by Marco Vassi
At one point, when the man had called several others over, and Constance was allowing herself to be totally consumed by the attention she was receiving, the entire activity suddenly took on a clinical, biophysical cast. Fist-fucking transmogrified to a grotesque anatomical idiocy in which someone found pleasure in mucking about in her entrails. Her insight at that instant struck at the heart of eroticism, which is that it does not exist except as an image. The straightforward need which sends pole into hole, or tongue into mucous membrane, or mouth onto flesh stick, is a function of hydraulics. A certain tension builds and is discharged. But when the discharge is not allowed, for one reason or another, the tension, amplified by distortions of muscular armor, erupts into phantasmagoria. Since there can be no satisfaction at that level, the person is driven to imagining wilder and wilder acts, and unless this process is harmonized, can drive the organism into bizarre behavior, which is then rationalized and synthesized within a context of consensual validity, otherwise known as subculture. Thus, for a man to slip his fist in and out of someone’s asshole is not an act in the ordinary sense of the word, but a meta-act in which image confronts the outer limits of physical tolerance.
“What’s going on here is nothing more than an idea,” Constance realized, and in a stroke liberated herself from eroticism entirely.
Having done so, she was free to appreciate the actual details of what was taking place. The pain in her nipples was just right, sending delicious zigzags of electricity through her. The suspension by her wrists from a hanging bar was perfect for pulling all the excess tension from her limbs and torso. The whip was an intermittent arousal from her tendency to fall into occluded revery. The fists in her ass and cunt provided the perfect non-attainable goal of insatiable fulfillment.
The experience was given rococo overtones by the raucous din all around her, and by the awareness that the men were as unreal to her from her point of view as she was to them from theirs, and wondered if they had the simple intelligence to realize that.
“If they did,” she reasoned, “the war between the genders would be instantly transformed by a fiat of abstraction into something like a chess game. Then we might contend with gusto.”
It occurred to her that she might not have attained to that insight unless she had been hurled into this extraordinary situation, and inwardly smiled at the irony by which slavery became the fulcrum for elevating freedom.
“Unfortunately, it’s a message I won’t survive to deliver,” she thought, “and if I did there would be no way to communicate it. What would I say, ‘I attained my enlightenment while being fist-fucked in a slave parlor’?”
Her ruminations were cut short by an abrupt reversal of posture. She was pulled down from the bar, flung on the table, and tied once more. It was time for the oversized dildoes and the finale. It was impossible for her to tell how big the shafts were that were shoved inside her, but they felt at least the width of fists. Again, it was the old one-two, into the cunt and into the asshole. She was already learning how to make certain inner adjustments in order to accommodate an act, which, she was certain, had archetypal roots.
Spread-legged, nipples pinched, orifices stuffed, helpless, she felt fingers pry her mouth open and rubber bafflers stuck in place between her teeth. With her boots and gloves and hood, she offered the classic picture of bondage.
The warm spicy liquid came next, splashing on her belly, on her breasts, on her pubic hair, and then trailing up her torso, like a tubular waterfall on her chin, and finally into her open mouth, spraying her tongue and collecting in a pool at the back of her throat. He pissed until it seemed there could be no more, and still it kept coming. Then she realized that it was splashing in several places at once, and that there must be four or five men standing over her, pissing on her. There came a moment when she could no longer keep from swallowing, and, as much as the blocks between her teeth allowed, she gulped, the briny fluid slushing down her throat.
“She swallowed it!” one of the men shouted.
“Hooray!” the others shouted.
And amidst their cheers and applause, she lay in perfect shame until they had finished turning her into a living urinal. True to his word, the one who had bought her then straddled her head, and masturbated gleefully until he had spat his sperm also into her mouth. Then he quickly slipped the bafflers out, forced her mouth closed, and held her chin until she had gulped and swallowed his spunk.
“Whew!” she heard him say.
She was untied, lifted up, put back into the wheelchair, and whisked into an anteroom. There, a man she had not seen before took off her mask, and other apparatus, picked her up, dropped her in a tub of hot water. Two women appeared who then washed her down. She was rinsed, dried, and combed. She was given a mouthwash and told to brush her teeth. Someone handed her a glass of warm milk with honey. She drank it and felt her strength returning. The drug was wearing off but she was still surrealized by its aftereffects and by the impact of what she had just been through. She was pushed into a chair, and one of the women stood in front of her and carefully applied lipstick to her mouth. Then she was slipped into a pure white, transparent negligee. The man came over and before she could react, slipped a hypodermic into her arm.
“Not to worry,” he said, “it will only paralyze your vocal cords and jaw muscles. Henry gets embarrassed if the woman speaks to him at all.”
“Why not use a gag?” she said even as she felt her throat beginning to constrict.
“Then he wouldn’t be able to kiss you,” the attendant said. And smiling, added, “You’ll see.”
Henry was a massively wealthy man whose weight kept stride with his bank account. Well over three hundred pounds, he presented that perfectly bland and benign facade behind which fat people hide. He had the desperately reassuring manner of a nervous dentist.
He had rented a private room off the Parlor, and Constance was led in and tied to a rather plush leather table. The difference was that it was double width, and while her left leg and arm were fastened to the sides of the table, the right leg and arm were manacled to the center. When the attendant left, Henry took off his clothes and climbed on the table, his flesh rolling and jiggling. Even that minor exertion had him perspiring and breathing hard. Constance looked at him with undisguised distaste, but instantly she realized that that was precisely what he wanted to inspire. There could be few aphrodisiacs more powerful to an insecure man than to have a beautiful woman, who is tied down and at his mercy, disgusted by what he intends to do to her.
“Oh shit,” she thought, “this is going to be unpleasant.”
He kissed her for over two hours, pressing, insisting, insinuating. He licked her lips, thrust his tongue into her throat. He sucked on her mouth and spit on her tongue. He drooled into her. She would have bitten off his tongue if she could.
His moans and sighs and grunts were as repulsive as his actions. His enjoyment was gluttonous, regressive, beyond simple self-indulgence. He gloried in the degree to which he could impose himself on her.
His basic scenario seemed to be, from what she could glean from his mutterings and exclamations, that of teenage virgin and college football star necking on the couch. Her passivity signified the trembling fear of the young girl giving in to her most forbidden, secret, and luscious desires. He not only had her, but he was simultaneously bragging about his conquest to the other players on the team. He was fucking her in public. He was bringing the proud and pristine pussy to its metaphoric knees. Then he was giving her to his friends, watching her gang-banged. He was sullying purity itself and so revenging himself on the God that disappointed him by not existing.
Fatigue finally overtook him and he rolled over and lay there for several minutes. Then he got up, and drew a bottle out of one of the pockets of his coat. It was whiskey. He began sipping at it and smoking a cigar. He frowned and flung himself into an armchair. He started addressing imaginary enemies.
> “They laugh at me, they pinch their noses with their fingers when I pass by. Rotten cunts. But I’ll show them. I’ll buy them all. I’ll make them beg.”
The tears of self-pity followed the anger, and within a half hour he was ready to visit his girlfriend again. During this time Constance had been able to piece together a fairly cohesive, if basic, psychological profile of the man, although she wryly admitted to herself that it would do her no good whatsoever, seeing as how she couldn’t move or talk.
With his renewed ardor, Henry’s kisses became unusually prolonged and passionate. Constance now had to contend with the stench of cigar and booze as well as Henry’s ordinarily oppressive manner. She imagined that the teenager was at the point of allowing greater liberties, for Henry’s hands began to slide down her chest and finally cupped her breasts. He let out an anguished cry and for the next half hour rode the transports of rapture which that relatively simple touch inspired.
“If he weren’t so dangerous, he’d be harmless,” Constance thought.
The conclusion came further down as he finally allowed his hand to cup her cunt and one finger to slip into the moist slit. In grand style, he shoved the entire pudgy middle finger into her and finger-fucked her with a fine frenzy for almost an hour, all the while kissing her madly.
“If he weren’t such a distorted little creep, he’d be a great lover.”
He balled himself into a knot of sexual tension, working harder and harder, sluicing the secretion-logged digit in and out of her juicing cunt with an energetic abandon. Constance found herself responding simply on the level of pure heat, the movement creating so much friction that she wondered whether her clit might burst into flames and Henry’s fancy frothing write a new chapter on survival techniques for the Boy-and-Girl Scouts Manual.
He wrapped his legs around one of her thighs and rubbed himself on her vigorously, the rocking of his pelvis beating in counterpoint to the dancing of his finger and the swimming of his mouth and tongue.
His orgasm was frightening. The stupendous fear, guilt, and horror hiding behind the mountain of fat and the brutal tendencies and the infantile behavior, exploded as the sluggish gobs of thick sperm oozed from his half-erect cock.
Crushing remorse speared him at the very instant after orgasm.
He rose to his knees. His gorge rose.
Constance was sure it wasn’t intentional, but when he vomited, his mouth was directly above hers, and since her jaw was paralyzed, she couldn’t close it.
“This is too much,” she said to herself as she squeezed her brain tight and forced herself to become unconscious. And yet, as she went under, the hot, flaky mass cascading over her face like thick communion wafers in a heavy sauce, her last thought was, “Poor man. He’s going to hate himself even more after this.”
Four
It was a week before Chet began to be concerned. Constance often disappeared for several days when she was on a story and didn’t always remember to let him know where she was going. But seven days was longer than he was comfortable with. Finally, he went to her apartment and let himself in with the spare key which he promised to use only with her permission or in emergencies. She had wanted him to have access to her place, but also wanted him to respect her privacy.
He let himself into the flat, half fearing he might find a partially decomposed body. Instead, the place looked normal. And that was the trouble. It didn’t have the neat look of a place that had been tidied up by someone who was going to be gone for a week. Rather, there was the same casual dishevelled air it would if Constance had just run out for a container of milk. The bed was unmade, the lights on, and when he went into the kitchen he heard the hum of the radio. It had overheated and blown a tube, but was still switched on. He turned it off and gazed around. Bread, now moldy, sat on the table. An opened bottle of beer, now warm and flat, stood next to it.
Chet sat down heavily, his elbows suddenly weak. There was no doubt in his mind. Constance had been snatched. And it could only be due to her work on the story of the disappearing women.
“The Slavers!” he said out loud, and a cold thrill ran down his spine.
He knew it was a meaningless gesture, but he called the police and reported her absence. He said nothing about his idea. It would only confuse the issue and to no point. Also, he didn’t want to get involved in such a public way. He reasoned that if anyone could help, it would be the FBI. He resolved to gather all the data he had put together for Constance on the disappearances and, if she did not return within a week, bring it to the bureau.
The police came, poked around, wrote steadily in their notebooks, and left. Chet was free to roam around the apartment. He knew there would be nothing by way of a clue, yet he felt he should search anyway. It took him two hours to look through Constance’s clothing, books, papers, toilet articles. The only thing of any interest was a packet of love letters written to a man she had been having an affair with years earlier. He couldn’t resist the temptation to read some, and when he had, he wished he hadn’t.
“Do you know what you did to me last night?” one read in part. “When you plunged your donkey cock into my cunt and I tore the skin off your back with my nails, I died a thousand times. Worlds were born and died. I wanted to swallow you whole. I gave myself to you completely and eternally. And no matter what I shall ever feel with any other man, he will never have me as you did. Never, I swear it.”
He snickered and smirked but part of him was hurt. It also made him think back to his early loves, when each woman shone painfully bright in her uniqueness and each love was the birth of a new reality. And while he understood, conceptually, that everyone who loves feels the same, yet his heart kept whispering that this was the first time in the history of the world that precisely such a love had been known. Then there had come the so-called sexual revolution, when one did not speak of a woman but of a cunt, and love was considered an antiquated euphemism for fucking. Chet had fucked his brains out, almost literally, until he had attained the ideal of the brief epoch that defined the late 1960s: he was no longer able to tell one woman from another. When he met Constance, he was trying to recapture the earlier innocence, knowing that that was impossible.
“Yet,” he had reasoned, “if I live according to the way I used to feel, perhaps I will get some of my belief back.”
It hadn’t occurred to him that Constance had a parallel evolution. And as he looked down at the picture of her on her dresser, he wondered if he really knew her at all.
“What is it?” he thought, “three years? How little time that is in relation to one’s entire life. It’s less than a tenth for me. When I match her against my parents, my old friends, ex-lovers that I still maintain a relationship with; when I match her against myself, then she’s practically a stranger. I’ve met a handful of her friends. I don’t know her former lovers. I’ve never seen her parents. I know nothing of her childhood except a few superficial facts.”
Chet was forced by her disappearance to look with unusually honest examination into just what it was that existed between the two of them. And it dawned on him that he was not relating so much to her as to his relationship to her. That is, he was involved more in the structure of what they did together than in her herself and in herself. There had been flashes from time to time when he was able to distance himself and view her as though she were a stranger, but even that was a theatrical gimmick and partook more of the superstructure than of the actual contact.
Ultimately, he found, that sex with her had ceased to be an erotic act as such, for it lost the necessary tension of surrender to the forbidden. In return for the loss of the erotic mood, he received good, healthy, pleasurable fucking. It was obvious that eroticism was an ego function, having to do with conquest, mastery, show, and questions of curiosity and novelty. A cunt is a cunt but to slip one’s fingers into a cunt one has not known before contains a basic appeal that no amount of pious intentions re
garding the bond with one’s beloved can obviate.
Yet, she represented certain values that he felt he had to incorporate, although even there it was uncertain as to whether they were nothing more than reflections of an essential insecurity concerning his vision of existence. He was, in fact, afraid to come to a conclusion concerning the nature of things for that would have implied a decision about how he would live his life, the subsequent betrayal of which would have rendered him radically impotent. It was better to pretend not to know, and accept the essential paradox of relationship which makes us progressively uninteresting to one another the more real we become. For, beyond illusion, which is distance, only self-reflective unity exists. He was faced with the conflict between the comforts of eternity and the poignant beauty of mortality.
He tidied up the apartment, put out the lights, and locked the place behind him as he left. Each phase of his departure was etched in hyperrealistic awareness, for the ritual was suffused with a searing sense of finality. Perhaps Constance was dead. He realized that he was not overly upset at the idea. He only felt the turmoil of his emotions when he thought on how she might have died.
“Or she might be installed in a harem somewhere,” he said to himself and found himself smiling at the image of Constance dressed as Lana Turner and leading palace intrigues with susceptible eunuchs.
It was necessary for him to get laid, that much he knew. Whatever Constance’s fate, whatever he decided to do about finding her, the night could not pass without relief. He took a taxi to Forty-second Street and Eighth Avenue, and plunged into the world of dark, callous eroticism. He did not know precisely what he wanted, but understood that under the circumstances the best approach would be to pay for it. That was tactically the cleanest form of exchange at the moment, and, for all he knew then, the only honest basis upon which a sexual exchange might take place.