Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One (27 page)

The
men
began to select from among
the hustling women
with
increasing
discriminat
ion
,
rewarding
those who
rendered
the
most exotic
displays
of passion
, giving less time to slippers who were
n’t
bold
or
idiosyncratic in some way, who shirked a total commitment to the
game. T
he
challenge
narrowed
as one slipper after another was excluded, resigned to the
decorous containment of an unseen but seething appetite, cunt
wrapped around a thick penis immobilized only by her complicity to
the stage. Some of them failed at this to the Merkin’s delight,
squirming uncontrollably, pedaling in hectic little increments to
mitigate a raging understimulation.

“
The women remain still
when not called on to perform!”
he
thundered. These aleatoric urges were the principal reason his
narration was required, but the Merkin frequently fantasized about
where things might go without a moderating influence.

The offenders relented to an anguished calm,
intimidated by his comprehensibility amidst the increasingly
precarious context of the stage. The crowd hooted playfully,
taunting them, and the Merkin carefully gauged its investment in
the proceedings.

A thick brunette with a mean
competitive streak was selected next. Her
thighs fanned a
lively
breeze,
and she
vented a
lingering,
theatrically pitched
wail
of
pleasure as
the hustler
sped to
a
frenzied
penetration of her mounded buttocks, visible as twin crescents
of jiggling flesh from the Merkin’s perspective. A flexer
straightened noisily about its straining cock, putting its bearer
within reach of victory.

“
That’s the pussy you need,”
she belted out in parting, saying anything to be remembered. The
crowd tittered in agreement.

Then the sonsy blond was up
again, and
he watched
in helpless arousal as
her
hands
jerked high and low,
one with the hemline of her dress, the other with her swaggering
neckline, disclosing a fat, lolling tit. Its nipple was fit with a
sextant, a clamp with a weighted pendulum that engaged a sharp
point when the device was borne at the wrong inclination. This
setup could be used to keep a woman bent over, biting ever more
painfully as her posture straightened. But this one had been set to
the opposite effect; the blond’s stiffly arched back and rearing
shoulders ensured that her bosom was offered high to the men’s
regard.

H
e
r
neatly
combed pubic hair
made a tidy
wreath
about the
dancing
phallus
as her lovely, round legs cranked
enthusiastically
. She bore down on the
hustler to get her weight in play and the sextant’s little pendulum
swung forward, levering the tooth hard into her nipple to provoke a
delightful self-torment as her vagina was cyclically
stuffed.

“
Oh!” she
wailed
, leaning back, cringing from the
alternation of pleasure and pain, then bent over again for more of
both as the crowd noised their approval. Two flexers bore testimony
to the heat of this strategy, one straightening halfway from the
anxious tumescence of its captured flesh.

“
You can bend me how you
want, just let me get that cock!” she offered, and dipped
dramatically to bear down on the pedals once more, eyes closing as
ecstasy rushed up her twat.

“
Ah!” she cried, jumping
from her bitten nipple. “But I can take it!” she bawled, counseling
herself through another interval of exhibitionism. Another flexer
pinged.

The Merkin called the intervals and gauged
the noise of the audience, which was outside his direct view. As
flexers sprung toward liberation the men were increasingly aware of
specific male-female infatuations that had formed. They maneuvered
away from these liaisons by majority selection, reversing the
psychology of the game to deny a winner.

The
cycler
s
intensified
their
efforts
, exerting themselves to
a
breathless ardor, skirts fluttering high
by turns.
Another
flexer
pinged
,
nearly
straightened, and the
gent
wearing it stared raptly at a fair-haired creature
with a hard-stroking penis in her, clutched with mad abandon as it
earnestly rammed her femininity
.
She
pedaled
her
way to the brink of
climax as they watched,
voicing
huffed, trebly syllables
.
The Merkin
rubbed
his crotch
under the concealment of his script
,
happy she would be denied fulfillment, motivating the crowd to an
otherwise unobtainable involvement.

The women were calling out crude inducements
to the men now.

“
This twat takes you all the
way!”

“
Pick me and I’ll work for
it all night! Let’s deal!”

“
You been tracking my
snatch… gimme that cock and you can have it all for
yourself!”

“
Look at my
titties!”

The Merkin observed the deepening interaction
that had developed, the real justification for such an elaborate
game. In the heat of competition he could perceive things about the
performers that were normally hidden by stage fright.

The fleshy blond was called
again and she hustled
to
her
utmost, reddened
clitoris
shifting
fretfully
with each thrust
as she wept
unselfconsciously from the tormenting bite of the sextant.
They all watched in fascination as she cranked her way to the very
boundary of climax, denied only by the absence of another person’s
touch. Her left nipple was painfully disgorged, its scarlet tip
peeping through the clamp to verify her misery.

“
Take it on the tit, take
it, take it,” she muttered, voice almost lost in the collective
noise of the theater.

A
flexer
pinged with finality,
straightened
all the way
, unlocking to
offer
a
purple erection high,
freed by an indomitable turgidity.

“
Fuck my hole!” the blond
triumphantly screamed to the Merkin’s heated amusement. The other
women shrieked in dismay, measured and found wanting, frustrated to
such a degree they refused to conduct themselves as required. They
began pedaling in giddy self-indulgence to abet irresponsible
passions, legs madly accelerating to jam vaginas destined to leave
the stage achingly unfulfilled. The crowd shouted their approval of
this chaos and the Merkin boomed over the din, not unused to these
situations.

“
The winner selects his
prize!”
he commanded.

The bare-cocked man pointed to the noisy,
ambitious blond to no one’s surprise.

“
The women dismount from
the hustlers to leave the game in disappointment.”

Martial leaped onstage with his crew to
conduct lingering slippers away, using force where necessary to
separate them from the addictive touch of the hustler cocks. The
men who had lost followed them.

The victor pushed the blond down to her hands
and knees on the soft red rug at center stage. With a twitch the
sextant was adjusted so that its pendulum was fixed straight down.
He mounted her and proceeded to screw her well-prepped vagina with
a purple-hard prick. The sextant swung forward, biting her already
tortured nipple, and she instinctively shoved back on him, trying
to arrest its painful movement.

“
Ahhh!” she whimpered, arms
and thighs conscientiously braced to immobilize the
device.

Helpless to manipulate the situation for fear
of a dire response at her nipple, the blond rewarded the victor
with a steadfastly receptive pussy. He shagged it aggressively till
she cried out in pleasure, body lurching forth and back to meet him
with pain-fuelled gusto, one breast lolling happily from their
congress, the other bitten mercilessly by the sextant. She took
this for as long as possible, then rigidly stanchioned herself once
again to stall the pendulum, desperately protecting her nipple. Her
vagina met him submissively from there and he soon showered into
it, provoking her climax in the process.

“
That’s good, so good so
good…” she mewled, hands clenched, dress-rucked backside flared
wide for the maximum effect of his manhood. They ground out a
tensely synchronized bliss over a six of pulsing moments as the
crowd cheered thunderously, happy to witness this resolution. Then
it was over.

There was
real
heat
ther
e, the Merkin mused, but it was
not
something
he
could capture in a script
.
He set the context for the stage and adjusted the
flow of events, but he couldn’t specify exactly what happened
without committing to a dangerous predictability. The triumphant
man and woman below him demonstrated a sincerity of interaction
that might briefly entertain even a cynical audience, but they
would not captivate either of the other judges on opening night.
The Gnomon and Dowser were far too sophisticated for that, had
organizations as formidable as his own according to the Merkin’s
spies.

“
Heads onstage! Merkin’s
cloud coming down!” Martial cried. “Thank you!” roared the crew.
Hemp lines flexed at the Manager’s militant proclamation and he was
carefully lowered from the fly loft. The Merkin left the theater,
still roused by the sight of fleshy legs hustling for
pleasure.

H
is
steps took him
down a wide, doorman-guarded
canvas sleeve to the laundry—the lowest level of the Tent—where he
strode
through various territories
of
sorted and stacked
clothing. The more active neighborhoods, where currently
fashionable articles were kept, were carefully tended
by
demure women in
floor-length dresses, skin visible only at the face and hands. He
stopped to watch as a mannerman—one of the special minions charged
with enforcing his dress code—bent a woman over to verify her
compliance to regulation
.
Her skirts were pulled up over a full rump, legs
spread wide by the burly man, who knew every specification that
applied to her body, from basic policies of coverage and style to
the decrees of intimate habiliment that were likely the concern in
this case.

The Merkin heard the inimitable crack of a
broad fabric strap as the laundry slipper was educated about the
propriety of her attire, but he wouldn’t linger to learn how many
times her flesh was penalized, or for what particular infraction;
pink panties on a night scheduled for white, a brassiere that
failed to completely suppress erect nipples, or excessive moisture
of excitation at the crotch perhaps. In the latter case her vagina
would be strapped to a sopping want to punctuate the transgression,
after which the mannerman would lead her to a bathing pool for a
thorough soaping; specially applied to her shame-reddened lips and
clitoris, rubbed round and round with a soft cloth, slowly so as
not to inadvertently provoke climax. Finally she would be fit with
new lingerie under his unsmiling supervision and returned to
service, rendered more conservative by the humiliation of the
ritual, and reminded by her smarting labia if that failed to
suppress her instinct to self-expression. Every such offense was
tallied for the Merkin, both in the Tent and the City, where the
administration of his dress code was a much trickier
proposition.

It required a special kind of discipline to
be a mannerman. The intimate access to women granted by their
authority was a constant, coercive invitation to licentious
thoughts, and the Merkin used these men as a kind of interface to
the other sex. He himself did not possess the necessary dispassion
to acquit their obligations.

His path took him through a bustling corridor
of colorful brassieres strung on long sashes, where he witnessed a
second disciplinary incident. Down a scantly lit byway of pastel
cups and straps another mannerman checked a busy slipper, expertly
drawing a breast out for an instant to verify it wasn’t clamped or
ornamented in some way. It was her reflexive compliance to
inspection that made such a moment so affecting, as much as the
sight of her humiliated blush afterward. Had she been found in
violation of so significant a policy she would have been fit with a
pair of punitively constrictive nipple clasps and forced to wear
the devices through her working routine—an excruciating proposition
as they were designed to constantly fret the flesh. A few days
under this punitive regime left slipper nipples pleasingly thick
and sensitive.