Elliot Mabeuse (24 page)

"Come here," I said softly. "Here. On the floor."

I helped her up and put her back on her knees on the floor, kicked my shorts off and spread my legs so she could get to my cock. I was calm now, the spanking over, dispassionate on the outside, and I swept her hair back so I could watch her work as she sucked me off.

I just wanted to watch. I just wanted to see the spectacle of my brutal prick disappearing into that beautiful mouth. I grabbed the back of her neck and guided her up and down as she worked, her head bobbing, my dick making lurid squishing sounds in her mouth. It was so , so thrilling to have her beauty involved in the earthy ugliness of

cock and juice and spit and desire, and Emma understood. She knew what I wanted.

She knew how to play the whore. She loved playing the whore.

She started to move her head. I corrected her. I pushed my leg out, my left leg, pushed it out straight so it was between her thighs, pressing against her pussy.

"Get yourself off on my leg," I said softly. "Go on. Hump my leg. Fuck me like a little dog, Emma. Do it for me."

"Oh God, Conner. No…"

"Do it." I made a soothing face and combed my fingers through her hair. I understood. It was degrading, but that was okay. We had no secrets she and I. "Just do it, baby. Hold my leg against your pussy and do it."

"Oh, Conner—"

"Do it!" It was an order this time.

She wrapped her hand around my calf and pressed my leg against her crotch, then rose up and sucked my cock into her mouth. She began to move her hips. She moaned, a little groan of protest against the pleasure, degrading pleasure, shameful, but her body wanted more, her pussy wanted more. She began to move.

"Yes. That's it. That's my baby."

Oh, she was good. She sucked so good. She sucked for the pleasure of having my prick in her mouth, and she sucked because it felt so good to slide herself against my shin and rub her hot cunt on me like that, like a little whore, getting herself off, rubbing her hot snatch on me.

I love to watch her work, her greedy pleasure and natural lust, the smooth working of her stomach muscles as they tightened and rolled, little spasms of sensory overload, sliding her clit against me and seeking release.

"That's it, baby. Just like that. Get it for me, Emma. Come for me, baby. Get me good and wet. Get that hot juice all over me, whore!"

She moaned and started riding me hard, getting into it. God, I love how she turns on, just like that. She got up on her feet to make it easier to press against me and swing her hips, and she began to roll her pelvis and squeeze me with those tight thighs. I felt her muscles trembling with her urgency.

She knew I was watching too, my eyes boring into her and seeing just what a hungry little slut she was, and that had to get to her, that had to be what was doing it, driving her over the edge so quickly, getting her so hot she couldn’t even suck my cock anymore, couldn't even concentrate. She held my leg with both hands, humping me, grinding herself against me, my dick just hanging in her mouth like a forgotten pacifier between a toddler's lips.

"Come on, Emma," I teased. "Suck me. Suck my dick, slut. Get me off. Aren't you going to get me off? I thought you were going to make me come."

"Mmmm," she moaned. "Nnnnngghh wwwnnn rrrrnnn…"

I would have smiled if I hadn't been so fucking on fire. Emma tried to focus on blowing me. She tightened her lips and bobbed her head a couple times but she was too far gone now, too far gone, and she let my dick fall out of her mouth trailing big strings of spit and drool as she began to gasp for air and shudder on the brink of

orgasm, thrusting hard at my leg, punching her pussy at me, clawing at my leg, eyes closed, mouth open.

"Come on, bitch!" I hissed. "Get it, Emma! Get your filthy come, slut! Give it to me! All over me, whore! That's what I want! That's what I want! Your dirty juice running down my leg! Come on, baby! Come on, bitch!"

I lashed her on with my words like a jockey whips his horse and she dug her nails into my leg, riding it hard, her hips snapping against my shin in a greedy, spastic crescendo of lust as she stretched out for that orgasm, mindless of everything around her. I leaned forward and grabbed her nipples in the fingers of one hand, pinching and rolling, twirling her areola like the combination on a safe. With the other hand, I began to slap her cunt, smacking her with the backs of my fingers like I was trying to shoo her away, giving her the back of my hand, a cruel, dismissive gesture, smacking her right in the pussy, right in the soft juncture of her labia where her swollen clit was reaching for the ceiling, and that was the last straw. Emma froze, breathless, her body quivering.

She stared at me in sightless disbelief.

I felt her go, felt her shove her sopping pussy against me, twitching, jerking, trembling, as her orgasm took her and wrung her like a rag doll, and Emma threw her head back and howled in delirious ecstasy.

"Do it, Emma! Give it to me, baby! All of it!"

Her body snapped like a whip. "Yes! Oh yes! Yes!" She sobbed and the pleasure ran from her like a wave, so intense I could feel it too—I could feel her come too and she knew it. I grabbed her hair and leaned forward and kissed her in a blind rage of

passion, overwhelmed by her orgasm, and Emma let herself be kissed, let herself be worshipped—all hips and tits and gushing cunt as she squatted and came on my leg like some abject odalisque, rubbing her pussy on my shin.

She wanted me to see. That was it. She wanted me to see everything, no matter how or degrading. She wanted me to see it all, the worse the better. In part, that's what I was for. I was there to be her confessor, and maybe that's why she wanted to be punished.

"Stand up," I said. I leaned back and tore the ripped tee-shirt from around my neck.

"I can't," she said. "Not yet. Conner, give me a minute."

I stood up and pulled her to her feet and used the tee-shirt to tie her wrists together as she stood there still panting, but there was something in the way she was breathing that told me it was not just from her orgasm. She was excited—ready for something and tense with anticipation and her excitement fed my own. No, it wasn't just excitement—it was fear, a delicious kind of dread. Standing there naked in my loft as I tied her wrists behind her back with strips of my torn cotton t-shirt, Emma was afraid with an erotic kind of fear I could feel in my belly.

* * * *

"Where did it start?" I'd ask her one day.

"The whole thing?"

"As far as you can tell, yes. The urge to be tied up, your interest in sex, the feeling you were different. There must have come some point where you decided you were different, that you were ashamed or worried about what you thought you were."

I can see her now, the clear brown eyes, the serious look. The lips always needing to be kissed, always.

"I don’t know when it started," she'd said. "I've been like this for as long as I can remember. Does playing nurse count?"

We were at that stage where you have to know everything about each other, where all you do is intercourse—sexual and social.

"Sure. Start with playing nurse."

I knew her story. I'd made her tell it to me so many times—how young she'd been when she discovered the sensations and her secret, private masturbatory moves. She didn't know anything about sex, only that it felt good and that it was certainly wrong.

She'd liked playing nurse, because it worked both ways. She enjoyed imagining the wounded boys she attended to, and when the boys were off to war or playing sports, she had a friend with whom she could experiment with bandages.

"I always liked the feeling of being wrapped up in bandages," she said, smiling shyly. "Just feeling them compress my body was nice, but being splinted or tied down for an operation was even better. I was too young to even know what sex was, but still, I liked the feeling of being wrapped up."

She was every Indian's favorite cowgirl, she dreamed of being the maiden in distress in all the games she played with boys. She wanted to know what happened

when the cat got Mighty Mouse's girlfriend alone, was fascinated with the idea of being tied to the train tracks. She wanted to be captured and abducted. She wanted to be tied as well, tied so tight she'd never get loose and she'd get to find out what happened when the lights went out and the bad guy had the girl all alone.

Her introduction to sex hadn't been spectacular, nothing that lived up to her masturbatory fantasies. She knew she liked it but she didn't like the boys much. They were dull and uninteresting and they didn't really reach her inside, to her imagination.

There was some part of her that was private that none of them touched and she didn't like to talk about this part of her life much. I got the feeling the freedom of college was too much for her and she started indulging her passions, spreading herself around, becoming a bit of a party girl. That changed when she met James, a part-time student who also sold real estate. He moved in a fast crowd and went to fast parties, and Emma was swept up in his fast world. He always had money and he always had dope, and Emma fell in some kind of love.

James taught her to let go and she did, surrendering everything to him and luxuriating in sexual excess, all the way until the market dried up, his cocaine use became more than he could handle, and he failed out of school. He turned on her then and accused her of things, of being sexually insatiable and "sucking him dry". In the coke-deprived dawns of Champagne, Illinois and in the all-night restaurants, they played out their endgame of coke burnout and whore and she lost everything. That was the end of them and the end of Emma as she'd been, as a girl.

She left school and went straight and started working in offices, always attracted to the men in suits, the ones who seemed to have it made. They took her to parties and

were glad to have her on their arm, and by this time Emma had learned to keep her mouth shut and just look beautiful. Other women hated her and she hated herself. She knew she was different inside. She liked it too much and she knew she was one of the girls she heard about, the kind the men talked about in the mail room and the corner offices, the kind they partied with but never married. When David came along and offered her respectability, she jumped at it.

He'd been an intern doing a work-study at the bank she was working at and they hit it off. He was nice and he had plans. He had ability. He didn't push her and she knew he never would. His family was large and conservative and his sexual demands were quick and furtive and dirty. The dirty she liked. The quick and furtive she didn't.

But still, what did she have? She had a shameful secret and the knowledge men would never accept her for what she was. She had a chance to be David's wife and go someplace with him. How important was sex when compared to the security of a life together. the chance to be a mother and a part of an extended family that had elaborate rituals for Christmas and Thanksgiving? David offered Emma a place to hide where she wouldn't have to face any of those troubling questions about what she really was anymore.

But engagement had, if anything, seemed to drive them farther apart. It was as if she were already being absorbed into the nameless clutch of faces that comprised the female part of the family, helping to cook the meals and decorate the tree and pose as the new generation of Safirs.

She rebelled. She needed to finish her degree, she decided, and much against David's wishes, she went back to school. She had no major. For David, she said she

was going for a business degree, but for herself she quietly took courses in literature, coming late and nervously to the discovery that people wrote because they meant it, because they had things they wanted to say. She was gratified to find not everyone else was happy. It made her feel less alone.

She had to curtail her hours at the bank, and that meant she had to give up her apartment. David found her lodging with a cousin who would keep an eye on her while he was out of town and that's where she was when I met her. All that was left from this picture were Emma's hours alone with her journal, wondering at the feelings she had inside, the desires that wouldn't be still, the slow distillation of nights alone that used to pour down upon her like some nocturnal acid and fill her with a quiet despair.

She didn't have the words for it, but then, who does? That's why we turn to poets and writers, to give shape to the wordless longings we feel. But in Emma they were simple, really. She wanted to feel that candescence of love that matched what was in her own heart—she wanted her feelings to be understood and her hungers satiated.

She wanted to know she wasn't alone with her unfulfilled desires, that somewhere in the night there was a man who was looking for her too, and looking for the same things she was, who didn't feel what she wanted was wrong or sick or disgusting but something to be treasured and cherished.

What she was looking for was me.

* * * *

Back again in my dream of her, I saw us recovered from that little session in front of the TV. I saw myself tying her wrists with the torn tee shirt, my lust unslaked, still on fire for her.

"That was a terribly slutty thing to do, wasn't it, my dear?" I asked as I cinched the knot tight. I stood close enough she could feel my cock pressing against her ass.