Laura Meets Jeffrey

by Jeffrey Michelson

The S&M pimple comes to a head

  December 1982

  One Thursday night in December 1982 we go to Club O for some genial depravity. On Thursdays they let in single guys, and it is a good night for Laura to pick up a really horny man or two. By this time, we are club regulars and are greeted warmly by the door dyke. After Laura checks her coat, we go to the locker room where Laura does a few lines of coke. In the signature color of our affinity group, she’s wearing all black: teddy, thong, stockings, garters, high heels, and a studded slave collar. I’m wearing a black shirt, black jeans, no underwear, and carry a small whip—black, naturally—in my back pocket. It’s so easy to dress S&M.

  After a drink at the bar, we shoo away the unattractive single men we always draw, and take a quick tour of the action. On a wooden torture table in front of the bar, a young, naked woman with the white porcelain skin of an English schoolgirl in February is restrained with leather. The table looks like one you might see in a New Yorker cartoon. Her feet are on the floor and she is bent over one end of the table with her hands outstretched and shackled. She is being gently flogged by a short, bald, soft, blubbery older man in glasses, white jockey shorts, black socks, and shoes.

  He wields a multi-strand whip that dwarfs him. It is shiny polished leather with two dozen long strands, and a big leather-wrapped bejeweled handle full of blue and red stones. It is either a movie prop or an antique from the Spanish Inquisition. It’s strange to see such a whip used so politely. He has the look of a lawyer or accountant. She has on too much makeup, which is running from either sweat or tears. She isn’t enjoying it as much as enduring it. You can tell the difference. My take is that she is a hooker and he is a trick. Or maybe he is her lawyer and she is paying off her bill from her last prostitution bust. Or perhaps she is pre-paying her accountant for next year’s taxes.

  We move on. In Club O’s large, sparsely furnished living room we walk in on an odd yet stylish cluster fuck. In the middle of the room, four girls are on their knees facing the center of a circle, their heads nearly butting. They are being fucked from behind by four guys on their knees. I have never seen anything so choreographed. It looks like performance art.

  Each of the eight fucksters is at least moderately attractive, a rarity at a public on-premises swing club. All are in decent youthful shape. Maybe an extra pound or two here or there except for one girl who is just plain plump, but on her it looks sexy. The guys have shortish, definitely non-hippie hair. All are several years younger than not only me, but also Laura. They probably get carded outside New York City. All the girls use more hair spray than I normally see at sex clubs.

  One girl with Big Hair, jet-black and teased high says in unmistakable New Jersey Italian English, “Oh, that’s nice. I like it like that, Joey. I never knew you could fuck like that.” It displays familiarity rather than romantic partnership. A few, “Hey Joey!” and “Go Joey!” from both guys and girls, then small laughs, then all go silently back to the work. They are either a group of swinging friends or maybe just friends. It is more exciting to think of them as orgy virgins than sex hacks.

  Light touching, not really sexual, is happening between the females while the guys smile at each other, trying to get their rhythm section in synch. Dance music plays in the background with its incessant 120-beat-a-minute 4/4 time so even white boys can catch the groove. The girls giggle too much for my taste.

  Around this center circle, half a dozen single men of varying ages and shapes in varying degrees of undress are standing and sitting, watching and pulling their puds. One young buff fellow is sitting in a huge Victorian armchair with an older, slightly dumpy woman with huge boobs on his lap. She is riding up and down on his big cock. A smaller man, obviously a body builder with big biceps and traps, major magnificent abs, and an equally impressive cock moves toward them. The woman reaches out with her face to give him head. Back in the cluster I’m surprised to see each of the four kneeling males pull out and move to fuck the girl on his right! Synchronized debauchery!

  I pull Laura to the circle and ask if there is room for us. All the males welcome us and look at Laura with delight. Two girls look at me; one nods with mere acceptance and one flashes a smile. Thankfully, Smiley is the skinny bleached blonde with dark roots, big tits and small butt whom I fancy the most. Although intriguing to me, this assemblage is far too tame for Laura. “I’ll do this for you,” she says, “but then you’ll do something for me. Right?” I nod my agreement.

  I take off my clothes; Laura removes her thong. I place Laura on her hands and knees like the other girls to the left of Smiley, so Smiley will be my first switcheroo. Everybody scrunches over to make the now five-pointed star even. I only need to finger Laura’s partially lubricated pussy for a moment to bring it to its full-juice welcoming. Feeling her get wetter makes me hard. I enter her and join the easy to follow rhythm section.

  A single dude comes over to the cluster. He slides between the two couples opposite me, lies on his back and starts touching the two girls’ breasts. Then a guy, just a regular kind of average Joe, comes over next to us and starts playing with Laura’s back and bottom. Something about his touch bothers her, and she turns around and gently utters, “No. Please, no,” very quietly to not embarrass him. He moves away and starts massaging the ass of another girl who doesn’t mind. Laura doesn’t often turn guys away, but once in a while some guy sends her the wrong vibe. Usually it’s how they smell or the way their dick tastes. Rarely is it just a touch.

  The deal between Laura and me is simple: What she doesn’t want to do, she doesn’t have to do—unless I demand it. She either accommodates my second request or refuses a second time, and then I know she really doesn’t want to do whatever it is and I make sure she gets her way. She has the final veto. We never have a problem. Her safety is my responsibility and I pledge my life to make sure she is never harmed in any way she doesn’t want. This might sound melodramatic, but I take it seriously. We are doing some pretty edgy things with strangers in strange places and since I only have my fists and a buck knife, instinctual prequalifying is our chief security. There is rarely a problem that can’t be solved by a deep-breath, chest-expanding stern grimace on my part.

  “I trusted Jeffrey,” Laura explains; “I felt I could be as wild as possible because I knew Jeffrey was there to protect me. He gave me freedom. I wouldn’t trust myself the way I was, the way I used to get so high, I wouldn’t trust myself to go out by myself into the world, and just fuck around. Jeffrey always took complete charge of it.

  “Jeffrey allowed me to be completely incapacitated with pleasure,” Laura continues. “All I had to do was have a wet vagina and everything else was taken care of by Jeffrey. Whether we were alone, or in a sex situation with other men, my mind could be empty of everything but having pleasure.”

  The muscular guy with a Marine Corps tattoo fucking Smiley on my right comes loudly shouting, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” in the manner of Catholic orgyists testing the edge of excommunication. Smiley comes too with a head-waving, hair-twirling shriek—a good sign, I want her more—that would be part of a cheerleading routine if orgy teams had cheerleaders.

  Everyone yells, “Yeah, Tony! Yeah, Tony!”

  “I’m going to relax for a bit, Terry,” he says to the girl to the right of him, not the one he’s fucking.

  “Thanks, Angie,” he says, giving the skinny girl who smiled at me a pat on the ass and a name. I don’t know anything about these kids, but they are a fun group.

  Tony pulls out, wipes his dick on Angie’s ass, gets up and moves into an empty chair. One of the single guys around the circle takes Tony’s place and starts fucking Angie. In twelve bars of the music we are all in meter.

  I have no idea who’s with whom—if it is the case that these are couples. In a few minutes, without any visible signal, all the guys pull out and move to their right. I start fucking Angie. Her pussy is wet and full of come and I like it. It’s not so tight, but I’m in no mood to come yet and that makes holding
off easier. Angie’s pussy is so juicy I can feel that this is more than one comeload I’m fucking into. This must have been going on a while.

  Laura is having a fine time getting it from an eager, cocksure, youngish male with a moustache and short hair who—since I need to fill in the personalities of strangers who fuck Laura—I imagine owns a pizza parlor. Another single guy is now lying under Laura sucking her tits and she likes it. Four single males affix themselves to us five couples and are grabbing and sucking whatever female parts are loose. It gets erotic enough that, thankfully, all the giggling stops.

  The slightly plump, short girl on Laura’s left starts raising her voice in climax. Soon, the guy fucking her comes and the guy Laura doesn’t like takes his place. Not good.

  I don’t know whether he is one of the friends or not. He looks a little older. He’s having a bit of a hard time squiggling his not entirely hard cock into the plump girl whom I would have had no trouble tooling. She coos, “C’mon. Get it in me, I want more cock!” and wiggles around so sexy that he gets it up.

  He starts to fuck and everything seems to even out. The mood grooves. Except I’m totally aware that the next switch will be unpleasant. Mid-fuck with the plumpster he puts a hand on Laura and she tells him, “Please no. I don’t want you to touch me.”

  “Why not?” he whines, revealing that he isn’t Italian but is pretty stoned.

  “She doesn’t need a reason,” I interrupt. He backs off, but thirty seconds later he’s touching Laura again. I lean over Laura with my rod still in Angie to move his arm away and say firmly, “That’s it. Don’t touch her again.”

  He leaves her alone. When it’s time for the next switcheroo Laura looks at me—signaling that she wants to handle this—then looks at him and says flatly, “I don’t want you to touch me and I definitely don’t want you to fuck me.”

  He slurs in a stoned drawl with a dash of malice, “That’s too bad because I really want to fuck you.” He sounds very drunk or maybe luded out more than pothead stoned.

  Just what I need on a night of sleazy fun.

  In hundreds of orgies and sex club outings, I never saw the mood get so sour so fast. I’d seen fifty girls say “No” to fifty guys. Never once was there more than a casual second lobbying attempt, or at worst, half a sarcastic retort. I’d much rather be an observer to this freak of protocol than a participant. Something inside me grates at having to disrupt my evening but I decide to confront.

  “Don’t fuckin’ move,” I say in my most martial voice. I pull out of Angie and still on my knees, face the fuckhead. As I slide out, her vagina and my penis utter disappointed sighs. The cluster fuck sputters, then, stalls. I look at one of the Italian guys and ask, “Is he one of your friends?”

  “Nope, he’s all yours,” says Tony, still on break, sitting on a couch playing with his cock. “Whistle if you need help,” he adds. Some of the guys are probably sorry they left their baseball bats in the car.

  Everybody is looking at the Unchosen One and me. The room stops moving. The droopy fat woman takes the ab roller dude’s cock out of her mouth and looks at us. I’d been a violent kid—but since I learned to box at nineteen, I had never been in a fight outside the gym. Now, here I am, almost twenty years later, full of “Make My Day.” I only half want the Unchosen One to back down.

  The Unchosen One makes my choice for me. He makes the slightest move toward Laura. I grab at him and end up with two of his fingers in my left hand and his throat in my right. Grappling on our knees we must look like clowning circus midgets. He’s throwing lame head and body punches at me with his free fist so I increase my throttle.

  Who the fuck does this motherfucker think he is! Ruin my evening? Fuck you, you son-of-a-bitch! His punches get puny as his oxygen decreases, but I feel his rage as he tries to strike me. I take a deep breath, tighten my grips, and stare at his eyes as he cocks his arm. All bets are off, I’m ready to release my right hand and nail him fast with a right cross, my strongest punch from that position if his fist lands on me.

  He responds to my new escalation with fear, not rage. He’s scared and he’s not breathing well at all. I lighten my grip a degree, still vigilant for a sneak attack. I hold then I relax a bit. He lowers his eyes like a dog when it gives up and backs off. I let go of his fingers but keep hold of his throat.

  “You’re going to get up and leave or you’re going to die.” I don’t write the line and say it. It just pops out of me. I cringe at my own melodrama.

  Overlapping deep breaths from everyone in the room. Something tells me I have just become fifty percent more sexually desirable to all the women: Laura, Angie, the older woman riding the buff dude’s cock, even the girls who didn’t give me a second glance.

  “I knew that Jeffrey wouldn’t get sidetracked and forget about me,” Laura laughs. “He was very intense and intent on keeping me safe. I knew he loved me and that he would fight anyone who bothered me. Jeffrey was my bodyguard. He always made sure I was having a good time. I could be wild and get whipped and fucked for hours—and he’d make sure every man was respectful—even if they were whipping me. He knew how far to let them go. I never got scared. Jeffrey was very tough and guys knew it—and he was giving them me to use for a while and they were respectful of that. And if they weren’t, God help them!”

  The guy I’ve got by the throat tries to speak but can’t, so I release my grip.

  He croaks, “Sorry. I’m leaving.”

  He gets up, grabs his clothes and exits.

  “Smooth move,” says Tony.

  “I didn’t mean to ruin your good time,” I apologize.

  The guys all say stuff like, “Don’t worry, he was a jerk,” and, “Don’t let it bother you.” Actually, “Doen let it bodda ya.” And three say, “Fugetaboutit.”

  They are Italian. They understand these things.

  “Back to the party!” says another guy.

  I move to the girl to the right of Angie who is more excited about fucking me now, but I notice Laura beckoning me so I crawl over and fuck my damsel in distress like a warrior till I come loud and proud. I get a much bigger round of “Yeahs” than even Tony did.

  I’ve had enough of this room. We collect our clothes and go to the bar to see what we can find. It’s time to get Laura hers.

  We order two vodkas with cranberry juice. I feel more tired than excited by what has gone down. I feel like I feel after boxing well. Good tough manstuff. I think the evening will be easier. I am wrong.

  There are attractive people here, but no females in Laura’s league. I look among the men for the one or two I would let fuck and whip Laura. Then he appears.

  He is cowboy-chiseled handsome, 6'1" and 175 pounds, my dream height and weight. He is dressed in regular civilian clothes, white shirt and dark slacks, as if he’d come from the office and left his tie and jacket in his locker. He looks at Laura and then notices the whip in my pocket. “Does she like to be whipped?” His question is directed to me but he is looking at Laura. He sounds cultured, refined.

  “Yes. I like to take pain,” Laura cuts me off, looking up into his eyes with a little too much eagerness.

  “Why don’t we go to a private room,” he suggests, still fixed on her eyes and still ignoring me.

  “Definitely,” she replies. I haven’t said a word. This doesn’t feel good.

  He puts his hand lightly on Laura’s shoulder to guide her in front of him. I follow. The giant black security guard in traditional black leather “master” garb who keeps uninvited single men out of the private rooms smiles with approval as we pass. I begin to hear the sounds of whipping, slapping, commands and slut talk emanating from the private spaces; some doors are open, depending on their occupants’ desire for exhibition.

  In one a man on his knees faces the wall. Three women, each uglier and fatter than the next and each in skimpy leather lingerie, are whipping him hard while calling him “girl,” “slut,” “toilet slave,” “useless,” “whore,” and “lower than whale shit.�
� His back is raw but he is begging for more. Since most of the slave guys are tricks who pay for their pain, I figure he must be a big spender.

  Across the hall is another open door with one guy and one girl. They are both short. The guy is more than slightly fat with a pronounced lack of muscularity. He wears an ill-fitting too-tight denim shirt and leather vest with their buttons popping, and leather pants with lots of rattling chains all over the place. Either he bought these clothes when he was thinner and outgrew them or he doesn’t like buying clothes in his size.

  Sticking out from his open fly is what would have been a miniature penis even if it had been hard. He has the obligatory huge key ring with the necessary three dozen keys that so many of these cardboard-cutout “masters” carry. He has short hair and out-of-fashion glasses and looks like an S&M nerd. His slave is smaller than he, rail skinny and naked except for a cheap, torn beige bra and ripped panties. She has a too-long face and sunken eyes. Even coke-thin Laura looks healthier than she does. The girl’s panties are dripping with what appears to be piss. I don’t know whether it is her piss or his.

  “Would any of you like to use this bitch?” S&M Nerd pleads in a squeaky voice that matches his looks.

  “Thanks anyway but we’re busy,” I say. “Maybe later,” I add generously with a wink to the appreciative girl. Although this wasn’t an etiquette situation she had ever envisioned, my mother taught me to be polite and try to say something flattering when someone needs it. The cool dude guides Laura into a larger than normal room with two huge sofas in the middle.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “That’s unimportant,” he says too coolly.

  I don’t like him. For the first time ever with Laura I feel something akin to anxiety. I’m not in control and I’m jealous. Laura gets out her little brown coke bottle and spoon that is tucked into her garters and does three heaping lines in each nose. She offers. Mr. That’s Unimportant and I decline.

  He positions Laura so she is standing, bent over the back of a sofa with her ass jutting out. He pulls handcuffs out of his pocket, shows them to me and gives me the key (smooth bastard!) then puts the handcuffs on her. Mr. That’s Unimportant pulls down her panties to her ankles and says, “Can you take it strong?”