Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One (58 page)

“
Ow!” she
exulted.

Her customer smiled widely.

“
Can I try?” an employee
demanded.

“
No, let me!” someone else
clamored, and the Merkin interceded once more as the scene devolved
to a chaotic lechery of vulval provocation.

“
The client evaluates the
lingerie!”

Manassa took this as an invitation to exert
her skill as a saleswoman. “See! Everyone likes it. A soothing
nipple tweak or pussy snap is just a twitch away, right on target
and guaranteed to stimulate. If you woman’s too talkative or
demanding her mood can be changed with the flick of a wrist. You’ll
want her in rubber things all the time!”

The Merkin listened in amazement, just one of
the crowd now, fascinated by her lively commitment to the
situation.

“
Very good,” said the
customer. Then he delivered the crucial line. “I think I’ll try a
textured rubber, too. You will also need to model this. In
reaction, of course.” He proceeded to unzip his pants, quickly
rolled a large blue rubber onto his erection.

“
Sure. Just lemme…” Manassa
tried to peel the tight rubber panties from her flesh, but they
stuck, inadvertently armoring her against his desire.

Other employees tried to remove them,
enthusiastically but ineffectively yanking away as her hips flexed
and shimmied in presumed cooperation with the effort. But the
Merkin quickly realized the plummeting aesthetic of the proceedings
would ruin the scene long before the customer’s penis got into
her.

“
I’ll do it!” a blond
associate offered, throwing herself on the padded test bench. The
client didn’t know what to do. His gaze shifted between Manassa’s
defiantly rubber-girded hips and the invitingly spread legs and
delicate panties of the other employee.

“
The customer proceeds with
the other woman,”
the Merkin conceded in
defeat, closing his eyes for a moment. His penis was an
inconsolably rigid presence under the script.

“
Raise your legs and spread
them wide,” Manassa instructed, drawing her male patron closer to
the blond. “Go ahead and take her underpants away,” Manassa
suggested. “
Those
won’t be a problem.” The crowd laughed and the man reached in,
pinched her lingerie at either side and slid the garment off to
leave the moist bulge of her pubis bare, garlanded by soft blond
hair.

“
What a beautiful vagina,”
Manassa murmured. “Now let’s get into it, shall we?” Stepping
behind the client, she goaded him forward, guiding his sheathed
cock to the blond’s cleft. The woman gasped as her cunt opened
precipitously, and the Merkin could tell the ridged texture of the
rubber quite pleasantly stimulated her. That was not a problem. He
watched closely now. There was still some meaning left in the
scene.

Some time ago the Merkin had ordered his
secret liaisons to the Gnomon’s organization to arrange for a
totally new rubber design he had developed. The first samples had
recently returned, and the man onstage was going to test this
innovation in front of them all.

While many women preferred a textured rubber
for the dramatic improvement in pleasure it rendered, the
stimulation available to the man was reduced almost to nothing even
if the texture was also formed on the interior of the sheath
because it inevitably adhered to the skin of the penis without
slipping enough to generate any sensation. This issue made rubbers
unpopular from the perspective of most men, but the Merkin had
potentially discovered a way around the problem.

His new design had a big, soft bubble formed
inside the tip. As the wearer’s penis bounced off the rear of a
vagina or throat or rectum the bubble compressed, allowing the
rubber to slip sensuously back along the cock, until the stroke was
reversed, at which point it expanded to draw the sheath back. The
open end of the rubber had a narrowed lip to ensure it clung to the
base of the penis there. The Merkin expected the net effect of this
improvement was a textured massage for both parties involved.

Manassa’s customer quickly sensed where the
sweet spot of conjunction occurred, and was soon happily cramming
the blond employee as the women gathered closely about, whispering
in admiration at his technique.

“
Hit her nice and hard,”
Manassa advised, and her client bore down manfully to pummel her
vagina with a soothing, textured penetration.

“
Oh, sock it to her big guy”
another thespian moaned.

“
That cock is gonna blow,”
someone speculated, watching the delicate massage of the rubber on
his manhood as the invisibly bubble-buffered tip rhythmically
bounced off the inner limit of penetration. The Merkin could tell
he was going to climax imminently, and the woman with
him.

Manassa reached down to her own crotch and
pulled the snapper tag hard. Her features compressed for an instant
as pain sensuously traveled her body, tightening every curve. Her
client groaned and another woman snapped Manassa’s left breast.

“
That’s it,” the giant woman
encouraged. She agonized her womanhood again, remarking the effect
with a little shout. The crowd was hooting unreservedly now,
totally drawn into the drama.

The Merkin masturbated with rigid little
strokes under his play script, desperate to get off like everyone
else. The blond wailed, legs flung to a taut breadth to receive the
man’s fierce penetration. Orgasm touched her, distantly at first,
welling up to overcome her completely as her friends cheered.

“
Aiieeee!” she screamed,
feet dancing, and the client forced her down hard, pummeling her
twat as his own pleasure neared and peaked. They rocked back and
forth spastically, two bodies with one goal.

Manassa was indulging her womanhood with one
zesty snap after another, hoarsely goading them to completion. “Get
her till she’s all fucked out! Do it!” The client groaned as he
ejaculated into the rubber, sharing an interval of pure,
snatch-smacking bliss with the crazed blond pinned under him.

He decelerated to a gentle stroke, heaving
magnificently as the crowd breathlessly looked on, and the theater
fell quiet once again. “I’ll take everything you’ve got in my
size,” he cheerfully announced.

“
Hear that? He wants it
all!” Manassa shouted as slender arms circled her and adoring
fingers found her flesh. A shop hand seductively snapped her nipple
to celebrate.

“
With this successful
solicitation, orientation is complete,”
the
Merkin hurriedly declared.

He signaled to close the scene and the Stage
Manager’s crew swarmed the deck.

The female auditioners were led away,
chatting gaily about the experience. The Merkin watched Manassa
depart from view.

“
Heads onstage! Merkin’s
cloud coming down!” the Manager cried. Hemp lines wove through
pulley blocks and his narrator’s seat began to descend.

He had been outmaneuvered, either by chance
or guile, but the night wasn’t over and he was more desperate than
ever to touch and taste Manassa’s singular womanhood…

The Merkin took a short route back to the
laundry using a sleeve unknown to the general population of the
Tent. There were many of these scattered about, and he was careful
to maintain their secrecy as they were invaluable when it was
necessary to conduct himself without being observed, and difficult
to contrive in the first place.

This one was hidden at the bottom of a
sprawling mound of colorful shirts, the kind of thing that had been
popular a little while ago when he had been taken with the effect
of athletic wear on women. He had gone through an entire phase of
worshipful appreciation for limber backs and arms, for a while
excluding his attention from almost any other feminine allure.
There was something about a nicely toned set of shoulders from
behind, always imagined to be complicitly falling forward…

He crawled into the shirt pile, using a
two-armed method of traversation that was comically imitative of a
breaststroke, efficiently executed so as to disturb the shape of
the pile as little as possible. His fingers found the perimeter of
the sleeve, which was covered with a heavy rug to prevent the mass
of clothing on top from plugging it up. Slipping in, he tumbled
down into the laundry not too far from where his bed had been
relocated. Emerging from behind a floor-to-ceiling bundle of
geometrically printed towels, he navigated a sinuously routed
pathway through a compact neighborhood of men’s trousers.

It was depressing to acknowledge how little
of the laundry was relevant to the fashion of the moment, but he
could take solace in the fact that his personal wardrobe was the
most up-to-date assemblage of clothing in the whole Tent. A dox of
wide hanging racks were stationed near the sink in which his bed
floated, and he was quickly among them, searching for the most
intimidating formalwear that could be assembled for his imminent
activities in the flower garden. He could barely control his
excitement.

By now Manassa had been taken from the
theater and given over to his gardener waiting many levels higher
in the Tent. She had been instructed to place the big woman in the
largest garden available, surrounded by every flower currently
resident in the calyx dormitory—something like senix slippers. Her
exquisite body would look all the more impressive amongst a full
field of smaller women, in much the same way that it might have
looked out of place with just a few flowers around. Besides, he
wanted to enjoy at leisure the journey of finding her in the
garden, didn’t want the process abbreviated for any reason.

He decided on his clothing; an ultramodern
suit cut from a light, medallion-patterned black and magenta linen.
It was perfectly tailored to his physique, moved with an almost
liquid facility. He had trouble choosing a tie as usual, but
settled on a thick pink obelisk inscribed with fine, bubbly
threadwork and secured by an iridescent orb. A flesh-colored
broadcloth shirt with keen red piping and matching socks and
underclothes completed the ensemble. His shoes were gleaming black
forms tapering to a narrow prow. He hung the various articles
inside a garment bag, slung it over his shoulder and sprinted for
the most convenient sleeve bearing up to the higher levels.

In spite of this haste, it was some time
before he reached the top of the Tent. Scrambling out of a sleeve
hidden at one side of the dormitory, he jogged around to the lone
entrance to the garden, passed the capped and suited doorman
without even acknowledging his nod as the curtained arch was
obligingly swept wide by the huge man.

His gardener was not there to greet him,
which was something of a relief as he still needed a little time to
prepare. He padded down a lavishly carpeted hallway to the garden’s
bathing room and activated the flow gnome. Water gurgled from its
lips into a big metal tub. Soaping himself briskly, he considered
the great pleasure awaiting him—those perfect lips, that marvelous
rondure... the center of everyone’s lust in his theater, soon to be
humbly presented as a flower for his exclusive investigation. When
he was done he punched the flow gnome’s nipple and water ceased its
long ascent from the laundry, where its posterior tube drew it
through the intervening levels.

Finishing his ablutions, the Merkin dressed
himself carefully, whistling inaudibly. He regarded himself in the
huge oval mirror next to the tub, pleased with his reflection—and
his opinion was the only one that mattered in this circumstance as
the carefully bound flowers had no ability to see.

It was time. By now the slippers should have
been assembled, and he didn’t want to keep them waiting as their
upside-down posture and complicated presentation made timeliness a
priority. They had to be fresh.

He ventured to the cherry vale, his largest
retreat, and stepped into a wide bowl of plush red carpet dwelling
under the pink emanation of a fashionably suited glow gnome hung up
and off to the right. He closed his eyes for a moment, lovingly
inhaled the perfumed odor of the place. Sighing in quiet
exhilaration, he stepped forward to stroll among the women,
peripherally aware of their upturned legs, some bent, others
pointed self-consciously straight, all done up in colorful
stockings.

He couldn’t immediately identify Manassa’s
giant limbs, a fact for which he was glad, as this would have
reduced the elaborately casual nature of the experience in some
way. He strolled from one flower to another, delicately tasting the
air, brushing the soft musculature of their limbs amongst the
skirted pedals, affecting a simple, meandering visitation of
nature. Several of the women were boisterously waving and kicking
their legs, but there were usually a few slippers in a garden of
this size who couldn’t govern themselves decorously.

He wanted to find Manassa purely by longing
and instinct, thought it would be an auspicious indication of their
mutual suitability, and ignored all immediate stimulation to keep
his awareness in a very general state. He wandered through the
garden in this detached state till an annoyance conspired to break
his reverie. One of the flowers was thrashing about so indecorously
the Merkin could no longer ignore her. Abandoning all ritual
affectation, he plainly surveyed the garden, simply looking for
Manassa. Perhaps his top-down view from above the stage had
deceived him, but there was no one present who seemed to possess
her scale and curvature.

The Merkin stepped quickly from flower to
flower, peeling skirts down to inspect the women’s legs. Many of
the slippers were obviously too small to be the woman he sought,
and the half-dox of them who might have been Manassa were already
familiar to him. He had picked them individually, after all.