He wraps his mouth around my right nipple, its erect tip.
“Bite it,” I whisper, and he looks up half-smiling like I’ve just confessed all my sins, all my secret desires. So you’re like that, are you?
And then he bites down so hard I scream. The pain is followed by a deep rush of pleasure, a tingling down my spine to my pussy.
I take him by the shoulders and pull him up, and he looks at me like a teenage boy about to take my virginity – Are you sure I’m the one? Are you ready?
I smile coyly and pull his head towards mine. As we kiss I undo his belt and let his pants drop to his knees.
I reach inside his shorts, where his cock is hardening and shifting, and he laughs quietly as I stroke his balls with my nails. They’re smooth and bare, his balls, just like my cunt – and thinking of my baby-bare pussy makes me crave his dick even more.
I push down his boxers, which fall in a ring around his feet. We must look ridiculous, I think, but then I stop thinking altogether, stroking the underside of his shaft, grabbing hold of it with both hands . . . and I notice that it takes both hands to hold his cock, and I’m already imagining how it will feel slipping between the walls of my cunt, filling me, all of me.
His legs slide between mine. He starts playing the skin of my thighs like a piano. I pull at his cock like tugging on a rope. It’s uncut and generous; he rubs its head up and down and across my clit and I gasp every time, thinking he’s about to enter me. He’s biting his lip, looking up at me like a kid, and I can’t help but pull him towards me and kiss him in a fit of tenderness – which is when he plunges himself inside me.
The first thing I think is, This isn’t Carter’s penis. It presses against the muscles of my cunt, which seem to have forgotten everything but the shape of Carter, and now they retract as this foreign cock intrudes, staking its claim.
I feel like he could fuck right through me. He grabs my ass with his hands and pounds. He clenches his face, his arms bulge, he squeezes me, tighter and tighter, and I feel like he hasn’t done this in a long time. My stagnant fidelity and his. I want to know if he’s thinking of someone else – a wife, a girlfriend – but I don’t want to ask, so I just surrender to the pulsing. A thousand nerves up and down my insides fire like a pinball game where every shot wins.
I want to feel his tongue lap against my clit. I want to come all over his mouth. So I set my hands on his hips and grind his thrusting to a halt, wind him down like a toy out of batteries, and he looks concerned.
“Let’s get in the car,” I tell him. “I want you to eat me out.” I say it sweetly, demurely, like a girl asking him for a walk to school.
He shuffles to retrieve his keys and opens the trunk door. I crawl in and start to pull off my skirt. He reaches over my body to lower the back seat so I can lie out flat, ready and waiting.
“I’m gonna come inside you,” he says, “and then I’m gonna go down on you when you’re wet with my come.” He hesitates, needing my approval. So I give it to him: I flip onto my stomach so he can take me from behind.
He fucks me. He fucks me like I need to be fucked. He fucks me like I deserve it. And then his body jerks. It vibrates. He wraps his arms around me tight with his orgasm.
He pulls out with his juice still dripping down my legs and gives me the most amazing eating out I’ve ever had. He plants kisses up and down the insides of my thighs, up to my pussy and back down the other leg until I’m mad with desire. His tongue flicks my clit and then he puts his mouth tight over my cunt and slaps his tongue back and forth until I scream and climax.
He pulls back and wipes his mouth with his hand, and I giggle. He shrugs in unwarranted apology. Rain spatters against the roof and along the windows. I feel like we’ve just made love in a car wash.
We lie naked, his cheek against my breast, which makes him seem so much younger than he did at first.
All at once, I realize this: I’ll never make love to a stranger again. I’ll never feel anyone’s manhood inside me except Carter’s, from now on.
I’ll get a “real job”, I’ll grow up, I’ll build a house and a life with a man who tosses and turns in his sleep and always seems to be riding the fantastical in his dreams. Carter is hopeful; he makes love earnestly. He wants to find a million new ways to pleasure me. He wants to understand, claim, and seduce every nerve on my skin. He wants to fill me and spill me over like popping the cork of champagne.
I don’t feel guilty. I feel like my mother for one last moment.
She never wanted to settle down. For her, the world was a sea of cock primed for fucking, a thousand ways to fill the same hole. I had felt that same need and this man beside me in the back of a car had filled it. My last zipless fuck. Devotion washes over me, an emotional orgasm; all my aimless desire seems to focus, to narrow onto Carter. I close my eyes and fill myself with him.
“I should go home,” I say to this sweet man, supplicant across my naked body.
“I should go, too,” he says.
We slide off one another and pick up our clothes, silent. My body is tingly. We share a laugh as he opens the back hatch of the car and we climb out, and standing in the rain, he holds me for a moment. I hold him more. Tighter. I smell him. I kiss him, and smile at his adorable face, his potential. For a moment I’m jealous of the woman who has this man as her Carter.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t mention it,” he replies. And then he grins shyly. “Thank you.”
I almost stumble to my car, and I drive home feeling woozy. Carter is asleep in our warm bed, dreaming, and I join him there.
One week later, the doctor tells me that I’m pregnant. She tells me that I’ve been pregnant for a month, and I’m relieved; it’s Carter’s baby. But it still excites me to think that that new almost-person was already there when that man was inside me.
Time passes.
Sometimes I rewind my life so that all my sexual encounters blur together in one long movie in my head, grainy and flickering, sloppily edited; a quick scene in the dark, and another, and another. Whose arm, whose leg? My lips tracing the line of whose jaw, searching for a mouth to kiss. The squeak of a bedframe, the quiet of a mattress on the floor, the blare of the horn when my back bumps somebody’s steering wheel. A rainbow of panties, all beautiful, some lost in someone else’s room, someone’s car, in the recesses of somebody’s couch. A slow-motion gang bang, spliced and reassembled for my pleasure.
And now I have a daughter. She’s beautiful and precocious, just like me.
She asks me questions and I reveal everything to her, slowly and carefully. At night, the three of us watch the news together. She crawls onto Carter and he holds her near like a lover, and she fits there, just right.
In fact, it all fits, just right.
Girl on a Swing
J.Z. Sharpe
Inspired by
“The Swing” (1766)
Jean-Honoré Fragonard (French, 1732–1806)
I can see the painting from my place in the cloakroom. It’s so lovely. When I’m alone, I can’t stop staring at it. I want to find its secret. I’m quite sure there is a message in there for me, hidden in the branches intertwined at the top of the canvas, or perhaps in the fluttering skirts of the woman on the swing, the painting’s focal point.
I don’t dare go any closer. If Madam Cleo finds me anyplace but where I belong, there will be consequences. She threatens to take me to her office, slam the door behind her, and throw me over her knee. With my panties around my ankles, I’ll be spanked until my bottom smarts. Just thinking about it makes me squirm.
So why do I smile as well?
“Madeleine?”
I snap back to reality. Mr Bach is here, one of our regulars. I take his coat from him and hang it with the others, brushing its cashmere softness against my face as I put it on the rack. It carries his scent, a woodsy aroma with a hint of leather, like none I’ve ever known. Sometimes I spend the entire evening pressed against it, wishing that I belonged
to this man, a treasured possession just like this coat. I hand him a brass tag with a number on it, although he won’t really need it when he comes to claim the coat again. Believe me, I will know which one to give him.
He takes the tag from me and slips it into his pocket. His dark eyes twinkle. “Thank you, Madeleine. How are you this evening?”
“I’m well, thank you, sir.” I’m always careful to address every guest as “sir” or “ma’am”. Failure to do that would also be cause for one of Cleo’s spankings, or so I’m told.
“You look lost in thought.”
“Just daydreaming, sir.”
He laughs. “Well, I hope they are pretty dreams, my dear.” Then he turns and goes down the hall toward the red door, where the secrets of the house wait for him.
I don’t know much about those secrets, myself. I’ve only worked here for three weeks. When I came to New York to go to graduate school, I knew I would need a job, but what could I do? I tried waiting on tables like my roommates, but after dropping three trays in one night and creating massive amounts of broken glassware, I knew it wasn’t for me. I can’t type very well; cash registers bore me. What was left? Would I be forced to stand on the sidewalk in the rain, handing out flyers to people who would only throw them away?
Then I stumbled across an advertisement for a “discreet attendant” in a private club, and now here I am, taking coats and being polite to people who travel in circles quite different from mine. Madam Cleo hired me on the spot, thank heaven. “You can keep a secret, can’t you?” she said that first night, after she dressed me in my uniform, a stiff black dress, black stockings, and heels so high, I felt ready to topple over without warning. She answered her own question as she pinned my hair atop my head. “Of course you can. And you will.”
But the secrets, behind that red door . . . the cries, the shouts, sometimes the sound of a cracking whip. I have seen Madam’s cabinets where she hangs the “toys”, although she won’t let me look for very long. All I get is a glimpse, and the rest is up to my imagination.
My eyes wander to the painting again. The girl on the swing wears a pink dress with skirts that billow around her; that particular shade, I must confess, reminds me how much I hate that color. It’s the color of weakness, of mushy overchewed bubble gum, of pretty girls who are just so damn perfect. She doesn’t look happy to be in that dress; indeed, on that swing she looks a little out of her element. A man on the ground below points with glee; he looks at her legs and those private places revealed by the swing’s movement. Then back she’ll go, toward the man in the shadows behind her.
I squint, trying to see that second man. He is half-hidden by darkness, holding ropes that control the girl’s motion. He looks older, wiser, more diabolical. Why does he look slightly familiar? The answer comes to me immediately, and I shudder and close my eyes. He reminds me of Mr Bach.
The door from the street opens again and a group comes in, one member accompanied by several guests, probably from out of town. I take their coats and smile, but am relieved when they disappear behind the door, greeted by Madam Cleo herself. My eyes meet hers; “Behave!” they seem to say. I look away as the door closes quietly.
And so the evening goes, here at Madam Cleo’s house . . .
I have only had one boyfriend. Yes, at my age, I should have more of a track record – after all, I’m already in graduate school! Schoolwork kept me busy, and I went to college close to home in Massachusetts, where my parents could keep an eye on me. When I met Peter, they reluctantly let me go out with him, and only because he was the son of one of my father’s best business associates. I guess they figured he was safe.
Little did they know! “I like your ass,” Peter would say, running his hand down my backside in admiration. “I’d like to see it naked.” So we hid in his father’s toolshed, where he ordered me to grab one of the low rafters and with my feet barely touching the floor, my jeans and panties would be yanked to my knees. Now he could admire me by the glow of a kerosene lamp. “Oh, yes,” I heard him whisper. “Madeleine, please let me mark you.”
“Mark me?” I swallowed. What did he want?
“Yes, with my belt.”
I shook my head. What a sick thing to ask! I let go of the rafter and landed on the floor with a thud. “No!” I shouted. “Are you out of your mind? Let me out of here!”
We broke up the next day.
Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about Peter. I shouldn’t have broken up with him, he was the only boyfriend I’d probably ever have. My girlfriends had a steady stream of guys, one right after the other. Was I destined to attend parties alone for the rest of my life? Worst of all, the scene in the toolshed played over and over in my fantasies. What if I’d allowed Peter to do what he wanted? Would it really have been so bad? How was being “marked” any different from wearing a guy’s ring or some other symbol of endearment?
One night, out of curiosity, I went to my closet and took out a belt, not as wide and harsh as the one Peter wore that night, but the nearest I could come to it. Naked, I knelt on my bed and gritting my teeth, I began to thrash at my backside. Yes, it hurt, I won’t deny it! But it was not like any other pain I’d ever known, not like menstrual cramps or getting a tooth pulled. It had a certain – what’s the word I want? – deliciousness to it. I stopped after ten good swats.
Later, sitting in front of the TV with my parents, I could still feel it. I should have let him, I told myself. If I had, we’d still be together.
Even to this day, I relive those moments in the shed, rearranging them to suit myself. Sometimes Peter uses a small paddle, sometimes he ties my hands to the rafter so I don’t have to hold on so hard. Sometimes it’s not Peter at all, but someone else – more often than not, it’s Mr Bach. He strips me naked and when he finishes, he holds me in his arms, where I cry with relief and love into the fine fabric of his coat.
I have to get a better look at that painting. I just have to.
The tiny clock on the cloakroom shelf, next to the jar where I keep my tips, reads 10:15. The lull usually begins right about now. This is when I bring out my schoolwork, knowing that I’ll probably have a good hour or two before anyone wants to retrieve a coat. A new arrival at this hour would be rare. I take out my literature notes, but somehow, I can’t seem to get interested. My handwriting swirls before my eyes and makes no sense to me. With a sigh, I close my book and rub them with the back of my hand.
The painting beckons. So many details, so many secrets. One peek, close up, couldn’t hurt. I’ll be right here; if someone comes looking for me, I’ll see them first.
With my ears attuned to any approaching voices or footsteps, I walk down the hall to where the painting hangs. I take a place before it with my hands behind my back, raise my eyes to its top, then let them scan, falling like a leaf toward the bottom. So much to absorb on the way! Such fine detail in the leaves, the trunk of the trees. The stone cherubs have as much expression on their faces as the humans. The woman flies through the air, bright, brave, one shoe lost, hurtling toward the ground. The suitor before her smiles, eager to touch. But he never gets a chance, because the man in the shadows pulls her back. Her hidden lover never allows her to fly too high.
Fingers surround my wrists, holding them together at the base of my spine. “So, do you like the painting?” a voice whispers in my ear. “I sold it to your boss, you know.”
No need to turn around. No need to look. I recognize his scent.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Mr Bach says. “It’s a forgery.” I gasp. “But don’t tell Cleo. She thinks it’s the real thing.”
I try to wriggle free. “I – I think I better get back to work.”
He has other ideas. “Study the woman for a moment, my dear Madeleine. Look at her face. She’s not smiling, is she? In fact, she looks a little scared, a little hesitant. Do you think she desires the man at her feet? Or is it the man in the shadows who’s her true love?”
“Please, Mr Bach, I need to get back to
the cloakroom.”
“Oh, I’m sure Cleo won’t mind if you take a little time for an art appreciation lesson.”
“No, she won’t like it. She won’t like it at all. I’m not supposed to leave my post.”
He laughs. “‘I’m not supposed to leave my post!’” he says, imitating me. “Such a good girl you are, Madeleine! So obedient! Such a prize! Come with me, my dear. Let’s go back to the cloakroom.”
Not letting go of my hands, he returns me to the tiny room where his coat hangs with all the others, a black shadow hidden among the rest. I open the half-door and slip inside but, when I try to close it, I discover Mr Bach has followed me. He closes the door and latches it, then does the same for the upper portion, effectively closing us off from the rest of the world.
I shake my head. “No, please, Mr Bach! What if Madam Cleo comes out and finds me in here with you? She’ll punish me!”
“Has she ever punished you before?” His dark eyes meet mine in the dim light of the tiny room as he brushes a bit of hair away from my face.
“No, not yet.”
“Then how do you know what she would do?”
“She’s told me. She’s described it for me.”
“Tell me more,” he says, drawing me closer and placing a gentle kiss on my forehead. “What would she do if you disobeyed her?”
“She – she would take me to her office. I’ve only been in there a couple times, to get my paycheck, and she never lets me stay very long. She has all those cabinets? The tall black ones where she keeps what look like – like whips?”
He nods. “Yes, my dear, those are whips. Among other things.” Then he kisses me again, on the cheek this time. “What else did she say she would do?”
“Well, she said she would pull down my panties and take me over her knee, and give me the spanking of my life, hard enough that I won’t be able to sit. Hard enough for me to remember for a long, long time. That’s what she says.”
“Does this frighten you, my dear?” I start to nod, then I switch directions and shake my head no, an action which makes him laugh out loud. “Ah, your indecisiveness is so charming! Tell me – have you ever been spanked before?”
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