Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One (11 page)

“
Open wide!” he demanded
more forcefully, and swatted her crotch fluently in emphasis, three
fast strokes. She snarled, gaze fixed on his rigidly hovering hand,
locus of a dualized misery and excitation. He quit her company on
the implicit threat of a second encounter.

“
The last man takes his
turn.”

The woman next found herself negotiated by a
sophisticated pudendal artificer who refined the methods of his
predecessors to a wily alternation of empathy and contempt. Her
plump vulva was rubbed and tweaked with a calculated fondness,
worked by fingers that plied the ache in her clitoris with a
patient, finger-tipped circumduction, traveled the weeping seam of
her vagina to massage away the heat of her earlier
mistreatment.

“…
much easier to just let it
happen… relief when it’s finished and your privacy is restored…
just spread your legs and close your eyes and…” The Merkin heard
snatches of his whispered persuasion, a constantly reasonable
appeal that swiftly eroded her self-control.

She slowly smiled, infatuated by his touch,
only to encounter a vicious antipathy a moment later as he slapped
her assumptively on the twat, spanking away any friendliness that
had developed. Then he was kind again, a smiling, pussy-pampering
suitor leaning in to gratefully inhale the fragrance of her
bauble-packed sex.

“
The woman makes her
choice,”
intoned the Merkin, ending the
round.

The men stood expressionlessly, awaiting her
decision as the yellow-garbed beauty collected herself, swallowed
once in subconscious digestion of the experience, nodded timidly to
the man who had offered hard discipline.

“
Him,” she huskily
confirmed.

The first and third inquisitors returned to
the middle as the winner reached to the woman’s crotch and pinched
her clitoris firmly. Her legs flexed wide and she passed a bright
red marble into his waiting hand, unseen by anyone but himself and
the Merkin hovering above.

It was known to them all now that she was a
purely submissive creature, but only the man who had won her color
knew which woman had already established dominance over her. The
victor was careful not to glance at the tall, red-dressed slipper
as he returned to the center of the stage, prize in pocket, but the
Merkin knew he would be furtively maneuvering for her selection.
And if opportunity brought them together he would already know
something about her nature.

“
The emptied woman assumes
the posture of depletion.”

“
I want the touch! Touch
it!” she cheekily rebelled, rattling the whimsical structure of
collaboration governing the performers. The crowd tittered,
entertained for a moment by her sulky disobedience.

“
The woman assumes the
posture!”
the Merkin thundered,
overwhelming her influence before the scene devolved to a babbling
playground of slippers and skulks—the ordinary state of affairs
absent a strong context of interaction.

The yellow-dressed contestant settled back on
the divan to sullenly bide her time, dress raised and legs wide,
panties drawn to display her plundered vagina. The Merkin was
secretly intrigued by her presumption, wondering how this bold
energy could be captured for his play. He listened to the audience,
assessing their investment in the proceedings, then resumed
administrating the game.

The men caucused again and a new majority
formed to address a short, comely slipper in green shouldering a
flowery mass of red-blond locks.

The first man to approach her was the
snatch-slapping tyrant; not what she was looking for, the Merkin
guessed. The second produced a cleat from a pocket in his suit, a
little pendulum with a tiny spring clamp that was released on her
pinched-forth clitoris to effect a taut pressure there.

“
Feel this feeling; you will
be cleated like this when I use your body later. It will swing back
and forth as I take you from behind, and you will wail in pleasure
and humiliation from the effect on your womanhood…” The Merkin
listened to his threats, alert for markers of original
wit.

The next man was not to be outdone. He had
brought a stamen; a plastic rod with an inlaid metal pattern. When
a tubular collar with an embedded magnet was pumped up and down the
resulting hiccup at each metal interval provoked a sensual
vibration in the device.

He placed the rubber head of the toy to her
clitoris.

“
Pleasure yourself for
us.”

The slipper stared in bewilderment, unable to
fathom this cynically imposed freedom, and the Merkin hastily
intervened.

“
The woman clasps the head
of the toy to her vagina and grips the collar with her other
hand.”
This sorted things out, and he saw
her lips twitch pleasantly as she fathomed its use.

“
Pleasure yourself,” the man
insisted, and the Merkin didn’t need to explain further.

The woman began to work the collar back and
forth, staring at the whisking form of the stamen with an
infatuated expression as it delivered a steadily intensifying
vibration to her vulva. She closed her eyes, swooning from the
effect of the toy as its action quickened to a hum, subverting her
will.

“
Open your vagina…” the man
softly intoned, leaning in.

“
It’s got my twat,” she
dreamily observed, pumping self-indulgently on the toy, haplessly
subverting her own will.

Her vulva was flattened by the stamen head,
trapped under its joyfully burring kiss, goading her clitoris to
knotted turgidity.

“
Slower,” ordered the man,
threatening to take it away with a gesture.

The collar decelerated, deepening in
resonance to a soulful, snooch-pleasing shudder that prolonged the
romance with each blissfully inadequate stroke. The Merkin couldn’t
deny himself a certain pleasure at the sight, for a moment merely
grateful to witness a pretty woman rapturing her own sex.

“
It’s good… It’s really
good…” she steamily reported, lost to the affairs of the
stage.

The stamen stealthily accelerated and the man
forced her to slow down again. The woman’s legs were pointed
stiffly away, opened wide as she could get them, an implicit
invitation to mastery.

“
Give your color to me and I
will let you use it in front of everyone,” the man tantalized as
she sleazily jacked the stamen on her aching pudendum. “All the
way. You want to show us your joy?”

“
Yes! Let me buzz and buzz
and make it gooooood!” she croaked.

He placed one hand on the rubber head at her
cleft, stalling the vibration, tormenting her with the deprival.
“Give me your color or I’ll take the feelings away!”

“
No! Don’t!
Don’t!
” She madly
hammered the collar and her inquisitor swatted her hands away from
the stamen with a snarl, canceling her pleasure.

“
You may finish when you
surrender!”

The Merkin hastily called the end of the
turn, and when she was offered her choice of men the one with the
stamen took her color, to no one’s surprise.

As the slippers were emptied one by one the
men grew cagier, influenced by a growing sense of how the women
related to each other sexually; who captivated who.

Eventually one man with a few early wins was
able to establish an advantage. Dedicated to learning the habits of
each reddened womanhood he encountered, he discovered when to be
firm, when permissive, when each was likely to submit. The game
narrowed to a small group of slippers.

And finally there was only one woman left; a
grinning, brown-haired creature in pale blue, gifted with an
exquisite, fat-lipped labia nestled amidst a tidy bouquet of
shampooed and brushed pubic hair.

He closed his eyes and drew gently on her
flesh, unhooding her femininity, beseeching it with tender
insistence as he whispered for her submission. Then came the slap,
a taut remonstration to the lips that aggravated her lurking pride.
He was gentle after that until the turn ended, lovingly
masturbating her as they quietly celebrated his journey among her
peers and its happy destination between her legs. She surrendered
her marble to him when chance allowed, granting him a six in
total—two more than his closest rival.

The Merkin boomed new directions as the
audience clapped enthusiastically.

“
A winner is at last
revealed. He takes the woman of his choice for release. His
competitors exit the salon.”

The victor surveyed the slippers as his
rivals departed, choosing one the Merkin had already identified as
the most vital of the group, the organizing influence who invisibly
seeded dominance and submission among the others—a quality for
which she would now be rewarded.

“
I want to stroke off!” she
demanded, looking for the stamen, but he ignored his earlier
promise, stepped before her to settle between her thighs and
unzipped his erection. With a firm lunge he helped himself to her
red, fat-lipped genitalia, driving her deep into the embrace of the
couch. She huffed, muttered something indignant as her twat was
occupied to capacity.

“
Show me your womanhood!” he
instructed.

She humbly spread her vulva with both hands
and he fixed the cleat to her swollen clitoris. As he proceeded to
ram away it yanked back and forth, magnifying the pleasure of their
exchange like a flicking finger. They all stared at it in
fascination; a tiny, sensual weight locked to her stiffened kernel,
conferring bliss with each flung reversal, over and back, tossed by
his manly rhythm to finally force a screeching, undignified orgasm
from her lips.

“
Good fuck good fuck
gooooood!” she wailed, thrashing out a manic
consummation.

“
There she goes!” the victor
exulted and a moment later semen flooded her smiling noose to drip
pleasingly into view; a beautifully synchronized conclusion for the
whole theater to enjoy.

The audience cheered, reasonably entertained
by these variations on a familiar theme, and then it was over. All
in all nothing too novel had transpired, in the Merkin’s judgment.
The verbalizations that arose during the games were amusing, and it
was always fun to witness the vigorous, pussy-captivating effect of
toys like the stamen and cleat, but no critical self-awareness had
manifested among the employees that participated.

He waited patiently for the next installment
of auditioners, pondering alterations to the game, decided to
expand the male complement to five, broadening the competition.

Afterward, there was a
discreet signal from the perimeter of the stage as he stepped from
the narrator’s seat. H
e
waved a tall
slipper
forward
; a
short-skirted
message
runner
, her scandalously brief attire
mandated by the athletic character of her occupation.

She
turned
by protocol
to face away from him,
feet wide for
balance,
bent at the waist, back angled
steeply to the floor, hands
crossed
behind her. The Merkin raised her skirt and
slipped her panties down to expose her labia
. E
asing
his
fingers inside
, he nimbly
withdrew
a
message
capsule.

This
gleaming lozenge was unscrewed to reveal a tightly rolled
strip of canvas onto which
various
communication
s
had been stitched
, mostly
updates from his clothing boutiques in the City.
He studied the tallies,
alert
for trends and tactical
possibilities of fashion, but learned nothing of real
interest
.

The runner’s lithe physique
looked tired but excited and the Merkin shrewdly evaluated her
condition. It was always challenging to estimate how often a woman
should be permitted release to maximize her sexual energy, but this
one had been running messages for many days without satisfaction;
she would function better after her busy pubis was given a little
time away from routine. He slipped a token in the capsule before
returning it to her vagina, signaling her dormitory monitor that
she was to be masturbated to climax before sleep. He
pinched her clitoris and oiled lips tightened
muscularly about the capsule. She was probably canny enough to
guess it held good news for her, rather than an order for the strap
or another instructive stimulation, but the Merkin would let her
wonder till bedtime, thickening doubt to intense
anticipation.

“
Dormitory,” he specified,
ending her day, and snapped her panties back in place. He spanked
her once to indicate the completion of their business and she
trotted off without delay, skirt swishing hopefully.

The Merkin sighed and left the stage to find
his own rest.

Mark

When they woke Ione held a
meeting to discuss their next move. This nominally included
just
Emma, but
the smaller woman
casually
tangled
Manassa
in their deliberations
and Ione elected not to object. The three of
them
were
now
drifting randomly about the cavern
in
the largest
bedboat
of their
fleet
,
a
six-sleeper that had been renovated to a modest state of luxury
with the best furnishings salvaged
. The
camp women were curious about their secrecy but had been strictly
admonished to remain on the broad arc of grass where they had sexed
and slept.