White Silk & I Belong to You

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  As the sound increases in volume so does the intensity of the fuck. My bound arms begin to ache, and I struggle to keep my panic at bay. Somewhere in the midst of the melee of noise and bumping bodies, something clicks inside me. I start to cum, feeling an orgasm rise like a rolling thunder that crests, peaks, and then rushes down around me like a bath of hot water. Scott pumps me even harder as he’s about to erupt.

  My dark friend looms over me removing the panties from my mouth and replacing them with his erection. He holds my head firmly in his hand so there is no denying him. The oral sex is against my rules, I recall, but that bothers me only briefly, I’m happy to give him what he wants.

  Scott explodes and I think I’m being split in two. But just as Marco pulls back and covers my face in cum, there’s an unexpected loud racket coming from outside the room. My fucking threesome suddenly pauses listening to the sounds of someone banging the wall.

  “Cut the fucking! Or I’ll call the cops, you horny bastards!” the angry voice shouts.

  I hear some commotion outside the door and before I catch my breath, Scott and his friend are back in their clothes and heading out the door.

  “Hey, what the hell!” my shout follows them out. “You can’t leave me like this!”

  But apparently they have. They are down the hall and down the stairs, while I’m still here tied over the pillows with my ass in the air and my hands bound behind me. They didn’t even close the door.

  It turns out that the open door becomes my ticket to freedom, albeit an embarrassing one.

  Though trying frantically, I still can’t wrestle my hands from Scott Harper’s belt. The leather digs into my skin and holds fast. With nothing left to do but call for help, I begin to shout.

  “Oh, Dios mio!” I hear the voice of a Chicano woman rattling something off in Spanish. “Que malo, pobrecita,” she croons, as she effectively removes the belt from my hands.

  I try to speak to her in English, but my efforts are unsuccessful. Probably a good thing for me. As soon as she releases one foot, I manage to back off the bed and release the other. She looks down at me for a few seconds shaking her head while I do my best to cover my exposed ass. She walks out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

  Sitting on the floor, I slump against the bed and rest my head on the mattress. My bottom aches, but it’s filled with a vibrant energy that pleasantly swims around me. I can still smell the scent of men in the tepid air, that sweet and sour fragrance of cum. Then I glance to my side seeing two used condoms littering the floor, pungently reeking.

  What a couple of jerks! I think. But then, what do I expect?

  My insides smile, even if my lips fail to. While my obsession has been fed one more time, how many times will it take before it’s satisfied? I wonder.

  It’s an awkward trip home with this grand ache in my ass consuming all my thoughts. But the awkwardness only begins there. Running up the steps of my apartment, I find Steven at my doorstep with pizza in hand, and just inside the door, there’s another unmarked note on the floor. Just my luck! I have to slow my frantic pace and restore at little sanity—at least for thirty seconds.

  “Hey, am I invited in?” I finally hear my boyfriend behind me jarring my dazed senses.

  I turn. “Of course, I’m sorry.” I worry that I look a mess, and then worriedly bend down to pluck the envelope from the floor.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  “Oh, nothing, just a note from Monica,” I lie.

  “So, where were you? I expected you’d be home.”

  “Visiting friends . . . you don’t know them.” I suddenly smile. “Hey, I was going to buy you pizza. You must be finished with your paper. Hooray for that!”

  His face twists into a grimace. “Afraid not. But you know what they say… all work and no play.” His eyes light with a subversive twinkle.

  “So, is this my peace offering?” I joke, taking the pizza box from him.

  “Your favorite, mushrooms, all veggies, sun-dried tomatoes.”

  “Oh, you sweetheart.” I set the box on the foyer table and give him a long body-to-body hug, clinging tightly to him as his big energy closes around me. I start to squirm as a new burst of arousal floods my senses. The touch, the taste, the scent of him works like a magic potion.

  “You want pizza or the bedroom?” He pulls away from me slightly. Looking into my eyes, he has his answer.

  I hardly have time to stuff the pizza in the cold oven before he’s attacking me with a vigor I rarely see. He sweeps me in his arms, kissing my face, eyes, mouth, lips, cheeks, ears. There’s the scent of coffee on his breath and the redolence of sex emanating from his groin. He’ll be erect—and the perfect size, though not for my ass, not tonight. I vow I’ll let him have me there soon, but not before I recuperate from the studly Scott Harper.

  We strip on the way to my bed, letting the clothes lie where they land in little puddles from the kitchen to the bedroom. I want his penis in my mouth to start, but he wants it only in that hotspot between my thighs. He moves on me like a gentle beast, combing my flesh with his hands, doing everything my anal studs would not. Once his cock is planted in my cunt, we roll from one side of the bed to the other, from him on top, then underneath, legs scissored, groins frantically copulating. His kisses never seem to stop but move right down my throat and into me with passion. I could taste his flesh forever and never tire of the savory flavor, or smell his dark qualities, his musk, and want it as my own body perfume. He seeks me more intimately than I know how to reciprocate, but this night, I am so open to his breed of passion that I don’t stop at the gates where I fear to trespass. I let him in, allowing him to climb deep into the recesses of Michelle Monroe.

  He opens his eyes on my closed ones, until I can feel them penetrate right through my lids. I open mine now, startled by his heat and his power. He strokes the sweat-soaked hair at the side of my face, his hand firm, then kisses me silently. I’ve never seen him like this. “Stop it!” I roar to my insides. I’m thinking Broc…Broc…Daniel Broc, this is Broc’s energy I feel. How can that be?

  His erection pummels me hard and fast, while his large hand moves to my tit and squeezes ruthlessly. I’m starting to come. “Do me harder, harder!” I suddenly scream. He clutches me to him and rams with force. I’m thinking he’s exchanged erections—he’s bigger, bolder, more earthy and more feral than I’ve known him before. I want him in my ass, not just my cunt, I think silently. No, but not tonight! I fight the thought. No, Not tonight.

  I cum all around his driving member and it’s a sloshy mess between my legs by the time he finally grunts and I feel him spill his seed.

  “What’s happening to us?” I ask when the fucking is over, when we’re staring into the black of the ceiling above, still breathing heavily.

  “I don’t know, Shelly. But is it bad?”

  “I hope not.”

  I can sense his smile, a flutter of feeling that attacks my heart and warms my insides.

  He pulls me close and looks me in the eye.

  “You know, I’m not as good a woman as you think I am,” I tell him.

  “What?”

  “I’m not. Trust me.”

  “I’m not even sure what you mean, Shelly. But why don’t you let me be the judge of what I get from you?” He’s actually annoyed with me. I read that in his expression. I’ve never felt this with him before and I tremble way inside at the tantalizing idea that there’s a man of dominance rumbling beneath his mild exterior.

  “Sorry. I guess I just wasn’t prepared for this tonight.”

  “You’re complaining?”

  “No. No, not at all. It’s just not like us.”

  “And what does like us mean?”

  “You’re usually more mellow.”

  “Only because that’s the only side you’ve seen so far. You think you know me, too?”

  “I thought I did.”

  He smiles again with that signature warmth.

  “You do, but that do
esn’t mean that there isn’t more of me you haven’t seen. You surprise me all the time, Michelle Monroe. In fact, I get the feeling that you’re a lot wilder animal than you let on. You hold back and so do I.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “And you like what just happened?”

  He chuckles. “Now, what do you think?”

  He’s rewriting our script. The play is not supposed to go this way. He’s not to get this close to the woman who loved Daniel Broc’s rough virtues, but I don’t seem to be able to stop the slow progress in that direction. Did he begin this, or was it me? I already know the answer. But I’ll skirt that truth for a while. Meantime, I wonder about my boyfriend, and what there is left to discover.

  Chapter Three

  “Don’t resist when the unusual happens and you won’t get hurt. It would be impossible for you to forget the woman of your past”

  This is the most threatening and direct of the three messages. My premonitions tell me that end is near, that perhaps my hard won freedom will soon dissolve. Chills race my spine and for at least sixty seconds I contemplate my options. Go to the police; hire a bodyguard; confess to Steven; runaway. Which one?

  “Shelly,” the sound of his voice crackles against my skin. I turn abruptly, still holding the note in my hand, then slowly fold it, nonchalantly setting it on the counter beside the pizza box. I’m hungry and thought we’d have a snack in bed before we fall asleep, but then there was the note distracting my attention.

  “That the note from Monica?”

  “Uh, huh. She wants to take me sailing next Saturday.”

  “Oh, I see. Sounds fun.”

  “And you sound jealous.” I smile, though he must notice the fear that has replaced my serene contentment.

  He nods, shrugs his hefty shoulders, “I can’t claim all your time. Not yet. But I will.”

  “Oh, you think so,” I purposefully, playfully, back into the kitchen just to get him away from that note. I can tell he’s suspicious. I don’t lie well. But hopefully he doesn’t know me well enough to know that yet.

  He follows me, planning a good-natured attack, so I turn tail and run back into the bedroom. He’s on my heels throwing me to the bed, where we fall exhaustedly into each other’s arms.

  I don’t return to the kitchen until he’s asleep for the night. I put the pizza away, and tuck the note with the others, in a hidden cubbyhole of my desk.

  ***

  I’m damned upset when the idea of anonymous sex stirs me one more time—this time just three days following my last adventure. I worry that I’ve become addicted. I walk the streets prowling for men, becoming a woman I no longer recognize.

  I know who’s behind the notes because I sense them close. After three years as their captive, I can taste their presence on my tongue and feel the sticky quality of arousal between my legs as they draw near. I hear their voices shouting orders in my head, and prepare to obey their commands like a well-trained soldier.

  In three weeks time, I’m prepared to submit. They have me primed, ready for their first move. Perhaps my reckless pursuit of men is really my pursuit of them, or the only way I can battle back the pictures of surrender that claw for airtime in my brain. By taking charge of my sexual events, I short-circuit their influence, at least for a few brief hours. But these prickly premonitions get stronger every day.

  And then there’s Joey. Before I can find another guy off the street to satisfy my contemptuous yearnings, he’s in my office, like he used to be—before Steven.

  “Hi, there, girl. Remember me?”

  “How, can I forget?” I smile. I reach out and he shakes my hand, transmitting sexual warmth through his fingers. My legs naturally part as the heat between them begins to burn.

  Joey Barnes is an unspectacular accountant with a lovemaking style I’ll away remember as fast, efficient and persistent—much like being used. It always worked well for me. He only ‘does it’ in complicated places; he can’t resist the danger. He’s crew cut, fair, smooth skin, impeccable business manners, neat suits and ties, about five-foot-ten—nothing remarkable about him except when he turns on the charm. Then it infects me like a deadly virus. I’ve found myself doing things with Joey Barnes I’d never attempt with any other man, fucking in basements, alleys, cars and parking garages, his grandmother’s settee while she’s napping in the next room, and in a foyer of a luxury hotel behind a stand of potted palms. It’s quick thrills and nothing more. This time, I know I’m had the moment he walks in the door.

  “You’re looking good, Shelly. Something agrees with you.”

  “I have a boyfriend,” I say proudly.

  “Really?” His face sours briefly. “Then I suppose this will look a lot like infidelity, huh?”

  “What will look like infidelity?”

  He shrugs boyishly.

  “You’re just here to screw me?” I ask, appalled.

  “Why else?”

  “Because maybe you’d just come by and say hi.”

  “Me? With you, hon? I just need one for the road. I’ve been a damned good boy all week, and I can’t stand myself anymore.”

  That’s all he has to say. My state of perpetual arousal precludes any other choice. I’m not even thinking when I rise to my feet and lock my office door. There’s not a guilty bone in my body when I sit on my desk and raise my skirt. As usual, he’s quick and jarring like a small earthquake, and this not half as dangerous as more typical fucks in train station bathrooms, city parks, or dirty stairwells.

  When Joey finally leaves with a dismissive peck on my cheek, and I’m wiping my wet cunt with Kleenex, I don’t give my regrets a second thought, at least not for the first hour. By the time that hour is over, it’s time to leave for the day. I’m having dinner with Monica, just because I thought I should arrange something after lying to Steven about the note.

  The bustling city is contemptuous and erotic at that hour, and it’s been raining. The pavement’s wet and the sidewalk’s slippery, a real chaos of insanity. I tackle the street on foot, glad now that Joey Barnes stopped by and at least for a day stopped my obsession from gaining control again.

  It feels like another downpour is about to strike any minute and I have my umbrella poised. When the first drops hit, I duck my head half into my coat, brace myself against the wind and press on. It’s only one block to MacArthur’s Eatery where Monica will meet me.

  When I step off the sidewalk to cross the street, I feel a hand on my shoulder pulling me back, and a chilling but familiar Arab accent immediately return me to the horror I’ve tried hard to forget. My body succumbs so thoroughly in that moment, I can almost hear the sound of the Orient Express barreling toward Bucharest as background music.

  I resurface instants later realizing that there are two thugs at my side, making sure I follow their silent but explicit orders to surrender. As much as I’ve been forewarned by their cryptic notes, I genuinely believed this couldn’t happen. This is America. This is freedom, liberty, the Bill of Rights and The Ten Commandments of virtuous living.

  I smell the scent of the East on their breath, the spices I learned to favor for a time, but can hardly stomach now. They don’t repulse at the moment as I’ve already been drawn in and have accepted the inevitable outcome—after all, they primed me well.

  But why? Why now? What are they going to do to me? And why do I relent without a struggle? I almost laugh out loud as I answer my own question. My acquiescence might have something to do with the knife pressed against my back, not to mention the fact that the scenario of surrender is all too familiar.

  We disappear from the street into an alley. Seconds later, I’m overcome by the sickening smell of danger. My head grows fuzzy fast and then I’m gone.

  ***

  It wouldn’t surprise me to feel the chugging of a train in my bones as I awaken. But no, all is still.

  I’m lying on a bed, bound with rope that cuts and a gag in my mouth that tastes moldy. I realize that I
haven’t a stitch on, but the nakedness is expected and I’m not going to panic.

  Am I frightened? Of course. Have I expected this? Every day of my free life and more so in the last several weeks. Am I ready to succumb again, submit, surrender and comply? No!

  “Ah! How lovely to meet you again, Silk.”

  I half expect to see Daniel Broc at the other end of that voice, but it’s not his voice at all. The man stares down at my open eyes. I believe I’ve seen the face before, but I remember no name. He was in ‘Sir’s’ home—Sir was the man who purchased me as his lily-white silk prize. The only memory I have of the man staring at me now is the cruelty that characterized his use of me. He has dark bushy hair, dark brows and a thick mustache, but otherwise he looks like a Western businessman. He’s obviously tempered his Middle Eastern appearance to blend in. In these times, I know that’s wise.

  “Why have you taken me?”

  “Why else?”

  “You want the sex?”

  “I want the submission of a trained slave,” he clarifies. “I’m here on business and I have no stomach for prostitutes or the typically mouthy American woman. When I need the company of female flesh, I’ll want you. Consider yourself back in the business of sexual service, Miss Monroe. The name is Aman.”

  My heart sinks, along with my hope, my joy, my delight in the strange and mixed up life I lead. “It would seem you have me again.” I feel the tears start to burn my eyes.

  “Oh, but it’s not what it looks like.”

  “No?”

  “Oh no, Michelle Monroe, I don’t expect you give up your life—not your documentaries, your pretty apartment, not the beach house or the boyfriend—or your lovers, at least not yet, anyway.” His lip curls into a nasty smirk. “You do have quite a way with men—even in a men’s clothing store. Tsk. Tsk.”