Eunuchs and Nymphomaniacs

by AnonYMous

  Gushing in fact.

  I came and came and came and laughed and she laughed too and I came even more and still tonguing me she laughed again as I continued to writhe, yelp, spasm, and gasp. She was flushed and visibly turned on by what she had caused and I could feel her perfect pussy getting even wetter around my still embedded fingers. Her body was maddeningly erotic, even more so now after orgasming.

  “He’s falling for me. I can see it in how he looks at me.”

  She said it like she was disappointed. Like even he was fallible. She had initially approached him because of his dark brooding persona but now this millennial Marquis de Sade was reduced to: I’ve been thinking about you all day. Closing his text she rolled her eyes.

  “What I’ve just been on, was definitely a date.”

  She looked so well bred and conservative. Well mannered. Like an upper-class English heiress with an edge. So when she said something potentially cruel it sounded like she was merely reporting the facts. She wanted very much for me not to fall for her. But I knew I was already past that point. Secretly I was thrilled to hear that the dark and dangerous @drkroom was just a pussy like the rest of us. After another thumb-pummeling during which she was polite enough to obtain all manner of multiple orgasms, she reviewed me favorably.

  “You really know how to get me wet, you’ll have to tell me your secret.”

  She might have been complimenting my chicken salad. Her screen lit up on the bed stand. It was another text from @drkroom.

  She read it aloud.

  “How are you?”

  “Yes, how are you?” I asked, inviting her to juxtapose her present situation with her new understanding of @drkroom.

  “I’m very good indeed,” she purred, smirking down on me like a wet dream come to life or, more accurately, a wet nightmare, a dark and thrilling ride to nowhere.

  * * *

  After a dinner she ordered but didn’t eat, she whipped, kicked, and ordered her slave around the hotel room. Striking poses in her new lingerie, she tipped champagne onto the carpet and demanded he lick it up. He wasn’t allowed to sleep in the bed. Or the bath. He slept on the floor like a dog. Then, having whipped him mercilessly for spilling all that expensive bubbly, she dispatched him uptown to a specialized wine merchant to fetch a ridiculously expensive bottle of Beaujolais. Attached to the bottle was a message she’d dictated to an embarrassed sales assistant with instructions to drive his Owner to an address in Brooklyn where he should wait outside while I get my brains fucked out by a real man.

  It was a nice touch to enlist the sales clerk. Was she really new at this? From the back seat of his own car he was shown @darkroom’s photo and invited to understand just how worthless he was in comparison. All this as he drove her over the Williamsburg Bridge in the dawning light of a sunny Saturday morning after a night of frustration spent in a hotel room with his cock in a cage. Under Mistress Emmeline’s supervision he had willingly locked his cock and balls inside a clear Perspex cage (available from all good BDSM stores) before handing her the only key that she wore on a precariously thin thread around her ankle. Hardly the most secure location for such a valued item but it ceased to matter when she flushed it down the same toilet he was busy, at her command, licking clean. Presumably there was a spare but this was unconfirmed.

  “I hadn’t expected it to be so funny,” she confessed over the phone. This was endearing. She was like the incestuous younger sister I never had. The night before, during what must have been the first few hours of her new adventure she texted, I’m a natural at this.

  Selfies of her being fucked by her brooding bull-like Brooklynite photographer appeared on her slave’s phone while he looked in vain for a parking space. GIFs of $900 wine being splashed on and then licked off her bullet-hard nipples.

  And yes there were stabs of jealousy when I heard she’d headed all the way over the Williamsburg Bridge to Brooklyn instead of the East Village but then what would I have done with a bottle of rare wine? And did I really want her coming over to my place early on a Saturday morning in gothic lingerie and heels? Of course I fucking did.

  And yet it was her I envied, not him.

  Imagine being that beautiful and that young and that clever in a city like New York. Oh the damage you could do.

  “I could get used to this,” she said.

  The success she was enjoying with one slave began to inspire notions of more. After all, the mechanics of humiliation would work just as well on one guy as the next. They might even be made to feel jealous of each other. And her presence, her physical presence, wasn’t even required to maintain dominance over them. In fact her absence, selectively applied, could in itself be harnessed as a form of punishment. With two or three of these guys on the go she’d get her rent paid, her fridge stocked, and her wardrobe lined.

  Her reports were so gloriously detailed and so deliciously unedited I was at first flattered that she should take me so deeply into her confidence. But then I began to see I was merely a repository for her exploits. A sort of unofficial biographer. Exhibiting her perfect body no longer provided the exhilaration it once had. Having developed a tolerance for it she was searching for ways to get even more naked. The photographers had been mere stepping-stones toward an ever-increasing adulation. If that audience could expand to include the readers of the book she knew I was writing then so be it. She knew I could be relied upon to chronicle her antics as she strutted and posed on the newly mounted New York stage. But then as if to prove my theory wrong everything went quiet.

  Weeks passed without even an Instagram post … except for one. A beautiful black-and-white shot of her ass with my sonnet projected on it. My poem clung like literary lingerie to its subject.

  At first I touched it with my mind

  A rear so rare I roared inside,

  A rump so worthy of a sonnet,

  I vowed aloud to write one on it,

  Like starv’d dogs on meat releas’d

  My thoughts upon thy cheeks do feast

  Oh luminous moon now cleft in twain,

  Hark the serenading wolf-pack baying,

  Pour qu’un écrivain se rince l’oeil

  Montes-moi ton joli cul.

  Behind thy back we doth conspire

  Till whipp’d and spank’d tis set afire

  I added one more like to the 2,056 already there.

  And no, I wasn’t credited.

  But apart from that nothing. No texts, no calls. It was disconcerting. She was no doubt embroiled in new intrigues and I’d soon receive a full report. I was sure that managing a job, a growing Rolodex of slaves, and a darkroom full of sexual depravity was probably enough to keep anyone occupied, but even so it was unlike her not to narrate. Maybe it was just too awkward to continue seeing me now that @drkroom was getting so cozy. Then one day while negotiating a particularly treacherous patch of tarmac behind my hand truck I felt a welcome tug in my pants pocket.

  Ping.

  He dumped me.

  My mind whirred.

  I was sure that @drkroom, having the pick of New York’s filthy-minded art models, had simply inhaled Emmeline and moved on. Now she’d turn to me for consolation.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I lied.

  Be still my trembling thumbs.

  But I was wrong, it was the slave who dumped her.

  Fired her in fact.

  This was the closest Emmeline would ever get to having her heart broken. She was in shock. Smarting from being rejected by a masochist for not being sufficiently sadistic. It totally unsettled her. The language used was the same as always: It’s not you it’s me … I’m not getting what I want from the relationship … I need to take a break. By inviting her to be his dominatrix he had paradoxically remained in control from day one.

  “Can I come over for tea and sympathy?”

  She was confiding in me and not @drkroom. Should I be encouraged by this or had I already been demoted to friend? Was I on the brink of three more years of half-truths and
ill-definition? It’d be Marian all over again.

  Not if I could help it.

  When she did finally arrive she looked somewhat depleted. The euphoria of her first few months in New York had worn off and something close to reality had settled onto her like dust.

  Her husband was serving divorce papers, she’d resigned from her job, hoping to be supported by a cluster of slaves that never materialized, and most troublesome of all she was trying to decide what to do with the fact that @drkroom had invited her to move in with him. This last item was accompanied by an eye-roll but the flush in her cheeks betrayed her.

  “He’s so into me it’s embarr—”

  I lunged at her in midsentence.

  If I was going to be rejected I’d get it over with.

  But she not only melted into my embrace, she flicked her tongue against mine encouraging me to continue. If she had pulled away and explained that we could no longer be physical because she and @drkroom were getting serious I would have known how to behave but I had no map for this. Maybe they had an open arrangement. Or was I being given the chance to match the bid made by a competitor? Shedding clothes as she led me to my own bedroom, she was naked and on all fours before I even had my shirt off.

  With her head and upper body buried in the pillows all I could see was a two-limbed alien, vertically split at its intersection. A lisping creature unaware of culture’s mores, uninterested in anything but a sucking, salivating need. It might have been trying to speak, or more likely it was hungry. A gentle swaying enhanced its hypnotic effect.

  It should have been a fantasy made flesh, the very coordinates of a wet dream arrived at. I imagined all the men in New York … in the world, who would gleefully throw me aside and force-feed this seething slit with what it craved. The image I’d once had of New York’s female elite amassed outside my apartment was now replaced by its male equivalent.

  The moment hung in the air.

  Reaching back, her long elegant fingers tickled under my balls. Her optimism was still intact. Her young mind had yet to encounter the far-off phenomenon of a cock gone soft. No, I wasn’t teasing. There would be no victorious docking and no exaltation as I proceeded to the next challenge of desperately trying not to come. Amazingly, she did not stop, turn around, sit up, and stare at me in disbelief. Instead she behaved like she was languishing in orgasms already achieved. Maybe it was easier to do that than confront a subject that was going to be very tricky to discuss. One that required an intimacy we didn’t have. I was under no illusions we’d become any sort of couple. I didn’t even want that. And neither did she. Or at least not with me.

  But even in his most depraved moments @drkroom still demonstrated a willingness to commit. His moral compass, battered as it was, tended toward monogamy—a spanked, bruised, tied-up, and choke-fucked monogamy but monogamy nonetheless. Meanwhile I was hard pushed to produce a sufficiently stiff cock.

  This was when I had the idea.

  It occurred to me rather gently that the concept for my much fretted-over next book had already existed before I’d even begun writing the first one. It had just been waiting for me to notice it. I felt no regret or self-admonishment for not having seen it sooner, it was simply ready now to be seen and so here it was, emerging in this most unexpected of moments.

  Aisling’s book of romantic photo-essays.

  With my newfound publishing clout I could easily produce such a book and drop it into the slipstream of my recent success. So many people had asked if she ever published her version of events. But Aisling wouldn’t be the one producing this book. Emmeline would.

  Or more accurately, Emmeline and I.

  I might not be able to physically fuck her but intellectually and artistically I could penetrate her harder and more deeply than anyone alive. Even more than @drkroom.

  I’d invite him to collaborate.

  It wouldn’t be any more difficult to pull off than some of the ad campaigns I’d worked on over the years. And Emmeline was born to do it. Not only could she effortlessly play the part of Aisling but her various slaves could stand in as captains of industry as they endured the heat of her displeasure. They wouldn’t even need to pretend since many of them were already one-percenters who needed to be taken down a peg. Or pegged? In her capacity as dominatrix she could insist they sign waivers allowing the use of their imagery (face optional) as part of their sado-humiliation. It was the perfect project to demonstrate her skills not just as a photographer/model/artist but as a cultural activist fighting the corroding forces of capitalism and the power of the patriarchy.

  It was so much better than just being written about; it would give her a chance to create a showcase of her talents for which I could provide a combination of bohemian credibility and mainstream exposure normally unheard of in her circles.

  And I’d be granted the sort of closure I had no right to expect. By publishing the book of cynical romance photography that Diary of an Oxygen Thief had been written to prevent, I’d intentionally produce the very book I had been so afraid of.

  As Emmeline’s cum-summoner held me in its sway I imagined working out the details.

  I would take Aisling’s initial idea and expand on it. Step-by-step photo-stories following romantic liaisons initiated by Aisling (played by Emmeline) as she systematically reduced the world’s most privileged pricks to tears. It’d be easy to create biographies for the various participants: an Oil Executive, a Merchant Banker, a Litigation Lawyer, a Plastic Surgeon, and of course an Irish Advertising Creative Executive.

  I’d be able to art direct my own life.

  For the shoot we’d book the same room in the same hotel. Room 901. Emmeline wearing Prada just like Aisling had done. We might even get a fee for product placement. Candid black-and-white photos of an actor playing the part of Anonymous, taken in and around downtown bars and cafés would mimic the impromptu shots Aisling took of me. More of the same in the back of the cab on the way to the hotel. Then maybe a quick visit to Ireland for more shots in Dublin. The Temple Bar and Hotel Constance and finally back to New York for a detailed reenactment of that notorious roll of film shot in the Cat and Mouse bar: the raised finger, the embarrassed poses, the salutary pint of Coca-Cola.

  It’d be fun casting the guy who played me.

  I thought about approaching Aisling to offer her the chance to collaborate. But why would I do that? If I produced this book I’d reclaim that part of my life and maybe even acknowledge that yes she might have had a point. That maybe it was arrogant, stupid, immature, and entitled of me to expect her to drop everything when I arrived in New York just because I had some preconceived ill-informed notion of how girls are supposed to submit to a guy. Why shouldn’t she just fuck me once, or twice? After all, she hadn’t lied. She had been very open with me saying she was not looking for a relationship. By producing the very book I was so afraid to see realized I’d show how much I’d grown.

  The public would be encouraged to wonder if the book contained the actual photos taken that night in the Cat and Mouse. No one knew what Aisling looked like so it would be impossible to decide if Emmeline was or wasn’t her. No one knew if Aisling was even real. No one except me. And I might have imagined everything that had happened between us.

  Or I might not.

  Someone claiming to be Aisling might come forward but it would be difficult to make a case. Such a person would be easy to dismiss as an attention-seeker. After all, how could I be accused of stealing an idea that had only ever been mentioned in a work of fiction? A work of fiction I had written. If the book was fictional then so was she, and then so was her claim.

  In fact if anyone owned the idea, I did.

  In the meantime I’d prepare a backstory for Emmeline as Aisling. Most people weren’t going to look any further than LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr. A few back-dated posts just to give her a sense of history. A website based around Emmeline’s own work would purport to be that of Aisling McCarthy with studios in Dublin and New York. Imitation
ads for tastemakers like Gucci and Prada would lend credence to the success of her website. She had to be doing well if brands like that advertised with her, right? We could even sell limited edition prints of Emmeline’s work masquerading as Aisling’s. The book would of course also be available for purchase.

  I might even “come out” and take a well-earned bow.

  On the other hand, probably not.

  More from this Series

  Diary of an Oxygen Thief

  Chameleon in a Candy…

  Book 2

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Anonymous

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  First Gallery Books trade paperback edition October 2019

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