Take Me There

by Tristan Taormino

  I breathe heavy. She hugs me again, offers to get me off a different way if I need to back out of this. I shake my head, finish my makeup. Not that I’m not tempted. Janey can do things with her fingers a million dicks could never learn. “Please, soon, yes,” I say, “just not today.”

  “I understand,” Janey says, “you’re just too much slut to keep under wraps, you’re for public consumption.” The heel of her hand runs from my knee up to my pelvis bone, over and over. I purr and then whimper.

  “All those men will look down at you, literally and figuratively, they’ll baptise you and chastise you, you dirty little cream tart,” Janey says. I moan, I can’t believe such a hot dyke wants to be my lover, that by itself was my great fantasy for years, now it’s come true and I’m greedy for a bigger, weirder fantasy. “Shameless,” Janey says, as I back my ass up against her thumb, “shameless girl.” I can’t tell if she thinks today’s plan is sexy for its own sake or just because it’s sexy for me.

  “Okay,” I say, wishing I could stay in here longer, “time to go face my public.”

  I lose count of them at thirty. They stand in a huddle near the door. Nobody’s smiling or talking much and they scare me a little. Then when I’m halfway into the room, they turn and take me in: fake diamond earrings and necklace, satin bustier and thong, thigh-high stockings and dangerous heels. They just stare and I force myself to smile and wave at the wall of workaday guys.

  Just when I’m about to flee back into my dressing room, one of them claps, then a few, then all. They throw in cheers and, yes, wolf whistles. I curtsey and promenade to my place at the center of the tarp.

  I used to fantasize about just going to sleep for a week, being sedated or whatever, so someone could exterminate every hair on my chin and my body, once and for all, while I slept. I used to shave twice a day and put on heavy foundation to try and get rid of my beard shadow, and on the days when I had to grow out my beard so Rosa could yank it out, I wanted to hide from the world. I would wear my heaviest overcoat walking to Rosa’s place, and afterward, I had to cover my red, blistery face, still with some hairs that we didn’t get to.

  Rory is barking instructions at the pack of men. “When you cum, leave the front of the circle and go to the back if you think you’re going to cum a second time. If you’re close, shout, ‘Here!’ so Clari can turn her face to catch your spunk. Do not touch Clari. She may touch you, she may not—it’s up to her.”

  I hadn’t planned to touch any of them, but now I know I will, as many of them as possible. “Whenever you’re ready,” Rory says, and I nod and get on my knees.

  I keep my Miss America smile in place as the first guys move into position around me. They look as nervous as I feel, for some reason. None of them is exactly my type, but several of them are very conventionally handsome. A few of them return my smile.

  And then the first line of guys unzip their pants and pull out their cocks. I notice Rory aiming his camera as closely as possible to capture just their dicks and my face. I turn slowly on my knees, taking it in.

  The shadow over my face lifted slowly, almost like black snow melting, and then one day I looked in the mirror—and I saw skin. My features looked totally different without a dark cloud obscuring them: I looked delicate, pretty. That week, when I went to see Rosa, she noticed it too.

  “We’re making good progress,” she said. “Still plenty hairs on your neck though.”

  And then I lay down, and she slid the needle into the skin just below my jawline, like a red-hot poker going into my throat.

  Everywhere I turn, inches from my face, there’s a rising cock. It doesn’t matter anymore if the guys are handsome, if they like me, if they vote Democrat or not, all that matters is the ring of pricks in every direction. I try to guess which one will pop first and can’t. They just stroke and stroke, nobody talks.

  I start telling them how sexy they all are, how much I want their cum. I hesitate, then reach out and touch one of them. Its owner lets go and I take it in two fingers, kneading and caressing. The guy rotates his hips. I work my fingers up and down on the shaft.

  I have a free hand, so I reach for another one. I lubricate my fingers with spit and start the same rhythm on both cocks. Both guys grind at me.

  I’m looking straight at another cock right in front of me. Of course, unprotected oral sex isn’t completely safe, and I don’t have time to put condoms on the circle guys, so I wasn’t planning on sucking any of them. I didn’t exactly promise Janey I wouldn’t, but I heard her concerns. But now it’s happening and that cock is so close to my face…Four hundred hours, I think.

  I open my mouth and the cock tastes so good, like an oyster only not so slippery. It presses against my tongue just the right way, and the guy puts one hand on my head to guide it. I know this is the right thing, I’m only going to do this once, after all. I taste precum and lick it off the shaft without slowing down. I make my little cock-hungry noise, between a moan and a gulp.

  “Here,” a guy says behind me, one of the guys I haven’t been pleasuring. I swivel to face him and nothing happens. He blushes, jerks harder. I take his cock in both hands and make a steeple around it, roof rising toward me again and again. Then he grunts and shoots and it’s going right on my face.

  I wasn’t prepared for the heat. You always hear about hot cum, but I never realized before how hot it really is. It makes sense, it comes out of your body and all. It feels almost scalding for a second and then it’s just there on my face like an extra layer of stuff.

  “Here,” a second guy says and shoots a moment later. It’s pack mentality: half a dozen of them cum within seconds of each other. I have to remind myself each time to close my eyes and mouth. Some of it will get in no matter what I do, I just have to keep it to a minimum. Now my face feels itchy with the stuff and it’s all I can do to keep from wiping.

  More guys push forward to replace the ones who have cum. I fill my hands and mouth, playfully this time, no rush about this. I try to smile with a cock in my mouth. I feel like a lion tamer surrounded by lions, but in a good way.

  I taste a salty rush and for a moment I think the cock in my mouth has cum, but it’s just a lot of precum. I let it go and lick another man’s balls, so his cock slaps my face again and again until it sprays. The cock I was sucking before that splashes my face a second later.

  “Here.” I turn 180 degrees to see a large Asian man holding his quivering prick in both hands. I give a come-hither smile, wink and tilt my head. I close my eyes just as the rain comes down.

  “Here,” a guy to my right calls out and I press my lips against the base of his cock, nibbling and tonguing until he groans and explodes. “Here.” An uncircumcised guy nearby pulls back his foreskin and spurts. “Here.” A man with creamy brown skin adds to the mess on my face.

  If only Rosa could see me now, I think and it makes me giggle. She provided the clean slate, the canvas I’m letting these men paint on. All those hours of her eyestrain and my gasps as the needles went in and stayed in, the tweezers slowly pulling the hairs out.

  I’m starting to relax into it. At the start, I was as stiff as the men on all sides of me. Now I’m more at ease, flirting and giggling and daring the men to go ahead, mark me, I’m your bitch. The men all blur together after the first few facials, but I feel like I’m getting more warmth back from them as well, like they’re responding to my playfulness in kind.

  I realize I’m still fully, if scantily, clothed. And my clit is making a bit of a dent in the front of my panties, along with its own smear of precum. I wipe my hands on my bustier and then undo the hooks one at a time, swiveling my hips and winking at the men in front of me. One of them cums on my chest as soon as it’s bare.

  Normally I’m self-conscious about my teeny breasts, but right now I don’t care. It seems they’re nice enough to cum on. My hairless torso gleams with sweat and semen.

  I put my hands on either side of my crotch and thrust. I pout at the next man to get him to hit me righ
t between the eyes. The scent of so much sperm excites me even as it makes me sick, it’s getting overwhelming.

  I take another man in my mouth, both hands still toying with my stretched thong. I deep-throat him at top speed, head to root in half a second over and over again, then I let him go and move on to the next guy. For once I don’t have to feel guilty about interrupting a blow job—it’s almost my duty to taste as many of them as possible.

  Part of my mind is still thinking about how to put on the best show for everyone, but mostly I’m just losing myself in the moment. I pull my clit out of my panties and touch it, just enough to confirm my own excitement but not enough to get off yet. Another man cums on my face, then another one. My eyelids are coated in the stuff, I have to wipe my eyes before I open them and even then I can only squint.

  Here, here, here. I lose track of how many guys have used me as their cumrag, and whether any of the guys are coming for a second time. I notice that I’m panting and moaning, not fake porno moans but the real kind, the kind I usually make only for Janey. I can’t see her, so I don’t know if she’s jealous or turned on.

  I stop jacking off, I can’t risk coming now. Instead I go back to sucking one guy while playing with two others. I roll over on my back and that way I can kick my shoes off and use my feet to get off a fourth guy. The crowd is roaring over the music, which sounds like Prince or Madonna.

  The fourth guy cums on my stocking feet while the guy in my mouth pulls out just in time to cover my nose. I try the same thing, only this time on my stomach with my legs kicked up and stroking a cock.

  Now I’m getting as many guys off with my hands, feet and mouth as I possibly can. I have to fight the urge to take a guy in my ass, it would be hard to get lubed up enough, let alone make sure he wore a condom, and Janey would kill me. Instead, I just toy with as many guys as possible with all my extremities.

  My face could be covered with shaving cream, the stuff I hope I’ll never use again. This feels like a rite of passage, a unique way to prove I’ve arrived as a girl and all the pain has led somewhere, though I know deep down that you never really arrive, it’s always going to be an uphill hike in high heels.

  My hair, the soles of my feet, my ass, the nape of my neck, all feel sticky. My mouth and hands get tired but I can’t feel any sensations but endorphins and lust. My excitement is more pleasurable than any physical sensation could be, it’s like the pure joy that physical pleasure aims to copy.

  For the first time I can see past the circle of open-fly guys. The group is thinning out. Many of the guys have retreated to the wall to watch. Janey stands nearby with a huge grin on her face, which relieves me because I was worried she’d be upset by how many cocks I’ve licked today.

  I’ll get tested soon, I silently promise her, I’ll be really good after this. Then I go to work on the last ten men with renewed energy. I’m naked except for my stockings, soaked and ruined with sperm. I wiggle my butt and pull on every man in turn. They catch my face from three different angles at once.

  I lie on my back and spread my legs as wide as they’ll go, rubbing my calves against two different men. I manage to get two cocks in my mouth, something I’ve always wanted to try. My reward lands on my thighs and my tits.

  Finally the last guy adds his contribution on my chin and I look around, no one urging, “Here,” for the first time in ages. Rory walks up, asks if I mind. I shake my head with a grin and he unzips. I’ve never sucked him before, but it’s still not just another cock today. I bob my head like it’s my first.

  I feel Janey stroking my hair in spite of all the stuff in it, her touch feels gentle and reassuring. It brings me back to my real life, the one where I’m her lover and not a gangsuck cumshot facial whore. I purr, Rory’s cock still in my mouth. Janey reaches down with her other hand and touches my clit.

  Rory pulls out and taps the bridge of my nose. Tap, tap, tap. Janey thumbs my sensitive spot in time with Rory’s drumming. He adds one last load to the dried-out mass on my face.

  Then a second later I wail at the top of my lungs. Tons of cum pours out of my clit, some of it flying almost as high as my nose. I cry out some more, twitch and gasp and release my own reservoir onto my saturated body. My eyes go starry like during a sugar rush and it’s almost too much for me, it feels like it’ll go on forever.

  Janey keeps stroking until she’s sure I’m done. Then she wipes her dirty hand on my hair, not as if it’ll make a difference. She brings a towel and wraps it around me, then hugs me. The men around us are applauding and I’m blissed out, almost too tired to move. “You did it, baby,” Janey whispers. “You were amazing,” and I laugh and let her lead me to a long, hot shower.

  THE BOY THE BEAST WANTS

  Skian McGuire

  I want a boy to beat on. If I say it often enough, write about it, describe him to myself, imagine what I will do to him in loving detail, maybe the Goddess will let me have him.

  I bow my head in apology to my already-underserved lovers. There’s the sweet boy I sometimes play with, my butch partner who is the love of my life, a fuckbuddy whom I never get enough of as it is—all the masculine creatures I could want to extract my pleasure from. Aren’t they enough? They ought to be. But the problem is, I care about them. I could never bring myself to do to them any of the things I see myself doing in my mind’s eye to the boy that my Beast has invented.

  He’s not very young, as some boys go, but not quite as old as thirty—not a grown-up. I know he will be mine for only a short time, then move on. I imagine him following the progression that leathermen did in the old days, earning what he wears by the trials I impose on him, growing into the topman he will become. Not that he won’t long for the release of masochism and submission, when that day arrives—but who could follow me? Oh, ego! This is my fantasy, and I want to be the top that boy can never find again and so has to become, instead. Maybe someday, when he is tired and jaded and longs for release more than he longs for his next breath, maybe then he’ll find another Master, or Mistress even, and the old dog in him will learn new tricks. Why not? It happens. But first, I want to be the one he remembers for a long, long time.

  I picture him—a skinny, scrawny, surly thing, all bones and cowlicks and wary eyes. I see him looking at me, his chin lowered, no smile, no light, just heat. He is wearing the uniform of the novice: jeans and a white T-shirt, no leather, not even a belt; tan construction boots. His arms are at his sides, fists clenched. His feet are flat on the floor, squared. I see him across the big room of a dungeon we all go to, and even though the place is crowded, no one is playing yet. We might as well be the only ones in the room.

  His eyes burn into mine for a moment, then drop. When he looks up again, I look at a spot in front of my feet and call him to it with my gaze. He comes.

  Now he stands before me, eyes down, nervous. I can see his chest rise and fall, too quickly. He knows better than to speak before he is spoken to. I walk around him, inspecting carefully. His shoulder blades are pathetic, bony little wings. His breasts are bound. His ass is nonexistent, but his arms are wiry. The muscles in the back of his neck twitch under my gaze.

  “Boy.”

  He holds his breath. I come back around to face him.

  In real life, I might ask him his name now, and he would answer, looking up at me with those wary, animal eyes, adding the “sir” only after a long pause. And I would allow myself to be amused, if only slightly, and never enough to show. After a pause long enough to make him glance nervously away, like animal prey looking for escape, I answer, repeating his name, and then:

  “You want somebody to beat the shit out of you, don’t you, punk?”

  His mouth is dry; he has to work up spit and swallow hard before he answers, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

  “Yes, sir.”

  In real life, I would grip his shoulder and push him ahead, guiding him through the labyrinth of rooms until we could find a quiet place to talk, negotiate; Get To Know Each Other. I would inq
uire about his limits; his safeword; his state of health. He would find out what he can do to please me. I would find out what he needs to learn. But this is not real life: this is my fantasy.

  I grab a handful of the T-shirt at the back of his neck to propel him to the place we will play, jerking him around corners, shoving him into the space ahead when we reach it. Before he has time to recover his balance I grab his shirt again and deliberately trip him, sending him onto the rug on his hands and knees.

  The names I will call him won’t be nice ones, but he won’t be surprised. This boy knows what I am. When I call him a shit-ass little motherfucker, scumbag, filthy little asswipe, pussy, fuckhole, punk faggot sissyboy, you little shit, you dirty snot-nose little freak, in that low voice, that crazy voice that says I am a hair’s breadth away from losing it, the blood will run cold in his veins. He will wonder exactly what he has gotten himself into. He will know it is exactly what he wants. When the side of my boot lands hard on his ass, and again, and again, driving him down, and my instep slams into his crotch, and my toe taps his spine and his kidney and his ever-so-tender ribs just hard enough to remind him of his body’s fragility, when the steel-capped toe of my boot pounds into his ass and thighs again and again, until he curls up in a fetal position that I have to haul him out of, drag him to his knees by main force so I can grab his hair and slap him until he looks at me, Look at me, you little fairy, you cunt, look at me! he won’t be crying. Not yet.

  I will throw him over the hassock that is ever so handy and I will whip my black leather belt out of my belt loops with a hiss that he will hear in nightmares, and I will lay into his ass with a sound like cracking thunder, furiously, setting fire through his clothes to the meat of his ass and his shoulders, until he covers his head with his arms in that gesture of involuntary self-protection that only invites the Beast’s rage. The strap of my belt will land again and again, my free hand will punch and slap and grab, until I come around in front, panting, sweating, to lift his head by the hair and demand to know, Have you had enough, boy?