erotica by William Crimson
- This story may remind readers of Raziel; and that’s deliberate. Something a little darker. As with many of my stories, lately, I ask questions. Remember that these stories aren’t meant to mirror the truth, but to ask questions—to which I don’t know the answer—in the guise of an erotic fable.
She had never imagined such a thing could exist.
She climbed on the bus like she did every morning. She didn’t recognize anyone, but that wasn’t strange. There was nowhere to sit, which was. She went to the back and held onto a stainless steel pole. The bus rumbled into the lane.
There is no time to lose in arrangements like these.
Strong hands took her elbows and a blindfold was drawn over her eyes. She gasped. She cursed and threatened to scream. Someone yanked down the skirt of her pants suit. A sharp and searingly painful striping, on her ass, made her stand on her toes and inhale. The bus shifted gears. The deep growl of the diesel vibrated under her feet. There were couples talking as though nothing were abnormal.
She heard automobiles and trucks outside the bus, moving, shifting, accompanying. She still stood on her toes.
“We can do that again,” said a man, quietly. “Nod if you understand.”
She nodded. The blindfold was becoming wet with her tears.
“You’re very expensive,” continued to voice, disquietingly gentle, “and we don’t want to ruin your customer’s expectations so, let’s clarify. You have a customer. Everyone in this bus has signed a non-disclosure agreement understanding, and presumably enjoying, what they’ll witness. The bus won’t stop until the transaction is complete. Your customer is a long time admirer of yours—longer than you suspect. He is aware of your marital status.”
She felt something silken around her wrists, fastening them to the pole.
“He is also aware that while you’re not unhappy in your marriage, familiarity has bred contempt. He doesn’t believe you deserve contempt. He wants you to know that he finds you the most beautiful woman he has ever known. He regrets that it is not him, rather than your husband, to whom you are married. He has known you since you were a girl. Then again, that might be a lie to conceal his identity.
“The fact remains: he has paid a considerable sum for this experience—for you. He wants you to know, and it bears repeating, that he finds you the most beautiful, sexually alluring, compelling woman he has ever known. To attract is why women are beautiful. They attract; and he regrets you have not attracted what your beauty deserves but believes you are worth every penny of this experience and much more.
“Lastly, he understands that you might still object, at least at the beginning. He’s therefore asked that we begin the experience without words. He hopes you find this encounter as exciting and rewarding as he does. Pregnancy is a possibility. However, he hopes that when you stop off the bus at your final stop, carrying his admiration in your cunt and womb, you will be invigorated and perhaps reassess your innate beauty and attractiveness.”
‘As a fucktoy!’ she was about to say when something round and rubbery slipped between her lips, then teeth. She tried to scream. She managed stifled outrage instead. She recognized the shape of the thing sliding into her mouth, pushing her tongue down. A woman knows its shape. The flared crown slid over the back of her tongue and lodged close enough to her throat that she swallowed once, then twice, involuntarily. Her lips were a stretched at the base and strap was buckled with a metallic coolness at the back of her neck.
She groaned and protested.
The hands release her. The bus sped and slowed with the traffic. Her wrists were tied to the pole at the level of her blindfold. She couldn’t move away. She could feel other passengers around her. She smelled diesel, dust, metal and blunt rubber. She smelled perfume, aftershave, and leather. Who were these people who were paid to watch? Or were they watching? Were they indifferent?
She tried to remove her blindfold, but before she could bring it to her fingers a gentle but firm hand was under her chin. Her head was firmly drawn back. She felt a gentle kiss behind her ear. She shook her head. She muttered curses, unintelligible, plugged by the cock. She pressed her knees together. Whoever was behind her let her go. The searing pain, the made her stand on her toes, scream and arch, was a flash of red behind her blindfold. She swallowed involuntarily as the cock pressed against the back of her throat. She couldn’t scream or speak.
The gentleness returned.
This time she welcomed their touch, if for their safety and gentleness. She would do anything for their gentleness. One hand returned beneath her chin. When the other slid between her thighs, she opened them. When it pressed at the base of her belly, she lifted her cunt behind her. The bus rumbled. She felt other passengers brush against her as the bus shifted, as if this all happened without their noticing.
The hands appraised her.
The followed the contours of her hips. They traced her spine and the indentation of her abdomen. They admiringly cupped and moved over her breasts. The followed from her neck down her spine, gently pressing at the small of her back so that she arched for him. The fingers gently pried apart the dividing of her ass and a finger pressed, pressed, and then softly penetrated her anus. She rose to her toes again, but this time not for pain. The finger turned into two. They moved in and out. They curled inside her until she squealed into the cock gag, and then blushed. Could anyone see?
The fingers withdrew. Slowly. Until just the tips allowed her muscle to close tightly, reflexively, but not so tight that a tongue couldn’t slip inside. Her eyes rolled beneath the blind fold. Thumbs parted her pussy. The tongue slipped out of her ass, then lower and into her pussy, tasting, licking and sucking her clit between lips and teeth.
She quaked and shook her head.
But her husband had never—or had forgotten how to touch her like this. The fingers glided down her graceful thighs and calves, then rolled smoothly over her heels in high heeled shoes. The mouth wouldn’t release her clit. The familiar burn was building. How long had it been? Weeks? Months? She straightened her knees and stiffened even as the blindfold was damp with tears.
The lips released her and she almost have collapsed. She half hung as far as the pole would let her wrists slide. Her head hung down. She breathed as though to catch her breath. Her legs remained open. She felt him lift her suit top over her breasts, tucking all the fabric under her arms. Her tits hung freely down, swaying in the air as the bus swayed left or right. Her skirt was hitched to her waist and her panties were stretched between her knees. Her silk bound wrists slipped down the pole as she was made to bend over—to lift her cunt—further than she’d already bent.
Another flash of pain cut her ass and she almost fell to her knees.
She moaned and sobbed. What had she done? But she would do anything—anything at all. She straightened her knees and laced her receptively spine. The gentle fingers returned. Two hands at her waist and the heavy warmth of a cock smoothly parting and entering—no warning, no words, simply the entry. She rose to her toes again, head thrown back, mouth agape, inhaling as his penetration continued inside and upward—a hard presence butting inside her abdomen.
She felt his balls against her clit.
She felt the end pressed at the mouth of her womb, like the end of the rubber cock pressed at the back of her throat. Then once again the fingers trailed over her, reverently, tracing her shoulder blades, her ribs, the swale of her hips, the round presentation of her ass, and lightly around the O made by the stretched lips of her pussy.
Absurdity. How could she worry as to what blemishes he saw? But she did. And she was confused that she did. And she was disgusted. Did he see her mole? She hated the mole and its little hairs at the left of her spine—at the small of her back. The winter had been long and she was pale. The memory of a twenty-something’s taut muscle and skin—the allure that had been so effortless and so admired—taunted her. What did he see? His palms lingered over the curve of her hips and ass. And her back? Did her skin sag?
Her hips had been narrow, muscular and athletic.
Then he cupped her belly, made soft by birthing—flat but not as flat or taut as the adolescent’s. She was sobbing. And why she sobbed was also a confusion. And then her clit. His fingers found her clit. But her clit still radiated like the clit of her adolescence. Hungry. Eager. Unforgiving. Instructing her posture, suggesting mysterious needs that imagined her on her hands and knees, supplicating and complaint. He pinched her clit and rolled it and she was the girl again and he was the stranger, the unamed masculinity that would explain her clit, explain why she was dank and moist, explain the mysterious clit that inexplicably lifted her hips from the mattress—vulnerable and waiting.
Her toes turned inward. Her fingers opened wide—half pain and half pleasure. The familiar burn was building again. His cock was still locked in her abdomen. The bus was jolted by the uneven pavement. It seemed to her that the thick crown in her core partly opened her cervix and she hunched her back reflexively. The stranger yanked her head back by the hair, as if in warning and she compliantly arched for him—reversing her posture. She feared he would let go. She feared the correctie pain. The pressure at her cervix returned—the door to her womb ached. She moaned and discomfort mixed with the thumping heartbeat at her clit.
She spread her legs.
She needed to make room, to adjust—or was she submitting. She grunted as the bus bumped and ground over the road. She imagined the cars and trucks outside the windows of the bus. Did they see her bent over, wrists crossed and imprisoned on the post, ass lifted against the pelvis of a man and all the passengers paying no attention?
One hand was in her hair, the other rolling her clit.
And then the first thrust lifted her ass. The beautiful pleasure in her womb, in the muscles of her abdomen, between her thighs thickened with her heartbeat and his thrusts. He quickened. He released her hair, then drew her head back against his shoulder, bending her spine over the hook of his cook, his soft and rough lips at her ear. And then finally she heard him—his breathing.
‘Yes, if it must be this way, let me hear him.‘
His breathing was timed with his thrusts. She could hear the timbre of his voice, hinted at. His breath was excited, uneven, desperate, possessive, but most of all excited. She heard his desire in his every inhalation. He wanted her. God knows what he had paid. God knows what he risked. All for what? Her ass? Her tits? Her hips and womb? And she was stunned at what men will do for a woman—to rape her—a Leda on a bus and a desperate Zeus.
How like a swan—gentle, feathery, tender—all but the cock. Hard. Brutal. Thrusting.
The noise of the bus melted into the cacophony of her own heartbeat and blood. There was only cruel, brutal, thrusting of the cock at the mouth of her womb that she needed, that she answered, that she gripped repeatedly.
She heard his voice and cry.
He was coming too, spurting into the receptive well of her orgasm, holding her, pressing his cock as deeply as he could. When he unbuckled the cock-gag and lifted it from her mouth, followed by a web of saliva and her tongue, she nothing to say. The black fabric of her blindfold was black with tears.
He still held her. She still felt his ghostly contractions filling her. With a contrary instinct, more ancient than her instinct to cry or flee, she also remained—pussy lifted and impaled, pressed against his pelvis, her head against his shoulder—receiving his shudder. How long did this last? How long before he let her go?
The bus stopped. The doors opened with a compressive hiss. The silk at her wrists was untied. For a moment she was weightless. There was no one. And then the groan of the diesel vibrated under her toes and knees. She pushed up her blindfold with trembling fingers. She stood. She looked out the bus but there was only a city block and sidewalks busy with men, women, taxi cabs, trucks and deliveries. She pulled down her suit-top, covering her breasts. She pushed down her skirt and pulled up her panties. Her womb and pussy were raw, bruised, warm and satiated with a man’s moisture and her own.
How many weeks since that warmth, she wondered again.
She wiped her eyes with a napkin out of her dropped satchel. She bit her lip. Patted her skirt and hips. She straightened her clothes and the bus stopped—her stop. She didn’t move. Finally, the driver turned, leaning to his right and looking over his shoulder—a older man, gray haired and brown complexioned with a Bronx accent.
“Your stop, Mam.” Half statement, half question.
She wanted to say ‘Fuck You!’, but there was confusion too. She was free, or was she? And then the question: When was she really free? She stepped off the bus, her high heels clacking angrily on the linoleum floor, then onto the gritty sidewalk. The doors hissed behind her and the tires popped on the pavement.
She stepped into the sidewalk’s thoroughfare.
Her thighs still didn’t run. He’d left his orgasm deeper than any other lover. And by this she knew, if nothing else, that her life needed to change.
And maybe she would find out who he had been; and if she did?
She didn’t know.