Authors: Roxy Harte
“Come for me, Lin.”
She cries out, and I know she is riding a wave of bliss.
Only then do I let my own pleasure peak. The sounds we make together are a
primal song, her shrill yips perfectly harmonized with my deeper low growls.
And in the midst of it all, I get carried away and bury my
face in her hair, whispering words that I regret as soon as they are said. “I
love you.”
She falls asleep in the curve of my arm, but not before she
whispers, “It’s never been like that for me before, George. Your patience and
kindness lifted me to bliss. I knew you were the right man.”
* * * * *
Well, I’ve done it now, haven’t I? I’m in trouble. I can
feel it deep within my being. I awake with Mitzi Gaynor’s voice in my head, and
I lay grinning like a fool as my mind silently belts the lyrics from a
South
Pacific
tune—
I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love…
Of course
with a wonderful guy
didn’t work so I
substitute
with a beautiful girl
.
And the song keeps going and going…my smile gets wider and
wider.
Love is a grand and beautiful thing, I’m not ashamed to
reveal, the world-famous feeling I feel. I’m as corny as Kansas in August…I’m
in love, I’m in love…
No! Stop this now!
But I can’t stop. And the song keeps repeating in my head.
As I lie beside her my conscience screams at me for professing
my love to her.
This is horrible. This is insane. I’ve completely lost my
mind. Proven as I lay for hours watching Lin sleep, trying to find the
imperfection.
Disgusted with myself, I leave the bed and trod naked to the
kitchen to start a pot of coffee. I think we will both need it in light of the
sobering morning we face. I don’t want to spoil our friendship. But it’s
already too late to worry about such things, isn’t it? Really, isn’t it pretty
clear?
She’s vanilla! I’m a sadist.
If anyone in my position came to me for advice, I would
advise them to get out before anyone gets hurt. I don’t want to break Lin’s
heart.
But the truth is I want her. Some part of me needs what a
relationship with her gives me.
Is it just normalcy?
I do lots of normal things. I golf. I lunch on occasion with
past colleagues. Rarely, to be certain, but I do.
My heart aches, threatening to explode in my chest.
I wish to God I was having a heart attack—an
honest-to-goodness life-threatening moment—anything but the truth.
I’m in love with her. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.
Suddenly she appears in the doorway. She looks fragile. She
looks like a woman in love. Well, haven’t I just fucked us both royally?
“Why are you looking at me that way?” she asks.
“You are beautiful to gaze upon.”
“You looked pained.”
“A star as brilliant as the sun burns as it brightens.”
She frowns at me.
“I am darkness, you are light. It hurts to be so near you.”
She laughs. “I’m glad you don’t make your living as a poet.”
I clutch my chest dramatically but we are both laughing.
“Are you saying that you can’t be happy with me unless you
hurt me in your dungeon because you are a sadist?”
“I did not say that.”
She approaches the table. “Deny it.”
I pull silence to me as a defense. Childish, I know, but I
won’t lie to her. Grabbing her wrist, I pull her to me and wrap my arms around
her waist. I press my cheek against her stomach. She has pulled on her silk
slip and the fabric is cool against my face. “Let me show you a glimpse of the
darkness inside you.”
“George.”
In just my name there is so much emotion. Fear, frustration,
need, longing…
I won’t force her.
“We won’t leave the kitchen,” I promise, looking up into her
face. “This is not a scary room.” I look around the space, hoping she can see
that as well—moss-green walls, pecan cabinets, quartz countertops—and see when
my gaze returns to hers that she is looking at the room appreciatively.
“I love this room. Do you like to cook, George?”
“I do. Very much so.”
“Maybe we could prepare a meal together sometime?” She
strokes my hair.
“I would like that,” I admit, realizing the truth of my
words.
She meets my gaze. “What do you mean when you say ‘a
glimpse’?”
Standing, I say, “Sit.”
Fortunately she does.
I kneel before her. “Put your feet onto my shoulders.”
She tilts her head questioningly.
“The first rule is to obey without question and see where my
requests lead. I promise I will not give you any pain.”
She lifts her bare feet onto my shoulders and the short slip
slides up on her thighs. I help the fabric along, pushing it higher so that her
genitals are exposed to me. I run my finger along her slit, not pushing
between, just lightly teasing the smooth, soft flesh of her labia as I explain,
“Many men and women have fantasies that revolve around a gynecological exam. I
think in this position you could imagine yourself in an examination room, your
feet in cold metal stirrups, a doctor looking between your legs.”
She gasps and her vaginal muscles jerk beneath my touch.
“In my basement I have all of the medical instruments to
make such a fantasy a reality.”
“I don’t understand why anyone would want to—”
“You don’t see a gynecological exam as erotic?” I ask.
“No, of course not.” Her vaginal muscles twitch again.
“So if I had a cool, metal speculum and slid it between your
vaginal lips,” I press two fingers from each hand into her to demonstrate, “you
would not find that erotic at all?”
“No.” Her entire face frowns with confusion.
“Invasive?”
“Disturbing, painful,” she says and I stop stretching.
“So most gynecological exams are uncomfortable for you?”
“Embarrassing,” she admits, her knees beginning to tremble.
“I am small
down there
. Yes, it hurts.”
“Pain and embarrassment can be powerful sexual triggers,” I
explain, pulling her slip down her thighs. I lift her heels off my shoulders
and put her feet back on the floor. “Maybe someday you will allow me to
demonstrate completely.”
“That’s it?” She looks disappointed.
“For now.” I want to leave her guessing, curious, and I know
she will be left thinking about this strange encounter for the rest of the day.
I want her to be able to come to me with her needs. I want to be able to tell
her my needs without fear of judgment.
She didn’t run screaming. That in itself seems a good start.
“Can I make you some breakfast?”
“Oh George. Who told you the way to my heart is through my
stomach? I am always starving.”
I look at her thin, delicate frame, hardly believing
that
.
Our gazes collide and she blushes sweetly before ducking her
head. She’s thinking about it already, possibly about me knelt before her,
giving her an exam in the room just below us.
Turning away, I start gathering the supplies I’ll need to
make omelets and the song plays in my head. It’s all I can do to keep myself
from humming.
I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in love. I’m in looooove, I’m in
love with a beautiful girl.
Gigi
Darkness holds me suspended. I’m uncertain how much time has
passed since entering this hotel room. Hours? It could as easily be days. It
feels like forever.
That’s what I wanted, wasn’t it? Yes. Bound. I am prisoner
of someone else’s wants, needs, desires. I don’t have to think, I can just be.
Theirs. To do with what they will. Tease me, torture me. I deserve so much
worse than I get.
I don’t deserve the pleasure, but bound, my body responds.
Twisting, writhing, climbing—falling. I don’t seek the pleasure, only the pain.
Pleasure always finds me though.
Blindfolded and gagged, I ride his erection, squeezing him
with my thighs and vaginal muscles until I am shaking and spent. The true
problem is the asshole is so focused on finding his own pleasure he forgets why
he is here. Punish me! Humiliate me! Only his commands keep me in motion.
“Harder, bitch!”
“Faster!”
“Goddamnit, whore, fuck me like you mean it!”
A hard command to follow since I stopped meaning it a while
ago, not giving a rat’s ass right after my third orgasm and just before my
mucus membranes started screaming for relief.
I reach for the pain and embrace it. That’s why I’m here.
Pain.
And although he stopped whipping me with the riding crop
when his own pleasure started rising, he’s created a sort of livable purgatory
without even realizing what he’s done. The soft pillow-top mattress beneath my
knees no longer provides the heavenly comfort promised by the hotel’s ad
campaign. My knees ache. Worse, they feel raw from the constant rubbing against
stiff Egyptian cotton sheets. This is the stuff dreams are made of. Suffering,
discontentment. Yet in my weakness I am reduced to a silent tirade against
Viagra and my inner mantra for him.
Please come, please come, please come!
Close to sobbing, I finally hear him growl, grunt and then
shout.
His ejaculation should bring me jubilation, because I know I
will be released from the restraints, I will be able to tend to my throbbing
vagina, get out of here and go home; but I’m not elated, not even close.
He’s done now. Endgame for him. He will release me, I will
get dressed, there will be the awkward moment of uncomfortable silence neither
of us knows how to fill with words, and then I will leave because I have yet to
meet a man who could take his mind off his own goddamn penis long enough to do
the job he’s here for.
Punish me like you mean it!
I sigh around the ball gag shoved in my mouth. Drool pools
out with my breath and lands heavily on my chest. Honestly, I decide I’m pretty
miserable. Knees burn, back hurts, and with my hands secured above my head in
leather manacles, my arms have been numb for what seems like forever. I am at
his mercy still.
I perk up, hopeful he still has a surprise up his sleeve.
Straddling his hips, I push against his stomach with my shaved-bare pussy,
nudging him, reminding him I am here. His half-hard penis slides from my body
in a warm, wet
whoosh
.
“Ee-mmm-oo,” I mumble around the ball gag, and more drool
pools wetly onto my chest.
He wanted me naked except for the ball gag in my mouth and
the leather around my wrists. They usually do once they find out that I’m
inked. Men find my tats intriguing. I find their obsession with my ink
annoying, which doesn’t mean that I’m disappointed that it is a sure thing for
luring them in. When I advertise on the internet, I lead with photos of my
tats.
Brightly colored koi swim in a teasing zigzag pattern across
my back from my left hip to my right shoulder and then over and around to
finish their swim over the top of my right breast. Even without the recent
addition of three-quarter-length inked sleeves showcasing lotus blossoms,
peonies and seaweed, I am guaranteed a steady stream of men willing to do what
I ask.
This one I met on a BDSM chat site servicing the West Coast.
I chose him because he could communicate in complete sentences and use words
longer than four letters after two weeks of others sending me one-liners.
From John in L.A.
I want to fuck you.
From Evan in Hollywood.
Bow down to me, slut, and suck my
dick.
The reply winning the prize for using an actual two-syllable
word went to S.B. from Encino.
Stroke me, fuck me, adore me, worship me.
Understood?
Yeah, I didn’t call him.
In comparison, the first quick note I received from
Michael435 was almost a literary masterpiece.
Upon reading your bio, I am
intrigued and find myself drawn to your honesty, the forthright expression of
your needs, and your desire to discover the depth of your depravity. I must insist
upon absolute secrecy beyond the norm of mere discretion.
“Eh-ee-oo!” I shriek around the gag.
Hey, you.
He doesn’t move.
I listen for his snore. I am going to be so pissed if he
fell asleep.
“Aa-uu!” I shrill around the gag, bouncing on his now
flaccid penis.
Wake up!
He doesn’t move, doesn’t make even the slightest sound, and
I start concentrating very hard to hear his sleeping sounds, trying not to
panic with the thought that he might actually leave me tied up until dawn. I
have to pee!
“Aa-uuu! Aa-uu, Aa-uu!”
Serve you right if I pissed on you, damn it!
Wake up!
I bounce on him…bounce, bounce, bounce. Wake up, wake up, wake up!
My cellphone shrills from somewhere behind me.
Rachel.
We’ve been friends since grade school, both of us outcasts
in the private school our parents insisted we attend…she too timid, me too
weird. I protected her from the hazing of cliques and she protected me from
myself. Not much has changed, although I’m not certain I need protecting.
I can’t answer the phone…
Holy shit, she is going to be so worried, and I have no way
of letting her know that I am okay. Sure, I’m pissed as hell that the jerk in
my bed has fallen asleep, and my hands and arms are so numb that I can’t feel
them and every movement sends jabs of pain into my shoulder blades, but really,
I’m okay, I don’t need to be rescued. The phone rings again and again.
Wake up! Why isn’t my cell waking you up?
Oh God, Rachel, I’m sorry.
She hates it when I play these games, and I so do not want
her barging in to save the day! She will too, if I don’t return her call in the
next five minutes. She’s my safety net, knowing exactly what hotel I’m at, what
room I’m in, and in an emergency she has access to a shared cyber folder that
contains every scrap of information I have on the man I met tonight and for
that matter, every man I have ever met.
I wait for the phone to stop ringing, then start counting
seconds, then minutes…beginning to panic that he really isn’t going to wake up in
time. Pushing down on my knees and rocking, I manage to get rolled onto my
feet, squatting, sinking unsteadily into the mattress. Then with some pressure
released from my wrists, I manage to half stand on the bed and nudge him with
my foot, then nudge him harder. Damn, dude, wake up!
My phone starts shrilling again. I know it’s Rachel just as
surely as I know this is my last chance to stop her from coming to the hotel.
Hell, knowing Rachel, she is already in her car and on her way to rescue me.
With a ten-minute drive between her house and this hotel, she could already be
halfway here by now. Oh hell, this is ridiculous. I’m fine…really…if this
asshole would just wake up!
It’s an almost funny situation, although I don’t think
Rachel is going to see the humor in it. Pressing my face to my shoulder, I
manage to push my blindfold high enough onto my forehead to see, but barely
because the room is cast in the shadow of a single candle flame. My jeans,
t-shirt, sandals, purse and screaming phone—literally, because my ring tone is
a screaming woman—are still safe and sound on the straight back chair by the
desk screwed into the wall where I left them. We’d joked about the desk,
wondering how much action the cheap piece of furniture could take, but he’d
wanted to suspend me from the ceiling first and that had seemed like a hot
idea.
My eyes finally adjust to the low level of light, allowing
me to see that his eyes are bulged open. Enough light to guess he is dead. I
can’t believe it, but by the time I kick his unresponsive body a few times I am
convinced. He’s dead. Holy mother of God, I fucked him to death!
I manage to not get hysterical, waiting for Rachel to rescue
me. I have no doubt she will, even though more than ten minutes have passed. I
know because I’ve been counting seconds to keep from breaking down.
Counting seconds turned into five minutes and then ten.
Counting to stay sane—then finally, I hear her pounding on the hotel room door
and emotion I have been holding at bay floods out. I scream like I’ve never
screamed before, muffled screaming around the gag, then cry because there
doesn’t seem to be anything else to do once she announces through the locked
door that she has help on the way.
By the time she enters the room with hotel security on her
heels, I am jumping up and down on the mattress hysterically. It doesn’t take
an act of God to get me free, merely the force known as Rachel, and she is
dynamic, climbing up onto the mattress, releasing my wrists and the ball gag.
It happens fast and chaotic, with me falling against her and both of us
stumbling off the bed and onto the floor, leaving me wrapped so tight in her
arms I can barely breathe.
I hear the security guard calling 9-1-1, and the gravity of
the situation hits me. What do I tell the police? Did he have a wife? Not that
it matters to me if he had a wife or not, I didn’t even know the guy, but I
really don’t want to be the one responsible for ruining some chick’s illusion
she had a happy, perfect marriage, when in reality her husband had sex with strange
women.
Sitting on my ass on the thick carpet of the luxury hotel, I
am no longer hysterical but rather quite numb. I start thinking about all the
things I didn’t want to think about when I was tied up.
“Oh my God, oh my God!” Rachel whimpers against me again and
again, repeating herself so much that I get bitchy.
“Would you shut up, Rachel? I’m the one who’s supposed to be
hysterical. I’m the one who had a guy go limp inside me, not because he was
done, but because he was dead!”
Holding her sobbing body, I am immediately sorry for my
sharp words and pat her back, assuring her I am okay, listening to her mantra,
“Oh my God, my God, my God,” and wondering what happened to the powerhouse who
barged in ready to do anything required to rescue me.
The woman in question grabs my upper arms and squeezes hard,
making me look into her worried face. “Gigi, promise me. Promise me right now
you will stop this insanity. You need an intervention. Do you want me to call
your mother?”
“You are not calling her!” Jerking from her grasp, I rub my
upper arms, realizing it hurt so much because her hands, like her entire
way-too-skinny body, are boney, and boney fingers hurt like hell.
“I am if you don’t stop this nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense to me, Rachel.” I eye the hotel security
guard who insisted on staying until the police arrived, knowing he is listening
and it doesn’t seem right he is here…listening. Judging me. I decide I really
don’t care. I really don’t. Fuck him. Who is he anyway? Let him hear all of it.
“I like to play rough.”
“I’m not talking about the playing, I don’t care if you
play, but do it the smart way! Go to a club…a sex club where everyone else is
into this stuff too. You can negotiate the scenes and have a safe outcome.
Where did you meet this one, Gigi, a bar? The country club?”
I snort. “The fucking country club, Rachel? Do I look like
I’m that insane? My mother knows everyone at the club!” I give her a look, big
eyes and astonished mouth, hoping she realizes that I think she has lost her
mind. Then I look at the security guard, catching him in the act of ogling my
tits, or maybe the tattoos littering my tits, but either way, totally
unacceptable behavior. I give him the what-the-fuck face, deciding that I am so
done with him being in the room with us. “Do you mind? This is a private
conversation.”
Turning my back on him and reaching for my too small black
t-shirt that holds everything in place minus a bra, I piss myself off by
pulling it over my head to hide my body from a complete stranger I will never
see again, thinking I really shouldn’t care what he thinks.
I hiss at Rachel in a hushed whisper, “I am not going to a
sex club. What fun is it if you know the outcome in advance? If it is agreed
that you will do A and B and C but you will not even think about doing D or E
or F, because that’s too scary… I hate that. I want to be challenged, scared,
caught off guard. That’s the rush, Rachel. That’s the rush.”
“I understand, Gigi, but get that rush with someone you’ve
known more than twenty-four hours. Get that rush with someone from the fetish
community who has a reputation for playing safe.”
“I was safe tonight.”
“A man is dead. The police are on their way to talk to you
about what happened. Do you get it? This wasn’t safe.”
“He was safe. I was safe. I don’t know what happened. Hell,
Rachel, maybe I rode him to death…because he wouldn’t come, and I don’t know
how long I rode him, but it was a long time, dammit. My friggin’ twat is
killing me I rode him so long.” Looking over my shoulder, I send the security
guard a wicked glance because he is still looking and listening. “Do you mind?”
I get even more annoyed because he doesn’t apologize for
being so rude.
A hard knock on the doorframe startles me, stopping our
argument. No one has to open the door because it has been left wide open since
Rachel arrived. Two police officers stand in the threshold looking very armed
and ready for anything. An emergency medical team pushes into the room and
starts trying to revive the man in the bed.