see, was like spun gold. But that old South had funny ways. A trace of the tarbrush was enough, as they said.
And when it was finally proved that she was just the daughter of a slave, they killed her for trying to be 'better' than she was. But before they killed her, they shaved her head and preserved the hair. It was a later ancestor of the man she married who had it made into a wig for his sister who had an unfortunate sparsity on top.
Interesting story, don't you agree, Jeri? At any rate, they shaved her head and they raped her and tortured her and when all the field hands had plunged their cocks into her snowy white body, they cut off her nipples and staked her out in the swamp for the flies and termites to nibble her away. Story has it that she screamed for three days and nights before death took her."
I stood in front of him with my head bowed, listening to him out of fear and then with the fascination of repugnance. I wanted to cover my ears to shut out the ugly sound of his voice and the ugly story forced upon me. Was he telling the truth? I could not tell, but it did not seem to matter for my heart was already crying out for the poor little girl who almost had it made so long ago.
"The party is about to begin, Jeri. I'm glad that you're ready to go. Shall we?" He offered me his arm and I placed my hand on his elbow, reluctantly, and we left the room. But there was no music in the ballroom where he took me, just the soft whispers from the small crowd of people gathered around a stage in the center of the room. The rest of the room was dim except for the peripheral light reflected from the stage. I could hardly see the other people, their faces were like masks, too dark, too obscure, too featureless for remembering. I was very frightened at that instant. But felt myself hypnotized by the scene before me. It looked like some pagan rite about to begin, and I wondered if the other people in the small crowd knew what had happened to me the day before.
Fat Man marched me over to the stage, pulled the curtain apart and bade me go backstage. He did not follow, but beckoned to one of the four other girls, dressed in the same costumes as mine, to take me. It was Fat Pubes, of course, but she did not smile any recognition nor say anything. None of the women were talking or making any movement. They stood in line, like a chorus, hardly seeming to breathe. Their heads were bowed and their arms hung limply by their sides. Fat Pubes guided me to a spot in the line and whispered to me to stand exactly like the rest of the girls, then she, too, went to the end of the line and stood there like the rest of us.
We waited behind the curtain for an endless time, but then I could hear murmuring on the opposite side of the curtain, low, masculine voices, much shuffling of feet and what sounded like furniture being moved. I became more frightened, my eyes darting back and forth trying to see something without moving my head, my hands grew damp with fear perspiration and I wanted to run or scream but I remained rooted to the spot I had been placed in. There was a break in the noise from beyond the curtain and again we waited in stillness.
"Look up," the man's voice commanded, and we all raised our heads. It was neither the steward nor Fat Man, but he was dressed the same way: white robe and nothing else. He looked across the line of women, returning our dull stares with eyes bright with anticipation and haughty contempt. "You, second in line, come with me."
She was younger than I, blonde, very pretty I thought, well-rounded curves and an innocent face. She followed the man off the stage and the curtain closed behind her.
The stillness was suddenly broken as a woman's scream rent the air, then blubbering cries followed by another scream. Between the cries of terror that came from beyond the curtain, I could hear the slap of leather on bare flesh and I knew what was happening though I could see nothing. Yet the fear in me when I first came down to the ballroom doubled in intensity. I could feel the moisture gather under my arms, and trickle down the length of my torso. As suddenly as it had begun, however, the woman's sobbing stopped, as though someone had gagged her. The shrieks were replaced by a few laughs, hearty laughter of men and, now and then, a few encouraging remarks to one another. Then a short silence before the man came backstage again to take another girl. It was Fat Pubes he selected this time. The curtain closed behind them and in our mutual fear we waited for the anticipated scream. When it came, I was almost sorry for Fat Pubes despite her behavior of the previous day.
Then one at a time the other two girls were taken in front of the stage and I was left alone. I wanted to scream when I heard their respective screams so great was my fear. But then there was a silence, a near silence only because I could hear grunting and sighing from the opposite side of the curtain. It was a fleshy sound, earthy, sensual. It carried over the silence like the whir of birds' wings, distant and not seeming to be there at all. I waited in this terrible silence for a much longer time than the interlude between the selection of the other women.
Time took on a physical force. I could feel it pressing down on me like a great stone, crushing me beneath.
Suddenly the curtain opened and I was bathed in a flood of bright light. There was a round of applause from the audience, but the lights kept me from seeing beyond the end of the stage. I stood there not knowing what was expected of me and now more bewildered and frightened than even before. Two men appeared at either side of me and took me by the arms and led me off the stage into the audience. I could see now I had been right: everyone was naked, some eight men and the four women arranged in groups of three, two men to each woman. I sought out Fat Pubes and saw her flesh was covered with raw welts. She was sucking one of her partners while the other, almost indifferently, looked at me and the two men and continued to play with her genitals. I spied the first little blonde and she was engaged with her mouth on one man while the other had his face buried in her crotch. It was the same with the other trios.
The two men brought me over to a chair in the center of the room where Fat Man was sitting, his robe open to reveal his huge erection. He leaned forward and unfastened the single hook that held my gown together and then the two men stepped back and eased it off me. Fat Man indicated for me to kneel then he removed the wig, passing it over and out of sight. He smiled at me and then clapped his hands. A spotlight came on from directly overhead and the various trios stopped what they were doing and moved around us in a semi-circle.
Someone brought over a short hassock and Fat Man told me to kneel on it. I did so, just as the two men who had taken me off the stage grabbed my arms and bent my torso down until my mouth touched Fat Man's penis. They guided my arms down to the cushion of his chair where I balanced myself as best as I could.
Gently, Fat Man told me to start sucking. I lowered my shaven head, opened my mouth and took his enormous member into the hot cavity, bobbing up and down and licking, sucking, salivating until I noticed that it dribbled down the shaft of his cock.
Strange hands then ran over my buttocks, spreading the nates wide. Insistent fingers probed into my vagina, teasing, pinching and exciting me.
A vagina-moist finger inserted itself into my rectum causing me an involuntary shudder. I sucked Fat Man's cock faster, hoping that when he spilled his seed, I would be released. Then something thicker brushed against my anus.
A penis I knew it to be, for I could feel it hot and alive even before it penetrated me viciously; harder and harder the strange cock rammed into my rectum until I could feel the stranger's testicles and hairy pubic area brushing against the backs of my thighs.
He was hurting me now, but I continued to suck Fat Man's cock, wincing at the pain that seared in my behind, but careful not to bite down too hard. My tongue lashed around his penis, my cheeks hollow from the suction I used to draw the nerves of his glans right to very surface.
I knew it was over when he placed his hands on my head and held it still. His ejaculation filled my throat, choking me until I managed to swallow it all. He continued to hold my head over his penis until I felt a rough thrust from behind and a scalding, throbbing emission filled my rectum.
Fat Man removed his hands from my head when the stranger's penis was withdrawn from my burning rear.
I let his cock flip from my mouth and rested my head on his hairy thighs, my whole body shuddering with pent-up emotion.
I had relaxed only a moment before there was another penis ramming into me, this time into my vagina.
Fat Man held my head on his lap, his fat, limp penis inches from my mouth, until this second cock filled me with its ejaculation. Then it was replaced by a third and a fourth until I lost count of the penises that plunged into me and drifted off again into a sort of pain-filled splendor, a sleep of monsters and flesh against flesh, whips and paddles and flashes of my father making love to my roommate.
* * *
That was the last experience. Fat Man or someone had dressed me in my own clothing, given me a wig that very nearly matched my original hair and returned me to the hotel. I was numb and groggy from drink, but I made a reservation for a flight out and went to bed for a long sleep.
* * *
Now it is over. I feel that this consultation session will help me out of the nightmares of my past. I don't think I can go on living if it doesn't.
