The Fun House: Masquerade
by William Crimson
- The Fun House stories are among the first erotic stories I posted on the web. I had begun this as a series before striking up with Raziel. Of all the stories I’ve written, these are possibly the most popular. “The Birth of Succubus”, a later story in this series, is possibly my all time favorite. Anyway, this is my fourth try at this first story and I’ve made some radical changes. Ideally, it sets the tone for the rest and explains much. In the original I didn’t know what to do with the female character. She was essentially a “reward” for the main character—a common erotic fantasy but she showed no initiative whatsoever. The focus in this rewrite is to bring the female into the fantasy and that means changing the underlying plot. She’s no longer the “reward”. Being the fourth rewrite, there are bound to be typos and confused verb tenses. Don’t hesitate to point them out if you catch any. So, here it is after many years, welcome back to Comus’s Fun House. This is a long story.
The First Story of the Fun House
The girl was just a few feet away. Keasha leaned against the same fence and cursed her luck. She wished she’d skipped the party. She can’t help peer sideways. Jake’s pushed Michelle against the tall slats. The girl’s shirt is lifted over her nipples. Jake’s kisses moved from one to the other as he slowly lifted her skirt.
Voices, music and laughter blared from the house. The fence moved. The girl says, no, not here! But her mouth and eyes grow wider and her fingers tightened in his shirt. She uttered a stifled gasp, eyes blinked, and then the telltale roll of her eyes. The fence kept the steady rhythm of the boy’s thrusts.
“So, what’s up?” he asked. “You wanna’ go?” He glanced at the other couple.
Keasha lifts his hands in hers, lifting them against the fence above her. “Don’t you want to do something to me, first?”
“Are you hard?”
She pushed him way. She walked. Anywhere. It didn’t matter.
“Where are you going?”
“You smell like pot.”
“Shit.” Keasha stopped. “How bad?”
“Shit.” She veers between two houses. “Where were you?”
Troy silently followed her into the woods behind the neighborhood. An overgrown path still led to an abandoned fair ground. Beaten-down wire mesh still fenced the property.
“What’s the hurry?” Troy asked.
“Like I want to listen to somebody else fucking.”
Keasha turned and shoved him again. “I want to have fun.”
She curled her fists into Troy’s t-shirt. “I want to drive you crazy, Troy. I don’t know – tie me down. Scare me. Be crazy because we’re fucked for each other. Blindfold me. Gag me. Fuck me where everybody can watch.”
She turned coldly.
Troy hesitated before following her up a steep embankment. The weeds in the margins had spread into the old race track. Keasha’s voice was strained. “What are they going to do with the place?”
Some older show-buildings have fallen in. A smaller row of abandoned trailers are parked next to the dark grand stand. The couple walked toward them, all of them chained and bolted. “I’ve still got some weed,” said Keasha. “Do you want—”
“There’s like—” She hesitated “Do you see that?” She studied a trailer further down the embankment, in moonlight and shadow. Its tires were cracked and the rims half-buried. The sides were painted with intricate glowing images—ghostly shapes appeared and disappeareed. Two reliefs, a tall man and woman, stood to either side of a half broken entry door. They seemed to move, gesturing to the door between them.
The couple cautiously moved toward them.
The figures were tall and elongated, Gothic, and each with a sword. Their faces are angelic. They wore robes but Troy and Keasha can see their physiques—the outline of the woman’s breasts and the man’s massive penis upright against his abdomen.
“Whoa!” said Keasha. “What the fuck?”
“Somebody must have painted it.”
“That’s not paint,” Keasha lit a match and the figures disappear. She blew out the flame.
Troy cautiously tugged at the bent aluminum entry door. The latch stuck at first, then popped open.
“What do you see?”
Keasha pressed between Troy and the door jamb. “What the fuck else can go wrong?”
She squeezed by and Troy followed her. The door closed and darkness engulfed them. “Keasha?” Troy reached for her. “Keasha!” he said again. He swept both hands in front of him.
He heard music as though from another room.
No, it’s another door. No. Two. They’re French doors. He found the handles and pushed. Light blinded him. The tall doors, partly opened, were jade green and gilded with inlaid gold fliagree. A black and white marble floor stretched before him. Masked men were bowing to women who curtsied opposite them. Their clothes were tailored such that the men’s cocks were freely erect and the women’s nipples were thick and heavy. Tailored openings in the dresses and skirts suggested they could be taken at any moment.
A powerful looking man, tall and broad shouldered, wearing a gold trimmed robe and a golden sun-mask approached him. His black and grey hair fell in a long braid to the middle of his back. “Welcome!”
Troy said nothing at first. He too was wearing the ornate and baroque clothes of the dancers. His cock jutted upward and he instinctively covered it. His breaches were tailored like a pair of chaps. He wore a mask and as he moved to take it off with his other hand, the giant man stopped him. “If you remove your mask,” he smiled, “the illusion will end.”
“Leave on your mask if you want to find her.”
“What the hell is this?”
“A fun house. A masquerade. A thousand erotic stories made manifest. You,” the man gestured to the dancers, “are in their fantasy, and they in yours.”
Troy stared incredulously.
“Comus.” The giant man bows. “Go where you like, but take off your mask and the fun house vanishes into thin air.”
“Why? So you can be anyone or anything you want to be. Come and come again. No one will say no.”
Troy lowered his hand.
His own touch had sent a jolt through his groin. Comus turned. The men and women parted as Comus walked between them. “Dance!” Comus bellowed and merrily raised a hand. The players resumed their music. All of them wore masks, like the dancing men and women. Some did little to conceal the beautiful features of the women wearing them. Their breasts or nipples were bare, tops neatly tailored around them.
The dresses of the dancers revealed the silken divide of their asses. At any moment a man might penetrate his companion, then pass her to the next man. The music is punctuated by brief cries of women. Troy walks warily. Comus stands in the middle, pleased and with his arms crossed.
“Don’t you see her?”
“That’s a problem.”
“I –” But once again words fail the youth. “What do you want from me?”
“What every carney wants.”
“This isn’t real?”
Comus smiled apologetically. “I do my best.”
Troy turned, circling, looking. Bewildered. He stumbled through the center of the dizzying dancers. The bare ass of a girl brushed the tip of his cock. She smiled archly before disappearing in the arms of another. Was that Keasha? Comus’s world was an aphrodisiac. Could she be with the players? He saw a young violinist—a brunette, like Keasha. Her hair was drawn back and her mask a thin silver. She wre a dark brown dress, the bottom pleated and with her knees together and to the side. The top of the dress was cut around her breasts. Their aureole were large, brown and thrust by her posture.
“Do you want her?” asked Comus, following.
“Yes, you do.”
“Find out!” said Comus. “That’s the game.”
Troy tried to focus though the haze of arousal.
“Magic,” said Comus.
“Take off your mask if you don’t believe me.”
“Hers? If you think you’ve found her, take it off. And if it’s not who you thought it was, then you didn’t pick the right girl.”
There was another set of doors. Two boys stood to either side, clothed in tight embroidered coats that fell to their knees. Small knives hung at their sides. They opened the doors. Troy stepped out onto a long colonnaded balcony that enclosed a long rectangular courtyard. The garden-scented air was cooler.
He was alone.
The doors had been closed behind him. He saw couples embracing and from the garden heard moans. Laughter and conversation mingled. On the far side, on the same balcony as his own, he saw a woman seated on the stone balustrade. Her back was to him and her dress was bunched at her hips. Her legs were open and though he couldn’t see the man, he saw the woman jolted by his thrusts. She clung to him as if she feared to fall.
I looked for you as soon as the door closed. You were gone. Were you angry? I heard music and dancing echo as though from another room. I reached into the dark and felt a wall on both sides. I was in hallway. I could feel door too, and then one of the doors opened. A woman wearing an ebony and feathered mask held a candle. She was voluptuous and her white gown was open from her neck to her ankles. She was naked beneath, like she’d just woken up. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I—we didn’t know anybody lived here.”
“He’s looking for you,” said the woman. I was wearing a mask too. She handed me the candle.
“Don’t take it off,” she said.
“Because, you can’t stay if you do.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is Comus’s world. Experience whatever you want that’s sexual, sensual, and erotic, but only if you keep your mask on.”
“He’s looking for you.”
I turned. I was still alone with the woman.
“Do you want him to find you?” she asked. “Or maybe you want to look for him? If you do, then you must wear your mask.”
“Comus comes and goes.”
“But who is he?”
And then I saw him, large and powerful. He stepped out from the same room as the woman and stood behind her. He draped a massive arm over her shoulder and absent-mindedy pinched and rolled her nipple. She closed her eyes and leaned into him. Her lips parted.
“Welcome to my fun house,” he said.
My own stomach was suddenly light and nervous. His robe was crimson and open like hers. His cock was huge, not erect but engorged and hung against her hip. He was beautiful. I wanted him. I insanely wanted him. I couldn’t talk. I was rubbing my clit with one hand, holding the candle with the other. My clothes were like theirs and I couldn’t have cared.
A—what the fuck?—was all I could manage.
“You asked who I am,” he answered. “Comus. Son of Bacchus and Circe. Trickster. Magician. God.”
“God?” I shook my head. “You mean like John Milton? You think you’re that Comus?”
That was when Comus stepped from behind the woman. His fingers moved under my chin, lifting my eyes, and his thumb pressed into my opening mouth. I sucked. I was ready to float. I don’t know how to describe him. I honestly don’t. He casts a spell. He’s magnificent, not in ways you’d expect. He shouldn’t turn me on; but he does. I felt his cock against my solar plexis. I knew if I looked down I’d see it—erect. I’d be lost.
“Yes,” he answered, lifting his thumb. “That Comus.”
I shook my head. “Who the fuck are you?” But my voice was high and faltering.
Then he answered:
“He who excells his Mother’s mighty Art,
Offring to every weary Travailer,
His orient liquor in a Crystal Glasse,
To quench the drouth of Phoebus, which as they taste
(For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst)
Soon as the Potion works, their human count’nance,
Th’ express resemblance of the gods, is chang’d
Into some brutish form of Woolf, or Bear,
Or Ounce, or Tiger, Hog, or bearded Goat,
All other parts remaining as they were,
And they, so perfect is their misery,
Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,
But boast themselves more comely then before
And all their friends, and native home forget
To roule with pleasure in a sensual sty.
His thumb moved back into my mouth. I had already been licking as he spoke. I could feel my come run down my thigh. His smell—! Take everything that’s masculine, that’s beautiful, that’s everything you’ve wanted, that’s him. My nipples were hard enough to hurt. I wanted belonged to him. Maybe it’s danger, ’cause that’s the one thing that stopped me and the one thing that made me want him more than anything else—just the danger in everything he said and how he moved.
He withdrew his thumb from my mouth. My tongue followed.
“Do you want to lick?”
I nodded and quickly knelt.
“Good, sweet girl. One lick.”
I did. I held it in both my fists. There was the orient liquor, a little crystalline drop at the very end. I licked it, slowly, to taste but not to drink. I was trembling. I looked up at him for approval, for the next command. I let the tip slip between my lips then more into my mouth—imagining it inside. I did. There was no command, but I did. I didn’t need his command. He smiled like an ancient Lord and drew my mouth off his cock by the hair at my neck.
“Go,” he said, “look. No one will hurt you. You’re free. The man that orgasms inside you—his come will be like vapor. No harm; but only pleasure; unless it be your lover’s semen, and then what? But even then no harm.” Comus grinned wickedly. “Do anything but that. Try anything bu that. In my house, but for that, be equal to any man or woman.”
He turned. I followed his cock with my eyes and then his broad shoulders and buttocks—the contour beneath his robe.
“Leave on your mask,” he said, leaving the hallway by the same door he had entered, “and if you think you’ve found your lover, then take his off and you both will be free.”
I had almost absent-mindedly rubbed my clit from the moment I saw him. I came, leaning forward on one hand, knees apart, spine curling in time with the spasms. The dropped candle sputtered out and before that orgasm was done I burned for the next.
The balcony and balustrade were stonework flickering under torch light. The balcony’s walkways were divided by pillars in the alternating shapes of smoothly carved men and women. The carved men were powerfully sculpted with heavy balls and heavier bronze cocks that curved and jutted thickly upward—as if sharing in the strain of their work. The strength of the women was a different kind. A single arm supported the balcony above them. The hand of the other rested on their hip, elbow back, and each was turned as if awaiting an airy penetration. Their backs were gracefully arched, legs parted, their pussies lifted and the bronze lips detailed.
Vines clung and grew up the statues. The green filaments leafily spiraled up the cocks until a flower blossomed just beneath the bronze flair at the tip, as if awaiting the first drop. Likewise, the vines clung to the legs of the women and flowers beneath their pussies. The fingers of the vine seemed to part the divide between their legs and even penetrate. Little clear drops descended down the stalks of these vines.
The floor had been worn smooth. The waist high balustrade, broken by evenly spaced stone balusters, bordered the balconies at every floor. Troy ached for the touch of skin on skin. The statues aroused him. There were doors at regular intervals along the balcony wall and on each side of the door was a young man and woman. Behind each man was an upright cock with balls and an iron ring beneath. If the boys were made to back to the wall, the cock might penetrate them. Between the feet of the young women were brass cocks that seemed to grow out of the floor. They were straight with broad and lifelike polished domes that aimed between their thighs. All the sculpted cocks were accompanied by ornamental balls and an iron ring. A fine chain looped the balls of the young men and were connected to the rings. The girls’ anuses held the chain inside them by a mysterious ball, plug or pearls. They were similarly chained to the ring.
Troy paused at the first door.
The girl’s tits stood on end. The nudity, the noises, the sounds of sex and pleasure echoed in the courtyard. The girl’s lips parted uncertainly as Troy studied her—her breasts and hips. The eroticism was an incense filling his lungs and drugging his mind.
“What’s inside?” he asked.
“A bathhouse, Master.”
He pinched her nipple. He glanced at the young man but the teen hadn’t turned. She stood on her toes and bit her lip. “Are you a slave?” he asked.
“If it pleases.”
He considered what she said, then pushed her by her shoulders down. He felt the moment’s resistance, her surprised inhalation, then saw the instant of penetration in her momentarily unfocused eyes. The impaling cock, like a rigid pole, darkly pierced her squatting pussy. She was fixed—immobile. He planted his feet, held her hair and filled her mouth as she still slid down the thing impaling her.
He closed his eyes, lost to the pleasure of her delicate tongue and mouth. And the closer he came to orgasm, the more he leaned and pressed, forcing more of the impaling cock inside the girl. She mewled and her nostrils flared. At last he held himself against her, pressing until the lips of her split cunt touched the stone floor, releasing stream of his orgasm. Her muffled growls stopped with a cough and swallowing.
She struggled for purchase at the backs of his thighs, then stiffened, twitching, eyes rolling. Her own come pooled at the barely visible base of the brass cock. Troy backed away, as if disbelieving what he had done. The young woman uncertainly clasped her hands behind her neck, still squatting on the impalement. She breathed quickly, as if still unaccommodated to the depth of the thing. Troy returned to her, encouraged or to stand with a finger under her chin. The brass cock revealed itself, glistening, and with a web of her orgasm at its tip. Their tongues met, masks pressed together before Troy backed away again, confused.
“I want to go in.”
The girl’s tongue briefly appeared between her lips, she smiled, then pushed open the door next to her.
Troy stepped inside. The door closed. He entered a deep and broad room filled with steam and the scent of citrus. A rectangular stone bath was in the center. Two women approached, one more girlish than the other. They both wore purple cheongsam dresses embroidered with abstract leaves and vines.
Small embroidered openings revealed their nipples and a larger opening in the tight dress, at the base of their asses, revealed the divide and dark kiss between their thighs. They both wore thick black collars and a leash hung between their breasts. Their hips swayed gracefully as they removed his clothing. They kissed his shoulders, his neck and arms.
Having undressed him, all but his mask, the younger of the two women took Troy’s hand and led him toward the bath. He recognized. He had seen her on the Internet. He had imagined fucking her. Had orgasmed to her pornographic image.
I went to the door Comus had come out of. I didn’t know if I’d just cheated on you or if it was a dream—good or bad.
But I was curious.
I was hungry. I’d tasted but without eating. I pushed the door open and my heart thumped. Comus was gone. A man stood or hung in the middle of the room, his wrists apart and chained above him. His ankles were also spread and chained to rings in the stone floor. He was large and broad chested. His skin was a beautiful olive sheen in the candlelight. I could hear his voice—husky exhalations as if he had been struggling. He wore a blindfold rather than a mask.
The same woman as before wore a black leather corset and leggings that laced up the back. She held a crop and moved from behind the man as if she had been waiting for me.
“Does it matter?” she asked with a smile.
“Take the crop,” she said. My clothes had changed too. I wore a short black leather dress. I felt air on my legs and between; the tight leather at my waist. I took the crop and our lips met. My breath fluttered in my throat. Her two leather-bound fingers penetrated me and I breathed into the kiss. She wouldn’t let me go. Her other hand was behind my neck. She bit my lip as she released them, she said: “You know what to do.”
I swung the crop hard, striking the man’s ass. His head swung back and hips forward. He was engorged, stiff, erect, dripping, inflamed and beautiful. Was it painful? I stood looking, wanting to touch, to assuage, stunned by what I’d done and angry.
His ass was clenched with the hot sting. The muscles of his abdomen tightened.
I moved behind him and struck again. The more I struck him, the more he twisted, and the more his legs and ass flexed. I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t know masks or even blind folds could change the way we looked. All I knew—I wanted to him to feel what I felt.
“Who are you?” he gasped.
“Your worst nightmare,” I answered.
I struck with the crop. I didn’t count. His hips were thrust forward and he was half growling, half whining. His cock was harder and was thrust into the air with his hips. I struck him again and a clear fluid shot out of him and dripped from the tip.
“Please, Mistress!” he cried. “I’m losing control!”
A confession. An admission. Wine to my thirst. I turned the crop’s handle, in the shape of a cock, against his anus. He rose to his toes but I didn’t stop. He grunted as the black cock penetrated him. He started to speak but I stopped him. ‘I want your body to confess,’ I said and moved the cock in and out. He grunted in time with the thrusts like a woman. The deepest thrust pushed more fluid out of him. Now I wanted to comfort him. I wanted his cock inside me.
I let go of the crop. The cock-shaped handle remained inside him and twitched once.
As I moved in front of him. I whispered in his ear. “You don’t want to, do you.”
“But it’s not under your control is it.”
“It’s okay,” I said, “I understand. You’ll understand too.” I knelt and took him—you—in my mouth. I didn’t know it was you. I sucked greedily. I moved my mouth back and forth. Your every muscle resisted me. Your thighs clenched. I reached between them and pushed the cock-handle into you. One thrust. You gushed. Your screams filled my mouth and throat. You growled and shouted. The crop twitched in your ass because I had let go of it. I held the jut of your hips in my hands and drank you—drank each spurt of your helpless confession.
“It belongs to me.” I finally stood. I kissed you so you would taste yourself, so there would be no doubt. Then I squeezed your cock until you rose to your toes and arched. “Don’t ever deny me again.”
And then I left the room as though a demon had been exorcised. I was excited. I wanted more. I felt, in some way, understood.
The warm bath was a large square of waist-high stone. At two corners were two young women, placed diagonally, and two young men at the other two. The girls knelt and the men stood. Their wrists were bound behind them. The young men were bent backwards, ankles together, hips and cock thrust forward. If they dared to relax the jut of their hips, a dark, waxen bulb, like the closed bud of a flower on the end of a copper stalk, dripped and waited patiently. There would be no other way for the young men to sit but to impale themselves, to slide down the long stalk, driving the bud deeply into their bowels.
The young women’s knees were held apart. Their tits and pussies were thrust forward, within easy reach of the bathers. They two would have to impale themselves if they wished to sit. Two bulbs on curving stalks awaited them—one for the bowels, the other for their womb. Troy followed the younger woman in the purple cheongsam dress. She walked slowly. Her ass, framed by the oval opening of her dress, shifted left to right. Her leash swung. Her long black hair ended just at the small of her back.
Troy palmed the cheek of her ass.
She said nothing. The narrow sweep of her waist, the femininity of her shoulders, the skin of her legs—his finger found her anus and he pressed. Her eyes momentarily closed. She inhaled and rose to her tiptoes. Her hands joined nervously in front, under the leash, as though she didn’t know what to do with them. She uttered a clipped cry.
He slipped through the resistant ring.
She walked with a feminine distress. Each petite step drove his finger deeper into the soft inlet. He reached round, took her leash, and tugged it back, forcing her to arch her back as she walked. .
“Who are you?”
“Yes, what’s your name?”
“Keasha!” stammered the slight woman, her voice high and flutey. Troy’s laugh was dark. A second finger entered her bowels.
“You’re all named Keasha, right? I’ve seen you before. I fantasized about you.”
“No!” she stammered.
“Do you feel that?” He pressed a third finger inside her. He lifted her slight frame by the fingers in her ass. The girl gasped, reached behind her, holding his wrist to keep her balance. She walked, toes inwards heels lifted. He moved the three fingers in and out. “Everything fucking turns me on in this place.”
“You’re going to make me come!”
“Go to the wall,” said Troy.
But the girl’s steps faltered. She came as she walked, squirting. Troy pulled her by the leash. She half stumbled. Her orgasm burst at her thighs and left an intermittent trail behind her. The bath chamber was long but narrow. At the sidewall were pillars like those of the balconies. Troy drew her leash through a floor ring and forced her to bend over, forced the brass cock above the ring into her mouth.
Troy mounted her, easily sliding into her ass.
Her fucking was quick. She uttered muffled moans, then cries when he slapped her ass. And when her cries turned to a long continuous moan, he held himself hard inside her ass and spurted. He let her go. His come dripped over her pussy and down her thighs. He liked her like that.
He went to the steaming bath.
I went to the end of the dark hallway. I didn’t take off my mask.
I felt my way. I could hear talking, sounds of sex, and could smell the outdoors. I pushed open the door a crack, and looked. It was night. There was a garden. I was on an upper floor, on a balcony that overlooked the garden on all four sides. There was a fountain in the middle and even trees.
I stepped through the door and quietly closed it.
I couldn’t tell you what I was thinking. It was impossible? We’d been drugged? And that I was excited and turned on? Just a few feet from me I saw a masked woman sitting on the balustrade. Her back was to the garden. She was like me—dark skinned and young. She was beautiful and I could see that under her mask she was wide-eyed. She was sitting on the balustrade’s railing with her back to the two-story plunge. She looked at the fall and looked at her lover. Her legs were spread, knees open and hooked at the railing’s edge. Her lover, or the man who fucked her, did nothing to hold her. He stood inside her opened thighs—how could she close them?—and swung hard. She was trapped between the plunge of death and the plunging of his cock.
His hands were palm down on the railing.
She held onto him—his arms, neck, shoulders, whatever saved her from falling, as the swing of his hips continued between her thighs. She exhaled little sharp cries each time his swing hooked her. What could she do? She looked over her shoulder, then at him, then over her shoulder again. Each thrust threatened to topple her. She kept her legs wide and hooked over the railing—but what saved her from falling made her womb open and vulnerable.
I couldn’t stop watching.
I began to masturbate again. Was he going to let her fall? His mask was just an inch from hers as if he watched her every expression. Did he care? He was so much larger than she.
Her cries grew sharper, higher in pitch. She gripped and half lost her grip, as if she didn’t want too get to close to him—had he surprised her as she walked by?—but was also afraid to fall. The only constant was the cock that impaled her womb again and again.
Her back arched. Her head snapped back. She screamed and I screamed with her. She had lost her grip. She fell back. She did the only thing she could do. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist and impaled her orgasm on his. Her womb took everything. Did she notice he filled her? She was flailing to support herself, hands behind her, fingers finding the ledge of the balcony, back bent double over the rail.
He didn’t try to hold her. He held himself inside her.
She had been wearing underwear, and they were pushed to the side. Her nipples thrust over her chin and into the garden’s open air. Like all the other clothes, and mine, hers were cut to reveal her breasts and keep her thighs vulnerable.
The man shuddered a last spurt. Her legs were wrapped tightly round him. What choice did she have but accept him—and life? He yanked her upright and seemed to take her in, as if studying his work. His cock glistened. She stared at his back as he walked away, then pressed a stunned finger between her thighs, seeing his come. She fell to her knees as though grateful for the solidity of the cobble floor. I backed against the door as he walked by, but he stopped.
He stepped toward me. My heart nearly jumped from my ribs when he pinched my nipple. Comus’s clothes made me vulnerable. I couldn’t hide. I pressed my knees to together and my back against the door. I was panting.
He knew. I had come again and the thirst wasn’t quenched. He released my nipple, turned, cracked his shoulders with a muscular stretch of his arms, like a bull that had just mated, and continued along the balcony.
Troy stepped into the steaming water.
He glanced at the girl as he sat. He closed his eyes and leaned, head on the palms of his hands.
“Do you want to take off the mask?”
Troy quickly sat up. A woman sat opposite as if from thin air, wearing a black feathered mask and nothing else. Her skin was a dark ebony and her presence was a powerful jolt in Troy’s groin. She was beautiful—though she wore a mask she possessed an awful and terrible beauty. He was in a hot tub with the mother of his best friend, the backyard of her house.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“And you haven’t found this ‘someone‘ yet?”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
“That you haven’t found her!” Then she reconsidered. “Or perhaps not so astonishing.”
“I’m losing my mind.”
“Because you fuck and fuck again?” She smiled and twirled her fingers, elbow in the palm of the other hand. Her finger nails were long and black. “Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.”
“Who are you?”
“A little of this, a little of that. I’m the Mom you fantasized about. Remember that? But the truth? I don’t exist yet but I will. Comus made me—and made me dangerous. I belong to him. I do whatever he tells me. Sometimes he calls me by name—my old name—Sadie. I can be anywhere—even in time. I don’t exist and yet here I am. You’ve never met a demon before?”
Her hand closed around his cock under the water.
“Is this what you imagined?” she asked. “But we’d better be quick before my husband comes back out.”
“I”m going to come!”
“In the water? Where I’m sitting? What about my pussy? What about your girlfriend’s tits and pussy? And her friends? We’re all naked under our bikinis. Young men. You just can’t control yourselves can you?”
His semen burst under the water, rising and frothing. And a moment later his girlfriend, her friend and another girl, lowered themselves, their tits and pussies, into the froth of his semen,
“God!” he grunted. “Fuck!”
“No, no. Just a demon—the demon,” said the woman. Troy opened his eyes. He was back in the chamger. “You wouldn’t want to meet me in the dark—or off my leash, but Comus never lets me off my leash. Mostly. I just don’t know what I’d do if he did. We women, you know—so hormonal., moody, unpredictable. Imagine every women put into one devastating, little, voracious, sex-hungry, ball of scorn. Hell hath no fury. Why, I might kill every living man. Not one left. They’re so—” she licked her finger as if she licked grease from his stricken cock, “—irresistible and breakable.”
The echoes of Troy’s orgasms till hadn’t ceased.
“That’s enough,” she said, and touched the middle of his lower lip with a fingernail. It bled but the hard convulsions stopped. “Comus won’t like it if I damage you. He can have a terrible temper.” She momentarily closed her eyes and smiled dreamily.
Troy exhaled. He settled back into the water with a shocked exhaustion. “What did you do?” he gasped.
“Oh it wasn’t me, dear. It was you. But didn’t I already tell you? Imagine every woman in one package,” she licked her blood-tinged fingernail. Her tongue was forked and long. “That’s me. You should see my wings. They’re—impressive.” Her voice lowered and her eyes smoldered. “Don’t mess with a Demon. We’re no joke.”
“Okay.” His breathing slowed, reason returning. “Okay. Why is it astonishing?”
“That’s better. Because all you have to do is to take off her mask.”
“But how I do I know it’s her?”
The woman stood. She turned to one of the young men, cock jutting above the water. She held the palm of her hand underneath and pumped his cock with two fingers. The young man shook and groaned. Semen spurted into the palm of her hand each time she drew back the foreskin. “Do you want some?”
“No!” Troy stared at the long tail curling just above her ass, a deadly, razor sharp spade and barb at its tip. Barbed and leathery wings were folded tightly against her back. She soaped and sudsed the effluence, like shampoo, into her hair.
“Aren’t our little soap dispensers quaint?” she asked.
“Who the fuck—?” Troy asked again, terrified.
“Look me up when you get home, little boy. My name starts with an ‘S’, like Sadie.” She sat and twisted her long black hair over her forehead. “But anyway, you know, whatever you want. It’s a fun house. Everyone comes to be surprised—if you know what I mean. Want soap? Milk one of the girls. They love it.” She leaned and whispered: “Don’t be fooled by their complaining. We’re all the same, we women.” She licked her lips and Troy knew enough to be terrified.
“How do I know?”
“We always wear masks. If you do want to know someone, let alone a woman, then you have to remove the mask. The trouble, you see, you boys don’t really want to see who’s behind the mask. Who will you really find? Are you afraid?.Will she be someone else? Will you have lost your girlfriend forever—or only the one you imagined? Comus took of my mask and look who he found! The trouble, of course, is that we girls don’t always like our masks removed. We need a—strong man. We like a strong man because we just are so—flibberty-gibberty—otherwise.”
“Am I making you come again?”
“What? Can’t resist a helpless girl? It’s all part of the act, sweety. The only thing that stops me from fucking breaking you in two—” She paused. She grinned slyly and let the nail of her little finger slip into the corner of her lip. “I kind of like men too. Must be my nature. Oh, I’m just so moody.”
Troy bit his lip. “Comus said—”
“Oh, I know what Comus said, but Comus speaks in riddles. If you remove her mask, then accept what you see. If you don’t see what you expect, then it was the mask you loved. Do you understand? She didn’t make her mask all by her lonesome. You made it too”
“Who are you?”
“Ah!” laughed the ebony-skinned woman in the white mask, “I am not for you.”
Troy stood, cock in his fist, but she had vanished. Troy shook and his come spurted into the water. He moaned loudly, already drained.
Halfway along the long length of the rectangular balconies there were broad stone stairs that led down to the garden—being walled on all sides by the three-story balconies. The stairs didn’t interrupt the balcony but descended inward to a landing, and from there returned to the floor and garden beneath. I could hear talk and other voices, pleasurable voices, sex and lovemaking. Whatever dream I was lost in, I’d accepted it. If I found you, would it be you or a dream of you. I began to believe that Comus was Comus, the god of revels and fucking—the god of anarchy and chaos.
I wanted to take off the mask.
But another part of me wanted to find out more. Men and women would pass me by. The women studied me and I studied them. They were always beautiful. The men also studied me, blatantly and sexually. They started at my mask, looking for my eyes, then my nipples poking through the cut-outs of my dress. I noticed their cocks and erections. We turned when we passed each other. The men looked at my ass, framed by the oval opening. I would look at his and the other woman’s.
I passed by two more couples and single woman before I reached the stairs. Half-way down and rounding the landing I met boy a little younger than me. He was only on the second step, climbing when he saw me. He stopped and so did I. Then I descended more slowly. He already masturbated when I reached the same step. Lust displayed so freely repelled and seduced me. Curiosity. Always that curiosity. What would he be like? How would he touch? Would his desire be gentle or consuming? The hitch of lips, the crook of a man’s hips, more than the site of his cock, arousing, but to see his cock too—flagrant, willful, arrogant, presumptuous.
As if my pussy were already his.
I walked by him, down the last stairs. My breath was light and uncertain. Was he looking at my ass? Did he follow me?
The sweet ping of his orgasm had only begun to fade and he wanted another.
The girls, at opposite corners, were blindfolded and softly breathed. He had half stepped out of the bath, but paused. The blond rivulets of the woman’s hair cascaded over her breasts. Her lips glistened, parted as though she were lost in meditation. Steam twined in the air between them.
Troy stooped and took her nipple in his mouth.
It was soft and but also like a round nugget on his tongue. He sucked it against the roof of his mouth, heard her inhalation, and tasted her milk. He rolled it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He released the nipple, slowly, letting it slide between his lips before licking another drop from its distension.
His cock was at the height of her lips. He swung his pelvis so that the tip almost touched her lips. He rested his hands on her shoulders, then pushed her downward. Her lips parted and she stiffened as he pressed downward. The two waxen bulbs, one under her anus and the other under her pussy, touched and began to penetrate. She resisted, her forehead furrowed above the blindfold, her mouth a questioning O.
Troy let the crown of his cock touch her lip.
Her tongue followed, licking the underside, as if she could please him. His weight descended on her shoulders and she cried out. Her muscles closed tightly round the thin stems of the bulbs inside. She shuddered again, then seemed to surrender to whatever had blossomed inside her. A continuous stream of milk, like fountains, arced from her protruding nipples, interrupted only by the long, slow contractions of her orgasm.
He drank from both of them.
And then by the time Troy’s cock slipped into her mouth, she was swallowing him.
Hall Of Mirrors
I heard his footsteps. I wouldn’t turn. My heart thumped and I was dizzy with a vaporous excitement. In the heart of many women there’s the familiar stranger, the masculine shadow, who first visits us when we’re girls. He begins in our daydreams and then visits our sleep like a an encompassing shadow. A slippery syrup readies the passage between our thighs.
What will his cock be like? How large will it be? What kind of lover will he be? Will he be rough with us?—like a boy at play?—that mysteriously attracts us by frightening us. What will he taste like? We have heard rumors: that their semen comes from the same opening as their pee, and that a girl can produce it. Some girls brag they ‘ve tasted it.
We run from him in our imagination. But the faster we flee, the closer he pursues. Our desires are dark and trip us. But this is what we want. Our fingers dig into the earth. Our heart thumps. We reach, arms outstretched, as though to escape but widen her knees as he lifts our hips behind us.
And then the feeling of penetration for the first time.
He’s rough. He surprises us. He thrills us. He desires us perfectly. And I wonder if all women don’t yearn for the familiar stranger. He will take her anonymously, from behind, and forcefully spend his desire in her womb. Then he’ll part without a word, promise or excuse. The desire for her is understood.
And I wonder if men don’t also yearn for the same: the half-lit sidewalk, the woman, the shadows where he can claim her without explanation, his fist in her hair, his finger in her mouth, his cock filling her from behind. He imagines her orgasm, his cock slipping out of her, and leaving her with her cheek to the ground and her semen-filled pussy lifted behind her. Their understanding is mutual.
The garden seemed less interesting to me.
I wanted to go to a dark space. I want to go where no one would hear my cries or rescue me. There were doors at ground level, like the doors above, and I went into the closest. The door opened into a narrow passageway whose end was hidden in shadow. I walked into the shadow and the door closed behind me but I hadn’t closed it. I knew the stranger—the man —followed me. I was giddy with his pursuit but I acted as though I didn’t know he was there; that he watched; that he waited to violate me; that his cock was erect. I knew what he was going to do to me.
I came to a door that was unlike the others—a painted wooden door. When I opened it I walked into a room that seemed lit only by a light behind another corner—and a living room with a couch, a TV and carpet. I gasped. I saw myself in the mirror hung on the back of the door. I looked young and nothing like myself. My breasts seemed narrower but my nipples poked higher behind the pajamas. My blond hair was straight. I was wearing my old white flannel pajamas with footies and a hood with rabbit ears.
My mask was pink and furry.
This was a memory, not what had happened, but what I’d imagined.
I’d wished by breasts were higher. I’d wished my hair was blond. I bought pajamas my parents thought were too young for me. But that’s not why I bought them. I wasn’t a child anymore. I didn’t wear them to sleep in. I bought them for the bunny ears and the white fluffy tail and the buttoned flap of the bottoms.
I hid them in the trunk with a purple dildo.
I’d cut a little hole beneath the white bunny tale, and this is where the dildo had gone one night. I’d been home alone, shivering with anticipation, and I was penetrated for the first time underneath my bunny’s tale. But already Comus’s magic was a swirl of confusion. Reality was the dildo, but what I’d imagined was this.
The front door opened.
I hid behind the couch. A women stepped in. She was me! She was wearing a 50’s skirt and suit. The man behind her was wearing a cream-colored suit and hat. The back of her skirt was rucked up and I couldn’t see where he had his fingers. His tie was around her throat and her wrists were behind her back, her suit yanked down.
What was he doing to her.
“How man fingers now?”
Her eyes momentarily closed. She inhaled and rose to her tiptoes. She uttered a clipped cry. “Two Sir!” She gasped. Was it pain? I hadn’t see pain like that. I was innocent again, or not so innocent. I recognized her expression. I had felt, imagined it, explored it with my fingers between my thighs. The narrow sweep of her waist, the femininity of her shoulders, the skin of her legs, I wanted to be like her—and experience the mysterious desire of men.
She walked with a through the living room, distressed. The man somehow controlled her, guided her, his had under the back hem of her dress. Her steps were petite. He reached round, took her leash, and tugged it back, forcing her to arch her back as she walked. My heart raced. I imagined a man doing the same to me.
“Who are you?” asked the man. I smelled alcohol.
“Yeah, what’s your name?”
“Keasha!” stammered the woman, her voice high and flutey. The man’s laugh was dark. She stiffened again. What was he doing behind her?
“You’re all named Keasha, right?”
“No!” she stammered.
“Do you feel that?” The woman—was she my sister? yes, my sister—gasped. Her fingers twisted. She walked, toes inwards, high heels lifted. His hand was moving back and forth. “Everything fucking turns me on in this place.”
“You’re going to make me come!”
“I’m going to fuck you right here on your living room floor, Keasha.”
The words ‘come’ and ‘fuck’ were like grenades in my gut. I had been peering over the top of the couch. I lowered myself to my hands and knees and crawled to peek around the edge. His hand was moving quickly back and forth. She bit her lip. She twisted, knees coming together. Drops struck the floor between her ankles. She tried to grip his cock but couldn’t undo her wrists.
“I said Bend over.”
Her struggles falter. She yelps as if she’d been slapped. I hear fluids, like squirting, smattering the rug between her heels. Was she peeing? I was wet. I knew it. I instinctively lifted my pussy behind me, squeezed my thighs, rocked as if I had to pee. The suited man yanked the girl’s head down by the tie around her neck. He tied it to the corner of the coffee table. She couldn’t raise her head but she was on her knees, her ass obscenely naked behind her. Why did he want to see her like that?
I felt hands on my hips. I didn’t dare move or speak! I felt a presence move behind me and hard hips press against my ass; something harder in the middle. My heart beat in my ears, the heat of it in my face, the thumping fear in my stomach. Fingers found my nipples. No one had ever touched my nipples them. They tugged. I wanted to scream. My eyes turned under my eyelids. I obeyed. I let myself my tit be tugged to the floor until I was positioned like my sister. My eyes were wide. I saw the man’s cock. Her ass was lifted between me and him. I had never seen a cock before!
Hard. Erect. Huge.
I wanted to run, scream, flee. Something entered through the hole under my bunny tale. I felt flesh against my flesh. I was wet, already submitting, opening. My sister and me, her younger sister, were both penetrated at the same time. A cock slid into us from behind, filled us both, glided downward easily to our wombs. My eyes turned upward once more and a finger filled my mouth. I sucked and tongued the finger.
I was penetrated at both ends.
The thickness inside me touched places I didn’t know existed. I opened my knees as quietly as I could, young as I was, understanding the cock inside me. The thrusts matched the thrust of the an fucking my sister. They were precise. They were deep. I watched my sister through half lidded eyes. The cock slid in and out under my tail.
She was me. I was her.
Our fucking was quick. Her fingers twisted at the curl of her back. Then her cries turned to a long continuous moan as he held himself hard against her ass. I came on a cock for the first time. I expected the warm flow of his orgasm, was terrified of it and strangely desired it, not caring, wanting to know that kind of passion. He didn’t.
The hard length retreated, slid upward, lifted my bunnies tale, pressed and abruptly sank into my ass. I bit the finger. I raised my spine to make room. I wanted to reach for something, but my fingers curled over the hardwood floor. And then for the first time I felt the subtle pulse of a man’s orgasm inside me, the strange warmth spreading in my abdomen, the way a man suddenly and possessively held my hips.
My stranger who’d taken me from behind withdrew slowly and quietly.
The tie around the coffee table’s leg was untied and untied from my sister’s neck. She stayed like that, as if recovering. The tall man behind her buckled his belt, metal clicked followed by the sound of leather. He zipped, tipped back his hat, and stuffed his tie in his pocket. “Give my regards to your Pappy.”
He turned. The front door opened and closed. My sister sat on her haunches, pushed down her skirt and looked nervously from door to door. She didn’t think to look down or behind the couch, where her little sister had also been fucked. She bit her lip as she stood and I watched her hips swing as she hurried out of the room.
My thighs under my bunny tail, were a mess of glistening semen.
I touched a finger’s tip and tasted it. It tasted both familiar and different. I slowly backed away and stood. I was looking behind me when I stepped into the stairwell.
“Oh, there are you are!” said my mother.
“I nearly jumped out of my skin.”
“How’s my little bunny,” she asked, “Has she been busy?”
“You look hot, hon. I don’t know why you wear that on a night like tonight and at your age.”
My thighs, under the pajamas, were growing wetter by the minute. “I’ll go right up,” I said.
Then, sometimes, in the fantasy, my mother asks me if she’s seen my imaginary brother, or my Uncle, whom I’ve never met. Sometimes it’s my sister’s boyfriend from college—but always the unknowable man whose cock pierced me under my bunny’s tale. At the top of the stairs, opening my bedroom door, I stepped back into Comus’s garden.
I’d almost forgotten.
Troy left by the door he had entered. Outside the the air was cool and crisp. He leaned against the stone. He closed his eyes and exhaled. He’d seen the stairs that went down to the garden and went to them.
He saw two women talking.
They leaned with their elbows on the balustrade. The talked like any two women leaning on railing. The words of the one were punctuated, as she was fucked from behind, by the thrusts of a man who’s fingers lightly traced the flare of her hips. His thrusts weren’t quick, but almost casual. He didn’t even look at the women. He spoke to a second man. The second man was behind the other woman but he was turned with the palm of his hand casually resting on the small of the second woman’s back.
A web of semen hung between the tip of his cock and the white-smeared cut of her pussy. The second man only waited for the first to finish. Perhaps the men had been in conversation, had seen the women leaning on the railing, had seen the relaxed dip of their spines, the rise of their asses, their pussies framed and available. As casually as another conversation, they had paused to fill the women’s pussies.
The women gave it no thought.
The first man paused in conversation to lightly press her spine so that she almost absent-mindedly widened her legs and receptively lifted her pussy. He pumped his semen inside her. And then the two men continued their walk. Neither the women nor the men glanced at one other.
I was startled by fingers at my elbows.
Two woman pulled me to my feet. They guided me out of the dark, back the way I had come, and into the garden’s green perfume. They giggled as if they had just caught up with me. Both wore masks and the clothes that enticed with our vulnerability.
I was confused.
But their laughter was infectious. They skipped next to me and pulled me to a bench beneath a willow tree and close to a circular fountain in the center of the garden. The whole garden was lit by the reddish-gold flickering of torches. Conversation mingled with copulation. I saw a woman on her back. She was in the grass beneath. A man’s powerful buttocks swing forcefully between her open knees. She gave short, bird-like cries.
The long noses of the masks prevented them from kissing.
I laughed. The girls to either side giggled.
“How stupid!” said the feathered mask.
“Always these masks and blindfolds,” said the black mask. “Don’t you ever want to take one off?”
“And what do you suppose you would find,” said the feathered mask.
“And what if they took off ours?”
“That’s more than any man needs to know.”
“And to be honest,” said the black mask, “why? Why let them?.”
“Too much trouble,” I mumbled.
“Then what?” she continued. “Off goes the mask and look who you’re stuck with.”
I slumped in my seat..
“Who needs it,” said the feathered mask.
“Only one thing men are good for.”
“Speaking of which,” said the feathered mask, “look at them—shall we play? Let’s be cock-teases.”
Three men approached us. Their fingers closed around their hardening cocks.
“Let’s play it this way,” said the black mask. “We touch them. They don’t touch us. We give them a little suck, first; then they have to prove which one’s worthiest. We make them masturbate in front of us. And the one that whose spunk goes highest, covers us the most, gets his pick.”
The three knelt in front of us and plied our knees apart. They meant to fuck us on the bench, all of us together. There was no crotch in our tights. My costume and mask changed when I passed from one room to the next. Like my companions, I wore tights, short skirt, and a sleeveless top with openings only large enough for our nipples. These were pierced on each of us, with little golden hoops, so that we could not have slipped our nipples under the shirts.
The men wore leather chaps and colorful frock coats, open from neck to knees. The multi-colored coat of the one before me was especially beautiful. As with all their costumes, their cocks were prized. They were erect; and anticipation already bubbled in my womb. But my two companions leaned forward, and with a single finger on the bare chests of the men, they pushed them back. We didn’t close our legs but let them see what they wanted.
“No touching,” said the black mask.
“Only looking,” said the feathered mask.
“Stand up, boys,” said the black mask.
The lips of the men ranged from chagrin, to smirks, to a quick lick of anticipation. My own, who stood before me, smiled curiously as though with recognition. Then he and his companions stood and their cocks, with their one eye, were at the height of our mouths. I heard them speak to each other, and laugh—dark, husky tones. The one in the middle, the one in front of me, perplexed me. The proportion of his hips, shoulders and the breadth of his chest excited me. They weren’t yours, yet there was a profound familiarity that fluttered like a ghost in my breast. I took his hips and my hands, and they were familiar. The touch electrified me. I leaned as if to take his cock in my mouth, but I studied his mask instead.
The women to either of me licked the cocks of their companions, then sucked them into their mouths. The sounds of conversation and lovemaking continued around us. Our shadows appeared and disappeared as the nearest torchlight rose or fell. Your face flickered, beneath the mask, flickered in and out of darkness.
I tasted him.
While my companion’s moved back and forth, causing the men to respond in breath and stance, I licked, uncertainly, inquisitively, as if searching for what made this man so strangely familiar and desirable. Then my companions stopped. They pulled me back with a hand on each shoulder.
They spread their legs, mine too. We displayed ourselves. My nipples tingled with a shock of arousal. Let the men stare. Let them see what they could have. Let them compete for it.
“Which of you lands the most spunk gets his pick,” said the feathered mask.
“May the fittest man breed us,” said the black mask. Then, with a coquettish voice, and her index finger pressed to her lip, she added. “We’re girls, after all. Look between our legs It’s our only purpose.”
My heart pounded. The men began to masturbate. The strokes were powerful and they thrust their hips and cocks toward us. We leaned back on the bench, our arms reaching over each others shoulders. My lips parted and so did theirs as we quietly and expectantly watched. Which one would fuck us? All of us.
Their cocks grew red, inflamed and heavier as the urgency of their stroking increased. We lifted our breasts. One after the other, they tugged on the hoops of our nipples as they masturbated. We arched for them. We closed our eyes with pain and pleasure. We moaned. Then one by one they took us by the hair. They widened their stance. They thrust their hips forward and aimed their bursting cocks.
I tasted his warmth on my lips.
And then more that laced my nipples and splashed my thighs. I ached for so much. I lifted my back and received his come, legs wide. Semen rained on us.
There were four stories, four balconies that enclosed an ample garden and evenly spaced doors. In the middle of each side of the rectangular enclosure were stone staircases. Troy walked along the baluster of the second floor balcony. How did a world like this work? Where did it begin and end? What else could he experience?
Anything at all?
Fantasies came flooding back to him. He casually stroked his cock as he descended the stairs. Women walked by and with an equal casualness glanced at him, his hips and inquisitively at his mask. The rich smell of warm soil and tropical plants scented the air. It began to sprinkle, but the moisture was warm and welcoming. Troy skirted the garden, admiring. There was nothing that wasn’t suffused with eroticism.
When I was a girl, newly wakening to my sexuality, I had a fantasy. I would imagine myself inexplicably tied by my wrists. They were crossed above me and held by a hook. But for the concealment of a black mask, I was naked. I was being displayed. Men came and went, surrounding me, appraising me, aroused by me.
And just as in my fantasy, I inexplicably stood at the bottom of the garden stairway. I was naked. I wore a tight black mask. My fingers opened and closed above me. A rope and hook held them. The rope went to a pulley hanging form the floor of the balcony above. I turned nervously, tilting my head back if I had to, turning on my toes, my head darting left and right as the men circled me.
I watched them as keenly as they watched me.
Just as in my girlhood fantasy, I had no choice. There was no thought of hiding or running. I was forced to show them and forced to watch them. My fantasy made me free, and made the men free. Some of the men were openly masturbating. My breathing quickened, I turned this way and that, trying to watch them all. Their attention, their desire for me, was becoming a fluid heat dampening my thighs. I wasn’t a girl anymore. I desired their desire, reveling in it, in my body new shapes, how they made men behave—that I could make men lose control.
What if he opened another door?
Would he find another of his adolescent, teen-aged, or twenty-something fantasies? He veered leftward from the garden. The nearest gilt door was opened by attending guards, a young man and woman like the two previously. He entered. He felt a cool breeze and saw that he was in a chamber with high, barred windows. In the center of the room a naked girl hung from her wrists. A decorative chain hung round her waist and decorative pearls pierced her nipples.
She was just as in his fantasies—a slavegirl bought and bought to him.
His wealthy father didn’t know, but a teenaged boy burns with desire. His need to fuck is like a fever. He was impatient. He needed to know a girl’s cunt, her nipples and muscular hips. The slavegirl was fit, athletic and struggled against the rope. He savored the inevitable—breaking her, making her submit.
Her hips angrily and erotically twisting.
She had seen him. She already refused him. She grunted and furiously snarled behind the gag. Troy’s face was flush with desire. Finally. Why should he be so compelled by a woman’s body? What was it about her hips, legs and breasts? All of it. The first thing he did— just as in his teen-aged fantasy—was to palm her breast, the feel it move under his hand a she struggled, then suck the nipple between his lips—tasting it and feeling its texture between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.
The slavegirl stiffened and growled.
One after another the men surrounding me groaned or clenched their jaws, spurting their semen on the floor. Was this for me? So much! I used to imagine they were like bees and I the flower—the attractor. Which one would pollinate me?
They never touched me.
I began to be ashamed of my fantasy. I would pray in Church, while my mother sang next to me, for the guilt t be lifted. But that kind of grace never descended. My fantasy grew darker as I grew older. Then a stranger came into my fantasy. He wore a mask like mine. I was tired of the boys and men who never touched me. He was older, more knowledgeable and for that more menacing. His temples were tinged with gray. He was well-dressed—a coat and tie, button down white shirt, but wearing blue jeans..
Unlike the others, he hadn’t drawn out his cock.
I could see its outline and my breath rose dizzily into my heart. He came to me slowly, considering me, his head following eyes from my breasts, to my waist, behind me to my ass. I had never been looked at like this—like a grown woman. I quickly turned my head one way then the other as he crossed behind me. He smiled at me, but it was the sly kind of smile that paints a woman’s brow with fear and anticipation. His touched me. His rough hands glided smoothly over my ass, from one side to the other, following him as he moved in front of me. He trailed a finger’s tip up my belly button, then cupped my breast and pinched my nipple. I squeezed my thighs together. What this for me? Or was he using me? I wanted both. From the sleeve of his coat, he drew out a shining black crop.
I screamed when the first swing singed my ass.
And I knew it was you, but said nothing. I understood Comus’s world. It had always been you, and I wanted us to be in Comus’s world forever.
Why did Troy want to punish her? She was the slavegirl, the girl in every man’s fantasy, the one who can’t say no—the girl who rejected, scorned or laughed at him. She was the slavegirl he imagined in every woman; the girl to be broken, made submissive and a cock-slave.
He landed the birch on her ass.
He marked the insides of her thighs; the small of her back. He yanked her head back by the hair, held the birch between his teeth and smacked her ass until her wailing and guttural rage turned into a girlish panting. She opened her legs and lifted her ass. She displayed her pussy. She was submitting, anything but the stinging birch! Her nipples thickly jutted. He rolled them between his fingers and dug into her pussy with his other hand. She tried to close her thighs, locking his fist between them. She hung from her wrists, feet lifted off the floor, knees together and bent. She was wet and a drip spattered the stone under her. He smeared the wetness over a cunt and up, around, and into her ass. She straightened her legs. She spread them.
She curled her spine a little more and spread her legs a little more. The muscles of her abdomen rose and fell. He removed her gag and pressed his fingers into her mouth, making her taste her own breaking—the flavor of submission. Her tongue followed when he removed them.
He moved behind her and undid his belt.
He made me taste my own arousal.
I wanted to lick my humiliation from his fingers—my pain and pleasure. I had always imagined it like this, the moment he would shame me. I was a slut. I was a cunt. Look at what I had turned into!
And then moved behind.
I tried to look behind me, unable to turn on the hook, left and then right. Then I saw it—his cock. If a cock can be mature, battle-scared, manly rather than boyish, then this was I would have described it in my teen-aged fantasy, and saw it now.
Each breath was a nervous cry.
My wrists twisted in their restraints. Then the sting of his palm reminded me. I inhaled. The pain traveled up my spine. I opened my legs. I lifted my ass and cunt behind me, half to the cool air and half to obey, submit and to please him—anything to avoid the discipline!
No sooner had I done so than I felt the broad dome of his cock.
I was deathly still. I felt his hands close around my waist. I stood on tip-toes. In my fantasies, I only imagined what the first cock would feel like. Would it be too large? Would it hurt? And yet I wanted it. My womb wept with readiness.
Then my eyes rolled.
Troy had always imagined the girl’s cry.
What does her voice sound like when she’s taken?—the most beautiful sound a woman will make. He felt the lips of her pussy tighten and slip over the flair of his cock, the slow upward slide into and inside her. He held her waist tight and her head fell back against his shoulder.
He drew back then thrust upward, hard.
Again and again her cry answered him. There was no more struggling. Or if there was struggling, then for a different kind of escape. The slave girl turned her head on her shoulder and closed her lips and teeth over her arm. She muffled her cries. Her nostrils flared as she quickly panted. She bit and licked her arm. She opened her legs as far as the tips of her toes would allow her.
He was sweating.
He was thrusting. He bit his own lip. She screamed into her arm. Then her slender spine snapped. He held still, her weight on his cock, embedded as deeply as his thrust allowed. She lifted her feet, locking her heels at the small of his back, knees bent around his hips.
She pulsed on his cock—on his cock.
A cock’s fucking.
I knew I could never live without it. I had had my first orgasm. God sent my angel. His grace descended and pulsed in my cunt. Every part of me answered the convulsing celebration. I snapped on the ropes like a dangling leaf.
My angel held me.
When the last of my orgasm gripped her new master, the guilt was lifted. The lust was sated. I was free. I knew I could be free if I had you. Use me. Take me. I’ll be your cock-whore. Punish me, possess me, and free me.
My head hung down but not in defeat.
I was replete. My lips were parted. My skin was wet. You walked to the wall where the rope at my wrists was tied off. You released it. I fell to my knees under the squeal of the pulley, then lowered myself to my elbows. My gratitude was to give back, to give myself for your pleasure. I waited, head down.
The slave girl showed him her pussy.
She looked over her shoulder, elbows down. He walked slowly; stroked his cock. She widened her knees and arched for him. But Troy’s fantasy didn’t end that way. He walked in front of her. He pulled on the slack hanging from the pulley, and lifted her to her knees, wrists once again above her. She looked up at him, as if questioning, then at his cock.
Her expression changed.
She bit her lips. She licked them, then licked the underside of his cock. She worshiped his cock. She sucked, tasted and craved his cock. Her hips began to move back and forth over her spread knees. She pressed the pearls at her nipples against his knees. She licked his balls and gently, hungrily, bathed them in her mouth.
When he was ready, he drew back her head by the hair. She opened her mouth and eagerly cupped her tongue. He pumped, once, twice, and the familiar burn of semen traveled through his balls, pelvis and into his cock. His hip snapped with pleasure as it burst from his cock.
He laced the back of her throat, pooled her tongue, matted her brows, chin and throat, then pushed her head down and striped her back with the thrusts of his orgasm. He marked her his masculine stench.
When he was done, she rose to her knees and sucked him clean, thighs open and nipples freely his.
He possessed her.
My Angel. Mine.
I drew forth your beautiful desire on my lips, my tongue, my breasts, my hips and back. The pleasure you gave me, I gave back to you. I licked and sucked you clean, gently and with gratitude, claiming that last of what was mine.
I was free.
The woman I had become, hips and breasts that disturbed my sleep with desire, also brought you to me.
Time. Plausibility. Comus’s world
is a story out of order. God
of the festival, the revel,
and night’s conjoining. The son of Bacchus
and the sea-witch Circe;
the god of anarchy and chaos. The story
Explanations go back
to forward. Comus: the god of excess,
bearded, goader, cock and cunt pissing
in the fountain.
Time is dismantled. Comus: trickster, drinker,
thief of contemplation.
Order goes out of verse and music.
Comus: the god of now, eater and maker of the self.
Sometimes I fantasied the I walked with nothing to cover my breasts. I would walk down the sidewalk and this man or that boy would lose control. They wouldn’t need to touch themselves. They would stare at my breasts, stop what they were doing or saying, inhale as though something pinched them, and I would see the outline of their cocks stiffly in the crotch of their jeans. I would the quick spurts of come darting up or down the fabric of their pants—making the fabric dark. They would press their palms to their crotches as though to stop it. They couldn’t.
It wasn’t my fault.
I walk by the boy on the garden park bench. His prick is out. His arms are stretched to either side along the top of the bench. He stares at my tits as I walk by and he arches. Surprise raises his eyebrows. His mouth opens. Semen spumes like a spurting fountain. I watch his cock twitch and the semen spit into his own mouth chest. I walk by a man with his arm around a woman. She stares at my nipples. His steps falter when he comes. Though he continues walking, his large cock bursts strings of semen into the air and onto pathway ahead of him.
Troy was almost to the bottom of the stairs.
Hadn’t he already turned at the bottom? Hadn’t he stepped into the slavegirl’s chamber? Where was she? He looked behind him. Then down again. A different girl took the first step up the same stairs, then paused when she saw him. Her black hair was in cornrows. Her waist and was narrow and muscular. The curious tips of her dark breasts were beaded with red. She averted her eyes. She wore no top, but a black mini-skirt the color of her skin’s silky midnight.
“Kae—” he almost said, but she was too small.
The girl seemed timid, unsure of herself, and turned.
Troy followed, aroused by her timidity. She didn’t seem to notice. She paused to watch other lovers. She hid behind a pillar, or crouched behind a garden shrub and always, almost fretfully, pressing a finger into the nothing between her thighs, as if she were unsure of what she did.
Troy spied, squatting, cock rising from underneath, full, and ready.
The girl left the garden Troy followed. He stroked, having decided and in pursuit. He followed her into a dark labyrinth of doors and corridors. There were stone walls and narrow, arched passageways.
He watched her ass, tight and with a hint of the rearward and youthful cunt at its center. The dark skin of her spine gleamed. Troy’s pulse thrummed with excitement. The hunter pursued his prey.
He heard the singing of birch and a woman’s cry.
The girl he followed walked quietly, lit only by a dusky light that always seemed behind the next corner. She was pressing herself against the wall of a passageway, hiding, then lowering herself to a cellar window at her feet. Troy watched her kneel and cautiously push her head through the bars. The dark divot of her pussy vulnerably lifted and hem of the miniskirt lifted above it—he saw the almond lips; and saw the round ass that framed the lips.
Troy quietly approached.
He saw what she saw: a chamber, an old man and a slavegirl bound with her wrists above her head. She shook her head at first, but he punished her. He disciplined her. That was Keasha! Or was Keasha kneeling in front of him. He pushed down his cock with two fingers at the tip. He quietly knelt behind the voyeuristic girl.
He took her.
She was virgin—a momentary resistance. His motion was firm, continuous and final. He held the root of his cock hard against the girl’s embedded cunt. Her toes were spread. Her knees were lifted. Her spine was forced into a tight U. Her head was trapped, her shoulders pressed against the bars. One hand held on, the other ineffectually fumbled behind her. She gyrated as if she could escape the impalement.
Her struggles began to change. She stiffened. Her thighs widened. Her legs straightened. liftingher knees off the stone floor. Her toes slipped and dug and slipped. Her spine slowly recoiled as if to receive his thrusts more deeply.
Troy was above her.
His head was almost against wall above the barred window. He couldn’t see her neck or shoulders, only her back, waist and the flair of her hips—his cock going in and out—her ass. He lifted her toes off the ground. He lifted her by the small bones of her hips.
Her struggles suddenly stopped.
She was deathly still. There were only the powerful spasms that darkly gripped his cock again and again. He waited. Her womb slowed. He could come in her womb. Let her feel it for the first time.
He couldn’t decide.
I was with my two companions again.
If a male orgasm can be called masculine, then the orgasm of the man in front of me was the most virile—and his cock the largest. And maybe you ask how, in reality, I could be aroused by something so obscene, libidinous, Rabelaisian. But Comus’s world isn’t reality. Comus’s world is a fun house. Surely, if you’ve ever gone into a fun house with the curtains lifted, you’ve wondered how anyone could be entranced. In Comus’s world, one forgets oneself and instead remembers all the daydreams, half-forgotten fantasies, and idle arousals of an afternoon. They become real and one loses oneself in them just as I was losing myself.
I waited for this man to take me.
He knelt in front of me. He yanked the gap between my legs to the edge of the bench while my two companions each drew back my knees and arms, opening me. Excitement thrummed in my breathing and blood. I had never felt so opened or plainly female.
He entered me.
There was no sudden thrust. No warning. He pierced me softly but firmly. I stiffened, being so opened, head thrown back, lifting myself off the bench. But none of this, not my clenched muscles or curling spine stopped the smooth upward penetration to my womb. I felt the thick stalk of him heavy in my abdomen, then moaned when his broad crown pressed with a bruising pleasure at my cervix. He had found me.
Then a short withdrawal followed by a sharp upward thrust. I leaked.
I cried out. My toes curled. He held himself there and I already felt the ping of an orgasm beginning, bruised on his length. His mask was inches from mine. And then I knew it wasn’t you, but an apparition of my own desire. The eyes I saw were my own, but in the guise of a man.
In Comus’s realm the shadowy man who had always come to me in my imagination, always knowing how to touch me, what to say, how to move me, take me, satisfy me and how to be taken, had taken a form in Comus’s magic.
My imagination made love to me.
Perfect in size, he only had to let me, under my own weight slip down his cock that little bit, holding the upward jut of his cock immovably inside me—that little extra that turned into a tingling ache of pleasure and discomfort, that somehow is for me the perfect length of a man: sweet and sour, gentle, firm and demanding.
“Put your seed in her,” said my companions, and then wickedly biting their lips: “She’s defenseless.”
All I could do was stare into his eyes, my own: shocked, wide, and stunned. I could not move my arms or legs. My companions held them. I could do nothing but receive him. The only motion were the muscles of my womb, repeatedly gripping and welcoming the powerful spasms of my imaginary lover. Each of his expulsions shook me, flowed into my pelvis, breasts, legs.
Our contractions coincided—I wailed with each of them.
His orgasm was mine and mine was his. I understood the glittering rainbow of his coat. When our orgasm ended it seemed that his length had gone deeper than is possible. His cock withdrew slowly, smoothly and indefinitely. I moaned. The feeling of a cock’s withdrawal can be painful—a regretful slipping out—when a woman’s entry is the most moist and welcoming. I wanted him inside me always.
How deep had he gone? The head of his cock had been in my womb. None of his orgasm gathered at the lips of my pussy.
I didn’t need to worry.
When I finally felt the crown of his cock slip out, he swirled into a glittering dust that I inhaled as though he were a parting kiss. He was inside me again. My companions let go of my arms and legs. The other two men were gone. I closed my legs but not before one hand, and a finger on my clit, was between my thighs. I pinched my nipple with my other hand—still aroused.
I wanted to stay in this world forever.
I wanted my imaginary lover again, the exquisite opposite, the perfect mirror that’s a companion to each of us.
Troy was in the dance-hall again.
Comus stood in front of him, one giant hand behind his head, tilting it back. Comus poured wine into Troy’s open mouth and laughed. Troy coughed and swallowed. Some of the wine flowed down his chest. One of the dancers knelt in front of him. Wine mixed with his semen—spurting into the woman’s mouth. Her fist moved eagerly back and forth.
“The mask, boy” Comus laughed. “Make your choice! The mask! Take it off before it’s too late!”
I rode my anonymous lover in the garden.
I sat astride him. I rose and fell as he fed me fruit and honey. I bit the fruit from his fingers and my cunt licked the honey from his cock.
I ride him unabashedly.
My anonymous lover is my food, my drink and myself. I come. I scream and turn my gaze to the stars, infinity above and within me.
He saw her on the balcony above the garden.
She was lithe and her hand, a finger, trailed the baluster as she walked beside it. She walked in a haze of thought. He ran up the stairs. He ran down the balcony. She was wearing a mini-skirt that fell low at her sides and rose over her shaved pussy and ass. A loose, dark read, sleeveless stop billowed over her breasts and stomach.
She saw him.
At first she was unsure. Was it her that he ran towards? He stopped in the middle of the walkway. He faced her. She backed against the rail of the baluster.
“Keasha!” he said.
She lowered her eyes without taking them from his gaze. Her lips parted.
“Keasha!” he said again.
She didn’t answer. He stepped forward. He reached for her mask. She uttered a startled gasp and knocked has hand away. She reached to both sides, hands on the railing, then looked both ways as if to escape.
“No!” said Troy. Her palms shot forward but his reach longer. He tore open her sleeveless top. Diamonds hung from her nipples. She inhaled and tried to over her breasts with the torn fabric, but when she did Troy effortlessly lifted her by the hips, seating her on the railing. She screamed, falling backward before she grasped the railing and split her thighs wide apart, knees against the lip of the railing, feet tucked between the balusters.
Troy undid the leather that hid his cock.
She glanced at what he did, her breathing like little cries. She saw his cock, then glanced behind her, at the stone walkway a story below. But before she’d turned back again she’d inhaled sharply and her eyes turned upward.
She couldn’t stop the cock rising inside her.
She didn’t dare close her legs. She didn’t dare let go of the railing. She was helpless. Troy leaned as he reached her moist womb. She panicked. She needed more to hold onto than the railing. She was trapped between the plunge of death and the plunging of his cock. She needed him.
She held onto his arms, his neck, shoulders, whatever saved her from falling. The swing of his hips continued to knock against her cervix. She exhaled sharp little cries each time his swing hooked her. She looked over her shoulder, then at him, then over her shoulder again. She could stay. She never had to leave Comus’s world. She only had to let go. Each thrust promised to topple her, but she kept her legs wide and hooked over the railing. What saved her from falling made her womb open and vulnerable.
She saw another girl watching, masturbating.
Then she only saw Troy’s mask. He watched her every expression, her wide-eyed fear, the confused turmoil building in her abdomen. Her cries grew sharper, higher in pitch. She gripped and half lost her grip. The only constant was the cock that impaled her defenseless womb again and again.
Her back arched Her head snapped back. She screamed and the other girl screamed with her. She had lost her grip. She fell but made her choice. She wrapped her legs tightly round Troy’s waist and drove his orgasm deeply into her own. She took the sharp pangs of his semen in her womb. Her hands flailed to pull herself back up, but Tory was leaning too far forward. She locked her hands behind his neck.
He held them both with one palm powerfully on the railing.
With his other hand he tipped off her mask and it fell, half floating, to the garden floor below. He took off his own and Troy and Keasha saw each other for the first time; and they knew each other for the first time.
He shuddered a last spurt
And then it was over.
Troy’s cock slowly slid from Keasha’s seeded womb. He collapsed, cheek in the dirt and weeds behind the abandoned trailer. He rolled over. They both lay on their backs in th tall unmown grass. The feathery moonlit tufts quivered in the night air above them.
“Fuck,” said Keasha.
Troy glanced down. The fly of his jeans were open and his cock was glistening. Keasha reached under her skirt and between her legs. Her hand returned, full and syrupy with Troy’s cum.
“She doesn’t know,” said the other girl, “and did you hear that B.S. story she told about the trailer. Like, she made me swear I wouldn’t tell anybody.”
The other girls giggled.
“He’s kind of hot now!”
“He is not,” said the other girl. “Is he?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. He’s different.”
“My boyfriend wants to go there—to the trailer.”
“Do you know which one it is?”
“How did he find out about it?”
“Troy told him.”
“What was he like?”
“Just kind of matter-of-fact about it. You know, he’s different. He told my boyfriend that if he wanted to go, he should go; then acts like he doesn’t know if it really happened. So I think me and my boyfriend are going to check it.”
“So you’re going?”
“Totally. What’s the worst that could happen? We fuck?”