by Alison Tyler
But from so intimate a distance, I saw something I hadn’t seen before: this fed her. I was watching a religious ritual. My lover reached through the pain to something beyond her, something lovemaking alone couldn’t take her to. My arousal remained, painful and unresolved, but my anguish receded. My shaking nearly ceased.
Caryl’s blows doubled in intensity. His pace quickened. I grasped the wooden beams of the cross and let the concussions flow into my own body. I understood. I finally understood!
How long they went on, I couldn’t say. A long time. Deirdre’s cries grew louder and wilder, her voice breaking, her breath coming in desperate gulps. But she never pled for mercy, never asked Caryl to back off. She took as much as he could give.
Finally he was done. Or she was. I couldn’t name the thing that had been communicated between them as she stood, spread-eagled in chains, eyes fixed on mine.
He took her down with delicate gentleness, and I discovered that I had reentered my body enough to make a joke, even if I did it silently. I’ve finally figured out what the fuck a compassionate conservative is! Deirdre folded herself into his arms—collapsed, really—and he held her. He turned her face to his and kissed her, a profound, long-continued kiss. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone kiss so tenderly.
I brought them a large cup of water and he gave her sip after sip, his face close, breathing with her. And then he laid her gently on the floor. He spread her long black coat over her and knelt with his hands resting on her body for several long minutes.
“Come and sit here,” he said, offering me his place. He withdrew to the chairs.
I sat, holding her, listening to the thud of my heart.
Finally she stirred, ready to rouse. He motioned me aside.
She looked up as he stooped and snapped a leash onto her collar. This was another transition, I saw. The purely physical domination was over; I knew from our talk in the car that he was about to parade her naked and in near-trance through the club. She was now his slave, to be displayed for something much more public than the flogging. In his narrow gray eyes, I saw the first uncurtained emotion he had betrayed all evening: lust. His lust to own this beautiful, naked, defense-less woman
He gave a sharp tug on the leash…and she stuck her tongue out at him, her pink, impudent tongue.
Not just a little way out. Not my lover. No, this was a full-blown, in your face, definitely Democratic fuck you if you think I’m that easy!
It surprised him. I saw his split second of indecision.
And then I saw the Bush Pioneer swing into action, the million-dollar fundraiser, the white-maned, five-foot-four eminence of kinky Silicon Valley megabucks. That tiny white-haired man grabbed my five-foot-six, hundred-and-thirty-pound naked lover—and upended her. Jesse Ventura couldn’t have done it better.
She shrieked.
She was over his knee. She flailed, but he had her, helpless.
His hand went up.
It landed with a smack! that turned every eye in the club. Over the background noise of whipping and flogging, over the groans of the inflicted and the grunts of the inflictors, the intent of that sound was unmistakable.
“Caryl!” she screamed. Smack!
“Whatthefuckdoyou…” Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
“Nooooooooooo!” I’d never heard Deirdre wail.
Smack! Smack! Smack! The pace never varied. He never lost his grip through all her frenzied thrashings, never lost his look of privileged determination.
Her butt was already red from flogging; now it flamed. I could see every handprint, one layered atop another. Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
She went slack in surrender, then roused again. “You sonofabitch!” She bellowed this at the top of her lungs. If anybody had been lurking in the shadows on Folsom Street at that hour, he would have heard her.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
With every smack my cock cranked another notch toward vertical. With every smack, I didn’t think it was possible to get any harder—but I did. The glands in my jaw cramped. I ground my teeth.
She was clawing his shirt, trying to rip his six-hundred-dollar pants to shreds. If his balls had been in reach, she would have torn them off. No luck. Smack! Smack! Smack! He wasn’t going to stop. Not while an atom of resistance remained in her.
Smack! Smack! Smack! I was laughing. I was crying.
Deirdre’s no wimp. It took a long time.
I let the two of them sit up front on the long drive home. Deirdre leaned her head on his shoulder and reached back between the seats to twine her fingers with mine.
Caryl shook my hand on the front steps, the perfect right-wing gentleman. If he noticed the cock jutting in the front of my pants or the big red, white, and blue Dean placard on our door, he never said a word. He kissed Deirdre with melting sweetness, his fingers slipping into the belt of the black overcoat to pull her close. And then he was gone.
It was late enough it was almost early. We snapped off the light and tumbled into bed, Deirdre’s beautiful long black overcoat abandoned on the floor, its arms flung out in surrender. When I closed my eyes, I imagined it swirling upright next to the bed to stand guard over us.
We lay immobile for perhaps five minutes, blankly surprised we were still conscious.
“Well, shit,” I said.
“Me neither,” she sighed. “Too turned on.”
I turned on the bedside lamp. “I gotta fuck you.”
The overcoat had no response to that, but Deirdre did: “You better.”
She heaved herself up and crouched at the edge of the mattress. I crawled out of bed to stand behind her. The whole evening had been foreplay: she reached around and slid me right in.
We fucked. I jerked her hips and thrust. She bunted her ass against me with each stroke, giving as good as she got. I thought I heard her mutter.
“What?”
“I didn’t say anything,” she said. “I thought you did. Jesus, my ass is hypersensitive.” Even in the low light it glowed, patterned with handprints.
What could I do? I brought my arm back…farther back… all the way back…and came down on that beautiful, well-used ass with all my might. Smack!
“Aaaaaaaaaa,” she said, and clamped my cock. I thrust so hard my balls were going to be bruised in the morning.
Smack!
“Harder,” she gasped.
“Slap you harder?”
“Asshole. Fuck me harder.”
What the hell. I did. She howled. Smack!
“More!” She twisted her head just enough to stick out her tongue at me. Smack!
Three triumphant but slightly cockeyed Howard Deans smiled their approval from postcards stuck around the dresser mirror. The overcoat tangled itself around my ankles. A come was on its way through my body that was going to rip my whole pelvis wide open. Hers too.
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
Zip Me, Hug Me, Fill My Life with Meaning
Joy James
You know the feeling. Or is it just me? Don’t all women long to be zipped up? Preferably by the hands of another.
“Oh, honey, would you terribly mind zipping me up,” you say, though you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself. After all, you will have, in the course of a lifetime, done it thousands of times: reaching both hands behind your waist till they find the small of your back, pressing one hand on the fabric tight against the skin where the curve of your butt begins, while the thumb and forefinger of your other hand grasps the zipper. Up you go until you can’t reach any further, usually where the back of your bra is hooked. Then from the front you stretch both arms, bending at the elbows, over your shoulders for the final tug.
It sounds so funny, sort of exotic, erotic even, when you put it into words. Like watching yourself in the mirror. I’ve never really thought about zipping up quite that way before. Like all women, I just do it. Second nature. Still, it’s not natural—these contortions. But neither is
the best sex, come to think of it. So when my boyfriend of the moment, Victor—sweet Victor—buys me a skintight catsuit and wants to zip me up in it, I don’t demur. Besides the zipper up the back, it has one in the crotch. Victor insists on my letting him zip shut both.
Sweet, sexy—and insecure—Victor. He’s a writer (isn’t everyone nowadays?), but unlike most (the bloggers and such), he’s trying to make a living at it. He says it doesn’t bother him that I make lots more money than he does. But he always asks if it bothers me. Quite frankly, it only bothers me when he keeps bringing it up, seeking reassurance. I’ve got enough problems at work—where I’ve carefully built a reputation as a hotshot corporate litigator in the city’s most prestigious law firm—without having to worry about Victor’s fragile male ego at home. I simply try to avoid his seeing me in one of my countless professionally tailored—but still shortskirted—business suits.
Now naked but not. That’s how I feel walking—or is it more like gliding, dancing?—around the cozy apartment this lazy Saturday morning. When I go outside, I dress the unitard up with a Hermes scarf around the waist. Wherever I go, whatever I do—even the most mundane chores—Victor’s eyes follow me. Sweet Victor, he can’t get enough.
When he finally pulls me to him for a long, deep kiss, I don’t feel his tongue or lips so much as his strong yet always sensitive hands. They slide along my second-skinned, spandex-encased body. They stroke and caress all the curves that make me, shape me into, a woman. My curves somehow seem more contoured, more enhanced, more femininely alluring, while the things I hate about my body seem hidden, or at least subdued. It’s as if the catsuit is my plastic surgeon, and I’ve never felt so sexy. Certainly, Victor has never found me so desirable. A woman knows.
I know that in just a moment his hands will slip behind me to pull the zipper down, slide me out of the spandex, lay me down on the sofa, and fuck me. But I’m wrong. Instead, he lifts me into his arms and carries me to the kitchen table. I hear the clanging and crashing of our breakfast dishes as Victor sweeps his hands across the table to make room for my new body. He spreads my legs that are dangling over the table’s edge, and yanks down the zipper of the catsuit crotch. My cunt must be wet and welcoming, for it takes just one powerful thrust and he’s in, all the way in, as deep as he’s ever been inside me.
And just as quickly, it seems, he is out. It happens so fast that I can’t believe it. He comes, comes so hard I imagine it shooting so far up inside me I can taste it with my tongue. I come too, simultaneously.
Tightness: that’s the sensation, I want it to linger. His swollen cock inside, the spandex enclosing me outside. His cock may become limp, but I can be tight in the spandex forever. Clearly, Victor doesn’t want me to take it off either. Ever. He zips me back up, as if to keep his wetness from dripping out of me. Some gets on his fingers, which he then brushes against my lips. I lick. Yes, now I can really taste it. It’s so white and pure, in contrast to the catsuit’s midnight blackness.
“You’re my little slut,” he whispers. He’s never called me that before. Curiously, I like it. So I nod and say, “Yes, I’m your slut.” I smile. Then, laughing, I say, “I want more, please.”
“Your wish is my command.” He pauses. “But first I have a little surprise for you.”
“You’re full of surprises today, aren’t you?”
He says nothing, only smiles mysteriously, then disappears out of the room. I feel wonderfully limp, can hardly move, but manage somehow to climb down from the kitchen table. I wander into the living room, catch sight of myself in the mirror, and like what I see. I rub my hands up and down the tight spandex, and like what I feel. Only my hands, I realize—plus my face and blonde, shoulder-length hair—are not part of the rest of my body, the blackness, the tightness. In such stark contrast, just like Victor’s cum.
It’s at times like this that I can’t help but ponder the meaning of life. The sensations turn into abstractions. Victor is an exploding star, and I, insatiable, a collapsing black hole. Energy. It’s all about energy, masculine and feminine energy, and sex is the way we humans express it. The tighter the blackness enveloping me, the more I crave to be filled.
Victor will never feel what I feel, of course. But he must understand—with that ever-so-masculine, endlessly calculating, creative mind of his—for he suddenly reappears with a pile of what I can only surmise is bondage gear stacked in his arms. Clearly, the catsuit was just some kind of test, and I passed.
He spreads the gear on the living room floor. I settle myself down in the midst of it, as does Victor. We’re like two children playing, sitting cross-legged, our knees touching, giggling and laughing as we discover a treasure chest of brand-new toys.
“And what’s this little thingie?” I dangle a latex strap with a little rubber ball.
“It’s called a ball gag, I think,” Victor enlightens me. “I tighten it around your head, and the ball fits in your mouth.”
“Like stretching my lips around your cock.” I giggle.
“Exactly.” Victor laughs. “But this hard rubber ball will never get soft.”
“And this? And this?” I keep asking, as my fingers play with each item. For some of the things even Victor doesn’t know their precise name, or at least he feigns ignorance. Or perhaps they are ultimately unknowable, like the cosmos itself. I want to know.
Soon I find myself stripping off the spandex catsuit and pouring my body into its black latex replacement. Victor helps tug in all the strategic places. For the final touch, of course, he zips it up. But there are not just the single zippers up the back and in the crotch. A separate zipper runs up my ass, and the metal teeth around my neck apparently zip to the matching hood that Victor now holds in his hands.
I take one final look at myself before Victor slides the hood over my head. I like what I see. If I were a guy, yes, I couldn’t wait to fuck me. So fuckable: I wonder why exactly. I ask Victor.
“Can’t put it into words,” he says.
“Have you ever done this before? I mean, with another woman?”
“You’re the first.” I don’t know whether to believe him.
“But it must be a fantasy you’ve always had, right?” I say. “You didn’t just now suddenly come up with the idea? Or is it something about me that needs to be suited up, constricted like this?” I giggle again, a tad nervously, as he slips the hood over my head. I keep talking—babbling, Victor would call it. Clearly he has not the slightest interest in dialogue at this point, intent as he is on zipping the hood properly in place.
“It’s an interesting fetish, I’ve got to admit.” My words are a bit garbled now, with the press of the latex around my mouth. “I’ve seen pictures and stuff, but never imagined myself actually doing it, you know?” He doesn’t respond. “Victor, say something, talk to me.”
“You’re not supposed to talk,” he says in a stern voice I’ve never heard before. “Your mouth is not for talking. It’s for taking cock.”
“But…” Whatever it is I’m about to say is cut off by the ball gag Victor sticks in my mouth. I can see him now in the mirror tightening the strap behind my head.
It’s the last thing I see, for suddenly Victor snaps two little flaps attached to the hood over my eyes. Reflexively my hands move to my face, but Victor grabs them and pulls them behind my back, where I can feel him tying them tightly together. Ever so tightly, with one of those long rubber cords I glimpsed just moments ago among all the bondage gear.
“How’s that, my little slut?” Victor whispers so softly I can hardly hear him—or maybe it’s just the hood over my ears? It’s a rhetorical question, I know. Still, I try to answer, to say something. But all that comes out of my mouth is a whimpering squeal.
“Remember, no sounds! Your mouth is a just a hole to receive my cock, anytime at my will.” And he tightens the ball gag even more. I can’t help but emit some sound, any sound: it comes out no more than a gurgle. If my colleagues at the law office could hear—and see!—me now. Never
afraid to aggressively voice my opinion, I was even once called an “uppity bitch” by an angry male partner. Now I finally “know my place,” he would no doubt say. I have to laugh. But it’s not laughter I hear, just some kind of noise. So Victor tightens the gag still more.
Then I feel a tightening sensation around my waist. This must be the rubber corset, one of the first pieces of bondage gear I had noticed and fingered when Victor presented his collection. The waist was so tiny I wondered how in the world I would ever fit in that part of Victor’s fantasy. His vigorous tugging on the cords in the eyelets now tells me how. My body twists and quivers as he shapes me to his desire.
The wiggling embodiment of male fantasy, all boobs and bottom and wet-lipped receptivity, that’s what I’ve become. With my body bound, my identity reduced to a wasp-waisted shape, I exist only in Victor’s perceptions. Blindfolded, all that I can see is what my mind’s eye visualizes; that is, what I imagine Victor must see. As if in a sensory deprivation chamber, I have no interaction with the outside world: no mouth to talk, no free hands to gesture. Without the distractions of outside stimuli, I can luxuriate in just being an empty space to be filled with desire. Any perception is limited to hood-muffled hearing, the smell and taste of a rubber gag, and touch, of course—the exquisite sense of being tightly, ever so tightly, hugged all over.
Yes, hug me, please. Tighter. That’s what I want. That’s what Victor wants. I have become him, the one who perceives me, with all his senses. Me, an object, a sex object, no more, no less. I desire what he desires. His desire creates me.
Fill me up. Make me full. Fullness, tightness, that’s what I need. The tighter the latex, the more constricted my body, the more I need to be filled. All my energy is bound into the hole that I now am, a collapsing sun, a cosmic black hole, wanting to suck everything in. Nature abhors a vacuum.
Victor sticks what must be a dildo, so thick and so long, in my cunt. Then he zips up the latex crotch to hold it in place. Next he forces a butt plug into my bottom, and zips that up, too. But he knows that I am not yet completely full, so he pushes me to the floor, kneeling. He removes the ball gag from my mouth and then inserts his cock, as firm as I’ve ever felt it, deep down my throat.