(Almost all of my fiction is based in some way on real
events, manipulated into a narrative that is not real. This was not as true with the erotic pieces I did for
the mob widow, who would email me suggestions of where she wanted me to go, and
I would use my imagination to flush the story out. But without someone like her
to inspire me, pieces I did a decade ago were inspired by expanding on real life
events. In this case of this story, much of the story evolved out of what I was
thinking at the time. This is pure fantasy, but with a grain of truth.)
I don’t know why she insisted I come on this cruise with her,
since this is her beat not mine.
I feel a little like a pull toy being pulled behind her on a
string, tagging along because she wants me here, not because I’m needed.
She seems a bit distant when we climb the gang plank, and
then gets lost in the crowd, leaving me to twiddle my thumbs and other parts of
my anatomy on the poop deck.
I feel a bit guilty about all of this, about what I think
might happen, hoping we can find a dark cubby hole on this eloquent cruise boat
where we might cuddle and well… you know.
Only there are no dark corners on the newly minted boat,
taking its virgin journey from the dock up river down to Lady liberty and back.
Even the dance floor is bathed in bright lights, alternating
colors, sometimes purple, sometimes blue, sometimes intensely crimson.
The worst part is that we both know almost all of the people
taking this maiden voyage, and most of them know us, especially the public
officials who frown at seeing the two of us together, asking why it takes two
writers to cover such a short trip as this.
“What’s the matter, bright eyes?” she asks, suddenly
appearing again at my shoulder, her pen and pad in her hand, her gray pants
suit making her look incredibly official and incredibly sexy.
I can picture myself unbuttoning each button to her jacket
and blouse, getting down to the nitty gritty beneath, my mouth watering for a taste
of more than the free drinks the cruise is offering.
“I don’t know exactly why I’m here,” I tell her. “Frankly, I
feel a bit useless.”
“You’re here because I want you here,” she said with a twinkle
in those deep, brown eyes.
As always, something stirs in their depths, only I cannot
read what, a mystery that makes me ache even more to delve into her.
“Just stay close,” she says, leaning near my face, her lips
glistening, and I do everything in my power not to steal a kiss.
“As for being useful, I’m sure I’ll think of a way to use
you before we’re through,” she says, touching my arm, eye gaze full of promises
of what might transpire later.
My imagination goes nuts!
I can see it all in my head, drawing her open like a clam
shell, her blouse, her pants, laying her down on some flat surface where I
might probe that space between her legs where the real treasure lies.
I start looking around, searching for any secret place on
this elaborate tub where we might settle in long enough to turn fantasy into
reality.
Maybe she knows a place where we can go? Out of the prying gazes
of this crowd of over-inflated dignitaries, none of whom even remotely interest
me. I wouldn’t be here if not for her.
And then, out of the blue – charging across the dance floor
and through the array of lights, comes a greasy-haired official, who I dislike,
and assume she dislikes, too, a raging bull with gaze thick with the same lust for
her as I feel, and I hate him for it, and get very shaken when she smiles and
greets him like her long lost friend.
“So, what kind of hanky-panky are you two up to?” he asks,
looking her up and down the way a cattle buyer might a prize cow, and then with
distain at me as if he thinks I have no business feeding on the same range.
He’s joking, of course, but it makes my heart skip a few
beats, and I realize how obvious all this looks, me and her, here together, he thinking
maybe I’m here play thing, someone she only hangs out with when she can’t find
a real man.
When I look at her, her expression has gone cold again,
clammed up, wearing the professional expression that is a thick and inaccessible
as a new Berlin Wall, taking a world war for me to break through.
She also looks a little annoyed at him, and me, and tells us
both she has a job to do and storms off.
Befuddled by it all, I decide I need air and climb the
stairs to the upper deck, outside, with the boat moving south, the New York skyline
glittering in bright sunlight on one side, our neck of the woods on the other.
I go out to the bow – thinking of that scene from Titanic, where the two lovers
stood arms wide, to hold her like that, hoping desperately, this trip doesn’t
end up the way that one did.
The breeze from the movement and river clears my head a bit.
She’s not with me. But neither is anybody else.
Then, I see her moving around on the more populated part of
the deck, her broad sunglasses hiding a bit of her face, but adding to her mystery,
making her look like Mata Hari on some dark mission where she must seduce
someone to gain their secrets and save the world.
Each time she moves, it is like a dance step, graceful, yet determined,
a powerful being hidden in the guise of a reporter. She is not Clark Kent or
Superman, but some Greek Goddess in disguise, evoking a presence that even the
unsuspecting public senses but cannot define.
I find myself aching for her all the more, this goddess of
the harbor, who might if I am lucky settle for me.
Only at that moment, my bubble bursts. She is surrounded by
admirers, including the official from below, powerful men all aching as much to
possess her as I ache, but with infinitely more to offer, and she seems aware
of this, laughing and smiling, touching their arms, looking into their eyes as
if promising them something sweeter later, and she seems particularly drawn to
the greasy-headed official from below.
He is close to her. He touches her arm. She presses her chest
against him, tender, pointed breasts my fingers tingle to touch.
And worse, those others around them, the petty dignitaries who
are with his party seem to encourage him with looks and laughter.
Something in my stomach turns, as if someone – that greasy
man – has eased a knife into me and twists it to make the pain worse.
It makes me angry. I abandon the bow of my imaginary Titanic,
marching towards the middle of the ship, painting this bastard with the same
brush as that rich bastard from the movie, telling myself, he isn’t good enough
for her regardless of how much money he had or power.
This startles him, giving me a surprised look as he asks
what my official capacity is, implying that maybe I am a stowaway and that the
captain ought to make me walk the plank, and if I don’t drown, then at least, she
– this amazing woman – will be rid of me.
“You can’t both be covering this event,” he snarls.
“I’m just along for the ride,” I say, daring him to have me
thrown off.
She looks amused, glancing at him and then at me, seeming to
enjoy our efforts to outdo each other, two raging bulls, the winner of which
gets to fuck her.
And for some odd reason, this excites me, and a scene
flashes through my brain of both of us, ole greasy-head and me, doing her at
the same time, pressing her between us like some exotic hor dourve, each of us probing
her delicate interior in search of the pearl we know we will find.
She, however, turns cold again, her puzzled gaze seeming to
pick up on a vibe in me she doesn’t like, and reverts to her professional self,
taking the arm of the greasy-haired official and marching off, leaving me
standing there, dry-mouthed, speechless.
When the boat docks, I see them getting off together, and
picture them going to her place, where he slowly undresses her, slowly explores
his hands, and mouth, and diving into her with his scuba gear to those deeper
places he knows her pearl lies.
I am crushed. I stand on the deck for so long, I don’t
realize dark has come and the ship mate tells me I have to leave.
I make my way down the gang plank resigned to my fate, when she
suddenly appears at the bottom.
“What the hell is taking you so long?” she asks.
“I … I thought you went off with him.”
“Him? Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t associate with a scumbag
like him except when I have to do my job.”
“And you came back for me?”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she says. “But you’d better
hurry if you expect to make love to me. I don’t have all night.”
In my mind, we’re back on the bow of the Titanic.
“Get that silly look off your face,” she says. “We’re not
doing anything until you buy me dinner first.”
I know it is there somewhere, buried deep in the mists, the
chill, touch of wet on my cheeks, is not from tears, though I am just as bleary-eyed,
seeking to fill the vacancy of that missing place or thing on the other side,
it’s spikes stick in my memory yet can’t be recalled, as if it has ceased to
exist, or never did, the last gasp of a late spring from which the flower
bloom, just not for me, all is gray, not quite a fog yet just as blinding. I am
Oedipus roaming the each in search of a truth I may never find, reliving the
guilt of a crime I never committed.
She posts photos with no people only the haunting visions
she sees from her window, not even a glimpse of the seat she came to see for
the weekend,
She does not say who she went with, my imagination fills in
the details, the lips that kiss her, the hand that touches her, the depths they
explore as the waves crash in the distance, the salt foam, all flowing over
them and in them, on a beach of silk sheets and fond memories.
She posts pictures of what she sees, only I see more,
painting a beach-side portrait of her embraces, how her skin must feel when he
touches her, how she must feel when he penetrates, her moody silence with his massive
manhood.
I see things in those pictures that are not really there,
the details of their embrace, the whispered words, the cries of joy full of anguish
She holds the cup in two hands as I recall it that sunny day
not so long ago, long fingers with polished nails (not a usual thing when most
times I’ve seen them, she painted them clear), both hands balancing the cup
just below her lips, not yet ready to sip, poised to do so, a slow motion
moment nearly as still as a photograph, an image so perfect, so clear, it jumps
into my mind the minute I think of her, those amazing eyes looking over the diner’s
table at me, reflecting me, a curious look that I am curious about, unable to
read her thoughts even though these are a window to her soul, the fingers, the
mouth, the eyes, locking me in, making me ache now as I did then, a foolish
notion, an irresistible urge, those fingers gripping me, as they do the cup,
more so her mouth, just slanted enough for a near perfect interaction, the
table, the cub, the bright diner, all too stark, barriers that keep me in my
seat, though I still tumble into those eyes, drowning in depths way over my
head.
If I close my eyes, I see her now as I saw her then, hand
covering the erotic parts as she stared into the camera, the silver ring
glittering on her thumb, distracting my attention away from what she hides, the
promise glittering in her eyes if only, if I could, I would, just when, I can’t
say then, though now all this time later, I know never, feeling where her hand
rests as vividly as I did, each inch of flesh a treasure I keep locked up in my
head, each slight movement, an ecstasy I will never feel, only imagine, deep in
my heart as well as my head magic spells that encompass me.
If I was to claim I still smell her perfume each day I go
into the office, I would be lying.
I remember smelling it once, when she was here, and later,
the lingering sweetness near the desk she occupied.
Yet, hard as I try, I can’t recall the odor itself, that
ever-present essence I detected each Tuesday, unable to separate the two in my
mind. I remember thinking then (as I think now) that this was her, a spirit
hovering around each place she goes, strongest in her place where it has had a
long time to brew, stirring up something in me each time I encountered it,
while now, I live with the memory of it rather than the thing itself, just as I
recall how soft she felt, how sweet her lips were, even the nicotine perfume
that mingled in her scent.
But it seems that all the players came together in the same
place, even if it’s not well known just what transpired.
It apparently also involved the Neighboring Mayor and his chief
of staff, Mark, who believe our publication has been used against him –
possibly through the efforts of James, who our owner loves because of the number
of ads brought in by him.
In the aftermath of the Hometown election, there are clear
winners and losers. For some, it may no longer matter, although clearly some
lost more than others.
Someone using an iPad with a Jersey City IP hit my webpage
hard.
This might be our former temporary boss, or perhaps our poet,
if she has returned finally from the Sandwich Islands.
This suggests I’m still a person of interest – perhaps more
so now because some believe I helped derail the Hometown election with the help
of GA (not an accurate assessment, though credit or blame should go to GA since
she was the most vocal about the game R played in sabotaging O’s campaign from
within.)
What comes next is a big question since politics like physics,
there is always an opposite and equal reaction.
The other big loser is James – thanks to a key piece GA
posted towards the conclusion of the election, putting together the sabotage
puzzle that showed James conspiring with Mark, even though the two power
brokers were supposed to be a different sides, making it clear James was in on
the fix along with A, secretly destroying O’s campaign in a desperate effort to
get R elected.
Even outed, James is a better position than our poet is since
he can always crawl back to the Small Man, who will give him some sort of job. While
James controlled A during the election, it is hard to say how much if anything
he knows about our poet and whether or not he served as her protection as well.
Our poet has her job, but I suspect she needs to leave, only
doesn’t have anywhere to go.
All of it seems a little too coincidental, since our poet’s
activities inside our office began just about the same time James started to
bring ads to our owner. James started feeding our owner ads around March of
last year (2012) around the same time, our poet started texting me (and RR emailed
me with tips about the police.)
This aspect may merely be my paranoia. But it’s better to
believe the worst than getting run off unexpectedly later when the truth comes
out.
Perhaps Hometown was always the big fish, and now that the
election is over, everybody has to reevaluate.
My cell phone chimes as I drive through traffic on a detour
due to the city digging up a street I usually take.
At a stop light, I respond.
“Where are you!” a shrill female voice on the other end demands.
“You were supposed to be here already.”
The woman only confirms the dread I felt when I got assigned
to make the deliver and the other delivery guys giggled, as if the knew
something I didn’t. and wouldn’t tell me.
“You’ll find out,” Jude said with that sly, uncomfortable smile
of his, and a devilish twinkle in his eyes.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“She’s hot,” he said, although he hinting at something darker,
some aspect of this regular he wanted me to find out for myself.
Customers come in a wide variety, some far kind, some are
mean, some are generous, some of greedy, and some fit odd categories that
stretch beyond usual definitions. And from the way Jude acted, this is one of
them.
Hot?
Perhaps Jude senses something in me that I try to keep
hidden. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex, and it scares me to think how
I will respond if she is as “hot” as Jude suggests. I would rather have someone
impatient for their pizza and rude about by not being there on time, then to find
myself tempted.
“I’m on my way, honest, Lady,” I tell her as the light
changes. “I promise your pizza won’t get cold.”
“It better not be!” she snarls then hangs up.
I try to put all of this out of my head, this odd feeling I’m
getting, and the odd humorous and knowing looks on the faces of the other
delivery people who watched me leave.
It’s my horniness that makes me read into their reaction,
perhaps they even sensing my need and feeding into it with these silly innuendos.
I may just be a delivery guy, but I take the job seriously,
like a professional, capable of separating my personal needs for what I get
paid to do.
I pull up to the curb and then carry the box to the glass
door, ringing the buzzer, and getting the response through the tiny grill speaker:
“who is it?”
“The pizza man,” I say.
“About freakin time,” she says, and the buzzer lets me into
the vestibule. “I’m on the top floor.”
I go through the inner door, then up one flight, then the
next, as if climbing, feeling a bit like the Prince visiting Rapunzel in her tower,
getting more and more nervous with every step, thinking of Jude’s expression
and the laughter I saw in the eyes of the other workers.
I reach the woman’s door and knock, and the door flies open
to reveal her standing on the other side, so scantily dressed I almost see
through her, every curve of her only marginally hidden behind the thin veil of
her negligee.
“You certainly took your time,” she says.
I try to respond, try to explain about the road opening and
the detour, but I am speechless, my gaze focused completely on her, from that painful
wedge between her legs, to the pink tips of her breasts, to her slightly slanted
and perfectly kissable lips, to her eyes – like deep pools of brown in which I
am already drowning.
“Well?” she asks.
I thrust the box at her, its warmth against my fingers as if
I am already touching her.
Her eye brows rise like question marks.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, although it is clear from
the humored look in her eyes she already knows and has already guessed just how
long it has been since I have stood before a goddess like this, seen firm
breasts like hers, felt the urgency I know I should not feel. I am in a deep fog.
I can look nowhere else but at her, and yet, the more I look the more befuddled
I get, and speechless.
The vague memory of my fellow workers laughing comes into that
fog.
I cough slightly and give her the price, doing my best not
to stare where I can’t help staring, trying to think of anything other than sumptuous
meal that she has laid out before me, not pizza but something infinitely more desirable,
as if she is the delivery girl bringing me the meal my imagination ordered up.
I need to concentrate on my job, I tell myself, although
planning the more terrible vengeance on my work mates when I get back to the
store.
“Yes, of course,” she says, her beautiful lips smirking. “Why
don’t you come inside. I suppose you’ll want a tip.”
What I want, what her eyes claim she is offering, make me
speechless again as I stubble across the threshold, pulled along like a play
toy at the end of string, or rather, drawn in by the rising thing between my legs,
a thing that makes itself all too evident, and which she clearly also notices
and her smirk turns into something nefarious.
The reasonable part of my brain has vanished. All that
remains is that small brain, driven by instinct, a devious inner being that betrays
all my best intentions.
I know I can no longer stop the inevitable and I step ahead,
one foot after the other, until I’m inside, she closing the door behind me,
admiring me.
“They sent a real looker this time,” she says. “You look
terribly cute in that little blue uniform. I’m sure you’d look even better if
you took it off.”
For some reason, this remark kick starts my main brain
again.
“I just need to get paid, lady,” I tell her, even though my whole
body quakes with desire to have her or perhaps for her to have me, my
reasonable brain telling me, “This is all wrong,” and telling me to flee while
I still can.
I’m going to roll Jude up in pizza dough and shove him in
the oven when I get back, if I get back, if I’m not baked in this woman’s oven
first, if I can remember the way back having left no bread crumb trail to
follow.
“I said take your clothes off!” she demands, no longer laughing,
her stare deadly serious. “Take them off and get on my couch.”
She points to the couch, and like a zombie I comply, clothing
abandoned behind me on the floor with each step, knowing I can’t stop it,
knowing that she intends to rape me, knowing that my inflated condition, the bulge
below my belt providing her with all the invitation she needs.
Then, I’m naked, on my back, as she strips off her gown and
climbs on top of me, easing her pussy down onto my throbbing cock, riding me like
she might a horse, up and down, until all I can do is grasp her breast and ride
it out, feeling my cock swell up deep inside her with every thrust, feeling my
need mingling with hers, up and down, again and again, my mouth finding the tip
of her breast. I am a child suckling. I am helpless to do anything but what she
demands, what her body insists on, and what my body aches to provide, up and
down, my cock feeling every inch of the soft interior, feeling her pussy
tighten around me, feeling her whole body quake with her need, she riding me,
she owning me, she pumping me until I cum, and then won’t stop, making me cum
again, making me to this until finally she cums, too.
Then, when she is done, she puts back on her gown, motioning
me to dress.
“You’re money is in the envelope on the table,” she says,
somewhat coldly. “You already had your tip.”
I dress. I grab the fee, and then stumble out into the hall,
hearing the door slam behind me, hearing my footsteps on stairs, my whole body
still vibrating, as if I am an echo, as if I have been emptied out.
I feel violated and yet incredibly pleased, and suspect,
even Jude doesn’t know what happened here, and I will never tell him, knowing
also I might never be asked to make the same delivery again.
Do you remember the day at the Election, when I approached
you and you were in the hall leaning up against the wall? I remembered I was so
close to you and we shook hands. You told me to hurry and go to Militello HQ,
before he left. I remember the look in your eyes, as if saying you wanted to
come with me. Well truth is I wanted you to come with me..
I don’t
know if you could see it, but my eyes were willing you to follow me. I was
hoping that you would come with me so that we could get a few minutes alone
together. Although we had only seen each other once before, I felt a certain
amount of magnetism from you that night. I know you were nervous, but deep
inside I felt you wanted the same thing.
So when
I went home that night, I had to pleasure myself, because I had to rid myself
of what I was feeling. So this is what I imagined would have happened if you
had followed me:
I
imagined you getting into the car with me in the back seat. Both of us together
with no one around. I know your lips would have met mind feverishly since I
knew that’s what we both wanted. I had a dress on that night. So I imagined you
lifting my dress and playing with me, while I played with you. Holding him in
my hands and guiding him to my mouth, tasting you, teasing you. Then you would
take him from me and push him deep inside me. Pushing him in me slowly and
gently. I would wrap my legs around you and move up and down to meet you. Then
we would continue by exploring each other mouths, tongues moving slowly
passionately in each other mouths all the while connected by you in me. Keeping
the rhythm until we exploded into each other.. What an election that would have
been..
Something wretches in me when I see her text, a bit of
political drama we both have to report yet has nothing to do with anything,
except this strand of wire that keeps us connected, even when she doesn’t want
it to be, and from time to time, I pluck at this as if a guitar string to see
if its sound has changed or gone out of tune when I still hear her angelic
voice in my head and know it is a siren’s song meant not for me, me apologizing
yet again the midst of this professional exchange, chilled by the cold rock my
messages echo off of, when once those songs had sounded so sweet and in this
hard response, I recall softer, tenderer moments and still feel the tenderness
each time my fingers touched and tastes the plump lips with kisses she’s long forgotten
and I realize something is better than nothing, even stone cold.
She asks me how I hurt my leg when I show up with a cane and
bandage, stumbling into the office like a zombie – not a warm greeting, yet
interested enough, perhaps sympathetic. I tell her half the truth, not the
truth about my wandering back along that trek we took in April, the one she
claims I ruined the memory of, stabbing the back of my hand with a fork or
banging my head against a brick wall, the diner, the print shop, the new high
school where the old stadium stood, like ways of the Cross, me almost genuflect
at each station, as each brought out that moment when all seemed possible and I
trying to find that again, stumbled and feel and could not rise again, no good Samaritan
to carry my cross even briefly, the hill top always looming ahead, falling and
rising again and again always with the same inevitable conclusion.
(This is one of the last pieces I wrote for the mafia widow, and one that comes dangerously closed to BDSM. Her requests got kinkier as the stories went on. After this one, she wanted me to write a story about my being her sissy. Since I need to imagine actually doing the things I wrote about, I declined. I kept getting the feeling she wanted to take the next step and make these fantasy pieces become real. More than once, she suggested I dress up for her, which I also declined, even though by that time, I knew she was dying. This is a very complex story in which the main character is a cuckhold (with a bit of humor. To understand more about the mafia widow go to Mob widow stories April 10, 2024)
Just my luck
You, the hottest babe to walk through the door to my joint ever, show up the same night Ralph comes back from jail.
Ralph’s plagued my place since the day it opened, one of those hot-to-trot ape-men who looks enough like Elvis Presley to score regularly, living and breathing the Elvis aura the way men like me go for John Lennon, slicking back his hair, polishing his pointed shoes, wearing jeans so tight its embarrassing to look at him for his bulging crotch.
From the day I opened my place, he was here, haunting the end of the bar like he was setting up an office, greeting every girl through the door with that same sexy stare (or what he took for sexy, so icy and smooth I constantly wondered why women looked back, but they did, flowing over to him as if the floor titled that way).
This caused more brawls in front than anything else, and I plotted for years to get rid him. I actually banned him from the premises once, and then discovered just how strongly women felt about it. Every regular girl boycotted me until I brought him back.. In the meanwhile other guys resented him, always feeling they got sloppy seconds, he passing along to them the girls he didn’t want. meantime, I found myself surrounded by grumbling horny men, all them cursing me for allowing Ralph around in the first place and cursing me for their wanting me to bring him back.
They wanted girls to ----- and they didn’t care anymore if it was sloppy seconds, and if I didn’t bring Ralph back, then I’d better hire some local bimbos to service them or the men would take flight, too.
That was the first time he went away, and the first time he came back acting like a conquering hero, leading a pack of girls that would have made playboy jealous. They certainly made me ache, and I’m usually immune to these things, as bartender, I get a better pick than even Ralph, girls grooving up to me for free drinks, and freer talk, and a little rendezvous in my back room
Outside the bar, some of these women mistake me for Ralph, maybe it’s the association with the bar, maybe we do look as much alike as people say. We’re the same age, But I don’t have the moon shaped scar on my thigh, girls say he has. And my hair is long, I never did get over the 1960s or the Beatles, and the idea of Free love. I like to fuck all the time. Sometimes I like to do it with more than one girl at a time, fucking just one way of saying hello to a woman, getting to know here better with my tongue, c---, and whatever other part of our anatomies seems appropriate. I’m curious about what every woman tastes like, like differing flavors of ice cream with no two ever tasting the same. I think about fucking all the time, how it feels to be inside, how it feels to get up close with a woman’s breast pressed tight against me. On slow nights, I’ll I slow dance with some of the more attractive ladies, swaying and teasing, and thinking about what it would be like to fuck while we danced, me up inside her, as we moved to the music, looking forward to when this or that girl will follow me to the back room, where we can do it for real. I’d be happy doing it twenty four hours a day, standing up, sitting down, in the shower or bath, on a bus or park bench.
Maybe that’s what women see when they mistake me for Ralph on the street, smiling from a distance as they hurry up, then slowly frowning when they realize, I’m not him, saying: “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were....” and I can see the disappointment in their eyes, the fading anger that said Ralph had something they wanted even if they couldn’t stand him as the package.
For Ralph humiliated women, he scolded them, he told them to shut up, and from what I heard, he beat them when they didn’t do or say exactly what he wanted. And for him, fucking was just another way to make women obey him, the more bizarre the method, the happier he was. I once saw him with a woman in my bar during a busy night, her blouse open to her chest, so that every man’s eyes followed the movement of her bobbing breasts, hoping for the moment when a nipple would show. She even stirred me, making my c--- pop up like a rooster readying itself for dawn. And like every man in that place, I plotted to get her, undressing her in my mind, wondering just how I could catch her eye across the room. And like all the women who come here, she saw Ralph first, her eyes glinting as she floated straight toward him.
I remember it being hot <197> even with the air conditioning running <197> and the beads of sweat dripping off all of us as we watched her ease across the tiled floor to end of the bar, each of us aware of how the sweat had soaked through her shirt, making her nipple visible right through, and me, pushing up against the inside of the bar so no one saw my hardon pressing against the inside of my pants like a rabid dog. I could smell her pussy juice oozing down her thigh, gauging its intensity by the growing intensity in her eyes. She didn’t even look at the other men or me, even though many of the most eligible hunks hung out here on Friday nights.
She just stared at Ralph, her eyes saying: “Come on, Baby, let me fuck your brains out,” and his eyes asking back” “You think you’re good enough for me?”
What they said to each other, I couldn’t hear, not with the music roaring and patrons pounding the bar for drinks. But I knew Ralph and wasn’t surprised when he grabbed her arm and led her through the crowd towards a dark part of the dance floor, his hand working up the inside slit of her dress, fingering the source of her juice, and she, moaning as she walked, her face growing so red and her eyes so confused, I thought she’d either faint and fall on the floor and let him fuck her in the middle of the dancing.
Which isn’t too much different from what he did, finding a vacant dark spot along the wall, and pushing her against it, pulling down her shirt so the rest of us didn’t have to use our imaginations to see her tit, his greedy mouth encircling the nipple as natural and proper as if sucking on the mouth of a beer, and that poor girl suddenly realizing what she’d gotten into, squirming in objection, and in pain, yet moved, her face getting that odd look women get when they’re ready to cum, that aching look echoed by increasing moans. Hell, most of us could hear her even over the music. Then, his mouth moved out, his tongue working up along her neck as his hard fingers replaced his hard mouth, and his hard c--- popped out from his suddenly open zipper, a c--- working its way up the slit of her dress the way his hands had across the dance floor, until her expression grew even more crazy, and her moans more loud, and her fists pounded on his back, pleading for him to stop, begging him not to, he humping her against the wall, her legs around his waist, her dress now nothing more than an illusion around her. We could see everything that mattered on her, his hands around her tits, his c--- pumping hard inside of her, his mouth pressed so hard against hers that her moans seemed to come out of him.
Every man in that place stared, especially me, caught between the desire to jump in and make it a gang bang, and the fear the cops would bust in and close the place up. But so caught on the action, the in and out, the up and down, the moans and groans of those two, nobody moved, following the action and the music as if suddenly part of a three-D porno flick. But in the heat, I could smell it all, his juices, her juices, and our juices, twisting around in the air, driving every man crazy.
Then, just when it was all about to come to an end, Ralph pulled out, letting that poor girl slide to the floor, where he stood over her as if over a urinal, his hard c--- hanging over her as if he was ready to pee. I could read his lips when he said: “You know what I want, do it.”
And I could read her lips when from the floor she looked around, then down at herself, then finally up at Ralph and his c--- and said: “Not here, please...”
But even as she said this, I could see her eyes, how they studied that small moon sliced scar on Ralph’s thigh, and how her gaze studied the tip of his hard c---, and I saw the lust rising up in her, and saw how she forgot the bar and the watching men, and lifted herself up so her mouth fit around Ralph’s organ, and her pink lips parted, and she took Ralph into her throat as if swallowing a pill, her own hand down between her own thighs, working up her own juices as her mouth worked up his. Mercilessly, he pressed in on her, pushing his c--- into her mouth, drawing it out, to push again, more like a car piston making a motor run than an act of love, pushing in until we all heard the gagging, drawing out so as to do it again and again, the strobe lights from the dance floor like lashes of a whip across her face. She tried to pull away, but he took her head in both hands and pressed in again, drawing a pained groan, pushing her head to set up his own rhythm, as ignorant of her breathing and gagging as he would be of some minor cut on his own fist in the act of jerking ---.
And I stared and watched the way every man there stared and watched, each of us throbbing as hard as Ralph was, each of us putting ourselves in Ralph’s place, feeling that mouth, hearing that gag, being as merciless in our attack at he was, hoping for the same inevitable explosion, each of us waiting for the moment when he was done so we could drag her off for sloppy seconds and thirds and forths in the back seat of some car or the back room of my bar, making sure she knew we were all equal to Ralph, making sure she had her full of our cum as well as his.
Of course, I had my own ideas, my imagination stirred up by the in and out action in her mouth. I could think of things I could do in the back room, how I could tie her to the bed posts and do things to her with my tongue that made tying her necessary, letting those moans and groans mean more than Ralph’s kind of pain, making her beg for me to stop, and not stop, making this woman remember me and mistake Ralph for me, instead of the other way around.
But then, the music changed, and Ralph, yawning a little, let go of the woman’s head, his c--- popping out of her mouth, squirting all over her face as he pulls it back into his pants, and just like that, he walked back across the bar, pounding on it for me to bring him another drink, and that woman, crumbling onto the floor with her face painted white, and her mouth sucking out empty air.
And now, after nearly a year free of Ralph, he shows up again, taking up his old post at the end of the bar, and a moment later, you walk in, looking twice the woman that other woman did, but looking straight at Ralph the way that other woman and every other woman did. But when the floor tilted you in Ralph’s direction, I shout, “No way,” and leap right over that bar.
“You’re coming with me,” I say, dragging you towards the back room, while a hundred other horny guys cheer me on.
Those patrons who know about my backroom call it my “Den of Pleasure and pain,” though no woman who every came here complained about the pain, getting exactly what they wanted when they came in. I call it “the Doll house,” a private little playground with a lot more in it than a sandbox and swings (though if a woman wanted those I’d accommodate her.)
But you don’t see much of anything when you first walk in, just paneled walls that disclose none of their secret compartments. I keep the mirrored ceiling covered, there for the pleasure of those I bring here. I don’t need to watch myself. But sometimes the women did, needing to see my hard cock from a different angle when it comes at their face, their ass or their cunt, as if it might be someone else watching, suddenly and pleasantly shocked as I pressed my flesh into their lips, thighs or buttocks. Some women watch as I pump them, my cock moving in and out in the mirror, an express train starting slowly then working up into a heat of movement and pain, reflected up there, as the glass echoes their moans and grows.
Some women say the mirror shows them the outside of what they can’t see for themselves, the sight of their own face when cum bubbles from their mouth, or the sight of my face -- when riding me, they throw their heads back.
But the fact that no woman sees the mirror or the sex toys when they first come in, leaves them with a slightly disappointed look as if the king-sized bed, the corner stereo and the low lamp are not at all enough to justify all they’ve heard about this room.
“It’s all I need,” I tell them with a wink.
And it is.
The sex toys are extra, for those women who like their sex with a little more edge. But I can do everything without them, using my hands, fingers, tongue or any other part of my body. But if you want more, eh, I provide.
Now, I see the same disappointed look on your face, as if maybe you regret not going off with Ralph instead, knowing that Ralph can provide an edge no room like mine can. You sit on the bed, your hand stroking its black fur covering so slowly it might be my cock.
I smile. I leave you to sit a moment as I think of how crude Ralph would be, pushing you down like an animal without any sense of finesse. I've done it that way, too, but never so early as this. I let you simmer in your own disappointment. You look around and mumble: "It's so dark in here."
"I don't need light to do what I do," I say.
"But I expected..."
"What exactly did you expect?" I asked, and ease close so you can see the bulge in my pants, my throbbing member aching to get at you since you walked in the bar.
My cock feels like a shook up coke bottle with the lid on too tight.
"Well," you say. "I heard you had -- leather and maybe handcuffs in here."
The word handcuff coming from between your soft pink lips surprises me. I am always surprised by a woman's lust; despite the hundreds of women, I've brought here and the hundreds of outlandish requests. The man who says he can read a woman's wants from her face is a liar. Women have to tell us. Men know only our own throbbing cocks and will stick those cocks in the first available hole. No art. No pleasure. Just pure fucking.
So I let women like you tell me, letting me get my pleasure your way, anyway, torturing myself as I torture you, setting my pace to the oozing pace of your pink pussy or your exposed ass -- though if I had to choose, I'd choose your mouth, thrilling myself with the way it fits around my cock, the way it sucks at me, moving up and down on me until the top pops off that bottle of coke and your mouth over flows with its white fizz, cum rolling out from your lips, down on your chin and chest.
"Leather? Hand cuffs? I've got those," I say, and grin, and reach under the bed to one of the many secret compartments, each containing some special little device for pleasure and pain. I push a button and out pops a drawer and from it I take four sets of handcuffs, grabbing one of your wrists in one quick motion, snapping the cuff around it, and then, when I've dragged your hand to the corner of the bed, I cuff the other side to one of many loops installed in the walls for that purpose.
"Hey," you say, but I've already cuffed your other hand and dragged that to another loop and fastened that there, too. You are surprised by the suddenness of it all, and a little outraged, but in your voice I hear the sound of your pleasure, too.
It is more like it. This is what the other girls talked about to you and made you seek out my bar tonight.
Fuck Ralph? Not in your life.
"What about my feet?" you ask, grinning up at me, your brow showing bubbles of sweat from the excitement, and your breasts heaving hard at the top of your dress. I can see your nipples poking through the fabric.
"We'll get to your feet in a minute," I tell you and slip my hand up under your dress, my cold fingers inching up your thigh until connecting with your moist panties, fingers stroking the bulge of your pussy, making even more juice ooze out.
Then, as if pealing a bandage off an old wound, I ease your panties down, smelling the sharp tang of your juice as I roll them down along your thighs to your legs, then off at your feet. I leave your dress on. I'll fuck you through it if I have to, then I clamp one handcuff to each ankle and the free ends to more hoops near the foot of the bed.
"Now, baby, is that more like what you wanted?" I ask, moving back to those hard little nipples of yours, my hand moving over the surface of your dress, stroking them, making them hurt the way my cock hurts, feeling you shudder at my touch, as I squeeze them between my forefinger and thumb. You moan, and then I slip my hand inside the top of your dress, easing the fabric back so I can put my mouth around your tit, my lips shaping themselves around the very tip, playing with it the way I hope your tongue will play with the tip of my cock, circling around it as you groan, sharp excited pangs passing between your tits and your cunt, making you raise your hips, cuffs rattling as if finally you've gotten the message and know I intend to torture you like this forever, making your juice run, making you beg for my cock in your mouth, your ass and your cunt, but I'll hold it back, Cumming on your face and tits, coming near your lips so you can taste me. Then, I take your tit in my teeth, your hard flesh shuddering with the pain.
"Not too hard," you say, as my tongue tastes just a little of your milk, and maybe a little blood, too, my hands working down your stomach to the hair between your legs, fingers feeling for moisture, feeling you quiver again, feeling your arch your back waiting for them to plunge into your pussy. But I touch your button instead, the tip of my forefinger playing with your button as the tip of my tongue plays with your tit, sending jolting and confusing messages, as your squirm, as if you don't know whether to scream or not -- you still refusing to beg, no matter how much the feeling makes you want me to fuck you.
I move my finger slowly along your clit and let loose with my teeth on your tit, moving my tongue along the outside circle of your nipple to match the movement of my finger, so soft a touch, yet electric, creating all kinds of energy inside you. My finger touches the tip of your button, then moves to one side, circling this, too, spreading your moisture around on the soft skin where the flap of your cunt folds over it, easing it around, slowly, so very slowly, making your squirm again, making you mumble something about me sticking my cock in you, mumbling something about never stopping.
Then, I move my mouth down your breast to your stomach, pausing at your belly button to tease you, sticking it in and out as I stick my finger in your flowing cunt, pushing in neither too far, making your yell at me, making you tell me to fuck you or stop, and me laughing as my mouth moves on, my tongue easing through the tangle of your pubic hair, lingering there, too, to feel the roots, to pull a little with my teeth, making you shout: "Stop that! It hurts," yet hearing in your voice that it doesn't hurt nearly as much as your pulsating pussy, and that what bothers you most is the delay, you wanting my mouth down where my fingers are, you wanting to feel my rough tongue over your clit.
Yet even when my mouth gets there, I don't lick your button or your hole, but work the tip of it around your V, where the flap of your cunt skin folds in from the sides, going into each space, sucking up the pussy juice trapped there, feeling with the tip of my tongue just how smooth and tender each layer is, my tongue massaging places few men's tongues think to massage, easing the pain out of every soft inch, making the juice bubble out of your hole as your mouth moans: "Yes! Yes! Fuck me, now!" and then when I don't, you shout "Touch me, then, don't fucking tease me."
"But teasing's what it's all about, baby," I say, my mouth still full of your sweetness, my words vibrating inside of you as if I'd climbed up into your hole.
"Just give me something," you tell me through gritted teeth.
So I give you my tongue, pushing it as far up into your hole as it will go, wiggling it inside you, then, slowly, working it along your insides, feeling the ribbed interior of your pussy as your juice flows down into and around my mouth, your juice dripping from my lips to the bed like a sudden flow of Golden showers. My tongue circles around the rim of your cunt, that ring that stretches so wonderfully for a man's cock, around I go, so slow, feeling every inch of that expandable skin, feeling it tighten, feeling it loosen, feeling it quiver in expectation of something grander.
"Fuck me, you son of a bitch!" you yell. "Stop fooling around. I want it now and I want it hard."
And I nearly choke with the laugh, already working my belt off, and my zipper open, dragging down my pants and underwear as my cock falls out fully erect, a cock I'm going to shove into you so hard, you'll scream.
But as I rise over you, a click sound comes from behind me. This is the sound of one of my secret drawers popping open. Only I haven't opened it nor am I near enough to open one by accident. when I reach back to close it, a hand-cuff clicks around my wrist, with Ralph's grinning face suddenly over him, laughing at me, as he yanks me off the bed and cuffs the other end to one of the steel loops in the wall.
"Let a real man do this," he tells me, and you shout, and I shout, and he tells us both to shut up. "You treat women like they're made of glass," he tells me. "Don't you know they like it rough, and they like to be ridden like the beasts they are."
"I'll kill you, Ralph!" I shout, drawing yet another laugh from him.
"Sure, sure, shout all you want." he says. "You built this place and made it so no one in the bar can hear. I could murder you and no one would know." Then looking down at your face, he flips open the rest of your dress to expose your body.
"I told you, I didn't come here for a gang bang," you tell him, though even I can detect something dishonest in your voice, your statement contradicting your growing excitement as if you would welcome a chance. You might as well have told him to beat you, and from one of my secret drawers in brings out a whip, as thick on one end as a huge man's cock, and he lays the tip near your lower lip, running the coils between your tips to your stomach, and the handle, gripped firmly in his fist, he presses against your cunt, your juice flowing over onto his knuckles as he grins.
"Now, baby," he says. "We're going to have to some fun."
Ralph eases close to you. Still holding the handle of the whip firmly against your cunt, he whispers in your ear and says he's a one-man gangbang, "I can make you feel good, baby. And I can make that dork in the corner cum just watching us. And with you like you are all spread-eagled for me, I can do whatever I like and there's no one here who can stop me. Now you have a choice. You can play along, and enjoy it, or fight me while I enjoy myself."
"I'll scream," you tell him.
"Which is exactly what I intend for you to do," he says and lifts the whip, and wraps its thick strand through your mouth, tightening it so it keeps you from breathing. "But you're going to scream for more when I'm through with you."
Then, he undoes his zipper, and his huge cock pops out, and he eases this up to your mouth, where the whip is and he rubs his cock's moist tip across your thin upper lip, leaving there a residue of cum, that thin clear cum that glistens on your lips like glass. Then, easing you up a little, me mounts you, sticking that cock into your ass.
"I'm too dry!" you yell despite the whip. "It hurts."
"It won't be dry long," he says and laughs and shoved harder, drawing a grimace of pain from you with each thrust, and then, oddly, he stops, a change comes over his face, and yours, as he spurts hot cum into you, his wet filling you up.
"You like it hard like this, don't you?" he says and grunts and cums again, this time, pulling himself out of you, squirting his cum all over your pubic hair, great white globs clinging to you. "Well, do you?" he asks, holding his cock up to your face.
You nod.
"You want more?" he asks.
You nod again.
"So, I can take the whip out of your mouth?" he asks.
You nod for a third time.
But when he slips out one end from your mouth, he pressed the other end to your lips, the handle that smells of your own juice, looking like a black cock that has just cum inside of you.
""I want you to make our pal over there wish this was his cock," Ralph says. "Do everything you can to make him cum just by watching you. You understand?"
I see a light go on your in your eyes as you look over at me. You smile a little as your mouth takes a firmer grip around that handle, your lips spreading over it, as if over my c---. Ralph doesn’t even need to push it, you move on it, and back away from it, all on your own, tasting your own juices on it, pretending they are mine. I see your tongue flick out at the handle tip, circling slowly around the slight indentation at its end, then up over the round capped top, searching for the indentation there that only my c---- has, you, pretending that it is there, playing with the imaginary hole you find, tongue flicking over it, playing with it, making me ache as my c--- expands and presses at the inside of my pants. Then, again, your mouth covers it all, moving hard on it, as if you need to swallow it, up and down, up and down, up and down, and me, imitating your mouth with my hand, shaking my c--- out, making it conform to your movements, my fingers playing with the tip the way your tongue plays with the tip of the handle, me moaning, you moaning, Ralph laughing at us both with delight, echoing the devious look in your eyes as you watch me suffer, you glad to cause me this pain, clearly wishing you could cause me more.
Then Ralph knocks my hand away with the other end of the whip, shaking his head at me.
“No, no, boy,” he says. “You’re not going to get out of this by jerking off. I want you to hurt and I want you to want this woman more than you’ve wanted any other woman before. In fact,” he says, “I’m going to make this woman hurt you.”
Then, leaning close to you, Ralph whispered, “Wouldn’t you like to hurt him a little?”
“I -- I don’t know you say and glance at me, just a little guilt replacing the previous glow in your eyes. “What did you have in mind?”
“Nothing that will leave any scars,” Ralph says.
“I’d better not,” you say, licking the last of Ralph’s cum from your lips, the faint taste of salt stinging your tongue. “He seems like a nice enough man.”
“Nice?” Ralph barks. “Does a nice man lure little girls into a place like this?”
“I’m not a little girl,” you say indignantly.
“No,” Ralph says. “You’re a simple-minded fly that’s allow this horny old spider with his throbbing dick to fool you into thinking he’s better than me, more moral because he doesn’t fuck women in public the way I do. But what do you think he had planned for you here? You don’t think he’s invested this much in all these sex toys for nothing?”
“But he said...”
“He can say whatever he likes, but you’re the one he’s handcuffed to the bed, and once he’s started with his little toys, how could you stop him? Look at this one.”
Ralph pounded on one of the secret doors in the paneling and out popped the leather and chains, tit-squeezers, cunt locks, and numerous other specialty devices I keep for women willing to go a little further in pursuit of pleasure.
“Don’t listen to him,” I say. “I wouldn’t have used any of that on you unless you told me to.”
“Or this?” Ralph says, displaying another secret compartment, and from this more leather and metal gear falls, spiked boots and belts, and assortment of devices for insertion into any orifice, devices that once inside, open wide. Ralph flicks a switch on one of the handles, demonstrating how one end of the rod opens up into some the size of a baseball.
You're eyes dilate when you look at this, and then, when you look at me again, that teasing look turns hard, caught up in Ralph's web of lies.
"What do you want me to do?" you ask, as Ralph searches for the keys to your cuffs among the first compartment I opened and released you.
"Use this thing on him," he tells you and slips the device into your hand. "Stick it up his ass and let him feel what it's like."
"Now, wait a minute," I protest and yank at my hand cuffs as you advance.
"Bend of you say."
"I won't."
"Do as she says, Pal," Ralph warns. "or some irate husband might find out what you've done to his wide in this room."
I bend over and feel you insert the tube inside of me, pushing it up my dry ass the way Ralph had pushed his cock up yours. Then, slowly, you twist the handle and the devise opens up inch my inch inside of me, like a growing cock too large for the hole it’s in, but you don't open it all the way, you just ease it in and out, and an instant later, you pull it out and replace it with something else, warm liquid spilling into me, filling me up. I can smell the wine from the enigma bottle. And then, I feel your tongue licking up the wind as you pull the thinner tube out, your tongue working around my hole, sucking at my hole, poking in it, and then replaced by your fingers.
"My, my," Ralph says to you, his voice rich with admiration. "You do pick up on things quick. Go to it, baby."
So you turn me around and your mouth goes around my cock, teasing it, your tongue playing over the tip of it the way it had over the whip handle, then around it all, then you swallow it all, going up and down its shaft as your hand cling to my balls, up and down you stroke up, up and down, up and down, and then -- you stop.
You grin at me. You know the exact point at which I am ready to cum, but you won't let me reach it, changing your mouth for your cunt, pushing my now tortured cock up inside of your, moving up and down on it, up and down, up and down, only to stop again.
You laugh, your eyes as devilish as Ralph's now, you loving every minute of this, shaking me up like a sealed bottle of coke, waiting for the moment when I'll explode.
"Time for your gang bang, baby," Ralph says, pushing your mouth towards my cock again "You've gone and got me excited with all this and I'm going to fuck you while you suck him off."
And this time, you suck for real, taking all of my cock into your mouth, groaning over it as Ralph shoves all his cock into your cunt from behind, you and he and me rocking back and forth, like three hot coke bottles shaken up all at once, you groaning, me groaning, while Ralph eggs on us.
"Harder! Harder! You think this is really fucking? I've done better with my hand! Harder, damn it!"
And we do it harder.
He, me and you. Rocking so hard that my chains rattle and my teeth chatter and my heart races reading to explode the minute my cock does. So hard I feel I'm going to go crazy if I don't cum., if you don't make me cum, and as I soon as I think this, my cock spurts and falls from your mouth, mu cum pouring out onto your eye lashes, your lips and your cheeks
And at the other end, Ralph yanks himself out, his cum spraying all over your ass, ralph laughing, you laughing and me laughing all the same time, me and ralph going limp, all of us muttering, "My God!"
Later, I wake still chained to the wall, and see you two fucking in my bed, humping hard at each other as if that is all either of you every wanted to do, and later still, I wake again to find you both gone, along with your clothing, and my hand chained still chained to the wall.
