I see him move to her side, lift her to her feet and bind her hands as mine are bound together at the wrists. He lifts them overhead to join mine, and straps them together with a hefty belt that will not let us budge. He clamps my nipples and clamps hers too, and then ties these clamps together so each move she makes will tug the strained pieces of flesh between the hard-pinching grips. He treats our labia the same, with heavy hasps he connects with a short chain. While my legs remain immobilized on the ends of the bars, hers are free to jiggle and shake between mine. This way we’re sure to sense the pain together.
Chelsea stares at me, her eyes droopy like she’s going to sleep. They are eyes of lust, as if she’s fallen into the hands of a master and is beginning to submit. When Nicholas begins to whip her ass, she jolts and we both scream. The pain won’t stop in my nipples and cunt. His devious plan works as he goads us with piercing stings and pain that doesn’t stop. While at first I’m comforted by her hot skin on mine, now it’s only torture being so close to this writhing creature. She shocks me each time he lays the crop on her flesh. With her mouth so close to my ears, her screams frighten me. The sound of them deadly. I try to move with her irregular rhythm, but there’s no catching up with her odd pivots and spins. The clamps tear at my labia and nipples, as they pull every which way and strain the stretched out skin. I’m sure I can’t take more, and yet I do. Perhaps only because I know that what she feels now is worse than what I endure. Oddly, I’m finding compassion in my heart for the woman who shares my husband’s bed. Oh, what a twisted life I lead! What a depraved soul I have become!
There’s always an end, I know that from the beginning even though sometimes I worry that this next time the agony won’t stop. And yes there is an end. We’re exhausted but mellow. Tied body to tied body we move on each other without shame, and even more lewdly when Nicholas removes the clamps from our aching nipples and cunts. We kiss when we can’t embrace, and look with longing sex-hungry eyes into eyes that have hated and scorned and now share a moment of peace. When our hands are freed, we move to the bed and make love. Locked mouth to cunt, the pleasure seems almost like an afterthought—certainly it’s anticlimactic after the worst and the best are over.
She brings me off with her lips and tongue, while I have her climax on my hand. Then we lay like two lazy cats, softly pawing skin and licking lips.
Nicholas sits in a chair beside the bed watching. Then I see him look toward the doorway as the shadow of another man appears.
“What’s this?” I hear a voice somewhere in the back of my mind remembering whose this is.
No one speaks while a pair of astonished eyes stare at the bed for a while—at a wife and a mistress/girlfriend that kiss with passion and run their hands over sweaty skin. From the corner of my eye I can see the astounded look on my husband’s face.
“Who are you?” he asks my stranger and my stranger smiles. Then rising, Nicholas walks to Robby’s side. He has his bag in his hand, where all his toys are now tucked away—only the nail above the doorframe remains to mark our crime.
“I’m the man screwing your wife,” he tells my husband simply. And moving past the baffled man, he’s out the door, leaving a pair of languishing sluts to soothe this wounded man.
I can’t believe I’m the first to speak. But then, there’s really not a whole lot to say. Rising from the bed, I leave the graceful arms of the lush Chelsea with just a trace of sadness. Then turning to Robby, I manage to capture the essence of the moment in just once sentence.
“Our marriage is over, darling,” I state plainly, and I move quickly to find my clothes.
Robby waits, looking oddly sad, standing motionless as though every vein in his body has frozen solid. And with his face looking so terribly empty, I add my observation, “You have Chelsea, and I have Nicholas.”
“Nicholas?” The blood seems to move in him again, and he looks out the door as though he can still see my stranger in retreat.
“He’s my lover,” I add, just so he truly understands.
I dress in what should be an awkward moment. But it simply doesn’t strike me that way. I’m not even thinking this situation is absurd, and I’m not really thinking revenge. I’m just glad it’s over and I have a home to go to that’s much warmer and more honest than this one.
Packing up everything I need and forgetting everything that doesn’t matter, I leave for the city. I’ll be at Nicholas Riley’s apartment by ten.
g
It’s nearly nine o’clock. It should be midnight, the hour of witchery and demons, that hour when the devil begins to lay waste the peaceful dreams of children and its spirit haunts the discontented. Leaves fly against my windshield as I drive into the blackness between the suburbs and city, and gaze out looking for the first signs of those broad well-lit city streets that beckon me. I think of alleys and basements with my master, his hand guiding me into crumbling hovels or high into the steel and concrete of buildings that rise to scrape the sky. My mind is as perverted as his, weaving fantasies of treachery, body deeds to make me shudder and quake. The wind picks up the closer I get to the cityscape. But as that vast metropolitan glow begins to penetrate the night, I’m warmed. I think of his fireplace, his brandy, his bed, his hair, his hefty chest, his mean riding crop and his lips. I remember his blue eyes dark as the seas beyond the city. I imagine myself cradled in his arms, and think of what he might say, what words would lure me more completely. I say it’s love I’m feeling, but I have none of those sensations of love I’m familiar with. There is passion—passion enough to last longer than this lifetime.
When I pull up to his building and come to halt, I let the car die and for a while stare up three flights to the windows that glow from his tulip lamp. I can see the flicker from the fire he’s raised in the hearth. How perfect of him to have this brand of gentleness surrounding him to take away the rawness of fear and horror he materializes so easily. I answer to him so willingly, comforted to know that it’s not just remarkable sexual passion he stirs in me.
This time, it’s me stalking him when I enter his apartment using the key I keep on my key ring. He sits in his chair with his back to the door, reading. I tiptoe softly, and he doesn’t stir when I approach. I half expect him to leap on me with another bout of terror to shock my already well-worked psyche. But placing my hands on his shoulders, he jerks. For a man with such acute instincts this surprises me. Perhaps I’ve caught him napping and it only looks as though he is reading. With my hands unable to detach from his warmth, I move around his side and slump to the floor at his feet, my palms running along his hard-muscled thighs.
“So, what do you say now that I’ve left him?” I ask, staring into the clear blue canyon of his eyes. “It was a fine finish, don’t you think?”
“I think we’ve left the poor boy stunned. I feel sorry for him,” he says.
“You do?”
“He didn’t create your messed up marriage by himself,” Nicholas reminds me.
“Oh, so you’re going to chastise me for doing exactly as you wanted.”
“Chastise you, no. Just remind you that we’re a gentle breed of animal.”
“Men in general?” I ask.
“Yes, even me.”
“You weren’t so gentle tonight. I think you left poor Chelsea as dazed as Robby was.”
“Maybe they’ll carve out new ground in their relationship.”
“Maybe, not.” I imagine an untreatable wound between them. I can’t see Robby filling Nicholas’s dominant shoes for her. “So tell me,” I return to my original question, “what do you say now that I’ve left him?”
My hands move more eagerly along the denim of his jeans. At the crotch I feel his warmth radiating into my hands. They become spurred for more. There’s a throbbing at the apex where his legs meet his torso, and I place a hand over it feeling the gentle pulse. His body twitches excitedly.
“I’d say I’m very happy,” he replies staring into the sensuous expression I send his way. “Happy f
or you and happy for us.” He speaks tenderly with his hand running its way though my hair, and I can feel my eyes filling with tears. Moving a finger against them gently, he captures a bit of the salty wetness on his skin as if to say that tears are unnecessary now.
“You know we still hardly know each other,” I say.
“Oh?” he shakes his head disagreeing. “You knew everything you needed to know that first time I fucked you in the bar.”
“When I was petrified?” I wonder.
“Even when you were petrified,” he says.
“I was horny and you were very demanding.”
“But, you let it happen, didn’t you?”
“Perhaps I was a reckless fool?”
“Were you, now that you know who I am?”
“I know only that you’re a respectable Archeologist, not necessarily a respectable man.”
“Of my infamy in sexual matters, I plead guilty,” he replies. “Just plead guilty with me.”
“You do have wit,” I say.
“And a reasonable degree of charm,” he adds.
“Tell me why this subterfuge? Why the anonymous courtship, the stalking, the secrets? Is this the way you woo all your women into bed?”
He looks at me with his typically vacant face, his hand still combing through my hair tenderly. “No, Ellen Laurey, just you,” he says simply.
I get the feeling I’ll never know and never understand how these last few months happened, what inspiration drove him to attain me this way.
“And what name are you going to call me?” I ask. “You have so many for me.”
“I’ll call you whatever suits my need. Don’t you think that’s best?”
I find that thought pleasant. “What ever suits you, suits me,” I tell him. “I’d kind of miss it if you didn’t call me Ellen Laurey anymore.”
He smirks playfully. “She was a good poet, wasn’t she?” he comments.
“You knew her too?” Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, he still seems to know everything without me telling him.
“No, but I knew Ellen Laurey wasn’t your name, so I looked her up in the university library and discovered another piece of you inside her work.”
This information leaves me speechless for a while. I think that he’s waiting for me to speak again, but I’m at a loss for words. Yet, as I stare at him and feel his fondling hand, I realize that maybe it’s not important to say anything. We seem to do well in silence, communicating a good deal with eyes and beating hearts and the feel of our hands touching each other freely.
“I wonder,” I decide to ask the one burning question, the one Robby and even Isaac could never get beyond. “Why does it threaten men so much when a woman wants more from sex than sex? More from a relationship than cock and cunts?”
“I don’t know about other men, Lynnie. But it doesn’t threaten me,” he answers.
“And so, you won’t mind my probing?”
“I expect you to probe, just as I won’t stop probing you.” He has a smug look on his face—the “let’s go the basement and bind you to a fence” dominant look that has me jittery and flushed. Grabbing a handful of the hair he’s been so gently fondling, he holds it tightly until I can feel the pressure of it hurt. When he releases his grip, there’s a flood of sexual response to join the rest he’s set blazing.
“And will you still capture me the way you have every other time?” I want to know. “Or will this get boring because we’ve forgotten how you like to shock and hurt me?”
“Why would I do what’s the death to a relationship when I love it like this?” he asks me back. “I’m not a fool.”
I feel assured and warmed. “And I can ask you anything?”
“You can ask me anything,” he confirms.
“At any time?”
“Not during sex.”
“Okay, not during sex, but any other time?”
“Yes. Whenever you want to bug or annoy me, or when you’re feeling vulnerable, or when the mood strikes, and your womanly nature won’t let you hold your tongue. Yes. you can ask anything any time …” there’s a gentle tease in his eyes … “though I won’t guarantee how I’ll answer. I might just spank your ass if you’re being impertinent. But you can always ask, and eventually I’ll answer.”
I like his reply and decide that it’s enough for one night.
Turning my attention elsewhere, I let my hand massage the dick inside his pants, and with my tender gestures, it rises more boldly. I’m sure it’s going to pop through his pants if I don’t unzip his jeans and set it free. Taking it briskly, we maneuver his pants to half-mast. It’ll make-do for a quick blowjob. Rising on my knees, I hover over his thick thing and start to wind my tongue along the smooth and sour surface, letting the smell of my stranger drift into my consciousness. It sidesteps my mind and goes straight to a lively cunt beneath my skirt. As I go down on him, he moves out on the seat of the chair enough so his hand can reach for my ass. Inch by inch he raises the material covering my pushed-out flesh. He fondles me while I suck him off and churn needfully against his hand. Perhaps I haven’t had my last orgasm for this long day. As the clock on the wall chimes the midnight hour, he’s about to cum. Forgetting his massage, forgetting everything but using me for his pleasure, he falls back limp in his chair riding the last wave of orgasm while I lick cum from my lips and smile into the blue and drowsy eyes of a satisfied man.
Epilogue
Opening my windows for the first time since the fall took all the warmth from the air, I let spring billow in with a half-warm burst. As I stand by the open window, the sun tickles my skin. Gazing out on the campus quadrangle, I look for the stranger. I love to see him walking jauntily across the square, his long hair swaying against his back. That hair so familiar to my touch, I can feel it with my hands even when I just see it with my eyes. He’s not there now, of course. One of his classes has just ended. The campus clock strikes eleven and I know he’s on his way to the office high in the Archeology building away from the bustling thoroughfare below. He’ll probably smoke his pipe before his first conference, or that next staff meeting. I’m planning a quiet evening. It’s Friday and he’s always a little grumpy on Friday afternoons. Sometimes he just takes out his mood swiftly, laying some dastardly implement on my naked ass. I accept it, of course, because I wouldn’t think of not doing that. When he punishes me it destroys everything testy that might have been building for days, and I know that by the time he’s finished having his way, we’re ready for the pasta or Mexican or Chinese I have ready for dinner. He eats well after he’s sexually satisfied. And I love the look on his contented face as he starts to open to my conversation. I learned that he lied to me about asking him anything at anytime. There are definitely times for keeping my mouth shut and times to speak. But that’s okay too. Sometimes keeping my mouth shut pleases me too. We still speak well in the silence between thoughts.
These reflections on our relationship stir me. I can’t imagine feeling this way forever, but what’s so bizarre is that time and the changing facade of our affair do nothing to dampen my desire. It abounds freely.
And now it’s spring, and I feel even more like unveiling myself to him. He’s told me he’s going to have to take me into the woods and tie me over decaying things and abuse me savagely. I can’t wait.
The phone rings in the middle of my amusing thoughts. At first, it’s an annoyance, but then I hear his voice.
“I have to disappoint you,” he says.
“I hate disappointments,” I reply drearily.
“Well then, I’ll tell my department head he’s going to have to excuse me, I can’t disappoint my slutty girlfriend.”
“Ah, I see. One of those meetings,” I respond. “I suppose you won’t be home until ten.”
“Or eleven, they’re promising me a huge war and I don’t think I want to shut up this time.”
“Then you’ll be a bear when you get here,” I sigh, wondering what kind of antics he’ll use for my next moment of
suffering.
“And won’t that suit you?” he says. He jokes lightly, but I know what it’s likely to mean for me in pain and humiliation. My body responds accordingly; I’ll have something to dream about all evening long.
“So, I suppose I’ll go to dinner with Jane. She invited me to that new café by the boardwalk.”
“Marginal part of town,” he observes rightly.
“I’ll be careful. Jane and I will park side by side, and you know she carries mace inside her combat boots.”
“I’m never really worried about you,” he says, and I know he means that, but I’m still not sure why. I’m hardly the tough cookie like my dykish friend Jane.
“I’ll see you when you get home, then,” I say, and he signs off with a little reminder of his tenderness, saying, “Love you, Lynnie” as he hangs up.
g
The food was great. As I walk out the door, side by side with my hefty friend, the older sister type with the butch haircut and the great smile, we walk along the wharf ignoring the panhandlers and the hulking longshoremen that stare at the strange couple we make. Jane’s into writing fiction for women like her, filled with sex and gory stuff that makes me squeamish. These dour gothic alternative romances come straight from her nightmares. I know her to be a sane and sound woman, but not in her fantasies. We’ve talked about it and decided that she’s better off putting them on paper, than letting them brew in her subconscious. “Don’t you think that the world’s safer with Steven King peddling his nightmares in books?” she often tells me, when I wince at all the blood. I heartily agree and hope that the publishing world will publish the hell out of Jane’s gruesome novels.
The night is so much warmer than the day. Earlier a brisk wind cooled the air. Now that the latest weather front has passed through, the atmosphere is still and warm for an April night. There’s hardly a chill on my arms as we stroll slowly to her truck and my T-bird parked side by side. She hugs me warmly, and I kiss her on the cheek, remembering the fragrance of a woman fondly. Even this one brings that memory to mind with remarkable clarity even if she tries to hide her femininity underneath her jock clothes.
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