The Third Floor
Or the Tentacle in the Clawfoot Tub ~ by Will Crimson
The proprietor, Ms. Temperance, climbs the steps.
The heels of her tight, mid-thigh, leather laced boots clap the wooden steps in perfect time. She is tall. She wears a tight dress, a heavy beige cloth, buttoned from the back of her neck to the hem at her calves. She carries four white terry cloth bath towels, perfectly folded, at her solar plexus, one hand beneath and one on top.
She climbs to the bed & breakfast’s third story, takes four evenly paced steps, and halts at the open door. She stares.
“Help me!” says a girl. Or, at least, to Ms. Temperance, who is gray and whose eyes and lips are lined, the young woman is just a girl.
On the third floor of the bed & breakfast is a single room which is half the attic. Beneath the curved roof of the old Victorian is a hardwood floor, a free-standing tarnished brass towel rack and a large Victorian Tub. The tub is in the middle of the room. It is six feet long, ivory in color, with a thick and smooth porcelain lip.
The girl, for that is how Ms. Temperance considers her, is peering over a blanket of suds and bubbles. Only her head is visible. The dark brunette hair at the back of her neck is matted. She gazes at Ms. Temperance who still hasn’t moved. The older woman’s lips grow smaller and tighter. The young woman speaks again. “Please,” her voice shakes, “help me.”
The older woman’s eyes narrow. She strides calmly, deliberately, to a wooden chair next to the bathtub. The girl’s clothes are flung over the back, her jeans, her tight cotton top, her panties, sport socks, tennis shoes and iPod. Ms. Temperance sits in the chair, gracefully, knees and ankles forced together by the tightly buttoned dress, and places the towels in her lap.
She pushes the girl’s clothes onto the floor before she sits.
“I told you not to go in this room,” she says. Her tone is flat and cold.
“There’s something in the water,” the girl breathes, shuddering, almost too panicked to speak. “It’s holding my wrists.”
“You knew perfectly well.”
“But I haven’t met a woman yet who–” The older woman pauses. She turns away in thought. “No, Ms. Temperance, don’t lie. There are a handful of women who, for one reason or another – I shall not speculate – do not, as you have, climb to the third floor, finding both the third floor and the bath tub altogether irresistible.”
“I’ve never been in a claw –”
“I don’t suppose you looked too closely before you climbed in?”
“You might have observed that this is not a clawfoot bathtub. I mean to say, the bathtub does not stand on clawed feet.”
“Please! It’s moving!”
“It stands on tentacle’d feet. You might, more accurately, describe this as a tentacle-foot bath–”
“Look,” the girl interrupts angrily, “I mean, I’m sorry. I’ll pay you whatever you want. I’m sorry. Okay? I don’t know what your deal is. I don’t know who you are – I mean, I know you’re the owner of this place and –”
“And what? I am an old bitty?”
“What are you– Why aren’t you helping me?”
“I was quite clear, I thought. I told you not to go to the third floor. I thought I was quite helpful. Indeed, my advice would have saved you had you heeded it. You might have lived a life of independence. But there is no turning back now.”
The girl’s opening knees disturb the sudsy surface of the water. She pants. She struggles, pants, and struggles until her muscles abruptly give. Water splashes. Suds burst on the floor. Something forcefully jerks her downward until her chin is half in bubbles.
“But if you were so curious as to find yourself in this predicament, I think you shall rather enjoy your decision.”
“What would you know?” the girl answers defiantly.
The old matron glares at the girl, but slowly her features soften with serene satisfaction, a curling of her lips and a squaring of her shoulders. “It’s true, my tits aren’t what they used to be. My ass sags; not like yours, yours is in its inviting prime I’m sure. Yes, at your age your ass all but cries out to be plucked. My hips have lost their suppleness and my belly is wrinkled. But you might be surprised to know, child,” her voice hardens, “that I was fucked this morning. Yes, me, the old bitty, the old prune, the old witch with the long hooked nose, the dried up old spinster – for so you thought – was fucked on her hands and knees like a horny little bitch – a beautiful, horny bitch. That’s what she was. A horny little bitch. She lifted her pussy – like a doggy – for some cock. Her long white hair (oh no, it isn’t always wound in a tight little bun) was used to keep her in her place as she was dealt with. The old bitty. She needed to be fucked. I wonder that you didn’t hear her screaming as though she had never taken cock before. I shall never get used to it, and that is one of it’s greatest pleasures.”
The girl’s breaths come in stops and starts. She stares at the ceiling. She juts her lips into an O as though to keep them above the water’s surface.
“What is it doing? I can’t see. But then that is one of the charms of being a woman. Men are vulgar and obvious. But women? The secret locked in their bellies is an enticement. The only way to know, to discover their secret, is with a cock. A cock is like a key. We can hide nothing from it, if it is the right key. Insert the right key into our cunts – does it shock you that I use the word cunt? – and we cannot hide from it. Oh no, not even me, my cunt is no different. If it is the right one, we will drive the cock into our hidden moisture again and again as if to finally be rid of our dirty little secret. ”
“Please, it’s close! Help me!”
“I deserved to be fucked. I deserved cock the way a criminal deserves to be punished and the way the worthy deserve recompense. Always, with women, there is no elation without reservation. Schadenfreude. I expect the word was invented for women. A woman deserves to be fucked. It is a woman’s birthright. It is her shame and humiliation. You modern women try to take the shame out of sex. You hardly know the exquisite pleasure of the shameful orgasm. It is an act of contrition, a confession, a baptism, elation – an exquisite shaming. And on a man’s cock? — with it inside you? — unmentionable.”
“Do you know who fucks me? Why, it was the man who could be your grandfather. His cock is large and long. Imagine that. This man, this kindly old man you hardly pay attention to, has the cock of a bull. He would turn you inside out. Why, I doubt you could take all of him. He would teach you what it means to have a cunt, to be spitted and to spread those slender legs of yours until your belly burns. He enters me and his cock makes me his whore. Do you observe these clothes? You think, no doubt, they’re the accouterments of a prude. And have you noted all the buttons that run from the back of my neck to the backs of my knees? I suppose it has not occurred to you that I could not possibly button all these buttons myself? He buttons them.
“I cannot unbutton them myself or rather I am forbidden to. And so I cannot touch myself, relieve myself, or in any way dispose of myself other than by His permission. What? You are shocked? A woman of my age? If I must so much as piss, I must first go to Him. I must ask His permission. Sometimes He gives it, sometimes He does not. If he does not, my cunt begins to burn. I press my legs to together and squirm like a school girl. I beg him. I kneel. I suck his cock. Please, I beg.
“Turn around he tells me. I do and he unbuttons one button, and through this little parting of the fabric I must piss on the toilet. Then I go back to him. Turn around, he says. Bend over, he says. And by the space granted by the unbuttoning of this one button beneath my rear, he fucks me. His cock penetrates me deeply, and absolutely, though I am otherwise fully clothed. I cannot open my thighs to receive the girth of him. The dress does not permit me. I beg. I whine. I tell Him that I have just emptied myself. I tell him he embarrasses me.
“He tells me there was no sense in relieving myself. He tells me not to disturb him again. He fills me again near that same place I just relieved myself, then tells me to stand. Then he buttons that one button and commands me to kiss his cock.
“Dull, stupid men, unimaginative men will you call a slut, a whore, but to be a whore is to indulge in the unrivaled pleasure of being a woman, of giving your womb to the ravishing arrogance of a cock. A man who is not stupid or unimaginative will call you a whore and you will show him your pussy. You will fall to your hands and knees. You will lower your cheek and lift your cunt behind you. Your thighs will drip expectantly with the praise. We deserve imaginative men. We deserve men unafraid to be men and to treat us like the women we are.”
“It’s big. Oh God, it’s big.” The girl’s head lolls back on the lip of the tub.
“Big?” The old woman snorts. “Of course it’s big. It has to be. A cock should make you obscene. It should make you grunt, pant and beg. It should be big enough to make you a whore, clawing, scratching, arching and spreading your knees when you’re mounted from behind. Big? Of course! It has to knead and soften that firm belly you’re so proud of – soften it from the inside out. And when you think you can’t bear so much bigness; when your toes curl, when your shy tits jut whorishly, that’s when it will break you. Every muscle in your cunt will clutch it again and again. ‘I am yours,’ your cunt will say; and that big cock will answer you, while your cunt is clutching it, and bathe your adjoining womb.”
“Keeps going deeper,” the young woman groaned, eyes half closed. “Can’t stop it.”
“Good,” said the woman, her back rigid, towels still neatly on her knees. “The way you pranced around, displaying yourself, advertising your tits and ass like you were the first little tart to have them. I’d say you all but asked for a good stiff cock driven up and into that flat belly of yours. You’ll be a little more demure, won’t you. I’ll leave the towels. You can cover yourself up all you like, but you’ll be blushing, your flat little belly will be hot and flushed, and that new arch in your spine will tell us all we need to know. A good, hard cock has taught you how to take it from behind. See what all that prancing has gotten you? Semen, dribbling down your thighs – gobs of it – spilling out of your tight little cunt. See if a few towels can clean that up.”
“It keeps moving back and forth,” the girl groaned.
“Of course it does. This is what your cunt is for – to be filled, to guide a cock straight to your womb, and to hold it there until your full and round. What men are good for, beyond that, I confess, escapes me at times. Useless, the lot of them” The old woman abruptly exhales and glances out one of the attic’s leaded windows.
“Well!” Her flushed complexion gradually fades.
She turns her withering gaze back to the girl. “Once the cock– Have I been saying cock this whole time? Once the tentacle has been in you, there’s no going back. Of course, you understand there is no such thing as a tentacle. The tentacle is merely the archetypal expression of a woman’s libido. The consummate expression of a woman’s erotic desire and fulfillment. You do understand this, do you not?” Her lips were thin with expectation. “Speak! Do you?”
“Yes,” gasped the girl. She nodded quickly, almost desperately. “Yes!”
“Very good. We must keep our secrets. In every woman’s house is a third floor, and a bathtub, and that this bathtub is hers and hers alone. She keeps it a secret. She hides it, even from the man who thinks she hides nothing. You will do the same.”
The tall women rises from her chair, knees together, hips rotating in a tight arc. She places the towels on the seat. Her gaze never leaves the girl’s, as though defying her to change her mind. “When you are done. You will clean yourself as far as possible. Breakfast is at 6:30. Breakfast will be poached eggs on toast and coffee. Don’t be late.”
The wiry, old woman turns.
She doesn’t look back. Her hips barely sway in the tight dress. As she closes the door behind her a tentacle rises sinuously out of the water and, tip first, gradually fills the girl’s mouth before it pulls her under the water’s bubbles.
There is one last thing to do.