Laura Meets Jeffrey (18 page)

25

Hot babe gone wrong

Flashback to 1972

Now that Laura and I have enjoyed her first orgy, let me explain my pre-carnal carnival jitters. Most of the women you meet at an orgy are sevens or above. What you don't find often is a nine point five like Laura.

If you're the man who brings a prime, hot, rare, magnificent woman, you are The Ego King. Every man nods to you. It's like being rich, handsome, and a famous quarterback all in one. You are The Sex Elvis. There are two downsides to being The Sex Elvis. One is that you will not find a woman as hot as the one you brought. The second is that you risk, as small a possibility as it is, losing The Spectacular One.

I'd brought The Über Babe to a few orgies before. She was a drop dead luscious stripper and the first girl I ever met who called herself Tiffany. (This was before people actually named their daughters Tiffany, Brittany and Ashley, and when the only girls with these names were hookers and strippers.) I didn't lose Tif to someone else and it wouldn't have been terrible if I had. Tif and I were just fuck buddies.

Taking someone visually charismatic, whom I love, like Laura, comes with an acrid whiff of fear because I had seen “The Guy Who Brings The Spectacular One” go wrong. It happened in 1972, right in the middle of my Orgy Period with Andrea. It was at Bill Lester's regular Friday night ten-to-twelve-couple soirée on the Upper East Side. Bill's orgies were unsubtle. His apartment had a short hall leading into one large room which was carpeted with mattresses that I suppose got piled up in one corner when it wasn't Friday night. It was a no-foreplay kind of swing. You knocked on the door, walked into the apartment, quickly stripped and started fucking.

A slick but likable Jew in the electronics business arrived with his new girlfriend. Slick always came with hot babes but this time he'd outdone himself. She was a redbone light-skinned black girl with unexpected blue eyes. They were the color of a clear sky, azure but with a touch of robin's egg. The music from her Jamaican accent was a charming accessory.

She was of average height, about 5
'
5
"
, with perfectly proportioned C-cup melons. (Again, remember, this was the early '70s before every other girl had an augmented rack.) She took off her red silk short-shorts worn with no panties and her tight white T-shirt worn without a bra. She was phenomenal with skin a lustrous buff color between mocha and light sepia and long straight black hair. Her pubic hair was short, trimmed for a tiny bikini.

She had a delicate yet chiseled face. Her nose and her lips were midway between black and white, and celebrated racial diversity. Her smile revealed perfect teeth that spoke of genetic luck or expensive orthodontia. Her thighs and legs were shapely and just a bit muscular. Her rosettes were only a quarter shade darker than her skin tone and her nipples already had hard-ons from her excitement—or the air conditioning—or both.

She had one of the ten best asses I ever saw live. Round, and a half-size larger than need be. And on top of all this she had those blue eyes. She was the healthiest woman I ever saw. She triggered The Prime Objective: I wanted to make a baby with her. But I would happily settle for simple non-reproductive carnality. She was the desired erotic icon, and Slick was the envy of every dick in the room. But envy is a devil vibe and has to be regulated the way a matador manipulates the bull.

The evening started off well although several of us did make fools of ourselves fawning over The Spectacular One. Me included. She said her name was Annabella and this was her first orgy. She was a bit timid and stood with her arms folded in front of her. The boldest among us, not me, led her off to a corner and in a few minutes she was screaming like an unselfconscious seasoned pro.

I was the fourth man to fuck her. At first, I thought that she was being a bit theatrical, that she was playing it too big for a small room, but being inside her and feeling her noise suspended my disbelief. She was no act. She was just that loud and wild. She was one of those demure women whom sex morphs into rational derangement. She left little nail marks on all our backs. Right after my solo, three guys started in on her together. She welcomed them all. She had stamina to match her physique.

Slick was trying to enjoy the other women in the room but never quite got into it. This was a shame because “The Guy Who Brings The Spectacular One” is regaled, feted and spoiled by the other women. They figure he must be something special. But Slick could not take his eyes off Annabella.

He didn't seem to like what was going on. He never came over to join her and the other men. He never kissed her and showered her with light jocular compliments the way “The Guy Who Brings The Spectacular One” usually does. Two hours later Slick had already wanted to leave for fifteen minutes. He asked her several times, but she didn't respond. He got dressed by the door so she'd get the hint. She was still fucking wildly. I'd seen it happen before: The timid wife or girlfriend who finally succumbs to her man's request to go to an orgy becomes the lustful sex glutton who won't go home. Usually the man is delighted by this irony, but Slick lost his cool. I think he'd been too quick to want to show Annabella off in public. Their bond was too fragile.

First he cajoled, then he politely demanded, then he begged, then he got real mad and crossed the line of abuse and called her names like “Slut” and “Tramp.”

These were names we held in holy regard and bestowed only as compliments and he was using them in vain!

Blasphemy!!

She told him to “back off mon,” and that she would leave when she was “bloody ready!” He wouldn't back off and repeated his demands, slow and deliberate, with only a partially veiled physical threat. For the first time that evening she slammed on the sex brakes. She got rigid. Then she dropped the atom bomb.

“You can't treat me like that, and two of these guys here fuck better than you, mon. So go fuck yourself. I don't want to ever see you again!” Slick left in a huff without Buff.

I thought her “two guys” was brilliant because it left room for each of us who had been with her to feel included. No one asked who the two guys were; it was just too easy to assume you were one of them. As soon as Slick left, she was back in the groove. After most of the guys were limp, I had another go with Annabella. She was worth the wait.

While the party was breaking up The Spectacular One answered questions about her ethnic mix. She told us she came from Calabash Bay in the South of Jamaica. Her father was descended from a blue-eyed Scotsman who married a descendant of a slave and her mother was part Swedish and part Cherokee. Annabella got dressed, thanked everyone and left. Andrea and I offered to share a cab with her downtown but she was going uptown.

Andrea was only the slightest notch jealous. One notch of jealousy wasn't rare with Swingers. I'd get one notch jealous every so often myself if a Spectacular Guy with a major league penis spent a lot of time porking Andrea. Andrea may have sulked a bit but she knew that after we got home and I had recouped some of my energy that she would be the beneficiary of my recent adventure. It was the same for me when the jealousy was reversed. I would be the beneficiary of Andrea's heightened erotic self-image. The gift to swingers and the salve that comforts the sting of small jealousies is that the orgy doesn't end when you leave.

I never saw Annabella again, which is a shame. I saw Slick again with respectable-looking women, but never such a prize as The Spectacular One.

26

The lyrics and music of sex

One of the lesser-publicized virtues of sex, especially group sex, is the audio track. I've reflected often—right in the middle of an orgy—how infrequently the various vocalizations are out of tune. Something makes the moans, groans, pouty weeps, gasps, high-pitched exhales, sighs, and even the shriekiest wails and squeals harmonize. They are never cacophonous. And the happy slaps of flesh on flesh, and the thump thump thump of furniture and mattresses, and the creaky squeek of beds are a solid rhythm section for the players to do solos over.

The lyrics are even better than the music. I enjoy every chant of “God!,” “Oh my God!,” “Jesus!,” “Jesus Christ,” “Jesus Christ Almighty,” and the odd “Jesus H. Christ!” I never found out what the H stands for. Many times I heard “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” which I believe is an exclamation reserved for Catholics, usually lapsed, usually Irish, almost always women. I've also heard people shout—again usually women, and I don't know why it's women—“Jesus Fucking Christ.”

These are power cheers, like shouting “D-Fence,” at a football game. Sometimes they are in smooth, soothing legato and sometimes they stab the air in staccato.

I never heard “Father, Son and Holy Ghost,” “Holy Moses,” “Mohammed,” or any U.S. President. I don't know what Unitarian Universalists scream. Maybe it's “Oh Great Possible Nothingness” or “Holy Question Mark.” Maybe they revert to the standard religious responses listed above. Maybe, as in foxholes, there are no atheists in the middle of an orgasm.

One of the loudest female fucks I ever met was a hard-bitten card-carrying Madeline Murray O'Hare-following atheist, a rabid placard waving anti-school prayer protester who once screamed, “Dear God help me!” in the middle of a climax. I never called her on it because I saw no erotic upside, but I knew there was at least a moment or two when she slid into agnosticism.

27

Olympic pissing at the Hellfire Club

February 1981

Laura Erotic Progress Report: She's gone from normal horny teenage hippie to almost sexless spiritual wife to local bar slut to New York City hooker to adult bookstore anonymous sex to threesomes to orgies. None of these have allowed her to give vent to her new hobby, masochism. I say masochism in retrospect. We never use the word. She says she likes being whipped, likes being my slave and likes taking pain, but we never use any mass marketing, pop culture labels. She keeps asking me to find a place where I can tie her down and other men can whip her.

Being alien to this scene I ask around, and eventually find a place that offers just the kind of warm fuzzy home-style sordidness she is looking for: The Hellfire Club. It's in the Meat District and most nights it's a gay S&M club. My dominatrix friend says she often takes clients there for public humiliation. They paid extra to be beaten, pissed on and abused in front of a crowd. She tells me she was struck by how many people in one room preferred drinking piss to beer.

The place is named after the famous English sex club of the Victorian Era. The motto of the original Hellfire Club was
“Fais ce que tu voudras”
(
Do what thou wilt
), and it was a meeting place for “persons of quality” (largely nobility, royals, politicians and clergy). Members got together to share poetry, blaspheme, drink, fuck and argue politics, philosophy and religion. Lots of prostitutes, male and female, were brought in and passed around. Oddly, the club was said to be the one place in England where men and women had equal status.

I tell Laura nothing except to take some of our more bizarre sex toys—handcuffs, whips, and chains. During the cab ride down to the triangle at 14th Street and Hudson, I tell Laura that she is to do nothing except follow my orders for the rest of the night. “Yes, Master,” she replies with a twinkle.

We arrive at the Hellfire Club at about 2:00 a.m. and even in the entry we smell its noxious decadence: sweat, piss, sperm, vaginal fluids, blood, beer, hormones, vomit, leather, and marijuana all elbow each other to deliver their olfactory massage. It is disgusting and compelling. This is the real goods. Vanilla is not a flavor available here. We walk into the packed barroom and the odors intensify. I imagine that a Haz-Mat crew wearing yellow suits and gas masks might raid the club before the vice squad.

Black leather is everywhere. We migrate to the back room through the smoke and overly loud disco. I hear the sound of lashes, slaps, and screams as bodies come into view. It appears they are equally divided between men and women. Some are tied to the ceiling and some are chained to the walls. This is definitely hardball. Laura draws a few glances but so far we are just day-trippers. So much is going on, little scenes are happening everywhere and I guess here you're judged only by what you do.

We walk around. A bar area is surrounded by tables and chairs, some people drinking amid sex acts of all varieties casually sprinkled about. Behind the bar is an open space with torture racks and a brick wall with metal hooks and loops. From all the choices in the erotic scenes around me, one grabs my attention.

An attractive young white girl, maybe barely twenty, is tied to a hook hanging from the ceiling, with her hands bound over her head and her tippy-toes just reaching the floor. Two black men are whipping her, one whipping her front, one whipping her back. Her body is a Jackson Pollock of welts and bruises. She obviously loves it, shouting, “More! Please!” between strokes. It sucks the eyeballs out of my head and it turns me on. I realize immediately that small visuals, complete with sound, are being processed, printed into little loops to be replayed in my head during later masturbations.

I pinch Laura's ass so hard she squirms, turns, kisses me and says, “I want to be used like that.” We walk though an arched doorway into a large area in the back. In the middle is a doctor's examining table. A slender pale man tied to the table face down is being assfucked savagely by a giant penis connected to a massive hulk of a man. The little guy is screaming so loud I have no idea whether he likes it or is being tortured to death or both.

Everywhere are roaming voyeurs like us, meandering from one scene to the next. Some people are naked, some clothed, some in between. We peer into cubicles around the perimeter. Each little tableau is more bizarre than the last.

A girl, not particularly attractive, is on her knees sucking off a man while other people, mostly men, watch.

A fat man is being whipped by fatter women and begging, in childlike tones for more.

Two black-leather gay men are whipping the back of a guy who has a cucumber in his asshole.

A large-assed woman bending over a chair, supported by a beefy man and a beefy woman, is servicing a line of men who plant themselves in her asshole one after another.

An attractive middle-aged suburban housewife with a hairdo is on her knees sucking off two guys at once while a line of men wait their turn. Some of the men who can't wait jerk off on her face or bare back, which is already caked with drying sperm.

I lead Laura back out to the bar area where we encounter a red-haired, proper aristocrat in an evening gown with her hair up in a bun—a woman dressed more for the opera than hell—with two men dressed in black leather, on leashes, like giant house pets, kissing her feet.

This is Fellini, mixed with DeSade, sprinkled with a dash of Aleister Crowley.

We walk into a tiny hallway past two toilet stalls with curtains instead of doors and enter a particularly foul-smelling area with a bare toilet in the corner and two bathtubs in the center. A naked man is sitting in the first bathtub jerking off a huge hard-on chanting over and over, “Piss on me boys, piss on me.” He has a huge anchor tattooed on his forearm, the one not jerking off his cock. He's bald, extremely muscled, has a goatee and looks like a cross between Bluto and Popeye.

Laura says she has to pee. We go over to the two toilets but they are occupied, each with more than one person. I suggest she use the other bathtub, the one without the man. He might not want girl piss on him.

Laura hikes up her mini dress and takes off her panties. I hold them. Eyes converge on us. Bodies mill around. Some men touch Laura. She gives me an uneasy sign so I push them back. She backs up and squats over the tub, careful not to touch God-knows-what germs festering on the rim. Just as she starts to piss, two guys at opposite ends of the tub—oblivious to each other—simultaneously dive under her to drink or bathe in her golden shower. Their heads meet with a “CRACKKKK” so loud it cuts through the disco.

My first instinct is to laugh. Then I notice that while one of them is lapping up her stream, the other is out cold. Before I have to decide whether or not to help him before Laura finishes pissing, others get him out of the tub. Within a minute he's standing up by himself moaning, “I missed the piss, I missed the piss.”

Laura whispers in my ear, “Take me some place and whip me in front of people. Let's put on a show.”

We leave the pissorium with our entourage and walk past the white girl suspended from the ceiling still being used by the two black men. One of them has his dick up her ass and the other is holding her legs in the air in front of her. The man fucking her ass holds her with one hand and whips her back with the other. She isn't pretty but she is so slutty and so extreme I want to fuck her. Even more I want to know her story. But I have other business to attend to.

I lead Laura to an area off to the side in the barroom and tell her to remove all her clothing except for her garter belt, stockings and high heels. I have her get on her knees on a chair. I do not tie her hands or restrain her. I want no restraint. I want her to accept whatever is about to happen.

Laura's body radiates fragrance, not perfume but her own savory scent that fuels my insane erotic desires. I take the short multi-stranded whip out of my pocket and start reddening her ass, making her beg for each new stroke. She pleads, “
Harder baby, hit me harder!”

“Maybe I loved being whipped because I was whipped as a child,” says Laura in reflection. “My father whipped all of us as a punishment. We'd have to pull our pants down and he'd whip us on our asses with a belt. It was definitely a spare the rod, spoil the child upbringing. It was his moral duty. I remember my cousin once said to me, ‘They only whip you because you cry. If you act like you don't even care, they'll stop punishing you that way.' So I tried not to cry when my father whipped me the next time. And it just didn't work cause it hurt like hell. I never enjoyed it in the slightest bit when my father whipped me. It was horrible and I hated him for it. It was a huge part of my early acid trips, getting through this and forgiving my parents. I had a long conversation with them when I was about eighteen or nineteen years old, saying I really wanted to forgive them for whipping me when I was a kid. And I still have a hard time even saying it. Because to me it was so abusive and so mortifying and so horrible. And I don't think the two things are related, but I suppose a therapist would say they are.”

A sizable crowd gathers around us. I move around in front of Laura's face and say, “I'm going to give a stranger the whip, and look you right in the eyes as you take the pain.”

“Yes, Master, that's what I want.”

“What is it that you truly want?”

“I want to be used by men,” Laura cries, “I want them to have their way with me. I want to be abused hard by men I never see.”

It is a variation of the sex rap scenario we painted countless times alone together in our bed with each of us trading lines to flesh out the sordid set piece. As we talk, the crowd gets edgy for action. I feel the rise in expectations. So this is why rock groups always came out on stage late.

I hand the whip to the man wearing lots of black leather closest to me. “Hit her,” I say.

“Oh, I just couldn't!” he lisps and the crowd laughs. Although he looked the part, once he spoke I understood he was a festive fellow and this was not his sport.

“I'll whip her,” comes from a wiry young guy reaching for my whip.

I tell him to be firm, not brutal, and count only to ten. I move close to her face and watch every detail of her perverse pleasure. The whip comes down hard on her ass as she's kneeling on the chair. She moans with each lash. “Is this what you desire?” I ask between eight and nine.

“Yes I need this. I love you, baby, “Laura answers, “You give me what I need.”

“Tell me what you want now baby, I demand it.”

“I want to kiss you while men spank me and fuck me and deposit come in me,” Laura tells me, “then I want you to fuck me up the ass in front of everyone.”

“Who wants to fuck her?” I shout out to the crowd, a pirate captain playing social director with his men after a particularly successful pillage.

I know I can't possibly provide her with enough sex to satisfy her. I want to see how much it takes to make her say, “Enough.”

A small man dressed in all black leather, much older than we were, one of the first to whip Laura and one of only two I had to warn to back off a bit, compliments me on owning a Unicorn.

“A what?”

“A Unicorn,” he repeats. “You must be new to the scene. Gorgeous female slaves are so rare, we call them Unicorns.”

“I was treated like royalty at Hellfire Club,” Laura brags, “I was the Slave Queen. The Slut Queen. I used to always love going there. I loved all the different contraptions and being able to be whipped and put on a pummel horse; I loved getting pummeled on the pummel horse. I was able to lean over that and somebody kind of hold me while I was getting fucked in the pussy and in the ass—one after another! I never got gangbanged before I met Jeffrey, but it was the perfect thing for a sensation junkie like me. I got exactly what I wanted, non-stop gangbang while being whipped by a gang of strange men. I was living my fantasy and it felt better in reality than even in my imagination so I always wanted more.”

“Line up behind her and get your meat ready,” I order. I take a fistful of condoms out of my pocket and hand them out. (This was when prophylactics were not ubiquitous at orgies, or even at whorehouses, but this wasn't the orgy crowd, a friend or a middle class trick. This was an unknown demographic and I wanted to be safe.)

The pushing and shoving grows violent. A punch is thrown. Soon the natural pecking order sorts itself out. The line is about fifteen men long and curls around so the end of the line has a view of the action in front. “Only her pussy! Only her pussy! No ass fucking and that's an order!” I say in my most brutal basso.

Some men are rough, some gentle; some come quickly, some come too quickly, some take five or ten minutes, some eat her pussy from behind for a minute before fucking her. Some come loudly, some silently. One spanks her while he fucks her. Some come inside her in their rubbers, some pull out, rip their condoms off and jerk off on her ass. Two can't get it up and are shoved aside by the next in line. While waiting, some men stroke her and play with her nipples.

“That was one of my favorite nights at the Hellfire Club,” Laura remembers. “All my fantasies had to do with multiple men so somebody was whipping me and somebody else was playing with my nipples. I was just in this mind-thing where I was just
fucking ecstatic!!!