Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One

by Daniel Six

  “That’s the last time they’ll be seen in the City,” Dean somberly reflected.

  “We’re done here,” Ione announced, thumbing the nearest glow gnome to inactivity. “Let’s shut off the other gnomes.” Mark hobbled away with piacular haste to accomplish this, then they all assembled by the exit.

  “Hey, these gnomecycles were a really neat idea,” Dean observed in a snidely genial tone as the others gingerly straddled the machines on aching crotches.

  Emma watched the City whiz by on her left as they made their way back to Manassa’s loft. She was smothered between the huge woman and her companion, who governed the gnomecycle’s rumbling frame in moody silence along the wide avenue tracing the perimeter of the park. Mark and dean were a little behind them.

  Emma was aroused, angry, scared and drunkenly defiant all at once—a complicated mix of feelings that was awkwardly magnified by her immobility.

  “Fuck you,” she called to a solitary mannerman as they passed by, knowing her relative velocity and inaudibility rendered the insult meaningless.

  “Shut up,” Ione tiredly advised.

  A few revelers stumbling their way home crossed the street to give the man a wide berth, adding to her resentment. “Fucking hate them,” Emma mumbled, felt something deep within suddenly resonate to her gradually hardening antipathy for their kind. Manassa had told her that mannermen in the “tent” smacked women on the site of their stylistic inadequacy. If your panties were wrong you got strapped on the cunt. If your bra was off…

  Another mannerman loomed out of the vapor-choked tree line on the right and she stood on the foot runners, reached back to unlatch her brassiere, yanking it free with a deft tug. The wind sent her hair flying.

  “Sit down!” Ione shouted.

  “Strap on this, asshole!” she screamed, tossing the garment at the man. It caught him around the neck and clung like a scarf.

  Manassa bellowed in laughter, but a moment later Emma realized the gravity of her mistake. The mannerman had seen her remove the article, was instantly certain of her compromised attire.

  “Halt!” he shouted, voice rasping with surly masculine imperative.

  “Oh fuck!” Ione wailed as mannermen materialized to either side ahead of them. One unknotted his tie with the same elegance Emma had just demonstrated and flung its free end across their path to his associate, who pulled it tight just in time to catch Emma across the chest.

  The gnomecycle shrieked as Ione furiously braked. She couldn’t let go of the handlebars and Manassa couldn’t see what was happening because of Emma’s vertical stance, so neither woman could change her fate as Emma was torn off the machine to slam down on the pavement, gasping for breath.

  A moment later she was effortlessly lifted over a burly shoulder and hustled into the forest, calling piteously for her friends.

  The trees loomed thick about Emma, black shapes swallowed by the omnipresent fog just overhead. Dripping foliage reared densely underfoot, but the Mannermen traversed it with uncanny skill, barely audible as they trod steadily deeper into the wood.

  They were far past the outer margin of the park where anything and everything grew, from carrots and peppers and tomatoes to apples, blueberries, peaches and plums… Emma had been overwhelmed by the various odors as they passed among thick groves that hungry pedestrians plundered by day when a little sunshine made its way in. It was long past midnight though, and Emma saw no one among the plants.

  Gnomes were hung at distant intervals, beaming a queer ultraviolet light that penetrated the otherwise blinding mist well enough to see for a little way. There were three mannermen with her, one carrying her shoulder-slung mass and two flanking him. They had passed many more of their kind along the way. Emma watched them from her upside-down vantage in alternating terror and animosity. Her new life would be dominated by their rigid expectations.

  She wept, contemplating everything that had been lost. Ione, her friends, the good times at the Club… but mostly Ione. To never lay by her love again, flesh joined along the curve of her body, nourishing the heat between them… the beautiful woman’s sharp laugh and restless ambition… her special needs as a lover…

  It was all to much to bear. Tears ran heedlessly down her forehead, sputtered to the forest floor as she began to cry hysterically. The mannerman’s broad back lunged and relented, lunged and relented, an endless rhythm that conveyed her step by step away from her life as she rained salted water to the earth. In time sleep softly impinged on her exhausted mind, and she didn’t fight it, decided it was all a bad dream…

  She was roused from her drunken torpor at some point by an awareness that the situation had changed. The mannermen were no longer moving.

  The ground seemed a little closer and she blinked, realizing the one carrying her had lowered his mass. As she watched two mannermen joined them at either side, swelling the party to five.

  They resumed their trek, but moved far more slowly now, cautiously listening to the forest. A glow gnome slid by on her right, peering lugubriously down onto their sordid business. Its light vanished over a long sequence of careful steps, departed entirely when they reached a fog-drowned glade, just visible to its far boundary.

  The mannermen halted on some unspoken consensus, staring ahead as one creature. Gathering closer, they proceeded to advance with extreme caution, moving a few steps at a time, then listening again. Emma was terrified and confused. They had traveled what seemed a straight path to this place, presumably a familiar destination. What could scare them so deep in their own domain? She felt her skin crawl.

  The men stepped into an oval clearing dwelling beneath the inscrutable black canopy of the trees, moving in tiny, tense increments now. Vapor swirled past Emma from ahead, a silent, nether wind.

  The mannermen stopped and Emma felt her captor jerk suddenly, weight dropping in alarmed anticipation. The forest went completely silent and she knew something was about to happen, desperately forced herself to think. Her enemies had enemies. What would Ione do?

  She tried to call out, but her cramped diaphragm and dry throat conspired to silence her. Emma put everything she had into forcing some kind of sound from her throat.

  “Help…” The word emerged as a faint croak.

  Nothing happened for a timeless, pulse-thudding interval, then in the distance she heard a faint but familiar voice.

  “Now.”

  The glade was suddenly lit to the intensity of daylight.

  The mannermen staggered blindly as a huge noise arose before them, the sound of flying earth and skidding rubber. Emma briefly witnessed the direct radiance of the gnomecycles, as overwhelming in effect as everything else about the machines, powerful enough to overcome the cloying cloak of mist, then her ears were assaulted by the shouted challenge of her friends as they charged straight at her captors.

  Muscular legs projected stiffly from the cycles and Emma was awed by their audacity as four of her guards were assaulted by the combined momentum of flesh and metal they commanded to be flung violently into the underbrush.

  The gnomecycles skidded around to reverse direction, returned to her position. Emma saw Dean and Ione beyond the handlebars. Mark was hurtling off the seat. The mannerman clutching Emma spun to face him and Mark roared, tackled him at the waist. She felt the forest spin giddily as her friend lifted the man from his feet, raised both of them overhead.

  The mannerman reflexively released Emma and she tumbled to the ground, looked up to see Mark’s skulk-like mask of rage for an instant, truly terrifying to behold. He turned and threw the other man after his comrades and Emma heard him land with an agonized groan. Then Manassa leaned over from Ione’s cycle to haul Emma crosswise over the seat on her belly.

  “Hurry!” Ione screamed to Mark as a crowd of mannermen emerged from the mist behind them. He vaulted behind Dean and the drummer desperately stomped on the cranks. Ione did the same.

  They didn’t move for a time-slurred instant as the gnomes unloaded their total kinetic
reservoir. Dirt was dislodged in torrents, twin rivers of high-velocity ejecta that pummeled the army massing at their back, forcing them to turn away for a critical interval of vulnerability. Everyone was shouting. Then Emma felt the frame shiver through her abdomen and a tremendous force hauled them forward, out of harm’s reach.

  The trees hurtled by. Ione and Dean were shouting to each other, trying to gauge the fastest route back to the City. It seemed like they were free.

  Then mannermen were suddenly everywhere.

  “Keep low!” Ione yelled, remembering the wily tactic that had been used to strip Emma off the bike. “And don’t slow down for anything!”

  They blasted their way through a line of burly men, scattering them with the unopposable momentum on call. A small pool glistened off to the left, densely ringed by suited figures, then the way was clear. The forest was supernaturally silent but for the noise of their own passage.

  “Look!” Manassa whispered in awe.

  Ahead Emma saw what seemed like the base of a windowless, wooden tower rearing out of the fog. It was many paces in diameter. Vapor poured from its unseen altitudes, thick enough to smother the entire park. They veered to avoid this ghastly apparition and it was soon behind them, out of sight.

  “Just keep to a straight route,” Ione called over to Dean. “The City’s the same distance everywhere from here.”

  Emma fixed her attention on the giant trees hurtling in and out of visibility until they were among the gardens, then back on the streets, safe once more. By then Manassa had freed her hands and feet and she was seated between the other women again, arms circled tight around her lover, sobbing quietly.

  The sun was high overhead when Emma awoke.

  Manassa’s loft was strewn with evidence of yesterday’s dangerous affairs, but it all seemed small and messy and pathetically inconsequential now. The others had already risen, were sulking quietly about the salon. Mark head was in his hands, and he was muttering softly to himself.

  Emma sat at the counter, gaze lowered, unable to face them. Manassa put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder and pushed a bottle of pear juice in front of her. She drank it mechanically, waiting for Ione to acknowledge her presence.

  “So. That’s that,” Dean murmured disconsolately. No one spoke for a while.

  “Every mannerman in the City will be on the lookout for our clothes,” Mark dully opined. “And the gnomecycles.”

  “But not us specifically, at least,” Manassa noted. I’ve already been out for a walk. They took no interest.”

  “Yeah. We can go back to our regular lives. I should be glad for that, I guess,” Dean sighed.

  “I better return to the Dowser’s Club,” Emma said.

  Ione was looking out the front window, still hadn’t spoken. She had changed into a flirty red camisole that was nothing like her ensemble from the previous night. The ambiguous silence of the salon built as they turned one by one to stare at the tall woman, waiting for her judgment. She stepped back from the window at last, faced them with grim formality.

  “I am returning to the Gnomon’s Tower. I have a lot of work to do.” No one said anything in response, but Emma knew their ambitions had been decisively canceled by Ione’s resignation.

  She looked away from her lover, felt a tear gently depart one eye. It was all her fault.

  “We all have a lot of work to do,” Ione continued, stepping to the door, opening it to the cryptic ambience of the metropolis. “Because when the full moon rises in a dox of days we will be throwing the most scandalous party the City has ever witnessed. And screw anyone who thinks otherwise.”

  With that pronouncement she angrily slammed the door behind her to leave them in stunned silence.

  Relief overtook confusion a moment later. Then it erupted into full-force smiling as Mark swept the last bottle of plum stillwater off the counter, expertly struck the tip against its edge to send the cap skimming across the salon, imbibed ferociously and lofted the bottle to Emma with covenantal generosity.

  “Alright. We told everyone we’re gonna celebrate. We got into the place where it’s gonna happen. We faced down the neighborhood bullies. Now it’s time to plan specifics.”

  “Sundown!” bellowed Dean. Emma could hear the anxiety and anticipation in his voice. It was the night of the party.

  She made a last adjustment to the “eyeballer”, their most complicated attraction, then grabbed a drop line and made the three-level descent through the atrium to meet the others by the bar.

  Ione had finished dressing and everything else fled Emma’s mind for a moment as she regarded her lover. “You look gorgeous,” she breathed. The taller woman twirled, fanning a blue and black full-length dress with a wide sash laced suggestively across the waist. Her makeup was flawless and little clamp-on earrings twinkled under her fine brown hair. Lapis bracelets graced her elegant wrists and steeply arched high heels vaulted her past even Dean’s altitude.

  Ione reached for Emma, kissed her languorously, washing her tongue round and around as her slender fingers kneaded Emma’s flared rump. “Love your dress,” she murmured, plucking at its white and turquoise fabric, gathered up tight at the abdomen to dramatically emphasize her bosom. “Can’t wait to see you lose it,” she teased.

  “You and me both,” Dean heartily averred, tweaking the faint dimple on her left tit.

  Emma beamed at his presentation. He was dashingly handsome in the dark jade suit and pinstriped white shirt, its broad collar embellished by fancy curlicues of threadwork. They had chosen the ensemble together, though she had been unable to dissuade him from wearing the novelty tie patterned with little drumsticks Manassa had found.

  Next to him Mark inhabited a long black suit jacket and shirt of darkest crimson. His tie was silver with tiny pink circles, pinned by a metal orb. His shoes gleamed darkly. Emma knew he would the most desirable male at the party. She was counting on it, in fact.

  Manassa was last to arrive, skipped up from the basement with a basket of complimentary jewelry under one arm. Emma heard both men sigh.

  Her stupendous curves were jealously confined by a sweeping red and white dress. Its knee-high hemline offered her massive, white-stockinged calves to view. Emma stared at the bulging hillocks of breast flesh on display above her tapered bodice, traced the dramatic breadth of her hips under soft linen. Her lustrous black hair was gathered by a red bow at one side and ruby rings glittered on her fingers. She wore red high heels that casually rendered her the tallest person in the room. Emma wanted to compliment her but tumbled on the usual superlatives and simply gawked with the rest.

  “All ready,” the big woman cheerfully announced, setting the basket down next to a crate of tattles Ione provided. Every guest would leave with one of the little sex toys, which she mentioned were an obsession with the Gnomon for some reason.

  “The doormen are in position,” Dean confirmed. He had engaged a small army of trustworthy buddies from his former place of employment to man the entrance and referee the drinking contest that would be taking place.

  Mark stepped over to a small platform, tugged a chain and a gnome spun him smoothly up to the elaborate gridwork hovering over the atrium. A moment later the high-intensity light emanating from their utility gnome was banished to reveal a wonderland of colorful territories. The warehouse began to resonate with slurred echoes as Dean thumbed the throw gnomes into operation and sat behind his drum set.

  “This is crazy,” one of the servers gaped. Emma had secured the help of a quix of women from taverns she frequented in her off time. They were set up at the bar lining one side of the chamber.

  “Fuck me,” breathed another one in agreement.

  “Definitely. Wait till you see the whole program in effect,” Emma tantalized. “Everyone remember the rules?”

  “Four mixed drinks or pure stillwater shots to remove your dress, two each for jacket or pants, three for a bra or shirt and five to lose your underwear,” they chorused. “One drink token to be dropped in
to every glass.”

  “Right,” Emma confirmed, checking their identical green dresses to verify they were clearly identifiable as house personnel. “Make sure you follow the protocol!”

  Emma closed her eyes for a moment, wondering when the first people would arrive. They had arranged things such that no one besides their handpicked crew knew the exact location of the party in advance; the guests would report to three different bars in the general vicinity, checked by doormen in their employ there to ensure they met the dress standard enforced by the mannermen near the warehouse, then dispatched in small groups to the entrance on the shadow-cloaked side of the building. The heavy flow of pedestrian traffic around the park perimeter at sunset would hopefully camouflage their arrival.

  The windows had been carefully soundproofed by thick quantities of blankets culled from the mountainous supply available in the basement and they had already verified that nothing could be heard or seen outside the warehouse.

  “Time for the final rundown,” Ione said, producing a sheet of paper with an unordered series of one-word task descriptions. She called them out to confirm everything was in readiness.

  “Guests arriving!” the head doorman shouted from the acoustically isolated receiving vestibule they had constructed, then shut the inner portal so the exterior entrance could be unbarred.

  “It’s a couple of my Tower friends,” Ione said when the first revelers emerged a moment later. Emma snickered to herself, guessing the Gnomon’s employees had little concept of fashionable untimeliness, then suppressed her cynicism; she would need it for some “friends” of her own that were coming later.

  “Dean! Kick it up!” she called.

  The blond musician grinned and blew Emma a kiss. His kit began to issue anticipatory licks and accents as the vestibule disgorged a dox of new guests to the warehouse.