Laura Meets Jeffrey (22 page)

I move over to Sylvia and stick out my chest up against hers. My God she has big beautiful tits! Nearly perfect. Textbook tits, like from God's original production manual. I peel off my shirt, and rub my hairy chest against Sylvia's now erect nipples. I kiss her on the mouth and she responds eagerly, no different from a heterosexual. I undress—slowly, deliberately, theatrically—aware that the show is more than half of this game.

Laura is standing behind me being pawed by Mistress Eleanor. I turn to make sure that Laura is happy, also to get the handcuff key from Mistress. Eleanor is rubbing Laura's exposed buns with the riding crop. She stops to hand me the key and the whip and says, “Après tu, mon amis.”

I uncuff Sylvia, lay her down face up on the floor, and begin to explore her. She looks up with apprehension and I am not sure whether it's real or an act. She continues to move like a hostage. This doesn't feel like a place for foreplay so I hold her arms against the mat and work my cock into her vagina. She becomes delightfully cooperative and naturally passionate.

Her pussy is even tighter than Laura's. She has no real waist and sweet, smallish hips and a lightly padded ass. She possesses the slim straight body of girls who are flat as a board except she isn't. Altogether she has an oddly built body that is constructed from disparate parts. But it works. It looks and feels sexy. I have no trouble getting or keeping an erection.

I grip her under her ass and while giving her some deep pumps I gently work my finger, then two fingers, up her asshole. I take my time and get quizzical looks from Sylvia that make me believe no one has ever been up that particular route.

I whisper, “Give it to me. Relax.” For a moment I ponder promising that I won't hurt her but that might be a turn-off to her. As I feel my climax approaching I pull my hard dick out and hold it and let the climax climb back down. Then I slide into her second opening.

Eleanor, sensing what I am doing grabs my shoulder with a “Hey...!” but is cut off by Sylvia who gasps, “No. Please, let the man do it.”

I stroke in and out of her snugness, retarding my climax till I can do so no longer. I come with surprising force. With every squirt shooting inside Silvia's ass, her eyes gain life and she enters into an orgasmic spasm.

She gapes at me in disbelief, continuing to quiver, gurgling like a baby at play. I look her straight in the eyes, now completely alive and nearly beautiful in their sparkle. After a long pause she says, “I never came like that. I never came from there before.”

“Great for me, too,” I contribute.

Laura is breathing heavily as if some of the orgasm had splashed on her. Eleanor says, “Well, well, Sir Guy. You seem to have made a big impression on Sylvia. Or should I say in Sylvia. But you never whipped her. I want to see you whip her.”

I'd forgotten. I really had no desire to whip anyone, except Laura. “I chose instead to fuck her in the ass.”

Sylvia looks up to me and pushes her face out at me, “Hit me, please.” I minimum bitch-slap her.

“Oh no,” she cries, and I figure I've gone over her line till she pleads, “Not so light. Please slap me harder.” I hit her just hard enough to scare me and make up for the lack of torque with a vicious scowl and a loud growl.

Sylvia thanks me. I see marks on her face that match my fingers. Laura leans forward and softly says, “I want you to do that to me, please, Master.”

I nod.

This is the first time I am an “S” to any “M” other than Laura. While not as complex emotionally as hitting Laura, it's just as hot. I may be a pervert or a bastard, and they may be sickos—but I like submissive women who want me to use them and if they want it, for me to use them hard. And in these surroundings packed with other perverts, bastards and sickos, my behavior is not outside the norm.

“Now it's my turn with The Countess,” says Mistress Eleanor, more sibilant than before. I guess it is the sound of her mouth watering.

Eleanor faces Laura to the wall and handcuffs her to a high ring. Laura, taller than Sylvia, isn't forced to stand on her toes. I crouch down, petting Sylvia who enjoys the fondling while Eleanor pulls down Laura's bikini thong and begins exploring her crack with the handle of the crop and then without warning flails the business end against Laura's sweet cheeks. The whoosh of the whip foretells the strength of the impact. Laura lets out a surprised, “Ahhrrh,” broadcasting just enough pleasure in her pain to relieve my impulse to kill Eleanor.

“Ask me for another,” demands The Mistress and Laura complies. And so it goes. Eleanor savors the nine more slams of the crop against my baby's flesh.

Laura loves it.

More than I do.

I flinch with every thwack. Laura moans with pleasure, sticking out her round and red striped buns after each recoil for the next instance of abuse.

After Eleanor's ten, Laura begs for me to hit her another ten. Mistress Eleanor offers me the crop and not to be outdone, I equal or better the hardest of Eleanor's blows.

Laura thanks me after each stroke and pleads for the next. By number seven I'm hard again. I bend Laura over and massage the inside of her pussy with my stiffened cock. She moans her sex-song, the tune I live for and comes several times. I fuck her but I can't come and that's OK.

Laura and I get dressed. Eleanor and the Girl Who Now Has A Name are staying for more games. We all hug and bid each other a warm farewell like intimate friends. Laura and I collect our coats and leave. At her request I don't look at her going down in the elevator.

30

The pleasure of pain

In addition to our edgy real life in the outlands of perversity, Laura and I share an even more outlandish fantasy life. We both feel some things develop in fantasy and it's our goal to bring them into reality, and some things are better suited to existing only in fantasy. We don't discuss what goes where, it just falls in place and I am the gatekeeper. There is also a list of perversions that neither of us has any desire at all for and just never come up: the bestial, the scatological, the pedophiliac or anything that doesn't involve consent.

I have no idea why but I know that taking our S&M relationship into Laura's whoring world would be wrong. Laura's whore sex is 97 per cent vanilla. A tiny toe sucking kink here, a piss drinker there, and lots of ass licking body worshipers, but most of her whore sex is what healthy horny teenagers do in back seats of cars.

In our own bed, I whip and spank her ass and back and belly and pussy and slap her face, as she looks into my eyes while I fuck her into the next level of beyond. She never says, “That hurts,” or, “That's too much,” and only ever asks for more or harder. “Use me harder, hurt me” is her mantra.

I am never brutal; never want to take it to a point that will leave a scar or injury. I just want enough to make her rev higher. Sometimes, not taunting me or dissing my masculinity but only as post-game analysis, Laura says, “You could hit me harder. I want it harder.” I say, “Next time,” but it's up to me to keep some kind of balance, some kind of clarity. Although I am deep into this dance of pain, I do love her and never want to go past the point of amusement. To me there's playing the Sadist and being the Sadist, and I just want to have fun.

More than being a Sadist with a conscience, I am a Sadist with a need for absolution, not because I have guilt but as a way to avoid guilt. Our sex talk almost always ends with me steering the conversation into her telling me whatever she is doing is from her own volition and doing it because it makes her feel good. I need that. I have no idea what kind of synesthesia Laura is blessed or cursed with or what kind of psychic minefield she is crossing but as long as I can somehow justify my actions I don't feel like I am an evil hedonist sucking the devil's asshole.

“Why do you love being whipped and hurt by strange men?” I ask Laura. “And by me? Why do you like pain?”

“Because it feels good to me. It makes me feel good and used and I need it. And when I feel the pain, it's the feeling of it leaving me and I am lighter and that pain is gone forever. I need you to get rid of my pain.”

Our fantasy life, however, is more than one step weirder and pretty much without limits. We talk about traveling around and selling her pain to rich perverts who want to hurt her. That excites her, which excites me, and after the first visit to this black and blue fairy tale there is no way to tell who is leading whom. I would say anything to juice her and she was so juiced she would say anything to energize me.

I would fuck her in some slow rhythmic groove looking down deep into her eyes.

“What would you do for me?”

“I'll do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Tell me what you'd do.”

“All my holes are yours. You can use them, give them away to men and sell them.”

“What else will you do?'

“You can have my pain.”

“How much pain will you let me take?”

“As much as you want.”

I would probably spank or slap or whip her a bit for emphasis.

“Can I sell your pain?”

“Yes, please. Sell my pain. Watch men hurt me and know I am giving them my pain to please you.”

“Will you do it every day?”

“Yes, everyday.”

“What if we find some really rich really perverted man who wants to whip you and beat you hard?”

“I would love for a man to beat me hard.”

“How hard?”

“Very hard.”

“What if he wanted to whip you till you were unconscious?”

“I would let him do it if you were there to watch me. And when you sell my pain I am rid of it.”

“Do you trust me to protect you?”

“Yes, I trust you with my life. I know you will always protect me.”

“I pledge my life to protect you, you know that?”

“Yes, I love when you tell me that. I know you will beat me and hurt me and I don't have to worry about anything.”

“And when other men beat you?”

“If you are there I can have it all without worry. No one will go too far if you are there.”

“Do you like it when we go into clubs and I let men whip you?”

“I love it. I need that. I need men to whip me and use me.”

“I
did
love it,” Laura remembers about one night. “I was all dressed up in my lingerie and my collar and my leash and everything, and my high heels, and lots of make-up. Jeffrey would take me around, and we would walk through the rooms and I would say, ‘Let's get that one, and let's take that one, and let's take that one.'

“We walked through this building, and there were four or five floors, and we went through all the different rooms and picked about eight guys, and took them up to this loft on the top floor and there was a big futon.

“And a different man was doing something to every part of my body,” Laura continues. “Someone was kissing me, and somebody was sucking my toes, and somebody was sucking my fingers and rubbing my arms and somebody was….

“Was I sitting on someone's cock?” Laura ponders; “I might have been sitting on a cock and getting fucked in the ass at the same time. And someone else was whipping me. Jeffrey was the master of ceremonies, the director. He would stand right there, make sure I had cocaine up my nose; he would give me cocaine as it was lying there on the side—and every single guy there fucked me.

“All eight of them, and the guys were really good looking! I always think of them as my sports team, ha, ha, ha, my little baseball team and I was the catcher ha ha ha… They were really good looking, they were all incredibly strong and muscular and into it—
and into me!

“It went on for a long time, and they just fucked me in my ass, I sucked them—I had a cock in my mouth and my ass and my pussy all at the same time. Every one of them was touching me and rubbing me and sucking my fingers and rubbing my feet—and it was as exotic as you can possibly imagine—and it went on for hours and hours and hours, ha, ha, ha!

“So I came with every guy,” Laura sums up, “I came multiple times with every guy. And then Jeffrey fucked me...”

31

Relationships and drugs

There is a progression in relationships. It's like the high jump. The bar keeps getting raised. Couples keep getting eliminated. As Norman Mailer said: “There was that law of life, so cruel and so just, that one must grow or else pay more for remaining the same.”

Here's how it goes: Three hours are all you can endure on a nowhere date. Two dates are all you can manage with someone you don't fancy. Lots of new couplings split up at three weeks—what I call The First Hump—when the new glory can no longer survive on the glow of its own raw energy. This is when the light shines on each other's less obvious flaws.

At about three weeks, if the bond is to last, the “YOU,” “YOU,” “YOU” that your heart has been singing has to become an “US,” and it takes more than hot sex to do that.

The Second Hump at three months is also where lots of couples split up. By this time every little interpersonal annoyance is no longer cute. It is here at The Second Hump where something has to exist between the two of you that is stronger than simply hot sex, superficial connections, and a few mutual interests. The road to The Third Hump, one year in, is littered with the carrion of ex-couples.

Laura and I have been together for about ten months, that point where stuff really starts to get annoying. I am bothered by her drug intake, her not calling on time, her showing up late, her flaky answers to serious questions, and her dirty feet leaving their trail on our sheets.

She is beginning to get annoyed by my strong dominant personality that she loves in bed but that rankles her in other parts of our relationship. She begins calling me “Mr. Push.”

In the first six months we had nary a fight except for the few about her giving her money to her husband, Sandy. Now we let off steam daily. We find one reason or another to have a minor spat or a bickering spasm. For about ten minutes. Usually in the afternoon. Then our love impels us to work it out. Then we fuck and have terrific makeup sex, sometimes even if it means pulling the car off the road. We are aware of our ten-minute glitches, and sometimes just pointing them out and laughing defuses them. Sometimes it is more difficult. Sometimes we stumble and just make it over the high bar. But generally we keep the unpleasantness trapped in those ten minutes per day.

More telling than the quantity of time couples spend bickering, arguing or fighting is the quality of the civility exhibited at the lowest point of the clash. During this period and well into our relationship, Laura and I both keep a polite tone when arguing and never require police intervention. Most of the arguments we have are about her coke habit.

Too many people I knew were doing too much coke. One friend burnt out the cartilage in his nose and needed surgery. Another friend suffered a heart attack attributed to his overuse of the drug. I was in the middle of a love affair with pot and I was not a drug prude. I had tried nearly every drug that didn't involve shooting or suppositories. Well, to be honest, I did shoot demerol twice and morphine once with an anaesthesiologist and his nurse girlfriend, but a needle full of anti-anaphylactic shock medication at the ready and their white uniforms made it seem acceptable and safe.

And to be completely honest I did do an opium suppository once and was high for two days. But I was never into drugs so much I needed to say, “Hi, my name is Jeffrey and I'm an addict.” I just didn't love coke. It's not a matter of having good ethics or a refined recreational drug palate. It's just biology, like being horny, liking or not liking Brussels spouts (I like), cilantro (I don't), or being tall or short.

Some people I knew were already smoking coke. First there was high-end bourgeois “freebase” and then came its cheaper less pure proletarian cousin “crack.” One night, sitting in a car by the Delaware River near New Hope with one of Laura's friends, we smoked freebase. It was apocalyptic. I felt like I was talking one on one with God. Laura was so taken by her first hit tears filled her eyes.

Then, in a few minutes it wore off and the second hit wasn't so elevated. The third and fourth also missed the mark, although they were certainly pleasant and airy. I stopped there while Laura and her friend kept going till it was all gone.

I had, thank God, an immediate revelation. I knew right off the bat what was evil about smoking coke. You can never get back to the feeling of the first hit. Insidious if you think about it. The ultimate intracranial cock tease. Who would have guessed then that freebase/crack would soon change the worst parts of society and make them even worse?

Mothers sold themselves or the use of their kids' orifices for a hit. Mothers sold their children outright for a hit. When I heard these stories I remembered my first hit and how close to God I felt, how nearly equal, and in retrospect how singularly megalomaniacal that feeling was. I know that if the devil has a tool belt, its pockets are filled with crack.

But this was before coke got the bad rep it deserved and when recreational drugs (something most of us, some way too late, came to understand is almost always an oxymoron) were still considered hip. Just as now you would be shocked to see anyone, even at the hippest parties, doing coke openly on a Saturday night, in the early '80s it was not only acceptable it was the fashion.