Saturday, May 29, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
I’ve been thinking about writing a piece on necrophilia for a while now. But I didn’t know if I was emotionally strong enough. It disturbs a lot of people; it disturbs me. It’s a tough one.
Is necrophilia a fetish or a perversion? A lot of what turns folks on, bewilders me but I try to understand. I’m not here to pass judgement. This piece is going to try and explore, what is a strange, haunting, taboo topic. So let’s not be squeamish; we’re going to talk about fucking dead people.
And because it’s tough, that’s not a reason not to talk about it. I think it’s a good reason to talk about it. Google is always a good place to start, so that’s where I went. And going on what you can find on the Web, with just a basic search; there’s a helluva lot of folk, curious and wanting to know more.
Are they all shouting “disgusting” and running away? It seems not; they’re intrigued. Reading about it; writing about it.
From the Web.
“Sigmund Freud maintained that our deep childhood experiences (or lack of them) affect our adult lives in a profound way. In other words, when people are highly functional in their childhood experiences, this mirrors their adult reality, and when adult people are highly dysfunctional as children this, too, mirrors and mars their adult experiences.
There seems to be strong indications to support this concerning necrophilia. The list of necrophiliacs seems to clearly support Freud’s viewpoint. Here is a brief list: Ed Gein, Jeffery Dahmer and Albert Fish. All of these personalities had horrific childhoods, felt abandoned, felt rejected and felt worthless. According to Dr. Jackson it is the perverted and extremely aberrant feelings of loneliness, rejection and abandonment, this feeling of total isolation, and total inability to connect to another human being that propels necrophilia.
As disturbing as this approach might be for some, in a nut shell what is being said here is that the necrophilia evolves to a state where the surest and easiest way to have total control, total acceptance, and total success in relating to another human being tragically descends to the point that the human being which is to be the object of intimacy is, of all things, a corpse.”
From the Web again.
“Erich Fromm, the psychologist and philosopher considered that necrophilia is a character orientation which is not necessarily sexual. It is expressed in an attraction to that which is dead or totally controlled. At the extreme, it results in hatred of life and destructiveness. Unlike Freud's death instinct, it is not biologically determined but results from upbringing. Fromm believed that the lack of love in the western society and the attraction to mechanistic control leads to necrophilia. Expressions of necrophilia are modern weapon systems, idolatry of technology, and the treatment of people as things in bureaucracy.”
It’s described as “the highest taboo,” worse than rape, paedophilia, bestiality; the law in the United Kingdom says that fucking a corpse is very definitely illegal.
“In the United Kingdom, sexual penetration with a corpse was made illegal under the Sexual Offences Act 2003. This is defined as depictions of "sexual interference with a human corpse" (as opposed to only penetration), and would cover "depictions which appear to be real acts" as well as actual scenes (see also extreme pornography).
As of the Criminal Justice and Immigration Act 2008, it is also illegal to possess physical depictions of necrophilia, electronic or otherwise. Necrophilia-pornography falls under the governmental description of extreme pornography, of which, possession is classed as illegal under the aforementioned act.”
So in the U.K. you’re not only breaking the sexual offences act law, you’re going to be hauled up for possessing “extreme pornography” as well.
In the United States, there doesn’t seem to be a blanket law covering the whole country. The law varies from state to state. As of May 2006, there is no federal legislation specifically barring sex with a corpse. Here’s a few examples of how the states differ in their application of the law.
In Arizona, It is unlawful for a person to engage in necrophilia. A person engages in necrophilia by:
1. Having sexual intercourse with a dead human body.
2. Having sexual contact with a dead human body, other than the contact normally required to store, prepare, disinfect or embalm a dead human body according to standards of practice in the funeral industry.
1. "Sexual contact" means any direct or indirect touching, including oral contact, fondling or manipulating of any part of the genitals, anus or female breast by any part of the body or by any object.
2. "Sexual intercourse" means penetration into the vulva or anus by any part of the body or by any object or masturbatory contact with the penis or vulva.
F. A person who violates this section is guilty of a class 4 felony.
In California, you can get up to eight years in prison, for the act of necrophilia. In the state of Georgia, you can get ten years in prison, for the same offence. In Nevada it’s considered a Class A felony with a maximum penalty of life in prison.
But necrophilia is there. It’s in the stories that we tell each other, from Classical Greek and Egyptian Mythology, to the Victorian Gothic. It’s in Fairy Tales and it’s in Popular Culture.
In the Greek legend of the Trojan War, the Greek hero Achilles slays the Amazon queen Penthesilea in a duel. Upon removing her helmet and seeing her face, Achilles falls in love with her and mourns her death. The soldier Thersites openly ridicules Achilles and accuses him of necrophilia. Achilles responds by promptly killing Thersites with a single blow. (In some traditions, Thersites' accusation is not unfounded—Achilles was so stricken by Penthesilea's beauty that he could not control his lust for her, even after her death.)
In Egyptian mythology, we are told of the myth of Osiris and Isis. It tells of the god Osiris, who had inherited his rule over the world from his ancestor Ra. Osiris was murdered and dismembered by his jealous brother Set, a god often associated with chaos. Osiris' sister and wife Isis reassembled Osiris' body and resurrected him so that he could conceive an heir to take back the throne from Set. Osiris then entered the underworld and became the ruler of the dead, while Isis eventually gave birth to his son Horus. Once grown, Horus fought and defeated Set to become king himself. Set's association with chaos, and the identification of Osiris and Horus as the rightful rulers, provided a rationale for pharaonic succession and portrayed the pharaohs as the upholders of order.
So the template for necrophilia is there, in our oldest stories. Mythology gives us permission to explore those dark ideas, that for most of us, never see the light of day.
And what about our current obsession with vampire stories? Starting with Bram Stoker’s Count Dracula, are they not a fantasy about a physical union with the un-dead?
And as for Heathcliffe in Wuthering Heights, he sure as hell didn’t dig up Cathy’s body to gaze on her beautiful face.
And there’s so many more. In Cormac McCarthy's Child of God (1973), the protagonist Lester Ballard finds a dead couple in a car, and carries the female corpse back to his cabin to engage in sexual acts with it. After losing the corpse in a fire, he begins murdering women to create dead female sex partners for himself.
Georges Bataille's gruesome novella Story of the Eye ends with the main characters performing perverse and sacrilegious sexual acts on a passive priest, who is raped and strangled to death as he climaxes. After murdering him, the characters continue to perform sexual acts with his dismembered eyeball.
Edgar Allan Poe once described the death of a beautiful young woman to be one of the most beautiful images. (By this, he was not saying that it is a good thing for young women to die; to him melancholy and pain were sources of beauty.) Also, his poem "Annabel Lee" includes, towards the end, possible necrophilic imagery. As does his short story, “The Fall of the House of Usher.”
Oscar Wilde's scandalous play, Salome, based on the Biblical story of a Judean princess who performs the Dance of the Seven Veils for the Tetrarch, Herod, in exchange for the head of John the Baptist. When Salome finally receives the Christian prophet's head, she addresses it in an erotic monologue that has highly suggestive necrophiliac overtones.
And coming closer to today’s literature.
In Toni Morrison's novel Song of Solomon, (1977) Macon Dead is explaining to his son Milkman that he is disturbed by the relationship that his wife Ruth had with her father, Dr. Foster. Shortly after Dr. Foster's death, Macon caught Ruth lying naked in bed with her father's corpse, while sucking on his fingers.
In Canadian author Barbara Gowdy's short story "We So Seldom Look On Love", a funeral parlour employee learns how to make the penises of recently dead men erect, and she commits sexual acts on the corpses until she is caught. In 1996, the story was adapted into the film Kissed.
Can’t leave out Fairy Tales either. Some Commentators like Marina Bychkova read the story of “Snow White”, as having a necrophiliac theme. Disney has sanitised it, just as he has done with “The Sleeping Beauty.” In a much older version of the story, the handsome Prince doesn’t just kiss the sleeping/dead princess, he rapes her.
Janine Ashbless’ excellent necrophilia story, “Montague’s Last Ride,” in her “Cruel Enchantment” collection is quite stunning, and yes, it’s arousing too. The dead person and the necrophiliac are complicit. I think that’s what makes it okay -- no one is defiled. I’m left with the feeling that nothing in the lives of these characters, can ever go back to normal. Insanity, will always be hovering. But it happened.
I still don’t know whether necrophilia is a fetish or a perversion. Certainly the sub-text in the Sigmund Freud statement, and the quote from Erich Fromm, seem to see necrophilia as something that needs to be “cured.”
So I’m lost for a proper conclusion.
How would I feel if a relative of mine who had passed, was “played” with? I would not like it at all. I would be distressed, incensed, livid. But, as I’m not likely to come across a necrophiliac any time soon, that’s as near to making it personal as I can get.
Billierosie lives in a pretty village in England. She doesn’t fit with village life; certainly not the Women’s Institute. Billierosie loves the theatre, Art, film, books and all things eccentric. Fetish is high on her agenda too. Billierosie plans to have fun and stay young, writing pornography.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
The Parents Television Council says the "$#*!" in the title of the upcoming CBS show $#*! my dad says is indecent. From the article: "'CBS intentionally chose to insert an expletive into the actual name of a show, and, despite its claim that the word will be bleeped, it is just CBS' latest demonstration of its contempt for families and the public,' declared PTC President Tim Winter. 'There are an infinite number of alternatives that CBS could have chosen but its desire to shock and offend is crystal clear in this decision.'" By this logic Qbert was the filthiest game ever made.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Ralph Greco, Jr
The Madonna part is fine (unless it's that Madonna and you have to put up with Kabala blessed water and all that Yoga!), it’s the whore part that eventually worries lots of us guys. To land a woman as sexually adept as we want, one who will answer all our dirtiest desires in bed (or on the kitchen floor) and might think up a few of her own, while having the props, clothes and patter to go with them, that woman will have had to have experienced some of this stuff before us. That's where guys get tripped-up. Let's face it thinking about your woman being with another guy is bad enough for some of us, but consider a woman who might have engaged in such wild sexual activities to make her skilled enough to do them to/with you now. That quandary of 'I-really-wanted-her-to-do-these-things-but-now-that-she-has-done-these-things-and-done-them-well!-I wonder-where-she learned-how-do-to-these-things-I-want-her-to-keep-doing' can be a couple's undoing.
Would that our ladies come to the bedroom chaste as a Catholic schoolgirl (along with the skirt!) complete with knowledge and sexual skills she simply has through genetics. We know this is impossible, even the best on-line 'Tube sites' can’t teach such hands-on skills, the best late night giggling with girlfriends won’t give one the needed round-the-bedpost experience, so therefore if our woman does give it to us good, the way we want it, better then we’ve ever dreamed, down and dirty, then we have to assume she learned this all from someone else.
And it can’t be that she was a lesbian up to this point…very few of us get that lucky. And even if she learned mad skills only from having sex with other women, that to can be a thorn in the side of one's ego. Will she ever want to go back to play for the other side, does she still year for the attentions of a woman, when you and she are in the throes of the bumpity-bump is she fantasizing about a girl? All these questions and more can rend a good relationship asunder.
What it comes down to is this: we don't have the ability to change someone's past, let alone compete with it. Content yourself that what she may or may not have learned from whomever she learned it from is past; she's with you now. The way to a good sex life is to move ever forward enjoying each other, not wondering how you might compare or where she learned her tricks. Really, wallowing in all that paranoia will kill what ever you and her have but quick and then you'll become that guy in her past who she remembers as the guy who could never get past the past.
Ralph Greco, Jr. is an internationally published author of short stories, plays, essays, button slogans, 800# phone sex scripts, children’s songs and SEO copy. Ralph is also an ASCAP licensed songwriter/performer and Internet radio D.J. He lives in the wilds of suburban NJ, where he attempts to keep his ever-expanding ego in check.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The idea of Nakukymppi is to run or walk a pre-set route with a total distance of 10 kilometres, completely naked. Participants are only allowed to wear shoes, socks and possible headwear. The only exception is that women may be allowed to wear a top if they feel their breasts are shaking too much.
The event is open for everyone interested in nude sport and is free of charge. It has been held annually since 2003. It usually draws about 40 to 50 participants, of which about one-tenth to one-fifth are women. The event is covered in Finnish newspapers almost nationwide.
Even though the event isn't a naturist event (i.e. not organised by naturists and not only for naturists), about half of the participants are naturists, who consider the event very naturist in spirit.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Three Scenes of the Left Bank
La Femme Rouge
The room resembled a painting by Matisse, all bold lines and bright, primary colors. I was eighteen and almost, if not quite a virgin.
“Come here, dear. Don’t be shy.”
The woman looked incredible, as unnatural yet gorgeous as a seventeenth century dandy. There was something about her which almost made me wonder if she had always been a she; something angular, a little firm about the jawbone. Her hair was waist length and fire-engine red. If her hair had had a voice it would have screamed at the top of its lungs.
“Advance, cherie. I do not bite.”
I wasn’t betting on that. Slowly, like a sleepwalker, I moved towards the harlot on the couch. I hated my friends, who were no doubt laughing and jeering at some nearby bar. They were wrong – I didn’t need my cherry popped. They could have saved their francs for a good meal and a gallon of vin ordinaire. Did I really look like a virgin?
My pale, frightened features in a gilt-edged mirror confirmed my friends’ diagnosis. The whore reclined on a gold chaise longue, playing with her strident hair. I watched her twist thick meaty-looking tendrils about her long thin fingers. She looked like a cobra and I felt like a rabbit, mesmerized by her ferocious, hungry glare.
“This is your first time, dear?”
She smiled, revealing two bright rows of small, white, vulpine teeth. I shook my head, furious at my ineptitude.
I should fuck her just to prove a point.
The thought seemed to reverberate around my mind, clanging discordantly against my wine-soaked brain cells. My cock was infuriatingly limp, the result of sheer fear and an excess of vin de table. It had been red wine too, a little harsh at first but the third and fourth glasses slipped down easier than the first…
“You are a good looking boy. Your mother must be proud.”
That’s right – mention my fucking mother and give me a limp dick to die for!
I stiffened but, alas, not in the right places. There was a war going on in my head. First, I hadn’t wanted to. Then I decided I would - but I couldn’t. The red woman writhed in pale green lingerie. I could see the dark curls of her pubic hair beneath her fine chiffon panties. Her underwear looked expensive, the apartment looked expensive, she looked expensive in an outré Rive Gauche, arty, Bohemian way. Damn the bitch - I had to fuck her! It was a matter of honor. My friends had paid too much for me to fail on my mission. My cock twitched and I looked the courtesan in the eye. She smiled as if she knew my thoughts.
“I want to feel you inside me, David.”
My heart skipped a beat when she said my name. Somehow it sounded childish in the big, dramatic room. The colors, the textures, even the damned smell of the apartment, which was a strong spicy musky scent, seemed to conspire to make me feel small, young, inexperienced, inept. But something in me knew that that wasn’t so, that I could fuck the whore, would fuck the redhead with the lean, almost masculine body and the fancy pistachio green lingerie. I knew that she knew it too. She was breathing differently, as if she was almost interested in the boy of the hour. I appraised her body. After all, it had been bought and paid for.
My voice still sounded squeaky but I tried not to think about its echo in the big bright room. I watched the yellow lamplight illuminate the woman’s modest curves. Her tits were lovely, what I could see of them through the pale green bra. They were quite small but very firm and round and the nipples were pressing against the fine filmy cloth of the bra as if they were desperate to get out. My whore smiled with her scarlet lips and flicked at her nipples with long sharp-looking nails. She wore a green ribbon in her hair and I wondered why. Did she think it might make her look frivolous and girly? For some odd reason, the ribbon bothered me more than the screaming hair. Her earrings were much more apropos – they resembled golden spearheads.
“I want you to dance for me. I want you to dance like a whore. Put some music on. Loud, hard music.”
Who was it that spoke? It didn’t seem to be me, David. I was playing a role on my mission, in order to succeed, but it felt as if the character was taking over. A substantial part of me, though still a little scared, really meant it. The prostitute nodded, swayed across the room to an expensive sound system, retrieved a CD and slipped it into the machine. There was a pause in which it seemed that we both held our breath, then a suitably cardiac pounding began. To this day, I don’t know what the music was but it throbbed through me like a fever, like a pain that was half pleasure, half I don’t know what.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me went the music. I stood over the woman with the streaming, screaming scarlet hair and I unfastened my jeans and I pulled out my cock. The music helped. The deafening pounding carried me away, like a trip. I watched my whore dance for me on her gold chaise longue.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me throbbed the hard, biting music as the redhead writhed upon the low velvet couch. She undulated like a snake. I fully expected her to hiss, to show me twin fangs poised to descend upon my unwary throat. Her trim, boyish hips thrust against the gold pillows, setting up a devilish rhythm. The serpent could fuck like a bunny. She could fuck this frightened little rabbit to death… My cock pulsed in time with the beat.
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me went the music, as my whore wet her thickly rouged mouth with her fat wriggling tongue and pretended to fellate me as she ground her hips and played with her nipples. I watched the muscles on the insides of her lean thighs flex as she spread her legs wide and bumped her pussy at me. I could see her mound through the skimpy, filmy panties, the dark curls which, at close quarters, were actually dyed the same red as her hair. I could see a faint moist stain, evidence of her slick, hungry cunt. She danced horizontally with an animalistic, tribal, primitive style. I was trapped in the beat. We both were, I think. My harlot squirmed and moaned and tossed her wild mane until the little girl ribbon fell to the floor. She pushed her fingers through her hair and arched her sweat-stained spine and gasped. My cock was reaching the point of no return. Carried by the beat, I straddled the whore, pulled her panties aside and thrust myself deep inside her hot wet cunt. My orgasm was like white light, an explosion in my head, then I died with the music, a few beats further on.
“No condom. Naughty!”
She was wagging her finger at me like a schoolmistress. I looked at her, shipwrecked in the mass of her noisy hair. I was in love. Oh God, I was in love!
On Le Metro, the Paris Underground, it is relatively easy to have sex during rush hours. If one is subtle, voyeuristic, a little exhibitionist, one can go far (farther than the terminus at Porte de Clignancourt). Each morning and each late afternoon, I go a little farther, astounded by my own audacity. After all, who would suspect me of such a “crime”? Look at me. I am a very conservative, respectable middle aged man. When the weather is inclement, I wear a long gray raincoat and carry a small umbrella, tightly furled, along with my pristine issue of Le Monde. In the warmer months, I am never to be spotted without a jacket or lowering myself to wear an open-necked, tie-less shirt. My cologne is understated, a mere hint of vetiver. My hair (such as it is, alas) is always clipped short and my eyeglasses are plain gold wire. In short, a quiet unassuming man. Oh, isn’t it always the quiet unassuming man who hides a heart as fierce as a panther!
I like the little gamine girls. No, don’t take me for a pervert of the worst degree, I don’t mean a true child, but young women who exude a particular pseudo-innocent air. There was one the other day, got on in the crush just after Hotel de Ville. Hair dyed black - what they call a Gothic girl, with twin fat bunches tied up with scarlet ribbon, a snub nose, a pouty little rosebud mouth daubed in harlot red. Her small white thighs were clad in fishnet tights and her short shiny black skirt just covered her pert round bottom. She looked as if she didn’t care when I tried her with my “look”. Some glance away, some challenge, some submit. I looked into her round black eyes, which reminded me of jet buttons, and saw her smirk and push her tits against her top. Her tiny shirt read “The Cure”. I couldn’t have put it better myself. Her breasts were perfectly convex, sublimely therapeutic. Without saying a word nor looking at me again, she turned to strap-hang and thus show me them in profile, so I could observe how her naked nipples pushed against the thin white cotton of her cropped T-shirt like two ripe firm cherries. I imagined her beneath a shower on a stage at a strip-joint in the Place Pigalle, that skimpy top rendered semi-transparent by a coursing stream of warm water. In my mind’s eye, I saw her crawling on all fours, dry-humping her tight little hips before two hundred baying, roaring men. Her smooth white buttocks would rise and fall in the red light of the stage, undulating for money, fucking thin air to the jungle beat of a popular song. Her perfect round tits would jiggle in the face of a corpulent businessman as she threw her arms round his neck and giggled, head thrown back in abandon, eyes closed, her sweet honey-musk pussy juices soaking the tiny G-string she’d press against his pinstriped lap. At these thoughts, my cock swells hard and I rub it against the greasy metal pole of the subway train, imagining my girl with her sweet baby bunches bumping and grinding round another brassier pole.
I also like big, vulgar women. The tarty ones with enormous motherly breasts. Never let it be said I am biased. Yes, also give me the ones who dress as the cheapest of whores, yet try to banish you with their “how dare you” looks when your eyes unsurprisingly alight on their broad expanses of meaty faux tanned flesh as moths to a candle. Oh, there was one woman, not young (this type peaks at forty-five, I’ve found), who tottered on at Les Halles, (once the most famous of meat markets), in six inch heels and a short red dress the neckline of which plunged all the way down to her plump, creased middle-aged navel. Jiggle jiggle went her fulsome tits in the delightfully unsatisfactory harness of the scarlet dress. It was indecent, verging on the obscene. I adored it. Of course, she glared when I tried to catch her eye (that type usually do, the prick-teases) so I contented myself with dreaming of suckling at those mountains of tit. Her nipples would be like great swollen strawberries and I’d lie beneath her crushing weight and open my mouth like a baby and she’d feed me, insinuating acres of warm, cheaply-perfumed flesh between my willing, greedy lips. She’d squat over me, like a primitive fertility statue, all breasts and bottom, oozing out in all directions like a cream-filled pastry or a ripe Brie. I’d suckle and blink like an infant, gazing adoringly up at Maman, with her pancake make-up and her false eyelashes and her outdated bleached blonde curls.
As I said, it’s easy to have sex on the Metro, when one is subtle and voyeuristic and just a little exhibitionist. Best of all, I savor the moment someone catches me rubbing my cock against the pole. Like the handsome young black guy in the fringed leather jacket, eye to eye (as it were) with my pulsing protuberance, who blew me a kiss as he left at Gare St Lazare. Every trip is a revelation for the mild mannered man on the Metro, whose umbrella is always tightly furled, daily newspaper neatly folded under one arm.
La Tour Eiffel
“There are 1,665 steps to the top but you can only walk up to the second floor.”
The American tourist shielded his eyes against the bright spring sunshine and squinted up at the Eiffel Tower. I watched his wife inwardly sigh with relief as she replied that, in that case, they might as well take the elevator all the way.
“What a marvel!”
Immediately behind me, a polite British voice added its opinion.
Around me a crowd of visitors swarmed, faces of all colors, accents of every hue. I was accustomed to the crush and even quite enjoyed it but my real love was la Tour Eiffel itself, that incredible iron monument which crouches like a metallic dinosaur skeleton high above the Parisian rooftops. My name is Jean-Paul and I am a freelance photographer. I specialize in artistic images of the buildings and monuments of Paris. On the day in question, I was staring upwards with all the awe and enthusiasm of the visitors that surrounded me, when my curiosity was piqued by a snippet of conversation.
“Is this skirt too outrageous?”
“It’s supposed to be.”
Automatically, I turned, to witness two girls, both Parisian natives by their accents, making their way to the base of the tower. Both were dressed in fetish wear – latex, to be precise. It was too much of a temptation. I left the crowd of tourists and followed the girls to the foot of the first flight of iron stairs. They had climbed to the first little landing and were leaning against the criss-cross of metalwork which rather resembled a cage or some giant Meccano set.
“Good morning, ladies.”
The taller girl smirked at my salutation. She was perhaps the more striking of the two – rather on the thin side with narrow hips, long slender thighs and very little in the way of breasts or bottom. She was poured into a skintight latex bodysuit of a startling cherry red with a black over-corset and wore knee-high lace-up boots with high but rather chunky heels. The shorter girl had a fuller figure, quite a broad set of hips. She wore a black latex mini-skirt and matching halter top. Her large breasts presented me with a fine view of wobbling cleavage as she bent forwards to adjust the strap of one high-heeled shoe.
“Good morning to you.”
It was the tall thin one who spoke, half-teasing, half-defiant. Her legs looked like bright shiny nutcrackers, the type of legs you see on plastic teen dolls like Barbie, straight up and down, no curves. I gestured to my camera and put on my friendliest photographer smile.
“Would you girls be interested in a little shoot? You both look quite stunning against the tower.”
The small plump girl giggled and my cock twitched involuntarily as her soft boobs shivered like shaken jelly.
“What kind of a photo shoot?”
The tall girl had a knowing look on her sharp features and I suspected she’d done plenty of clandestine portrait sessions. I tried to look innocent.
“Anything you like. Nothing heavy. I am Jean-Paul. What are your names?”
The plump girl smiled and suddenly looked quite pretty.
“I’m Chloe. I like having my picture taken. This is Zaz. She likes to be suspicious, on principle.”
We all laughed, the ice was broken. I wondered how many tourists ventured up the Eiffel Tower’s stairs and, if they did, how far they got before giving up. It seemed the higher, the better for what I had in mind. Something told me that Chloe and Zaz would not object to a little risqué shoot, high above the roofs and parks of Paris.
“Smile please, dear ladies!”
The first image was simply a warm-up shot, nothing artificial or posed. The girls stood on the little landing, their backs against the iron framework of the stairway cage, smiling broadly, two friends having a lark in the April sun. I pressed the button and grinned, hopefully not in a predatory fashion.
“Shall we go up?”
Deliberately, I walked just behind them, savoring the delicious effect of two very different behinds squirming onwards in flesh-hugging latex. Zaz’s rear looked as tight as a drum, not one ounce of excess fat, but Chloe’s rolled and jiggled. I began to get quite hard between the legs.
“Right, now! Look down and observe the lovely Trocadero Gardens, my dears. Turn to the left a little, give me some profile. Lovely!”
We had reached another landing and I began to manipulate their stance, gaining pleasure from their obvious enjoyment of my stage-management. Was it my imagination or had Chloe’s boobs eased a little out of their tight latex cradle? It seemed that the outlines of her big fat nipples were perilously close to the edge of the top. I pointed my Leica at the divine crevasse.
The little plump girl giggled again and a minor earthquake wobbled through her tits. I really had to get them out for an airing but the fetish angle had to come first. Their contrasting asses in latex made an image fit for a kinky king.
“Look right over the edge. Turn away from me. Bend forwards a little, both of you. Yes. That’s excellent.”
Click, click, click.
My cock was as rigid as the tower. I’d always viewed it as the ultimate phallic symbol.
Chloe couldn’t stop giggling. I snapped her round shiny latex-coated bottom as it wobbled with mirth above her sturdy thighs. It reminded me of a double scoop of ice cream dipped in darkest chocolate. I realized that my tongue was protruding slightly from my mouth.
“Are we giving you what you want, Jean-Paul?”
It was Zaz who inquired, with a teasing intonation. I felt like telling them to get on their knees to suck off my cock but we had only just been introduced. I nodded and clicked, intent on the job at hand. If Chloe’s boobs bounced at me again I’d come in my jeans.
Up the stairs we went, round and round, higher and higher, beginning to stagger slightly with the effort and the repetitive spiral motion. I think we all felt high in every sense of the word. Finally, with the silver band of the great river Seine beneath us, we stopped at a final landing.
“We can’t go any further without an elevator. I need a rest to catch my breath.”
Chloe was breathing heavily and I watched her magnificent chest rise and fall with undisguised admiration. Zaz saw me leering and suddenly clasped her friend about the waist.
“Why don’t you take a picture of Chloe’s tits? There’s no one around.”
Chloe blushed a little but I could tell she was excited. I could almost imagine I could see her heart beating, making her luscious boobs pulse to the beat. A little dribble of pre-cum soaked into my underpants. Zaz moved behind her shorter friend, placing her long slender hands over the plump girl’s swollen chest.
“I bet you’ll come in your jeans when you see Chloe’s boobs. They’re the second marvel of Paris!”
Zaz didn’t know how close I was to coming in my jeans, anyway. I gritted my teeth and raised the camera.
Never did I say a truer word. My eyes were glued to Chloe’s cleavage via the lens of my camera. Slowly, tormentingly, Zaz eased the warm black latex from the ample contours of her little friend’s breasts. The top was so tight that it had to be gradually peeled back, like a diver’s wetsuit. Gradually, the most magnificent tits in Paris appeared before my desperate gaze.
Click, click, click.
Click, click, click.
“Oh, that’s stupendous! Raise your arms, Chloe. Zaz, cup Chloe’s tits in your hands.”
I babbled my orders, clicking like a madman, as my cock began to reach the point of no return. I was going to come in my jeans, just as Zaz had predicted. By God, it was worth it, though. Chloe’s boobs were vast but beautifully shaped, like a pair of ripe, fragrant cantaloupes. Her skin was pale honey gold and the aureoles of her fat brown nipples swelled like a pair of soft-edged saucers, taking up a good part of the surface area of her tits. I thought of spreading chocolate sauce all over those wonderful tits and slowly, slowly licking it off. As I licked, in my mind, drawing her juicy nipples into my hot wet mouth, my cock finally erupted, spurting warm semen into my jeans.
I have no idea how many shots we took. Later, multiple images of the two girls in latex, one slender and red, one plump and black, decorated my Montmartre apartment. The pictures were fun, nothing special in composition or quality, two friends having a lark on a fine April day. But in my bedroom, safely tucked inside my night table drawer, there is an Ali Baba stash of Chloe’s bountiful, beautiful boobs. Some of the pictures are rather out of focus and the best ones are stained with creamy evidence of my cock’s desire…
Miss Jay Lawrence is an expatriate Scot who currently hangs out near Vancouver, Canada. She is the author of various erotic novels and short stories which have appeared in publications on both sides of the Atlantic.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
In an odd twist, the Yakuza are also in bed with the Japanese far right, using the fascists’ blaring sound trucks as weapons against businesses unwilling, or simply tardy, with their protection money.
Like many subcultures in Japan, the Yakuza have their own rigid code of ethics, their own rituals – in their case honed over the centuries to create a kind of social demon, guaranteed to frighten and intimidate the average Japanese citizen. One of their well-known rituals is the creation of a full-body tattoo – a sometimes shockingly beautiful work covering a member from head to foot, with only the face, hands and feet left untouched. There are many theories as to why the body-suit developed, but as to why it has remained is obvious: want to threaten some little shop-keeper and get him to couch up his protection Yen? Just allow him a sneak peak of your tattoo work. When faced with this colorful badge of status and Yakuza membership, there are very few in Japan who wouldn’t bow deep and pass along the bucks.
This symbol of Yakuza allegiance is so powerful that even today, with the influx of Modern Primitive practices and style, the Japanese still associate tattooing with the feared Yakuza. A nose ring is one thing – you’re hip. A tattoo? No way, you’d be a bosozoku (a biker, where the Yakuza often get their street-muscle) or a chimpira (a pissant, or lowly Yakuza stooge).
To gain status, a Yakuza solder or boss will add to his body suit – one beautiful element at a time, a definite qualifier for the fetish and S/M weirdness of this column. But when one of them screws up – well, again the Yakuza have a reason to be here. In a culture where perfection of body is usually associated with the quality of the person (and there the handicapped are undeservedly prejudiced against or shunned), the Yakuza have developed yet another way of proclaiming their ferocity, and at the same time terrifying their own members. After all, after you make a mistake and have your little finger neatly chopped off by our boss with a ceremonial sword in front of the heads of your local Yakuza chapter you’re not likely to make another one. Unless you’re a real fuck-up, in which case you just might keep loosing digits until you wise up – or, better yet, kill yourself.
But the one Yakuza practice that has definitely earned them a place in this space, is what they do when they get caught and have to serve time – which is rather common as Japan has an incredible arrest and conviction rate. Criminals in Japan, they say, expect to get caught – it’s just a matter of when.
All kinds of criminal groups have ways of passing the time in jail, or of demonstrating their time served. It’s common, for instance, for girlfriends of Latino gang members to get black tears tattooed on their cheeks for imprisoned boyfriends.
But certain Yakuza members go a rather extreme step further to show their jail-time. What makes what they do so fascinating isn’t just what they do, but that they manage to do it at all. Japanese jails aren’t like American pits – prisoners there are watched almost constantly, and their days aren’t just sitting and waiting.
Still, the tools are readily available: a fake (or better yet, real) pearl, and a sharpened chopstick, and balls – great big ones.
Boys, you might want to cross your legs. Ready? Take the male member of the fellow who wishes to demonstrate his a) loyalty, b) time served in jail, or c) the strapping size of said testicles, and carefully slice a small incision in the shaft of the penis. If the penis has to be flaccid or erect I have yet to discover – but both have their own degree of horror.
After cutting into the skin of the penis, carefully (like you needed to be reminded?) insert the pearl under the skin. Bandage so that the skin covers the pearl. If all goes well, then you should have a handsome lump under the skin of your penis. Some have been known to add pearls for each year served, while others – more major-league – have decided to simply insert one for each visit to jail. The penis afterwards is supposed to be lumpy when erect – and women who have encountered them have said that the pearls have added to the sexual experience. What is done to avoid infection isn’t known – as is exactly how painful the procedure is. I do know that several Modern Primitive acquaintances have played with the idea of repeating the practice, but have always failed to actually go through with it.
Aside from the fact that simply thinking of this unique way of marking time served makes me squirm, I do have to say that it makes a lovely piece of symmetry: here is a culture that uses the body to proudly proclaim themselves through brilliant tattoos, that punishes failure and disloyalty through body subtraction – ritual amputation, but then uses addition to the body through the insertion of pearls to show loyalty and dedication.
Though I also have to observe that both (failure or demonstrating honor) have a rather painful price.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The Gypsy Pall
It is dim inside the small trailer. Apolena seats herself behind a cloth covered table upon which rests a crystal ball of smoky glass. The interior of the cabin is draped in rich satin of varying colors and the scented air is musky and thick with a sweet aroma. Apolena gazes at him over her crimson veil for a moment, her dark eyes liquid and taunting. Slowly she reaches up and removes the silky veil, revealing a smile. Her white even teeth behind ruby lips, and rich dark skin glowing in the lamp light cause a thousand tingles to rush up Amos’s chest like a sudden fever, over his throat, and into his hair. Even his scalp thrills to the impact of that vision. It’s as if each individual hair on his head reacts by standing away from his skin, trembling. He has never seen a more lovely nor dangerous looking creature in his life. More beautiful than the wild mare rearing up on her back legs on the prairie, framed by the flaming sunset. More dangerous than the lithe crouching cougar at the edge of his land who stalked him one evening. More perilous than the thundering storm that rolls over the open ground, bending bush and tree to its will.
“What you want, peasant?” she addresses him, her sultry voice filled with an odd combination of scorn and invitation.
His throat goes dry and he fumbles his cap from his head and worries it in his rough hands.
“You,” he whispers hoarsely. “How much?”
She laughs softly. Her voice is like bells or zephyrs or the clear rushing waters of an enchanted stream.
“What a crude man you are,” she says, looking intently at him. “Why you think you can buy my love?”
He stammers his reply, which makes no sense even to his ears. He has heard rumors, he tells her. He thought, he assumed, he guessed.
“Well, you guess wrong, peasant,” she replies. “I should curse you for this insult. But, Apolena feels pity for you. You have woman?”
“Yes. My wife, Martha,” he tells her, his face flushed and perspiring.
“Why you not make love with your wife, Martha?” she demands.
“She’s a good woman, my wife,” he says. “She works hard, she’s decent. She’s not the type to, well, appreciate the animal side of things. She’s upstanding.”
“Ah, I see now,” Apolena says knowingly. “You would do these things to me that you would not do to your virtuous wife.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“I know what you mean, peasant,” she snaps. She closes her eyes for a moment and touches her chin with the tip of her slender finger. Amos eyes the many rings on her hand, the dark red nails, her slender bangled wrist, and is seized by a feeling of irresistible lust tinged with fear. He knows he has offended her but can’t seem to disguise his longing. He thinks it must be oozing from his pores, filling the very air with its urgency.
“Come back tomorrow night,” she decrees. “Bring fifty dollars and something that belongs to your wife.”
“Fifty dollars?” he says in shock. She dismisses him with a wave of her hand.
“Fifty dollars, peasant,” she says as she rises. He stumbles to the doorway and carries his hunger with him out into the night.
Gina Magini attended Hutchinson Community College and Kansas Wesleyan University. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and her cat, Allie. She enjoys gardening, traveling, and designing Bohemian style purses and accessories. The Gypsy Pall is her first novel. She is an avid reader and especially likes books with story lines that surprise her
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
To begin with, I had to get my ass back to Brooklyn.
I couldn’t ask Serena to come back to the East Village. Not now, maybe not ever.
We met up at Verb Café on Bedford, where I finally got my much needed, long-delayed breakfast and coffee and discussed damage control.
“Okay, now that we’re in this fuckin’ hole,” I said to her. “How do we dig our way out?”
“We need to get organized,” she insisted. “First, I’ll meet with the writer, get his help, arrange to pick up the van, get the lighting equipment.” On and on, she babbled, like she was possessed.
Nearly everything she mentioned had to do with the movie shoot.
“Serena,” I told her. “You can’t pin all your hopes on this thing flying.”
“I am pinning my hopes on it,” she replied. “Because I know the money’s there! Ready to drop straight into our hands!”
She went on to say how she emailed the scenario to the LA tool last night and how he’d already called her up this afternoon full of enthusiasm. “Dolores, he was impressed. Seriously. Said he could see ‘clear potential’ in it. Even went so far as to say that if we pulled it off, this could be a whole new beginning, that he could ‘envision a whole lineup of video products’ with me as the star and director-slash-writer.”
“Writer?” I said. “But you didn’t write it.”
“Well,” she chuckled, a little embarrassed. “I kinda had to fudge that. Tell him it was mine. Didn’t think the writer would mind.”
“You better hope the writer really is submissive,” I told her.
“I already talked to him on the phone,” she said. “I think he’ll be all right with it. I mean, I think he’ll be fine.”
“Who is he?”
“Who, the writer?” said Serena, with a shrug and a smirk. “Oh, ya know. Just another loser.”
And just how she said it stuck in my throat, right along with the dry carrot muffin and bitter overpriced coffee.
I got put out and she could see it.
“Kidding, I’m just kidding!” she said, changing her tact. “He’s just y’know, a writer with a shitload of unpublished work. I think he also wrote for The Voice. Or maybe The New York Times, I’m not sure.”
“He seemed okay, though? Cool?”
“Cool?” she frowned, giving me a look. “He’s a writer, okay?”
“But, I mean, laid-back?”
“Yeah, maybe.” She shrugged. “I dunno. I still gotta meet him.”
“And when are you planning on doing that?”
“Soon. Right here. In like an hour,” she said. “Wanna hang around?”
I still felt nauseated. “Not likely. You take care of it.”
“I will. I mean, I plan to take care of it,” she said. “In the meantime, I need to ask you a favor.”
“I need you to talk to Primus.”
“The NYU student,” she said.
“I know who he fuckin’ is.”
“He’s worked on some porn films. Even made a short video of his own, he told me.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“At the bar. Otto’s, remember? You left?”
“Yeah. So he has access to equipment. From the shoots. Or from the school or whatever. Can’t remember which.”
“And what makes you think he’ll help out?”
“He won’t help out. He’ll just borrow us some equipment: a camera and a few more things.”
“Maybe he can help us shoot it? Since he’s done this before.”
Serena snapped, “No, Dolores! I don’t want that. Some dickhead, hanging around. Taking control. While we’re both vulnerable and exposed!”
“Oh, shit!” Of course I forgot about that.
“We can do this,” she said. “Just you and me. On the downlow.”
“And the sub.”
“And the sub. Whose name is Dick.”
“That’s the writer. And our actor/performer.”
“You spoke to him about that?”
She nodded. “He agreed to be in it. Said he even may find it ‘therapeutic.’”
“Does he know he’s doing it for nothing?”
“I made that crystal clear. He seemed fine with it. Still wants to be a part. Even offered to help set up equipment.”
“Are you sure we can trust him?”
“Why not? He’s already invested time and effort on the project.”
I finished slurping down my coffee and offered Serena the rest of my muffin, since I couldn’t seem to keep it down.
“So what about Primus?” I asked.
“What about him?”
“Why do you need me to speak to him?”
“Because he’s already agreed to help us get the stuff. He said so, over the phone.”
“So, I said I’d pick it up from him, in person. Only, I can’t go back into the East Village. I mean, right now.”
“Serena, what else did you tell him?”
“You didn’t make any promises, did you?”
“He’s expecting you to show up in person, right?”
“Was he expecting to see you? Get something from you? I can’t see why he’d go out of his way to help us out.”
“He likes me.”
“I know that.”
“He really likes me.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I also promised to give him a blow job.”
“You fuckin’ what!”
“Just a quick one, D.”
“More like a hand job. With a little bit of lip action.”
“No big deal.”
“Damn right, no big deal,” I told her. “’Cause I ain’t helping you out there!”
“You’re the director, you suck cock!”
“I wasn’t telling you to suck his cock. Just mention the fact that I can’t be in the East Village. At this very moment.”
“You’re fucking insane, you know that?” I shook my head, in disbelief. “Do I even know you?”
Serena took a moment. “Listen. I’m not saying you should give any blow jobs.”
“Oh really? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I was just kidding about that, anyway…. Talk. Just talk to the guy,” she said. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“Then grab his equipment, hail a cab and beat it the hell out of there!”
I snorted. “Should I steal his wallet, too?”
Serena said, “Just make sure his daddy’s charge card is in it!”
“Bad. You’re bad, girl!”
“Fuck, Dolores. This is about getting the assholes off our backs! We only have one chance.”
“So I’m supposed to do your dirty work?”
“Listen, I’m doing all that I can,” she said. “I can’t meet with the writer, get the funding for the movie, work out all the kinks and deal with some horny-ass fratboy.”
“So that’s my job?”
“We’re partners, Dolores. We’ll be splitting the take 50/50. Just talk to him, that’s all I’m saying. Make him a bunch of empty promises. We’re filmmakers now. We need to talk like filmmakers. You know the drill. Offer him percentages.”
“Offer him ‘points.’”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“’The back end,’ I don’t know. Promise him something. Anything.”
“But no blowjobs.”
“Just tell him I owe him one. Owe him big time. Tell him I love him. Anything.”
“Whoa, you have gone Hollywood!”
“Let’s hope so, Dolores. Let’s hope we can parlay this little experiment into a string of projects. ’Cause once we got that, we got money. And once we got money, all our problems will be solved!”
I suppose it came down to that.
Girl had it all worked out.
She was the sun. And I was a revolving planet.
But there was no denying it: Serena had enthusiasm and a singularity of vision.
Initially published small literary magazines, Richard Perez has also written for The New York Times. His first novel, The Losers' Club (aka: The Losers' Club: Complete Restored Edition) was a small press success, with three foreign translations to date: Korean, Turkish, Italian. PERMANENT OBSCURITY: or a Cautionary Tale of Two Girls and Their Misadventures with Drugs, Pornography, and Death -- his second novel -- also reflects his infatuation with bohemia and willful nonconformists.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
You really can’t blame them. How many hundreds of years have we lured them with tasty morsels, only to have that first taste not be food but rather points of sharpened steel driving through their lips, their mouths. How many thousands of years have me thrown vast nets down into their domain, hauling them up to die, flopping and choking in the dry, toxic air? How many millennia have we spent butchering them in so many horrible ways -- but what is worse sometimes only for such frivolous reasons as lipstick, explosives, pet food, fertilizer, or even simply for sport?
Is it no wonder that some of their more brutal kin routinely take pieces out of us, digesting our illusory superiority as easily as they chew up simple cod? Their hungry warriors are frightening enough -- vast, insatiable mouths ringed with shredding teeth -- but these are grotesque caricatures of vengeance. Their real revenge is small and darting, a terror that strikes very close -- too close -- to what we consider precious.
Namely, our genitalia.
For now they have limited their field trials to a remote and rather inhospitable location -- namely a certain large, winding stretch of water in South America -- but rest assured that if their experiments are successful they will, no doubt, take their plan of horrific revenge to every corner of this water-soaked world. I firmly believe that after reading the following account of this devastating weapon being developed, you too will understand the danger we face, the terror possibly lurking within every body of water.
It is called vandellia cirrhosa, or more commonly by the residents of that distant location, the candirú. This rather small member of their species is nevertheless perfectly equipped for its horrendous mission. At only two to three inches in length, it’s size is ideal. Needle-sharp spines lay along it’s spine. Normally, this deceptive member of this passive-appearing species, lives parasitically -- by attaching itself to the gills of its larger brethren and draining off enough blood to sustain itself. It appears to be at first to be a simple, innocent member of that sinuous body of water. Appearances, as always, can be deceptive.
It’s teeth are sharp, yes, and as stated those spines are very, very sharp, but it’s such a small little creature -- how, you ask, can such a simple, humble organism be capable of feeling our great, proud world? How can this ridiculous ... FISH be so terrifying?
It is in the presence of homo sapiens that this tiny devil reveals its true purpose, its terrible function. You see, this strong, slimy little creature of the Amazon, without a doubt, is the most horrendous weapon ever devised by the coming aquatic rebellion.
We are a species governed more by sex than intellect -- and so how better but to strike at our most precious organ?
While reports at this time are sketchy, the aptitude and inclination of this tiny member of the Amazonian ecosystem cannot be denied. Lured by urine, this fish has the ability and the powerful inclination to seek out the source -- to push it’s slimy, needle-sharp body up into the human body through the male or female urethra. Pause. Think. I repeat: “Lured by urine, this fish has the ability ... to push it’s slimy, needle-sharp ... up ... the male or female urethra.”
If you feel the need, you may now wince, moan, scream, or cup your hands around your favorite organs.
Once in place, this little piscine monster cannot easily be removed. The spines along its back face backwards, making any attempt to grab the rarely-exposed tail excruciating -- and irreparably damaging. If the beast should happen to squirm its way deep enough, the only recourse is immediate surgery to remove it. Without going into too much needless detail, suffice it to say that knives and -- if available -- large quantities of anesthetic are necessary. However, I propose that the shock and fear generated by the invasion of this aquatic horror would do much more damage that the long incisions needed to remove it’s ferocious body.
Please, I beg of you, heed this warning. Watch the oceans, and particularly watch the fish that appear to so innocently swim in it -- and never, ever, pee in the pool.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
“You want a cup of coffee? Come in, come in. Have a nice cup of coffee.”
Amber paused in front of the Italian restaurant. The exuberant owner seemed determined to ensnare her. She smiled politely. It had been a thirsty morning, exploring North Beach. A break would be good.
“You talked me into it. Can I have a window seat, please?”
“But of course. And we have chocolate croissants, freshly baked.”
The man was hard to resist. Amber allowed herself to be ushered inside the restaurant and seated at a table with a perfect view of the street. It was refreshingly different from her staid Midwestern town. There were people of all nationalities and persuasions. Lots of same sex couples too. A steaming cappuccino arrived, served by a waitress who slipped a divine-looking pastry onto Amber’s plate with a lively “Belissima!”
Amber took a bite of the croissant. It was heaven. It was at that moment she noticed Antoine, sitting at a nearby table. His eyes were fixed on her with an expression of mild amusement.
“How are your shoes this morning?”
Amber couldn’t answer him as her mouth was filled with pastry. She felt her cheeks burn and could have kicked herself for not noticing him before she took such an enthusiastic bite. Antoine picked up his cup and moved to her table.
“It’s OK. I’ll let you finish your mouthful. Beautiful day.”
Amber nodded, desperately trying to dispatch the croissant. She wondered if she had chocolate on her lips.
“Yes! I was out exploring when the café owner captured me.”
“Ah yes, Tony is rather good at lassoing his customers. You’ve stumbled on one of the neighborhood gems. Did you enjoy being rounded up?”
Amber laughed. There was something alluring yet vaguely unsettling about the tone of Antoine’s voice.
“Tony is extremely dominant.”
“Yes, I suppose he is.”
Amber’s heart began to pound. She felt oddly nervous. She played with the handle of her coffee cup and stared at the remains of her croissant. She’d rather die than take another bite in front of Antoine.
“Tony enjoys being in control. Calling the shots.”
Why was he going on about the café owner’s MO? Amber’s gaze slid out to the street. She watched Tony confidently approaching strangers, his powerful personality easily overcoming the more passive indecisive types. He must’ve spotted her a mile off, easy prey. Suddenly, with a shock, Amber realized that she was sexually aroused.
“You want to be controlled, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”
Antoine’s voice was quiet and steady. Amber began to feel lightheaded.
“I need some air.”
“I know exactly what you need. Will you let me give it to you?”
Amber looked into Antoine’s piercing eyes. The October sunlight made them silvery like mercury. She could disappear into those electric, commanding eyes and never return. When she spoke her voice was a whisper.
“What is it you want from me?”
“Absolute submission. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“The Eight of Wands. Your life is speeding up. Get your man to buy you a sports car.”
“The Knight of Swords. A feisty outspoken kind of guy, maybe born under an Air sign.”
“I’m an Aquarian” murmured Antoine.
The reader nodded and continued laying out the cards. They were in a dimly lit, Aladdin’s cave-like store in Chinatown. Antoine had offered to show Amber around and, despite some formless misgivings, she had accepted.
“The final outcome is the Hanged Man. There’s nothing you can do but submit. Your hands are tied. My advice to you is to go with the flow.”
Antoine coughed meaningfully. Amber paid the reader and they walked out into the street.
“Tell me again what you want me to do.”
She was like a child, asking for the same bedtime story, delighting in the repetition. Antoine placed his hand on her back. There was strength in the gesture that was beyond physical and she shivered.
“I want you to come with me this evening to meet the other members of my group. I want you to wear some special clothes and shoes for me. I want you to be mine for the night, obey my commands and trust my judgment implicitly.”
It sounded simple. There was no messing around, no indecision. She would obey Antoine for a brief period of time. It was called power exchange.
“I know you will be a wonderful submissive, Amber. You see, it isn’t something you have to learn. It’s what you are.”
They stood by a Chinese grocery store. Boxes of exotic fruits and vegetables spilled out onto the sidewalk. Inside, thousands of colorful items were piled from floor to ceiling.
Antoine disappeared inside. Amber waited outside as she was instructed. Was it a test? To her surprise, she discovered that she enjoyed being told what to do. Normally, she’d hate being bossed around but it was the tone of Antoine’s voice. It thrilled her, excited her in a way that made her underwear moist. Her panties were soaked.
Antoine reappeared with a small package.
“I want you to wear this for the remainder of the day, Amber. It will concentrate your mind on pleasing your new Master.”
Amber looked down. It was a cheap red nylon dog collar. Her nipples hardened as Antoine buckled it about her neck. Intense arousal swirled in her pussy. She was mastered. What would it mean?
Amber stood before the mirror in her hotel bedroom. A strange reflection looked back at her – a girl wearing a scarlet satin corset, the top of which barely concealed her full white breasts. The reflection wore sheer black seamed stockings and red patent leather shoes. The spiked heels of the pumps were six inches high and Amber swayed, finding it difficult to keep her balance.
“You look beautiful.”
Antoine sat in a chair, his keen eyes taking in every detail. His cock approved.
“What if I fall over?”
Amber lifted one foot and touched the heel tip as if testing a blade for sharpness. Antoine watched the thin silk of her panties mold to her shapely bottom and felt himself grow harder than ever. He was looking forward to putting Amber across his knees, pulling those panties down and spanking her bare ass crimson.
“Then you’ll get up again. And I’ll tan your hide for being clumsy.”
Amber laughed, nervously. She fingered her collar. Its pressure about her throat had given her a string of pleasurable frissons. And no one had given the offbeat accessory a second glance in town – this was San Francisco.
Antoine moved behind Amber. She felt his breath on the nape of her neck. Slowly, he traced her naked shoulders with his fingertips, making her shudder and gasp.
“I love your innocence. It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
Antoine’s lips caressed the ultra-sensitive place behind Amber’s ear. She couldn’t stand the tension. For the first time in her life she wanted to throw herself at a man. His voice was a soft murmur.
“You really want me to fuck you, don’t you?”
Amber could only nod. She was very wet, the crotch of her panties drenched. Antoine’s hands moved to the corset lacing. Amber longed for him to touch her breasts. Desperately aroused, she arched her spine and pushed her cleavage up and out. Her swollen nipples threatened to escape but the strict corset boning held them in check. She groaned. Her desires were thwarted. Antoine gripped her waist.
“I want you to channel that need, Amber. Do you understand? This is all about control. You will come when I say you may come and not a second before.”
Antoine’s hands left Amber’s body. She wanted to scream with frustration.
Slowly, Amber slid to her knees on the rug. Instinctively, she lowered her gaze and placed the palms of her hands on her thighs.
“Excellent. You look like a fully trained slave-girl.”
Amber’s mind reeled. Submission. Control. Training. What had she fallen into? What would happen next?
“Amber, my dear, you look stunning. I could eat you all up.”
Amber looked up at the statuesque redhead who stared down at her with a hard glint in her eyes.
“Don’t you just want to whip her, Antoine?”
Antoine laid a hand on the dominatrix’s arm.
“Yes, I do, Lady Carnelian. But Amber must learn to walk before she can run.”
Lady Carnelian snorted.
“I think you underestimate this girl. She’ll take anything you give her and lap it right up.”
“What an excellent idea, Lady C.”
Amber watched as Antoine spoke to a Japanese girl in a leopard print mini dress and metallic gold fetish boots. Meekly, she left the room then returned carefully carrying a shallow bowl. She walked gingerly in her incredibly high heels to prevent the liquid from slopping over. Amber noticed that she wore a broad leather collar with three heavy steel rings.
“Thank you, Miko.”
Antoine placed the bowl on the floor before Amber. The room went quiet with anticipation. Amber’s heart began to beat faster. Why were they all looking at her? She didn’t want to be the center of attention. The bowl contained milk. What on earth?
“Drink your milk, Amber.”
Antoine’s voice was very firm and steady, containing no hint of malice. Amber looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears of confusion. She felt stupid.
“How?” she whispered, desperately wishing they were not being watched.
“Miko will show you how.”
The Japanese girl knelt down beside the bowl then, moving onto all fours with a sinuous movement, she dipped her face to the milk. Amber saw her tongue snake out and begin to lap like a cat. It was the most sensual act she had ever witnessed.
“Like that. Very nice. Thank you, Miko.”
Amber’s cheeks were pink as she lowered herself into the required position. She felt like an animal. Slowly, she dipped the tip of her tongue in the milk. She didn’t want to drink. She wanted to run back to the bedroom, close the door behind her and hide.
“Drink your milk, Amber.”
Antoine’s voice had changed. He sensed her discomfort and resistance and was determined to break it down. His voice washed over her, hinting of something much bigger than she was, something powerful and overwhelming. Humbly, she began to lap up the milk. Her nipples were so hard she could feel them pushing against the corset and, yet again, her panties were moist. It all came from the tone of his voice. When he spoke to her like that she could do anything for him. He was like a hypnotist.
“I think that’s enough. Well done, Amber. Good girl.”
When Amber sat up her eyes were shining. She had pleased her Master. It was a delicious feeling.
The girl writhed on a large wooden cross. Naked but for collar and thigh-boots, she cried out in a strange blend of pain and pleasure. Behind her, a man, her Master, lashed her buttocks and thighs with a leather flogger. There was a rhythmic swishing, cracking sound. Amber stared, mesmerized like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an approaching vehicle.
They had moved on to a fetish club. Everything was intensified and Amber felt out of her depth. Her senses were overloaded. Whips. Floggers. Paddles. Canes. Could such torture implements really be devices of pleasure? The music was dizzyingly loud, some heavy, thudding industrial sound and the place was decorated like a set from a gothic horror movie, all crimson and black. Antoine moved easily in the room, pausing to greet friends, never letting go of Amber’s wrist. She felt captured by him and she enjoyed the sensation of his strong fingers wrapped about her tender flesh. If it wasn’t for his potent effect on her she would leave the club for sure. It was intimidating.
“Don’t worry, Amber. I don’t expect you to join in. Just observe.”
Antoine’s reassurance helped Amber to relax. Some of the things she witnessed made her toes curl inside her outrageous shoes. It was amazing how much pain some of the submissives or “bottoms” could take.
“Their bodies are flooded with endorphins. It transforms pain into something else – more like a rush or a high.”
“ Look at those bruises!”
They stood watching a gay “top” disciplining his naked sub. The bottom was draped over a wooden horse. A mass of dark bruising and cruel-looking welts covered his buttocks, thighs and shoulders.
“He’s a masochist, Amber. A pain slut. I’m going to spank you later which will not leave any marks just a delicious warmth.”
Amber swayed on her stiletto heels. The heat and noise of the club was beginning to disorientate her. The thought of Antoine spanking her was both terrifying and wildly exciting. Her heart lurched and she leaned against her dominant.
The words sounded theatrical and a little forced but the pleased look on Antoine’s face made the effort worthwhile.
“Excellent. Now we’re going back to the hotel. I hope you’re not tired because it’s going to be a long night.”
“Unpin your hair and let it fall naturally over your shoulders.”
Amber knelt on the bed, her eyes closed. Carefully, she took the pins from her thick black hair and it tumbled down in a heavy mass. She desperately wanted to look at Antoine, to see if he approved, but he insisted she must not.
“You will not look me in the face. Remember, you’re not my equal now. We are in our own world and the rules are different. I make the rules and you obey them. Your eyes will be closed when I say so and downcast at all other times. Understand?”
Antoine’s words seemed to slide over Amber. She stared down at the smooth white flesh of her upper thighs and the tops of the sheer black stockings. The corset garters snaked over her pale skin, scarlet on ivory. The urge to snatch just one brief look in the mirror grew into an obsession. Still, Antoine sat and watched his submissive, saying nothing, his eyes focused only on her. Minutes passed. Finally, unable to stand the tension any longer, Amber tossed her head, simultaneously stealing the quickest of looks in the mirror near the bed. A fleeting image of tousled hair and blushing cheeks was her only reward and her heart sank. Antoine sighed.
“Oh dear. Just when you were doing so well.”
Amber gasped as he rose from the chair. His hands felt cool and strong as he pushed her forwards so that she crouched on all fours. Swiftly, he gave her three sharp smacks on her bottom. Amber cried out, more in surprise than distress. Antoine’s voice was quiet but menacing in her ear.
“Naughty girls who disobey their Master’s orders have their bare bottoms spanked hard until they cry.”
Amber’s stomach turned over. Antoine’s hand returned to her bottom and caressed her buttocks through the skimpy scarlet panties.
“You have a perfect ass for spanking. Round and smooth. Put your hands on top of the bed frame.”
Surprised, Amber did as she was told. Antoine took a length of black silk from his pocket and bound her wrists to the frame. Amber began to panic.
“I can’t move!”
“That’s the general idea. Bondage isn’t about freedom. It’s about the ecstasy of restraint.”
Ineffectually, Amber tugged at her bound hands. The harder she tried to disengage herself, the tighter the silk binding became.
Amber was frightened. She trusted Antoine yet having her wrists bound was more than a little unnerving. His hands moved from her bottom over the lacing of her corset to the nape of her neck. She shivered uncontrollably. Her position was animal-like, exposed and vulnerable, with her hips thrust up, presented for spanking.
Strong fingers raked Amber’s hair then slid beneath her torso to cup her breasts. She felt her nipples come alive beneath his hands and he sought them out. She moaned.
“You have fabulous tits.”
Antoine continued playing with Amber’s nipples, pinching and rolling them between his forefinger and thumb. Sweet musky juices soaked her sheer panties and a pulsing sensation ticked deep between her swollen pussy lips.
“I’m going to spank your naughty bare bottom until it’s as red as your corset and then I’m going to fuck you.”
Amber couldn’t reply. Her body pulsed with sensation. All she could do was gasp. Antoine’s hands returned to her hips. Abruptly he wrenched her panties down, exposing her trembling buttocks.
“Beg for it, Amber.”
“Please, Sir. Please spank me.”
“That’s my good girl.”
The spanks fell hard and fast on Amber’s squirming, wriggling buttocks. Their sharp stings rapidly gave way to a deeper warmth and, as Antoine had predicted, Amber’s bottom soon grew as red as the corset. The heat and intimacy felt wonderful. His hand was tantalizingly close to her pussy. Amber soon found herself pushing her buttocks up to meet his hand, greeting each stinging slap with an answering bump and grind. And then, just as she was bracing herself to let go and come as she had never come before, Antoine stopped.
The wonderful sensations retreated and Amber wanted to shout in frustration.
“Why now? I can’t bear this!”
Angrily, she tugged at her hands but the firmly wrapped silk held her hard and fast. The cool air of the bedroom seemed to taunt her fiery bottom with tormenting caresses. He had to let her come. He had to! How could he be so cruel?
Antoine moved away from the bed. There was the soft click of a closet door being opened and the swishing sound of some item being retrieved. Again, Amber’s heart began to pound with nerves and anticipation. She thought of whips and canes and floggers like the ones she’d seen at the fetish club. She didn’t want such harsh treatment. She needed to come…
Antoine stood by the bed holding a riding crop.
“Lower your eyes, missy. You’re disobeying me again. I might have to thrash you for that.”
His voice had changed. Amber shivered. Her arms and shoulders crept with gooseflesh. She dropped her eyes, seeing nothing but her outstretched arms, wrists bound to the brass curlicues of the bed frame. She was incredibly wet between her legs and insufferably frustrated. If her hands had been free she would like to have snatched the crop from Antoine’s grasp and snapped it in two.
Amber clenched her teeth.
“Just a little.”
Antoine reached down and pushed one finger deep inside her pussy.
“You’re so ready for a good hard fucking.”
He pushed the finger between Amber’s lips.
“Suck it. See how good you taste? That’s because you’re more excited now than you have ever been in your life. Am I correct?”
Again, Antoine pushed a finger deep inside Amber, locating her cervix and causing her to cry out and grind her hips over his hand. It felt so good. Would he let her come? Or was he teasing her again? She began to rhythmically clench and relax her hips, trying to bring herself to orgasm. His hand moved away and returned to her mouth. It was true – she did taste and smell good.
“You need a taste of the crop, Amber.”
Amber had forgotten the riding crop and she tensed.
Antoine placed the riding crop between Amber’s lips.
Amber’s tongue explored the shaft of the crop. Antoine slowly slid it out of her mouth then caressed her nipples with the leather loop at the tip.
“You’re my little pony girl. What a fine mane you have.”
The crop lifted up a strand of Amber’s hair then let it fall. It slowly traced the outline of her body, from her shoulders to her thighs. After a few seconds of this treatment, Amber found herself longing to experience the sharper sting of the crop against her already burning skin. Her wish was soon granted.
Amber yelped. The crop was extremely stingy, like a sharp insect bite. If she had been able to, she would have rubbed her bottom with her hand.
“If I gave you mercy you’d never forgive me.”
Antoine’s voice was hoarse and Amber realized that he too was becoming excited.
It was hard to stay still but she tried her very best, squeezing her buttocks hard against the knife-like onslaught of the crop. After the first few strokes had fallen, she began to almost enjoy it.
“Good girl. Submit to me, Amber. Submit completely.”
“You want to be taken, don’t you, girl? You need to be used.”
Amber groaned. Another orgasm was rising deep inside her. She couldn’t lose it again. Please let him allow her to have it.
Antoine put the crop down and caressed Amber’s throbbing bottom with his fingertips. She almost convulsed in pleasure. Heat, pain, sharpness, softness, all swirled together in a vortex of submission. She was being carried away by it all. They both were.
“And now I’m going to fuck you, Amber. I’m going to fuck you very hard.”
Amber heard the brief sounds of a zipper being unfastened and the rustle of a condom packet. She was trembling violently. If he didn’t do it she would scream, she knew she would. She would go crazy.
“I’m going to fuck your hot wet cunt.”
Amber felt the bed move as Antoine knelt behind her. The head of his shaft pressed against her slick pussy lips. His breath was hot and moist against the nape of her neck as he nuzzled her and whispered how beautiful she was. Then with one hard thrust he was deep inside her.
Amber shrieked. Antoine’s arms encircled her, holding her close so she felt the coolness of his shirt against the exposed skin beneath her corset lacing. His hands cupped her breasts and she gasped, squirming around his rigid shaft, opening herself wide for him to take her. He did not move, simply massaged her nipples until she wanted to scream. She needed him to take her hard, to thrust his cock into her hard and fast. Dirty words surged through her head. She wanted him to fuck her, fuck her hot wet cunt with his thick hard cock. She pushed back against him with all her strength, wriggled her bottom suggestively and groaned in lust and despair. Antoine continued playing with her fat, swollen nipples. She looked down at them, engorged and pink, at his deft tormenting fingers playing her body like a musical instrument. Her arms stretched forward in an inverted V. She was still trapped, bound, unable to escape, with this gorgeous, wicked guy doing exactly what he damn well pleased with her.
“You have such juicy tits, Amber. I love playing with them. I wonder how you’d like nipple clamps.”
As if to illustrate, Antoine pinched Amber’s nipples hard between his forefingers and thumbs. A strange sensation writhed in the pit of her stomach and she felt herself relax again. His cock was even harder than before. He was enjoying pinching her nipples. Amber stopped grinding her hips against Antoine’s groin. She had forgotten the golden rule. He called the shots. It was her role to comply, obey, submit.
“That’s better. Remember – I give and you receive.”
As soon as she stopped squirming, Antoine began to thrust, hard, fast and deep inside her. The sense of being taken and used was as exciting as the powerful thrusts that soon found an answering response in her hot, slippery depths. Her breasts bounced wantonly above the bodice of the corset and her hair streamed wildly over her face. It felt so good. It felt so incredibly good. His hands were on her hips, holding her fast, keeping her moving in time with his punishing rhythm. She was going to come. His breathing was ragged. His cock felt huge, swollen, rock hard. She was going to come. She was going to come. She was going to come…
Amber screamed. At her heels, Antoine shouted his own orgasm, pumping into her so hard and deep that she yelped. Slowly, shuddering slightly with aftershocks, he withdrew himself and she felt sorrowful when his body left hers. In the mirror by the bed, a bright-eyed, tousled haired, bare breasted young woman in a scarlet corset looked wildly beautiful, transformed by the primitive magic of submission. Her hands were bound with black silk to the bed frame and that, oddly enough, was the most sensual thing of all.
“Everything is happening so fast. It’s like a whirlwind. I’m sure I’m going to wake up soon. Perhaps I should pinch myself.”
Antoine squeezed Amber’s knee.
“Leave the pinching to me.”
They were having lunch at Fisherman’s Wharf after a busy morning wandering up and down some of the steepest streets Amber had ever encountered. The line-ups for the famous cable cars were so long they had decided to walk everywhere. Amber loved the ringing metallic sound of the moving cable running beneath the pavement. She loved everything about San Francisco.
“One order of clam chowder. One order of crab cakes.”
A waitress brought their meal and Amber picked up her soup spoon. She realized that she was very hungry. It had been a very long and incredible night. Images entered her mind when she least expected them and shocked her with their passion and intensity. The red high-heeled shoes. How she had allowed Antoine to bind her, wrists to ankles, then insert a small glass dildo into her virgin, vulnerable bottom. The scarlet satin corset. She had let Antoine pull on the cords until her waist diminished by several inches and her breath came shallow and fast as she knelt at his feet, her head bowed, her body a perfect hourglass.
The soup was hot and delicious. Amber helped herself to a slice of bread and tried to focus on the meal. She was already extremely aroused. Just being with Antoine aroused her. The way he looked at her seemed to render her naked, totally exposed. She couldn’t hide anything from him.
“You look as if you need a cold shower, Amber. Behave yourself. You’re squirming in your seat as if you’ve wet your panties.”
“I think I have. Sorry. I keep thinking about last night.”
“Good, wasn’t it? I knew it would work, you know, when you went sprawling on the rug at the Hotel Raimonda. It was the look on your face when I helped you up. You were like a little girl who’d spilt her milk on the carpet. All pink-cheeked and guilty looking. I can’t tell you how much it turned me on.”
Amber smiled ruefully.
“I’m glad something good came out of my embarrassing myself!”
Antoine reached across the table and stroked Amber’s free hand. His touch was electric and she almost spilled her soup into her lap.
“Many good things happen when you let yourself go, Amber. Remember that. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
Miss Jay Lawrence is an expatriate Scot who currently hangs out near Vancouver, Canada. She is the author of various erotic novels and short stories which have
appeared in publications on both sides of the Atlantic.