Four writers for the price of one blog
Erotic Fiction by Ximena
I was roused from my stupor by soft, repetitive moaning.
My throat burned with thirst, and my head throbbed. The moaning stopped, but it was replaced by quick breaths. Male breaths. I regained consciousness quickly.
I had definitely not passed out in my bedroom after a couple too many drinks. I was in an expansive space with a circle of well-lit, white-sheeted islands. I was naked, gagged and tied down by a series of elaborate knots. My legs were hiked up to my chest, my knees spread wide apart. My arms were tied firmly to the sides of my body, my breasts pert in their rope cage. I could only move my head, hands and feet freely, and I wore a mask that covered three-fourths of my face.
Most importantly, strangers in various stages of undress walked or stood around the white-sheeted islands, including my own. A man thrust and groaned into the woman bent in front of him. Her hipster sack dress was raised above her hips, and her face was red as his. I felt heat between my legs as I followed their gazes. Hands massaged my folds amidst female whispers, but I couldn’t see over the sheet strung high and wide over my hips. The spotlight made the sheet glow bright, and I saw the shadows of the people lingering in front of me.
“Exquisite! See how the inner labia have swelled and gone from pearly pink to almost red?” Someone tugged. A fingertip circled my opening. “Her vestibule is narrow, but see how easily it accommodates…” Fingers stretched me open. I was tied so well I could barely fidget, but I tightened around the probing fingers. The sheet rippled against my soles.
A man chuckled. “Why is it so much hotter now that she’s awake? My hard on just went from semi to rager.” I heard footsteps, and a different hand touched above my opening. “You’re talking all this artsy shit, but I’d bet this is the reason she’s here.” He pinched the silky skin covering my clit and stroked. I groaned into my gag. “It’s a mouthful to say the least,” he said. “Can I suck it?” he whispered to someone close by.
“No. Hands only, I’m afraid. ” Another male voice, this one with a foreign accent. He sounded older. Familiar.
…I’d bet this is the reason she’s here? The words echoed in my head. Why was I here? More importantly, how had I gotten here? I tried to think whether I saw anyone strange on the short walk to my apartment, but my mind was fuzzy with fear.
The group who had been fondling her moved from behind the sheet. There was a tall, narrow woman in a pashmina scarf and too much silver jewelry. The frat boy who wanted to suck turned out being a fashionably suited sylph whose beauty made her gasp. An equally young and beautiful woman in a backless gown had her arm linked in his. She tugged him toward the bottom half of a man – the rest was covered with a sheet, like herself – whose uniquely curved penis was being handled by dark-skinned gentleman in a velvet coat and jeans.
I could see clearly behind the sheet draped over his hips. Dirty blonde hair and a mask like mine. He laid so still I knew he was tied as tight as me. Feverish eyes blinked at me from behind the mask, and I wondered whether he saw me the way I saw him. Sweat pooled on the hard surface underneath me.
On the other side of me there was a full-figured woman, completely naked and uncovered save her face. A spotlight shone on the folds and ripples that spilled out of the ropes tying her to a steel frame. Her ample belly nearly covered her mound, and a tattoo of a gecko matched the green of the veins on one of her pendulous breasts. An asian woman knelt and squeezed one of her massive thighs.
“Bigger around than I am,” she said to her companion, a woman very much like the woman tied to the steel frame. She kissed her companion and squeezed her voluminous hips. “That is how I want you to get. For me.”
I grunted into my gag, thinking the statement rude.
A long, muffled groan made me look a little beyond the fat woman and across the room to a man’s ass. He looked to be on hands and knees. His legs were splayed wide apart, and there was the customary sheet draped over his lower back so I couldn’t see the top half of him. An androgynous young woman in a porkpie hat and skinny jeans was handling his formidable testicles. She softly jiggled them in her hands as he fidgeted. Even though my vision wasn’t the best, I could clearly see the man’s cock bobbing hard beyond his balls. The woman’s face was serious, but the color was high on her cheeks with arousal. It was bizarre to see a woman I’d ordinarily not expect to want to be near a man’s nuts to handle them so lovingly.
Beyond the odd couple, someone’s feet dangled over the edge of a table with their ankles tied together. I couldn’t tell whether it was a young man or a woman, since everything but their feet were covered. The soles flexed in their own spotlight. Long, knobby toes wiggled as a chubby man with his stiff cock pulled out of his pants tickled up and down both arches. A clear string of precum dripped from the tip as he licked his tickling fingers.
Someone touched me.
“You’re almost cold,” the familiar voice said so close to my pussy that his breath warmed me. He traced my folds gently, but pinched my outer lips hard enough to make me groan. Blood rushed between my legs. My thigh muscles jumped.
“Fuck it. If you don’t jerk her clit off, I will.” It was the suited beauty’s voice again.
“Must you be so crude, Adrian?” A woman, but I didn’t know whether it was the companion he’d been with earlier.
“This is what I came here for. Why the hell hide it?” he responded.
I looked to the man with his penis being displayed. His cock curved sharply up, and his bellhead flashed purple underneath his companion’s palm. Her painted lips were parted, her nipples hard underneath her satin gown.
A gallery? I looked around me, but there were no art or sculptures.
“If you’ll allow me to interrupt,” the older man said, “erotica is meant to arouse. There’s nothing wrong with his reaction to this young lady’s… unique endowments. Also, these exhibits are meant to be interactive to a degree.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” the young man said. A hot finger pressed into my clit.
“With all due respect to the artist, this is beginning to come off as a cheap excuse for a sex club,” she said. I looked to the round woman, and a tall blond man with Buddy Holly glasses was openly fondling her now glossy fat folds while his other hand moved on her pussy. The woman groaned into her gag.
“Bullshit, Elle,” the young man said.
“Do you usually finger the sculptures at the Guggenheim?” He must be speaking to the pashmina lady who’d woken me with her touching. Fingers went inside me easily as he caressed my clit. “Look at that. It’s getting even fatter.” He pulled the hood of my clit back and squeezed. My toes curled and gripped the sheet.
“It seems like she’s responding favorably,” the older man said. The artist.
“I’d pay good money to have this woman sit on my face for an hour or ten. Jesus.”
“Would you really?” the artist said a bit unctuously. He squeezed my ankle over the sheet. My fear was dissolving slowly. He sounded very familiar, but I still couldn’t remember when or whether we’d met. Chinatown was infested with artists. It could be anybody.
“Looks so damn juicy.” The young man curled his probing fingers inside me and began to thrust while he jerked. It was strange not to be able to lick my lips or arch my back at his touch. I focused on their shadows behind the sheet. The young man was right in front of me. The woman’s long shadow leaned in from a distance. The artist stood close beside me, his head bowed to look.
“Are you really going to do that here?” The woman said.
The young man’s arm began to move rhythmically. He was jerking off. “If you don’t want to see it, leave. I’m sick of hearing you huff and puff,” he said. His voice was huskier, something that made me tighten and drip down the crack of my ass.
“Would you look at that,” the woman said, referring to my wetness. “Can they all hear what we’re saying?”
“They can hear every word, I assure you,” the artist said. “There would be no point to the exhibit if they couldn’t.”
The man’s hand fondled me hard but well. His fingers stretched and curled inside me while his thumb rubbed my clit.
“If the young lady is such an exhibitionist, why did she choose to cover everything but her genitals? Wouldn’t she want us to see all of her?” the lady asked.
I could hear him breath as he touched me and himself. He pulled his fingers out of me and pinched and rubbed my clit between them. He sighed.
“I never said the subjects were exhibitionists, madam,” the artist said, squeezing her ankle again. His touch knocked something loose and I started to pant.
A man, tall pale and pensive, with a devastating accent. My fourth martini of the night. My friends telling me I should go home and sleep it off. His lilting voice keeping on the slick, rippling surface of consciousness. His hand, sweaty and squeezing my naked ankle as he’d asked me what part of my body I was most ashamed of, and why. Me, saying things I’d only dared think before, speaking of fear, insecurity, sadness.
The Artist. He had brought me here. I remembered a piece of paper, a shaky signature, and willingly rocking to his thrusts in an alley. He was so desperate he’d fucked through my numbness, but I must’ve still blacked out after my orgasm.
His hand moved underneath the sheet as the young man’s [Adrian, his name is Adrian] fingers pressed rhythmically against my pubic bone inside me. His breaths got shorter and shorter. The long woman’s body language changed. She looked poised to walk away, but still as a statue. The artist’s hand slid on my belly sweat. He kneaded to feel the tightness just beneath. He leaned on me, on my leg, and he was shivering. Not enough for anyone to see, but I felt it.
“I don’t think I can…go…” The young man’s arm moved teenager-quick.
“Oh, but you can. I suspect she’s feeling it as well.” The artist said. He pressed into the magic hollow right above my pubic bone. I could almost feel their fingertips touching, three outside, two in. A whole hand, working for my pleasure. “She looks about ready to burst, doesn’t she?”
Although his voice had lost none of its silk, I still heard the telltale edge. He wanted them to see where he’d been. The beautiful man could only lust and dream, but he’d been inside me, just hours before. He’d made me drip down my thighs and ruin his freshly pressed dress pants with my come, and his.
The thought made me strain against the rope with orgasm. Liquid dripped to the tile floor, and the woman [Elle, her name was Elle] sighed loudly enough to hear over my rattling groans.
“Astounding. I’d never seen…at least, not in pers-” She stopped mid-word.
“Seen what, madam?” The artist rubbed my belly and played with the pooled sweat.
“Such an outward, physical display.”
“Of female ejaculation?”
“I prefer to say squirting,” the young man cut in. I hadn’t heard him come, but I didn’t care. The artist’s voice had me in thrall.
“Yes. Ejaculation. Squirting. Whatever you’d like to call it. Amazing.” Elle’s voice trembled. “Is it because of the enlarged clit..I mean, clitoris?”
“Nah. A chick either can or can’t. It doesn’t matter how big or small it is.” Adrian flicked my still-swollen clit a couple of times and my pussy twitched with an aftershock. He whistled. “It’s taking physical effort to abide by your rule, Professor.”
“And yet I’m proud to see that you are abiding by them nonetheless,” the artist said. A professor? Of what?
An intense wave of exhaustion made me dizzy. I was still drunk, and the orgasms had literally taken it out of me – I was empty. I felt safe with his hand on my belly, caressing, and let myself slide into a deep sleep again.
I woke as someone undid the ropes. My legs tingled after being tied high and tight all night. I could barely lift my arms, but the numb spots were fading fast.
“Professor?” My voice sounded baked I was so thirsty. The corners of my lips ached because of the gag.
“No, but he’s around here somewhere,” a young woman said. She pulled off the last length of rope. “You can sit up now. Your clothes are in the chair beside you.”
The other volunteers were also being untied by young men and women, his student assistants. Buddy Holly frames helped zip up the full-figured woman’s dress. She was laughing. Someone pulled aside the sheet from the foot person, and a middle-aged Asian woman blinked soporifically at the spotlights. I tried to rub my eyes, but I still had the mask on.
“You can take it off whenever you want. Some of the volunteers don’t want be seen, some don’t care. It’s up to you,” the young woman said. She smiled and stood in front of me with her hands neatly folded in front of her. I slowly smiled back as I recognized who she was. The hipster woman who’d woken me with her sex moans. I undid the ribbon at the back of my head and let the paper mask fall to my lap. I was still naked.
She pulled a handkerchief out of her bra and handed it to me. It smelled like amber and sweat. “Here. To wipe your face.”
I took it gratefully and stained it with mascara and powder. I looked at the pretty embroidered rag and clucked. “I’m so sorry. It’s so pretty too.”
“Don’t worry about it. You keep it. As a memento.”
I started to dress, but she still stood there, watching.
“I want to thank you for sharing yourself at your most vulnerable. It was…beyond arousing. You are beautiful. All of you. Perfect.” Her wide-eyed innocence made me smile. She handed me an envelope. “Here’s a copy of the release papers Dr. McKinley had you sign, and the check.”
The Artist really was a professor. A doctor, to boot. Intriguing.
“I saw you too, so we’re even.”
“Yeah, you did. Well, good luck.” She gave me a youthful wave and walked away.
I dressed and waited for a bit, hoping to hear his voice, but the silence persisted. I was truly alone. The envelope sat unopened on the chair. I didn’t remember him [Dr. McKinley, his name was Dr. McKinley] talk about money. Maybe it had all been some kind of scholastic seduction and he’d just fucked me to seal the deal. It was such a cliché it deflated me. I ripped the envelope open.
I stuffed the legal document in my purse after seeing my shaky signature and eyed the check. Cashier’s, for 250 dollars. My stomach dropped. I was about to ball up the envelope when I saw a small piece of paper jammed in the corner.
You need a cup of coffee. Come if you’re curious. Gerry.
Gerry. His name is Gerry.
My heels clicked loud and quick as I walked out of the gallery and into the night.