A Daydream & Distraction by Redbud
- Sorry to have been away. All the sketches are by artists at Hentai Foundry. You can click on any of the images to go to the artists’ original. I’ve always liked line drawings and sketches.
She quietly repeated the word to herself.
She coddled it.
She liked the word.
The word’s sound reminded her of the city’s dark, reflective sidewalk after a light rain – the sound her feet made when she walked through the puddles. The word was like the one or two lights remaining in the dark silhouette of a skyscraper. No matter what street she was on, she could find it. If one corner or a facade hid the light, another few steps revealed it.
If the word had a color, she would have called it orange.
She slowed. She breathed the word out, then breathed it back in. A dark husk of a building, three stories, was bracketed by two taller structures. There were brick, concrete, mortar and iron fire escapes. The taller buildings were warm with light. She tightly clenched her umbrella. A woman, even a young and strong woman, knew there were places too dark and too dangerous. She stepped back. She glanced both directions. Friday evening. The street was mostly empty.
But there was the sign, pinned to the wooden frame of a door – a small scrap of paper.
There would be a stylized etching – a crow holding an arrow. She would be safe.
But her heart raced. She had always had the fantasy. She had already wandered down the dark alleys of dreams, her night fantasies, alone, unguarded, a woman. She had heard the footfall that wasn’t her own. She had run and fought.
And she had always lost.
She pleaded, begged and cried but the darkness always enveloped her and penetrated her.
But this was different. The concrete under her feet was real. The wet grit of the sidewalk would scar and abrade. The darkness behind the boarded doors and windows was real. The pounding in her ears was real, nothing like the dark struggles that breathlessly consumed her imagination. The drip, drip, of the steady drizzle was warm and cold. The smell of water, exhaust, food, garbage, people – the smells of a humid summer’s night were the smells of a forest she loved and feared.
She climbed the cracked brown-stone steps. The corner of every other was missing and reflected a silica glitter. A wrought iron railing, some balusters rusted, bent or gone, rose with the stairs and hemmed in the landing. The tall, wooden double doors used to have windows, but only the toothy, razor sharp edges of the glass protruded from the flaking molding. Two blanks of plywood covered the gaping holes.
She lifted the corner of the paper pinned to the door. She saw the crow holding the arrow. But her stomach was tied in knots. She could knock on the door, open it, and the safe word would be like an exhalation bringing light to the dark building. But there was a dark and indefinable ache. She felt wetness at her thighs. Take, possess, dominate – masculine words. Her body darkly hinted, reminding , urging – receive, submit, surrender. She wanted to be her body.
She pushed open the door.
She stepped inside. She lowered and closed her umbrella. She absent-mindedly straightened her skirt suit. She gently and quietly shut the door behind her. Why? Darkness enveloped her. She extended the umbrella in front of her. Plaster crunched under the ball of her foot and high heel. The next step was only dust and grit. She bit her lip as she felt, first, a stairway’s heavy wooden newel post, then felt her way along a hallway. She felt lathing under her left hand, where more plaster had fallen from the wall.
She bit the hand over her mouth, not too hard but enough. She heard a gasp and yelped with a sharp, hard spank on her ass. She wheeled and kicked, connecting with a shin — another gasp. She wanted to fight. She lunged, surprised and excited by her speed and strength. She shoved. She felt a man’s broad chest give way and she leaped toward the door. Escape!
A foot caught her ankle and she stumbled to her hands and a knee.
Her umbrella banged into the darkness and out of reach. A piece of plaster bit into the palm of her hand but she was already scrambling. One of her high heels snapped and she cursed as steely hands gripped her hair. She reached for the entry door but her hand slipped from the knob as she was pulled back into the dark of the hallway.
She could have screamed.
She kicked behind her; but for the first time she felt his strength as he continued to yank her backwards, by her hair, into the darkness. She twisted around. He let go. She jambed the palms of her hands where she imagined his chest but only glanced an arm. Another pair of hands shot around her waist. The embrace was strong and she was surprised by the curdling fear in her stomach.
She reached to push or claw at the arms around her wast but as soon as she did, her wrists were powerfully yanked behind her.
She gasped. She felt the rough hand of her first assailant cup her chin. A thumb pressed at her lips but she kept them tightly closed. He knew better than to press his thumb between her teeth. His other hand found the top of her blouse and roughly yanked it open. The collar roughly bit into her neck before the last button gave away. She felt dark air against her belly and between her breasts. She struggled to free her hands but the first assailant was parting her blouse. Her exposed nipples hardened.
“No!” she warned. But that wasn’t her safe word.
He cupped her breasts. Her breathing quickened. She felt helpless. But isn’t that what she wanted? She tried to twist her upper body away from him but his fingers tightened and squeezed. His thumb and forefingers pinched her nipples until she stopped twisting and rose to her toes, mouth open, eye brows perched in the darkness.
He let go.
She caught her breath. The flat of his hands moved slowly downward, feeling her ribs, then the available, flat, femininity of her belly. He yanked her skirt down to her knees and tightened the slender belt until her knees pressed together and bound. His palms impudently rose up her flanks and hips as though he owned her, feeling their curvature, roundness and fertility. He was taking his time, feeling the contours of a helpless woman. A finger forced its way between the tight V of her thighs and the opening hidden between them.
“No!” she snapped again.
She gasped. The man behind her abruptly forced her to her knees. Grit bit into her kneecaps. She heard jeans unzip. There was a moment of silence. Then the sound of feet shuffling to her knees. She could smell his masculinity before she felt it at her lips. Like hell she would. Her hands were still being held behind her. She turned her face. He grabbed her hair. She thought he meant to force his cock into her mouth.
He pushed her head down, knees on the floor, ass in the air. The first crack of the man’s palm on her ass made her cry out. She struggled and twisted against the man holding her. The stinging blows were relentless. There was a third pair of hands! They were tying a rope around her wrists! Her bound wrists were pulled upward. She couldn’t lower her ass. His spanking neared the dark crease of her pussy. She hated them! She whined. She gasped. She grunted. She cried out.
When the spanking ended, a final trickle of piss ran down her thigh.
The third pair of hands, lighter, gentler, unbound the skirt from around her knees and pulled them off. She widened her knees and arched her back – anything to stop the stinging punishment. They pulled her upright. This time the cock that pressed against her lips was fuller, tumid and more urgent. He waited. He gently stroked her hair. The second assailant, still behind her, gently cupped the round of her hips and traced her waist with feather light finger tips.
She took the man into her mouth and sucked, tearful, grateful, and receptive.
He did nothing. She moved her head. She licked underneath. She rounded her lips around his bulb and tasted. After five minutes, maybe ten, she was rewarded with the slick taste of him, not an orgasm but a first spurt — the first, sharp spasm of a man’s pleasure.
His cock was withdrawn and her cheek was forced to the floor again. This time the man whose cock she had been sucking took the rope binding her wrists. The man behind her smacked her ass and she nearly wailed. She moaned and the word – the safe word – was like water. She could taste it. She wanted it with a thirst equal to her hatred of the men. She despised them. She would say the word just to spite them. She couldn’t breathe.
The spanking stopped.
The touching was suddenly gentle, tender and loving.
She would do anything. The man in front of her was kneeling. Her lips met his knees. Her thankful kisses searched this time – tasting, smelling, licking, until she found his cock and took him into her mouth as if for forgiveness. She spread her knees and arched the small of her back for the man behind her. I’m sorry! – said her posture.
Her nostrils flared and her eyes rolled when she felt him fill her belly from behind.
Her wrists were still bound but their gentle touching was like a kind of praise. She would do anything for it. She sucked. The cock moving in and out of her belly dripped with her willingness to please. She had never felt two cocks at once, so much maleness feeling her in front and from behind. Her eyes rolled as she tasted another spurt.
The man behind held her hips hard.
The smaller, lighter hands of her third assailant was pinching her nipples.
As if by some signal in the dark space above her, the fingers at her nipples abruptly tugged and pinched hard. The hands at her hips let go and smacked her ass as the cock moved in and out of her. The man whose cock she sucked, tugged at the rope, stretching her arms.
She should have hated them.
But she was helpless. The two men pressed from either end, as if their cocks tried to meet somewhere in her middle. The knot hidden there began to slip. She couldn’t stop it. Their heavy lengths nudged and buffeted her secret. Her empty hands grasped. Her nipples pulsed. The spanking kept an uneasy rhythm with the penetrating thrusts. All of it unraveled the dark truth. She tried – she squirmed, she twisted – but her belly conceded what the men already guessed. As come began to dribble down her chin and down her thighs, out of her belly, they drew out her confession – a deep, guttural moan; a long, throbbing orgasm. Her involuntary squeezes, gripping the cock that emptied inside her, admitted what she wouldn’t say.
She gave them her secret.
This was the truth she had never dared own.
She was mastered by the men — naked, helpless, spent and filled by them. When they slipped out of her, she kissed them. She licked the come from the first man’s thighs and licked the thick fur that pungently padded his balls. She took one into her mouth and obediently sucked it. She was his. She belonged to him. She belonged to both of them. She wanted to lick both their cocks clean. She wanted their praise.
This is how she had imagined it.
A flicker of light startled her – a match and then a cigarette lifted to a woman’s lips, held in the third assailant’s lighter and more delicate fingers.
None of them spoke, but when the burning end of the cigarette approached her raised ass, the safe word finally tumbled from her mouth.
“Rose!” she cried. “Rose!”
All three pairs of hands gently lifted her from the floor. Her hands were unbound. A single dangling light bulb was switched on as she was carried into a familiar room. A king size futon was on the unfinished floor of the room that would someday be their bedroom. Scaffolding stood against one wall; a saw and tool box were chained to it. A bucket of sheet rock knives sat in a corner full of gypsum dust.
Her lover laid her on the mattress.
Her lover’s best friend gently kissed the sweating valley between her breasts.
Her best friend’s lover, cigarette still in hand, lowered her lips between the woman’s widening thighs and smiled.
☼ Will Crimson • April 12 2011