Four writers for the price of one blog
♦ Dear Readers: this next story is the first part of a four-part series. Like Angel in a Centerfold and The Price Of Honesty, I try to focus on the psychological aspect of sex as well as the action during the course of the narrative. These posts will be less illustrated than before, since I’m anxious to share and don’t have the patience to scour the Internet for appropriate art and photos (note to budding erotic artists/illustrators: contact us if you’re interested in illustrating our stories and poems).
He sat down a bit too close to be casual. I gulped my wine like water in my nervousness.
“Relax. I assure you, I don’t bite.” His canines glinted at me in the candlelight. I looked toward the groaning shelves of books in the other side of the room instead.
“Have you read all these books, or are they just a pose?” He extended his arms on the sofa and crossed his legs. Sweat beads rose on my temple at the easy strength emanating from his body.
“What do you think?” He made me feel foolish in four words. He was more than me – I’d always known it, regardless of our ruse of civility. He looked me full in the eye.
Before that moment, the saying ‘made my knees knock’ was just that – a saying. It wasn’t anymore.
“Tell me. Do you think I have?” There had to be at least 2000 books on all subjects of the study. They were not only on shelves, but in piles on the floor, desk, and tables. I picked up a small book with a green cloth cover that was faded and dirty. The pages were silky at the edges with love.
“Leaves of Grass,” I whispered. The book opened easily to a favorite passage. There was a poem traced with pencil.
“Shut not your doors to me, proud libraries…” I whispered. “For that which was lacking on all your well-fill’d shelves, yet needed most, I bring.” He took the book from my lap, closed it, and continued to recite the poem:
“…Forth from the army, the war emerging — a book I have made
The words of my book nothing — the drift of it every thing;
A book separate, not link’d with the rest, nor felt by the intellect,
But you, ye untold latencies, will thrill to every page…”
The tone of his voice hinted at the volume the poem spoke of. The silence in the study seemed crushing after he stopped. I took another sip of wine. Although I’d walked into his house a strong, intelligent woman, I felt myself change around him. My world-weariness — the weight I carried because of my knowledge of pain — faded. It was unnerving. Who was this man, really? Although I’d gotten brief, clear glimpses at his thoughts, even they were fragmented – a beautiful but frustrating puzzle.
“Yes, I think you have. In fact, I know you have,” I said. My voice had lost its hard-earned brass. He stretched, and his long arms nearly reached the ceiling. He carried himself like there was no one in the room. I was suddenly hot, and the cashmere sweater I’d bought especially for this occasion made the skin under my arms itch. When stood up, my head spun so fast I nearly passed out. He made it across the room just in time to stop me from falling into a heap on the floor. He carried me effortlessly to the sofa and caressed my forehead, something that no one had done since I was a child. Intense longing made my eyes water.
“I’m scared,” I whispered as I drifted away.
I rose back to consciousness as if from a deep, restful sleep. I was cradled on my stomach with my arms hanging at my side. When I tried to get up, I realized that I couldn’t.
“What the hell-” I stopped mid-exclamation. I’d only heard my voice in my head. I remained quite still and tried to listen to my surroundings. I heard nothing but my breath and the distant suggestion of my pulse.
My breaths sounded ragged echoed in my own head. I tried to remember what had happened.
…He let me in, gave me a tour of his home (everything except his bedroom), and we spoke about my experiences…
I’m a proud woman, so I’d tried my hardest not to sound as inexperienced as I felt around him.
…he listened quietly and asked questions that hinted at the holes in my philosophy…
I tried to move my legs, but they were bound firmly. The thick leather straps lay flat against the skin of my arms, waist, thighs, and ankles. I was naked. My long hair was loose and streaming past my outstretched arms.
Oh God Holy Father Dios mío Jesus santo ayúdame…
I shut my burning eyes. I could see him pulling off my sweater, my boots, then my jeans and discovering that I hadn’t worn panties. As I fought to loosen my restraints, I began to move back and forth smoothly. Cool air caressed my exposed ass and pussy.
Merciful Jesus, help me.
He was so remote I had no idea what he was planning. I imagined myself a strange centerpiece in an empty room in his basement.
“Oh God!” My voice went from a yell to a trembling whisper – I knew better than to believe anyone would actually hear me.
I’m so sorry this is what I get for some of the things I’ve imagined my lax morality lust desire sin has finally caught up with me-
He plucked the foam earplugs out of my ears. He was laughing. I swallowed the rest of my prayer, and it hurt all the way down like a sharp, stale bread crust.
“Nothing pleases God’s ear more than a dissolute woman’s prayers,” he said. My cheeks burned with genuine shame for the first time in years. “They’re worth as much as water to a drowning man.” He traced my spine. My asshole tightened as his finger moved past it. “You’re much tighter than most women who claim to enjoy assplay,” he said pointedly.
I remained silent, but I felt his gaze between my legs, heavy and hot. Sweat made my belly slippery. No one knew, but I’d always been self-conscious about my pussy. It didn’t flare out in a profusion of ripples and folds like most of the pussies I’ve seen. It hid between plump pussy lips that didn’t separate unless I was fully aroused, like the stoma on the epidermis of a plant. Prickly heat moved to my nates, which were less full than I’d like, to my thighs, which were more full than I was comfortable with. He was deliberate in his observation since he knew I felt every moment keenly. He saw everything I worked so hard to hide. My big, pale areolas. The touch of cellulite at the tops of my thighs. The tiny, pinkish silver lines I’d gotten after aerobicizing myself to a more socially accepted physique. I became completely transparent. I resigned to my fate. Although I was scared, I focused singularly on the sound of his breath. As the minutes passed, his breathing changed.
He traced my seam.
“What on earth made you believe you are dominant?”
I was confused. Why ask me that now, of all times? It was cruel.
“Control,” I said finally. My voice was high, girlish. His breath caressed the skin of my ass. I was strapped into the device in such a way that I straddled it like a jockey. My ass and hips were raised so he could see up to my belly button from where he stood. There was a full minute of silence before he spoke again.
“That’s it? What about control?” Something clicked and I began to swing again. I felt like a student – a dense one. I said the first thing that popped into my head.
“I don’t like not having it.”
He rubbed something smooth and cool along the curve of my ass. I instinctively tried to move my arms, but I just made myself swing harder. The object moved slowly from the small of my back to the tops of my thighs. My lower lip quivered.
“Then it’s not really about control, is it?” He pressed it against my pussy lips.
“Please…don’t hurt me,” I said. He snorted derisively. I felt like an even bigger fool. The object moved back up the curve of my ass to my shoulder blades. When he pinched my nipples, I was shocked by the warmth of his touch. His attention came merely out of boredom – a cat unfolding and holding down the wings of a canary.
“What do you fear?” My mind exploded with whispers, but there was nothing I would be comfortable sharing. The cloth at the front of his pants was stretched taut by his erection, and the buttons of his fly burned my cool flesh. Was he hard? It couldn’t be me that had aroused him.
He palmed my ass, then slapped it hard enough to make me grunt.
“Pain!” I yelled, squirming as the pain radiated up my spine. He rubbed where he’d just slapped. His thumb grazed my asshole again. It winked around the tip and held it there. I was instantly wet. There was no hiding now, yet I wanted to cover my face with my hands. I couldn’t, and that made it worse.
“As humans, we are hardwired to avoid and fear pain since it’s a sign that something is not right,” he said in his best lecturer’s voice. He parted my ass cheeks until my pussy lips parted as well. I felt his breath on me. “Therefore, your answer is too general. Allow me to show you an exercise to jog your memory.”
Something landed across my ass. The burn was agonizing.
I screamed, but it sounded more like a moan.
“See, it’s quite simple – we’ll begin with 10 lashes. Keep count, or I’ll start again until you do. Maybe by the time we’re done, you’ll think of a more sincere answer to my question.” His breath was jungle hot in my ear. I panted, and he chuckled. I knew better than to say anything – he had taken me far away from the rules and politics of the lifestyle I’d come to know.
There were no safe words in this game.