Authors: Astrid Lee Donovan
Laney’s flesh tingled and burned where he slapped her, and she knew that another spank would provide that instantaneous relief, bound inexorably with pain. She wanted it. More than she could have ever predicted or imagined. It was the center of her focus. She almost felt the way she did when she was painting; clarity whittled down to a single spot.
She pushed her hips back, wiggling her ass mindlessly, prepared for another smack. Thomas, watching her, licked his lips and reached forward to knead her cheeks, red and warm from his attentions. Her moans and pants as he pulled upwards, drawing her waist towards him, her body lifting from the mattress, made his cock throb even harder in his pants. When he dipped one finger low, grazing her wet slit, she stifled a cry of pleasure.
Her lips were slick with arousal, his finger collecting her juices before slipping up towards her swollen clit. His finger hovered on it, pressing ever so lightly, then rubbed it in a slow, light circle that made her thighs clench together as her face rushed with heat. She struggled to press further backwards, needing more than the light touch he was offering as he slowly circled his finger around and around, barely even touching her hard clit. Then he stroked downwards, harder, making her body go rigid.
Thomas crouched slightly behind her, his eyes fixed on the shiny wetness that showed her desire. He licked his lips again, wondering about her taste, wanting her on his tongue, his finger never relenting its torturously slow assault on her clit. He leaned forward and dragged the tip of his tongue up her slit, feeling her clench instantly as she cooed her pleasure into the pillow. She tasted sweet and musky, all woman, all his for the moment.
“Please, Master,” she whimpered, begging him for more. He loved her submissive tone, her body's betrayal as it forced her to give him all he wanted. Rewarding her, he slipped his tongue deeper between her lips, probing slightly as his finger moved quicker around her clit. Her body shook under him, and when he tasted a fresh drip of her arousal on his tongue he knew he couldn't wait anymore. He had to have her.
Moving back with a growl, he flipped her over so that she lay on her back, her arms straight in their bind, her eyes hooded and half crazed with lust. Her cheeks burned bright red, her lips parted in a perfect O shape, her breath coming short and ragged.
Laney moaned as he let his fingers tickle down her thighs, gently, feeling her muscles tense, her skin heated. With one hand, he unzipped himself and released his manhood, appreciating the way her eyes widened as she took in the size of him. He had an impressive, 9-inch cock, and it throbbed and swelled as his desire overtook him. He grabbed her ankles and thrust them apart with a growl, climbing onto the bed between her thighs, supporting himself over her prone and vulnerable body, his eyes locking onto hers.
“What do you want, Laney?” he asked, the question more of a command. She squirmed and her hips rose on their own, wanting to meet his, her body filled with an aching need. “What do you need?”
“I need you inside me, Master,” she moaned, closing her eyes and throwing her head back as the words escaped her throat. “I need you to fuck me, please...”
“Prove it,” he growled, wanting her to tell him exactly how much she needed him, how much she wanted him. Her eyes opened and searched his.
“How,” she asked in a needy moan. “How can I prove it, Master?”
“Tell me exactly how much you need it,” he demanded, holding her hips down so that she couldn't struggle upwards anymore. Her mind raced with every dirty thought, every dark desire she'd ever had.
“I need it so bad, Master,” she pleaded, struggling against his grip. “I need you inside me, I need you to fuck me, please, Master, my pussy is aching for you...”
The words made her face feel even warmer, their dirtiness making her heart race. I'm his slut, she realized with a jolt of arousal. I'm his little sex slave tonight, whatever he wants, however he wants it, I'll do anything to feel him inside me...
“Very good,” he growled, then lowered himself until she could feel the head of his cock spreading her pussy lips wide. She cried out in satisfaction as he plunged into her dripping slit, his hands still keeping her tightly in place as she tried to squirm underneath him, wanting him deeper.
“Do you like the way my cock feels in you,” he demanded, whispering in her ear, the heat of his breath making her spine stiffen. He was holding himself deep inside her but didn't move, the pleasure intolerable as the tension increased, her pussy aching for him to stroke every inch of her.
“I love it, Master,” she cried out. “I love it so fucking much, I need more; I need more, Master, please!”
He growled as he pulled away and then plunged back in, her warm, wet lips sucking him in as he began to thrust hard and deep inside her. His impressive cock buried deep in her cunt, awakening places inside her that she'd barely known existed, his thrusts becoming violent and feral as he took her for his own, laying claim to her body, drawing forth her pleasure with each stroke.
“Are you going to come for your Master, Laney?” he growled into her ear. “Are you going to come on this cock?”
“Yes, Master,” she cried out as he slipped a hand under her back and raised her up slightly, filling her even further, piercing her so deep and hard that she felt she might break into a million pieces. Her toes curled underneath her as he laid into her with total abandon, pistoning into her like a stallion, her knees coming up to clench around him as her body tensed to the point of snapping, her muscles rubber bands pulled taut, her face on fire with desire, her voice releasing cries of pleasure with each thrust. “I'm going to...oh, fuck, Master, I'm going to....I'm...”
“Say it,” he demanded, and she had to obey, her body finally releasing in a tremendous wave.
“I'm coming, Master, fuck, I'm coming,” she screamed, flying off the precipice of her desire into a freefall as her body clenched and came around him, pleasure blinding her in a white heat as he thrust himself ever harder inside her, grunting his own pleasure as he came inside her, filling her to the brim with his hot seed, her pussy milking each burst from his cock as he held himself inside her.
And then it was over, Thomas panting hard as he slipped out of her, leaving a trail of cum down her thighs. He lay his lips against her rapidly rising and falling chest, between her still-tender breasts. His hands moved upward, his long arms finding the knot that tied her and undoing it. She felt, for the first time, how sore her arm muscles had become from her straining and struggling, and she let them fall to her sides with a weary sigh.
“You were very, very good,” he whispered against her skin. “So beautiful, and so good....”
She giggled, caught up in a rush of post-coital giddiness. As he rolled off her, she turned over on her side.
“You weren't so bad either,” she said, barely even recognizing her own low and husky voice. As they gazed into each other’s eyes, the waning heat between them still palpable. Leaning upward slightly, he grabbed her chin and pulled her lips to his, their kiss now lazy and luscious instead of heated and needy. She hummed against his lips, loving the feel of them against her own.
“Do you want me to go?” she asked when he pulled away, the reality of their circumstance beginning to hit. The idea made her hurt somewhere deep and strange, but she knew what this was.
“No,” he said, sounding slightly surprised as he looked at her. “I'd like for you to stay.”
“Hmmm,” Laney murmured as she nestled in against him. “That's lovely.”
He reached one arm around, wrapping her waist and pulling her towards him.
“I'd like to see you again, too,” he said, his lips against her collarbone. She smiled. She wanted to see him again, too.
“But you live in....”
“I come to New York pretty often,” he said, interrupting her protest. “And in case you haven't noticed, I'm quite wealthy. Plane tickets are no problem for me. Of course, there's always the jet, too...”
“The jet?” Laney asked, wanting to laugh at the lavish idea. “Mr. Murphy, you're planning to spoil me, aren't you?”
At that, he leaned upward, and captured his eyes in his once more. The dead seriousness in his look took her flirting attitude away in a rush.
“If you'll let me,” he said, nodding, “it's what I'd love to do.”
“We'll see,” Laney said, feeling new – and different – butterflies rising inside her. Who would have thought a one-time date to get herself another month's rent would end like this? “We'll see...”
And as she began to nod off in his arms, she felt his grip tighten. She liked the feeling quite a bit. More than promises of jets or gifts or money, she just liked - she just liked him.
She had to make sure to buy Jenna the nicest thank-you card in the world.
THE END
LEAVING THE PAST
Suspense, Sex and Drugs in the 70s
CHAPTER ONE
“The grass is always greener in Greenview,”
read the banner as Samantha Linder struggled to keep her eyes open.
“Luxury living uptown at downtown prices.”
She stifled a yawn, roughly pinching her nostrils to avoid gagging from the smell of sizzling, rancid grease.
Downtown Tulsa always seemed fertile in the rain. The reflection of cars seemed to bounce off the streets, casting ciphers of light against the diner window. Even though it was only 4 in the afternoon, it felt like midnight to Samantha; who,
if truth were told, hadn’t slept in three days. The most insignificant of occurrences—the squeak of a shoe, the scrape of a fork, the endlessly clacking teeth—all held an ominous mystery to her, something foreboding and unquestionably threatening. Even the shit-kicking honky tonk music blaring from the jukebox was an arcane spell, a sorcerer’s incantation woven from high pitched yowls and steel guitars designed to lull her into an endless sleep.
“Steak and eggs, medium rare!” yelled Monty, the short order cook, for the second time.
Samantha moved absent-mindedly, an automaton made even more ghostly by the immaculate whiteness of her uniform. It had been a habit—in actuality, a necessity—of Samantha’s to scrub, bleach and clean every last fiber of her cotton uniform until it was threadbare, a ritual conducted nightly in the kitchen sink. The dishes could be piled up for weeks on end, shoved stealthily in a barely used oven if the stench was too overpowering. Every other light bulb could be burned out, remaining perpetually unchanged; but there damn well better be a basin in the sink with a fresh bottle of bleach for Samantha. It was her sole insistence.
She made her way to the order languidly, with all the grace of a swan. She fingered the Valium in her blouse pocket nervously, counting them for the umpteenth time that afternoon. She had less than two hours in her shift and prayed desperately that the apartment would be empty when she returned. She knew it was highly unlikely; even if Randy was not so miraculously materializing at A’s Tavern, she knew Jill and Clark were likely to be screaming murder at one another. It seemed like a revolving door policy with Randy, Jill and Clark; Randy despised the latter two with a passion rivaled only by his love for booze, and Jill and Clark lived in ever-present fear of Randy’s outbursts. It was only Samantha’s mercy that allowed Jill and Clark to stay unperturbed at her apartment, and that was only out of a soft spot for her cousin. After all, she had been virtually homeless following the death of Jill’s parents, and Samantha wasn’t about to let a sixteen year-old girl fall victim to state welfare. She didn’t realize at the time that the three months Jill had promised was eventually to turn into almost a year.
“For the last damn time, could you please pick up the damn steak and eggs?”
Samantha detested Monty with a passion. It was perhaps one of the few passions she still had left. If he wasn’t browbeating her or needling her about “having tits like a ten-year old boy,” he was grabbing her ass or making some lewd remark about kielbasa. The movie
Deep Throat
had opened last year in Dallas, and Monty made no short mention of traveling several times to see it during its limited run, describing scenes in intense detail that struck Samantha as being more sad than offensive.
If her affections towards the pudgy and loutish Monty were frigid, then her feelings for her own boyfriend were merely lukewarm. Samantha had been dating Randy for four years now, ever since she was seventeen. At that age, he possessed all of the roguish charisma that could make a Midwest high school girl melt into butter; seemingly worldly well beyond his twenty-one years with an impish smile, devil-may-care attitude and sullen good looks, Randy Cox seemed to waltz out of a James Dean movie, an overarching male archetype freshly born in self-conscious poses, subdued violence and Lone Star beer. Even the wispily ragged growth that struggled desperately on top of Randy’s upper lip in a vain approximation of a moustache seemed to suggest a virile potency that enamored Samantha Linder’s myth-starved, teenage heart. And Samantha Linder was nothing if not myth-starved.
But a lot had changed between 1970 and 1974. Watergate; the arduous road out of Vietnam; a global oil crisis that practically crippled Oklahoma with a distinctly Midwestern outlook that foretold better days well in the past; and the brute charm of Randy Cox.
Samantha found herself at the age of 21, a high school dropout (nowhere near as rare in Tulsa in the early 70s as her pride claimed to the contrary) still stuck hustling plates for deodorant-free truckers and palsied septuagenarians for $1.20 an hour sans tip at Sandy’s Diner. She had taken the job a little over two years earlier, solely with the intention of saving up for an apartment. She didn’t realize that it would soon become the primary means of support for her, Randy—and now, Jill and Clark.
Randy was a born hustler - at least in his own mind. He seemed to spring, like many myths do, out of nowhere—even though his birth certificate clearly said Enid, a town renowned through the ages for its suitably mythic wheat output. Randy liked to think of himself as an outlaw, and it is true that he fled the mean, chaff-laden streets of Enid as a teenager to tour up and down the length of Southern California during the height of the 60s with the newly found air of freedom congealing in a thin incense cloud of outré mysticism, free love and abundant drugs. But within a matter of years, he found himself out of money, patience and tolerant souls willing to put up with his frequently churlish machismo. So, concocting a back story of being on the run from the law, he found himself at the dawn of the 70s skulking around the parking lots of Tulsa cafeterias and bus stations, and eventually into the heart of a naive and admittedly fetching seventeen year-old Samantha Linder.
Randy had never seen eyes that supernaturally green before. To him, they seemed like perpetual laughter - joyful but impractical. To her, they were just two orbs that bulged far too large for her delicate, fragile face. Even at her tender age she should have been able to see right through Randy’s transparent air of pithy disaffection. Or at least had her hands on her wallet. But drunk on the very idea of romance itself, to say nothing of his sharp, jutting cheekbones, she succumbed to Randy’s belligerent aura in less time than it took to comb her long, chestnut hair.
Technically, Randy was her first lover. Though she had a healthy share of admirers, and even a small string of boyfriends growing up (even so far as deigning to let the last one dry hump her thighs one drunken night under the bleachers of Union High School,) it was Randy who was the first to truly captivate her. So when she finally conceded to his constant advances after just five weeks of casually dating, it was as if he had woven a prayer which trapped her so firmly and inexplicably in its potent snare that she was powerless to resist, regardless of the setting—the backseat of Randy’s rusted ‘64 Olds at the edge of Owen Park on a breath-fogged November night—hardly had the ambience from which epic ballads are born of - at least not in 1970.
There was no denying it, though. Randy was an amazing lover, even to Samantha’s inexperienced mind. He writhed with a tender urgency that suffused every pore of her lithe body, spreading from the base of her spine to the crown of her head. It was the only delicacy Randy had. It was the only way he knew how to give of himself.
But a lot can change in four years. These days, Randy’s virility had largely withered under the bitter gaze of heavy drinking and the amphetamines he was transporting from Dallas on a monthly basis in bulky knapsacks, plastic bags, plain brown envelope - any and all form of packaging he could lay his grimy, trembling hands upon. At first, Randy’s career as a speed courier was a novel—and even profitable—diversion during the down times he was waiting for his next big break, some sudden windfall of an unlocked condo in Jenks or Owasso practically crying out to be robbed. But soon, he began using as much as he was distributing, often spending whatever meager savings Samantha had allotted for rent for Ziploc bags full of red and black pills whose purity and authenticity—thanks to ever-tightening restrictions in national drug laws—was anyone’s guess. Many were the night Samantha would come home only to find the bathroom door locked, with the now familiar and toxic fumes of Randy’s experiments in bathtub alchemy permeating the cramped Florence Park two bedroom. And to make matters even worse, Samantha soon found herself developing a taste for the resulting crystalline flakes.
Her fingernails. Chewed raw, well past their cuticles. Her jaw. Perpetually rocking, teeth grinding in an off-kilter soundtrack. Her eyes: dilating and blinking as furiously as a pinball machine. Her body, once thin but enviable, now skeletal, coated by skin that seemed brittle and transparent as wax paper. It was clear, even to the fourteen year-old girls piling into Sandy’s for burgers and Cokes after school—the little sisters of Samantha’s former classmates. It was clear to the belching, grunting and grease-splattered truckers who took one look at Samantha and began to rethink their own complicity in widespread chemical usage. It was even clear to the priests piling in after 2 o’clock Mass from St. Joseph’s for massive piles of three day old fried fish, their own faces ringed by whiskey and existential loneliness. Samantha Linder was an amp head in palpitating heart and soul. And one who didn’t even bother trying to hide it anymore.
It was unrelenting boredom that led Samantha to amphetamines; and if the powdery haze littered with scorched bottle caps, ammonia and the endless dance of flickering white lights zipping through her optic nerves didn’t quite staunch the hollow pit in her soul, they at least gave her the impetus to get up in the morning—or night, depending on what time she chose to crash. Tulsa had always drawn its own mortal veil of dread for generations of youth, even stretching as far back as the Dust Bowl; only now instead of uninhabitable farms and tuberculosis, Tulsan kids had the quiet desperation of closed factories, massage parlors and the hypoallergenic grins of Donny & Marie each Friday night. Something had to give; and in that dust-spattered, ionized air, that something was amphetamine.
But if it was simply boredom that brought Samantha to the lye-drenched edges of amphetamine logic, it was utter apathy that made her unhesitant to resign herself to Randy’s suggestion of an “open relationship.”
Free love may have been embedded as an incontrovertible facet of reality for much of America for the past eight years; but this was still the Bible belt. Old traditions died hard. Prostitution, the burgeoning adult entertainment industry and mud wrestling may have been considered perfectly acceptable Saturday night diversions; but they were strictly for the boys. Old traditions die hard. Ritual protocol demanded a strict ratio of X to Y chromosome in order to observe the upheaval of unspoken sexual laws in Tulsa, even among the fringe heads that hovered around Florence Park in granny glasses and roach clip necklaces. Free love was an exclusively male right. Woe be to the imprudent maiden who dare broach the very thought without express permission of her man. For Randy and Samantha, it was a blind parachute jump into the landmines of emotional apathy.
It’s a myth that amphetamine usage dwindles the sex drive. Unlike its similarly excitable cousin cocaine, the livid and discernibly sensitive nerves practically scream underneath their netting for friction; a collision of skin, sinew and cell that only the torpid sweat of two bodies—
any
bodies—can quell. Randy showed—at least, for him—a unique sympathy and understanding of this phenomenon, particularly when it came to the female occurrence. He just chose to disregard it in Samantha altogether.
The few trysts she had enjoyed outside of Randy’s frequently glazed over eyes weren’t without their own unique intrigues. But at the end of the day it was strictly physical, based on the need to strip layer after layer of skin in the fumes of a rather dull passion, hoping that underneath might be found one remaining vestige of substance, of some reaffirming meaning to whole charade of sexual conquest, even of sensation itself. Instead, all she wound up with was dead air, chafing and restless snoring to the hum of a transistor radio.
It was 4:15, and Samantha Linder was trying to balance a plate of steak and eggs in one hand and a fresh pot of coffee in the other.