Deep Inside

by Polly Frost

  I kicked at her. She kneeled down on me, pinning my legs. Her hand pressed down on my crotch.

  “It’s funny how powerfully you see into other people’s sex lives and how little you can see of your own,” she said. “How does it feel to be just a normal ordinary?”

  She slipped a finger, then two, between my cunt lips. I could feel that I was plenty wet. She looked up at me with evil knowledge in her eyes, and thrust a finger inside me, then rubbed my clit until I screamed as I violently came.

  Tracy kissed my clit, then brought up a glistening finger.

  “What a twisted soul you have,” she said. “And until this afternoon you’d had no idea. How does it feel to have your mind read?”

  She put her wet finger in my mouth. I could taste my pussy, warm and slick and musky.

  “Put the rope around her neck,” Tracy said abruptly to Jeremy.

  He slipped a noose around my neck. Tracy took the hemp from him, and yanked it hard. I gagged.

  “That’s just a hint of what’s to come,” she said.

  I helplessly followed the two of them down the hallway, up the stairs, and on to the dark wooden deck. It was turning into a warm night as the sun set further. My naked flesh shivered despite the balminess of the breeze. It took all my concentration not to stumble.

  I looked down at my body heaving with the last breaths I would ever take and realized that I was as excited as I was terrified. My nipples were hard. My crotch throbbed.

  Tracy gestured towards one of the masts. “Tie her up there. Put that box beneath her feet. I want to have a good view of her body as she snaps her neck.”

  Jeremy climbed up the highest mast. Why was he being so obedient? What kind of hold did Tracy have on this strong, beautiful man? I watched as his hands prepared the rope. He lifted me up, and set me on the little box I remembered so well from my vision of Tracy’s death.

  The boat was rocking gently in the placid ocean, but I had to fight to stay vertical. One slip and it would all be over.

  “I knew this was your depravity the moment I saw you. I read it so easily,” Tracy said. She and Jeremy began disrobing. “You’ll go anywhere sexually, try anything. And you’re ready even to try being strangled while you come. The only thing is, you don’t want to die.”

  There they stood, two magnificent creatures. Tracy was muscular and curvy, showing off her perfect tan. Her entire body was a glowing bronze, except for a pale triangle above her completely waxed pussy.

  They approached me, one on each side.

  And then I was swimming in sensations as their hands and mouths worked all over me. Between my lips, sliding up my thighs, spreading my buttocks. I staggered and even fell against the noose at one point, but managed to right myself. I was a twisted soul indeed, for the sensations were building in me even as the moment of my death approached.

  The action was having its effect on them, too. Jeremy was enormous and hard. Tracy was panting. Still standing, she leaned against the mast next to me and presented her back to Jeremy.

  “Fuck me now,” she commanded. “Give it to me up the ass, the way I like it best. And when I tell you I’m about to come, I want you to kick that box out from under her. I want to come while I watch her twitch and die.”

  Jeremy took his position behind her. I was seconds from death but couldn’t help feeling an agony of jealousy. His dick approached her buttocks. Her body arched in anticipation.

  But then there were gurgling sounds. I looked up and saw that Jeremy had his hands around Tracy’s throat. She thrashed, but he was much stronger and held her throat tight.

  Her eyes began to bulge. She tried desperately to escape his hold, but he pressed her against the mast. She gave one final spasm, and he set her limp body down on the deck.

  “She isn’t dead,” he said to me. “Only unconscious.”

  Tenderly, he put his arms around me, brought out a knife, and cut the rope. He lifted me and set me down on the deck. I staggered, finding it hard to keep my balance.

  He slipped the key in the handcuffs and set me free. The night had calmed, everything was okay again. But suddenly a vision filled my brain. It was as though I was outside myself, but somehow rushing forward.

  “Look out,” I screamed.

  I was seeing the world through Tracy’s eyes, and that she was rising up to come after us. Unconscious, she’d been unable to prevent me from entering her mind.

  Jeremy looked up, but I could tell he wouldn’t be fast enough. I grabbed the heavy coil of rope and swung wildly.

  It connected with a thump. There was a groan, a pause, and then the sound of a splash as Tracy’s body hit the water. She sank instantly, without a fight. All was silent again.

  I felt Jeremy’s arms circle me.

  “Why’d you save me?” I asked.

  “Because you’re a sick bitch. And I’m a sick bastard,” he said. “But Tracy—she’s just too sick to live.”

  Deep Inside

  “Do you swear your product is worth ten grand?”

  The voice saying these words is bruised and sullen—and very, very familiar. Whose voice is it? Well, let’s just say that you’d recognize the name. Let’s even say that you’ve seen his muscled, bad-boy good looks splashed over many magazine covers. Let’s also say that he’s starring in one of the summer’s biggest blockbusters. A professional macho movie stud, in other words.

  The sad truth is he’s also one screwy dude. In fact, he’s one screwy dude who can’t get it up for anyone else on the face of the planet. That’s right—he only gets hard when he’s looking at himself in the mirror. Imagine if his fans knew this.

  Well, surprise surprise, his wife is one unhappy dame. She’s threatening to divorce him—or worse, fuck around, which would naturally make it into every tabloid and bring his stud ranking down a few notches.

  We’ve got a problem.

  But, enough. I won’t tell you who my customer is. In my business, discretion is the prerequisite of all prerequisites. My customers don’t want anyone knowing anything about what they buy from me.

  What do Marita and I get out of these arrangements? Enough to keep us cozy for the last few years in a three-bedroom house in Los Feliz.

  So I let my handsome client pace around warily. He has his nerves to attend to, after all.

  What my customers get from me is one-of-a-kind pleasure tools. “Dildos” are what they’re generally called, somewhat unclassily.

  You may have heard about the ones I sell. Every few years, rumors start up about “voodoo” dildos. Little articles and blind items show up in gossip rags and tabloids. They’re soon destroyed by skeptics and scientists, who prove that—like Sasquatch or aliens—no such thing is possible. Or even can be possible.

  Shows you what they know.

  Because the fact is that magical dildos do exist. I know. My partner, Marita, and I make them. And we sell them.

  What makes them miraculous?

  It’s this: they make the person being fucked feel like she—or he—is being fucked by a real cock.

  Tell me: do you actually read the catalogue copy on those dildos you order over the Internet? I didn’t think so. Well, most of them are made from polymers. The better companies make them from high-grade silicone that can be warmed up, reused if washed carefully.

  That’s where our product is different. Our dildos not only look handsome, they feel alive inside you. Ours aren’t dildos that wind up in a cardboard box on a high closet shelf. Ours are dildos you dream about, the way you look forward to a lover.

  “I was told by Jackie Keller that your dildos are unlike any other,” my poor, unhappy Movie Star says, brushing back his fabled long, blond hair.

  “Jackie should know,” I say. “Thanks to our dildos, she’s made a lot of women very happy.”

  At that he relaxes. He takes the beer I offer, and sits down on the sofa.

  “Good for her. You know, I like the new predatory female studio executives,” he says. “I don’t know why some gu
ys have problems with them.” He takes a thoughtful swig. “So bring on the product.”

  I give him a ravishing smile. “Marita!” I call out.

  My business partner—who’s also my lover—saunters out from the other room. She makes quite an entrance through the Art Deco doorway, cradling a leather case in her hands as though carrying a religious relic.

  “Holy fuck,” the star whispers, settling heavily back into the couch.

  I’m figuring that if he could get hard about anyone besides himself, it’d be Marita right now. Not the bitch back home who calls herself his wife.

  The sight of Marita never fails to excite our customers. Her presence and her aura have been a big part of our success. Cascading black hair…a precision five-seven body…slim, curvy legs that make you dream of exploring what’s between them…

  The recipe? Largely a mystery. As far as she knows, there’s some American Indian, some Italian, some Caribbean. There may even be some Swedish. Let’s just say that her olive complexion is flawless, and that her light blue eyes gleam in the midst of all this exoticism in the most startling ways.

  Marita sashays across the living room floor, smiling wickedly, enjoying the way all eyes are on her. She sets the sumptuous black leather case down on the glass table before our Movie Star.

  “Charmed,” he says, shaking Marita’s hand and doing his roguish best to look deep into her eyes.

  Marita opens the case.

  “Whoa,” he says, inhaling deeply at the sight of the enormous flesh-colored dildo inside.

  “We call this one the Astronaut,” Marita says, her eyes flashing. She walks over to the sofa and sits down on the arm. Her hip—well, her butt really—presses up against the Star’s bicep. He darts his eyes at me, evaluating the situation. Then he reaches into the case and picks up the dildo.

  “The thing’s alive!” he screams, dropping it. “I could feel it react to my touch. Like it was growing harder.”

  “That’s because it was,” Marita says. “But that’s no reason to be scared. It just wants to play.”

  She picks up the dildo and strokes it. “Come on, Astronaut. Fly us into outer space.” She flicks the tip of it with her tongue and the dildo gives a tiny quiver and gets larger. “See?”

  She hands the dildo to our client. “Now it’s your turn,” she says to the Star.

  He shrinks away, still wary. “I want to use it on my fucking wife, not go gay.”

  Marita takes his hand and catches his eyes. She’s got him mesmerized now. I get up and massage his shoulders while she takes his fingers and puts them in her mouth. It’s like we’re pacifying a virgin, and I can feel his shoulder muscles relax.

  I watch as Marita presses the dildo into his now-willing hands.

  There’s a hush, and a gasp. And then he says to the dildo, “Hey, buddy. You’re okay.”

  He runs a finger up and down the thing’s quivering vein, and the gesture makes me wonder how he treats his own dick during those hours in front of the mirror.

  He gives us his famous studly grin. “I got an idea. How about a demo from the two of you?”

  We shake our heads.

  “Just an idea,” he says. He shakes his trademark locks and turns cold eyes on us. “You know the deal,” he says. “Absolute silence. Backed up by armies of lawyers.”

  “Goes both ways,” I say. “You don’t talk about us, we don’t talk about you.”

  He relaxes and circles a finger around the rim of the dildo’s head. “Nice! If this doesn’t shut my wife up nothing will. And I think I’ll have a little fun with it myself.”

  I pull out a black leather crotch harness and hand it to him. “You’ll need this. Made for us by a verrrrry famous Italian designer whose work has been worn by Oscar winners. On special consignment.”

  He gets up, pays us with cash. I see Marita’s eyes flicker excitedly. She counts the bills, nodding when she finds there’s ten grand.

  The Star puts the case under his arm. At the door, he turns. Is it true what they say about your dildos?” he asks. “The gossip is that you’ve got some kind of voodoo thing going on.”

  I see Marita’s eyes flare up.

  “Gossip,” I say, pushing him out the door while giving him the admiring squeeze all stars expect. “People should know better than to spread rumors.”

  “The cops are going to come down on us,” Marita says. “I know they are.”

  “Oh, you’re just paranoid,” I say, doing my best to be fond rather than exasperated. This girl is one high-strung babe.

  To be honest, because of Marita’s moods and fears, I’ve kept the business more underground than I’d really like to. I see opportunities for franchises, catalogues—big money. But Marita will have none of it. Flying under the radar is the only way for her.

  We’re in our bedroom. She’s lying on her back in pale blue lace underwear that accentuates the color of her eyes and sets off her olive complexion. I stroke her hair.

  Marita isn’t calmed by my touch. She mutters some of those voodoo chants she’s attached to and nervously jumps up off the bed. She fetches a skinny brown cigarette and puffs frantically on it.

  “I’ve been in jail,” she says, pulling her hair back into a knot, then letting it fall around her shoulders. “You haven’t. And I don’t want to go back.”

  “I’ll handle it,” I say. I get up, take her in my arms and bring her back onto the bed. I pull her thong aside and run my tongue over her beautiful ass.

  “Are you going to handle the Sisterhood, too?” Marita says. “They aren’t happy, either. The oath I took was I’d never use the power they gave me to make money. There’s talk of a high counsel. There’s talk of action being taken.”

  Strange soft words escape from her lips. Ones I’ve never heard before.

  “I never wanted to use my power this way,” she says. “It was you who made me.”

  I know you’re wondering. Well, Marita and I met through my ex-boyfriend, Albert. He was a high roller, one of those guys who likes to impress his male friends with the money he’s making and the women he’s fucking.

  In other words, Albert was an alpha male.

  I started out my professional life as arm candy for alpha males. One after the other, since I was eighteen.

  Let me tell you about alpha males. This is a little something everyone knows and no one says. Even if an alpha male is straight, he isn’t really into pussy. That’s not his real thing. Alpha males are always, always looking for a chance to compare dicks, and prove theirs is the biggest and the best. They’re more into impressing other men than they are into fucking women.

  And Albert? He was the most alpha of the guys I’d dated. He started out a kid in the Valley, but now, at only thirty-seven, he was part owner of a hotel in West Hollywood. It also had a bar and restaurant. It was one of those hot L.A. spots that serves crappy food and for reasons I’ll never figure out, attracts the models and money crowd. He was also into producing music and movies. As for his play time, he did the usual alpha-male things: skied, raced his yacht, gambled for high stakes, flew his own private jet.

  Albert’s hotel restaurant was the kind of place where dozens of young women would parade around practically naked while guys sat together at tables and made deals.

  The day we met, I came in on the arm of my then-boyfriend, Ron. He and Albert were business rivals. Ron also owned a hotel. He wanted to check out Albert’s.

  He strutted in with me on his arm, and his posse following. I wore a single-shouldered, tiny silk dress that kept trying to fall off my body. I recognized Albert from magazine photos—he dated supermodels and actresses, of course. He was at the bar flirting with a waitress, but I could tell he took note of me.

  Ron loved entering with me, loved seeing the way Albert noticed. And there was envy written all over Albert’s face. I’m amazed the two boys didn’t just drop their pants right then and there and compare dicks in front of the entire world.

  But instead Albert stayed cool. Duri
ng our cocktails, he had a waiter deliver a message along with my Jack Daniel’s. Nothing poetic, mind you. Alpha males consider that wimp stuff.

  Albert cut straight to it: “I want to fuck you in the downstairs bathroom. Meet me there in two minutes,” his message read. Meanwhile Ron and his friends never noticed what I was reading. And as for me? Hell, I knew Albert’s real target was Ron.

  That didn’t matter. You see, Ron was fucking around on me with a married A-list actress. I liked the idea of getting back at him.

  I excused myself from the table and made a high-heeled exit through the bar. Okay, actually what I did is let my dress strap slip a little too far and expose a breast while I passed Albert’s table.

  But I clattered with class to the bottom of the stairs. I felt a hand on my arm. I turned to face Albert. I was startled by how boyish—yet cruel—his features were. I liked the boyishness. I liked the cruelty, too.

  He dragged me into one of the plush bathrooms, yelled at a bunch of women to leave, pushed me back against the sink, lifted the hem of my dress, and went down on me.

  There wasn’t a lot of skill in what he did, to be honest. But I’ve always been a girl who’s able to tune into what’s genuinely erotic in a situation. And even if Albert wasn’t the best, I still liked the revenge I was getting on Ron. I pulled Albert’s head into my crotch as I came, grinding away at his face.

  Albert grabbed my hair, turned me around, and fucked me from behind. As he banged away, I watched his expression in the mirror. He never once looked at the reflection of my face. He did look down at my ass, to see his dick move in and out of me.

  “Ron should see us now,” he said, over and over again as he pumped into me.

  I found his words kind of sexy.

  “Fuck you, Ron,” Albert said, as he whirled me around again, and set me on my knees. I gave him the blow job he was asking for. As he came, he grunted, “No rival comes into Albert’s hotel and gets away with it. Fuck you, Ron, do you hear me? Fuck you!”

  His come tasted bitter as it slid down my throat.

  “That was a really big load,” I lied. “Ron doesn’t shoot nearly as much as you do.”