1.
That skin-on-skin sound like the snap of a leather belt, like a clap of thunder. Alex could almost feel the sensation of pin-prickles on the guy's hand, on her ass. Even from a reasonable distance away, where he sat, the sound was enough to punctuate the moment, amplify the senses -- to anchor him in the sensuous rapture of the here and now.
It sounded contradictory, how one could experience a simultaneous presence and transcendence, find a liberation in imprisonment, but Alex was no stranger to contradiction. In this context at least, it had never bothered him, only made him ever-more curious.
To him, watching this was a lot like when someone got stabbed or shot in a film and you almost felt their pain, or the main character finally found the loved one they had been seeking throughout the entire picture and you shared their immense exhilaration. Here, though, it took on a more lucid quality. This was no film. This was real, he was here.
Still feeling as if it was wrong to be here.
That involuntary sound of grandiose pleasure that she made right afterward made Alex grit his teeth, breathe deeply. For a moment he wasn't sitting there in the back of the room: he was there, he was that man, with a numb hand, looking down on that beautiful creature. That was his hand, touching the soft, damp skin of her back, fingers pressing lightly now against her flexing muscles, now gripping her sides. That was him, that was Alex over there, pounding himself deep into her. Soon enough, though, he was himself again, watching this from a near distance, feeling the guilt of being where he was, watching what he was watching.
Guilt without reason, he had been told.
Still, this was getting pretty fucking sad. This he knew, no matter what unconventional friends might say to the contrary. He was indeed regressing. Having gone from long-distance mutual masturbation to what was now absolute voyeurism, he was running away, pushing further back, watching it all recede, and faster now more than ever.
Give him a year, a few months even, and he'll be your average, run-of-the-mill pervert, looking out the window of a tall building through a pair of binoculars at the window of the building across the street, where he could watch two strangers get down and dirty at a distance. Sitting up in his apartment all night watching porn with his all-natural joystick in firm grip, filmy white cum stain blobs on his baggy black jeans.
He wasn't there yet, of course. There was something more admirable, he felt, in the active imagination of a dirty mind and a fist formed around his cock in a lonely, dark room with a locked door and drawn windows. Something more normal about it.
That's right, isolation was normal. Being closed off was normal. Loneliness, that was normal.
His unconventional friend had told him that normality was a myth; an ideal created which almost everyone attempted to fit but no one fit naturally, and no one could trim themselves enough to even approximate. Normality was a waste of time, a futile pursuit, a diversion from the truth.
"You like that, bitch?"
This, he had said, this was the truth. Or a few steps closer, at least.
"Hard enough, you stupid cunt?" Said the man, gripping the hair on the back of her neck with white-knuckled fists as she screams for him in a voice as pleading as it is demanding not for him to stop, no, but for him to fuck her harder. And he does, with those slow, deep and powerful thrusts.
Its confusing, Alex thought, that she likes to be talked down to during sex. Especially since this is probably not the case in the real world. Carl Jung, infamous psychologist, always said that the brighter the light, the darker the shadow: well here there be nothing but shadows. Weird, too, how the man can say it, how he can call her a bitch so powerfully. Writing it down, how the man called her a bitch, Alex thought it might sound comical or crude to anyone who might read what he had set out to write: but it wasn't comical, it wasn't crude. It was frightening, but it was an arousing fear.
And not just for the voyeur, evidently.
Alex noticed he was aroused because he pictured himself in the man's position, and he quickly shook his head and yelled at himself inside to turn it off, to withdraw from this. But it's just role-play, his friend had said to him. But how well can you play a role before you cross the line and become it?
His hands let go of her hair and he lets his finger trace a line in the sweet sweat from the base of her spine to the bottom of her neck, where he then grabs her shoulders with both hands, massages them for a moment, and then grabs two tufts of her hair. He calls her a cunt and tells her to look at him. She looks up, into the mirror positioned at the head of the bed, and her vulnerable eyes meet his sinister scowl.
You get the feeling the sex is only secondary to the sense of power this guy gets off doing this to her. Of course, then you look at her, and you see that the sex is only secondary to the high she gets off of playing the submissive.
You begin to wonder what these people do in the real world. Maybe she's the big boss in the real world, and here she gets to be the underdog. Perhaps he's a bottom-of-the-barrel working class slave who gets to be the alpha male as he pounds his swollen manhood into her.
Did it really matter in the end? Both seem to be getting just what they want, maybe what they need. As is this hurricane of emotions in the darkness here taking notes, observing from the far end of the room. That would be this quivering, guilt-riddled, ever-conflicted voyeur. That would be Alex.
The last two sexual experiences Alex had with girl were both long-distance. The second-to-last was over the cell phone and video cam with his ex-girlfriend. He watched as she sat in the chair of her apartment and fingered herself, occasionally looking dead into the camera. He unzipped his pants, made sure the door was closed, and started working away. His computer, it sucked, so the image would shoot frames real fast for a few seconds, skip a few frames, then seem to go in slow motion. He could hear her wondrous noises, like music to his ears, from the cell phone not a foot away, as they mis-matched her movements on the monitor. For him, there was no camera: she couldn't see him, but he could see her. He could hear her, but he made no noises as he did in sex, so she couldn't hear him. There was something about this that depressed him.
That would be the last time he'd see her. It's been around half a year now.
Following that, he talked dirty to a girl through cell-phone text messages, and he'd like to think that what she said was true. That he made her wet, that she got off. He pictured her on her bed, hand down her unbuttoned, unzipped pants, thrusting one, two fingers between those moistened lips, her breath quickening, her heartbeat racing as she pictured him deep in her. But how could he know for sure? He couldn't know.
What he knew was that all this was distancing. That he was stepping back, becoming less and less involved, finally enshrouding himself -- quite literally -- and living that vibrant sexual existence vicariously through others. He knew damn well that this was all about his drive for sex coupled with his simultaneous terror of intimacy, of relinquishing control. It was about this insipid and seemingly contradictory need to loose himself yet keep himself at the same time. And to be sure, it all sounded contradictory, but anyone who really paid attention would notice that logic is not the dictating force in the universe. That what seems dissociated, even diametrically opposed on one level becomes reconciled and unified one level up.
Hell, Einstein did it with time and space, with matter and energy.
None of that helped, though, because he wasn't a level up. He was stuck here, between a rock and a hard place, in this gap again, and it was a rut -- or is gutter a more fitting term? -- that he couldn't seem to pull out of. Contradictions littered the experience of sex for him; he couldn't seem to wrap his mind around it. At the same time primitive and divine, empowering and exhausting, dirty yet cleansing, he desired ultimate satisfaction (the Tantrist of the left-handed path in him) yet desired to be free from desire (the Buddhist in him) at the same time.
She's the first to orgasm, a sound almost like escalating pain, like someone was slowly but steadily easing up the knob of intensity. It was followed by a moment of silence from her; a swift moment in which her high-pitch moan just suddenly cut off, like time itself had suspended. Her back arched and for a moment, just a moment, she went as rigid as death. The man smiled at her moment of suspension and silence, exhilarated by the accomplishment, watching her with a look hard to define -- but curiosity was in there somewhere.
The pause ended with a scream -- of pain, pleasure, both -- and then rapid panting, then a slowing, a softening and a glow about her features. He watched her hung head in the mirror, her spent and seductive eyes as she looked back up at him beneath a downward brow partially hidden behind a cage constructed of the damp strands of hair that had fallen here and there about the blushed and perspiring features of her face.
Maybe he was just imagining it, but Alex thought he could smell the sweet aroma of sex even from across the room, and it made him salivate in the shadows behind the door.
The guy gets off her, tells her to sit still. He stands up and Alex is more than a bit envious of how muscular the guy is; he feels more than a bit inferior and insecure in comparing the guy's body to his own. He, of course, is little more than a stick figure with skin. Through the bleeding scratch marks on his ripped back was a tattoo of the sephirotic Tree of Life out of Qabala with a serpent running through each of the ten spheres in order, its head swallowing the highest as if an egg. The colors of the snake differed in such a way that it suggested three dimensions; it was, in other words, a serpent depicted as being coiled three-and-a-half times. The Kundalini of Tantra.
The guy looks at her, and he says, "turn around." She does, and you can see the bed sheets are soaked, hair is plastered to her forehead. She is glistening wet. Something about the way she handles herself reminds Alex a bit of his ex-girlfriend: its that confidence, that comfort in this type of activity, like a fish to water. This girl was literally glowing with energy, and she enjoyed this. Alex imagined her to be quite the nymphomaniac, quite the hedonist in general.
She brushes her fingers through her dark brown hair and then grabs a bottle of water from the corner table on the other side of the bed. In the meantime, the guy is rustling through things inside what seems to be a bookbag beside the bed. As Alex could've predicted, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs with one hand. After taking a few swigs of the water and looking back at them in his hands, she smiles and lays back. He wastes no time and straddles her, trying to figure out how he's going to cuff her to the bed. There are bedposts, but without it being incredibly awkward he could only cuff one wrist. She whispers something inaudible to him, and he cuffs the right wrist and begins to move down towards the foot of the bed.
"I like to grab hair anyway," she says to him, then sticking out her tongue and doing some impressive moves with it towards him. Alex notices for the first time that she's got her tongue pierced; a barbell. She then starts looking at the ceiling, which confuses Alex for a moment until he remembers the mirror.
He begins by licking her around the knee-caps, making slithering motions with his tongue, moving slowly towards her inner though. Her hand touches her breasts and she massages on a bit and they lift up and down to the rhythm of her deep breathing. She's got this look of anticipation on her face, this mixture of patience and eagerness, that makes Alex want to take up painting again -- if only he could freeze-frame that look of hers, capture this moment in his mind. The guy works higher up in her inner thigh, getting closer, and she tenses and moves up the bed just a bit -- but then he goes down further, suddenly switching legs, now toying with the other, working up again with his tongue, then down, then further up then before.
Then slower.
He pauses a moment, she pauses. Only her lips, curled in a grin, are evidence that time had not ceased to move forward all together. The silence and still is broken as he suddenly buries himself in her. She lets out a high-pitched moan, her head turning to the side, digging into the pillow, her chin moving up at an angle, her body arching a bit. With her free hand, she scrambles a bit like the blind with her closed eyes, but eventually finds his scalp, grabs a fistful of his hair and pushes his face into her ruthlessly.
Suddenly, face still a look of pleasure, she says through clenched teeth, "Get on your back."
Her voice was as demanding as her words were unexpected, and the way she spoke, the way her eyes didn't waver from his a nanometer as her tender lips moved, Alex felt his blood pressure rise and something in his pants got very, very hard. Alex repositioned himself, sitting in such a way that he hoped it would be less noticeable. Which was ridiculous, because it wasn't as if anyone was watching, right? There were only people `watching' through the medium of his words -- and that was only assuming he would ever reveal them to anyone, or that anyone would bother reading them if he held them up for others to see.
As for the present tense, he didn't even know if she knew he was there.
The guy, he unlocks the cuffs from her wrist, the bedpost, and throws them into the bookbag. Then he gets on his back without a moment's hesitation. All around the mirrors reflect him and her, reflect the reflections of reflections to the right, the left, the ceiling of this cubbyhole: a delightful Indra's Net of debauchery.
Having gotten up, she reaches into a drawer beside the bed, pulls out a blindfold and four leather straps. As for him, he seems quite pleased and excited about what seems to be happening, but there is also a bit of fear in his eyes. Hope and fear seem to go together here as much as pain and pleasure: indeed, dualities are reconciled all around.
Fastening each of the straps to each end of the bed, she then tightens the other ends around his ankles and wrists.
"Tighter," he says, his voice failing a little.
With this incredibly sexy half-grin on her face, she proceeds to tighten them all to his satisfaction, and with one last devilish grin -- this one quite complete -- crossing her face she locks her eyes with his, like a cat who had cornered a mouse, and she puts the blindfold over his eyes.
Suddenly, there seems to be a drastic change in mood here.
"I could do anything," she says. To him, to herself.
She got up and walked to the door. Not the one Alex had come in, not the door he now sat behind, but another, to the left end of the room from his perspective. She walked out and after a few minutes came in with another girl. She had curly, wet red hair. A white button-down shirt, a red-plaid skirt held on by a black belt with silver spikes. Freckles, green eyes.
The brunette, now clothed, sat down comfortably in the gray-colored recliner nearby the bed, watching her red-haired friend in a very hungry manner, it seemed to Alex. She pulled a cigarette out of the pack resting on a nearby table, grabbed the Zippo right beside it and placed the cigarette between her lips. Lighting it with the high flame, she then blew out smoke out in a steady stream towards the ceiling.
She wore a black silk shirt and a simple black skirt with leather black knee-high boots, buckles all the way up. She pulled her feet up on the chair, touching her boots together and spreading her knees the lengths of her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed and her lips stretched into a mischievous grin as her delicate hands caressed the boots, evidently liking the touch of leather at least as much as Alex. Her fingers, with fingernails painted a deep red, moved up and down the sides of the boots, playing momentarily with the buckles. Her blood-red tongue snuck out the edge of her lips, seemingly without intention as she continued to watch her friend.
Alex worried that the rate at which he was taking his notes, the scratch-scribble-scratching sound he was making on the paper in his notebook must be distracting or arousing some attention. Thankfully, in the very least he caught no evidence of this. Did either of the girls even know he was here?
As for the girl in red hair, she ignored her partner on the chair behind her, fixated instead on what lay before her, apparently quite delighted in regards to the sight of him bound to the bed, blindfolded and at her total mercy. Strolling alongside the bed slowly, very slowly, she ran her hands along his legs, twirled a finger around his belly button and followed the line between his chest ever-upward. When her hand came up to his neck, the mood changed, the surprise came like a bolt of lightning, and in a ruthless instant she grabbed it. She then swung her one leg over him, sliding the other so it came to rest on the bed. Now straddling his chest, she brought her other hand over so that she was holding his neck with both hands.
"Hey bitch," she said to him. "What are you going to do now?"
Her voice was melodic and seductive -- a soft, smooth, almost fluid voice that seemed to carry this underlying intensity, like an ocean wave that strolled along and then suddenly revealed the dorsal fin of a shark. It was like some predator calmly, confidently approaching its prey, ready to pounce at any moment.
"Whatever you say," he said in a voice that revealed he was more than a bit intimidated.
"Damn right," she said softly, yet with a strength, "whatever the fuck I tell you to do." She raised herself so she was standing on her knees and then scooted up the bed so that she was now straddling his face. Grabbing his hair, she said, "Now eat my cunt, you filthy fuck."
And as he worked his tongue into her, she glanced at her own eyes in the mirror positioned at the head of the bed, pulling his hair again to say, "harder," or, "easy," or, "deeper. That's it. Deeper, you sonuvabitch." Her eyes never moved from her own image, not even as she barked at him, slapped him across the face for not meeting her standards, or made sounds of obvious satisfaction to his glaring successes. She was drowning in her own image from the very beginning, trapped there in her own reflection, giving herself looks that would make any man fall to his knees.
Maybe its like conditioning self-love, Alex found himself thinking. You feel these intense, overwhelming orgasmic feelings while taking your own image in as completely as possible, you're bound to come to associate the two like a Pavlovian dog associates the salivation first brought on by the food now with the bell. Alex was sure now he'd wasted all those years listening to those cassette tapes for guided meditation for better self-esteem.
She let one hand away from her grip on his hair to unbutton the first few buttons on her shirt, where she took out her breast and began to fondle it in violent, circular motions. She rolled them in wider and wider circles until she began squeezing, rolling her thumb and two fingers tightly around her nipple. Her chin skyward, her jaw clenching, now some pleasant sound halfway between a giggle and a moan erupting from deep within her and bubbling outward. Soon she was giggling like a child, laughing as if being tickled or told a joke, now closing her eyes and just breathing with a smile. Alex found himself smiling perversely, quickly losing the battle against the part of him that didn't feel guilty about enjoying this.
Without warning, she suddenly turned behind her, where the brown-haired girl sat at the chair nearby the desk, fingering herself in a steady rhythm with the two between the pointer and the pinky, biting her lips and letting her body subtlety, but none the less noticeably, wave like the ocean tides. She motioned for the brown haired girl to come over with a single finger. Nearly jumping off her chair, stopping only to grind her cigarette butt in the glass ashtray, she complied, slipping a single finger that had been inside her into her mouth as she smiled, crawling like a cat across the bed. When they were close their tongues proceeded to wrestle through violently-sealed lips.
Then the red-haired girl pulled back and, while grinning but narrowing her eyes, whispered, "fuck him."
The brown-haired girl, eyebrows twitching at the command, lay down on the bed behind her, beside the bottom half of him. She began to jerk him off, and not long afterward the redhead delivered another slap to his face from the top end of the bed, no doubt due to his distraction from his duty. Running her fingers through her hair along one side of her head, the brown-haired girl drops her head down on his dick, sucking, then slowly working back up, cheeks concave, and let her teeth pinch the very tip. She began lapping at it, and the red-head from the head of the bed slapped him in the face again. His feet began to show his restlessness, his desire to move, to join in on the action. His excitement.
Slipping on a condom, the brunette let the lips of her vagina kiss the end just slightly before pulling up, then down again for an even lighter kiss, then a kiss somewhere in-between -- and then, after just touching her lips to the head of his dick for a moment, let herself consume him. He let out a terrific moan and the redhead grabbed the sides of his head, saying, "keep your mind focused on eating my cunt, you little shit head. I don't care how good that bitch is." The brown-haired girl, rhythmically working on him, let her hands squeeze the breasts of the redhead, who sighed pleasantly at the act, closing shut her eyes and shooting her chin to the sky again involuntarily. She threw her hands in front of her, onto the mirror, soon taking one hand and running her fingers through the curls of her damp hair.
When the redhead opened her eyes, as Alex watched her do so in the mirror, her eyes fell right on Alex, who's eyes were immediately locked with hers. "Whip it out and play with yourself," she said.
Alex was terrified. Was she talking to him?
She looked at him. "No time to be shy, dear," she said. "Whip out your cock and jack off, and don't you dare take your eyes off me for a second during the process."
Alex swallowed.
"This is not a request, you little maggot, do you understand?" She said. "I want to see your swollen cock in your hands, I want you rubbing yourself and imagining how great it would be to fuck the living hell out of me, do you understand? I know you want to fuck me. Don't even deny it. And maybe that'll happen, that's up in the air. But what's not an option is the order I just gave you. Whip it out and jack off to my ineffable beauty, you little fuck."
Alex unzipped his pants.
That skin-on-skin sound like the snap of a leather belt, like a clap of thunder. Alex could almost feel the sensation of pin-prickles on the guy's hand, on her ass. Even from a reasonable distance away, where he sat, the sound was enough to punctuate the moment, amplify the senses -- to anchor him in the sensuous rapture of the here and now.
It sounded contradictory, how one could experience a simultaneous presence and transcendence, find a liberation in imprisonment, but Alex was no stranger to contradiction. In this context at least, it had never bothered him, only made him ever-more curious.
To him, watching this was a lot like when someone got stabbed or shot in a film and you almost felt their pain, or the main character finally found the loved one they had been seeking throughout the entire picture and you shared their immense exhilaration. Here, though, it took on a more lucid quality. This was no film. This was real, he was here.
Still feeling as if it was wrong to be here.
That involuntary sound of grandiose pleasure that she made right afterward made Alex grit his teeth, breathe deeply. For a moment he wasn't sitting there in the back of the room: he was there, he was that man, with a numb hand, looking down on that beautiful creature. That was his hand, touching the soft, damp skin of her back, fingers pressing lightly now against her flexing muscles, now gripping her sides. That was him, that was Alex over there, pounding himself deep into her. Soon enough, though, he was himself again, watching this from a near distance, feeling the guilt of being where he was, watching what he was watching.
Guilt without reason, he had been told.
Still, this was getting pretty fucking sad. This he knew, no matter what unconventional friends might say to the contrary. He was indeed regressing. Having gone from long-distance mutual masturbation to what was now absolute voyeurism, he was running away, pushing further back, watching it all recede, and faster now more than ever.
Give him a year, a few months even, and he'll be your average, run-of-the-mill pervert, looking out the window of a tall building through a pair of binoculars at the window of the building across the street, where he could watch two strangers get down and dirty at a distance. Sitting up in his apartment all night watching porn with his all-natural joystick in firm grip, filmy white cum stain blobs on his baggy black jeans.
He wasn't there yet, of course. There was something more admirable, he felt, in the active imagination of a dirty mind and a fist formed around his cock in a lonely, dark room with a locked door and drawn windows. Something more normal about it.
That's right, isolation was normal. Being closed off was normal. Loneliness, that was normal.
His unconventional friend had told him that normality was a myth; an ideal created which almost everyone attempted to fit but no one fit naturally, and no one could trim themselves enough to even approximate. Normality was a waste of time, a futile pursuit, a diversion from the truth.
"You like that, bitch?"
This, he had said, this was the truth. Or a few steps closer, at least.
"Hard enough, you stupid cunt?" Said the man, gripping the hair on the back of her neck with white-knuckled fists as she screams for him in a voice as pleading as it is demanding not for him to stop, no, but for him to fuck her harder. And he does, with those slow, deep and powerful thrusts.
Its confusing, Alex thought, that she likes to be talked down to during sex. Especially since this is probably not the case in the real world. Carl Jung, infamous psychologist, always said that the brighter the light, the darker the shadow: well here there be nothing but shadows. Weird, too, how the man can say it, how he can call her a bitch so powerfully. Writing it down, how the man called her a bitch, Alex thought it might sound comical or crude to anyone who might read what he had set out to write: but it wasn't comical, it wasn't crude. It was frightening, but it was an arousing fear.
And not just for the voyeur, evidently.
Alex noticed he was aroused because he pictured himself in the man's position, and he quickly shook his head and yelled at himself inside to turn it off, to withdraw from this. But it's just role-play, his friend had said to him. But how well can you play a role before you cross the line and become it?
His hands let go of her hair and he lets his finger trace a line in the sweet sweat from the base of her spine to the bottom of her neck, where he then grabs her shoulders with both hands, massages them for a moment, and then grabs two tufts of her hair. He calls her a cunt and tells her to look at him. She looks up, into the mirror positioned at the head of the bed, and her vulnerable eyes meet his sinister scowl.
You get the feeling the sex is only secondary to the sense of power this guy gets off doing this to her. Of course, then you look at her, and you see that the sex is only secondary to the high she gets off of playing the submissive.
You begin to wonder what these people do in the real world. Maybe she's the big boss in the real world, and here she gets to be the underdog. Perhaps he's a bottom-of-the-barrel working class slave who gets to be the alpha male as he pounds his swollen manhood into her.
Did it really matter in the end? Both seem to be getting just what they want, maybe what they need. As is this hurricane of emotions in the darkness here taking notes, observing from the far end of the room. That would be this quivering, guilt-riddled, ever-conflicted voyeur. That would be Alex.
The last two sexual experiences Alex had with girl were both long-distance. The second-to-last was over the cell phone and video cam with his ex-girlfriend. He watched as she sat in the chair of her apartment and fingered herself, occasionally looking dead into the camera. He unzipped his pants, made sure the door was closed, and started working away. His computer, it sucked, so the image would shoot frames real fast for a few seconds, skip a few frames, then seem to go in slow motion. He could hear her wondrous noises, like music to his ears, from the cell phone not a foot away, as they mis-matched her movements on the monitor. For him, there was no camera: she couldn't see him, but he could see her. He could hear her, but he made no noises as he did in sex, so she couldn't hear him. There was something about this that depressed him.
That would be the last time he'd see her. It's been around half a year now.
Following that, he talked dirty to a girl through cell-phone text messages, and he'd like to think that what she said was true. That he made her wet, that she got off. He pictured her on her bed, hand down her unbuttoned, unzipped pants, thrusting one, two fingers between those moistened lips, her breath quickening, her heartbeat racing as she pictured him deep in her. But how could he know for sure? He couldn't know.
What he knew was that all this was distancing. That he was stepping back, becoming less and less involved, finally enshrouding himself -- quite literally -- and living that vibrant sexual existence vicariously through others. He knew damn well that this was all about his drive for sex coupled with his simultaneous terror of intimacy, of relinquishing control. It was about this insipid and seemingly contradictory need to loose himself yet keep himself at the same time. And to be sure, it all sounded contradictory, but anyone who really paid attention would notice that logic is not the dictating force in the universe. That what seems dissociated, even diametrically opposed on one level becomes reconciled and unified one level up.
Hell, Einstein did it with time and space, with matter and energy.
None of that helped, though, because he wasn't a level up. He was stuck here, between a rock and a hard place, in this gap again, and it was a rut -- or is gutter a more fitting term? -- that he couldn't seem to pull out of. Contradictions littered the experience of sex for him; he couldn't seem to wrap his mind around it. At the same time primitive and divine, empowering and exhausting, dirty yet cleansing, he desired ultimate satisfaction (the Tantrist of the left-handed path in him) yet desired to be free from desire (the Buddhist in him) at the same time.
She's the first to orgasm, a sound almost like escalating pain, like someone was slowly but steadily easing up the knob of intensity. It was followed by a moment of silence from her; a swift moment in which her high-pitch moan just suddenly cut off, like time itself had suspended. Her back arched and for a moment, just a moment, she went as rigid as death. The man smiled at her moment of suspension and silence, exhilarated by the accomplishment, watching her with a look hard to define -- but curiosity was in there somewhere.
The pause ended with a scream -- of pain, pleasure, both -- and then rapid panting, then a slowing, a softening and a glow about her features. He watched her hung head in the mirror, her spent and seductive eyes as she looked back up at him beneath a downward brow partially hidden behind a cage constructed of the damp strands of hair that had fallen here and there about the blushed and perspiring features of her face.
Maybe he was just imagining it, but Alex thought he could smell the sweet aroma of sex even from across the room, and it made him salivate in the shadows behind the door.
The guy gets off her, tells her to sit still. He stands up and Alex is more than a bit envious of how muscular the guy is; he feels more than a bit inferior and insecure in comparing the guy's body to his own. He, of course, is little more than a stick figure with skin. Through the bleeding scratch marks on his ripped back was a tattoo of the sephirotic Tree of Life out of Qabala with a serpent running through each of the ten spheres in order, its head swallowing the highest as if an egg. The colors of the snake differed in such a way that it suggested three dimensions; it was, in other words, a serpent depicted as being coiled three-and-a-half times. The Kundalini of Tantra.
The guy looks at her, and he says, "turn around." She does, and you can see the bed sheets are soaked, hair is plastered to her forehead. She is glistening wet. Something about the way she handles herself reminds Alex a bit of his ex-girlfriend: its that confidence, that comfort in this type of activity, like a fish to water. This girl was literally glowing with energy, and she enjoyed this. Alex imagined her to be quite the nymphomaniac, quite the hedonist in general.
She brushes her fingers through her dark brown hair and then grabs a bottle of water from the corner table on the other side of the bed. In the meantime, the guy is rustling through things inside what seems to be a bookbag beside the bed. As Alex could've predicted, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs with one hand. After taking a few swigs of the water and looking back at them in his hands, she smiles and lays back. He wastes no time and straddles her, trying to figure out how he's going to cuff her to the bed. There are bedposts, but without it being incredibly awkward he could only cuff one wrist. She whispers something inaudible to him, and he cuffs the right wrist and begins to move down towards the foot of the bed.
"I like to grab hair anyway," she says to him, then sticking out her tongue and doing some impressive moves with it towards him. Alex notices for the first time that she's got her tongue pierced; a barbell. She then starts looking at the ceiling, which confuses Alex for a moment until he remembers the mirror.
He begins by licking her around the knee-caps, making slithering motions with his tongue, moving slowly towards her inner though. Her hand touches her breasts and she massages on a bit and they lift up and down to the rhythm of her deep breathing. She's got this look of anticipation on her face, this mixture of patience and eagerness, that makes Alex want to take up painting again -- if only he could freeze-frame that look of hers, capture this moment in his mind. The guy works higher up in her inner thigh, getting closer, and she tenses and moves up the bed just a bit -- but then he goes down further, suddenly switching legs, now toying with the other, working up again with his tongue, then down, then further up then before.
Then slower.
He pauses a moment, she pauses. Only her lips, curled in a grin, are evidence that time had not ceased to move forward all together. The silence and still is broken as he suddenly buries himself in her. She lets out a high-pitched moan, her head turning to the side, digging into the pillow, her chin moving up at an angle, her body arching a bit. With her free hand, she scrambles a bit like the blind with her closed eyes, but eventually finds his scalp, grabs a fistful of his hair and pushes his face into her ruthlessly.
Suddenly, face still a look of pleasure, she says through clenched teeth, "Get on your back."
Her voice was as demanding as her words were unexpected, and the way she spoke, the way her eyes didn't waver from his a nanometer as her tender lips moved, Alex felt his blood pressure rise and something in his pants got very, very hard. Alex repositioned himself, sitting in such a way that he hoped it would be less noticeable. Which was ridiculous, because it wasn't as if anyone was watching, right? There were only people `watching' through the medium of his words -- and that was only assuming he would ever reveal them to anyone, or that anyone would bother reading them if he held them up for others to see.
As for the present tense, he didn't even know if she knew he was there.
The guy, he unlocks the cuffs from her wrist, the bedpost, and throws them into the bookbag. Then he gets on his back without a moment's hesitation. All around the mirrors reflect him and her, reflect the reflections of reflections to the right, the left, the ceiling of this cubbyhole: a delightful Indra's Net of debauchery.
Having gotten up, she reaches into a drawer beside the bed, pulls out a blindfold and four leather straps. As for him, he seems quite pleased and excited about what seems to be happening, but there is also a bit of fear in his eyes. Hope and fear seem to go together here as much as pain and pleasure: indeed, dualities are reconciled all around.
Fastening each of the straps to each end of the bed, she then tightens the other ends around his ankles and wrists.
"Tighter," he says, his voice failing a little.
With this incredibly sexy half-grin on her face, she proceeds to tighten them all to his satisfaction, and with one last devilish grin -- this one quite complete -- crossing her face she locks her eyes with his, like a cat who had cornered a mouse, and she puts the blindfold over his eyes.
Suddenly, there seems to be a drastic change in mood here.
"I could do anything," she says. To him, to herself.
She got up and walked to the door. Not the one Alex had come in, not the door he now sat behind, but another, to the left end of the room from his perspective. She walked out and after a few minutes came in with another girl. She had curly, wet red hair. A white button-down shirt, a red-plaid skirt held on by a black belt with silver spikes. Freckles, green eyes.
The brunette, now clothed, sat down comfortably in the gray-colored recliner nearby the bed, watching her red-haired friend in a very hungry manner, it seemed to Alex. She pulled a cigarette out of the pack resting on a nearby table, grabbed the Zippo right beside it and placed the cigarette between her lips. Lighting it with the high flame, she then blew out smoke out in a steady stream towards the ceiling.
She wore a black silk shirt and a simple black skirt with leather black knee-high boots, buckles all the way up. She pulled her feet up on the chair, touching her boots together and spreading her knees the lengths of her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed and her lips stretched into a mischievous grin as her delicate hands caressed the boots, evidently liking the touch of leather at least as much as Alex. Her fingers, with fingernails painted a deep red, moved up and down the sides of the boots, playing momentarily with the buckles. Her blood-red tongue snuck out the edge of her lips, seemingly without intention as she continued to watch her friend.
Alex worried that the rate at which he was taking his notes, the scratch-scribble-scratching sound he was making on the paper in his notebook must be distracting or arousing some attention. Thankfully, in the very least he caught no evidence of this. Did either of the girls even know he was here?
As for the girl in red hair, she ignored her partner on the chair behind her, fixated instead on what lay before her, apparently quite delighted in regards to the sight of him bound to the bed, blindfolded and at her total mercy. Strolling alongside the bed slowly, very slowly, she ran her hands along his legs, twirled a finger around his belly button and followed the line between his chest ever-upward. When her hand came up to his neck, the mood changed, the surprise came like a bolt of lightning, and in a ruthless instant she grabbed it. She then swung her one leg over him, sliding the other so it came to rest on the bed. Now straddling his chest, she brought her other hand over so that she was holding his neck with both hands.
"Hey bitch," she said to him. "What are you going to do now?"
Her voice was melodic and seductive -- a soft, smooth, almost fluid voice that seemed to carry this underlying intensity, like an ocean wave that strolled along and then suddenly revealed the dorsal fin of a shark. It was like some predator calmly, confidently approaching its prey, ready to pounce at any moment.
"Whatever you say," he said in a voice that revealed he was more than a bit intimidated.
"Damn right," she said softly, yet with a strength, "whatever the fuck I tell you to do." She raised herself so she was standing on her knees and then scooted up the bed so that she was now straddling his face. Grabbing his hair, she said, "Now eat my cunt, you filthy fuck."
And as he worked his tongue into her, she glanced at her own eyes in the mirror positioned at the head of the bed, pulling his hair again to say, "harder," or, "easy," or, "deeper. That's it. Deeper, you sonuvabitch." Her eyes never moved from her own image, not even as she barked at him, slapped him across the face for not meeting her standards, or made sounds of obvious satisfaction to his glaring successes. She was drowning in her own image from the very beginning, trapped there in her own reflection, giving herself looks that would make any man fall to his knees.
Maybe its like conditioning self-love, Alex found himself thinking. You feel these intense, overwhelming orgasmic feelings while taking your own image in as completely as possible, you're bound to come to associate the two like a Pavlovian dog associates the salivation first brought on by the food now with the bell. Alex was sure now he'd wasted all those years listening to those cassette tapes for guided meditation for better self-esteem.
She let one hand away from her grip on his hair to unbutton the first few buttons on her shirt, where she took out her breast and began to fondle it in violent, circular motions. She rolled them in wider and wider circles until she began squeezing, rolling her thumb and two fingers tightly around her nipple. Her chin skyward, her jaw clenching, now some pleasant sound halfway between a giggle and a moan erupting from deep within her and bubbling outward. Soon she was giggling like a child, laughing as if being tickled or told a joke, now closing her eyes and just breathing with a smile. Alex found himself smiling perversely, quickly losing the battle against the part of him that didn't feel guilty about enjoying this.
Without warning, she suddenly turned behind her, where the brown-haired girl sat at the chair nearby the desk, fingering herself in a steady rhythm with the two between the pointer and the pinky, biting her lips and letting her body subtlety, but none the less noticeably, wave like the ocean tides. She motioned for the brown haired girl to come over with a single finger. Nearly jumping off her chair, stopping only to grind her cigarette butt in the glass ashtray, she complied, slipping a single finger that had been inside her into her mouth as she smiled, crawling like a cat across the bed. When they were close their tongues proceeded to wrestle through violently-sealed lips.
Then the red-haired girl pulled back and, while grinning but narrowing her eyes, whispered, "fuck him."
The brown-haired girl, eyebrows twitching at the command, lay down on the bed behind her, beside the bottom half of him. She began to jerk him off, and not long afterward the redhead delivered another slap to his face from the top end of the bed, no doubt due to his distraction from his duty. Running her fingers through her hair along one side of her head, the brown-haired girl drops her head down on his dick, sucking, then slowly working back up, cheeks concave, and let her teeth pinch the very tip. She began lapping at it, and the red-head from the head of the bed slapped him in the face again. His feet began to show his restlessness, his desire to move, to join in on the action. His excitement.
Slipping on a condom, the brunette let the lips of her vagina kiss the end just slightly before pulling up, then down again for an even lighter kiss, then a kiss somewhere in-between -- and then, after just touching her lips to the head of his dick for a moment, let herself consume him. He let out a terrific moan and the redhead grabbed the sides of his head, saying, "keep your mind focused on eating my cunt, you little shit head. I don't care how good that bitch is." The brown-haired girl, rhythmically working on him, let her hands squeeze the breasts of the redhead, who sighed pleasantly at the act, closing shut her eyes and shooting her chin to the sky again involuntarily. She threw her hands in front of her, onto the mirror, soon taking one hand and running her fingers through the curls of her damp hair.
When the redhead opened her eyes, as Alex watched her do so in the mirror, her eyes fell right on Alex, who's eyes were immediately locked with hers. "Whip it out and play with yourself," she said.
Alex was terrified. Was she talking to him?
She looked at him. "No time to be shy, dear," she said. "Whip out your cock and jack off, and don't you dare take your eyes off me for a second during the process."
Alex swallowed.
"This is not a request, you little maggot, do you understand?" She said. "I want to see your swollen cock in your hands, I want you rubbing yourself and imagining how great it would be to fuck the living hell out of me, do you understand? I know you want to fuck me. Don't even deny it. And maybe that'll happen, that's up in the air. But what's not an option is the order I just gave you. Whip it out and jack off to my ineffable beauty, you little fuck."
Alex unzipped his pants.
Last edited:
