Marionette

The studio, his studio, that dirty gentleman’s studio, was bare.  All the carefully collected furniture (he collected many things, all of them carefully) was pushed out of the way. The long main room was clear and the mats were on the hardwood floor and early morning light was shining in thick square beams from the old windows and showed the little particles of dust in the air.

Dorothy, as usual, was making art. Luckily, she sometimes let me watch.

She said nothing but led me to a little chair with a connected desk; the ones they have in college lecture halls. On it was a small old fashioned portable typewriter. Black and scratched and loaded with a fresh sheet of paper. A table next to the desk held a box with more paper.

She kissed me on the cheek and left me to my part, which was to record what was about to happen.

Continue reading

Choke

The girls were sat on a blanket, back to back; naked, save their panties. The black blanket was laid neatly on the somewhat dusty hardwood floor. I knelt in front of Margot and Hector knelt in front of Betty. The rope was around both of their pretty necks. Looped and looped around and around. Their hands tied at their sides, their backs held straight out of either eagerness to please or suspense at what might happen next.

Continue reading

Word of Mouth

Downstairs, a bar that’s a half secret, a party that is supposed to be kept quiet. We were told when the door closed things would get interesting…

The painter is a chemical necessity in these situations. She is a catalyst in a way I am used to being. One of the million ways we are the same. The same hungers, the same taste, the same perceptions.

The redhead is on someone’s lap. She has been morsel I’d been coveting for a while now. Not seriously, not even particularly, but one of those shiny beautiful people your eyes linger on for a few second when you see them across the room. All cream skin and fire hair and cool attitude.

For all the ways we are alike, the painter has many advantages I do not. She is a woman, she knows all of the privileges of that, especially in this setting. And she knows everyone. I thought I knew everyone, but she is entrenched and this is her crowd. I get a nod from this crowd, she gets a kiss on the lips. And now she is kissing the redhead.

The music is loud, I am next to a pretty blond thing, my hands around her waist, my lips on her neck, but my eyes across the room as the painter is on her knees in front of the redhead who is still on someone’s lap.

The well dressed crowd is throbbing around us. Suits and ties and garters and fishnets and finery is everywhere. Clothes are coming off quickly though. Lean muscles and naked breasts catch my sight and the whiskey is making everything vivid and dull at the same time.

The blond in my arms is squirming. She’s watching the show too. She is nervous energy under my fingers as I toy with the edge of her panties.

The painter is pulling down the redhead’s flimsy bra, her bare breasts small and pretty. Nipples almost the same cream color as the rest of her skin. Then the painter’s curly black head is between the thighs of the redhead. I can see her hungry hands pulling black panties to the side.

My girl, doing the exact thing I would do to that prize of a redhead. I can close my eyes and almost slip away, into her, imagining what she tastes like.

The thought dissolves as I kiss the blond, hands consumed with all that skin in front of me.

When I see the painter dizzy and swaying towards me later I am smiling and she is smiling and she kisses me. She knows, of course, of my crush. We spill secrets faster than we spill our drinks. She knows and she kisses me again and I’m torn between wanting to kiss this beautiful woman and wanting a little taste of the redhead.

“I want to taste her,” I groan into the painter’s ear. She laughs and almost slaps me, but then her fingers are in my mouth. Salty, and wet. It’s bad, but it’s just a little bad. I suck on those two fingers and I can taste her. Then the fingers are almost down my throat, because I should remember what’s mine and what isn’t. Then we are kissing and her eyes are on my eyes and as always we are communicating a million things.

I’m drunk and happy and the world around me is dark electric bacchanalia. The music gets louder, people are hitting each other and kissing and rubbing and pulling. A girl stretches her hands up to the ceiling as a man ties her tight with red rope.

This is exactly where I want to be with the person I want to be with. It’s perfect.

The Callipygian Sublimation

She is a candy stranger. Perfect in the way someone you don’t know at all can be perfect. Her small breasts and her large hips and soft swell of an ass that seems nearly impossible on her tiny frame. Her thin waist and her wild hair. That exoticness that is so difficult for people to get right.

She is new to this, but she’ll do just fine. In fact, it’s hard to find regulars with an attitude so perfect for these games. Right for me, that is. Everyone wants something different from places like this. The Venn Diagrams of our emotional, physical and sexual wants. Cross-indexed by our needs.

Continue reading

Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Four

There was a line and it had been crossed.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew how I looked, how I acted. I was his puppy dog, his whipping post, his girl Friday. I swooned around him, I knew I did that. For all my dedication and obedience I got a pat on the head, not even on the butt. I was sexless on his eyes, but at the same time he took advantage of my attraction to him. I was alright with that. In fact it made me work harder. I wasn’t doing it to win his heart or get a kiss. I served Mister McIntyre because I wanted to and it made me happy and he deserved it.

This was something else though, something new and of scared me more than all the secrets, all the waiting and all the frustration. My heart had given up racing. There was a new fear and it was slow and methodical.

He didn’t call me into his office for the rest of the day. He came back from lunch and as he opened his door I could see the little bit of pink on his desk.

He went to a meeting and had a drink with a client. When he came back he didn’t even look at be as he walked inside. His face was as irritable as ever. I was sitting like a death row inmate. The calm of inevitable doom had come over me.

Continue reading

Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Three

April 19th, 1964

Half asleep, rolling around in my worn white sheets. The clock says I have a half an hour before I have to get up. My heart is already starting because of a half remembered dream.

In the dream there is a large lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and lavish mirrors. Mister McIntyre is standing in front of the largest mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven, his hair is parted neatly and slick. You can count the comb lines.

Marcy Peterson, his mistress, is walking out of the washroom. A slinky low cut black dress. Her black hair long and silk soft falling over her shoulders.

He towers over her. He stand almost six foot five and she, like me, is just over five feet tall. He leans in and they kiss, at first tenderly and then his hand is in her hair, pulling her back so he can kiss her neck hungrily. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure.

Continue reading