The Syntax of Seduction

by Carlos Malenkov

  "There. My finger is inside. Now a second finger to stretch the opening a bit. How does that feel?" (I was all the while massaging her neck with my other hand.)

  "Soothing. Relaxing. Yes, that's so good."

  Her anal opening gradually loosened and the sphincter muscles went slack as I gently flexed and applied accupressure from within. (It's a proprietary technique, of course, so I can't discuss details here.)

  She was aroused. Her pulse had speeded up and her pupils were dilated. Her vaginal opening was sopping wet with lubrication. She was gasping and involuntarily arching her back and raising her hips. Definitely pre-orgasmic, and now I had to decide how to send her over the edge.

  "I'm going to insert myself, my penis that is, into your anus, ma'am. We'll take it slow and easy, and if you feel any discomfort, just holler."

  Of course she didn't feel any discomfort. I'm a past master at back-door therapy, and I know just the right buttons to push to make it enjoyable for the receiver. As the head of my penis pressed into her rear opening and began to disappear inside, she gasped, then a shudder rippled up her spine from the tailbone to the neck. Her body went slack, then began writhing as she let loose sharp yelps of pleasure. Her skin took on the radiance of a woman in the grip of forces she couldn't control.

  Now was the crucial interval. She could still freeze up and block orgasmic release . . . unless I removed that choice from her. I began a slow rhythm of alternating deep and shallow thrusts. This would create low-intensity pressure waves from the air alternately compressed and distended in her lower intestine. It induced a thrumming vibration in her guts, similar to the overtones of a low-pitched oboe. Hypnotic mood-altering, resonating subsonics. I was playing her like a musical instrument, and the hole in her bottom was the echo chamber for our symphony. Thirty strokes per minute -- the heartbeat rhythm, the metronome throb of the pulse, the oceanic beat of the surf. An unearthly wail ripped through her intestines and a scream of ecstasy began bubbling up from her throat.

  The electrolyte gel formed an airtight seal between my shaft and her opening. And it had one additional property. It was an excellent conductor of electric current. I reached behind me and pressed the button on the small device strapped between my buttocks.

  A pulsating low-voltage AC current passed through my body and into hers. My penis acted as an electrode and her rectum was the receiver. Her body went rigid, and she gasped as her anal sphincter involuntarily clamped down on my penis. A powerful orgasm began eroding any remaining traces of her self-control. I had blasted loose her resistance to letting herself go and she was finally experiencing sensual release. But that wasn't all.

  Something had gone wrong. Badly wrong. The floor was shaking and the walls were swaying. Windows shattered and plaster dust rained down on us. Earthquake?

  Time to boogie. I quick-march disengaged from her sphincter. That let loose the inevitable liquid slurping sound of escaping air, which I could have taken measures to avoid under other circumstances. Didn't even have time to spray flower-scented deodorant to mask the faint shit-smell that sometimes accompanies anal sex. No time for anything but . . . "Out! Right now! No time to put anything on! Move it! Now!"

  We got out just before the roof collapsed. I took her by an elbow and walked her toward my car. Then I got an old blanket out of the trunk to drape around her bare butt. The earth movements had died down by then.

  She had an idiot smile plastered on her face and couldn't keep from giggling. "Got my first real orgasm, I did, and a humdinger it was, too. Whooee! Made the whole house fall down. So what? I'm insured. And I'll never be the same again. Nope. I'm a complete woman now. And I love it. Love it! When can we do it again?"

  I was starting to get a bad feeling about all this. Real bad. Her house just collapsed around her ears, and all she thinks about is getting her rocks off. Nutty broad. But the agency needed the money, and pissing off a client would be highly uncool. I hesitated only a moment before setting an appointment for next week.

  I knocked on the door of the hotel suite. Nice place. Well, I already knew Ariella had money out the kazoo if she could afford my services on an ongoing basis. And with her house trashed by the earthquake, she had moved into the fanciest joint in town. I'd have to raise my hourly rate maybe.

  We'd try for a second-order orgasm this time. That ought to put the finishing touches on her course of treatment and probably get me a nice bonus, too. I was starting to get antsy about this broad, though. That earthquake had to be a coincidence, didn't it?

  Same modality as before. Anal insertion -- properly done, of course -- is the most effective method of breaking down inhibitions and other barriers to total sensual release. As I inserted myself into her, she let loose a raucous laugh. "So, what are we trying for this time, doc?"

  What we were trying for was a level of intensity that few mortals are privileged to experience. Sometimes known as the Great Orgasm, it was a violent discharge of all the sexual energies dammed up and accumulated over a lifetime of repression and frustration. It's been known to result in serious nerve damage or even death, but I'm trained to handle all that. Still . . .

  The pressure inside her rectum was slowly building. My penis acted like the piston in a bicycle pump, inflating and contracting her lower intestine. Slow, even strokes in the recommended cadence created the proper harmonic rhythms, the Sakatu rhythms, the musical resonance that would unlock the discharge mechanism of the parasympathetic nervous system. With a stethoscope pressed against her lower belly, I monitored the low-pitched thrumming ascending the spiraling coils of her colon. Music. Sensual music. Dangerous vibrations.

  She was beginning to lose control. Her sphincter loosened and a low growl escaped her lips. I toggled the electrical stimulation to high. A low moan --

  Outside: a blinding flash! A deafening boom. Lightning strike! The window panes shattered and the walls rocked. Another flare of light, followed by a boom. I hurriedly pulled out of her anus. Once again, a natural disaster in the making. That was all I needed. This definitely wasn't in the treatment plan.

  We made it down into the lobby of the hotel. Had to take twelve flights of stairs because the power was out and nothing was working. Several hundred people were milling around in the chaos, and we certainly weren't the only ones barefoot and in bathrobes. Ariella was bouncing up and down like a little kid. She was basking in the afterglow of the second real orgasm of her life, and it was all a grand adventure for her. She was eager to set up another appointment. I told her that I'd let her know.

  Thalia is my partner in the agency. The senior partner, as it happens. She handles the male clients, and also keeps the books. The cash flow has been none too good lately, she was reminding me. Our bank balance would look much healthier if I could keep Ariella on the string just a little while longer. I had a very bad feeling about all this, but I reluctantly agreed.

  I had a dream that night. I was tightly entangled in the branches of a huge tree. Somehow I knew that it was Yggdrasil, the World Tree of Norse legend. And there was a huge face looking at me. The Face of the Tree. It was Ariella's face.

  I woke up in a cold sweat. It was clear what the dream meant. Ariella was in some mysterious way connected with cosmic mysteries. And my professional therapy had been having major unforseen side-effects. I was tampering with Dark Forces.

  All right, I'd give it one more shot. If there were any more forces of nature unleashed, I'd cut Ariella loose and damn the consequences. The bills would stay unpaid, and Thalia would just have to deal with it.

  The doorbell rang. It was Ariella. I'd reluctantly agreed to have the session take place at my own home, considering that she was staying with relatives while her house was being repaired. She'd had enough of hotels, she said. I couldn't blame her.

  The session went surprisingly well. I was deep inside her ass, pumping, stoking the pressure waves and tuning the intestinal vibrations. When it came time for the electrical triggering jolt, I impulsively dialed the voltage all the wa
y to the top, five notches past the recommended maximum. What the hell -- if it was going to bring down the wrath of Mother Nature on us, I might as well give Ariella the most powerful orgasm that a woman's body is capable of.

  She groaned, and her body went into violent convulsions. Then all her muscles spasmed and went rigid, and she screamed. And lost consciousness. I was suddenly afraid. Very afraid.

  It was all right, though. She opened those light gray eyes and . . . smiled at me. Such a sweet smile it was. And she thanked me.

  There was no earthquake this time. No lightning and no fireworks. Nothing at all. And Ariella's bonus check for $50,000 will keep the agency solvent for a couple of months. So, everything turned out okay. Maybe.

  I just saw the news reports. Astronomers have been observing anomalous changes in the sun's chromosphere. Most of the scientists don't think it means much. But one guy -- all his colleagues thinks he's a crank, but still -- this one guy says the sun may be entering a pre-nova stage. That means it could blow up in a year of two. And that would be that. The end of the world. Curtains. Finito.

  I've come to realize that maybe some women are better off frigid. And maybe the world would be a safer place if everyone concerned came to terms with that. Maybe I should have stayed an appliance repairman -- fixing Frigidaires was a hell of a lot simpler than fixing frigid women -- instead of getting uppity ideas about Helping People. Helping, that's a laugh.

  Holy shit, what . . . have . . . I . . . done?

  * * *

  MOONSTRUCK

  The passing car took him completely by surprise. He turned to look -- and caught a flash of something sticking out the window on the passenger side. Bare buttocks. He had just been mooned. And how!

  The image of that naked ass haunted Fred for years. He had been only 12, just beginning to become aware of the mysteries of the opposite sex. Girls were, well, different. They were annoying, but somehow soft and enticing, too. He'd supposed he'd get around to finding their companionship pleasing one of these days and maybe even think about dating and all that stuff that comes afterwards. But the glimpse of those round, smooth cheeks had completely wrecked the orderly progression of his childhood.

  He had to find that woman -- the woman whose bare ass it was. He had to. He had fixated on her, and especially on her ass. That ass. It occupied his thoughts day and night. Those lush naked curves. That mysterious dark cleavage. The sparse fringe of hair, the faint blush of red in the crack, and the puckered little hole. Had he really seen those details or was it the product of an overheated imagination and wishful thinking? That ass was the last thing he saw when he shut his eyes at night and the first thing in his thoughts when he awoke.

  It was a dark blue '59 Mercury, the car was. That much he was sure of. As for the rest, well . . .

  At 16, he was in the audience when a hypnotist demonstrated his craft. Fred, of course, leaped right up when Dr. Anubis asked for a volunteer. After performing various silly stunts and making a complete fool of himself, he awoke out of the trance. After the show, Fred asked the good doctor for a minor favor. If he could only be induced, under hypnosis, to remember the license number of a certain car he had caught an all too brief glimpse of a few years back . . .

  MUN37--. So, now he had a partial plate number and a fragmentary description of the car. What next?

  Mr. Herzog was an old friend of the family. A kindly older gentleman he was, and Fred got along with him famously. He used to make wooden pull-toys in his basement workshop for Fred in bygone years. Fred still thought of him as a sort of uncle. Mr. Herzog was a retired cop. He could possibly help.

  "Well now, Fred, I still have some acquaintances in the Motor Vehicles Department, and they just might be willing to get me a list of all cars with that particular plate prefix. . . . But what would you do with the information?"

  Fred blushed at the thought of telling Mr. Herzog the truth, the naked truth -- that he was obsessed with a woman whose ass had haunted him for years. But there was no alternative. He began talking.

  Mr. Herzog laughed. "Of course, I understand. Back when I was your age I had an eye for the ladies, too. And when I think back on all the crazy things I did for love, or lust, or just out of plain curiosity . . . I do have some misgivings, but yes, I'll help. Of course, you won't do anything foolish, like stalking the woman, will you?"

  Stalking? That wouldn't have occurred to Fred. He only wanted to know who she was, so he could fill in the details in his mental image of her and give his fevered daydreams more substance.

  "I promise," he said.

  Tracking down the mystery ass-woman wasn't all that difficult. There were only a handful of possible matches and it was easy enough to sift through them. It narrowed down to a single possibility.

  Marilyn Wickelow was a young lawyer, a corporate attorney in her family's firm. She had been admitted to the bar just a year ago. Back when the moon rose for Fred, she had still been an undergrad at Highsmith University. An uninhibited undergrad. The '59 Merc was still registered in her name.

  Marilyn had a rather checkered background. She had a history of getting a bit "rowdy" when under the influence of various drugs. Recreational drugs. Illegal drugs. She had been cited for creating a public nuisance several times and once for possession of an illicit substance. She had even allegedly posed for pornographic photos and there were other, even darker allegations. There had been no convictions, though, and that explained why she could practice law. Of course, her family background helped, too. It seems that her father was the third richest man in the country. A multi-multi-billionaire.

  Fred couldn't believe it. He had been mooned by an heiress, no less. A debutante. A woman far above his social class. And still he couldn't keep her ass out of his thoughts. He was a high school junior with a big problem.

  Fred's classmates were busily pairing off with their opposite-sex counterparts and doing all the wonderful things that boys and girls of that age do with each other. Dating, dancing, making out, and . . . Fred wanted no part of it. Teenage girls held absolutely no charms for him. They were so young, so silly, so inexperienced. And their skinny little asses couldn't possibly compare with . . . Marilyn's.

  Money. Maybe money was the answer. It was the only way to be taken seriously in the adult world. Money made so many things possible. Changing other people's perceptions of you. Traveling in higher social circles. Infiltrating the legal department of a mega-corporation . . .

  Fred already had a part-time job after school. It earned him the noble sum of a buck and a quarter an hour. That wasn't bad by contemporary standards in this Year of Our Lord 1964, but it wouldn't bring him much closer to his goal.

  His goal. Exactly what was his goal? He'd promised Mr. Herzog he wouldn't stalk Marilyn, and he had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He just wanted her to like him. No, more than just like him. He wanted her to want him, to desire him, to lust after him, to totally lose her head, to be so hot for his bod that she'd jump out of her panties to have at him. He wanted her, all of her, her body and her mind . . . and her soul, too.

  This was crazy. He had absolutely no chance of succeeding. But here he was in the lobby of the Wickelow Building, walking toward the reception desk. He hadn't the slightest idea of how he was going to pull it off.

  "State your business, please." The man in a company uniform was staring at him with cold indifference. This was the first hurdle.

  "I need to see Marilyn Wickelow on a critically important matter. She's in the Legal Affairs division."

  "You have an appointment of course," the guard said.

  "No, but . . ."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but company policy forbids -- "

  "Well, then give her this." Fred thrust a sealed manila envelope through the opening in the grille. PERSONAL AND URGENT the label on the envelope read.

  This was his final hope. She had to open the envelope and see . . . and see the picture inside. It was a picture of him, a black-and-white photo. A rear view of him ben
t over, bent over and naked, with his naked ass facing the camera lens. Using a Polaroid camera with a self-timer, Fred had figured out how to shoot the moon, literally, and if fate cooperated, how to get the moonshot into Marilyn's hands.

  No mail today, either. Fifteen hard-earned dollars it had cost Fred to rent the postal box. Well, he couldn't have put his home address on the note he'd clipped to the photo, the photo of his bare behind. A PO box gave him a measure of anonymity. Not that it would help much if Marilyn brought the police into it. Or if she sicced the company watchdogs on him. And, of course, if she didn't respond, it was all for nothing.

  The note. He had agonized over the note for days. "You exposed yourself to me four years ago. I was a young boy at the time, and the sight of your naked bottom in the car window shattered me. It destroyed my youth. Now I'm incapable of normal relationships with the opposite sex. You OWE me, and it's payback time."