Circuit

By Brewt.Blacklist

June-July 2014

COWARD.

Sorry; what?

Poser.

What’s bringing this on?

Pansy-ass wimp. Fucking fake. Chicken.

What the fuck?

You know god damn good and well what, you malingering faint-hearted pussy.

Pretty sure I don’t.

Oh, bullshit. Why don’t you just let me go? Leave me the fuck alone.

No, I think you need to tell me what the hell is going on.

Why don’t you just make me?

And just how do you propose I do that?"

See? I just insulted you with what are deemed to be some of the worst things you can say to a man, and offered to lay myself open to whatever you can think to do, and you just sit there like the fraidy-cat wimpy liar you are.

Back up. Reset. Start the fuck over. Go back to the, you know, beginning.

You are not what you said you were.

I’m not?

You said you were a fucking sadist.

Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did.

Which you are not.

I see. And what makes you think that?

For one thing, you aren’t pounding the shit out of me right now.

Oh. Wow. My bad.

And the truth is that you don’t ever really hurt me.

I might want to protest that.

Really? When? How?

Well, let me think now. Night before last I seem to remember spanking you.

God. That wasn’t a real spanking. That was a little play-slap and tickle. I cannot, for the life of me, remember the last time you completely went off on me and made me regret even knowing you.

Well, given that you are making such an enormous deal about the, what, lack of emergency room care, you suddenly seem to have decided you regret knowing me without me even doing anything.

Oh, no you don’t. Don’t you try to twist this into some punishing-me-by-not-punishing-me bullshit.

I don’t know; you seem pretty stressed. Looks to me like that might be working.

No dice, bunny boy. You are not a sadist. You are a fucking nice guy who’s been pawning himself off as one because you happen to be able to scare the shit out me by what you can write. It’s a world of difference between that and someone who can actually rip a strip out of me, and jerk off in the process.

Ah. The masochism is running a little hot today, isn’t it?

I don’t know what the hell you mean by that, and what the fuck do you care.

No, this is an expression of your own self-defeat, your own self-loathing. You despise yourself so fucking bad that you cannot bear the idea of someone—anyone—hating you any less than you do.

Oh, gee-shucky darn, there, mister. What an awesome analysis. Did you get that from a cereal box? And I suppose now you are going to try to tell me that to placate me that you feel exactly that way? That you however I can hate me you can hate me better? Comfort me with how much you abhor me?

I don’t abhor you.

My point exactly. You care. You think that somewhere in here is someone worth saving, someone worth having delicate tender little feelings for, and that’s where all the rot sets in. It’s already been so long since you hurt me so hard my mind erases that I can’t remember when you ever did, and soon, I’m going to be something inestimable to you, a treasure you’re going to have to protect from the big bad world out there, and you’ll put me up on some kind of god damn pedestal. Next thing you know, you’ll be asking me to fucking marry you, start squeezing out kids, and bake cookies. I’ll be a trophy slut that you keep in the case in the house to keep from damaging my value. Something you won’t even shit on or piss on or hit or hurt or fuck or make do things you know I don’t want to do. Because you are afraid you are going to damage me. Newsflash, buddy-boy: I’m already damaged.

Okay. So. I haven’t been pushing you hard enough lately. Point taken. So come over here and suck my cock.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Why? You afraid you’re going to be rewarding me for my not-so-bad behavior?

Bingo, you faggy-dicked cocksucking weakling.

Alright, this does present a challenge. So, tell me something, my precious little angel—

—Fuck you—

—Ahem. My precious little narcissistic selfish angel who tops from the bottom and is nothing but a fount of complaints about how she is treated.

God damn it.

Are you trying to tell me that the satisfaction du jour that will keep you interested and engaged and willing to continue with me—the very me that you are so inventively name-calling as nothing but a pitiful charade and a fraud—is for me to cowboy up and disregard the safeties, that I should not be attentive to what I am doing to you and simply hit you for the sake of hitting you, for getting the motion to happen in my arm to happen for the sake of the motion?

You’re not helping.

No, I mean it. You’re saying that I am not doing what it takes here and what will be really satisfying to you is that I should simply not stop hitting you until I pound you into the ground, that I should basically just beat you to death, are you not?

I…well…no, I don’t want to die.

Oh, well, then, let me cater to your wish for your awesome little life to continue as an invalid, permanently maimed and disfigured, unable to do anything without the assistance of the home medical profession, leaving you a vegetable that can’t eat or shit or move or even breathe on your own, then. Since you’re being so kind as to spare me the chair for having murdered you.

What?

Oh, but that would serve, would it not? To commit assault and battery and hey, how could we forget aggravated rape upon you—and perhaps a little enslavement action; can’t forget crimes against humanity—not to mention the affront to femininity that I as a man in general represent to all women everywhere by simply existing such that I should spend the rest of my life in a penitentiary for violent offenders and get my own good self butt-fucked for the remainder of my days by the criminal element in order to satisfy you and your little longings such that you got me to commit a hard enough felony on you that might actually matter to society. Right?

Stop it.

Are you saying that you don’t want it to go that far? That maybe the notion of having to suffer brain damage or to losing limbs is maybe a higher price than you’re willing to pay for me and my cock? I know: how ‘bout I bleed you to where you pass out from the blood loss, and you can explain, in the hospital, when you wake up from all the transfusions, that no, officer, we were just playing, he didn’t mean to go too far, I’ll be fine, really.

Gross.

What limit is far enough? I myself am quite satisfied with the idea that I most sincerely believe that if I ask you to do something, something painful, something humiliating, something that you don’t even like or want to happen that you will go out of your way to make sure that it does, for the mere sake of me being able to think to myself that "yeah, she’d do even that for me," and that gets me so hot that I can’t wait and I have to masturbate myself into a frenzy to the point that I cannot perform for real, and I will leave you stranded and without the satisfaction of the penetration of a big, fat, hard, long, pounding, throbbing, dripping cock—especially one that forces its way into some place uncomfortable or unspeakable—such that you should then get to suffer long and hard through orgasm denial and that, too, feeds a part of my need for acknowledgement and acceptance that only the peculiar institution itself can take care of. I’m getting what I need; why aren’t you satisfied?

Because you aren’t asking for any of that shit.

Asking what?

Asking me to allow you to perform an atrocity upon me, or to perform one upon myself.

Ah. So you’re bored.

I…yes. You aren’t making use of me, and I feel useless and empty.

And you’re not willing to feel that way for me.

Don’t even go there. That’s the whole torture-me-by-not-torturing-me shit, and I won’t stand for it. I’ll leave.

Right. You’ll leave me because you’re bored here with me in order to go sit by yourself and be alone and be bored by yourself.

Pretty sure I won’t be bored, although a little peace and quiet would be nice. There is no shortage of available men out there who are perfectly willing to abuse a woman any way she wants. You’re replaceable.

So. We found a limit. At long god damn fucking last.

What?

The super-submissive stone masochist who has no regard for herself or her own safety, who actually needs someone to look out for her and make sure she doesn’t self-inflict any kind of final solution against herself in her efforts to find yet another new height of pain to fly through or another depth of degradation to drag herself through in her relentless quest for rapture is going to safeword because she’s not being entertained enough. She has finally come to the idea that she is maybe worth a little more than the nothing she feels about herself, and she is not willing to suffer through that kind of emptiness. She needs attention. And not just a little, she needs whoever she is with to be completely taken with her and to be perfectly adaptable to whatever mood she is in at a moment’s notice. Now, never mind that he will have to be constantly on guard against the possibility that maybe, just maybe he is not enough for her, because the important thing is that he is to devote his every waking moment and every sleeping dream-moment toward making sure she is properly treated and amused at all times. Even if her definition of "proper treatment" isn’t exactly something the rest of the world would necessarily agree with.

I…uh…

So what’s the difference between having someone who is expending all his efforts toward your perpetual suffering and constant misery and relentless agony and someone who is expending all his efforts toward adoring you and caring for you and dare I say, loving you? Because in both cases, he doesn’t matter at all. All that matters is you.

I-I don’t like how you did that.

Tough toenails. Submission is a ruse. It’s a negotiating tactic, to offer up to some poor schlepp some piece of attention that he has felt he has been denied all his life, all geared toward the idea that even though he treats you some kind of bad that he’s been taught not to do that you are alright with him getting away with that with you. He’s not really treating you "bad." Despite all the over-theatrical appearances of servitude and compliance and yielding towards him and all his little perversities, it is in fact he that is honoring you and your wishes and taking the utmost care of you in any and all circumstances by making sure you are still alright before he starts bossing you around, insisting you sexualize anything and everything about him with all the threats and realities of punishments, from slight to severe, for failing in any way shape or form. He is in fact caring for you and taking better care of you than you can care for yourself and playing into you and your little perversities and giving you what you really want above everything else, which is to be relieved of all fucking responsibility. Someone who doesn’t have a choice doesn’t have to make one. And the funny part of it all is that through all of it you are expecting that it will be he who is the one that is changing himself, tearing himself to pieces to be able to bring himself to inflict some new horror onto you that you deliberately set him up for. Doing something petty and stupid and slightly wrong to force him into the position of having to wreak something awful on you that he maybe doesn’t even want to do as long as it’s all at the level you are willing to tolerate that you feel that you deserve today. All of which is going to be completely different from how you feel tomorrow. The masochist never actually changes inside of herself because of anything anyone else ever does to her. You are fucking immutable. If I hurt you, all I do is feed you and your own self-esteem issues. And fuck me sideways with something hard over me and my cherished little feelings about all this; it’s my job to do nothing but take care of you. You do not take care of me.

Wrongo, bucko. Submission is a stance, it is a position in the world. I am beneath you, and I defer to you, to give you the bolster to your pride and your ego that you need to go back out into the world and conquer. By overthrowing me and whatever genuine resistance I might have to the most outlandish deviancy you can come up with, you can come to the idea that you can rule out there no matter what they do to try to defeat you. It is a service I perform to you and your needs and your cock, and it isn’t a casual little game, it is a way of life. When I give myself to you, you don’t get a little piece of me, you get everything. Lock stock and barrel. You get my body to do with as you please, you can tinker with my emotions. You tell me to think something, I will think it. You tell me to believe something, I will believe it with all my heart and defend it and you and everything you do to me to the death. I. Am. Your. Property. Submission a ruse? That’s—no—that’s not true.

It most certainly is. You don’t want me to kill you, remember? And here you are, threatening to leave me: my car doesn’t do that. There is a "too much," and there are limits that come on way before anything to do with any kind of final solution, and not just one. Despite how hard you tout that when you submit, you really fucking submit and you give up on choice and defer on everything and all and will simply go with whatever I say, saying "you pick, whatever you want," that is simply not true. You have more negotiations on the side and preferences and suggestions and requests and insistences and restrictions and out-and-out naggings in what you will allow and won’t allow than if you were a plain vanilla jane who only permitted me to fuck her on Saturday night with the blinds drawn and the lights out in the missionary position wearing pajamas. At least they’re up front about it.

No; I’m here to submit to you, to cater to you, to serve you, to be your slave in all things, to do what you want, to be what you want. I am here to kneel.

Horseshit. You are such an attention whore that you demand compliments on everything you do and don’t do all the god damn time, and frankly, it’s exhausting. "Good girl, you got me a cup of coffee, good girl, you sucked my cock so good, good girl, you took that whipping well." And god forbid I should leave you to fend for yourself, to allow you even the possibility you should find yourself even for just a moment blasé and disinterested in whatever you think is my responsibility to keep your sophisticated attention span from lagging. The worst sin I could commit against you is to bore you, and it is one you will not forgive me for.

Fine. You want to kill me? Go ahead. I won’t care.

No, you won’t care, because you’d be dead. And you plainly don’t care now what that would do to me. Because I am the one that is expendable here. You’ve said so yourself. If I let you get tired of anything, I will have failed you, and deserve to be punished with the worst thing you can think of: the removal of your own good company, and just let me see if I can find someone to replace such a priceless jewel as yourself. You want it both ways: you want to be treated like you are completely worthless, and you want to be treated as though you are completely valuable. Simultaneously.

Great. Now I’m the bad guy. Just as I suspected. Awesome.

Oh, grow up. This isn’t about good guys and bad guys, or nice and nasty, or right and wrong, or even sadism and masochism. This is about you and me, and whether or not we are together. If the answer to that is "yes," then everything after that is a crap shoot.

So why bother?

Because I don’t know about you, but I still have some faith to expend here.

Why does it always have to be life or death with you?

Because it always is, with or without my say so. And in case you haven’t noticed, I keep choosing life: life with you. I am not interested in having you die. Your death would take you away from me, and make it so I couldn’t do what I want to do with you. Which is what you just threatened me with. Leaving me, taking your own good self away from me, making it so I don’t have you here any more. And you are willing to do that because you don’t find me exhilarating enough. You are the second most selfish person I know.

So fuck me and all my evil ways. Haven’t you had enough of all the terrible burden I seem to be placing on you? Why won’t you let me go?

Because I still love you, and, for my own selfishnesses, I still want you around. Because I am the most selfish person I know, and I want you to stay, and I want you to suffer for me and my sake. To feel what I want you to feel. To do what I want you to do. I’m not done with you.

I…Well. When you put it that way. What do you want me to do for you, master?

Take off your god damn clothes.

Fine. Whatever.

Let me look at you.

God, I hate that. There are so many things wrong with me.

So? Stand there, put your arms down and let me look. And quit frumping.

Look, can’t you just do something to me that hurts?

I am. I am hurting your pride, your endless vanity. Just the act of looking tears you to ribbons. Now stand there and suffer.

That’s not what I mean. You know what the fuck I mean. Please?

Of course. Give me your arm.

Why?

So I can pull it up behind your back while you suck my cock. In fact, give me both of them.

That would really fucking hurt.

Isn’t that what you wanted?

Yeah, but not the way you do it. You don’t hate me enough to do it right.

What? So? It still hurts, doesn’t it?

It feels different. I can feel you caring in how you pull, in how you shove my cock down into the back of my throat. You don’t cut loose. You will not break my arm.

So you want me to break your arm? I think what you really want is to be hate-fucked.

I want to feel like I have survived. Like I have been put through the wringer.

Like you’ve triumphed. Like you have proven yourself. You want to show off how noble and strong you are.

I’m not strong. I am so fucking weak, I cannot stand it.

Nonsense. If I were to say to you that I wanted to cane you until you bleed, would you consent?

In a heartbeat. You wouldn’t even have to tie me up.

You call that weak? If I were to say to you that I wanted to plunge needles into you over your entire body, into soft spots, into bone, wherever, and hook them up to electricity and make you dance and convulse and hurt, on beyond the point that you could do anything but sweat and scream, would you allow for that?

I would totally hate that, but yes.

Such a fragile and frail little thing you are. No strength whatsoever. Shouldn’t you be fainting by now? Or are you just a girl who can’t say no?

Is that what you want me to do? Say no? Sing? You are so confusing.

How about I get a razor blade and cut you open, just enough to part your flesh and pack it with cigar ash, just enough to scar you permanently, would you say yes?

Wh-where?

That’s not what I asked you. I didn’t say "I want to put an innocuous little cut on you, so tiny it would be almost cute, so please pick a nice spot that you would be comfortable with that that wouldn’t show," I said, "cut you; scar you." Period. I pick where. I could choose anywhere: your face, your tits, your legs that you are so proud of, maybe someplace you can’t see, maybe someplace you’d have to explain to people who couldn’t help but do a double take when they look at you when they pass you on the street. Perhaps I’ll leave you in such a state as to frighten small children. I know: how about I carve and scar into you the words "slut," and "bitch," and "cunt," and "whore," and "fucktoy," and "cocksucker," and "asslicker," and "painslut," and "humilationwhore," and "slave," and "all you have to do is ask," right out there where it would be difficult to cover up, so there would be no question as to what you really are. Or maybe I’ll have you tattooed with instructions to anyone who reads it on just how to abuse you in ways you would hate, with the assurance that you would welcome it anyway. I’m sure the words "hit me" on the inside of your lower lip would do wonders for your pout. Yes or no?

…Y-yes.

Suppose let’s say that you should get all gussied up and we were to go downtown tonight to one of the bars, and I would send you off to go hit on some actual nice guy who sits up straight and wears a tie and has both hands on the table around his drink and you ask him if you can sit down with him and you pay no attention to how he stammers or stutters out his surprise at a pretty girl asking to sit next to him and you slide around to his side of the booth and put your elbow up on the table and your head under your hand and you introduce yourself and ask him his name and sit up straight and nudge in a little closer to him and you repeat his name to him and shake his hand and you repeat his name to him twice more, relishing the pronunciation of it the first time and whispering it the second and you find out what he does for a living and you make some lame comment about meeting people in bars and you bat your eyes at him and you smile at him and ask him what he’s drinking, and then you ask if you can have a sip and you drink down half of whatever he has left and you compliment him on whatever it is and slump the rest of the way over to him so that your leg is actually up against his and you laugh and put your head on his shoulder and hook your arm into his elbow and pull it towards you so that it comes in contact with your breast and you do not back away and you carry on a conversation with him and lead him on to think that you are a nice, good respectable girl that he suddenly has a chance with, and you could smile at him and engage with him on whatever he wants to talk about and you should laugh at his jokes as you squirm in the booth and adjust yourself to the music and you could maybe mention that you would want to go to church with him, and you put your hands on him in ways that are okay and innocuous at first and you persist and cross the line to make it clear that it wasn’t an accident, that it was deliberate and you put your leg over his under the table and pull his legs apart with yours at his knees and pull your leg up his as high as you can get it and you spread yours, too, and you start rolling your hips around slowly, slightly next to him and you move on to touch him in ways you maybe shouldn’t but you can’t help yourself and when he freezes and doesn’t move you pull your hands and your leg off him and be all shy and concerned that you maybe offended him so he can say "no, uh, no, it’s okay," and so you pick it back up right where you left off and make sure you leave one hand under the table and you pull up your skirt to expose your panties and you rub between your legs over them there and you make sure that he notices and take the little shake of his head that he’ll do when he does notice you doing that as the go ahead to shift yourself around so that if he looks down he can definitely see what you’re doing and if he can’t figure it out for himself you hint with your eyes that you want him to look and take the opportunity when he does do that to pull your hand up so he can see you can push it back down inside the waist band of your panties and make it clear that you are wiggling a finger directly on where your clit would be for a few seconds before you push it down further so you can get actually inside yourself and you squirm and you masturbate for him like that by moving your hand back and forth there, between playing with your clit to reaching inside yourself until his breathing changes which you will take as the indication that it would be okay for you to become familiar with his muscles and bones with your other hand and you relish squeezing him here and there and gasp out loud with an exhale when you find a stretch of flesh in his arms or his legs that makes him flinch when you touch it and you find out if he’s ticklish or not and you play with that a little and when he looks up all wide-eyed you offer up that you are very ticklish and you tell him where and position yourself so he can touch you there and you laugh and curl around all coy and cute and pull your hand out from your panties and inhale hard with it under your nose and if he’s interested, you offer it to him to do the same and you compliment him relentlessly about how this is all turning you on and how much you like this and you get him all hot and bothered and you do whatever it takes over his clothes to get his cock hard as a fucking rock right there in the booth, so hard that he is overcome by it all and is anxious to get started with what just has to happen next and you let him put his arms around you and you let him kiss you on your neck at first and make it clear that you are enjoying that and then wiggle yourself around so he can reach your cheek then you pull your head back and look deep into his eyes and then drop them down to look at his lips and you slowly reposition your head as you move in and brush his lips with yours and you linger into a kiss, a real kiss, a bride’s kiss, gentle and sweet and persistent such that it should continue forever, pushing your tongue onto his lips at first, smiling as your feel him quiver and you take a moment to compliment him on how good he tastes before you pull hard on him and force yourself into his mouth, licking his tongue and his teeth and you breathe through his mouth and moan as you do it and you keep at it and hang onto him there for dear life, relaxing into his arms, molding your body onto his, until he pulls away to inhale real air and not air that has been in your lungs and you slowly let him find his way to your breasts, encouraging him if you have to, and when he gets his tentative fingers actually onto you there you pant through your open mouth with your eyes wide and boring into his hard until he gets his palm onto the front of breast so he can feel your erect nipple and then you gasp again, inhaling a squeal this time, hard and sharp, heaving your breasts in the process, pulling his other hand up onto your other breast and pushing them hard to his hands and you do everything you can to convey in no uncertain terms that what you really want before you go to church in the morning with him is to have him inside you anywhere and everywhere you can get him and when he nods his head the little nod that he will do when you whisper that into his ear, you tell him that the time has come that you and he should go fuck and you make sure that the "f" of that word is long and the "u" is soft and the "k" is hard and sharp and clear and you pitch it so that it sounds like you want to do that right god damn here right god damn now and you tell him in no uncertain terms that you think they should go and that you should go right now and you shimmy out of the booth brushing your skirt back down and you make sure that he understands that you are reaching over to hold his hand and you pull on it gently to get him to follow you and keep looking back at him to smile at him and crook your neck and your shoulders with a "come hither" in your motions as you take him out into the back alley where I would be waiting for you to come out and you tell him to wait just a second, that you have to do this first, and you let go of his hand and step towards me with a sashay in how you cross your ankles and sway your hips as you walk towards me, taking off your dress up over your head and your bra and your panties and you don’t just drop your clothes, you throw them away from you as far as you can and when you are standing before me naked with your legs spread, with us positioned so he can see that you don’t have any pubic hair, you slowly and elegantly kneel down in front of me and open my pants and take out my cock and you open your mouth around the biggest smile you can put on and you put one hand in mine and your other behind your back and you turn to him and wink at him and then you look up at me with every ounce of adoration you have and you clearly nod and I will break the little finger in the hand of yours I have in mine and your mouth will fall further open with a groan and I will piss on your face, your hair, your body and especially in your mouth that you make a big show of swallowing and twisting around the hand I still hold and squeeze with you shaking your other hand in delight over all that is happening to you and you beg me for more, saying "please, piss in my mouth, I want you to," and "god, that hurts, thank you, I like it," until I am done and you wipe off your face and lick your good hand with murmuring sounds about how good it is before you turn toward him and you seductively crawl to him with a limp on your bad hand, swinging your hips and your body so your breasts sway underneath you across the filth in the alley with you focused on him with lust in your heart and when you reach him you put your hands on his legs and walk them up slowly, one hand on, one hand off, flinching with each press of your broken finger, up his leg a little higher with each climb, nodding the whole time until you get to his belt and you open his pants and get them to drop to his ankles and take his hard cock and hold it gingerly with your broken hand, moaning and panting as you bend it down far enough that his back arches and hold your mouth open right over what is in your fingers, tempting him by putting your mouth onto his cock as far as you can get it without touching him with your lips or your tongue or your teeth and you breathe hot breath onto his flesh, inhaling through your nose so all he can feel is heat through at least three such rasping breaths before you pull back and hook your unbroken little finger into his fist and look up at him and swear by the god you both worship that you will let him fuck you in the ass as hard as he wants after you suck his cock for as long as he wants you to starting right then and there if he would only do to you what I just did, all of it, and to seal the deal you tell him to be sure to hold my hands tight, baby. Is there any question you’d do that for me and my entertainment?

Absolutely not.

Is your pussy wet?

Fuck, yes!

Play with yourself, right now. Show me how you can get yourself off.

Talk to me, please.

I cannot remember the last time you rubbed one out for me. I want you to do it now, I want you to be loud, and I don’t want you to hold back. I want you to get up and jump up and down, so your boobs bounce hard and I want you to do it so long that they ache so hard that you beg me to stop and I won’t let you, you can only stop jumping when you collapse. When that happens, I want you spread your legs as far as you can get them and curl up on your back so you can reach because what I want you to do is to get your entire hand inside yourself, four fingers and a thumb, all the way up past your palm all the way up to your forearm, right in your pussy, and I want you to get as many fingers as you can get into your asshole, too, and rub your clit with your wrist and fist fuck yourself as hard as you can and I want to sit on your face while you drive your tongue into my asshole as far as you can get it, and I want to slap your tits as hard as I can until they bruise, I want them to hurt for a week, with or without a bra, and I will pinch your nipples as hard as I can and twist them so far you’ll be afraid they are going to come off until I can’t pinch my fingers together any more, and I will fart in your mouth and you will change whatever it takes inside you to get off on all that, you will come, you will come like the god damn slut who can’t help herself that you so fucking are, you will come.

Oh my god!

Come for me now, that is an order, I want you to squirt, cunt; I want you to fucking scream. Do it right god damn now, you fucking whore.

Oh! Oh! OH! Fuck! Fuck!

…Are you alright?

Oh, shit, yes.

Did you come?

Do you have to ask? Yes. Yes I did. Thank you. I needed that. Oh. Wow.

Good. Listen, I gotta go. Call you tomorrow?

Yes. Yes, sir. Please.

Okay. Good night.

Hey?

What?

When are we gonna meet?

Someday. Promise.

I really want to.

So do I. Really.

Okay.

Tell me you love me, bitch.

Not a fucking chance, hero.

I’ll wait.

Asshole. Good night.

Posted with Blogsy

Party Favor

By Brewt.Blacklist

June 2014

For the occasion of Ashley Zacharias’ birthday

THE PARTY at Bob and Sally’s was something we had been looking forward to for a couple weeks. It was expected to be quite the affair; several families had been invited, and Bob was doing burgers on the grill. We brought a bottle of wine, and Alice had found a small gift for Sally and a card to take from us. The card read:

 

This is a secret you and I can definitely share.

"The secret to staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly and lie about your age."

—Lucille Ball

This year, we’re 39, right?

Happy 39th birthday!

 

Other couples’ cards were of the same vein, and there was cake and ice cream and the kids were all sent into the back yard to play once the song had been sung and the candles had gotten blown out.

The adults were left inside, and we all sat around a big circle in the living room, with a big production being made about the presents and the sentiments among friends of growing up and growing old together. It was a good party. When all had been accomplished, a small hush fell through the room, as Sally beamed and relished at what appeared to be her gratitude of everyone being there. She stood and cleared her throat to make an announcement.

"I have a request to make of everyone here, and I want everyone’s assurance that I will have your support through this."

There was a mixture of assent and concern throughout the murmurings from everyone in the room, with a general agreement that whatever she needed, we would all be there for her.

"Everyone has to participate. I’m not asking much; if I can do this, you can, too. As my friends." She held her pinky in her mouth as she stood before her husband and wiggled her torso back and forth. He started to stand and she held him down and pushed him to lean back in his chair. She stepped around to the side. She reached up under her skirt and proceeded to take her panties down to her ankles, and she bent over his legs and lifted her dress. He asked her if she was really sure she wanted to do this, and she nodded, and put her hands down on the floor on the other side of his lap. Bob took a deep breath, pulled his hand back, and proceeded to spank her.

There were collective gasps throughout the room. Most of the women turned their heads. Most of the men did not.

There is some kind of an internal clock in me that starts up counting things before I am even aware that I am doing it until the seventh or eighth iteration of whatever it is I’m being made aware of—instances of a speaker saying "uh" during a speech, the number of maniacal toon vehicles that roar around me on the highway, the ever-increasing count of commercials during the breaks in TV shows, whatever—gets pushed into my deliberate consciousness, and this was no exception. The swats and the slaps rang throughout the room. No one was daring to make any noise, hell, no one was daring to breathe throughout it all. Sally stayed put, and Bob delivered through the requisite number of thirty-nine, and he helped her up when he was done. She bent over and kissed him on the cheek, thanking him. She reached down and wrestled her panties the rest of the way off over her shoes, and handed them to him with a smile.

Three couples stood to leave.

"No, no, no. You cannot go. My darling husband has merely started the proceedings. I am requiring this from everyone here."

"Absolutely not," said one of the husbands who had his marching orders from his wife.

Sally stepped over to bar the way out of the front door. "I must insist. This is very important to me."

"Well, no. We are not interested," the wife said. The other two standing couples all nodded in unison; it was like they had rehearsed.

"Look, I’m not trying to get anything bad to happen, but it is quite simple. Everyone in this room is going to spank me today, and I am quite serious about it. What’s more, it isn’t going to be just today. I am going to get spanked or paddled or whipped or whatever thirty-nine times every day this year by one of you. There is going to be a rotation, and you will all participate. Every last one of you."

Two of the standing husbands started chuckling, again with the appearance of long hours of practice to get the timing just right, and it spread like a sequence to the other men, standing and sitting; myself included. "What makes you think we will agree to that?" One of the other men asked.

"Because if you don’t, I will get your children to do it. They won’t balk one bit."

"Don’t be ridiculous. That’s child abuse."

"Oh, so you’re prepared to have me labeled as a pedophile and a sex offender because you are uncomfortable with a stupid childhood game? Can you imagine who I’d have to get to do what I want in prison? Are you so ready to so completely hate and write off someone you were so happy to be with not five minutes ago? What kind of people are you?"

"Come on, Sally," I said. "What kind of person are you to put us, your friends into such an awful and tasteless position as this?"

"This is something I need to happen, and I have come to you, my friends, to help me with it."

"Why?"

"It’s not simple or just about one thing. It’s a part of who I am and always have been that I have kept hidden from you all that I can no longer—in good conscience—continue to do so." Bob nodded, with his eyebrows all the way up. "And I don’t care how you justify it to yourself, whether you’re taking pity on some poor sick person that you’re determined you’re going to somehow find some obscure way laced with platitudes to save me from myself, or if you have always secretly wanted to wreak some horrible vengeance on women in general or on me specifically and you run off to masturbate with the furies afterwards, or whatever twisted or benign rationale you can convince yourself of, you are the people I want to do this."

"I don’t want to do this!" One of the standing wives was overwhelmed by her own outburst: bent over, purple-faced, trembling. It took a solid three seconds—one, two, three—of silence after that for her to bury her face in her hands, crying, completely ashamed to have had such an emotional moment, embarrassed to be looked at by all her friends, humiliated to the core to have even been here and to even have the suggestion of such a horror being placed right there in front of her with the unspeakable expectation that she have anything whatsoever to do with it at all. It was how we all felt. Her husband put his arm around her and helped her sit back down. There were whispers going around the room.

My wife said something I don’t think anyone heard, and I snapped to face her, my own eyes wide. "What?"

She cleared her throat, and everyone looked at her. "I said we’re in." Alice couldn’t lift her eyes from the floor, nor could she blink them. "Are none of you listening to her? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to have anything more to do with this than any of the rest of you. But look: she just said she was prepared to go to prison here, to be completely ostracized from not just us but the entire community, and all for what, the idea that she thinks she needs a spanking? Who are we to say that she doesn’t?"

"She needs help." The other sitting husband, the one trying to comfort his out-of-her-element wife, chimed in. A definite knack for the obvious, that one always had.

"No question. And she just asked us for it. Now, I am the first to disagree with the course of this treatment, but I can’t throw her to the wolves, nor to whatever monsters are out there that would be more than willing to assault a woman who puts herself into the position she is talking about. I mean, my god. Could any of you bear it if she got herself really hurt because of this? Or worse?" My wife, of all the people here, had the most issue with anything even remotely kinky or weird. She was such a stick in the mud I didn’t even bother making a pass at her any more. If she wasn’t in the mood, no power on earth could get her into it, and I ended up waiting for her to come to me, which was nowhere near enough to suit me, but I wasn’t about to take on any of the alternatives, of adultery or divorce or force. I had, by necessity, become a man of waiting. This was so unlike what I had come to expect of her.

She looked up to Sally and held her hand up, opening and closing her fingers.

I could not believe my wife was beckoning our friend to come to her to get spanked.

Sally looked relieved, and bent over and hugged her for the longest time before pulling back, stroking Alice’s hair. If Hollywood clichés meant anything, they were about to kiss, but Alice did something none of the rest of us could see, and Sally bent slowly over her lap. My own wife lifted the skirt of her best friend, and revealed her ass to us all much as Bob did.

"Thank you, Alice."

My wife patted her friend on the butt.

"My darling, I don’t want to be one to complain, but that one didn’t count. You have to do much better than that."

Swat two, or one, depending on how one counts these things, happened, and induced a slight ripple in the bottom laid bare before us all.

"Please, do not be patronizing. I never thought I would ever hear myself say this, but you have to fucking hit me. I love you that you are willing to help, but I’m begging you: don’t play. Do it right. Please."

Alice had to stop herself and collect whatever it was she had to put together to do it. She sat and her breathing accelerated a little, and her face twisted into what she needed to make it do to actually strike her friend with all the force that was expected. She almost looked enraged, and her hand flew so fast I had trouble catching up with the counters until she was well past fifteen.

My wife delivered.

Sally was lurching about, gasping, getting caught up in it, and feeling what it was she had brought us all here together to feel. When the count hit thirty, Alice stopped and caught her breath.

As if they had planned it, they both said "oh god" in unison. Alice slowed down for the last nine strokes, pulling her hand back up behind her head; she applied every ounce of force she could find within her self to vent down her arm, through her hand, onto her friend’s bottom. Sally squealed, and when it was over, she fell off of my wife’s lap onto the floor, only to scramble back up and throw her arms around her spanker. She started kissing her spanker all over her face, deliberately making her way towards her lips, and thanking her, and Alice brought her hand up between them.

"I wish you wouldn’t do that."

"Oh, oh, yes ma’am, I’m sorry ma’am." Sally plopped her head down into Alice’s lap, kneeling on the floor before her, and shook. Her skirt had fallen over the offensive, er, offended portion of her anatomy.

Alice pet her and tried to muster a smile that her friend couldn’t see. She addressed the room: "It’s not so bad, folks. We can do this for her." She wrenched her head up toward me, with her face falling into a dread seriousness, and she tipped her head down toward the woman kneeling before her, keeping her eyes locked on to mine, her lips compressing into a pencil-thin line.

I couldn’t look around the room to see what the other couples were doing, and the last person I wanted to even be aware of was Bob.

I was about to spank his wife. In front of all of our friends. At the behest of my—and his—wife. I felt whatever resistance I may have had about all this fall away from me as it always did when my wife wanted something.

I stood and reached down onto Sally’s hair, barely touching it. She startled up and bored into me, her mouth askew, not breathing. She nodded as small as she could, and struggled to stand up. I held my hand out, and she put her own hand into it, as though I were helping her up stairs or into a car. We turned around and stood by the chair I was sitting in. We were almost clumsy in our attempts to get ourselves positioned right, facing the right directions and the like, and if the doom that was not impending before us as it was, we would have laughed. She defocused her gaze and waited for me to sit back down.

My back was ramrod straight, with my calves formed forty five degree angles to my knees, one foot before, one foot behind. I spread them slightly, and she descended slowly, full of dignity and grace. I thought about physics and leverage and trajectories and lines of force, anything to keep from acknowledging what I was about to do. What I was about to do wasn’t a childish game, it wasn’t a silly party maneuver, it wasn’t some peculiar therapy that we were asked to participate in. It was a religious act, one that called to a god I didn’t believe in through a ritual I didn’t understand for a purpose I had railed against my entire life. A man does not hit a woman, and that’s that. And here I was, in front of all of our friends, about to defy everything I had ever been taught and do exactly that. I pulled my hand back; she almost fell off my lap with my strike. She inhaled sharply, and repositioned herself, to try to stabilize herself against what the first blow promised was to come.

Sally thrashed and cried out and tried to keep her composure and she couldn’t. She shouted and gasped and whimpered and moaned and her noise became more and more continuous and her volume raised and the only other thing I could hear was the sound of my hand hitting her flesh.

Alice touched my shoulder. "That’s enough, dear."

I had no sense of count.

Sally fell off my lap and rolled around on the floor and wept.

I became aware of other couples murmuring disparaging things. "Monster," "barbaric," "how could he," "maybe that’s what she needed to get this out of her fool head," and my head swam. I pulled my eyes up and found the last person I wanted to see. Bob was looking at his wife as she wallowed on the floor, and he was looking forlorn. He lifted his eyes to me, and I shrank back as far as the chair would allow.

He nodded, and looked otherwise completely blank. I collapsed back in my chair, dropped my head, and blushed.

I was in a fog for the rest of the night. Occasionally, the sound of slapping or some grunting would wake me from my dream-state. There was a little pleading from some wife or other, something about "please don’t make me do this," that occasionally caught my attention—whoever was behind this well-practiced script hadn’t thought to include any other lines—but by the time I succeeded in looking up at one time or another, one of the other husbands was hard at it, and never one of the other wives. I had no sense for the passage of time, but the counting mechanisms I had got well into the hundreds at the sounds of slaps before I deliberately shut them down. My wife put her hand on mine when it was time to go, and she asked me if I was okay to drive. My pride insisted I was, and she only had to remind me that the light had changed once. When we got home and in bed, I put my arm around her and cuddled up to her and she flipped her head back and said "really?" and that was that. I think I slept; it did not feel like I did.

The next morning I tried to ask her about it. She looked like she was trying to think about what to say. "There’s a schedule. Sally is going to be coming over every five of six days or so." We set a second or three. "Do you want to be there when she comes for me?"

"I…uh…do you want me to be?"

"It’s up to you."

"I don’t…I don’t think so; no."

"I will offer you the same courtesy."

And that was all we said about it. Sally came by three days later, and she and Alice retreated into our bedroom and closed the door. I went into the living room and tried to read, but couldn’t concentrate on anything on the page in front of me. I ended up turning on the TV. It only took five minutes; it was a ridiculously long five minutes. All commercials: ten of the damn things. When our bedroom door opened, I was sure it was improper to look. I caught a glimpse of Sally as she opened the front door. I glanced up and she was looking at me, smiling. "I’ll see you on Saturday, yes?"

"Uh, yeah. You’ll be coming here, or do you want me to come over?"

"I’ll come by. Is before noon okay?"

"Yeah. Yes. That’d be great."

"Bye."

She darted out the door, and the house went quiet. I sat and couldn’t remember what I was watching; I turned the TV off and went back to our bedroom. I knocked. "Honey?"

"Can I have a few minutes? Please?"

"Sure. Sure." I went back to the living room leaving the door’s closure intact to sit in the quiet. When she came out, she bustled all business and chores and she had to nag me twice to go mow the lawn. It was late in the evening for that sort of thing, but I did it. She wouldn’t talk about what happened that night as well as the next day, and she was utterly unresponsive to my efforts to be intimate for the rest of the week, and every time I so much as suggested I wanted to talk, she would change the subject to some unsavory bodily function and the troubles she’s been having with it lately.

Saturday morning rolled around, and Alice went to the store, taking our daughter with her. I offered to go along, and she tipped her head and smirked.

Oh, yeah.

I prowled around the house, and set in on cleaning. I vacuumed, did the bathroom, the dishes, cleaned out the fridge, and was thinking about scrubbing the kitchen floor when the doorbell rang. I felt rather lost, and wasn’t sure I could even find the door when she started pounding. That snapped me out of my indecision, and despite not remembering where it really was, I found my way to front door and opened it.

She beamed. "Hi."

"Hi." I had nothing scripted.

"Can I come in?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure." I stepped aside, and she glided in past me, and waited for me to close the door.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee? Pastry?"

She dipped her head with a shy smile. "No. Thanks."

We waited until I could speak. "You know, I’m not reall—"

She glued herself to me, from knees to just below her breasts; she threw one arm around my lower back, pulling me in tight, adjusting herself to be in more intimate contact with me, through our clothes, than Alice ever was when we were engaged in intercourse. Her other hand’s fingers pressed ever so gently on my lips. I tried to open my mouth to say something, something about how improper this was, and her digits found their way inside. She hooked her nails down under my tongue, over my lower teeth. She stepped back, and pulled me toward my bedroom by my mouth. The one I shared with my wife.

Alice released me when we got there, and I stood in the doorway as she ran her fingers up my bed without a word. When she reached the pillows, she paused, and set in on taking off her jeans.

"Do you…need to do that?"

She didn’t answer me. She simply proceeded to take off all her clothes. She didn’t turn to face me; she stood there, naked, facing the headboard. She exhaled, and laid down, face down; she curled her arms underneath her, and finally looked at me with something I had to have termed to be adoration.

"Sally, are you sure?"

"Of course. You know, I’ve been doing this for a week already. Don’t worry. I’m fine." She nodded, and I stepped up to the edge, and held my hand over her ass.

She kept her eyes completely locked on me. "Don’t stint."

I watched myself pull my hand straight up and I could not stop blinking. I shoved my arm straight down and splatted on her flesh. My hand bounced off her.

"Harder."

I did it again, with what I thought was an appropriate level of force.

"Oh, come on."

I ignored her, and did it the way I thought it should go, pulling back ever so slightly at the last instant before impact, more in the process of pulling my hand back up before I even made contact that I was in the process of making contact, in order to minimize the micro-seconds I was touching her. Touching her with force. I did not lose count, and laid it down on her as mechanically and as fast as I could move. I spanked her the required thirty-nine strokes, and when I finished, I left her there to go sit down in my chair in the living room and mope. She came out to where I was sitting a couple minutes later. She crossed to me and bent over to kiss me on the cheek. At least she was dressed.

"You did better the first time."

I glanced up at her, and looked away.

She stayed near me, and I didn’t move. "Th-thank you. I’ll see you in a little over a week."

"Ten days."

"Yes. Ten days."

She found her own way out of the house. I stared at the wall for an hour, until Alice came home with the groceries. I helped her bring them in with our daughter, and we went to a movie in the afternoon. That night, Alice came to me as it was time, the time I tried not to nag her about, the one that only worked on her schedule that she didn’t let me in on which dictated that the time for sex had come, and I did my duty, but no more. I don’t think she came.

And so it went for the next couple months. Every ten or eleven days or so, Sally came to me when Alice—and our daughter—was conveniently not at home, and took off her clothes, and I spanked her. I was not enthused, but Alice always made those nights sex nights, and I was nothing less than uncomfortable through it all. When Sally came by for Alice’s turn, they spent progressively longer and longer time together until they were in there almost an hour, and they would come out giggling or flushed or sympathetic or any of the myriad ways they always spent together when they went shopping or to the park with the kids or were simply sitting around gossiping about this or that or the other. It was almost normal. Almost, but not quite. I never heard anything that went on those evenings, and Alice simply wouldn’t talk about any of it and it never occurred to me to not be there on those nights.

After two-and-a-half months, we were invited over to Bob and Sally's for dinner. The kids were all sent downstairs with pizza and a movie. Two of the other couples from the birthday party was there. Dinner was broiled shrimp put into a salad, and Bob made a big production of the crème brûlée he made for dessert, flashing the torch around with all the appropriate jokes being made about fire departments and fire extinguishers and conflagrations. When what he had done was in everyone’s hands, he said he had to tell us something.

"Two of the couples have dropped out. I am so sorry; they’ll never speak to any of us again. They were very adamant. This is not what we wanted."

After some nervous glances around the room, Alice said, "We’re still here for you." She looked at me. "Screw them."

It was the husband of one of the other couple’s turn, and he really stood and delivered, right there in front of us all. Sally had to be gagged for it, to keep from disturbing the children downstairs. It all went about as though it were normal, expected. Bob and Sally thanked everyone profusely, and went over the schedule. We were all committed to once a week with Sally.

Otherwise, it was a typical dinner party. When Alice and I got home, sex was not to be had.

When Sally came by three days later for me, I followed her into the bedroom. She turned toward me, and said "we have to do it like this now." She produced a long paddle that had holes drilled into it from under her coat, and stood to face me as she stripped.

She was covered with bruises.

"My god."

"Aren’t they lovely?" She turned and displayed herself.

"That’s not the right word."

"Can I get you to do the backs of my thighs? I want to distribute the marks." She bent over and put her hands on the bed, spreading her legs.

"I…Christ." I took the paddle, exhaled, positioned myself to her side, and swung. There was no point in arguing.

"Fuck the count. You’re going to do this until I have the marks I need. You can try to do it with pansy-ass little swats like that one, which means were going to be here a while, or you can man up and do it right."

I let her have it. She fell over onto the bed. "Oh, god, yes, just like that!" She repositioned herself, and I swung and I struck her thighs until the welts began showing and she began moaning. I stopped, and she looked back at herself. "Not yet, hero. You’re getting there."

I threw down on her, until she said that was enough, that we could quit.

"Not yet." I put down another dozen strikes. When I decided I was done—the bruises were deep and red and black and blue already, and she was covered with little pock-marks from the holes in the paddle—I threw the weapon on the bed, and strode out of the room and poured myself a drink. A stiff one that was almost gone by the time she came out.

When she appeared, she was actually limping, and when she reached up to kiss me, she wrapped her fingers into my hair, and poured herself into my mouth. When she finally stopped, coming up for air at last, Alice was there, standing across the room, stunned, frozen.

Sally was out of breath, and pulled back with the slight smile a woman gets when she has gotten away with doing something sinful she had always wanted to do. When she staggered passed Alice, she put her hand to the side of my wife’s face and looked at her. Alice closed her eyes and nodded her head; they may have been whispering. I wasn’t sure.

After Sally left, I looked over to my wife who stared at me, then turned and disappeared into our bedroom. She called to me, and I nearly sprinted after her.

She was naked on the bed, with her legs spread obscenely, her breasts heaving.

I attacked her, and she welcomed me into her, and she fucked me like she had to.

Two weeks later, after two more major assaults I performed onto Sally, with her egging and prompting and begging and kneeling afterwards before me, looking directly into my crotch, pulling herself in as close there as she could get without being in actual contact, so close I could feel her hot breath right through my pants—with Alice and I nearly raping each other afterwards—we were called back to Bob and Sally’s. The kids were watching TV in the basement.

"It’s down to just us."

It was Alice’s night, and she paddled her friend’s bottom as though she were splitting wood, with every ounce of force she could muster. The marks were impressive, to say the least. When she stood there, finished, panting, she dropped the woodpiece, and stunned me. "That’s it. I’m out."

Bob laughed. "So am I." The last person I expected to opt out was Bob.

"Then I guess it’s over." I was actually relieved.

"No; you’re not getting out of it, honey. You have to keep it up."

"You’re kidding."

"Don’t worry. We’re still here for you, Sally. We will not abandon you." She turned her gaze to me and bored into me as she did when something was important for me to understand in no uncertain terms, and she was going to get her way no matter what. Just like she always did, especially when it came time for us in the bedroom, which, remarkably, she had been keeping completely tied to the nights Sally came over, like clockwork. She was more passionate on those nights of late than she had been our entire marriage. "You will not abandon her, will you."

I tried to protest my way out of all this the rest of the evening, and Alice would have none of it. Sally spent the rest of the evening curled up in Bob’s lap.

The next day, Sally came by the house all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and marched back to the bedroom. Alice took the kids down to our daughter’s room.

By the time I got to my bedroom to refuse, Alice was naked, sitting up on the bed, on her wide-spread knees, with her hands behind her head, looking up.

"I…no. I can’t. Look, I’m sorry, Sally, but this has to sto—"

"—What are you talking about?" My wife startled me from behind. I turned to face her, and my jaw dropped. She was naked, and in the process of locking our bedroom door. "Hang on a second." She went around me over to the bed, and pet Sally’s hair twice. Sally turned her eyes to Alice, and opened her mouth wide.

Alice reached up and began stuffing cloth into her friend’s mouth. Cloth that I recognized as being the panties I watched her put on as she was getting dressed that morning. When she finished, she nudged Sally’s mouth closed, and turned to face me. She glued herself to me, from knees to just below her breasts, sliding her thighs around me, wrapping herself around me, pulling my lower back into her, pressing her breasts up against me.

I protested. "Honey, this ca—"

"—Shh, shh." Her other hand came up to my lips, and she played with them, watching what her fingers were doing to my mouth. "You marvelous fool. Surely you don’t think that I got us involved with all this," and she nodded her head back toward the bed, "for the sake of that silly slut there, do you?" She grinned big, and poured herself into my mouth for long minutes.

I was gasping and out of breath when she released me. She slid down between me and the bed, opening my pants on the way, releasing the incessant rampaging erection I inevitably got when Sally came over. My wife applied her lips and her tongue and her mouth against me, and I had trouble standing.

I startled to feel myself getting poked in the ribs by something hard. Sally was prodding me with a cane, to get me to take it, nodding, poking, nodding, and when I did, she ran her fingers across her breasts twice, smiling around the gag in her mouth, and went back to her pose. Alice forced my cock further into her mouth than she ever had before. She gagged and I pulled out. She scooted back and leaned back up to the edge of the bed, and reached around behind me on the back of my legs, and pulled me forward, shuffling me along with my pants around my ankles, directing my cock back into her mouth, pulling harder as I proceeded to push myself into her face, her mouth, her throat, with the bed serving as a stop gap to keep her from pulling away. She had trapped herself from being able to get away from the advancement of my penis into her mouth, and I couldn’t help it, I began thrusting. She made little noises, and with one hand, pointed up and back behind her toward the woman on the bed.

I stood, and undulated until my hand drew back. Sally flinched after I swung and I had swung hard, and continuously had to re-upright herself back into position. I fucked my wife’s mouth while I waited for her to do that, time and time again. They both whimpered and cried their way through my efforts—both of them. Sally looked like a train wreck. I train wreck I had drug her through, screaming under her gag the entire time.

After I finished my burden, with all three of us gasping and groaning and moaning, I had to turn and yank my way out of my wife and sit on the bed. Alice followed me around, and went back to gagging herself on me, determined. When Sally—with tears still in her eyes—bent around to help my wife with what she was doing to me, holding her nose shut to get her to open her mouth wider, pushing her head down even harder onto me, forcing my wife’s mouth onto me, driving her to get me all the way back on up in there, with my beloved contracting her lips around the very root of my hardon, getting the back of her throat to pulse around me in ways I had never imagined, I had to lie down.

When I could lift my head again, after a mercifully endless moment in the sky, doing something I had always reserved for the privacy of me wife’s pussy or the quiet floor of the bathroom when I couldn’t sleep, the girls were sitting on either side of me, leaning over me, engaged with trading what they had gotten out of me, back and forth, back and forth between their mouths, giggling, petting each other, putting on a show. When I could get myself up on my elbows, they noticed and broke apart from each other, laughing, wiping their mouths, licking their fingers, trailing them through various wet spots on their own faces, feeding each other with what they got swiped up until they had nothing left to play with. Alice disappeared from my sight, and Sally helped me up to standing.

I was out of breath, and she was unbuttoning my shirt faster than I ever could, and, kneeling down, she fiddled around at my feet, pulling my pants the rest of the way off. "Sally, plea—"

"—Oh, no, hero. You’re not done, yet." She stood and danced her fingers up my entire body, stopping at various interesting places here and there, until she put her full hands on my shoulders, palms and all, and turned me back around to face the bed, where my wife was kneeling with her knees spread, her hands up behind her head, and the cane was in her mouth. "Her turn." Sally wrapped her arms around me from behind, and with one hand, she prompted my arm up towards my wife, and with the other, she reached down between my legs, and began doing what little she needed to do to get me ready.

I took the cane from my wife’s mouth, and Sally assumed her position between me and the bed, and, opening her mouth as wide as she could get it, set in on doing what she was there to do. Alice glanced down at her friend, and looked up to beam at me for a second or two before she turned to look up at the ceiling. I had nothing to say any kind of "no" towards this left in me. I held the rod with both hands and pulled back like I had a baseball bat in my hands, and I had good follow-through. We had forgotten to gag her, and she screamed. It took a matter of eight seconds for our daughter to start knocking on the door, asking if mommy was alright, and Sally scrambled up to don one of my wife’s robes, and, after mouthing a quick apology and blowing us a kiss, she left us to go take care of our daughters, traipsing them back down stairs, to talk about princesses.

Alice’s breasts were heaving, the ones with the welt I had just laid down on with one fell swoop, and she rasped out, "You can’t stop now. How old am I again?"

"Remarkably, thirty-nine. Just like Sally."

"I intend to be thirty-nine forever. My dearest husband: the scourging of our lord and savior is yours to deliver unto me. Every day, darling, from now on. Just like that one. Anything less doesn’t count."

I stood, and delivered. After the fourth stroke, it occurred to me that maybe I should gag her, for the sake of the kids. She was all too happy to have my underwear forced into her mouth as far as I could get it to go, and when I finished the obligation toward whatever god it was that demanded I perform this trust upon her, with her writhing and thrashing and crying and doing everything she could to keep her hands off her wounds the entire time, not to mention the liability I had towards the husbandly duty I owed her afterwards, somewhere in the middle of her glorious weepings and sounds that were happening for an altogether different reason than the one cane induced, one that was also not spoken of at polite dinner parties, I looked up to see Sally standing over us, dressed and smiling, and wishing us the best of luck from here, and reminding us to not be strangers and come by as often as we wished. We, of course, would have much more to talk about now. She offered to take our daughter for a sleepover, and I accepted. Alice nodded; her mouth was still quite full.

We had some catching up to do. It had been months since my wife’s birthday.

 

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Debate

By Brewt.Blacklist

March 2014

SHE IS, by all the modern definitions of the word so relentlessly expounded upon in the media, beautiful. Her hair, long and dimensional and thick, doesn’t simply crown the top of her head. It luxuriates in glorious flows of rich darkest Ecuadorian bistre cacao onto the table, spreading out in elegance, and if she were upright, walking, it wouldn’t bounce, it would undulate seductively. Were someone brash enough to dare run their fingers through it, it would fold back into place on its own, admonishing the partier to do it again and get lost in there forever, and to come into her power. Her coiffure is expensive, the maintenance of it requires staff, and my assessment of it is barbaric: how long is it, what kind of braid could be wound into the ropes to hang her by it, and what would she offer to make that not happen. I am but a fiend, jaded and indifferent.

Her skin is radiant, perfect. She has no tattoos, no marks, no moles. Her makeup, like her hair, is divine and flawless and no quick-slap coat of paint: it is sheer artistry. She had to have gotten up early for it, and, no doubt, had her latte delivered to her as it was going on in a room full of minions whose sole reason to breathe was to tend to her and her many, many needs. Her full lips glisten and call out their temptations to have an intimate something I have to nestle between them for long periods of time, and she moves them in ways that say welcome. She blinks around the aerial shade of brown of her eyes slowly so I can get a good look at her eye shadow, with all its delicate luminescences that I have to stare at and observe to understand the complexities of its subtle color gradations, and how the lines of her liner seem to move when she closes and reopens her eyes into something that makes her appear most agreeable. It’s a tempo thing, part of the bag of tricks women wield against men. Her eyelashes are pronounced, but not ridiculously long. Mercifully, no glitter there. I wonder if her mascara would run under the right circumstances.

Her face is unreal, it is so perfect. Completely symmetrical, it combines youth and innocence with seduction and sheer raw sex. It should be difficult to look at her, but she has all the appearances of being friendly and inviting, easy to talk to, were it permitted. She effortlessly ranks high among the most exquisite women I have ever seen, and would statistically stop traffic in every country on earth.

Laid out as she is on a narrow table with her hands up over her head, she wiggles the cuffs on her wrists which are heavy black leather, shiny and polished and clean and obviously new, never even worn before. No scuff marks are on them, and the padding on her wrist-side is fluffy and white. There is a black rope running through the chrome links on them, and it takes me a while to discern that it is silk. She stretches a time or two and tests her range of motion. On the other end of the table, her dainty feet have a companion set of cuffs. She has been bound to the table at the ends, and she has lots of ability to squirm, but no leverage or freedom to sit up, or even twist herself onto her side. She is slightly stretched, and there is a hint of the rack.

Her body, too, is a work of art, sculpted and shaped and toned with the obviousness of relentless hours at the gym. Her breasts have implants, and they stand up firm and tall and bulbous on her chest in a way actual human female breasts cannot. Her nipples are vigorously erect and veritably cry out to be flicked, pinched, bitten, chewed by the darker sides I carry with me. Her stomach is stone-flat, and the breathing motions in her upper chest induces waveforms and ripples through it that flow from her diaphragm all the way down the rest of her abdomen to the most visible cleft of her sex. She isn’t just shaved, she has had laser hair removal of every follicle on her entire body below her neck, not to mention labioplasty to make her clitoris plain and obvious. It’s impossible to see it from this angle, but her legs are thin enough that it would be easy to conclude that, were she standing with her hair flowing in the breeze and her knees were together, there would be a gap between her thighs where her pretty pussy lips would hang down into just enough to capture attention away from whatever else could be around her.

She is designed. Everything about her, from the perfection of her ingenious manicure to the clever angles she holds her feet on the table have been carefully crafted to create an image of a woman that at least a man, at least me, would have a hard time looking away from. She has all the right curves and lines and all the little motions she makes by just lying there scream out for attention, for observation. Her chest—and thereby, her breasts—heaves as she breathes and arches her back and her matching-collared neck rolls her head this way and that while she waits. Her demeanor is expectant and serene, and she alternates opening and closing her mouth. Her teeth are perfect and iridescent, and her tongue glistens and behaves itself as it peeks to the edge of her lips. She is not just to be seen, she is to be concentrated upon, and fantasized about. She is a living bid for the stuff of dreams.

The room is abstract, white fading off toward gray in all directions. The table is black, and there is a second table behind it that is hard to see what all is on it.

The man comes in, dressed all in black casual—he is nearly invisible, and plays the parts of Noh that I am not supposed to really see, and it is easy to supplant his flat imageless image with my own—and the show is set about to begin. The starlet focuses on him and his non-descriptedness in attempts to entice him by amplifying what motions she can do on the table. She does not speak; she bats her eyes in his direction and smiles a smile that is to be interpreted that she is honored to be here, to be here with him, but it strikes me as plasticene. It is a supermodel’s smile.

He circles around to the other side of her and turns toward the second table, returning to tower over her holding a long stick on hand. No, it’s a riding crop, also shiny and new. He begins rubbing the shaft and the popper over her and she moves away from it as it crosses her ribcage. He lets it fall and land harmlessly on her by only its own weight a few places on her: the tops of her thighs, across her stomach a time or two, even on her face and cheeks, which gets her to squinch her eyes shut. He flicks it down onto the middle of her chest, directly on her sternum, accelerating it only slightly faster than what gravity could do, and pats her with it, slowly increasing the tempo and the force he applies until he has to grasp it firmly with his hand to keep from dropping it. The swats become enough that it barely makes a sound against her skin, and as it gets louder, her breathing changes into something slower, deeper, in what I would like to think is an effort to control herself as he makes more and more noise with the crop. His wrist is flicking and the end of the crop vanishes in the air until it reappears on wherever it lands on her, making a solid slap, getting her to tense up where he struck and have the impact radiate out on her body like a waveform, getting her to gasp once. Her mouth opens and her eyes widen and she is efforting herself to not make any noise, to not interfere with what the weapon is doing against her, and still he applies more and more pressure with each downstroke, more speed, getting higher and higher velocities to wend their way through the end of the leather stick. He hits her now on her expensive breasts and her eyes widen and her head and jaw freezes with a slight shake of her head, and he smiles as he traces a line of attack from there down her tummy, getting her abdominal muscles to contract down toward the table. He moves the ictus of the whip down through where she would had shaved just this morning if she had had pubic hair in the first place and he says his first words.

“Spread your legs; as far as you can.”

The ankle bindings keep her from doing little beyond parting her knees, but as she does, he directs the crop down off the tops of her thighs toward her inner thighs, and her hips thrust around as he strikes her faster and faster and closer and closer to her sex, and he periodically re-admonishes her to do as he says when her reflexes kick in and she appears to disobey him. Her breathing is noisy by now, and she no longer able to suppress the little reactions to being hit and she tries, oh how she tries to do what he says, and she lifts her pussy up off the table as far as her bondage will allow for in what is to be considered to be representative of the limits of her strength and endurance and she holds her breath, and he spats the crop directly onto where her clit should be, right at the top of her pussy lips, and she groans and closes her legs around the crop. He lets go of it, and she rolls it back and forth, waving it like a flag, moaning, and making the first sound that could be identified as a word: “Oh.”

He smiles and lets her settle herself down before pulling the crop out from between her legs. She lurches at the extraction with her mouth open, her eyes wide. He runs his other hand up and down her, where he had been striking her, and she writhes from the comfort, and goes back to undulating herself up to meet his hand as it flows around her, stroking her ever so lightly.

They eyes manage to lock and he nods his head. She inhales deeply and exhales with her first expression that could almost pass as a sentence: “Oh, sir,” which she reiterates time and time again as he continues to stroke his hands over her contortions, tickling her a time or two, getting her to throw herself about in her bondage with peals of laughter. He turns back to the second table, and she continues saying the two little words, and something bothers me. She appears to have some kind of a disconnect with what is happening here, and her mind is obviously somewhere else. It does not seem to be subspace. It’s more that she’s daydreaming of something like maybe a beach.

The very-precisely constructed archetype of a ravishingly beautiful woman laid out and restrained, naked, helpless—with a fully clothed man standing over her, able to do anything he wants to her—is the draw, the appeal for revenge against all the put-downs women have expressed not just to him or to me, but to all men everywhere, and the notion that she is here to pay for the sins of all womankind has with it a sheer attraction that is so beautiful it is difficult to look at. Except, that is not what is going on here. She pronounces her two-word vocabulary with the echoes of a woman looking down and trying to comfort a five-year old boy who scraped his knee, and it is apparent by this point that this is all script, all planned to the finest detail, probably even rehearsed. It is an entertainment.

He produces a vibrator, one of the big strong ones that looks technological and makes no effort in its construction toward simulating a man—form follows function, even in things that buzz—and it is the kind that plugs into the wall, and he places it right square between her legs directly on the target she has so craftily constructed for men and she lurches. Now she is engaged with what is happening, and she squirms and she moans and she begs with the two words she is allowed for a mere minute and a half before she risks everything and asks to “please, please, please” and can she “have permission to come.” It took no time whatsoever to go from the simulations of agony to the simulations of ecstasy. His eyelids compress and he says that when he gets to “one” she can come, and she frumps as though she was five and sets back to quivering. He counts backwards from ten, and when he says the final word after the shortest of delays, and he pronounces the word of permission long and slow, she arches up off the table and cries out and goes back to saying “oh, sir” and throws herself against the ropes and makes unintelligible noises. She has the screaming orgasm of the ages. She squirts; I don’t know, maybe she urinates.

She settles down and turns her head with a smile I have seen before. She glows with the smile that happens at the front of the big churches when the offering plate is passed, and gets full. She is in complete control and has been from the start, and everything has happened exactly as she had predicted and planned, and she is smug, and she is getting paid now.

She is the very embodiment of all the women I have ever known that would have nothing to do with me and all the women I have ever been taught that I could have absolutely nothing to do with, that all she has for me is ridicule and disgust and loathing, no matter what I do, no matter how I act, no matter what I say, and my education process kicks in hard and concludes her smile is avarice. This girl, this woman is sin itself but the sin is not mine, it is hers: vanity, greed, the appearance of lust, she induces envy and desire for what cannot be had, and the sin that is mine is wrath and I have been played, as it is all an act, a show, and she is something I should walk away from and I do.

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SHE IS a woman that I might take a second glance at in public, but no more. The kind of beauty one sees in common places, like in the service industry. Pretty, but not overpoweringly so. One who, as she performs her task of waitressing or checking out the groceries or making me a latte, when she smiles, it proves relaxing, reaffirming, a cause for pause to make a bright spot in my day, but no more. It would get her a tip. She has a good body, quite naked, sporting dishwater blonde hair in an unkempt pageboy with her roots starting to show, and if she didn’t look so tired, she might have a sunny disposition.

Her hands are in cuffs; scruffy old ones that are at least humane: they have handles built into them she can hang on to with the leather around her wrists done up tight and secure with several small padlocks on each arm; they are nothing she can just take off. They are somehow attached to heavy hemp ropes in ways I can’t quite see—ah yes, carabiners, also with locks—that lead up to ratchet pulleys that latch onto the rope as it is pulled through, and her arms are drawn up above her head so she is fully stretched into a “Y”, and she is vulnerable, in more ways than her bondage relays. Her feet remain unseen, but it is plain she is standing, and not dangling airborne from the ceiling. She stretches up enough that I can at least imagine she is standing on her unobservable toes, and she breathes deep from her diaphragm; her breasts are relatively immobile and pulled tight, at least at the moment. She is unshaved under her arms and at the tops of her legs and between them, too, and it confirms the dye-job from her god-given camel-colored hair. She looks human. She chews her nails.

There seems to be some kind of conversation going on with her by the two men who are readying her, but what they say cannot be heard. All that can be made out are her responses: “Yes,” “It has been,” and “I completely hate it.” After her last comment, she hangs her head as though she is ashamed to have to admit that, and she shudders once, and her flattened nipples begin to rise. It may be a fear response.

The room is bare but obviously an unfinished basement; enough of the ceiling rafters are visible where the pulleys are attached to make it clear the ceiling is flat, not at angles—and thence, not an attic—and the lighting is not well-designed. There is enough light to keep the shadows at bay, but it does nothing beyond making her visible. She breathes and blinks. After a moment of just her standing there, collecting her thoughts, she raises her head to nod it and she forces a smile, and my day is made. It is then that I notice she is alone, but only for a scant few seconds.

The two men who had been stringing her up step back into view and begin prowling around her. They are both old enough to be her father, overweight, and it looks like they slept in their clothes which I recognize as cheaper than my own. She keeps her eyes on one of them religiously, and her lips quiver. Simultaneously, they pull their arms back to reveal their bags of tricks they have in mind for this woman, this girl, this victim, with whips in their hands, and they both swing forward in concert, slowly, gently, exerting just enough to get centrifugal force to lengthen out the lines into casual arcs, so they can gauge their distances from her, and both whips touch her lightly at the same time. They make no sound. Her torso wiggles a tiny bit in response, and she compresses her lips and rolls her eyes across the ceiling once.

She blinks several times at the one man, and keeps her mouth shut, and exhales and inhales noisily through her nose.

The men both pull their arms back, again in synch, and push their whips against her a second time. There is still no sound from the impact, but the way she licks her lips and swallows suggest it might have been a little harder. It is the last time they manage to hit her at the same moment. They have their own schedules to keep, and though they partner with each other, stroke for stroke, they no longer match rhythm, and set up unsteady syncopations for the rest of the affair. The men keep alternating their glances between each other and the woman. The man she keeps her eyes on does not blink very much, and his breathing is labored throughout the session.

The complimentary snake whips are ancient, a dull grayish-brown, obviously in long service and well used, approximately five feet in length, and completely flexible. One of them is bent, as though a strand had broken. The leather lines narrow to an almost-sharp end with no popper, and they wrap around her as they strike, and as the men circle her, swinging their arms, the swishes and the cracks start sounding.

They whip her, front and back. At first, one only whips her with back-hand strokes, the other with fore-arm strokes.

She rolls her head to keep the one man in sight as much as possible and she never so much as acknowledges the other. When the man she looks to steps behind her, and wraps the whip around her sides with the tip circling onto the tops of her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, she hangs her head and closes her eyes and her mouth falls open and she gasps. When he is far enough around her other side, she snaps her head up to him with a stricken look on her face, and when she sees him again, she relaxes a little, and her breathing kicks up to panting. The expression she bears delivers the notion that she is being supported through this by the mere fact that she can once again see him. She mouths the words of affection to him.

The tempo picks up, as does the force, and the attack strengthens and the harm is becoming apparent. For no reason I can discern, both whips start hitting her from both directions from both men, as they move from deliberate, one-directional strokes, to both swinging both ways, back and forth, each doubling the number of times they are hitting her within the previous timeframe of a single stroke. The whip marks are beginning to show on her and she glistens with sweat; she shimmies in what is almost a jig of pulsations. Her body was not pristine when they started: she was covered with bruises and most of them have been on her long enough to be fading to yellow and brown and green, and she has what looks like burn scars around her belly button. The lines from the whips redden, and some of them begin to bleed. Another unseen signal passes between the men, and their rotation around her changes direction, from counter-clockwise to clockwise.

The man she looks to for strength again passes around behind her, out of her range of vision, and she begins thrashing about, moaning from what so now obviously hurts, and she begins to dance, lifting her knees one at a time, twisting herself around as the force and frequency of the lashes continues to increase. The swish of the whips is near constant, and when the next rotation sets in, and the man she is here for is where she can see him, her face crumples, and she begins shaking her head back and forth, and she cries out. She had expended what was left of her strength for the sole reason to hold out for him to see her downfall, so he could witness her succumb to what he was doing to her, what he had arranged to have happen to her, wrought by himself and his minion.

The whipping is relentless and both men are obvious in their expenditures of strength against her. They necessarily have to slow down their fore-and-back-handed swinging to compensate for how hard they are now hitting her. The men are out of breath, and she is crying and throwing her head around. Still it goes on, and the second man, the one who she has still not even looked at stops what he is doing behind her and steps forward and strokes her, checking her, which offers her enough comfort to lift her head back to the man she is trying to impress. Another unheard question is asked, and she responds with “N-no,” and then “Yes.” She heaves her breasts as she tries to still herself, to reposition herself to face the man she is her rock, her salvation.

The men step back to their positions, and let her have it. Hard and fast, and then harder and faster, whipping her everywhere at once, and she looks up to the ceiling and screams. They do not let up; she screams again. And again. And again, shrill, hard, long and loud. The whips are unseen, they are flying so fast, the men’s arms blur, and the marks crop up instantly, deep red lines, criss-crossing her entire body, from her armpits down to her knees, she is completely marked side to side, front to back, top to bottom, and blood rivulets down her until it is splatted away by the whips.

The second man is behind her and says the first thing either man pronounces that can be heard: “Spread your legs.”

The whipping stops and she trembles and shakes uncontrollably. Her lover is in front of her and he reaches his hand to her face which she falls directly into and takes a step towards him, as far as the ropes will allow. She says “Ah” several times, fast at first, then slowing down. He lifts her head up and he waits for her to look at him and he nods. Her lips throb, and she steps back, and obeys. She squinches her eyes shut and performs what appears to be a superhuman feat as her knees part as far as she can get them and still stand.

He retreats from her and she relaxes into a beatific appearance in the sudden quiet, quiet except for the sounds of breathing—hers, the men’s, mine—and she, waiting through the seconds of respite, fills with adoration and reverence when she beholds her owner, and the second man swings up from behind, between her legs, through her sex, and the first vertical line appears, running up from her public hair. Both of her knees snap together, lifting up, catching the whip, and she dangles, off the floor for the first time, and the whip is released by the man behind her. It undulates like a snake across the floor. The expression on her face changes into disbelief, and she regains herself in less than a moment, and tears flow down her face, and she looks up toward heaven once again. Her mascara runs.

Her mouth drops open and her breathing palpitates, and she does the impossible. She lowers her feet and spreads her legs, and the whip she had caught between them falls to the floor and she stops breathing. It gets picked right back up; this isn’t over yet. Both men hunker down and reposition themselves to lean around her to acknowledge each other, and they pull their arms back together, and as the same time, they whip her—double-crack—between her legs and she stands there, squirming on her toes but doing everything she can to keep her legs apart, to keep her sex exposed to the beating, taking it with flinches and lurches and cringes and groans, and they hit her intimacies time and time again, the whips striking front and back, accelerating back into the whirlwind, windmilling the strikes. Her legs shake violently.

She finds her voice and she lifts it, loud and strong with a cry that raises, stopping and restarting her screech, twice, three times she has to catch her breath as she screams until she is at the top of her range, and she gasps, heaving and wheezing and barely whispers “Mercy.”

Everything stops; time stands still. Her feet give way and she swings in space. The man she came here with steps up to her and he tangles his fingers through her hair and pronounces his first audible sentence: “Are you sure?” She nods and bawls, and it sounds like she is apologizing.

“One more. A big one. It’s tradition.”

She makes long sounding panicky rasps as he steps back and somehow she calms and struggles to put her feet back beneath herself to support herself. The man waits for her to settles down the contortions of her face before he accepts her consent; she pants it several times. He steps out of sight, and the other man runs his hand around behind her before he draws as far back as she can, and lets fly a stripe down across her back at an angle disparate to all her other lines with every ounce of strength he has. The strike is a gunshot. He vanishes.

She doesn’t make a sound, but she moves as though she were standing in an earthquake. The pressure is visible on her face, and it looks like she might throw up.

Her man comes back to stand before her with his arms crossed as he waits for her to look up at him, which she cannot quite do. Her head raises, but her dull brown eyes are downcast, off to the side from where he stands. She looks miserable, unhappy, but it does not appear that she feels that way about him, but in herself, in her performance of what must be her duty to him, and she appears to be disappointed, but not in him;, it looks like she believes that she had failed him. She nods and braces herself, stiffening up every muscle she has.

He outdoes the other man in ferocity and force, and he grunts as he whips his woman a final time, a mighty blow that raises immediate welts across both of her breasts; they bound and recoil from the impact. This time, she gasps, and sobs, and weeps and makes unintelligible cries; she babbles. Whatever strength she had in her legs fails for what has to be the last time, and she leans forward, putting her weight onto her upheld arms, and dangles around in a peculiar arch.

He drops the whip and stands as close as he can to her, and she collapses into him as far as the ropes to the ceiling will let her. He catches her and lifts her up and she cries long and loud and buries her head into his neck. His arms go around her waist and he puts his hands across the tops of her shoulders, the one place he can reach she has not been whipped, and he, too, breaks down and cries and shudders with her, until at last the miracle happens, and she struggles to put her feet back underneath herself and she leans up to kiss him and she comforts him.

There is no reason given, no explanation, no justification. The negotiation of how they got there happened in their own privacies as well as whatever the hell happened next, and I have no question whatsoever that I am a brash invader; I am ashamed to be party to their most-forbidden daring secret, to have spied on their clandestine intimate glory, and this, this I will dwell on as I apply my own hands against myself, many, many times, and it will be my honor to do so again and again in absolute awe of what I had beheld, for the remainder of my days.

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