The audio track is a boring mega-mix of unceasingly repetitive 120-beat-a-minute disco with the same too-loud kick drum that seems to follow me nearly everywhere in 1980. This is combined with the deranged libretto of people talking, whispering, begging, crying, ordering and shouting, layered with a special-effects L’Opera de Pervo—whip cracks, slaps, yelps, clanking chains, slamming doors.
Our fans follow our every move—mumbling extras in the walking crowd scene. Out to greet us from one of the smallish rooms steps a rather attractive sturdy blonde middle-aged woman with deep set dark blue-grey eyes of great intelligence and determination. She is wearing an amazingly normal print dress and holding a riding crop in her hand. With false regality but excellent posture she inquires, “And what do we have here?”
“We have my slave girl, Countess Zero, Grand Slut Of the Galaxy,” I ad lib. I see behind her a slight girl hanging on the wall. “And who are you and what name does the girl go by?”
“She’s so insignificant that she has no name,” the woman with the riding crop tells me, “I am Mistress Eleanor. And yours?”
“Call me Sir Guy, Mistress Eleanor.” The fans “Oooh” and “Ahh” on cue. This existential theater’s Act One has finally begun.
“Why don’t you get rid of the riff raff,” she suggests, “and come inside and maybe we can come to an understanding.”
Laura smiles her approval and I tell the crowd to get lost. We walk inside a pantry-size room carpeted with thin wrestling mats. We shut the door behind us and the crowd sighs in disappointment.
Handcuffed to the wall, facing us and completely naked, is a small, skinny, barely legal, badly bleached frizzy blonde with large breasts, which if I am lucky will be as firm as they look. She has dead-looking eyes with bags underneath, mousy brown pubic hair, not a lot, and her thighs are thin and decorated with fresh red crop marks. Even in dim light I can see her body is covered with red welts, teeth impressions, and fading black and blue bruises. The handcuffs are high and her arms stretch above her head. She stands on her tippy toes, like she is having a dance lesson with a Nazi ballet instructor. Her face isn’t that pretty but she is fucky looking; hard, used and skanky. Just the kind of slut I fancy as a counterpoint to Laura.
“What games does The Countess play?” asks Eleanor. “Does she crave submitting to a woman?”
“Countess Zero does whatever I desire,” I boast, “and, no, I have never loaned her to a woman. What do you wish to do to her?” I certainly don’t want her to be abused in the manner of the girl with no name. I check Laura again who continues to beam an A-OK.
Eleanor, about half a foot shorter than Laura looks up into her eyes as she describes her wish list. “I want to make her cry, to hear her beg for me to stop. Then I want her to eat me until I’ve come in her mouth.” Laura flinches demurely and lowers her eyes; on purpose I think.
“The Countess won’t cry and only ever begs for more. You must be used to inferior, weaker slaves. Besides, The Countess is my woman and I don’t want you to scar or damage her. I’ll let you hit her with your riding crop five times and only on the ass, and then she will suck your pussy. And I get to fuck the girl with no name.”
“No, please, not with a man!” the girl with no name interrupts.
“Shut up, bitch,” bellows the Mistress, “you’ll do what I say with whomever I say. Right?” She demands, “Right? Right?”
Now there’s rousing verbal foreplay! I actually find a girl who would rather be poked in the eye with a sharp stick than fuck me. I’m thinking this might be a bad scene; the Mistress hits the girl across the face open handed so hard it scares me. Some play this game more earnestly than others. Laura lets out a gasp and looks at me with real fright in her eyes. I note Eleanor’s use of “whomever,” instead of the more common and incorrect “whoever.”
Am I dealing with a perverted lesbian English teacher?
“Yes, Mistress Eleanor, whatever you say.” The girl with no name is really crying, which turns me off. As much as I could have enjoyed fucking her I don’t fancy having sex with someone who doesn’t want me or isn’t being paid to want me. It is the same reason I never have a rape fantasy. I might be fucked up, but I want to be loved and adored.
“Hey, I think that we are on a different plane than you two and it’s time for us to leave.” I tighten Laura’s leash and make a move to open the door.
“Wait,” Eleanor pleads, “Sylvia,” she says giving the girl a name, “tell Sir Guy that you are sorry and that you’ll be happy to service him whatever way he wants. Tell him, honey. I want you to do this for me. I want you to let me play with Countess Zero. Tell him the truth. Tell him how you’ve been fantasizing about getting fucked by a man. C’mon, honey, tell the truth.”
“I’ll fuck the man for you, Mistress Eleanor; I’ll do whatever you want.”
This is too fuckin’ weird for me in a club full of weird. I’m about to exit when Mistress Eleanor tells me that Sylvia only likes to fuck men when she is forced to do it, and then she really gets into it and that it will be worth my while if I just, “bear with them for a moment.”
She offers that I can fuck and beat Sylvia even if I won’t let her use Laura, that I am a man of obvious great power and that she would be honored to have me use her slave girl. I don’t know if this is patronizing psychotic drivel, but I’m interested in their bizarre story so I ask Mistress Eleanor to tell me about their relationship.
“We are bisexual but mostly lesbian,” she tells me, “I guess you could say. We’ve been lovers for three years since Sylvia’s seventeenth birthday party. I used to be her mother’s best friend (long pause) but not anymore. We’re happy living together. We get a kick out of doing things in public, especially at this club. Sylvia is totally devoted to me and likes to take a lot of pain. We both have desires occasionally to fuck a cock.”
Laura whispers in my ear, “I want to watch you fuck the lesbian. And I want this woman to whip me. Permit her ten lashes.”
“You can have ten lashes. Is it a deal?”
Mistress Eleanor jumps in, “A deal, Sir Guy, but one thing at a time. First, I want to see you whip Sylvia and fuck her.”
I move over to Sylvia and stick out my chest up against hers. My God she has big beautiful tits! Nearly perfect. Textbook tits, like from God’s original production manual. I peel off my shirt, and rub my hairy chest against Sylvia’s now erect nipples. I kiss her on the mouth and she responds eagerly, no different from a heterosexual. I undress—slowly, deliberately, theatrically—aware that the show is more than half of this game.
Laura is standing behind me being pawed by Mistress Eleanor. I turn to make sure that Laura is happy, also to get the handcuff key from Mistress. Eleanor is rubbing Laura’s exposed buns with the riding crop. She stops to hand me the key and the whip and says, “Après tu, mon amis.”
I uncuff Sylvia, lay her down face up on the floor, and begin to explore her. She looks up with apprehension and I am not sure whether it’s real or an act. She continues to move like a hostage. This doesn’t feel like a place for foreplay so I hold her arms against the mat and work my cock into her vagina. She becomes delightfully cooperative and naturally passionate.
Her pussy is even tighter than Laura’s. She has no real waist and sweet, smallish hips and a lightly padded ass. She possesses the slim straight body of girls who are flat as a board except she isn’t. Altogether she has an oddly built body that is constructed from disparate parts. But it works. It looks and feels sexy. I have no trouble getting or keeping an erection.
I grip her under her ass and while giving her some deep pumps I gently work my finger, then two fingers, up her asshole. I take my time and get quizzical looks from Sylvia that make me believe no one has ever been up that particular route.
I whisper, “Give it to me. Relax.” For a moment I ponder promising that I won’t hurt her but that might be a turn-off to her. As I feel my climax approaching I pull my hard dick out and hold it and let the climax climb back
down. Then I slide into her second opening.
Eleanor, sensing what I am doing grabs my shoulder with a “Hey...!” but is cut off by Sylvia who gasps, “No. Please, let the man do it.”
I stroke in and out of her snugness, retarding my climax till I can do so no longer. I come with surprising force. With every squirt shooting inside Silvia’s ass, her eyes gain life and she enters into an orgasmic spasm.
She gapes at me in disbelief, continuing to quiver, gurgling like a baby at play. I look her straight in the eyes, now completely alive and nearly beautiful in their sparkle. After a long pause she says, “I never came like that. I never came from there before.”
“Great for me, too,” I contribute.
Laura is breathing heavily as if some of the orgasm had splashed on her. Eleanor says, “Well, well, Sir Guy. You seem to have made a big impression on Sylvia. Or should I say in Sylvia. But you never whipped her. I want to see you whip her.”
I’d forgotten. I really had no desire to whip anyone, except Laura. “I chose instead to fuck her in the ass.”
Sylvia looks up to me and pushes her face out at me, “Hit me, please.” I minimum bitch-slap her.
“Oh no,” she cries, and I figure I’ve gone over her line till she pleads, “Not so light. Please slap me harder.” I hit her just hard enough to scare me and make up for the lack of torque with a vicious scowl and a loud growl.
Sylvia thanks me. I see marks on her face that match my fingers. Laura leans forward and softly says, “I want you to do that to me, please, Master.”
I nod.
This is the first time I am an “S” to any “M” other than Laura. While not as complex emotionally as hitting Laura, it’s just as hot. I may be a pervert or a bastard, and they may be sickos—but I like submissive women who want me to use them and if they want it, for me to use them hard. And in these surroundings packed with other perverts, bastards and sickos, my behavior is not outside the norm.
“Now it’s my turn with The Countess,” says Mistress Eleanor, more sibilant than before. I guess it is the sound of her mouth watering.
Eleanor faces Laura to the wall and handcuffs her to a high ring. Laura, taller than Sylvia, isn’t forced to stand on her toes. I crouch down, petting Sylvia who enjoys the fondling while Eleanor pulls down Laura’s bikini thong and begins exploring her crack with the handle of the crop and then without warning flails the business end against Laura’s sweet cheeks. The whoosh of the whip foretells the strength of the impact. Laura lets out a surprised, “Ahhrrh,” broadcasting just enough pleasure in her pain to relieve my impulse to kill Eleanor.
“Ask me for another,” demands The Mistress and Laura complies. And so it goes. Eleanor savors the nine more slams of the crop against my baby’s flesh.
Laura loves it.
More than I do.
I flinch with every thwack. Laura moans with pleasure, sticking out her round and red striped buns after each recoil for the next instance of abuse.
After Eleanor’s ten, Laura begs for me to hit her another ten. Mistress Eleanor offers me the crop and not to be outdone, I equal or better the hardest of Eleanor’s blows.
Laura thanks me after each stroke and pleads for the next. By number seven I’m hard again. I bend Laura over and massage the inside of her pussy with my stiffened cock. She moans her sex-song, the tune I live for and comes several times. I fuck her but I can’t come and that’s OK.
Laura and I get dressed. Eleanor and the Girl Who Now Has A Name are staying for more games. We all hug and bid each other a warm farewell like intimate friends. Laura and I collect our coats and leave. At her request I don’t look at her going down in the elevator.
30
The pleasure of pain
In addition to our edgy real life in the outlands of perversity, Laura and I share an even more outlandish fantasy life. We both feel some things develop in fantasy and it’s our goal to bring them into reality, and some things are better suited to existing only in fantasy. We don’t discuss what goes where, it just falls in place and I am the gatekeeper. There is also a list of perversions that neither of us has any desire at all for and just never come up: the bestial, the scatological, the pedophiliac or anything that doesn’t involve consent.
I have no idea why but I know that taking our S&M relationship into Laura’s whoring world would be wrong. Laura’s whore sex is 97 per cent vanilla. A tiny toe sucking kink here, a piss drinker there, and lots of ass licking body worshipers, but most of her whore sex is what healthy horny teenagers do in back seats of cars.
In our own bed, I whip and spank her ass and back and belly and pussy and slap her face, as she looks into my eyes while I fuck her into the next level of beyond. She never says, “That hurts,” or, “That’s too much,” and only ever asks for more or harder. “Use me harder, hurt me” is her mantra.
I am never brutal; never want to take it to a point that will leave a scar or injury. I just want enough to make her rev higher. Sometimes, not taunting me or dissing my masculinity but only as post-game analysis, Laura says, “You could hit me harder. I want it harder.” I say, “Next time,” but it’s up to me to keep some kind of balance, some kind of clarity. Although I am deep into this dance of pain, I do love her and never want to go past the point of amusement. To me there’s playing the Sadist and being the Sadist, and I just want to have fun.
More than being a Sadist with a conscience, I am a Sadist with a need for absolution, not because I have guilt but as a way to avoid guilt. Our sex talk almost always ends with me steering the conversation into her telling me whatever she is doing is from her own volition and doing it because it makes her feel good. I need that. I have no idea what kind of synesthesia Laura is blessed or cursed with or what kind of psychic minefield she is crossing but as long as I can somehow justify my actions I don’t feel like I am an evil hedonist sucking the devil’s asshole.
“Why do you love being whipped and hurt by strange men?” I ask Laura. “And by me? Why do you like pain?”
“Because it feels good to me. It makes me feel good and used and I need it. And when I feel the pain, it’s the feeling of it leaving me and I am lighter and that pain is gone forever. I need you to get rid of my pain.”
Our fantasy life, however, is more than one step weirder and pretty much without limits. We talk about traveling around and selling her pain to rich perverts who want to hurt her. That excites her, which excites me, and after the first visit to this black and blue fairy tale there is no way to tell who is leading whom. I would say anything to juice her and she was so juiced she would say anything to energize me.
I would fuck her in some slow rhythmic groove looking down deep into her eyes.
“What would you do for me?”
“I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?”
“Yes. Anything.”
“Tell me what you’d do.”
“All my holes are yours. You can use them, give them away to men and sell them.”
“What else will you do?’
“You can have my pain.”
“How much pain will you let me take?”
“As much as you want.”
I would probably spank or slap or whip her a bit for emphasis.
“Can I sell your pain?”
“Yes, please. Sell my pain. Watch men hurt me and know I am giving them my pain to please you.”
“Will you do it every day?”
“Yes, everyday.”
“What if we find some really rich really perverted man who wants to whip you and beat you hard?”
“I would love for a man to beat me hard.”
“How hard?”
“Very hard.”
“What if he wanted to whip you till you were unconscious?”
“I would let him do it if you were there to watch me. And when you sell my pain I am rid of it.”
“Do you trust me to protect you?”
“Yes, I trust you with my life. I know you will always protect
me.”
“I pledge my life to protect you, you know that?”
“Yes, I love when you tell me that. I know you will beat me and hurt me and I don’t have to worry about anything.”
“And when other men beat you?”
“If you are there I can have it all without worry. No one will go too far if you are there.”
“Do you like it when we go into clubs and I let men whip you?”
“I love it. I need that. I need men to whip me and use me.”
“I did love it,” Laura remembers about one night. “I was all dressed up in my lingerie and my collar and my leash and everything, and my high heels, and lots of make-up. Jeffrey would take me around, and we would walk through the rooms and I would say, ‘Let’s get that one, and let’s take that one, and let’s take that one.’
“We walked through this building, and there were four or five floors, and we went through all the different rooms and picked about eight guys, and took them up to this loft on the top floor and there was a big futon.
“And a different man was doing something to every part of my body,” Laura continues. “Someone was kissing me, and somebody was sucking my toes, and somebody was sucking my fingers and rubbing my arms and somebody was….
“Was I sitting on someone’s cock?” Laura ponders; “I might have been sitting on a cock and getting fucked in the ass at the same time. And someone else was whipping me. Jeffrey was the master of ceremonies, the director. He would stand right there, make sure I had cocaine up my nose; he would give me cocaine as it was lying there on the side—and every single guy there fucked me.
“All eight of them, and the guys were really good looking! I always think of them as my sports team, ha, ha, ha, my little baseball team and I was the catcher ha ha ha… They were really good looking, they were all incredibly strong and muscular and into it—and into me!
“It went on for a long time, and they just fucked me in my ass, I sucked them—I had a cock in my mouth and my ass and my pussy all at the same time. Every one of them was touching me and rubbing me and sucking my fingers and rubbing my feet—and it was as exotic as you can possibly imagine—and it went on for hours and hours and hours, ha, ha, ha!
Laura Meets Jeffrey Page 20