Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One (49 page)

“
Gimme a lift!” she
demanded.

A huge guy she knew from Dean’s building
obligingly hove her onto his shoulders, clearly relishing the
contact. Hands were grabbing her all over the place as Emma tossed
off a shot offered by an admirer. From her raised vantage the Club
was laid out in grand aspect, a throbbing sea of bodies in the grip
of a fantastic anticipation. The drummers were coordinating to
produce an ever more compelling groove, competing for any possible
distinction within that agenda.

The drink journeyed further within her,
unlocking old memories and new prospects. She was quite aroused by
the densely packed nudity of the patrons, appreciating for the
first time what the Dowser had really achieved. Her gaze tracked
other socialites in the crowd, flirting with customers, hustling
for status.

Dean’s bandstand was mobbed, but when she
considered the scale of the Club it was obvious he was still far
exceeded in popularity by the other drummers and their socialite
allies. If he wanted to stay here he had to win the night, not just
survive. And if he didn’t stay she would feel awkward and isolated
working without him. Where was Ione?

A rival socialite with a huge clique smiled
at Emma as chance brought them awkwardly close for the third
time.

“
Hey slipperlips! Where’s
your crowd hiding?” she taunted.

“
Up your snooch! No room
left out here!” Emma bawled in potvalient irritation, prompting a
spate of laughter.

“
I dunno… Was just in there
with the dick thing this afternoon. Didn’t run into anyone else,”
her enemy’s handsomest admirer boozily testified, inadvertently
injuring her status.

Emma laughed uproariously
with everyone else in earshot and tossed down another drink, trying
to imagine the other woman in her own circumstances. She had
experienced things City slippers couldn’t begin to fathom. Who the
fuck
were
these
socialites anyway?

Locked between her thighs, Dean’s
strong-shouldered pal was showing her off, making the most of their
association as he lurched around with Emma raised high. She was
molested by a swirling coterie of patrons easily three times bigger
than the clique following Sara, who no longer acknowledged her
overtures. Emma didn’t care.

People were beginning to dance, compelled by
a steady flow of stillwater and the proximity of so much naked
flesh. Dean was throwing down righteous solos, but his confidence
was obviously part of the act; his territory of the Club remained
far less populated.

Emma felt for him. He had been nothing but
kind to her, after all. And, she abruptly remembered, she had left
him with a hardon and a promise. How far was she willing to go? She
sighted a spin-the-grin machine deep within another socialite’s
crowd, decided to make a tactical advance on her territory.

Emma slapped the adoring fellow beneath her.
“Take me to that spinner over there!”

“
She’s gonna spin!” her
closest admirers announced in a ragged cheer, news that was quickly
disseminated.

Emma was conveyed into enemy space, trailing
loyal members of her clique who were up for a confrontation. The
invaded socialite screamed something unpleasant-sounding, but Emma
ignored her. As they neared the spin apparatus five men already
seated there began to whoop with glee.

“
That blond with the juicy
jugs is coming over!”

“
I don’t believe
it…”

“
Get your dicks
ready!”

She was delivered to a cylindrical platform
with five inward-facing seats that surrounded a rotating platter
covered in soft green carpet. Emma jumped to the center and waved
to her rival’s crowd all about, blowing symbolic kisses. With a
cynical salute to the other socialite she dropped to her knees,
faced ambitious erections with an impudent smile. She had already
fathomed the nature of the game from watching other women play and
settled herself squarely on the carpet, planting her hands to
either side.

“
Spin the grin!” she wailed,
goading the participants to action.

There was a huge noise from the crowd and the
men seated around her drummed their feet on the platter. Each was
trying to spin Emma to face his erection, but the etiquette of the
game allowed only momentary contact with the turntable. The net
effect was a woozily shifting orientation that expressed the
aggregated opinion of the men. It was a fast, fun version of the
peckermen’s lair.

The men reached some kind of equilibrium and
their feet hammered to a halt. Emma was facing a good-sized cock,
likely chosen because the client sporting it was obviously
intimidated by her allure. It was noticeably less turgid than its
competitors.

Emma smiled for him alone and launched her
face into his lap without delay, sucking up his penis with an easy
motion to pleasantly stuff her head. She heard him groan, saw his
legs tense helplessly. His cock straightened so quickly in her it
felt like a muscle flexing, and Emma closed her eyes and slowly
drew back, letting him watch his manhood emerge in this newly
fortified state. She pulled off completely and extended her tongue
for everyone’s arousal, busy with a surf-like undulation. Diving
back on the dick, she commenced to fellate her rival’s follower
with deep-ranging strokes that matched the Club rhythm.

“
Lookit her go!”

“
She’s chuggin’ like a
slipper!”

The noise rose about Emma as her skill and
energy were asserted to address the pleasure-seeking intent of the
men. She could tell her subject was about to blow, and evidently
his competitors could as well, for their feet began to drum on the
turntable. She was whisked around and about, blond hair flung at
sudden changes in velocity to tickle their knees as they
scrutinized one another for evidence of diffidence or infatuation
that signaled a safer choice.

The platter trembled to a halt in front of
another customer and Emma lunged on his twanker, determined to
raise her own excitation with a nice hard interval of cocksucking.
She could hear the screeching insults of the jilted socialite
nearby, but oral skills clearly trumped verbal ones at the Dowser’s
Club.

Her present subject was a cool enough
customer to prolong her service, and the others let him have it
till his steadily intensifying greed for Emma’s mouth sex triggered
the gestalt alarm and they started hammering the platter again.

“
Yeah! Go deep on that dick,
bitch!” her rival shouted as she fell on the next man chosen. Emma
almost laughed, slowed to avoid gagging, then retaliated by
ostentatiously shoving his suckrod down her throat, slurping
hungrily around the testicles. Her cooz was drooling hot syrup down
her thighs, but neither she nor the contestants could ease her
frustration per the Dowser’s decree. Emma would have happily
betrayed that rule, but had belatedly come to realize that it was
impossible for a socialite to be alone in the Club; there were
people watching all the time, and what she initially dismissed as a
vague and unenforceable policy turned out to be essentially
inviolable. When she left the Club later she would be ferociously
aroused, and as she sucked down another customer Emma understood
that this unspoken frustration was a fundamental aspect of her
allure and began to wonder what kind of game the Dowser was playing
with them all. He was too far away for her to see his eyes, but she
thought he had noticed her mount the spinner.

“
Gimme the grin!” one of the
players shouted as the platter spun into motion again, and the
others began shouting their own demands.

Her jaw flexed wide around another swollen
pecker head. Emma sensed the man stuffed in her now was about to
spew and worked him mercilessly, neck gyring with manic elasticity
to linearize the travel of her mouth. Feet hammered the turntable
just before he came, spinning her to another client. Emma felt the
stillwater and the structure of the game constrict her awareness,
reducing her world to a swiveling puzzle of penises. Desperate to
keep her in play, the men skillfully denied each other, drawing
more patrons close to watch. The drummers were passing their own
authority around, delivering progressively more athletic
performances over the gnome-amplified bassline emanating from the
well.

“
Juice me! Fuckin’ juice
me!” a client roared, desperate to win.

“
Nut this thing!”

“
Don’t you leave me
hanging!”

The lighting deepened to a mean, green pulse
as she exerted herself to a ferocious, lippy assault on the cocks,
using every trick she knew to impress them; isolating the dickhead,
chugging with her throat, rushing and dragging the rhythm, testicle
slurping… plying each manhood with an ever more personal attention.
If a client loved speed and pressure Emma would remember it. If he
was susceptible to symbolic acts of devotion like shaft kissing she
worked that into the experience. She let the warm trickle of nectar
from her cooz sloppily decorate her thighs, knowing it drove them
crazy to see her helpless arousal.

“
There she is!” someone
called from the crowd.

Emma was hard on the case of a thick pecker,
breasts flinging joyfully up and down when she felt its penultimate
turgescence, signaling imminent climax.

“
Emma!”

She hazily looked up to see Ione regarding
her in amazement as she took a spectacular face-shot from chin to
hairline. Emma managed to limit the injury by catching the next
blasted emission between the lips with a frantic lunge. Her hands
swept up to secure the urgently pumping cock, hastily guiding it
back into her mouth.

“
Hooommm!” she choked and
swallowed, squirt after salty squirt, left him with a spellbound
look on his face as the game ended. The losers nursed raging boners
and hurled furious lamentations into the air, desperate for another
chance with her.

Many of her rival’s customers had shifted
their interest to Emma now; her bold performance at spin-the-grin
annexed a sizable group to her clique as the other socialite
glowered. Ione, Mark and Manassa joined her at the center of this
packed aggregation of admirers.

“
Where have you been?” Emma
hoarsely demanded, looking closer. Ione seemed strangely energized
for someone who had spent the day looking for work.

“
We got drunk,” Mark blurted
unapologetically, and Emma could see that all three of her friends
were as compromised as herself. They pushed their way back toward
Dean’s platform, followed by a crowd of new friends.

“
Let’s celebrate, then!”
Emma encouraged. “Dean needs all the help we can give
him!”

“
What kind?” Manassa
wondered, grinning at her sticky lips.

“
Dancing!” Ione
decided.

“
Yeah,” Emma seconded,
realizing she had actually been less reluctant to knee down for
fellatio, though she was quite skilled on her feet, too. And with
the others here…

They claimed a place on the dance floor near
Dean’s bandstand and started grooving with each other as a cloud of
jiving onlookers waited for social cues. The gnomes were beaming
swift green rays across a fog of sweet-scented vapor, baffling all
visibility.

“
Bucket’s dry!” the crowd
reported as the Dowser struck the empty metal pail with his oar
again. The tone this unleashed reached from a subsonic vault, blew
out from the bar in a flood of wavering fundamentals endowed with a
new tempo. The drummers synchronized with it again and tore into a
frenzied new dispute in three-measure phrases.

“
This is crazy!” Ione
shouted, expressing a kind of approval, and Emma stepped to her
lover and kissed the taller woman. Ione was drunk enough to go with
the moment, and they were soon dancing skin-on-skin, driving Emma’s
clique wild. Mark and Manassa were similarly beset by adoring women
and men, hopelessly enthralled by their size and beauty. The sight
of Manassa’s bare vagina by the strobing emanation of the gnomes
put a wondrous expression on many faces, and Mark was so loosened
up now he was making out with women at random.

They were all spellbound by the skill of the
drummers, whose elaborations to the bassline and its intrinsic
meter constantly regauged the groove, guaranteeing an experience
never to be repeated. As control passed around them each performed
more characteristically, elevating their identities to vainglorious
prominence within the Club. Dean soloed with a berserker fury that
shook his kit, drove the throw gnomes crouching at his feet to a
distorted, tongue-hung amplification of the wildest cadenzas the
night produced. Throngs of dancers crowded his platform, awed by
his skill and gleaming good looks.

Emma drained someone’s drink, careless of the
contents, felt herself flush, almost stumbled, then smiled wide,
lofted on a wavefront of pure bliss.

“
Bucket’s up!” the crowd
shouted, and stillwater incongruously flowed—a river from a
forgotten time, recovered to comprehension gulp by swallow; as pure
shots, and countless concoctions of juices and flavors mixed with
it. Emma felt the lopsided histories of her own identity guided to
a fantastic symmetry.

“
I love you, Ione!” she
screamed, reunited with feelings long suppressed by danger and
duty.

“
I love you too,” she
replied, kissing her deeply. They were locked to the syncopation of
the drummers now, joined to each other—too close for too long. Emma
saw a doorman push through the crowd toward them. She had already
seen many patrons ejected for intimacy and withdrew a little,
frustrated by the system.