Weegee was the pseudonym of Arthur Fellig (June 12, 1899 – December 26, 1968), an American photographer and photojournalist, known for his stark black and white street photography.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Zagreel Weegeen, Third Hatchmate of the Lydra Hegemony
(translated by M. Christian)
"Are you a non-public dick?" the female spoke, walking into my professional space on her aesthetically appealing locomotive appendages.
Even though it towards the end of my human mating cycle, I still found her be fertile and more than suitable for procreation, what with her well-developed milk glands, crimson-painted oral display, and blue-toned visual organs.
"That's what the portal mentioned," I uttered, not wanting to let her achieve sexual superiority this early in a potential courtship display. "What can I accomplish with you?"
She continued her courting ritual by coating her eating and breathing orifice with saliva, and bending her locomotive appendages to 'sit' her padded anal orifice down on my sitting device, folding her lower appendages to show me a generalized view of her sexual apparatus. "I need your assistance," she spoke, exhaling powerful chemical attractants.
"What kind of assistance do you require?" I uttered, skeptical of her choice of me as a mating partner. I was not a unsuitable candidate for mating, for I had shared my sperm sacks with many suitable female members of my species, but I have also through many human years of direct experience have educated myself that such a brazen presentation of sexual characteristics is typically deceptive. Still, I did find simply physical pleasure in the female's direct exhibition of her secondary sexual characteristics.
"A person unknown to me is going to attempt to end my physical existence," the female spoke with tones of no alarm, her attack or defend pheromones not present. "I require you to prevent this from occurring."
I was a male of no great lineage, but with ample direct experience with many human interactions, but had never audibly received any like pronouncement from any human during my many orbits of the local solar body in occupation of a non-public investigator. I expressed my confusion by lowering my hairy eye-protecting lids and moving my upper body-structure closer towards the female, and speaking: "I am confused by this. Why would anyone seek to cause you bodily injury?"
This female person then exposed her white incisors, demonstrating to my vision that she found my confusion enjoyable. "Mister Weapon, you do not think that someone would not want to terminate my physical existence?"
Despite the female's obvious attempts to confuse my human thought processes through perceiving her sexual characteristics I was still compelled to complete the mating ritual, and deposit my sperm in her egg receptacles: "Female, you do not appear an individual who would have anyone on this small planet pursuing the end of your life processes."
The female produced a 'cigarette' and ignited it with a mechanical device. The tube of plant fibers filled my moderately-sized professional space with the reek of carcinogenic long-chain molecules. "Mister Weapon, I am a female of pleasant company, a staunch pursuer of only high-class breeding material. Nonetheless, someone proximately very soon will try to terminate me."
Her profession of only desiring a high-quality mate for reproduction made me display my own 'teeth' as the content of her words stimulated my organ of humor. "Female, I presume not on your standing within our human culture. But I cannot comprehend why a person would cause you to die."
She placed the tube of carcinogenic materials back in her oral cavity, drawing in the poisons with a long, slow intake of atmosphere. "I possess great funds, or as I should better state in English, my male parent possesses immense quantities of property and currency. I suspect that this might be the reasons for the attempts to cause my physical self to stop functioning. My parental is William Cash."
I attempted to control the muscles surrounding my air and food intake as well as the ones around my optical organs but I suspect that I was unsuccessful in the attempt against the connotations of the name of her male parental. I doubted that any human in the Metropolis of Los Angeles didn't know the identity label of Cash. His personal signet was on many of the Angeles structures of notoriety, as well as being prominently featured on many of the documentations of control in the big city. I knew little of the structure of this crèche, but I had become informed through various information sources available to me, such as the ink of pulp media of 'newspapers' and primitive radio reception technology that the parental of the female member of my species roosting before my optical receivers was nearing the end of an average human lifespan. If her physical essence should cease to function effectively due to a natural progression of deterioration, then this female progeny would be the recipient of that impressive accumulation of human monetary units.
Even though it disturbed my emotional equilibrium to have such a mortification for the ending of another entity's physical existence, especially one that appeared to my human senses as desirable to pass on my genetic legacy, it remained a viable possibility. "Do you, female of the Cash legacy, have any suspicions as to an individual or group of individuals who would be willing to cease your self for reasons of your parental's immense property and currency reserves?"
TO BE CONTINUED
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Georges Joseph Christian Simenon (pronounced [ʒɔʀʒ simˈnɔ̃] in French) (February 13, 1903–September 4, 1989) was a Belgian writer who wrote in French. He is best known for the creation of the fictional detective Maigret.
At the age of three, Simenon learned to read at the Sainte-Julienne nursery school. Then, between 1908 and 1914, he attended the Institut Saint-André. In September 1914, shortly after the beginning of the First World War, he began his studies at the Collège Saint-Louis, a Jesuit high school.
In the summer of 1915, going against the grain of the Jesuits' chaste teachings, the twelve year-old Simenon had the first of many sexual experiences in his long life; in this case, with an older girl of fifteen. Many years later, Simenon was known as "the man of 10,000 women," a self-confessed sex addict who "needed" to have sex three times a day. Quite a few women were prepared to humor him for nothing, nevertheless, these 10,000 were said to include 8,000 prostitutes. It has been suggested that the real number of women in Simenon's life was, although prodigious, vastly smaller than 10,000. In this he was quite different from his fictional creation, Maigret, who can be presumed to have been entirely faithful to Madame Maigret ....
Simenon's first novel, Au Pont des Arches was written in June 1919 and published in 1921 under his "G. Sim" pseudonym. Writing as "Monsieur Le Coq," he also published more than 800 humorous pieces between November 1919 and December 1922.
During this period, Simenon's familiarity with nightlife only increased: prostitutes, drunkenness, and general carousing. The people he rubbed elbows with included anarchists, bohemian artists, and even two future murderers, the latter appearing in his novel Les Trois crimes de mes amis. He also frequented a group of artists known as "La Caque." While not really involved in the group, he did meet his future wife Régine Renchon through it ....
Simenon's father died in 1922 and this served as the occasion for him to move to Paris with Régine Renchon (hereafter referred to by her nickname "Tigy"), at first living in the XVIIe Arrondissement, not far from the Boulevard des Batignolles. He became familiar with the city, its bistrots, cheap hotels, bars, and restaurants. More importantly, he also came to know ordinary working-class Parisians. Writing under numerous pseudonyms, his creativity began to pay financial dividends.
Simenon and Tigy returned briefly to Liège in March 1923 to marry. Despite his Catholic upbringing, Simenon was not a believer. Tigy came from a thoroughly non-religious family. However, Simenon's mother insisted on a church wedding, forcing Tigy to become a nominal convert, learning the Catholic Church's catechism. Despite their father's lack of religious convictions, all of Simenon's children would be baptized as Catholics. Marriage to Tigy, however, did not prevent Simenon from having liaisons with numerous other women, perhaps most famously, Josephine Baker ....
A reporting assignment had Simenon on a lengthy sea voyage in 1928, giving him a taste for boating. In 1929, he decided to have a boat built, the Ostrogoth. Simenon, Tigy, their cook and housekeeper Henriette Liberge, and their dog Olaf lived on board the Ostrogoth, traveling the French canal system. Henriette Liberge, known as "Boule" (literally, "Ball," a reference to her slight pudginess) was romantically involved with Simenon for the next several decades and would remain a close friend of the family, really part of it.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Sex Sells: How to Write & Sell Erotica
Sunday, October 12th, 1pm - 4pm
$40 before Sept 30; $50 after Sept 30
Center for Sex & Culture
1519 Mission Steet, San Francisco
Register via PayPal (Zobop@aol.com) or pay at the door
The market for erotic fiction and nonfiction is booming! There actually is a secret to writing great erotica - and you'll discover just what that is in this fun, hands-on workshop with well-known erotica writer and teacher M. Christian.
For the beginning writer, erotica can be the ideal place to begin writing, getting published, and -- best of all -- earning money. And for the experienced writer, erotica can be an excellent way to beef up your resume and hone your writing skills. M. Christian will review the varieties of personal and literary expression possible in this exciting and expanding field. He'll also teach you techniques for creating love and sex scenes that sizzle.
Learn how to:
- Get started writing for and selling to this growing marketplace
- Free your creativity and get past inhibitions
- Avoid cliches, common mistakes, and pitfalls
- Write what editors and publishers will want to buy
Students will also receive:
- Several informative handouts including a list of top-notch markets and venues for erotica, as well as funny and educational articles and columns
- A personal invitation to contribute to a special erotica project
- 50% off a wide selections of erotica books
- A free autographed copy of M.Christian's collection Filthy: Outrageous Gay Erotica=
M.Christian is an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 300 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites. He is the editor of 20 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and many others. He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, and Filthy; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, and Painted Doll. His site is www.mchristian.com.For more information write M.Christian at email@example.com.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Remember, if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Bobby's cock twitches as the first dollop of cum shoots into Lexi's mouth catching Lexi completely by surprise. Lexi had not wanted to swallow Bobby's cum. She had planed to let him shoot all over her face. She was relatively new to sex in general and blow jobs in particular so she did not know that much about it, but she did know that she did not like the taste of cum. She also knew not to stop pumping her hand and sucking his cock once Bobby had started to cum. So she diligently pumped and sucked while Bobby filled her mouth with cum.
As his softening prick slips from her lips Lexi is left in a bit of a quandary. She can't spit it out. She knows that would be bad, very rude indeed. But she can't swallow, she just can't. So she finds herself spiting out his cum almost without realising what she was doing.
"Lexi!", her mother's voice calls out.
Both Lexi and Bobby look up, startled.
"What on earth are you doing?"
"Well, it just..." Lexi starts to say.
"I can't believe that you would spit Bobby's cum onto the floor like that."
"It's just the taste, Mom," Lexi tries to explain.
"I don't care, young lady," Lexi's mother is furious. "As long as you live under my roof, you'll live by my rules. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Mom," Lexi looks down at the floor. "I'm sorry, Mom."
"Well it's not me you should be apologizing to, now it is?"
Lexi turns her head, but keeps her eyes down cast, "I'm sorry, Bobby."
"Well..." Bobby starts to speak.
"Apologise properly, Lexi."
"I'm very sorry, Bobby," Lexi looks at the ground between Bobby's widely spread feet. "I'm sorry for not swallowing all your cum."
"That's all right, Lexi," Bobby strokes Lexi's hair. "I don't ..."
"No it's not alright, Bobby," Lexi's Mom interrupts again. "I raised my child to have good manners. And Lexi is old enough to know that if she is going to blow someone she's going to swallow all his cum. Is that not right, young lady?"
"Yes, Mom," Lexi continues to kneel on the floor with her head down.
"And now, Bobby, your first public blow job has been ruined," Lexi's Mon climbs up onto the stage.
"Well not completely ruined..." Bobby starts to say.
"And I," Lexi's Mon continues. "Well I have been embarrassed in front of the entire village."
A sympathetic murmur circulates around the village hall, where every man, woman and child for a 10 mile radius has crammed inside for the senior year's end of school talent show.
Lexi feels her pussy spasm as her mother reminds her of the audience that is watching. She can almost hear her pussy juice drip onto the floor. And she is sure that everybody in the hall can smell her arousal.
"But as well as apologising I think Lexi needs to do something to make up for her misdemeanor," Lexi's Mom states.
"Oh, Mon," Lexi looks up at her mother.
"Don't you 'Oh, Mom' me, young lady."
Lexi drops her eyes to the floor again.
Lexi's Mon points to the drops of cum, "I still can't believe that you spit his cum on the floor like that."
"I'm sorry," Lexi whispers.
"Well being sorry is not enough," Lexi's Mom shakes her head. "I think you need to make it up to him somehow."
"Make it up to him?" Lexi's voice is barely a whisper.
"Yes," Lexi's Mom pauses for a moment. "I think you need to give him your anal cherry."
"Mom!," Lexi's cheeks flush bright red.
"Don't 'Mom' me."
"But, Mom," Lexi whispers. "I'm saving that for George."
Lexi's Mon shakes her head slowly, "Well it's admirable that George has gone to serve his country overseas. And it's unfortunate that he had to go before you graduated. But he'll just have make do with being the second boy to shoot his load into your anus."
"Mom," Lexi's cunt spasms again.
"Well it's not all bad, Lexi," consoles her Mother. "Maybe you'll get to take George's cherry."
"I don't think so," Lexi shakes her head. "He is in the Marines after all."
A soft murmur of laughter circulates around the hall.
"Yes," Lexi's Mom smiles. "He is going to see plenty of action."
Lexi looks glum.
"All the more reason," her mother continues in an upbeat tone, "for you to be as active as you can while he's away."
Lexi sighs in exasperation.
"So up you get," Lexi's Mom takes hold of her arm and leads her to a conveniently placed table at the centre of the stage.
Her mother bends Lexi over the table and flicks up her skirt. The amateur stage hand flashes the spotlight across the stage a few times before getting it centered on Lexi's naked buttocks. A murmur of appreciation runs through the hall.
Bobby's cock stands up almost as fast as he does.
A shiver of anticipation runs through Lexi's body as Bobby awkwardly positions himself behind her.
Lexi is sure everybody can smell her arousal.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Fujiko is Lupin's love (or lust) interest. Fujiko is an extremely intelligent and crafty person and will use her feminine charms to get what she wants from any man. She is also an expert when it comes to firearms and even rivals Lupin when it comes to her burglary skills. Lupin and Fujiko were never really lovers although occasionally Lupin scored with Fujiko, especially when the latter is dying to find out about a particular detail that Lupin knows. She will also routinely make deals with Zenigata or Lupin's current enemy in an attempt to gain her freedom or to hopefully gain a piece of the loot he is after. While Lupin normally is able to outsmart Fujiko, she is able to make off with some or all of his loot on occasion.
In the manga, Fujiko originally arrives in the third chapter of the first volume, thus being the first of Lupin's three associates to arrive. She initially appears as a con woman attempting to worm her way into the fortune of a rich family, whose heir has hired Lupin as security. Immediately upon arriving, she recognizes Lupin through his disguise somehow, and by the end of the arc, Lupin has sided with her to rob the entire family. Her name is occasionally mispronounced as "Miss Futen." In addition, she often appears as a "new" character, with other series regulars acting as if they have never seen her before.
Fujiko does exhibit feelings of love for Lupin, but usually only if she thinks one (or both) of them are dying. On occasions where Lupin appears to have died, she grieves extremely and has even stated that her life has no meaning without him. However, her attitude always reverts at once when she finds him alive. She was named after Mt. Fuji, which is fitting, since mine means "mountain peak", and Fujiko has exorbitantly large breasts to associate with the pun; an English translation of Fujiko's name would be "Twin Peaks". She is not really part of Lupin's gang, but often participates in Lupin's exploits. However, as a grifter par excellence she exclusively works to serve her own interests, which usually conflict with Lupin's ("Need I remind you that the last time she brought us a good deal was never?" Jigen has once remarked), and which of the two will prevail in such a situation is anybody's guess. Frequently, these schemes involve her betraying Lupin to get close to the enemy, whom she intends on double-crossing at a later time as well (and sometimes, though rarely, help to extricate Lupin and the gang for the trouble she put them into, as if to atone for her misdeed). This never seems to bother Lupin, however. In the 2004 TV special, Stolen Lupin, he remarked, "Betrayal is the exclusive right of women." In the 1995 movie Farewell to Nostradamus, he told Fujiko (who had lost her memory) he almost looks forward to her betraying him.
Fujiko is truly Lupin's equal: she is a proficient disguise artist, an excellent markswoman, and a cunning thief. She also has the femme fatale role mastered, and her feminine charms have earned her many riches. Jigen despises Fujiko, and sees her showing up as a sign of rough times ahead, although originally, all three of the men were after her. Goemon has been known to work with Fujiko on capers when it is to his benefit, but can be equally distrustful of her when he thinks she is manipulating Lupin. Lupin is, of course, completely infatuated with Fujiko, and will do anything for her. While Fujiko milks this for all it's worth, the fact is that Fujiko never gets Lupin into any trouble she believes he can't get out of. The creator of the series has said that the two "enjoy each other", and are quite content with their bizzare yet amicable relationship, comparing it to his own marriage.
Remember, if you want to post a story, article, essay or artwork here on Frequently Felt just write me at email@example.com.
he keeps me naked in our fantasy house, parading me boldly past a vastness of glass. we're creating our refuge amidst miles of trees. we're very considerate, protecting the neighbors from my screams.
we're surrounded by trees, but he has his favorite. it arises out back, in the huge open area that allows the sun to flood this home to our darkest fantasies. he hauls me to the tree by my hair, ties me hard against the rough bark, sometimes embracing the huge trunk, sometimes arms drawn behind so that i can watch him pull the belt from the loops of his jeans, watch as he folds the strip of leather in half, watch as he brings back his arm before striking, watch his erection stretch the blue denim as welts sprout profusely on belly and thighs.
sometimes he ties my wrists in front of me. he reaches for the rope permanently tied to a strong branch above our heads, lifts me up just off my toes, and attaches my wrists to the hand-forged iron hook at the rope's end. i know it is time for the cane. he loves to watch me dance as he canes me. he knows i'm not trying to escape his blows; i'm much too submissive for that. it's the pain. i can't help it. automatically i wriggle and dance to flee the awful aftershocks that echo down through my ass. i cry out with each blow, and my pain shrieks through the acres of forest. if the screams manage to reach civilization, they are ascribed to some strange wild beast.
in our passion, we are wild beasts.
he canes me, again and again and again.
and honey drips out of my cunt,
pooling beneath my dancing feet.
sometimes i think of bringing in a decorator. or perhaps we are chosen for one of those HGTV design shows, where 3 designers compete to satisfy your house lust. we lead them to the bedroom, and mention our need for hooks that will drop from the ceiling at the press of a secret button. a section of wall will disguise the door to the toy closet, with shelves and rods to keep all his evil implements at hand. we specify thick padding under the stain-proof carpet, to protect my knees when i crawl. which is often.
each designer smiles and nods and takes notes as if we were discussing where to put the pantry. each designer shivers only slightly as the philosopher twists my naked nipple and requests a color-coordinated cushion for his pet's cage.
"now here's where we thought of putting the dungeon..."
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
AN: Thank you for having me.
AFW: We can only imagine the complicated logistics of your travel. May I ask, what is the nature of your current realm?
AN: It’s different than Southern California. And you can’t get change for a
twenty. I still write: letters to earth, entries in my diaries and so on.
AFW: Wonderful. May I ask, how has passing into another realm affected your
work? Let's see, it's been about thirty-one years since you passed.
AN: Thirty-one years! It seems only yesterday I was living - in Los Angeles. In answer to your question, I'm unaware of how my work may have been affected by the move. The writing process feels the same to me. I'm taken by ideas and feelings - and need to express them.
AFW: The entities in your world, are they big readers? How do they respond to your work?
AN: Well, frankly, tell-all biographies of God and Satan top the best seller lists. And diet books. It's disturbing.
AFW: Anais, it's fascinating that you began writing as an eleven year old diarist. Did you have any idea where this would take you?
AN: No. I was a child. I simply wrote my impressions, descriptions, experiences and feelings. I felt compelled to continue. The time was such that my work was considered to be shocking. Now, in this day and age [smiles] I feel blessed that many still find my work to be compelling.
AFW: What writers influenced you?
AN: D. H. Lawrence, Marcel Proust, Sherwood Anderson, Djuna Barnes, Colette, Lou Andreas Salome, Henry Miller . . .
AFW: Is it true that you shared your actual childhood diary with author and friend Henry Miller?
AN: It's true. I did. It was a very special moment. Henry was quite touched by it. He almost wept. He could be quite emotional you know [dreamily smiles]
AFW: Who do you consider to be your muse?
AN: Well, I've had many. But I was especially drawn to Henry. We had a natural chemistry and inspired one another. The relationship was stormy and passionate, it wasn’t all hearts and flowers in Louveciennes . . . it was two writers working and raging in a roach-infested Paris flat.
AFW: You must have fascinating anecdotes of the nineteen-thirties’ Parisian literary scene.
AN: Yes. I do. Read my books. [smiles]
AFW: What did you think of the film adaptation of your book Henry And June?
AN: I thought that it was well done, somewhat romanticized, and not completely accurate. The screenplay and casting were good. The locations were very evocative. Now, in the afterlife, Henry and I occasionally watch the film together.
AFW: How does it feel to be such an honored writer - and a woman who brought a new honesty and a mystical eloquence to the expression of female sexuality?
AN: It feels wonderful. Of course. But the early days were not easy. Publication? As you know, many writers at that time published their own works. It was necessary for me to establish Siana Editions in Paris in 1935 in order to showcase my work. Cyberspace? The internet? Electronic publishing? You modern writers have it so easy! [smiles] And you know, there's nothing like the magic of a traditional hardcover book.
AFW: Anais, this piece is to be seen by readers and writers of erotica . .
AFW: My quandary is . . .
AFW: We need more sexual content. They're sticklers for that [smiles] Could you help me out?
AN: Electric flesh-arrows . . . traversing the body. A rainbow of color strikes the eyelids. A foam of music falls over the ears. It is the gong of the orgasm.
AFW: Wonderful, Anais. Let them critique THAT! [smiles] And thank you for being here with us today. It was a pleasure.
AN: You're welcome. The pleasure was mine.
Nin passage from: The Diary of Anaïs Nin, vol. 2 (Copyright 1967), entry for Oct. 1937.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
John is also going to be in San Francisco for a reading on September 23rd at Borders - be sure and go!
BORDERSFor more info about John and his great books check out his site here.
845 Market St.
San Francisco, CA 94103
She was 18 again and her name was Rachel.
“Rhonda, come over to the rock!” Rachel called, pushing a wave from in front of her with interlaced fingers. She loved to watch the water break against her hands, rolling around them and splattering her with saltwater. Mom warned her against swallowing the sea foam. “You’ll catch God knows what sort of germs or slimies if you go swallowing that dirty water.” But Rachel never paid the warnings much mind. She licked the spray from her lips and smiled. The taste stuck to her tongue, a near oily residue of life. Well-salted life. Tears in a cup. Sweat in an ocean. The water was her place, her womb. And she dragged her friends here whenever she could.
“I really should get back soon,” Rhonda complained in that familiar “let’s wrap this up” tone. If the ocean was Rachel’s life documentary, it was just a short sitcom for the rest. Jump in, have a few laughs and get out without getting anything wet deep down. Soul deep. Rachel came out here to play, but the gang never seemed to totally understand that there was more. When you sat on the rocks out in the middle of the bay, you could stare into someplace beyond. Some days, she thought the whole town was really more like a pier. Just a place that you could dive off from into the water, if you were brave enough. If you wanted to see what was beneath the dark, rushing waves. That was where reality was, she thought. That was where life began.
Rachel thought maybe she had skimmed the surface of those secret primordial depths, if not dived in. Her friends showed no interest in doing more than strolling out along the pier . . . and then turning back.
“It is getting late,” Karen chimed in. Her freckles stood out more in the dying light. She never seemed to tan in the sun, only grow paler around the freckles. Her hair hung in a long, hemp braid, its natural orange fire dulled to a sodden brown. Karen followed Rhonda in everything. And Melody, Monica and Bernadette were usually not too far behind. The bigger girl had a way of getting her way.
“One more lap?”
Rhonda rolled her eyes.
“C’mon, it won’t take too long,” Bernadette offered, taking Rachel’s side for once. Rachel flashed her a smile and dove off into the deep green-blue water, heading over towards the foot of the cliff. There were more shells to find there, where the rocks jutted like pylons from the water, and held onto the refuse that the tides dragged in from the depths of the ocean.
The splashing behind her increased as her friends kicked in and followed. They had already piled a stash of sea treasure on the bank, but one more run wouldn’t hurt. Who knows, maybe they’d find something cool from a ship. They’d brought in a long fiberglass shard that Rachel was sure had belonged to some kind of boat earlier today.
“Maybe the pilot’s body is wedged between one of these rocks,” Rhonda had suggested drolly. “Maybe the next time we go down, we’ll find his skull.”
Karen had splashed her in the face and the whole group had struck back to shore for a while. But sunset wasn’t far off now. It was time to head home. Missing dinner was a capital offense. But Rachel really hated to go home. Any excuse that she could think of to stave that torture off . . .
“By tomorrow, if there is anything else left of this boat, it will all have been pulled back out to sea,” she called over her shoulder. The other girls didn’t need much prodding, however. They all had dreams of sunken treasure chests and long lost strings of pearls in their heads.
Rachel reached the spot where they’d found the long piece of fiberglass pinned, and turned to the others. “Let’s start here. Anything you find, pile up here on the rock, OK?”
The others nodded, and split off to the surrounding boulders, taking deep breaths and then plunging their heads beneath the surface to scan the murky ground beneath.
The treasure hunt was on.
It was Bernadette who found the cave. She’d gotten quite close to shore, beyond where the rest of the group was trawling for broken clues from a broken boat. Chances are, the boat hadn’t even sunk near here, but had been washed up from miles away by the tide. All sorts of strange debris had piled into Terrel Bay over the years. Its deadly currents were legend on this coast.
“Hey you guys! Over there.” She pointed at the base of the cliff, just a few steps of sand up from the rock-strewn water. “Is that an opening?”
“Could be,” Melody agreed, nodding. “Let’s check it out!”
The girls trudged out of the water to convene on the beach once more, and shaking and squeezing the water from their hair as they went, walked over to the small opening in the mountain. It was only three feet wide, but that was plenty of room for Rachel to stick her head inside.
She whistled, and the sound echoed for what seemed like miles.
“It gets bigger and bigger,” she said, pulling her head out. It looks like a huge cave in there.”
“How come we never saw it before?” Bernadette asked, her naturally sloe eyes squinted even tighter in wonder.
“It’s probably underwater most of the time,” Karen said. “Look at how close the tide is to it now.”
“Can we look inside?” Bernadette pressed.
Rachel knew that if she had asked, Rhonda would have said no. Absolutely not. Time to go. But instead, the bigger girl turned and ran down the beach.
“I’ve got a light on my bike,” she called over her shoulder in explanation.
Ten minutes later and six bikinied Terrel High seniors were tiptoeing beneath the cap of Terrel’s Peak. A smooth rock path wound up and away from the ocean into the bowels of the mountain.
“We should only follow this for a few yards or we could get lost,” Rachel warned.
Rhonda shushed her. “Just watch out that you don’t step on any creatures from the black lagoon. We go straight in, we’ll go straight out. It’ll be fine.”
They stepped, single file, up a slow smooth incline. And then the path opened into a room.
Without warning, Bernadette screamed.
The other girls reached out for her, but the girl was already in motion, running across the width of the cavern into the dark.
“Bernadette, wait,” Rachel called, and the girls began to run forward after her.
Rhonda shone her light around the room, revealing glistening grey walls, but no sign of Bernadette.
“Bernadette, what the fuck,” she growled, and then her light found the girl, huddled up in a ball against the farthest wall of the cave. Her face bobbed back and forth, as if looking for something. In the light of the flash, her narrow eyes seemed to have bulged to twice their size.
“Did you hear him?” she whispered as the rest of the girls gathered around her.
“Hear who?” Rhonda asked.
“He said . . . he said he’d been waiting for us.”
“Quit screwing around, Bernie,” Rhonda barked. She always called the younger girl Bernie when she was annoyed. “We should probably get home.”
“I heard a man,” Bernadette insisted, but the rest of the girls ignored her.
“Probably just the ghost of a pirate,” Rhonda laughed. “Trying to keep us from getting at his gold. Maybe it was the guy from the boat.”
“Hey what’s this?” Rachel called. “Shine the light here.”
She was just a few feet away, and something sparkled at her feet in the yellow light from Rhonda’s bike lamp. Rhonda moved closer with the flash, and then they all saw it. It glinted like treasure in the light.
A box just a little bigger than a cigar box. Bits of its lid glittered silver in the light of the flash, though most of it had corroded and darkened to turn black and green from the salt air.
“Open it,” Monica squealed.
“NO!” Bernadette cried.
But Rachel did. There was no lock on the fastener. Ignoring Bernadette’s warning, she tried to pry the simple metal clasp off its peg. The lid wouldn’t budge at first, but then it did, lifting off with a pop that put Rachel off balance. She fell backwards to land unceremoniously on her butt, and the contents of the box spilled out onto the ground.
It was a strange collection to have hidden away in a box.
There was an artist’s thin paintbrush, its wooden handle stained a variety of dark shades. And there was a jagged charcoal sketch pencil. A small leather-bound book. A necklace, with two horned, coupling figures. And the broken, yellowed key to a piano.
The girls all squealed with delight. They’d found it. After years of getting goose bumps and blue skin from diving and fruitlessly pulling up muck around the rocky beach, they’d found buried treasure at last! Well, a treasure chest with old junk, anyway.
“Look at this,” Rachel said, opening the pages of the leather book. “Whose do you suppose it was?”
“What does it say?” Melody asked. “Is it a diary?”
As they each grabbed and passed around the box’s bits of refuse, they all heard the voice that had sent Bernadette stumbling.
So glad you could come, it said.
This time, Bernadette didn’t scream. But the girls all looked at each other, eyes wide as if to say, “Did you hear that too?”
It’s been so long since I’ve had the pleasant company of young women! the voice enthused. Please, don’t be afraid. Take what you want from the box. Each piece will bring you something special.
It was Bernadette who’d voiced what they all were thinking.
“Are you . . . a . . . genie?” she’d whispered, her voice trembling as she looked around and around at the blank grey walls. Nobody else was in the room. Nothing moved.
In a manner of speaking, he’d replied. But I don’t give wishes away for free.
Rachel absently hung the erotic necklace around her throat, fingering the horns on its figures’ heads. Karen toyed with the paintbrush, swishing long curved lines in the sand using its brush. Each of the girls found their hands drawn to one of the pieces from the box.
The voice began to laugh then. Yes, he said. It has been a long time.
Rachel felt a warmth spread through her body, a tingling sensation that made the world seem fine, fine, fine. It was like being drunk. At first it felt good, after the hours they’d been in the water. But then it grew uncomfortably, sunburn warm. Sweating hot, but in a weird way. She felt excited. Dirty. She looked at the figures of the pendant at her chest and licked her lips in thirst. But not a thirst for water.
God. The head had slipped from her chest to her belly and then lower, and she reached down to scratch the skin along the laces of her bikini and suddenly knew what the heat really was. She wanted to fuck!
“What . . . ?” she began to say, and then, through blurred eyes, she could see that the others felt it too. They were all behaving strangely, their faces glazed as their hands rubbed knotted into fists and then sneaked across their bodies to scratch themselves, sneakily at first, and then without care for propriety. Rhonda’s tongue was licking her upper lip as her left hand disappeared into her bikini top, and Karen had sat down with her back to the wall, allowing her fingers to gouge red trails on the inner white flesh of her thighs.
Then Rhonda’s hand pulled free from her breasts, allowing one tit to hang out obscenely as she stepped out of her bikini bottoms to expose the curly black hair of her cunt. Quiet, shy Monica had even slipped her hand inside her bikini bottoms. Through the suit, Rachel watched as the girl’s fingers bunched and relaxed rhythmically, obscenely, against the already taut material of her suit. She didn’t seem to care that her friends could clearly see her masturbating. They had always been close friends . . . but not that close.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen women in action, the voice said. Show me what you’ve got, girls.
Rhonda moved like a zombie towards Bernadette, one hand lodged in the exposed thatch of dark hair between her legs, the other hand supporting her young but already heavy, fleshy left breast, fingers pinching an erect brown nipple. She moaned as she moved with obvious intent towards her friend. The smaller girl had backed against the wall, and was looking wide-eyed at the rest as if they were aliens. She alone seemed unaffected by the strange erotic heat that had stolen the wills of her friends. She alone was not touching herself in some obscene way.
“No!” she screamed as Rhonda’s lips pressed to her own.
“No, no, no!” she cried and threw herself from the room.
I didn’t say you could leave, the voice said smoothly. They all heard him. But Bernadette continued to run down the path leading down to the ocean.
In a moment, there was a short scream from outside the cave, but the girls barely heard it. Each was engrossed in the honey-sweet sensation that had blurred their minds. The sexy sweet heat was coating their limbs, throbbing in their thighs, pouring like hot honey down their throats. They were swimming, drowning, engulfed in its musk. They abandoned themselves to it, lapping it up like mother’s milk. They felt starved for it, couldn’t get enough of it, couldn’t taste it fast enough. They touched themselves and longed to touch their friends. Their suits dropped in a jumble of colorful triangles on the cave floor and the five girls quickly stepped towards each other, eyes glazed, and tongues searching. The cave floor soon became a tumble of sucking, rubbing flesh. There was no hesitation or shyness as they rolled towards one another, arms and legs outstretched. They kissed each other in blind abandon, mouth seeking mouth, hand slipping down and inside as one through the mud.
They didn’t even stir when Bernadette returned from her frantic escape to stand in their midst. She was naked, her small breasts pale and beaded with seawater. A puddle of cold seawater formed around her feet, as drops perspired down her slender thighs, beaded in the wiry tangle of her pubic hair and splattered to the rock floor, drip by drip by drip. The girls formed a circle, twining and moaning around her feet, a humid sultry breeze of sex pounding against the cool breeze of the surf that slid from Bernadette’s body. None of the girls seemed to care that Bernadette was also bleeding dark, heavy blood from a deep gash that ran from her left eye to cross her forehead and disappear into the wet coils of her hair.
Rachel would remember later sucking on that cut as Bernadette’s strangely unfocussed eyes rolled in her head and deep laughter sprang from her girlish belly. Seawater sprayed from her mouth as she laughed, cooling the girls who moaned and writhed closer to Bernadette, thirsting for more of her cool wetness to assuage their strange heat, the ocean soothing the red blush on their skins and then burning away as the fire within their bones burned hotter again. Their thirst was unquenchable, and Rhonda licked the drops from Melody’s breasts, and then tickled Bernadette’s underarms, drawing a deeper, longer laugh, and a thicker, messier spray from the girl’s mouth. They didn’t care . . . Bernadette was their fountain. Sex was their sun.
Mostly, what Rachel remembered of that afternoon was bliss. A tangle of hair and arms and breasts and musky, thirsty unquenchable sex. A dirty, evil, wonderful hour of touching and sucking and playing lover and loved with each other. They were mindless. There were no boundaries. It was ecstasy.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, the strange, distorted orgy was over.
The honey taste dripped away from their lips to leave a bitter residue of iron and salt. Their vision cleared.
Rachel lifted her mouth from the hard nipples of Monica’s firm, 18-year-old chest and met her friend’s look of horror with equal disgust.
Karen rolled from between Melody and Rhonda and spit the taste of their orgasms from her lips, grabbing and holding her discarded suit ineptly across her well-explored privates. Her eyes looked wild with fright and incomprehension at what had just happened.
And Bernadette stood again in the middle of them, and smiled crazily, congealed blood smeared across her breasts and the tiny pit of her belly button and the light, short hair of her pubes. The same blood that coated all of the girls’ bodies.
Melody wiped a hand across her face and stared at the blood that came away on her fingers for many seconds before her lips began to tremble. A low horrible, frightened sound came from her lips.
“That was fun,” Bernadette said.
But it wasn’t Bernadette’s voice that said it. It sounded deeper, littered with razors and gravel. And her eyes looked wrong. Vacant. Like shiny black marbles rolling back in her skull.
“We’ll have to do that again, sometime.”
Karen was frantically shimmying her bony legs into her suit bottoms. But then she stopped and screamed when she saw the smears of blood on her calves staining the edge of her suit. She started to push the suit bottoms back off, and saw the blood speckled on her feet. With a moan, she slid to the floor, suit bunched at her knees, eyes filled with tears and paralyzing fear.
“Right now,” the Bernadette voice continued, “I’m sure you all want to go home.”
Somebody else started to cry. Rachel thought it was Rhonda.
“But first I’ll tell you about your gifts.”
Bernadette’s hand pointed at Karen. Its fish-white fingers were streaked with beads of blood.
“The paintbrush will allow you to paint the most realistic artworks you can imagine. That brush has kissed the lips of saints and copulated with the diseased cunts of hell. Once it belonged to a man who brought the light of heaven to the walls and ceilings of churches. His name was celebrated throughout the halls of Europe, and written of by priests and artists alike in honor and awe. He was a saint on earth, until he found a succubus mistress who turned his praises to lust. The sacrilege of her breasts and thighs, used by men and women alike, became the new worship of his art, rather than the sterile purity of angels. His paintings were banned, and he fled with his mistress to a forgotten isle where they painted each other’s bodies in piss and blood and slept with the bones of savages. I knew him well, and before he died, smothered in the decay of her flesh, he gave me this brush. Use it well.”
Bernadette next pointed at Rachel. “Long ago, I received this necklace from an Etruscan prostitute. Night after night, she begged for the means to leave this world, but her master kept her bound and helpless until a customer was at the ready. One night, as she writhed and cried beneath the robes of a dealer in antiquities, one of her steady customers, the man was touched by pity for the woman. He asked what the matter was, and she told him. Now this dealer had just come into a huge treasure, stolen from the tomb of an ancient king. He was feeling generous, and reached into a satchel at his waist to pull free this necklace, placing it around her neck. ‘Use this well,’ he warned, and stood to take his leave of her. ‘It is said that it once adorned the neck of the most powerful high priestess in Egypt. Legend says it will show you whatever you wish to see. You may stare into the future to see your death, if you so wish, or use it to see your way to a new life.’ The prostitute did not understand his words at first, and he probably, did not understand the power that he had bestowed. But eventually, the prostitute realized that she did not want to die. She used the sight of these gems to help plot her escape from her master, and eventually used it to become one of the most celebrated fortune-tellers in Italy. She died very rich. You may do the same. Touch someone’s hand with it around your neck and you will see their future. An easy talent. But let them inside you, and its vision deepens. You may tell them of the dark secrets their offspring will hold in the heaviest pits of their hearts.”
Bernadette raised her voice like a carnival barker: “Amaze your friends and family. Seduce them, lie in your incestuous bed and whisper in their guilty ears of the whores their children will take. Kiss them and slip your tongue in their ears as you speak in whispers of when and how they will die,” she laughed grotesquely. “Your bed could be an addiction, and an affliction!”
Monica was staring in fear at the broken charcoal pencil. She held it away from her lap, yet couldn’t seem to drop it to the ground.
Bernadette stooped to stroke her outstretched hand. When Monica pulled the pencil and hand away, the girl’s wrist was sticky.
“That pencil once belonged to a mistress of the Marquis de Sade,” Bernadette said. “Do any of you girls know of the Marquis?” Bernadette’s empty gaze slid over the girls, stopping to stare and smile at Rhonda’s big breasts. The girl had covered her most private bits with an arm, but Bernadette stepped closer, slid her hand beneath Rhonda’s forearm and held the nipple hidden there between cold fingers. Rhonda shivered.
“No, I don’t suppose any of you ladies have been bad enough to learn about the loves and lusts of the Marquis just yet. Remember the name—he would have loved the game we played here today.”
Bernadette pinched harder until Rhonda screamed out loud. The creature who was once their friend only laughed harder, grabbed a lock of Rhonda’s hair, and forced her face to look upwards. Then Bernadette’s free hand came down to slap Rhonda’s cheek with a force and an echo that made all the girls shudder.
“We have played a little game today,” Bernadette said. “Just a taste of what we could enjoy together. And you each enjoyed it, did you not?”
She stepped back to Monica.
“The Marquis’ mistress could not get enough of these sorts of games. She licked and sucked whatever he would entreat her to. And when she went home, bruised and sore and bleeding in all of her hidden places, she would draw the most ghastly visions. Beautiful bits of hell. I give you her gift. Her spirit still moves in this pencil, and it will help you see the depths to which we could plumb together.”
Bernadette nodded back at Rhonda, who held the piano key.
“Yours is a simpler gift. Play whatever instrument you wish, and people will listen. You will hold them in your sway. You will be the pied piper of Terrel. They will do as you bid. And if you play for me, I will come to you and dance in your bed all night and all the day. We will take your lovers apart, bone by bone. We will cover ourselves in their blood to complete our own sweet love. For I do love you girls, do you know that?”
Bernadette’s body leaned to kiss Rhonda on the lips, and left bloody mouth prints on each of the other girls in turn.
“These are gifts, from me, your genie, your devil,” Bernadette laughed. “Enjoy their fruits. Use them well, for you will pay me for them with your lives. I loan your lives back to you. But I warn you. Ignore my gifts, ignore me, and I will suck your shells as dry as I did this one. Ahh, she was sweet while she lasted.”
With that, Bernadette’s body crumbled to the floor.
Let’s make a little Covenant, the voice continued, without a mouth once again.
And moments later, the fate of five women was sealed.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
She opened the men’s room door and saw me standing before the urinals holding my dick fully exposed and poised in my hand, but entered the bathroom and shut the door behind
I was drunk and had been there for awhile trying to pee, tugging the flaccidly skin of my dick back and forth, but the urine hovered somewhere between the pit of my crotch and the tip of my penis, as if stuck in the limp wrinkled shaft and refusing to leave either the dick or relax in its bladder -- a few times I even flushed the urinal tank hoping that the splashing sound could entice the urine to flow, but to no avail.
She moved away from the door and shuffled to the vacant cubicles, her heel-less slipper-like shoes sliding softly on the muck-edged gray-tiled floor. Never once did the question of what she was doing in the men’s room intrude and I just shrugged and kept standing there holding my dick and looking at her.
She wore a tight blue skirt that fell below her knees and a frumpy gray sweater -- more dirty then gray -- concealing whatever flat breasts she may have once tried to plump up and show off. Her blonde hair draped down the sides of her face and her eyes and lips were still tinged in faint smeared traces of makeup.
I frowned; she looked wasted and desolate -- probably a burnt-out whore giving blow-jobs or some confused housewife having recently discovered her insatiable need for sex and tossed out in the streets after it.
She moved across the bathroom floor and peered into a vacant cubicle; her shoulders suddenly shivering and gagging, spitting out in disgust.
-Pigs! she blurted, holding her nose and quickly moving to a cubicle farthest away from repulsive one. She wiped her eyes and nose, coughed and looked helplessly at me.
My limp dick dangled out of my zipper but I made no move to cover myself and instead tensed the bottom of my ass and felt my cock give a quick indistinct jerk up and down.
She turned to look into the farthest cubicle warily pushing open the stall door, then grimaced back at me.
-Does this one work? she asked, and moved her eyes up and down in frustration.
I stepped away from the urinals and moved towards her, my cock flapping limply from side to side as I approached the cubicle and peered in.
-Looks ok, I shrugged.
-Yeah? she meekly said, and studied my face.
I smiled and nodded and stepped into the cubicle. I lowered the black toilet seat then un-rolled a wad a toilet paper and wiped the seat clean. I tossed the wad into the bowl and gestured for her to enter and sit down.
She looked at the toilet seat, glanced at my cock, then entered the cubicle, pushing the door shut behind us and clamping the metal latch securely down.
For the first time since she entered the bathroom I felt that involuntary avid kick at the base of my groin, a tensing of possible release, but it seemed more like a fleeting confused and uncertain reminder than an actual sexual arousal and my dick stayed limp.
Still, I moved to the narrow space between the bowl and stall partition so my cock would be level with her face when she sat down on the bowl; I foresaw at least a hand-job, if not a possible blow-job, because where else could this thing be going?
I again held out my arm for her to be seated and she shyly glanced at my cock and up at my face then stooped down and clasped the bottom of her skirt and raised it over her knees. She lightly wiggled and tugged the tight skirt up her thighs but her outspread legs prevented the skirt from rising as freely as it should.
-I have to pee! she pouted, and crossed her legs and doubled over, rocking back and forth.
I moved away from the partition and reached down to her thighs and firmly grasped the bottom of her skirt, my fingers inching up the bare flesh under the skirt and I again felt that sudden snap of possible arousal as my limp dick brushed the crumpled folds of her raised skirt.
I looked at her small breasts and grimaced. She smelled; it was an odor of stale sweat, unwashed feet, foul mouth, stagnant perfume, and I noticed how dirty and grimy her sweater and white blouse actually were.
Still I clasped the hem of her tight skirt and easily hiked it up her torso, my legs and wrists vibrating from that pleasing jolt when the skirt strained behind her then jumped reluctantly over her bumpy resistant round ass cheeks.
I stepped back to the partition. Her legs were bare and spotted with tawny bruise marks on her inner thighs and she wore those sexless and thick old-lady-style cotton panties which draped loosely down her belly and covered her entire groin from the waist to the short panty legs dangling down her thighs; heavy ground-in under-washed menstrual stains flecked out of her crotch in a mimic of a pubic hair-bush.
-Thanks, she mumbled, and stuck her thumbs into the panty waist and jerked it down her torso and legs.
I thought she’d leave it wrapped around her thighs or knees but she slid the cotton drawers quickly down her legs and dropped them to her ankles.
-Ooo, I gotta pee! And real bad! she gasped, and lifted the side of her wrinkled skirt still higher up her waist.
I glanced at her hairy crotch, a thick line of dark limp hairs weaving up to her belly, and saw more tawning and fading bruises around the sides of her hips and ass.
She groaned and squatted down on the toilet seat, quickly opening and closing her shaking legs. I stood poised, listening for that strange hiss of pee leaving a female body, and watched her legs tense. Again she groaned and farted: a quick plopped burp, and bashfully looked up at me.
-Do you have to pee too? she quietly asked, and glanced at my dick.
I nodded, and stepped in between her legs. It would be an easy aim; there was enough room between her crotch and the edge of the bowl without my getting it wet, if I aimed carefully -or maybe that’s what she wanted; wasn’t there a hint of piss-smell on her sweater too?
-Sit here, she said, and moved further back on the toilet seat, raising one of her legs and expertly kicking her ankle and foot out of the panty leg.
-Come, pee, she said, and separated her legs on the toilet seat and gestured for me to sit down.
I shook my pants to my ankles and awkwardly lowered myself to her knees but stood back up and shook my head in confusion.
-Like this, she said, and grabbed my shirt bottom and raised her legs off the seat and pulled me towards her.
She wrapped her legs over my thighs and around my back and reached under my shirt and pulled my flabby bare waist towards her. I dropped onto the seat, my knees and thighs splayed on the sides of the toilet, my ankles bound by my pants at the bottom of the bowl.
I felt the taut pressure of the hard seat pounding into underused and overstretched flabby muscles and I feared getting cramped but I moved up on the hard black seat and put my arms around her waist.
She smiled, I smiled back, and we both glanced down at the tiny gap between our crotches, my pubic hairs tingling stiffly against her matted and flat curled ones, my limp cock and balls dangling into the bowl.
-Pee? she asked, and I nodded and felt her torso strain and heard that first intrusive prolonged hiss of female pee.
I slightly cringed as I felt my cock and balls sprinkled in pee but I also strained and finally felt my over-clenched bladder opening and splashing urine into the bowl.
We again looked down at the gap between our legs and I breathed in the fumes of piss rising up to my nostrils; it easily dispelled the stench of her unwashed body and clothes. But I no longer cared; I meekly smiled contently and lowered my head onto her shoulder, my face nestled against her limp dank hair. She moved her arms up my back and also lowered her head; I felt her lips on my neck.
We held each other tightly.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Well, the show is now live so here's a rare chance - lucky you - to actually hear me being interviewed. If you'd prefer to just read the show the transcript is here.
He found a tiny dark theatre-in-the-round, with steeply-raked rows of chairs on all sides. The seats were comfortable and covered in washable leatherette with plenty of leg room. He didn't want to risk a patron's hair being showered with cum from the member of the audience member behind him.
They placed a round bed in the middle of the small stage, and covered it with a fitted, cornflower-blue sheet, which would show off her red hair and pale skin as well as any wet spots. He knew she would create lots of wet spots. He knew she was an exhibitionist at heart.
The show sold out days ahead of time due to careful marketing through their blog and a grapevine of fellow perverts. Patrons filed in quickly. Some of them tried to be invisible while others greeted friends. Taking their seats, they considered the stage before them. Next to the bed was a chair, along with a table on which were displayed a blue vibrator, a very large purple dildo, a black butt plug, 2 cucumbers, 4 small empty bowls, and a cane with curved handle. Incongruously, there was also a Cuisinart food processor. A chain was locked to one leg of the bed, at the end of which was a thick iron shackle.
The house lights dimmed. Chatter died down. A large spot lit the bed while a smaller one illuminated the table and chair. A tall man walked out on the stage, his red hair smiling under the lights. Briefly, he thanked the audience for coming, which elicited a few chuckles, and reminded the assembly that the woman they were about to see belonged to HIM. They could watch but not touch, and were not to approach the stage.
The spots went out and the theatre was dark for about half a minute. When the lights came back on, a woman stood before them, eyes downcast. She, too, had red hair, and was clad in a man's white dress shirt. Her right ankle was surrounded by a chain of ordinary paper clips. Her legs and feet were bare.
"Strip, kitten. Now."
Trembling fingers opened the buttons one by one. The shirt slipped off her arms onto the floor. He said her name again, in a warning tone, and she bent over to pick it up, giving some of the audience a clear view of her anus and cunt lips. Hurriedly, she went to the chair and draped the shirt over its back. She then knelt beside her master's feet, looking up at him with trepidation.
"Now, kitten, show these good people how obedient you are. Show them what a good little sex slave you are. Lie down on the bed and spread your legs."
A little sob caught in her throat. Now that it was time, she didn't think she could do it after all. She murmured something, pleading.
"What did you say? Speak up. Let everyone hear you."
"Please, master... I can't... please don't make me."
"Now, kitten, don't be silly. Of course you are going to do it. All you need is a little spanking to get you in the mood. Right?" And sitting down in the chair he barked out "Over my knees. Now!"
Murmuring "Yes, sir," she rose from the ground and draped herself over his knees.
He started to spank, first lightly and then building up so that the smacks reverberated through the little hall, alternating with her small cries of pain. Men in the audience started pulling out their cocks, and the few women, most in skirts for easy access, fondled themselves through their damp panties.
Her ass started to glow and with each blow her body bounced against his own growing erection. He grabbed her hair, pulled up her head, and looked into her eyes. She was settling into subspace.
"Now, kitten. On the bed. NOW."
She roused herself enough to shake her head. She exasperated him, but he couldn't deny that this was making for a better show. And he was in the mood to hurt her, to punish her for how she was going to display herself. Yes, he knew this was illogical, as he was in fact forcing her to do it. But he was the dom. He didn't have to be logical.
"All right, that's enough brattiness. Now I'm really going to hurt you."
He stood up without letting go of her hair and dragged her to the bed. He threw her down on her belly, ass raised by a pillow and positioned near the edge of the mattress. Reaching down for the shackle, he clasped it around her left ankle. He knew it would boost her feeling of being owned, while forcing her to display her submission by holding still without being fully tied down.
She heard the leather slide through the belt loops of his jeans. He didn't hold anything back on the first blow.
He said nothing. He didn't make her count. He beat her hard, again and again, striking her cheeks and her thighs, making her scream, making her writhe, and making her very very wet. Her submission twined around her, clutching at her womb and driving from her consciousness everything but her master and her pain. She felt him kick her legs apart. The next blow, the hardest yet, caught her cunt.
Her anguished scream tore at the ears of the masturbaters.
He yanked up her head again. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
"Enough, kitten? I'm having fun but I don't think you are. Shall I keep beating your cunt, or are you ready to behave?"
The watchers couldn't catch her answer, but heard his "Good girl..." and saw him stroke her hair and kiss away her tears. Cautiously, she rolled over, gasping as she lay on her tender ass. She spread her legs under their eyes.
"Now show the nice people how you like to touch yourself."
Tentatively, she started to stroke around her clit, dipping into her cunt for a generous fingerful of honey. The beating had left her very sore but very aroused. It didn't take long for her to start writhing.
"Take your time, kitten. We promised a good show. Now move around the bed so everyone can see how red and juicy you are."
He released her ankle from the shackle, and she rotated around on her ass, finger never stopping its work, which was now focused right on her clit. Everyone got a good look indeed.
"Good girl... now let's see what we can stuff into you. Besides, I think it's time for a little snack."
The cucumbers were very fat, green and waxed. He had washed them ahead of time. Condoms wouldn't do for what he had in mind. And she was so turned on by the beating that there was no need for any more lubricant.
He handed her one of them, and she eased it into her cunt. Almost lovingly, she slid it in and out, raising her hips to meet the vegetable phallus. Pleasure showed on her face and little moans escaped her moist lips.
Silently, he touched her hand and withdrew the cuke, replacing it with the other one. As she continued to fuck herself, he strolled over to the table and nonchalantly proceeded to run the garden dildo through the food processor. He repeated the action with the second cuke, leaving her cunt gaping and hungry.
The slices were distributed between the 4 bowls and passed around the audience. Some of the masturbaters sniffed their portion and then rolled the thin slices around in their mouth before chewing and swallowing. A few took them in their hands and rubbed them over their dicks. A couple of the women tucked them inside their own slippery holes. Everyone was grateful for the unexpected treat.
Well, almost everyone. A few of the men had been identifying too closely with those fucking cucumbers, and were now a little nauseous from extreme castration anxiety.
Meanwhile, back on stage, kitten was getting restless, rolling around on the bed in her frustration. He smiled - he loved teasing her like that. He took the butt plug from the table. She had a virgin anus, and he relished the idea of humiliating her by invading it for the first time in public. She knew what was going to happen, she wanted it, and yet she feared it.
"Stick this in your cunt, kitten. Get it good and wet. This is the only lube you will have."
She obeyed. She was so aroused and wallowing in her submission that she was beyond protest. You could hear the slurps and sloshes as she rolled it around inside her.
He faced the audience and apologized. "I know we promised a pure masturbation scene, but I think she needs a little help on this one thing." He rolled her over, again propped her ass up on the pillow, and started easing the plug into her tight little hole. He had deliberately bought one a little too large for a first time. He couldn't pass up the opportunity to hurt her a little, to remind her that whatever she experienced, whether pleasure or pain, was at his whim.
She moaned, she gasped, she wriggled, he could tell it hurt, and he could tell she loved it. So could all the voyeurs. He sensed them craning forward and heard that they were moaning, too. He pulled the plug out a little before pushing it in a little further, dragging the insertion process out until with one final push he shoved it in as far as it would go. She was so aroused that the sheet was soggy with the honey dripping from her cunt.
He rolled her over onto her back, pulling away the pillow and tucking it under her head. For her, the audience had vanished; it was starting to fade away for him as well. He looked down at her fondly, lustfully, possessively, fiercely.
"Pinch your nipples for me, kitten. Harder! Pinch them, twist them. Until it hurts. Who owns those nipples?"
"You do, master. You own them." Her voice was small but definitive, and floated up to the last row.
"And your breasts, kitten. Gather them in your hands, squeeze them, push them together as if my cock lay between them. Who owns them, kitten? Who owns your breasts?
"You do, master. You own my breasts!"
"Lick your lips, kitten, those lips through which I will force my cock as soon as we are alone, those lips through which I will rape your mouth. Who owns them, kitten? Who owns your mouth?"
"You do, master. You own my lips. You own my mouth. It's YOUR mouth."
"Ah, you're such a good little slave. My perfect little fucktoy. Now take this huge purple monster of a dildo, which you hate because it's too big for you. Whose cunt are you going to fuck with it?"
"YOUR cunt, master. I'm fucking YOUR cunt. For YOU!"
"Who owns you, kitten? Who owns you?"
"YOU own me, master. You do. You know you do."
"YES! *I* own you. Others can look on your naked body, others can watch me hurt you, others can see how you fuck yourself, others can imagine that they are fucking you. But NO ONE gets to touch you. No one. You're MINE."
She fucked herself harder and faster, trying to remember that he owned her orgasms, she wasn't to cum until he ordered her to, she wasn't to cum until they got to the vibrator. She tried to hold herself back by thinking of the audience, but that only excited her more.
He knew her well, though, he was watching her face, he knew she was holding herself back.
"Do you want to cum, kitten? Shall I let you cum?" The question was almost gentle.
"Yes, master, please sir, please master, please let me cum. For YOU, master. Please let me cum for YOU."
He took from her the giant purple dildo, and handed her the blue vibrator. It had been a present from him. For his pleasure and hers. She LOVED her blue vibrator.
"Now. You are going to masturbate with your favorite toy. Any way you want. Fuck yourself. Stick it deep within you, turn it on, and let the vibrations seep into every corner of your body. Push it against your clit. Give yourself up to it, except for one tiny piece. Let these lovely horny people see how much you are enjoying yourself. Let them HEAR how much pleasure I'm allowing you. But keep holding back that one little piece until I give you permission to cum. Obey me, kitten, or you will be severely punished."
This was the hard part. Giving herself to it while holding back. Remembering that she was nothing, nothing but his sex slave, nothing but his fucktoy, nothing but his cockwhore. Remembering that her body was his, her pleasure and her pain came only at his hands or by his will, and that her orgasms were parceled out for his amusement alone.
He felt her struggle. They were bonded so tightly to each other that sometimes he wondered which of them was really the slave. He could barely control his desire to fuck her himself, barely control his desire to fasten his mouth on her clit, to let his tongue swim up the cavern of her sweet tight cunt, to force his cock down her throat and then roll her over one last time and drive it into her only slightly stretched ass.
Soon. Very soon. He just had to help her through this one last act.
"Now, kitten. Cum for me. Cum for me NOW."
She tried. She tried to let go. But she just couldn't. It was bottled up too tight. She was frozen with anxiety, with fear of not pleasing him, of not pleasing the voyeurs. She sensed that they were having a good time, and that some of them had cum already. But she did want to give them a grand finish. And most of all, she wanted to please her master. Every minute of the day, every breath she took, it was all to please him.
As he had at the beginning, he yanked her head up by the hair, and in a stage whisper pregnant with warning hissed "Now, slave. I'm going to count down from ten. And you had better cum by the time I get to one or I'm going to cane you. Hard. Harder than ever before. And I'll keep caning you till you either pass out from the pain or you cum for me. Is that clear?"
He almost never addressed her as "slave." It jolted her. She worked her clit with her fingers, spreading the juices around while the vibrator continued to buzz deep inside her.
"Ten.... Nine... Eight... kitten, you had better cum for me... seven... kitten, I'm going to cane you... six... your ass will be in shreds, kitten... five..."
The audience held its collective breath as it pumped and twiddled away.
"four... kitten, you'd better cum, you're going to be so sorry..."
He knew what he was doing. He knew how the threats excited her. It worked every single time. But just in case, he walked around the bed to the table.
He picked up the cane with his right hand and started tapping it on his left palm.
She was rubbing frantically, desperately, reaching for the orgasm, so very afraid of disappointing him.
She felt him shove her legs apart, and then gasped as she felt the tap tap tap of the cane across her upper thighs.
The cane smashed down, just missing her cunt.
And from the seats that ringed the stage, fountains of cum burst forth like fireworks and shot towards the ceiling.
All in all, a great success.
The audience tucked themselves back in and filed out.
On stage, she sobbed out the biggest orgasm of her life. He held her close, stroking her hair, kissing her eyes, whispering his love and approval to her hungry heart.