Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One

by Daniel Six

  Under the sensual radiance of a stylishly robed gnome lay a rumpled terrain of shaggy green fabric, artfully staged in soft, randomly descending steps to form a low glade at the center. There, women sprouted from the ground upside-down, bound from head to abdomen in stem-like sheathes of emerald linen, stockinged legs emerging as figurative stamen from upturned fabric skirts. Their arms were trapped behind their backs—they were totally immobilized within their peduncular jackets and blind to the affairs of the garden—but their thighs shifted freely among the linen petals blossoming high from their waists.

  This elaborate arrangement of flesh was not as whimsical or fatheaded of intent as it might have seemed. His spies said that the Dowser and Gnomon consorted with women on casual, even functional terms, but the Merkin was never so incautious.

  Unlike the other judges, he had the sagacity to acknowledge that the female sensuality was the most potent and mysterious of all phenomena, subtly but inevitably surpassing his estimation. As such, it could only be safely engaged where the context of interaction was steeply advantageous to the man involved.

  But what was that context? The Merkin had endlessly labored over this question, eventually settling on the floral paradigm; it offered an optimal combination of security, secrecy, intimacy and aesthetic, rendering an intricate means of negotiation through a simple concept.

  He stepped down into the garden and strolled among the flowers, eyes narrowed in pleasure. Legs kicked gently, rustling colorful, upturned skirts to fan intimate odors. He inhaled the musk of vaginal excitation drifting in tiny cross-currents about the glade. For a while he did not touch anything, letting the anticipation build.

  A subconscious predilection led him to the lithe, modestly widened limbs of a red-blossomed flower and he stopped before it, hands braided behind him, eyes closed, breathing deeply. His erection strained the crotch of his trousers, and he exulted in the patience he demonstrated before its beauty. Sensing his proximity perhaps, the flower twitched, and a fantastic aroma clouded the Merkin’s head.

  He leaned forward into the ambit of her flared skirts, gently drawing them down to expose her to the crotch. Her long legs, straight-aimed but slightly separated, drew demurely together at this; a delightful reticence that he cultivated while it could last. Fingering the seam of her left stocking, the Merkin peeled its scarlet skein up and off with luxuriant unhaste. He took a moment to feel it against his cheek, then lovingly removed its twin. Then he slipped her matching panties off with infinite appreciation for the significance of the act, letting her feel them caress her thighs in departure, her calves and ankles… Their fragrant warmth kissed his face.

  Her limbs bent a little at the knees from this romance, straightened again self-consciously, toes pointed elegantly up. The poise and sensuality of her body overcame him then, and the Merkin put one hand on each calf, proceeded from the arches of her feet to kiss down the length of her legs. As he descended in alternating little installments, left and right and left, her thighs began to loosen, and when he reached her crotch they widened in submission to show him the secret perfection of her sex.

  The Merkin inhaled deeply, drew the scent of her scrubbed and perfumed cleft deep into his body, then swept his face down to access its deepest pungency. He smoothed his fingers along the oiled folds of her labia, tenderly split the lips wide to expose her engorged clitoris.

  From his pocket he retrieved a phial of tickling oil and dribbled a little onto his fingers. With a shy smile he lathered it onto her genitals, spread a little into her anus, then stepped away. Moving to a purple-skirted flower with thick legs next, he repeated the whole act.

  When he was finished with them all he withdrew to the edge of the glade. The tickling oil gently tormented slipper genitalia as he watched, goading their upturned legs to a helpless dancing; some kicked, others flexed and swept, still others rubbed or gyred. A few women demonstrated a beautiful, self-censuring poise.

  He let the flowers express themselves for a while till his sense of each slipper’s personality was well-established. By then the oil had worn off.

  The Merkin stood, rubbed his bulging manhood, and strode with quiet anticipation to a yellow-petaled flower at the far side. She had comported herself with great aplomb through the trial; limbs pointed straight, swaying in a faint, imaginary breeze with an incredibly natural, delicate artistry of effect. He regarded her with sublime affection, in awe of her performance.

  Now she would be rewarded for it.

  He gently drew her thighs apart and settled his lips to her vagina, lapped avidly at her clitoris. His pulse sprinted, as it always did when he was connected to the source, the center, the wellspring of all things sensual and beautiful. For the Merkin there was no posture more essential, no joy so activated as the oral stimulation of a woman’s spread genitalia. And there was no practitioner more skilled in this art than himself...

  His yellow flower shivered in climax, legs drooping slackly to either side as she helplessly negotiated the most intense pleasure of her experience, and with one hand on her posterior the Merkin followed her there, masturbating to a glorious, time-slowed expulsion all over her crotch.

  That night there was a tension in the Tent, suffusing the air with an uncanny energy, elusive but omnipresent.

  He could not sleep, restlessly paced the deserted region of the laundry where his bed now resided—a slovenly territory of dresses, lingerie, slacks and jackets and towels and blankets strewn in unsorted dunes under the carnelian glow of a desolate gnome with mismatched socks. He had been forced to remove the bed from its location in the heated canvas sink where it formerly resided; the area was now relentlessly guarded by mannermen due to its unique vascular connection to the Lap.

  He had done this in secrecy, as no one could be allowed to know where he slept. It had required the aid of a tow gnome, which could pull with the strength of many men. He looped a thick hemp stage line about the creature’s waist and tied the free end to the ankles of one bed poster, then taking its hand in his own he had walked with it, guiding it along as they dragged the giant furniture from its isolated pool over to the nearest channel wide enough to give it passage. Then he had floated the bed down a series of connected waterways deep into a long-abandoned region of the laundry.

  Now it drifted in a larger, crescent-shaped water that was nowhere deeper than his waist, and lukewarm to touch like the rest of the sinks in the laundry. It was the same bed; a floating, circular affair with three big drawers in its base, one of which could be opened, and three posters shaped like pairs of strong female legs supporting a huge fabric canopy. But he missed the heat and periodic effervescence of its old berth, where it had always resided. He just couldn’t imagine sleeping there now with other men constantly looking on.

  Vapor restively swirled high in the sky above the park where the clouds endlessly wheeled, charged with brilliant but fugacious equalizations of desire the Merkin could feel but not see. Lightning. No thunder sounded to reach his ear, but he sensed a storm in formation, massing slowly across the long reign of night.

  The Dowser

  The morning after their flight from the hotel and its treacherous employees, Emma was lingering in Dean’s salon. Her inebriation had finally dissipated to a hazy dismay she was suppressing like the others. Ione didn’t want the drummer to know anything about what had happened to them last night.

  Emma sighed, shrugged a little lower into the gentle embrace of the couch. The wide front window conveyed an intricate spectacle of city life; the deep valley in which it was all distributed allowed the inhabitants to regard the whole breadth of their civilization, and Emma stared onto countless roads and houses and buildings that swept up to the encircling plain of sand. It was not hard to navigate about the City; the Dowser’s Club on the big hill, the Gnomon’s Tower, and the sky-shouldering vapor column from the park between them were infallible visual references.

  “Deano!” someone shouted, banging on the latched front door.

  “Dea
n the machine!”

  “C’mon, open up man…” a third voice complained.

  Emma ignored them, in no mood for another round of tiresome flirtation with his friends. None of them could rival Mark’s intelligence or charisma, or Dean’s sensational artistry, constantly and violently confirmed from his music room as he practiced.

  Manassa had gone down to the park and its clothing boutiques earlier, likely motivated by her voluptuous scale, which strained the possibilities of Dean’s guest closet, limiting her ability to leave the hill. Ione and Mark were out cruising the streets in his big green convertible, planning things Emma couldn’t imagine.

  She worried about Mark, knowing they would have to give their troubled lover some relief soon. This would be awkward to attempt in Dean’s place, especially with his buddies hanging around day and night. It took real privacy and coordination to surprise Mark with the bondage and discipline ritual necessary for his fulfillment, which wasn’t just a matter of physical restraint. They felt ridiculous trying to dominate him with his cooperation the few times they tried—he had to be trapped when he was asleep. Mark probably wanted independent accommodations as desperately as Ione.

  Dean thundered on down the hall, and Emma snuggled with herself and listened for a while, sipping a pale bottle of fruity, diluted stillwater that conferred just a mild warmth. The noise didn’t bother her. She liked Dean and the hard-partying life he exemplified. And she admired his ambition; he was preparing for an audition at the Dowser’s Club later that night.

  She got up eventually, stretched and padded down to the music room, gingerly opened the door.

  Dean arrested with a flourish, muting a big cymbal with a deft snatch. The air shimmered with faintly lingering aftertones.

  “Whatcha think?” he grinned.

  “You’re amazing,” she uncynically confirmed, shaking her head.

  “Thanks, Emz,” he beamed, then grew serious. “But tonight will prove it—or not. The guys I’m up against are phenomenal musicians and huge celebrities. You should see how they live!” he marveled.

  “You’ll kick their asses,” Emma promised and he smiled, swiveled around to find something.

  “I got something for you. Look!” With an elegant gesture he produced a beautiful set of nipple clamps, silver inlaid with big glinting emeralds.

  “They’re beautiful!” she exclaimed.

  “You’re huggin’ the sweetest hills I’ve ever seen—there isn’t a man or woman in the building that’s failed to advise me as to how they should be decorated. I want everyone fantasizing about those big, beautiful nipples tonight!”

  She fastened one to her right breast, swiveling back and forth to admire it from various angles in the giant mirror Dean used to evaluate his physicality.

  “They’re called pronks. With a sly look he reached over and pinched the clamp. Emma heard a sharp clink, but felt no effect on her nipple. Dean was grinning nonchalantly.

  “What?”

  “Wait for it…” he intoned.

  She jumped as the toy bit her nipple painfully.

  “You fucker!”

  Dean was laughing. “Can’t tell exactly when they’re going to spring. That’s the trick. Adds to the fun, eh?”

  Emma snorted, examined the treacherous little ornaments with suspicion, then relented to their playful intent, giggling as she fixed the other pronk to her bosom.

  “I’ll be wearing’em tonight,” she promised.

  “So… are the others coming?” Dean hesitantly inquired.

  “Yep. Later on.”

  “Cool.” He kissed her, obviously relieved by this pledge of support. His skin was dripping from a morning-long, manic assault on the drums, and she thought of their last sexual encounter, at dawn. He had applied himself with great passion to her needs, eventually delivering a decent climax. Nothing amazing—peaking too late this time—but she had to remember that Ione and Mark knew her rhythms far better.

  “Wanna shower?” Emma offered suggestively, licking her lips. “I have a gift for you, too…”

  Dean’s manhood bulged hopefully. “After you.”

  They soaped and scrubbed each other under the steaming discharge of the showerhead. Emma lathered and rinsed his penis last so as to leave it stringently aroused, then slipped ritually to her knees, shaking her blond hair back as Dean settled into a wider stance.

  Her fellatio was measured, earnest and lovingly rendered. She let him fully into her throat, giving him his due as friend and provider. The water raining down around her head gilt the experience with a sultry but ironic symbolism as she waited for the quick pulse in his cock that marked the imminence of climax.

  She withdrew just before he came. “Are you ready for your gift?”

  “Oh yes, fuck yes, please…”

  “Here it is.” Emma rose to her knees and stepped out of the shower.

  “What? What are you doing!” he sputtered as she dried off.

  “Something few women can manage for a man of your stature. You’ll be at your best tonight this way.”

  Dean shook his head in disbelief. “Emma, what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “If you win I’ll lip the spitter all night—you can oil up my throat as many times as you like, okay? All the suck you can handle,” she promised.

  He grimly acknowledging the wisdom of her proposition with a muffled groan. “Look. The Dowser has a dox of house drummers, so I may very well succeed in getting placed. I have before. The problem is defending that status, and moving up in the ranks. And that has more to do with popularity.”

  Emma knew him well enough already to guess why he might be challenged by this. For all his clever musicianship, Dean’s social instincts were a little unrefined next to what a cooler figure like Mark would do in the same situation. This was partly why the drummer had been generous to a bunch of strangers in the first place, she knew. Dean had fallen under the influence of Mark’s singular charisma, which was rooted in his sexual authority with women. Only Ione, Manassa and Emma knew the secret of his tortured need, concentrated by denial to an erotic radiation that helplessly enveloped any woman coming near.

  But it wasn’t just Mark that drew him to their group, she knew. Emma had met enough city people now to realize that their culture had a subtly conforming effect—she had encountered no one yet to rival Ione’s mastering rationality, or her own emotional intelligence. And Manassa was totally beyond their estimation, a true force of nature…

  “Why don’t you just finish,” Dean grumped, gesturing vaguely toward the shower floor. Emma stared him down.

  “All things in time. You get ready while I do my hair. We’ll leave when you can hang casually in my presence again.”

  The sky was softly littered by cloud as they made their way along the ever more richly appointed avenue winding up the Dowser’s hill. Everywhere she looked there were glamorous cars on the avenue. Emma rode behind Dean in his sparkling silver two-seater convertible, waving to random people that solicited her interest with honking gnomes or shouted invitations. Four vehicles followed them with the drums and an entourage of Dean’s closest friends.

  The sidewalks bore a river of men and women visiting shops and residences that even halfway up the hill surpassed the most glamorous of such on Dean’s hill nearby. Clothing was entirely absent now, as were mannermen. The dance clubs and drinking parlors featured progressively grander facades, some teeming with mid-day crowds already well into their own social schedules. Pedestrians saluted their noisy convoy as they rounded to the highest altitudes. Above them the bucket rung and the will of the Dowser rolled palpably down on them all, stalling every thought and conversation for a timeless term. Dean pointed suddenly.

  “There!”

  The Dowser’s Club was revealed to view around a terminating curve in the road.

  A cylindrical edifice rendered almost linear by its colossal breadth, the Dowser’s Club was the epicenter of a culture that dominated city life for a long way around. Parking l
ots and low, manicured gardens with comfortable benches collected about a forecourt designed to accommodate a large crowd of socialites lingering for admittance. Employees of the Club were everywhere, monitoring the grounds of the establishment to its far perimeter. Emma was astonished by the sheer scale of it all, swept her gaze back down to the lesser hills where small dreams prevailed, instantly sympathizing with Dean’s ambition to rise higher.

  They parked around back, close to a busy loading dock presided over by a high-ranking doorman and a large contingent of security personnel under his command.

  “Lemme take you in first,” Dean said. “Gotta friend I want you to meet.” They left his crew to handle the equipment, passed under a broad arch into a noisy, gnome-lit panorama of winking and glinting details.

  An open floor stretched the diameter of the building, communicating a total devotion to purpose. Bulky chrome tables and booths were ranged along the walls, artfully encroaching on the dance floor in random little tides of furniture. A number of large mechanisms of unknown function were scattered about, some with integral seats. Three round bandstands occupied equidistant locations around the Club, and at the center was a circular bar, backlit by colorful bottles. The counter surrounded a gigantic bucket suspended from above, its glittering metal lip visible through archways rendering access to the well.

  “Hey! Sara!” Dean signaled to a tallish woman with big knockers and a cynical smile. She left another conversation on a yapped witticism and sauntered over, brazenly inspecting Emma.

  “This the one? Has to be. Wow… you weren’t joking, Deano.”

  “Can you take it from here?” he distractedly implored.

  “Sure thing, lovenuts.”

  “See you in a bit, Emz,” he promised and strode off to meet his crew, staggering in with the first of the gear.