by Alison Tyler
Full, so full, full at last. I never knew how full I could feel. Full of meaning, even. My seemingly successful workaday life seems nothing but emptiness now. I’m no longer a lawyer but a cumhole, therefore I am.
“You slut!” Victor groans. I can feel, but can not taste, the release as he shoots straight down my throat.
Now soft and slippery, his cock slides out of my mouth. I can speak again. And this is what I say: “Honey, will you zip me up please?”
Mahia’s Truth
M. Christian
Much has been said, and no doubt will continue to be said, about Subadar Mahia—yet much is not honestly known about him. If anyone, even today, were to ask Constable Sutia about him, he would have to shrug his old shoulders and admit to knowing little save Mahia’s title, only that the Subadar had an older sister who lived in town, and that people said that he was brilliant. Others, more in tune with Mahia’s presence, could add a little more: that he was unmarried, that he was educated far beyond even his lofty title, that he moved in a way that when at first beheld seemed to make little or no sense but when his actions (such as those involving a criminal investigation) had concluded you could see that how he had accomplished his goal was straight and true as an arrow—but one launched from a completely unexpected direction.
It was best, these people said, to simply allow him his way and let him work his magic.
But when the Subadar said to Constable Sutia that day in the Surimia jail, “Please leave me with him for a moment. An hour or two will be best,” the reason the elder constable did so wasn’t so much as from respect or a knowledge of Mahia’s working practices as it was just from an eagerness to return to his midday nap.
Alone with him, the Subadar took the prisoner in with a few precise swipes of his incredibly focused eyes.
The man was young, probably near to twenty-six years of age. His hair was brown, but of a shade not common to the region. His body was strong and lean, not overly muscular. His face, what the Subadar could see of it, was angled almost like a Yankee and not like any other ethnic type he could immediately perceive. The man’s dress didn’t bear out the Constable’s initial assessment of a “man with little or no means”: while he was dressed simply, the clothes were only slightly worn out in places. The man, obviously, had access to some funds—if only enough to keep food in his belly and clothes on his back.
“There was a reported theft in the marketplace. An item of jewelry was reported stolen from the establishment of Ling Po. As the constables of the town questioned those in the area you attempted to flee. When told to halt, you redoubled your stride. Innocence or guilt I cannot determine instantly, sir, but I can say that your actions spoke of a man not wishing to be questioned, or inquired of. Will you, this instant, say why you attempted to flee Constable Sutia’s deputies?”
The man’s only response to Mahia’s eloquent description of the incident in the marketplace that day was to lift his head for a moment, as if to study the Subadar in the poor jail light.
What the prisoner saw was a tall, thin reed of a man. Skin the color of polished, aged coal. A regal, infinitely patient face slow to move, revealing nothing of the soul beneath. Eyes that played and danced with a kind of laughing at the world they saw. His features were light and crisp, as if he were made of stone polished to a near transparency. The Subadar was dressed in a simple suit, very formal for the small town—but it wasn’t a pompous suit worn to impress the simple towns-people. Rather, it was part of the man. Looking at him it was hard to see Mahia without his white suit, it was as much him as were the bones of his elegant face.
His voice, police brethren said, was a blackjack dipped in honey.
“The truth, it seems, needs to be revealed. But that is a word that has confounded some of the greatest minds through the history of mankind. It is a quick word, a word that can hide anywhere for anyone. So many kinds, as well. My truth. Your truth. Everyone’s different, you see, yet each describes the same world, at the same moment. But we are not here for me to discourse on philosophy. I am here as a Subadar of the Northern Providences, and I ask you in that official capacity the question your attempt to escape and subsequent silence has forced me to ask: did you take an item of jewelry from Ling Po’s emporium?”
The accused looked up upon being spoken to, his eyes locking with Mahia’s. As the Subadar finished, the man spoke: “I did not, sir.”
“Ah, at least we have established communication. Why then, if you are innocent of the crime the deputies were investigating, did you run?”
At this the man simply shook his head and again looked at the ground.
“Your refusal to answer puzzles me. You do not explain. You do not protest. You do not offer to even have your pockets turned out to prove that you do not have the item.”
“The deputies searched me.”
“Ah. Further speech from you. Good! But you see even the volunteering of this information would be a sign that you wish to be considered innocent. But this near silence begs that you hide something—and when one is accused of a crime, sir, that is what you must not do.”
The Subadar studied the man a moment, scanning him from simple shoes to the black hair on his finely formed head. He watched his eyes and the lines of his mouth. The man had a pleasing face, one that Mahia could easily see smiling or laughing despite his current dour mask. “I see I am forced to take an angle with this interview that I would not normally take. I admit to you a fault, sir, in that I am pressed for time in this matter: my sister plans to be wed and since I am the eldest of the family it is my duty to inspect her choice in husbands. He is due to arrive tonight on the 6:15 train and I must not be late and, thus, not accomplish my familiar duties. Stand and take off your pants.”
The man’s face went blank for a second. It was as if his muscles had let go of their moorings with shock and confusion. So confused was he by this odd, if not normally rude, request, that he actually started to stand.
“Yes, sir, you heard me right. The request for you to remove your trousers was a sincere and correct one. Please do so and I will explain.”
The man stood all the way up and hesitated as the Subadar reached into the interior pocket of his simple suit and produced a black shoestring, saying, “There are indeed many, many forms of truth. All faiths teach their own particular view, as do even those who claim no divine powers have any sway in their lives. The government speaks one, family speaks another. You speak yours, I speak mine. Often, though, the truth that wins in all these matters is the one that simply speaks it the loudest. It is not a proud fact, but in the history of us all it is one, nevertheless. I am here as Subadar of the Northern Province to ascertain if you should be formally arrested and charged with the crime of theft, or released back into the world. I am here to find out my truth in this.”
The man, meanwhile, had stood, kicked off his shoes and, as requested by the dark and elegant Mahia, removed his simple trousers. His legs were strong, long, and rippled with muscles from walking or running. The skin on his legs was as tan as that on his face, and hazy with a slight dust of curly hairs. The man’s sex was uncut and large, lying in a field of those hairs like a small reddish urn. His testicles were all but invisible behind it.
The Subadar of the Northern Province was silent for a moment, then he spoke and instructed. “Excellent. Now sit down on the bunk and spread your legs apart.”
As instructed, the accused did so—the bed creaking and groaning in protest.
Mahia took his regular black shoestring and performed some kind of quick sleight-of-hand magic on it, transforming its humble length into a baroque series of knots and loops—then, with more deft handwork, he calmly and quickly, almost as if transformed into a doctor performing a regulation examination, lifted the man’s large testicles and deftly inserted them and the man’s penis into the loops and knots. When he was finished, in what must have been nothing but a handful of seconds, he had the man’s testicles and penis neatly bundled in the cord with a lon
ger length trailing up and into the Subadar’s hand.
“A technique,” he explained, pulling once, sharply, on the cord, “taught to me by a fellow police officer a long time ago. The principle is almost too obvious to explain but I feel I must at least calm your fears: there is no pain involved in what you could call ‘Mahia’s truth.’ I will not harm you or cause you any immediate pain. I will however, because it is my duty as a Subadar, discover the truth of this situation. Now, I ask you again, did you take the jewelry?”
The man said, simply, shortly, “I did not.”
“Why did you run from the officers?”
When the man did not respond, Mahia jerked the cord, sharply, causing the pan’s penis to slap up hard against his shirt and belly. In the simple cell it was like a hand slap. The man responded with an eye-widening stare and a quick intake of breath. All but instantly, his penis began to grow stiff and large, eventually almost straining against the cord binding it.
Again Mahia jerked the cord and again the man’s eyes widened—but this time a sharp hiss escaped his lips and he leaned back against the cracked and peeling plaster wall, his back stiffening in what appeared to be extreme pleasure.
“I’m sure if you’ve taken the ring you’d realize it. Quite a lovely ring, or so I’ve been informed: a gold setting, like three ropes coiled around one another. Two pearls and one medium-sized sapphire. Have you seen it?”
The man shook his head and, once again, Mahia jerked the cord. The man moaned in response, moving his hands toward the cords binding his testicles and penis. The actions, though, were not ones of pain—rather, one could easily deduce from the great size of his penis (easily eight, perhaps nine inches) that he was more than enjoying the binding of it, thus he was reaching not to remove the lace but rather to stimulate himself further.
Subadar Mahia slapped him, once. In the small cell the sound was sharp and quick, more an explosion of sound than one of violence. Shocked, the man fell back with a heavy thud against the wall of the cell and looked up at the calm and refined Mahia with eyes grown large with excitement and, maybe, fear.
“I do apologize, but it is integral to this operation, you see, that you keep your hands on the bed and away from yourself. If you do so again I will have to stop completely, and thus end this line of questioning.”
The man thought for a moment, then nodded. “I apologize,” he said, making himself more comfortable on the cot by moving himself back from the edge of it and putting his back flat against the wall.
“Thank you. I ask you again. Did you take the ring? It was not found on you when you were searched so you either dropped it off somewhere—where it could be retrieved later, no doubt—or passed it along to a confederate in the marketplace. Please speak the truth.”
The accused man’s penis looked for all the world like it wished more than anything to leap from his hairy lap with its exalted pleasure at this treatment by the Subadar: it was incredibly large and pulsed with a heartbeat rhythm, bobbing up and down, up and down—almost to his legs and almost to his shirt. At the end of it, a small dot of white jism grew and slowly started to run down from the hidden tip past the swollen head. The man’s groans were almost as rhythmic as the bobbing of his penis—with each jerk of the cord, he grunted and moaned in near ecstasy, his hands digging into the thin sheets and mattress of the cot to keep himself from crying out in pleasure.
“Why did you run from the officers? Why did you flee?”
The man took his hands from the mattress and moved them quickly, almost a blur, to his penis. Instantly Mahia stopped his jerking of the cord and moved as if to remove it before the man could stroke his throbbing penis. But rather than grab it and end the “line of questioning” the man grabbed the iron of his knotted thighs instead and dug his strong hands in so hard that Mahia was surprised he didn’t start to bleed from the pressure.
“Why did you flee? Did you take the ring? Answer me, please, sir. Answer me or I will stop this right now!”
The man started to whip his head back and forth, a perpendicular metronome to the jerking and pulsing of his penis, shaking his head that either he wouldn’t answer or that he didn’t want Mahia to stop. In his throws of throbbing pleasure, he had started to bite and chew his lip. His eyes were closed some of the time but when they were open Mahia could see that they were dilated into two brown pools of vibrating pleasure, like dark tea set on a long, low boil.
Mahia changed the tune of his jerking on the cord, now using slow hard jerks as opposed to his previous fluttering twitches with it. The man actually screamed a lion’s roar of frustration and sexual pleasure and dug even harder into his own thighs to keep himself from touching his now almost purple and swollen manhood.
Suddenly, the Subadar stopped his movement of the man’s penis altogether. A heavy, painful silence filled the room. “Answer me now. Answer me now,” Mahia said.
The man started to quickly mutter something, but his words were too soft for Mahia to hear easily. “Whisper,” he told the man in gentle tones, “in my ear.”
With tears of pain, frustration and pleasure the man whispered something into the ear of Subadar Mahia. Whatever it was he said, he had all but no effect on the polished ebony of the Subadar’s face. Mahia simply listened to the man’s words, calmly jerking the cord tied around the man’s penis and testicles once or twice to keep the flow of confession coming.
When the man was finished, he leaned back, sobbing deep and hard in his chest, hands still gripping like vices on his bruised thighs.
Without a word, the Subadar of the Northern Province put his hand on the man’s penis and stroked him once, slowly—using the man’s leaking jism as a form of lubricant. One stroke, two—Mahia’s hands were as gentle as his soul, as smooth as his demeanor. Faster, faster he stroked till the man gave an animal scream of pure joy, jetting his seed out into the cool air of the cell to fall on the rough boards between his feet.
Mahia took a plain white handkerchief and dotted the perspiration off the now panting, almost crying, man’s forehead and then cleaned off his seed from his lap and his own hands.
“You are free to go,” Mahia told him, leaving the door to the cell open as he stepped out.
Mahia found Constable Sutia basking in the fading late-afternoon light, calmly working his way through a giant bowl of ripe figs. Surprised, Sutia sprang comically to his feet and wiped his sticky fingers on his wrinkled and ill-fitting uniform. “Subadar!” he exclaimed. “Did you get the man to confess?”
“I am sorry for your deputies, Constable,” Mahia said, folding his handkerchief neatly and putting it in his pocket, “for it seems they will need to continue their investigations: the man, it is very clear to me—beyond a doubt—is innocent.”
“But Subadar, he ran when questioned!”
“He ran from nothing but a moment of guilt over his reason for being in the marketplace, Constable. He is a simple man who only sought companionship. He believed that was the crime he was being sought for.”
“You are convinced of this?”
“I am, Constable.”
“Then that is assurance enough for me, Subadar. That is more than enough for me.”
After that, simple and hearty thanks were given from Sutia to Mahia and they began to part—with Sutia’s assurance that the prisoner would be given back his belongings and given a meal to apologize for his detainment.
Before leaving, Mahia gave Sutia the address of his older sister’s house, with the instructions to pass it along to the man they had suspected of the theft. “Tell him that it would be my honor to put him up for the night at my sister’s to make up for any discomfort I might have caused him.”
Sutia did so and Subadar Mahia went off toward town, walking into fading sunlight.
The Divan
N. T. Morley
Lady Jennifer Partridge would never have gone to her ex-lover’s house if she hadn’t known that he would seduce her. But seduction was the furthest thing from Gustav’s mind.
It was not a sense of nostalgia or any form of obligation that brought Lady Jennifer Partridge to the mansion that night. Jenna felt that she owed him nothing; in fact, if anything, he owed her. For seventeen months the young bride-to-be had carried on a torrid affair behind her fiancée’s back, only calling it quits on the night before her wedding when Gustav Braeburn, as he usually did, had tied her to the bed in his dungeon and fucked her quite soundly till she knew she would barely be able to walk down the aisle. Then, freed from his expertly-tied knots with the thing that he always used to release her—Gustav’s pearl-handled switchblade, imported at great price from the continent—she had dressed somberly, shared with Gustav a postcoital brandy in the parlor, and informed him that it was over between them.
“It’s all well and good to do what we’ve done when I’m engaged,” Jenna told him. “But I intend to turn over a new leaf. From now on, I shan’t return your calls.”
“You’ll return them,” Gustav told her, lounging decadently on his favorite overstuffed armchair. “And you’ll be back for more of the same. The first time you don’t come when he fucks you, you’ll be here as fast as you can find a taxi.”
Gustav was wrong about that. In fact, it was twenty-four times on the nose that Lewis Partridge fucked his wife without making her come before she returned to her lover. She had kept count, in a little diary she kept in her night table. There, she recorded her every sexual adventure, misadventure, and fantasy—in French, a language Lewis did not speak. She wrote in secret and locked her diary with a tiny padlock. The only key rested between her breasts, tucked into a locket on a golden chain. The locket also held a picture of her husband. Through her entire courtship and into her marriage night, the locket had held a picture of Gustav—and knowing that, at any moment, Lewis might have asked to see inside it had always given Jenna an incalculable thrill. It was not until they returned from their honeymoon that Jenna had replaced the photograph with one of her husband. Gustav had seen the locket through their dalliance, and she had noticed his eyes resting on it as he’d kissed her demurely at the reception line. He knew that his photograph rested inside, but he knew nothing of the key.