Best S&M, Volume 3

by M. Christian

  And what do I muse about? Well, don’t laugh, but it is about serious subjects such as love, eroticism, art and death… Yes, and sometimes my ideas crystallise into a genuine aphorism, as the following, for instance, which on the evening before my encounter with my corpse washer, whilst reasonably drunk already, I scribbled on a beer coaster, and then put in my pocket: and life essentially boils down to creating one’s own, personalised hereafter.

  And what did I think of this aphorism the next morning, when, whilst nursing a hangover, I found the beer coaster on my writing desk next to my computer? Well, that I am probably an incredibly pious – and rather unlucky – man, perhaps because my little life has not exactly run smoothly up to now, and I am beginning to consider our earthly existence chiefly as a prelude to Paradise, although I will naturally spare no effort in the world to experience as many heavenly – read heavily erotic – moments, right here on this earth.

  “...and life essentially boils down to creating one’s own, personalised hereafter.” Ah! Heaven! In my view, Heaven is naturally a real Heaven, a place where one never runs the risk of bumping into a member of one’s family, in other words, and with streams of wine and other spirits, so that you can live in a constant state of stupor, without ever feeling the negative effects thereof, with such conversation partners as Mozart and Tchaikovsky and Boccaccio and Blixen, who know how to pull the most wonderful melodies and stories out of their sleeve, as if by magic, and with a pineta for their landscape, with a shore and a sea that is just a pinch sunnier and cleaner than the macchia lucchese in Viareggio, inhabited chiefly by dark-eyed specimens of the male species, ever ready for a romp, who naturally only speak romance languages – French, Italian, Rumanian, Spanish, or Portuguese, in other words. And who reigns in this Heaven? Why, God, of course, the most beautiful, most perfect, sweetest Man you have been searching for in vain your entire life, who will take you in his arms after you breathed your last too, for a never-ending story with the power of a continuous orgasm. Yes, indeed, and I, as a real melancholic type, can answer the prissy Catholic souls who reproach me for perhaps attaching a bit too much importance to eroticism, with a saying by Aristotle: “Melancholic types are, for the most part, obsessed by sex.”

  Ah! Heaven! God! The corpse washer, the man who must get us clean for our first appointment with God! Halal! There you were, on that sunny September evening, when I made my entrance in the Dada Café, sitting at the little table by the window, a mint tea in front you – there you sat in your drop-dead gorgeous glory, with your dark-bearded head, your limpid, black eyes that turned to look at me, and in which I thought I could read a certain holiness, the holiness of someone who is all too aware that we are here only temporarily, and can thus look Death straight in the eye; with an aura of blinding light around you; yes, yes, nearly a slap in the face of the ugliness that surrounded you, the musty floor and counter and tables of the bar, the unacceptably bad hard-rock music, the unfriendly barman, and the handful of half-drunk, unkempt Flemmings spluttering at each other – and my first question was, what in God’s name is he doing here?

  And this was exactly the first question asked by Evert, my neighbour and night nurse at Saint John’s Hospital in the Rue du Marais, who happened to step into the bar, saw me through the open door, raised his arm to waive to me, saw my beautiful stranger through the window, and smiled at him with a somewhat surprised yet very polite nod. And my beautiful stranger smiled back, downed his last gulp of mint team, and with a supple gait and his well-built 1-metre-80 frame, dressed in bleached jeans and a white shirt with short sleeves, walked out of the Flemish watering hole, leaving me in the lurch!

  And what did Evert have to say about my beautiful stranger when we bumped into each other on the patio of our building? Oh, that he too was amazed to see Halal, for that was his name, in the Dada Café, because this Halal was someone very discrete and very reserved; he worked as a corpse washer in the same hospital, but had no real contact with Evert or his colleagues; no one knew in fact whether he had a family or where he came from, and he always took his lunch alone in the canteen.

  Needless to say, since that afternoon, my fantasies about Halal all but broke loose and that his likeness – I had seen him only once – has remained constantly before my mind’s eye. And what kind of fantasies could these be? Well, they range from the most traditional to the most excessive. Supposing that I still wanted to make something of the life I still have left, I dreamed, for instance, that Halal was gay too, that I would meet him in a gay spot, that he would say “je t’aime” to me – the Flemish version “ik hou van je” has the contrary effect on me—and that we would live long and be happy together, and perhaps adopt children too. A more delirious dream was that I would see one of the erotic fantasies still on my wish list come true with him, to bonk so furiously together in public that we would end up in a police station for indecent exposure. For instance, we would first cuddle and strip and paw each other in relatively safe places, such as porno cinemas, peepshows, public toilets, and sex shops. But then things would get heavier and more frenzied each time, we would go and frolic about in our bare bottoms in the fitting cubicles of large warehouses, in passport photo booths at metro stations, and underground car parks, until finally, some prissy soul, preferably accompanied by innocent children, such as an infant teacher, for instance, would, completely out of herself, call in the Men in Blue.

  My more morbid fantasies took even darker turns; he could, for instance, initiate me into the joys of coprophagy, very gradually, because taking part in a banquet such as the one in Salò has been no priority of mine, but I could have a look how a – his! – arsehole would open to press out a couple of brown turds – this was perhaps still a feasible sort of fantasy. Or, when I was feeling down, he could perhaps, for a quarter of an hour or so, the duration of Ravel’s Boléro, anally penetrate and dilate me hard, so that in the end, with my permission, and with one thrust on the last dissonant note of the aforementioned composition, he would rip up my bowels to shreds.

  Ah, Halal! What a vain fantasy; perhaps he was not gay at all, and would not want to raise a finger to me, so that my most romantic fantasy concerning him was of a suicidal nature. Because he was a corpse washer, the only way to get him to touch me was simply to end up as a corpse at his workplace in Saint John’s Hospital. And oh, none other than him would then, for the last time during my presence here on earth–for I would then be shoved in the crematorium–would wash me, would close my eyes and mouth with a peaceful gesture, perhaps put some gauze in my nostrils, and then give my long body the once-over with soap; and perhaps a last shave, clip my rather bushy eyebrows, and touch my face up with some vermilion perhaps, and before dressing me–I opted to enter the Hereafter in a pair of bleached jeans, a simple chequered shirt, and sandals–he would still have to stick a wick up my arsehole, that organ that had provided me with so much pleasure?

  And how should I do myself in? Oh, the plan to wind up bodily intact on Halal’s wash table was simple: I would wait for the first freezing day of winter, to go out drunk, with a bottle of vodka and a last pack of cigarettes, and sit starkers out on my balcony at night, and freeze slowly to death, completely in line with “Let me freeze again to Death” from Purcell’s “The Cold Song,” performed so emotionally by AIDS victim Klaus Nomi. No blood or wounds or fractures, in other words, and I would not lock my front door, so that people would not need to force it, should anyone grow alarmed because of my absence.

  Freeze to death! Andersen wrote his wonderful fairy tale “The Little Matchstick Girl” around this theme, and the first ice-cold day of the year, I am always slightly panic-stricken. My thoughts go out to the homeless in Brussels, and on my way back from Le Gémeau at night, for instance, I sometimes give one of them a bank note and beg him to go to a cheap hotel on the Place Saint-Géry.

  Freeze to death! The first snow fell all too soon after that September evening when Halal came to rule over my thoughts. It must have been on 12 November, I b
elieve. And as usual, I was sitting in front of my computer, working, that afternoon, glancing now and then at the falling snow, when an e-mail came in from Evert. It read as follows: “Dear Jan, first, sit down, if you are not already sitting in front of your computer. I know that you have had restless fantasies about the corpse washer, Halal, for a month or so now, but you never plucked up your courage to go and wait for him at the exit of Saint John’s Hospital to greet him or speak to him. Halal dropped dead suddenly, three days ago. The story making the rounds among my colleagues is that he still washed a gorgeous girl of eighteen or so, who had died of internal bleeding, and that he then–excuse my use of words–started zig-zagging down the Rue Neuve like a chicken with its head cut off, aimlessly, hysterical, screaming and yelling. When he reached the Eglise du Finistère, he fell to the ground and died from a heart attack. My excuses for the bad news. No one has come to claim his remains to date. I know that he came very close to your ideal. I was able to make a last photo of him with my digital camera, which I am attaching herewith. All the best, Evert.”

  And? And? Naturally, every letter of this zany romantic rhapsody of mine is pure fabrication, but the beauty of some men can arouse the most heavenly – and hellish – thoughts in me – and there can be no two ways about it… It’s the only way that I can keep going. Amen.

  Retribution

  By

  Billierosie

  “I want your cock in my mouth.”

  “Jane?”

  “Get your cock out, now!”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself. Get your cock out. What part of that didn’t you understand?”

  A nervous, male voice responded. “Jane, is that you?”

  “As I said to you yesterday, who the bloody fuck is bitch whore Jane? Now get your cock out!”

  A small smile tickled the corner of her mouth. She was enjoying this. Silently she blessed whoever had invented caller ID. Without it, she would have had no idea who the pervert was—the guy with the mellifluous voice who’d called her the previous day. The guy who’d wiped clean twenty years of hang ups and brought her to a shattering orgasm. It occurred to her she should thank him, but she wasn’t going to. This was much more fun. Twice she’d called and got his voicemail. But that didn’t matter; she’d discovered his name and profession, and through the wonder of Google she’d checked him out.

  He groaned. “Oh God it’s you, isn’t it? Look I’m so terribly sorry. A stupid mistake. I dialed the wrong number. I’d meant to be calling Jane. It’s her fantasy, you see. Getting a dirty phone call. It was meant to be a sort of late Valentine gift.”

  “So sweet,” she said silkily. “But just fucking mention bloody fucking Jane one more time, and you’re going to be in such trouble.”

  “So what is this? Blackmail? Got it all recorded have you? Or is it retribution?”

  She chuckled. “Nothing so civilized. Do as you’re told and get your cock out.”

  He laughed. “Aren’t you supposed to ask me if I’m hard first?”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Yes. I am actually.”

  “Good. Okay, slowly unzip your pants and take out that big, hard cock.”

  God, she was getting wet herself. She hadn’t realized talking dirty could be such a turn on. She could hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the line.

  “If you’re pumping your cock, you can stop right now.” She surprised herself at how harsh she sounded. She fondled her breast, pinching the hard, erect nipple so it hurt. She felt a gush of fuck juices soak her panties.

  Whatever he’d been doing, he’d stopped. His breathing quieted.

  “Tell me about your cock,” she said. “Describe it to me.”

  “Well, it’s just a cock,” he stuttered.

  She’d obviously thrown him. He hadn’t been expecting that.

  “You’re not feeling shy, are you, Marcus? Tell me what it looks like. Start with ‘it’s hard.’ “

  “Yes, it’s hard.”

  “Are you looking at it now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me where you’re sitting, Marcus.”

  “At my desk. In my office. I thought we were talking about my cock.”

  “Right now I want to get a feel for where you are. What sort of office? Modern? Traditional? You’re an architect, aren’t you? Do you have a ruler on your desk?”

  “Right here.”

  “What’s it made of?”

  “Wood.”

  “Excellent,” she laughed, delighted. “The old-fashioned sort. Always the best. Now back to your cock. Measure it for me. How big is it, Marcus?”

  “Nine inches,” he said immediately. There was an element of smug pride in his voice.

  She laughed again. “I think you already knew that. You’ve measured it before, haven’t you?”

  “Y...yes,” his voice sounded sheepish.

  “That’s okay, Marcus. You may have to be punished later. But right now we both want to talk about your cock. So it’s long? Mmm, and thick. Would I like it in my mouth, Marcus?”

  “Oh God yes!”

  “I want to know what it tastes like. There are drops of pre-come on the end of it, aren’t there? Just oozing from that little slit. Dip your finger in it and lick it off. What does it taste like?”

  When he spoke his voice rasped. “Look, enough of this. I’m going to jack off now. Okay?”

  “No, it’s not bloody okay. Do as you’re told and tell me what you taste like. Feeling a bit intimidated, are you?”

  “No. Yes. It just feels weird you saying these things to me.”

  She gentled her voice. “Poor baby. Just tell me what you taste like.”

  Silence.

  “Salty,” he mumbled. “Kind of pungent.”

  “There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? Have you ever tasted cock before?” Her voice was sweet. “Don’t lie to me.”

  There was a long pause. “Just once,” he finally admitted. “A long time ago.”

  “At school?” she prompted. She realized she was fingering herself. Her index finger sliding between her wet folds. She brought her finger to her mouth and licked it clean.

  “Yes. At school… And another guy, at university. After a football match…”

  “And did you like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you swallow their spunk?”

  “Yes…”

  “Have you ever been sodomized, Marcus?”

  “What!”

  “You heard me. I’m going to sodomized you.”

  “I’m not bloody gay!”

  “Well you’re the one who said he liked sucking cock. Swallowing spunk.”

  “I never...I didn’t. You’re twisting my words…”

  “Why do all men say that when they’re losing an argument? You’ll be telling me next that I’m crazy. Well, I tell you, Marcus, I doubt that there’s a woman on the planet who hasn’t been told by a man that she’s crazy. I’m proud of being crazy; it’s a badge of honor.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “Tell you what. This is going to be a lot easier if you strip off. I want you naked.”

  “But, I can’t. There’s a huge picture window here…I’m only on the second floor. Someone might see.”

  “Well you have got a point, I suppose. But frankly, I don’t care.”

  She heard a rustling sound. Gosh, was he really stripping off? She felt immensely powerful. She felt an overwhelming need for penetration. Her finger slid into her cunt.

  “Do you want to know how wet I am, Marcus? I’m fingering myself.”

  “I didn’t know women got off on stuff like this.”

  “Neither did I. But I do, and I am. It’s kind of great.”

  “I’m just going to put the phone onto speaker. You won’t hang up, will you?”

  She giggled. There was a note of desperation in his voice. “I might…”

  “Back now,” he s
aid quickly. “I’m just taking off my pants. Damn this buckle. It always gets stuck.”

  She giggled again. She was going to make him wait a long time before she let him come.

  “Are you naked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. You can stroke your cock. Just gently.”

  She could hear him drawing breath.

  “Tell me how hard you are.”

  “Bone hard. I really need to come.”

  “No,” she scolded. “Stand up. You and your cock.”

  “Oh God, people might see.”

  “Told you, I don’t care. Are you standing?”

  “Yes,” he answered in a miserable voice.

  “Oh come on. Do get in the mood. Would you rather I stop this now?”

  “No, no, please don’t stop. Please.”

  He was begging. That took things onto a whole different level. She touched her clit with her index finger. Her cunt clenched.

  “Okay. I won’t go. But first you’re going to listen to me come.”

  She pushed three fingers into her cunt and thrust hard. She was hurting herself, but she didn’t care. She stood up, one foot on the chair, widening her hole. Her finger clamped down on her clit and rubbed in little circles. The friction caused the tiny organ to send a sizzle of sensation through her cunt and pucker the tight bud of her anus. The orgasm had been building for some time; her pelvis pumped, and a gush of cunt juices soaked her hands. She cried out, a low bestial sound. She slumped down into the chair and was silent for some time, just thinking how wonderful it was to have that exquisite release. Then, guiltily, she remembered the man she’d left in a state of high arousal.

  “Phew,” she gasped. “Back now, Marcus. Sorry about that, but it was a good one. Did you hear me?”