Macho Sluts, page 9
“I think her first words to me were, ‘Do you come here often?’ Some cornball line like that. Her voice was so rich, it was a little threatening, like holding a conversation with a jaguar. She had my whole story in five minutes or less. From out of nowhere, she produced a little white card. There was an address on it, nothing else. ‘Present yourself, properly attired, tomorrow at one,’ she said, and held out her hand for her gloves. A split second after she stood up, her escort was back in position. When she turned to go, a flash of white thigh was exposed. Her dress was slit up the side. And I saw that she had a riding crop stuck in her boot.”
The grumbling had subsided into silent skepticism. I continued smoothly on.
“I presented myself the next day as requested. But I left my punk duds in a pile on the floor of my closet and dug out a dress I’d worn to my sister’s wedding, a white dress with a high neck and long, tight sleeves. It made me feel repressed and virginal. I didn’t have any fancy femmie underwear, so I didn’t wear any. At first I was embarrassed and thought maybe I was being too theatrical, but then I realized that I was pretty stupid, since I was going to meet someone who was about as subdued and understated as Mata Hari. Dressing up would only help me play my part better. So I hopped in my car and drove to the address on the card. I had to ring the bell and tell her who I was through the intercom. The door opened all by itself, and I had to climb up a winding set of stairs. There was a mirror at the first bend so she could see who was coming. She was wearing a different outfit, but it was the same aesthetic, straight out of Morticia Addams’ wardrobe. She seated herself on a red velveteen couch and told me to bring a tray with coffee and little cakes in from the kitchen. I think some of the coffee slopped over the edge of the cups onto the tray. And that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. I didn’t think the punishment was in proportion to the crime, but I wasn’t about to complain.
“When it was finished, as we nibbled on pastries and drank the cold coffee, she made me an offer. She was a dominatrix. She had a separate room in her house—which I had not yet seen—fixed up with a standing rack and whips and dildoes and chains and a cage and a table. Submissive straight men paid her to do scenes with them. Once in a while, she would find someone who wanted to work with her, and train her to take on part of the clientele. When she was doing S/M for love instead of money, she preferred to play submissive to dominant men. She had an agreement with her master that she would not enter into any other ongoing S/M relationships. But she was curious about S/M dynamics between women. She told me that if I would stay with her for about a month, as her slave, she would give me a taste of every technique she knew. At the end of that time, if I had performed satisfactorily, she would reward me with permanent cuffs and a collar. She also told me that when my training was complete, she would put me out, and I would never see her again.”
Jessie had been signaling for another cigarette for five minutes. I finally “noticed” and supplied her with one. I could tell by the tightening of her jaw that she took due notice of this provocation.
“It was crazy, and I loved it. I agreed at once. Most days, I went to work just the way I always had, but at night I went back to her house and entered this fantasy world where I was her slave and slept at the foot of her bed. I helped her dress and undress, did her makeup, shopped and cooked for her. Occasionally, she would have insomnia, and I would give her backrubs or read to her. She liked Edna St. Vincent Millay. When it struck her fancy, she would find fault with something I had done and teach me another lesson. She only took me into the dungeon a couple of times, when she had a new girl who was going to be working for her. Those were all-day sessions. She had to show her assistant, who usually didn’t know anything about the scene, how to use everything in the room—the three-part bondage table and the horizontal rack, the vibrators and butt-plugs and dildoes, all this elaborate enema equipment, mummy suits, and whips and straps and paddles. She usually concluded the training session with a watersports fantasy that went with the cage. If that didn’t freak the new girl out completely, she had a job in her dungeon.
“But most of the time, my instruction took place in her bedroom or the Victorian living room. She had eyebolts set in all the doorways, so I could be strung up in any room of the house. She had a sterling-silver hairbrush she used on me quite a lot. Let me tell you, once you’ve been fucked with a monogrammed silver hairbrush, rubber marital aids just don’t do it any more. She was very careful, very knowledgeable, and she made sure I always got off. Sometimes she stopped just short of pushing things to the point where she really enjoyed it because I couldn’t handle it. I think she never let herself go with me the way she did with the men she saw, whether they were clients or lovers. Women seemed too fragile or sensitive to her. I always had this sense that she was frustrated, couldn’t get enough from me, no matter how hard I tried.
“One night, she woke me out of a sound sleep and told me to follow her. We went into the specially equipped room. She undressed me, put me in standing bondage, then she braided the cuffs around my wrists and the collar around my throat. She had already packed my suitcase. Without saying a word, she brought it in and put it by the door. I knew this was our last scene. For the first and only time, she was completely selfish. It was all for her. It was the only time she ever gave me amyl, and she gave me quite a lot of it. Between beatings, she would use my mouth. When I was finally too exhausted to take any more, she left me in chains and sat on the table in front of me and pleasured herself—first with her hands, then with a vibrator. I went crazy trying to get to her. And I needed to come so badly myself, I couldn’t see straight. As soon as she had her orgasm, she started to laugh. She was still laughing when she lowered my hands, put the key within my reach, and walked out. I could still hear her chuckling as she went down the hallway, shut herself into her bedroom, and locked the door. I undid the padlocks, dressed myself, and left, never to return. The End.”
Jessie was hooting and pounding on the steering wheel. “I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it! Are you bullshitting me? Did that really happen? Hot damn! And I think I’m wicked and perverse.”
All I could do was grin and swear that, yes, it really had happened. Now, I thought, I really should ask how she came to be a notorious sadistic womanizer.
“Well,” she yawned, reaching for another cigarette, “this is a challenge to my professional reputation. With competition like that, I better bring out the heavy artillery. Never let it be said that a capitalistic, bisexual madam put one over on a socialist, dyke-separatist musician. It just wouldn’t do. Woman, I can’t wait to get my hands on you. I can still feel those nice, soft tits of yours.” She chuckled. “I really thought you were going to wiggle right out of your skin back there in that nice, dark corner. Do you do that for everybody who puts the make on you?”
“No”
“Just for me?”
“Just for you.”
“Liar. Unbutton the top button of your jeans.” Any ideas about hearing her life story vanished from my mind.
I put my hand to my crotch and complied with her request.
She savored her smoke, exhaling it slowly and tapping her ashes lazily, as if she were on a Sunday drive to no place special.
“You can undo another button now.”
I opened my pants another notch. She took another drag, this time exhaling more smoke in my face. We played this game until there were no more buttons. Then she shifted her attention to another part of my body.
“Put your hand inside your leotard. Now touch your breast. The left one. Play with the nipple. How does that feel?”
“Ah—”
“Do the same thing with the other one. Is it hard yet?”
“Yes. Wrinkled like a raisin.”
“Can you lick your own nipples?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
I found that by bending my neck down and turning my nipple up, I could, indeed, get it in my mouth. The sensation of sucking on my own tit was delicious. She waited, already one step ahead of me, lost in her plans.
“Put one hand inside your pants. Can you feel your pubic hair?”
“Yes. It’s crisp and curly.”
“What color is it?”
“Black.”
“You must not be a real blonde then. Cigarette—but don’t move that hand.”
I managed to light the cigarette with my left hand. She watched me, amused by my fumbling.
“Slide your hand down and just cup it over your cunt. I want you to keep playing with your tits with the other hand. But don’t try to beat off. Just leave that hand quiet on your cunt, like a good girl.”
“I can feel the heat—Jessie—”
“I think I’d like to listen to the radio,” she said to no one in particular, and turned it on. She sang along with the music, her harsh, vibrant voice reminding me (if I needed reminding) who I was sitting next to.
I dared complain during a commercial. “Jessie, my nipples are sore.”
“Okay, you want to stop? I don’t care. Button up and put your hands in your lap.”
“Jessie, please, I’m so turned on I hurt. Please—”
“Don’t,” she warned.
“I need to—”
“I don’t care what you need. You’ll wait until I want to hear you come.”
Five more long minutes of music. She switched off the radio in the middle of a song. “You can put your finger between the inner lips, down by your hole. Are you wet?”
“Yes,” I gasped.
“How wet?”
“I’ve been lubricating for over an hour, thinking about how it felt to be pressed up against your hip. Even your eyes looking at me felt like you were stroking my cunt. I’m wet enough to drown someone.”
“Put your finger just barely inside the opening. Move in little, light circles.”
“I’m burning.”
“Burn.”
There was no sound in the car save the purring of the engine and my own labored breathing.
“Can you get two fingers inside your cunt?”
“Easy.”
“Do it. Fuck yourself. I want to hear it.”
I buried my fingers inside myself and pumped. The juices made sucking noises as my hand moved up and down.
“How do you get off? Do you put your fingers on your clit?”
“No, I do it just like this.”
“Do you want to come?”
“Yes, I can’t stand this. I’m so swollen, so sticky.”
“Well, I’m real sorry about that, because if you can’t stand this, there’s no way you’re going to make it through the rest of the evening. Run your finger up and down between your inner and outer lips. Do it on both sides. Spread the wetness up and cover your clit with it.”
“It’s slippery and smooth. Feels like being stroked all over. My nipples are still hard—I can feel them brushing against my leotard.”
“Jostle your clit a little bit.”
“I can’t find it. It’s gone up under the hood.”
Her knuckles on the steering wheel had gone white. She was staring intently at the road, but her breathing had quickened.
“I need to come. Please, let me come. I’ll be good for you later, I promise. I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just let me. Come. Now, please, please.” I was babbling. I was begging so hard.
God, she was pleased with herself. “You can start,” she told me.
I cupped my hand over my mound and dabbled a finger in the molten hole of my vagina.
“Make more noise.”
I let myself moan. I couldn’t believe the things I was saying, the sounds I was making. My hand moved faster, harder, higher. But my climax hung off, waiting—
“Go on, come. Come now.”
That was all it took. I had waited so long, my orgasm was unbelievably intense. My vagina tightened like a fist, then convulsed and shuddered. I counted contractions as I continued to hold and squeeze my vulva. Waves of pleasure ran down my thighs, melted away, and filled me with a warm, sleepy glow.
Jessie pulled into a driveway and turned off the engine. She reached for me and searched my body with her hands, feeling the film of perspiration that covered me from head to toe. She explored my cunt, running her fingers up and down the inner lips and probing inside of me briefly. “You weren’t kidding,” she said. “You really are wet! Are you going to sing that pretty for me?” She nuzzled my neck. “That was quite a performance.”
I didn’t respond. My eyes were half-closed. I felt limp and languorous. She tapped my cheek lightly. “Wake up. We haven’t even started yet.” The blows began to sting, and I put my hand up to ward them off. She grabbed my wrist. “What happened to all that sweet submission, huh? You promised to do anything for me, remember? I do. You owe me, honey.”
She got out, came around to my door, and dragged me out of the car. Tugging on the scarf, she said, “Heel,” and headed for her door. I almost stumbled, then recovered my footing and followed her.
I couldn’t guess where we were going. All I could see were storefronts. But she stopped in front of an iron grating and took out her keys. “No neighbors,” she told me with a grin. “It took me three months to find this place. I couldn’t afford to soundproof my last apartment, and I got kicked out for making too much noise. The rent is cheap, too.”
Nobody could hear us? I felt a twinge of alarm. I hardly knew her. Anything could happen. How could I trust her? Because she never once showed any sign of doubting herself, something in me responded. There are plenty of people I’ve known for years that I’d never consider allowing to tie me up. Who knows why I trusted her and not them? It was an arbitrary decision, after all, and one perhaps not totally in my control.
She held the grating open behind her. We climbed the stairs, our heels clicking on the stone steps. Her key rattled in the lock. She pushed me in ahead of her, locking the door behind us. It was absolutely dark. I could not tell if I stood in a room or a hallway. She moved closer to me until her breasts kissed my shoulders and stood, not quite touching me, for several seconds. Then she sighed. Her expelled breath contained such weariness and resignation—I was overcome by an irrational desire to hug her knees and weep.
She seized my wrists, brought the scarf back through my crotch, and tied my hands together. The deftness of her movements provoked my lust again. Being tied makes me feel safe and somehow confident and very, very sexy.
She moved away from me, returning with a fat, lit candle.
“We’ll go that way to the bathroom—she said, pointing down the hall. I took a step in that direction. She slapped me, hard. I rocked back on my heels, and she hit me again. My face burning, I stared at the floor and tried to control my tears. “Not so goddamn fast,” she hissed. “Who gives the orders here? You?”
“No, no,” I stuttered.
She struck out again. “Get down on you knees, damn you. Get down.”
I almost fell in my hurry to avoid any more blows. I could not balance with my hands tied behind me. Once on my knees, her hips were inches from my nose. “I’m sorry, I choked.”
“Sorry,” she sneered. “Do you think that’s all it takes to get yourself off the hook? ‘I’m sorry,’” she mimicked. “You’re not sorry, you’re stupid. You don’t do anything until I tell you to do it. Have you got that? Or are you too stupid to take orders?”
I couldn’t answer. I must have leaned toward her, because she took me by my hair and pulled my head back. “Why are you in such a hurry?” she murmured, stroking my hot cheek. “Did you think I was going to fuck you in the john?” I saw her hand go back—flinched— the grip on my hair tightened, and she held my head while she slapped me.
“You don’t realize just how helpless you are,” she crooned into my upturned face. “I could leave you tied up all night and never even touch you. I could open the front door and push you downstairs. Where would you be then? Hmm? Or I could go out myself, for a drive. Maybe back to the dance to pick up another piece of ass. There are plenty more where you came from. Don’t you think you’d better behave yourself? You better think about someone else’s pussy for a change. Keep me happy, or I won’t get you off. After all, that’s what you came here for, isn’t it? A little fancy sex? Someone who would tickle your slit?”
I was blushing furiously. Tears were starting to wet my cheeks.
“Oh, look, she’s going to cry. Are you trying to turn me on? Hmm, damsel in distress? Quit looking at the ceiling. Get your head down to where it belongs. Look at me, here.”
Her hips were tantalizingly close. There was a niche in the wall, and she put the candle on the recessed shelf. “I was going to let you eat my cunt,” she whispered, “but now, I don’t know.” She unzipped the black velvet slacks. Her pubic hair sprang from the zipper like a handful of soft, dark feathers.
“Please,” I moaned.
“Beg me. You don’t really deserve it.”
I exerted every ounce of my persuasive powers. I started with a simple offer to lick her clit, and went on to describe the incredible and probably impossible things I wanted to do to her.
“Whimper for it, bitch.”
“Let me kiss your cunt. Let me make you wet, then blow hot air all over you. I want to suck on your lips, run my nose and my chin against your clit. I’ll do it good for you. I’ll lick you so lightly, so carefully, as long as you like. Please, Jessie.”
She teased me, calling me a pussy-kisser, a cunt-lapper. Yes, something inside me said. I am all those things. And right now, that’s all I want to be. I ached to redeem myself. My mouth heated, watered, hurt with the need to service her.
She shucked her pants. I kept my place. “Better,” she said approvingly. “You’re learning.” She moved forward. “Tilt your head back a little,” she told me. She shoved her pussy into my face, enveloping my eyes and nose and mouth in her cunt. “Remember me,” she said, rubbing her perfume into my skin. “That is my smell, the essence of me. Now open your mouth a little and give me your tongue. Suck me. Go ahead. Eat me out. Flick that little pink tongue on my clit. Come on, you want it. Do it.”
