She wiggled her ass as she said that last. It was a trifle plump, that ass, but very nicely rounded. Curvy and enticing and available for the taking, and . . . I was stepping out of my pants before I realized I had made up my mind.
I slid right into her. Bareback -- no protection (this was before the AIDS era) -- neither of us wanted anything to get in the way of flesh-to-flesh contact. She was slippery-smooth inside, as if she had lubed herself up in preparation for this encounter. But the fit in the anal passage wasn't quite as snug as I was expecting. Could it be that the good judge had been stretched inside by doing this sort of thing before?
My first strokes were slow and tentative, but she moaned and rolled her ass backwards toward me, pushing me farther up into her. The heat. She was hot inside. Glowing hot. Almost too hot to bear. The judge was burning inside -- her rectum was the lava tube of a volcano.
Deeper! I had to get deeper into her!
I held on to her hips and pressed all the way into her, as I lay suspended full length on her back. My groin ground into the crack between her buttocks and I felt those cushiony ass cheeks squash against my hipbones. At full depth I held her tight and sank my teeth into her earlobe. Her legs began flailing and I felt compression waves begin inside her as her anal sphincter spasmed against my shaft. Her entire body went rigid, then she gasped and sagged into total relaxation.
The soft summer breeze blowing through the windows dispersed pungent odors of sweat and male and female excitement. There was the faint undertone of sperm-and-shit, the signature fragrance of anal sex.
"Wait. Don't you dare pull out yet," she said. "Reach for that damp washcloth over there and wipe yourself off when you withdraw. If you dribble any body fluids on the carpet, I'll damn well have you arrested for disorderly conduct."
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"No, I can't just overturn the verdict. Justice is justice, after all. And, you have been found guilty of violating a municipal ordinance. But, tell you what. For services rendered, I'll refund the full amount of the fine."
She pulled a twenty and a five out of her purse and nonchalantly handed them to me. We were walking down the marble steps of the courthouse toward street level. I reached out to toward her, but she drew back. There wasn't a trace of emotion on her face. We might well have been strangers.
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Several weeks later there was a message on my machine. It was the judge. She needed to see me in chambers about certain matters relating to my case.
There she was, sitting in majestic splendor in her high-backed black leather chair behind that massive hardwood desk. She smiled down at me. She was stark naked. For as long as I can remember I've wanted a career in law. Power has always fascinated me, and the courtroom is where you encounter it in its nakedest form. And, now that I'm on my chosen path, as a judge in this bullshit Sanitation Court (with much greater things to follow), I've found it strangely dissatisfying. Certainly, I can dispense a reasonable facsimile of justice, in between bouts of cynicism, but there's something missing here. It's all so hideously abstract -- just a dry, intellectual exercise. I just can't connect to the people I'm allegedly judging.
The only way I can cope with such feelings is to humble myself, to strip myself of all illusions and delusions, to abase myself in the sexual act. And, the most profoundly humbling, self-abasing act of them all is opening up my ass -- letting myself be sodomized. It grounds me, puts me in touch with my innermost essence, and, quite fortuitously, gives me exquisite sensual satisfaction. It brings me to orgasm, sometimes violently. It leaves me utterly drained, floating on air, and feeling as if I'm a conduit of power. But the effect fades after a few days, and then I need more. More. I fear I've become addicted to this magnificently loathsome perversion. I'm afraid.
The judge got down on hands and knees and presented her ass to me.
"No, not that way," I said. "I have something a bit different in mind."
I positioned her on her left side. "Bend that upper leg up toward your chest, Your Honor." I straddled her extended bottom leg and droplets of lube seeped out of her as I inserted myself into her chamber. The modified side-by-side "spooning" position is recommended for taking enemas and notorious among anal sex afficionados for enabling deep penetration and for flexing the rectum of the receiver at just the right angle to allow the penetrating penis to push past the valve at the far end of the rectum and up into the lower intestine. This time I'd give the good judge something to remember me by. I'd set a judicial precedent, so to speak.
She screamed as she came, and we lay there afterwards for a time cuddling. I kissed her behind the ear and whispered, "Is this what love is -- " She abruptly stiffened.
"Time to go," she said. "Get dressed and get your skinny ass out of here!"
"But, wait . . . "
"Look, chump, do you want me to ring for the bailiff? You can walk out under your own power or be hustled out. Your choice."
I hurriedly pulled on my pants and shirt and left. The one thing I truly fear is being vulnerable. Opening myself up physically to strangers requires me to wear a heavy layer of emotional armor. Letting a stranger fuck my ass, yet keeping him from sinking his hooks into me is an interesting tactical problem. Therefore, no commitments or ties. It's in-and-out, and then scram.
No more, I swore. I'm having nothing more to do with that wacky judge. But, damn it, just thinking about it got me horny. It's not like I'm starved for sex, even anal sex. I've never lacked for girlfriends and mostly they're more than happy to give me what I want -- pussy, ass, whatever. But this damn judge has something, I don't know what, but it's adds up to the hottest, most explosive scene I've ever been part of. I'm losing interest in other women.
Then I got another call from her. An invitation to visit her chambers. Those fucking chambers. Of course, I couldn't stay away.
I didn't knock this time. Why bother? She was expecting me.
I saw the flash of light before I felt the pain. There was an odor of burning flesh. Then my knees gave way.
Why was she strapping me over the desk? Facedown. With my pants pulled down. Uh-oh. She had something in mind for me. Something special. Power. That's the crux of the matter. Power and domination. I wield power as a judge. I yield power when I let a man into my body. How then, do I reassert myself, claw back from a man the power he has taken it from me? By doing to him what he has done to me . . .
What was she doing to me? Shit! She was trying to shove something inside me! It hurt! Another flash . . . and it burned! I was fading, fading out. Before everything went blank the thought popped into my head that she was raping me with a gigantic dildo. She was fucking me!
The big, burly bailiff let me lean on him as he walked me down the courthouse stairs. "The judge lady is really something," he chuckled. Then he slapped me on the butt and said, "I wouldn't mind getting a piece of that, myself. If you're ever in the mood . . . "
"If I ever am, I'll let you know," I said.
I lay in bed shivering, trying to make some kind of sense of what had happened. That fucking judge had knocked me out with some kind of electric cattle prod (in retrospect, it might have been an early prototype of a Taser), and then she fucking raped me. Me, Mr. Superstud. And, there wasn't a hell of a lot I could do about it. Who would believe me? Well, damn it, maybe I should just sneak back into the judge's chambers and get some evidence . . . maybe a diary or a journal or something . . .
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It's 20 years later, and I'm in a different state, both geographically and spiritually. My girlfriend and I have an okay time in bed, and she even lets me do her in the ass on those all-too-rare occasions when she gets in the right mood. She doesn't even want to hear about strapping on a dildo and doing me, though. More's the pity.
As for the good judge, well, she's been in the news lately. They
've selected her as a candidate for the Supreme Court. Yep, the U.S. Supreme Court. She just happens to be the sort of far right-wing wacko so beloved by the current administration. And now she'll be in a position to fuck the whole country in the ass.
* * *
MAKING AN ASS
I had a dish washing job that summer. It was back in '65 and I had just graduated from Northeast High. Viet Nam had started to heat up and sooner or later a draft notice would arrive in my mailbox. Meanwhile, I figured I could earn a couple of bucks and maybe, maybe even lay enough aside to pay for a semester or two at the state college. Not that I cared much about school or book learning, but I didn't much care about anything else either. Until that summer.
There were two of us back there in the dingy backroom of that dingy roadside diner. The wheezing ceiling fan periodically annointed us with blasts of dust and dead flies. Dense clouds of rank-smelling steam gave the place its distinctive atmosphere. We called it the Swamp.
I was the one in charge of the pots, scraping congealed grease off the heavy cast-iron griddles and frying pans, and cleaning the remains of cement-hard mashed potatoes out of dented aluminum cauldrons. Marnie did the plates and silverware in a chipped ceramic sink the size of a washtub. The ancient electric dishwasher sometimes lent a hand -- on the infrequent occasions when it was working.
Marnie was likely still in her early thirties, but she looked older. Much older. Her hair was starting to streak gray and her face was wrinkled and a bit leathery. She had been married twice and had three brats in school. She didn't have much in the way of formal education, but she was surprisingly well-read and had a lively intelligence.
Ah, the conversations we had. I felt completely at ease in her presence. I could talk to her about anything without worrying about making an ass of myself. There was more to the world than baseball and hot cars and girls, and Marnie was the one who first gave me a glimpse of wider horizons.
"You really oughta stay in school, Dave. How're you gonna make something of yourself unless you put something inside that empty head of yours? You're smart, I can tell. Why're you wasting yourself in this shitty little dump of a town, anyway?"
"Because, well, I was born here and anyway where'm I gonna go?"
She just stood there and smiled. She had a luminous smile.
Well, we got to be quite good friends. I told her my troubles and even got to the point where I could talk about girlfriend problems with her.
Girlfriend problems? I wished I had them. Girls had been avoiding me like the plague. Unsurprisingly, I was still a virgin. Virgin? I had kissed a girl exactly once, and that was more of a brother-sister kiss than a passionate one. For that matter, I was still kind of fuzzy about, you know, the "birds and bees" stuff. This was back in the early 60s, you see. The Dark Ages. Before universal sex education. Before universal sex.
"Dave, look. You're not ugly or anything. It's just that . . . well, it might help if you took a shower every once in a while, and maybe even considered brushing your teeth. You know, take care of yourself, show a little pride in your appearance. Learning a few of the -- what we used to call 'social niceties' -- that might not kill you either."
I didn't know quite what to make of that, but gradually it got through my thick skull. I stank and had bad breath. And I was a clod. That might just explain a few things.
It stung. I gritted my teeth as I scraped the remains of half a dozen Blue Plate Specials into the dented metal trash barrel. I stank.
"Oh, it's not all that bad, Dave. You're young. You'll learn. By the time you're my age, you'll probably have gone through quite a few wives and girlfriends. And besides, underneath several layers of dirt -- and your youthful ignorance and clumsiness -- you're actually kinda cute."
"Damn it, Marn, you're just saying that to take the edge off the kick in the the teeth you gave me a minute ago. Damn you! Damn it all! Just about all the girls I've ever known think I'm poison, and you're saying it's all my own damn fault. How the bloody hell do you expect me to feel? Grateful?"
"I'm sorry. Dave, I have an even worse flaw than body odor and bad breath. I'm an insensitive bitch. A bitch! You're basically a good guy. And you're my friend. We've helped each other over many a rough spot in these few weeks we've known each other . . . and here I am crapping all over you. Now I feel like shit."
We stood there silently for a few minutes -- I scraping away at an encrusted pot, and she was industriously scrubbing a sink full of dirty dishes. Then she turned around and looked at me. She had a twinkle in her eye.
"Let's see if I can make it up to you in a small way. Hold on to your hat."
She turned around, and then, and then . . . dropped her skirt, bent over . . . and flashed her bare behind at me. Christ, those full round globes! I couldn't stand it. I had to do something. I had to --
At that very moment we heard loud footsteps in the hall. Mr. Biggins! "Bigfoot" Biggins himself, head fry cook and owner of the joint. When the door creaked open, we were both busily doing our jobs, sudsing away merrily as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Well, that was pretty much the end of it. Marnie continued being friendly, but that was the last of her bare ass that I saw that summer. She coolly rebuffed any suggestion that we might . . . whatever. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened that one hot and sultry afternoon in the backroom of the diner.
All the rest of that summer it tormented me. Those plump butt cheeks, and that mysterious hint of shadow in between, and just a faint glimmer of red. I could see it with my eyes shut. That magnificent naked ass. If only . . .
We went our separate ways, Marnie and I. The last I heard of her, she had remarried and moved out west somewhere. I hit the books. Hard. The more I heard about the fun and games and jungle fighting out Nam way, the less I wanted any part of it.
---
That ass. Those bare cheeks haunted me. That sumptuous round ass haunted my dreams and I found myself obsessing about it when awake. My fantasy of the "perfect woman" had an ass like that. The hell with the rest of her, just as long as she had that ass.
Well, I finally lost my virginity to a woman with a big, padded ass like that. Livia was a grad student at school.
Yeah, I wound up in college after all. For a while I considered studying mechanical engineering, of all things. Why not? After all I had gotten pretty good at fixing the balky old dishwasher at the diner. But, by then I had discovered a special aptitude for finding hidden patterns in stone. I began to sculpt.
Livvy and I were lovers for about a year and I almost fell in love with her. I would have, too, if it hadn't been for the memory of Marnie . . . and that beautiful ass of hers.
Later on, I ended up getting married. Twice. And in between times I had no lack of girlfriends. I had learned my lessons well, you see. Exceedingly well. But I never found happiness. I was always in search of the perfect ass. It eluded me. I had by then concluded that Marnie had the patent on perfect asses.
---
And so here I was. Founder of the Buttock Art movement. My "double-cheek" sculptures, the ones with an uncanny resemblance to a bare female posterior, had become quite the rage. They were on display in a fair number of museums and galleries. In fact, I owned four of those galleries. By age forty, I was worth a couple of million. I had achieved every one of my goals in life. Except one.
And then she dropped into my life again.
I was the guest of honor at the opening of my exhibit at the East River Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan. The centerpiece was a two thousand ton slab of gleaming alabaster that I had managed to jackhammer into a passable semblance of -- you guessed it -- stark naked female buttocks. There was special attention to detail on this one, all the way down to the exquisite pucker of the foot-wide sphincter, not quite coyly concealed within the massive cleavage. It had drawn raves from the critics . . . and snickers of disbelief from the public.
Someone was walking around the sculpture, staring at it intently from all sides. Who
ever it was, she certainly had a nicely filled-out butt. Come to think of it, that ass in those skin-tight slacks looked strangely familiar . . .
"Marnie!"
"Dave . . . Dave. You've come a long way, I see."
She didn't look a day older. Well, maybe her face had collected a few more wrinkles and her breasts drooped a bit lower, but, oh, that ass. It was still the same ass that had launched a thousand sculptures.
"Thanks to you. You broadened my outlook and gave . . . gave purpose to my life. I'm grateful."
"I did? Why yes. Of course. You think I don't recognize that chunk of rock over there? It's me, my own . . . ass. Right down to the very dimples. I think I ought to be flattered, but I can't help wondering if the part of my anatomy that I sit on really rates a monument. Just think, my ass has been immortalized. Gosh."
The Syntax of Seduction Page 7