3 comments/ 45342 views/ 1 favorites Green Tea By: cygnus1976 BACKGROUND: Melanie and I are both teachers at a local high school. She is in her early 40s but has a smoking body. I am a teacher in my late twenties. Our desks are next to each other and we often casually flirt. I always sensed a certain sexual tension between us, which culminated one evening when I was at her house fixing her computer while her husband was out with his friends. ******************************* "Do you need anything else?" "How about a massage?" I respond half jokingly, as Melanie sets a green tea in front of me. I don't even like tea, but I make it a point to accept whatever a hostess offers me. I quickly take a sip of the tea and feign enjoyment of the rather bland taste. A moment later, I am surprised to feel Melanie's hands on my broad shoulders. As coworkers, we sit next to each other and flirt often, but this is the first time I sense a powerful intimacy between us. I neglect my tea and the computer in front of me as she skillfully kneads away the week's stresses. Her fingers lightly brush my neck, sending a brief shiver down my spine. I close my eyes and relax, savouring her gentle yet firm touch. I find myself daydreaming of fucking her. She is bent over the computer desk and I am behind her, sliding my long, fat cock in and out of her tight asshole as she screams profanities her students would be shocked to hear. Suddenly, I am awoken from my trance as I feel her hot breath in my ear. "Do you need anything else?" she asks as her hands lightly caress my chest. I instinctively move my hands behind her body, and firmly place them on her tight buttocks. Melanie is just over 40, but has an amazing body due to her high level of fitness. My suspicions regarding the tone of her amazing ass are confirmed as I fail to pinch even an inch of fat. My cock immediately swells. She gasps as my hands firmly grab her ass and pull her closer to me. I feel her mouth on my ear as she sucks on my earlobe then my neck. The spine-tingles return as she licks and nibbles my neck, while my hands continue to squeeze and knead her firm backside. She spins around the office chair and kisses me full on the lips, her tongue darting into my mouth and intertwining with mine. I grab her tightly around the waste and pull her towards me as she hikes her black skirt up and straddles me in the chair. She grinds hard into my erection and coos with delight as she feels my hardness between her legs. My hands have now found her pert breasts and are kneading them through the soft fabric of her low-cut red sweater. She promptly lifts the sweater over her head and tosses it to the ground, while I deftly undo her bra. I pause for a moment and ponder my fortunate situation. Here I am, staring at Melanie Sedgwick's bare breasts. Surely she must know that I am constantly ogling her ample bosom while she works at her desk. Surely she must realize that every time she gets up from her chair I am following her beautiful ass with my lustful gaze. I quickly take her left nipple into my mouth, as she grabs my head and pulls me towards her chest. My hands are firmly gripping her ass, this time beneath the thin fabric of her skirt. Suddenly it strikes me that this 40-something year old high school teacher is not wearing any underwear. As my hands move closer to her pussy, I can feel the heat emanating from her sex. She is clearly turned on as her breath becomes ragged. My nimble fingers find her cunt and I am pleased to feel that she is soaking wet. She slightly lifts herself, giving my probing fingers easy access to her needy slit. She gasps loudly as I slip a finger inside her and begin to massage her G-spot. By now my mouth has found her right nipple and is gently nibbling and sucking at it as I continue to drive one, and then two, fingers in and out of her sopping cunt. I bring my fingers to my mouth, to savor the sweet taste of her sex juices, but she intercepts them, sucking my fingers deep into her mouth. This lurid sight puts me in sexual overdrive as a grab her head and our mouths once again lock. We both savor the taste of her pussy as her hands caress my enormous bulge. Suddenly, she pulls back from me, wide-eyed. "Oh wow!" she giggles as her hand traces the length and girth of my cock, straining against its confines. She slides down, off my lap and onto the floor as she removes my pants. As she pulls my jeans past my knees, along with my boxers, my turgid cock springs forward. "Oh my god! It's so much bigger than Jason's!" she moans as her hand grips the throbbing shaft. Jason is her husband and a royal ass and I'm just the kind of young and hung stud she needs to forget about that abusive prick for a night. My toes curl as I feel her kittenish tongue sample the large drop of pre-cum leaking from the tip. She grips the shaft tightly and admires the thick purple veins for a moment before enveloping the head in the warm wetness of her mouth. I gently caress her neck as she steadily pushes my twitching cock into her mouth, inch by inch, until her lips are firmly planted at the base, a full eight inches below the head. I nearly empty the contents of my aching balls into her throat as I watch my penis disappear further and further into her mouth. She brings her lips back up the shaft as copious amounts of throat saliva stream from her mouth onto my balls. I lean back and enjoy the nastiest, wettest blowjob of my young life. Melanie cradles my balls in one hand as she pumps her fist, gripping my cock tightly. She kisses and licks the shaft and bulging glans, spreading her saliva all over my prick. Her eyes lock with mine and she smiles coyly as she wiggles a finger beneath my scrotum and begins to tease the sensitive flesh just in front of my asshole. "Oh god!" I think to myself as she takes my cock into her mouth once again and sucks forcefully on the head. Her finger continues past my perineum and begins to trace small circles around my anus. I feel my cock become impossibly hard as a wave of tingling heat spreads through my loins and she once again engulfs my penis in the warm sheath of her throat. Her finger forces its way past my sphincter and deep into my ass as she pulls my sopping cock from her mouth once more. "I...I'm cumming!" I manage to sputter as she opens her mouth wide and points my convulsing cock towards her face. She furiously pounds my dick as she jacks me off into her mouth. A thick stream of cum arcs through the air and splatters across the bridge of her nose, followed by three more strong spurts that dowse her cheeks and hair. My cock remains hard as I stare in utter disbelief. The scene before my eyes is nearly beyond description. Melanie pushes my legs farther apart and begins to lick and suck my balls, while her hand continues to stroke my cock. The sensations are almost unbearable as her tongue snakes to my perineum. She presses her cum-soaked face deeper into my ass and I can feel the warm liquid smearing into my cleft. Suddenly, I feel her tongue probing my anus as her hand continues to grip my cock firmly. She wantonly laps at my asshole until my ass crack is slippery with her saliva. That's when I hear her moan loudly as a wave of orgasm tears through her body. Unbeknownst to me, she is fingering her pussy while eating my ass! I stare in amazement as she looks up at me and smiles. Her face is caked with my sticky semen and her bangs are matted to her forehead as she stands before me and removes her skirt. She turns around and presents her beautiful ass for my inspection. I begin to kiss and lick her perfectly shaped, lightly freckled ass, savoring the sweet aroma of her pungent fuck juices. I insert two fingers into her dripping sex and am amazed by how easily they slip inside her. Her hips begin to rock against my thrusting fingers as she firmly grips the desk in front of her. My tongue passes over her tight little asshole and I hear her gasp. Obviously Melanie loves eating ass and having hers eaten in return. I probe her tiny rosebud, forcing my tongue it into her pink anus. She throws her head back in ecstasy as she pushes back and buries my face in the smooth cleft of her heavenly ass. By now I have added another two fingers to her pussy and am nearly fisting her obscenely wet cunt. Her copious fluids glisten in the lamp light as I repeatedly plunge my fingers in and out of her, my tongue continuing its assault on her anus. I stand up behind her and grip her neck, admiring her image in the mirror in front of us. Her eyes are locked on mine and my earlier load still adorns her surprisingly youthful face. I remove two fingers from her slick pussy and push them into her ass. Her eyes close as she feels my thick fingers probing deep into her rectum and I begin to furiously finger-fuck both of her holes while holding her neck tightly. Suddenly, she begins to thrash wildly as a second wave of intense orgasm courses through her body. She instinctively pushes my fingers from her holes as her body tenses and ejaculates a large amount of clear fluid onto the carpet beneath us. "Wow! Melanie Sedgwick is a squirter!" I think to myself as I grip my fully erect penis and began to slide it up and down the well lubricated cleft of her upturned ass. Just as her orgasm subsides, I push the entire length of my cock deep into her pussy. I feel almost no resistance as she takes all eight inches, slamming her pussy back onto my straining prick. As I furiously pound her insatiable cunt, my hand caresses her face, rubbing my semen into her soft skin. I begin to kiss up her back as her pussy sucks my large penis, refusing to let it slip from its velvet confines. The lurid slapping and squishing sounds echo through the large room, mingled with her soft moans and my animalistic grunts. I kiss her neck and she turns her head, offering her mouth to mine. I kiss her on the lips, disregarding the salty taste of my own semen that is still smeared across her face and lips. We fuck like animals in heat for nearly fifteen minutes before Melanie begs me to finger her ass again. I oblige, slipping my thumb into her asshole while my prick continues to savagely impale her throbbing, dripping cunt. My thumb easily slides into her slick anus as she gasps for air. "Clearly a thumb is not enough for this anal slut!" I muse as I pull my turgid cock from her warm, wet tunnel. Clearly disappointed she asks why I have stopped. Without a word I push the fat mushroom head of my penis against her tight asshole. "Oh yes! That's it! Fuck my ass Ben!" Melanie moans as she pushes herself back, impaling her anus on my thick member. I am almost disgusted with how easily she takes my more than ample cock into her asshole without extra lubrication. Clearly Melanie Sedgwick has taken many a cock in her backdoor. The head slides past her sphincter and in less than a second my cock is firmly planted deep within her bowels. She begins to grind into me, ensuring that her experienced ass has claimed every millimetre of my cock. "Okay, now fuck me fast!" I pull back until my cock nearly slips from her slick tunnel and then drive forward with all my force. She screams in pleasure as I savagely pound her loosened anus. I grip her hips with white knuckles as I fuck Melanie's ass harder and harder. Her ass slaps loudly against my groin with each thrust and her vocalizations become progressively louder and more profane. "Oh my god! Fuck that ass you motherfucker! Yes! That's it! Jesus Christ! Your cock is so fucking thick!" After ten minutes of furious ass fucking I cannot control myself. "Oh yes! That's it baby! Cum in my ass! Fill me with that hot fucking cum!" she taunts as my cock once again bulges and begins to twitch. I begin to fuck her faster and I dig my fingers deep into the soft flesh of her hips. I throw my head back and bellow loudly as I reach orgasm, inundating her bowels with a fresh load of semen. As she feels her rectum fill with my burning seed, Melanie enjoys her third orgasm of the night. Her asshole clamps tightly around my invading prick as she once again sprays me and the carpet with her pungent ejaculate. My softening cock slips from her asshole and globs of cum flow from her gaping anus and course down her ass crack before mingling with her cum on the carpet. Melanie turns to face me and I embrace her. We kiss deeply, but this time I enjoy the bitter semen on her lips. She steps back and smiles. "Well, do you need anything else?" she asks wickedly. "My tea is cold." I respond in my usual deadpan fashion. Green Tea with Jasmine Pt. 01 Summer, 2002. In late August around here the sun still hangs high above the horizon at seven at night and it doesn't get black until about eleven, but the clear air is starting to cool and the winds approaching dusk whisper that fall's brief rainy prelude to winter's long gray hand is not far off. I have been alone for about ten days. I catch myself clenching and unclenching my fists throughout the day. I have the itch. I make the calls. After the usual who-what-where questions, I find myself riding up the elevator of a grungy apartment block. I've seen her picture and I recognize her instantly. There are women who are imperfectly photogenic - they look better in real life than in their pictures. She is one of them. In photographs, she has a mannish face, perhaps from the shadow her nose casts, perhaps from the slightly too strong chin, perhaps from the way that the camera lights the center of her face making her tan look jaw-heavy, almost like five o'clock shadow. In natural light, smiling at me, she's radiant. She smiles like she's been waiting a week, a month, her whole sweet life for your humble narrator's return, and not the 45 minutes since I introduced myself over the phone. The smile, of course, is a lie beautifully told. She says, hi come in, and I follow into the apartment. There is a protocol to this. She's checked me out from her window already, when I was calling from below to say that I'm at the given address. If she hadn't liked what she saw, I'd have been given a story, usually from a short list of old standby euphemisms such as "I have to meet my mother at the train station" or "My girlfriend just got dumped and she needs me" (tested euphemisms for "I just got my period"). My options would have been to be gentlemanly and philosophical, or churlish and abusive. In either case, the phone call would have been brief and I would have gone on my way to the next number. It's happened to me, and I have always gone with the first option, feeling no malice but a twinge of jealousy that they have found a way in their profession to do what I in mine have always dreamed of - turning away clients. Anyway, the fact that I am standing here, getting smiled all over me, means I passed the first part of the ritual. The next part is what I call the tea ceremony. These apartments are small, usually two rooms and a kitchen and bath. The kitchen is not stocked; nobody really lives here. But there is coffee - instant, usually - and tea. And chocolates. And whatever I had been smart enough to bring. She had asked me for a bowl's worth of fresh fruit when I called. Apples are plentiful, but oranges have always been a delicacy in this city thousands of miles from the nearest groves so I bought those. And a bottle of wine. So before I can even pull out the trailer park standard floral pattern vinyl kitchen chair to sit in, she has a tray of cut up oranges, chocolates, tea and wineglasses laid out. She'd had a bit to drink already, just enough to put a slight yeasty tang to the smell of her sweat. I tell her I would stick to tea but that she should feel free to drink the wine, which was unopened. She sips a bit of it and we move to the interview. So. Names, mine real, hers fake. Nice weather. Very nice. Nice tans. Mine? Sicily. Hers? The roof and the new salon at her health club. Yes, I have an accent. Those pictures of her must be old, her hair is longer. Last year? What do I like? Lots of things. What does she like? Lots of things. How long can I stay? At least two hours. Maybe more? She isn't busy. Sure. How does she handle the, uh, crucial question? When I leave, that's fine. Would I like to finish the tea in the other room, after I take a quick shower? What a lovely suggestion. In the shower, I'm having an internal argument. Imagine the "shoulder devil/shoulder angel" schtick, only they're both shoulder devils where one is simply gentle everday noonday devil evil, but the other is pure wickedness. The nice shoulder devil is saying, you know, you could try just being gentle. See if you can do it. Just your fingertips, tongue, cock. Slow and gentle. Look at her. She's so sweet. Don't you want to know what it feels like to make a woman like that come without the storm raging all around her? Does she look like she wants the sound and the fury? The wicked shoulder devil is sneering at Gentle and saying, they ALL do, everyone seems to realize that but you. But I'll make you a deal. She's yours for as long as you want. You can do whatever you want to her, all sweet and no pain and no ropes and no tricks. I'll just watch. BUT. When you want to get hard, I mean really hard, like poke-it-through-drywall-and-concrete-hard and you want to feel yourself slide into her? When you want to hear her coo into your ear? When you want to feel the arteries inside her pounding on your dick? You gotta go through me, chief. Understand? And the deal is struck and I wander out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around me. She is down almost to one knee, putting on music, lighting candles (for scent, not light, it's still light out). She is in a short orange dress, braless, and she is poised so that as I come in I can see up her thigh to her panties. She turns to one side, ostensibly to put the lighter back on the table behind her, twisting and pivoting on one leg like a racquetball player getting a corner ball, and I can see the muscles and the tendons of her upper inner thigh flex and stretch. The panties draw against the contours of her crotch. But it's all over in a second and she stands up. She uses tease mode sparingly. Good shoulder devil is hoping to match her grace with some style. Bad shoulder devil is eyeing the bed for anchor points. She gives me that kiss, you know like the famous V-E Day Parade LIFE Magazine smooch, the one with her wrists around my neck, on her tiptoes, one leg back, letting me pull her in, letting my cock rest against her stomach, her breasts against my gut. I reach down to pull the hem of her dress up, peeling it off of her. Her hands go up to allow the dress to slide off. We continue to kiss, and she keeps her hands up, because this pulls her breasts up, allowing her nipples to rub my stomach. I have to bend over because I am almost a foot taller than she is, so I push her gently back onto the bed. She kisses like she is going to die tomorrow, like this is the last moment of pleasure she expects to receive in her life. Her mouth, those perfect white teeth, opens wider, wider, as if my tongue could expand to fill her. She lets out only the smallest sigh. And she waits for my next move. I tell her to grab the head of the bed. She nods, and I kneel between her thighs, sliding down the last triangle of cloth off her body. Before I describe her naked body, a word on my concept of beauty in the female form. More specifically, what makes one woman's body clearly more fuckable than another's. There is no delicate way to describe the number of women I have been with. The number is not fair, nor respectable. Suffice it to say, I have probably had more partners than you. This does not make me a great lover. It certainly does not make me a great man. But I can say that I've discovered a few truths: 1.Women below the age of 25 have no idea how to fuck. As tight and smooth and sweet and delectable as they may look, they simply have not had enough experience to allow them to access their own lust. They might do anything, say anything, and let themselves be used every which way - but their response, the look on their face, is pure "Is this going to be on the exam?" As they approach and pass their 30s, however, their ovaries are putting them into permanent heat. 2.Women who have not had children are not able to take the kind of pain that is necessary to experience intense sexual pleasure. I'm not just talking about the obvious effects on their pelvic structure, or their familiarity with the ecstatic agonies that can be visited on their vagina. I'm talking about the raw emotional vulnerability of motherhood, the association of unconditional love and surrender to a creature that will take years to love you back, and will - ultimately - betray that love by becoming independent. To a mother, all of that ripping abuse is part of what she has become. It breaks her heart and she loves it. Someone who has not had children is still foolishly expecting a world of fairness and logic. Someone who has had children understands that joy and despair are not actually two separate concepts. 3.Women who are aware that they are accepted by a large portion of the population as stunningly beautiful, as perfect, are almost always surprisingly disappointing and lousy lays. It's not just that they are reluctant to engage in acts that threaten their looks, or that they are afraid that what you have in mind will make them, even for a moment, look unattractive or humiliate them. It's not even that they are generally arrogant. I have been with a couple of Hollywood-quality lookers. Even the ones who were generally nice still had long ago learned to use their beauty as a shield. It was as if we were in a three-way: me and her and her looks. One of them even said "When you fuck your wife, you'll imagine what I look like. When you fuck me, you're fucking what I look like. You are cheating on your wife with me, you are cheating on me with my looks." 4.A truly beautiful woman is like a piece of art, like a piece of masterpiece Japanese porcelain - somewhere, there is an obvious flaw. It can be a slightly largish nose, or a scar, or a tooth out of place. She is not beautiful in spite of it. It is beautiful because of her. Skin, however, needs to glow. 5.Hands down, natural brunettes are always better smelling, better tasting, hornier, sexier and more beautiful than blondes, natural or otherwise. 6.A woman who does not have at least 10 extra pounds on her is probably incapable of more than 5 orgasms in a row. Jasmine is an exception only to rule 6. She had been a gymnast in her youth, travelled around the world in youth gymnastics troupes. Like most gymnasts, she had been built like a boy until at a young age she had been deflowered against her will and left with child. Pregnancy and nursing made her breasts grow, but that had been ten years ago and because her tiny figure had not changed with one pregnancy, her breasts deflated a bit. Fortunately they had never been huge, or they would have hung. Her nipples are dark and they pulsate when she is aroused. The rest of her is toned with exercise. A large appendectomy scar sits right over her right pelvic ridge, but the surgeon, ahead of his time, had taped the wound so the line was not raised. Her skin is flawless and dark, making me wonder whether there were a secret cache of Latinos running around the corner of the Volga plains where she had been raised. She never wears any makeup or any scent. Her nails are short and unlacquered. Despite childbirth and what must be a rather broad selection of visitors to that area of her anatomy, she looks like a young orchid when I raise her thighs to her chest and spread her knees. I cup her ass in the fingers of my hand, squeezing slightly to see how much pinch it takes before she protests. She only gasps. With my thumbs, I squeeze down on her outer lips, parting her like a book, two waves of skin on either side, the knob of her clitoris - the old word in Russian for it means "the lusty little thing" - exposed. I let her feel the tip of my tongue outside the majora, then over them, then between them and the minora, then over the ridges of the minora, then over the top of the clit - not touching it, just circling around it - for about five minutes to let her wetten and soften and start to moan and buck and try to push it into my mouth. I lick around her ass. I lick the small trimmed hairs that are in a triangle an inch above where the slit starts. I have a small beard and mustache, nothing on my cheeks. I use my mustache on her clit, my beard on her cunt, or my nose on her clit and the sides of my smooth cheeks on her mound. She won't ask for the tongue. They rarely do. They want it but they can't ask for it. They might say "kiss the little girl" meaning the pussy as a whole or "kiss it" meaning the clit but they can't bring themselves to beg to be eaten. I know she wants to bring her hands down to guide my head but it's clear she only does what she's told. I give her the tongue now, feeling the heat and salt on my mouth as her clitoris jumps at the tickle. She groans. I look up to see her face. She's got her eyes closed and her mouth is open, but the noises are still quiet. It's daylight. She has a roommate in the next room. Nasty shoulder devil is telling me to grab the panties, gag her, tie her up and juice her like a lemon. Gentle shoulder devil is reminding of the two hour deal. They reach a compromise. I tell her to put her hands down under her ass and I grab them, lifting her ass up, pushing her pussy into my face. I jam my tongue into her cunt and she cries out, then tries to be quiet. Gentle shoulder devil shrugs and says Fuck it. Nasty shoulder devil pumps his fist like a guy in a beer commercial and says Yes! I roll her on her stomach and tie her hands together behind her back with one of the three or four bandannas I always carry with me. I don't ask, I don't tell, I just do it. No protest, but she keeps her eyes on me, gauging if and when she needs to call time. I roll her back on her back and push her legs up and resume. Now I can use my hands on her. I slide one, then two, then three fingers in her, in and out as I lick her. Now she's squeaking and whimpering. I start to thrust my three fingers in all the way, grabbing inside for her G-spot and she is in agony, but not from the fingering, from the frustration. I know what the problem is. I take my mouth off her pussy, and I slide up to her face. I am now working four fingers into her, and stroking her hair and face with the other hand. I kiss her. She's looking at me, eyes glazed and tears starting to roll, groaning through gritted teeth. You have to let this sound out, I say, or the pain won't turn into pleasure. She whispers between groans that it's not possible, there are neighbors to consider, this is where she works. I ball up her panties and she nods in understanding. I tell her I have to know she trusts me. I say, I can't tell you I won't hurt you because I will, but I won't harm you. She nods and opens her mouth. Her eyes are shining as I gag her with the balled panties and then tie them tightly in with another bandanna. I hold her ankles up, keeping her knees pressed to her chest, and I reach for my belt. Her eyes widen, afraid that I am going to beat her. Not this time, I say. I use the belt to tie around her back and the back of her thighs. I have now folded her in half. I take a fistful of her hair and pull, making her look at me. You are mine now, I say. For as long as I want, for whatever I want. They won't even hear you in the next room. Her eyes widen. She is small enough to allow me to continue to look her in the eye as I slide my four fingers like a blade into her cunt. She howls in pain as I move them rhythmically in and out. All the time I am using my thumb on her clit. Look me in the eyes, I say. You can scream all you want and I won't stop. But if your eyes show me you are beyond your limit, I will know. She nods. She's crying. She loves this. Or maybe only I love this. Does it matter? I tell her this game is called the Niner. I slide the fingers in and out slowly, tapping the G-spot on the full in-stroke. I whisper One. She moans. I do that again, same tempo. I whisper Two. Moan. Again. Three. Moan. Four. Moan. Five. Moan. Six. Moan. Seven. Moan. Then I growl 8 and 9 and I jab in and out quickly. She screams from the shock. I wait a second. One. Moan. Two. Moan. Three... up to six. And then 7 8 9 I jab and her screams turn to howls. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. 6 7 8 9. Howls to shrieks. One. Two. Three. Four. 5 6 7 8 9. Shrieks now with head rolls. One. Two. Three. 4 5 6 7 8 9. Her eyes are wide open, her nostrils flare. She sees nothing. One. Two. 3 4 5 6 7 8 9. Her neck is now back, so the top of her head is rolling back onto the bed. One. 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9. She's letting out the kind of puffing breaths they teach in Lamaze. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9. The squeals double with intensity with each thrust until, by the time I hit the last number, it sounds like two chainsaws colliding. Her eyes roll up. She arches her back, points her toes at the ceiling, and I watch her stomach rise and fall, knowing that her diaphragm is about to pop. Her jaws are wide open, the gag is loosening, her eyes are open and seeing nothing. I put my hand over her mouth and whisper "let it all out" in her ear. The only place for the sound to escape is her nose, so the howl sounds like it comes from a well, a salt mine, from a cave leading to Hell itself. Her vaginal muscles spasm around my fist. My hand is soaked. I am covered in sweat, just as she is. And the wave, as violent as it is, is brief. When she relaxes, I remove my hands from her mouth and cunt. I take her gag out, and she is gasping and sobbing. But she is smiling at me. I wipe my hand on her face, and make her lick my fingers and hand. I kiss her as I rub my hand on her ass, spreading her cheeks, tickling her tailbone. She won't say anything. I asked her if that was too much. She shakes her head no. I get her a bit of wine, let her sip it. She's still tied like a pretzel. I tell her enough of the foreplay and now it's time for some real sex. She opens her mouth for the gag. Now silenced again, she watches as I reach for the long silk scarf she had left on her dresser. She watches me as I take a condom from the night table, open it with my teeth, and slide it on with one hand. I look at the window. Still broad daylight out. I have been here less than an hour. She makes only the tiniest of involuntary squeals of fear as I wrap the scarf twice around her throat. Her eyes shut, even as I slide myself into her. Open your eyes and look into mine, I say. You will still be terrified, I guarantee it. But as long as you can see that I am sane and in control, you won't lose your mind. The more you connect, the safer you will be. If you lose me, you are gone. Her eyes snap open. Her breath is shallow, from fear and from the tightening scarf. A word of advice, I whisper as I pull the ends of the scarf and start to thrust, again using the nines, into her. When you think you are about to lose consciousness, fight it. You'll still pass out, but it will make it easier to pull that first breath when I loosen. Understand? She nods, once. Scared? She nods, once. There's someone in the next room, isn't there. She nods, twice. Two people. They won't hear you. You can't get enough air to make enough sound. Really scared? The tiniest of squeals. I grow harder and larger, pounding into her. Don't be scared, I say. I smile and lean down. Be terrified. But do not give up. You're bound and gagged, I have 20 centimeters on you and weigh more than twice what you do and I am on top of you, and your roommate and pimp in the next room can't hear you over the World Cup on television. Your life is in my hands, but also in yours. If you don't find a way to fight me, to convince me you want to live... A throaty sob strangles in her throat. She rubs her heels on my back. She wriggles underneath me as her cunt gushes on my balls. I tighten harder. So does she. Good, I whisper. Keep it up. Meanwhile, the shoulder devils have retreated to the small table with the burning candle to watch your stallion topping his mare. Wicked has thrown an Oxford don's robe over his leathers, and Gentle is taking notes from Wicked's lecture: Green Tea with Jasmine Pt. 01 Observe the technique. Knowing that (a) the young lady in question has vaginal expansion capacity that is out of proportion to her size, albeit quite appropriate to her profession and (b) our boy was assigned what in the relevant literature is generally not referred to as a gigantic membrum virilis, and yet desiring for them both to experience a tight and violative insertion, what we have done here is a bit of bait and switch. Note that during the prelude, he used his hand on her, which is larger, longer and of course wider than his penis. He used a specific rhythm, apparently unknown to her beforehand, which brought her to orgasm. So she now associates that rhythm both with orgasm and with a feeling of size. But she was able to breathe freely during that episode. With her air constricted, she naturally tenses her muscles harder and is also somewhat disoriented by hypoxia. By using exactly the same coital rhythm in this episode as in the last, but choking her, he is encouraging the illusion that his cock is in fact as big as his fist. Observe the result. Wicked points his stylus over his shoulder, Gentle follows, lowering his reading glasses. In full rut, the subject in question has tightened the loose ends of the scarves around the object in question as far as he dares, and reached under her neck to hold the bight of the noose in one hand, just to keep it from unraveling. With his other hand, he is thumbing her clit as he is whispering Two and her ankles and heels are slapping against his shoulder blades and 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 he growls, redfaced himself from the effort and from her calves around his neck, and she is pushing her head back, both from the impending orgasm and also because it opens the airway just a bit and One he whispers and her shoulders are straining as her hands are desperately trying to free themselves to fight him off and he growls 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 as his hips thrust in and out slapping against her ass, sweat sticking and making popping noises and the last whine of desperation is whistling in her nose and 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 and come on you bitch NOW he growls and with her last ounce of conscious energy she actually bends herself backwards, head between her shoulder blades and tits and knees and abdomen up and somehow this sprite of not more than 85 pounds dripping wet and clothed manages to push him up and back, still in her as she spasms onto him and her eyes roll up and... I let go of the bight and with one motion I fall back on to her, loosen the noose and pull out the gag. She needs to recycle her lungs immediately. I put my mouth on hers and let whatever weak scream comes with the last of her dead air come into my mouth. I give her a lungful of the fresh air in mine. She screams back into my mouth, and starts to cough. I pull back and let her breathe and cough, hand ready to muffle a scream or a cry, gag-cloth ready to wipe up any sputum or vomit that might come up. I watch her eyes, which still, I realize, see nothing. Vision requires circulation through some of the smallest blood vessels in the human body - it goes first and comes back last. As her pupils shrink back toward normal, I tell her it is all right. She looks at me and smiles. Damn, she says. That is the closest to cursing in my company she will ever get. How about a smoke break? Somewhere over my shoulder I can hear the devils. It's been an hour and a half, and it's still light out, I can hear Wicked saying. What do you say we let him come sometime tonight? Gentle, still in student mode, simply asks if that means Wicked has no more lectures tonight, has Wicked run out of ideas? Oh, says Wicked. It is ON, bitch... When I finally leave, only the streetlights light the way. Green Tea with Jasmine Pt. 02 Six weeks later Autumn's threat behind summer's promise has turned into winter's shadow on the door. The sky is gray and will stay that way, except for a few bone-chillingly cold days that seem to bring the sun with them, until about April. The running-sap horniness of summer has settled somewhat, replaced by the occasional gut level desire for the warmth of another body, right now, right here. Usually it passes with a cup of coffee at the office kitchenette. But not today. Today, the shoulder devils are whispering, stereo, in my ear. We've got a bet running, chief, they are saying. Gentle seems to think she was a one-off or a pro just keeping the customer satisfied. Wicked has her pegged for a natural. Even though she seemed genuine and honest, you never really can tell whether they just want you to be happy or whether you've really found the golden key to the temple, you know? So the plan is we go back there and throw a bit more at her, see if she cracks and tells us to fuck off. My response is pure caution. So let me get this straight, I ask them. You want us to go over and do God knows what - Wicked snorts. This is definitely not His department, chief. The blueprints are all mine - I won't even show that transvestite angel on your other shoulder. - whatever to her, to see if she tells us it's okay after the fact? If she was sugar-coating it last time, why wouldn't she just do the same this time? Gentle's turn. See, our thinking on this is that she's definitely got a line she won't cross. I just think we're at it, and my obnoxious partner here thinks there's miles to go before we get there. Either way, until we find out, neither of us is going to let you get anything done. So the phone call, the delighted welcoming voice, the time set up - Wicked is thumbs' up that we're all given less than an hour - and back on the road and up the elevator, fruit basket in hand. She had turned down the wine. Too late, she had said. She looks exactly the same, a touch less tan. Something about that is comforting. It says, I know exactly what works for me, but I don't try to fight the seasons. Same smile, same wave into the flat, same kitchen, same bedroom... Different bed, one of those fold out couches. No obvious anchor points. Gentle is shrugging. She follows my eyes. The bag of scarves, bought in an underpass, does not escape her eyes either. Don't worry, she says. We'll think of something. Wicked taps his blueprints and gives us the high sign. The mattress flips up, he reminds me. There's a frame underneath, metal, runs around the whole thing. Gentle stands his ground. Then why didn't she show us that? Because, stupid, answers Wicked. Even if she's a natural, she doesn't have to be obvious. Besides, she may not want to encourage every guy she meets to go down that road. Ever thought of that? Gentle ponders, but I realize I'm staring at the bed the way an alpine climber considers a new rockface. In the shower, as I am soaping up my battle equipment, Wicked tells me to spank it. Gentle concurs. I'm confused. I did not have a problem keeping an erection with a full load last time, what's the problem? Because we're not here for you, chief, Gentle answers. We're here to settle a bet and you've got to empty the chambers for this to work. Part of being a natural means that she will be able to bring you back to full engagement simply by the way she reacts. If she's faking, your dick will know because it won't be blinded. About ten grams lighter I emerge from the shower, and Gentle and I let Wicked go to work, but immediately they start arguing again as soon as I kiss her. The problem is, and it should have been visible from the moment I saw her, is that she's been drinking. Now, for almost twenty years I have found drunk women unappealing. Available, easy, enticing, yes. But ultimately distasteful in bed. Literally. It changes the way that they smell and taste. I don't mean sloppy drunk. Even a woman who has had just enough to put a real glow on her cheeks is unpredictable. Bull, grumbles Wicked. She'd had wine the last time we were here. One or two glasses, Gentle counters. Enough to put a slight tang to her saliva, but we couldn't taste it on her pussy. Look at her - her cheeks are red and her eyes are a bit glazed. I know she's not slurring, but it throws off all accuracy in our scientific endeavors. How? If she's a bit tipsy, she's LESS likely to fake, not MORE. Wicked had worked a while on whatever his plans contained, and he wanted to get busy. Fine, Gentle counters. Do it. Just don't expect to convince me when it's over that it's not just the wine. Gentle reels off a list of names of girls that we had done it to when they were sloppy drunk, and when we were. Wicked flips him the bird. Maybe THEY were naturals too? He asks. Again, she is waiting patiently, lighting candles, apologizing that she'd been at a party earlier, had maybe one glass of wine too many, but she was really glad to see me. Same kiss, same pose, same hardon, ready but not throbbing. Wicked takes over. Take off your clothes, leave the panties on, I say. She complies, and stands there. Wrists, I order. She holds them out and I tie them together in front of her. Long ends of the scarf trail to the floor. I blindfold her with a bandanna. I hitch her wrists to a hook on the closet door. I turn her to face the wall. She is on tip toes. She waits, breathing a bit heavily. I put my hand to the crotch of her panties. Very wet. I reach for a Bic ball point pen, the kind with the little plastic removable cap. The cap is pointed, but not sharp. The part that fits over a pocket is sharper, but can't break skin unless forced. I start with the cap point, and not the blade. She's ticklish, so she squeals a little when I run it over her heels and the back of her calves. I push harder into her thighs. She moans a bit. Up her back, she purrs. Over her shoulders, around her ribs. She sighs. Then I pull her hair back. The plastic blade, I push against her throat. No, she says. Sharply, and she pulls away. I pull back, waiting for my devils to get the better of me. Gentle nods. See? Wicked snorts. You are so simple. If she weren't natural, she'd be stifling that no. She's telling us she has limits. If she doesn't complain about other stuff, it means they are within her limits. Now let's gag her and keep going with the blade. Gentle mumbles, great, we've established she doesn't want to get filleted. Call the newspapers. She fights a bit at the gag. I tell her she won't bleed if she holds still, and she relaxes. I pull her hair back and trace the blade over her throat, and she's moaning in fear. Where will I put this next? I turn her around to face me, kicking her legs farther apart. I work the blade over her nipples, stomach, and then straight down over the panties. Wicked is stage-whispering to Gentle. That's why we keep the panties on. Naked, her pussy lips will realize that this is not metal. Gentle, again the student. And her throat, nipples, stomach couldn't? They're cooler. Metal placed against them is not going to feel as cold as metal placed against a hotter area of the body. She's dripping wet down there because we are dealing with basal temperatures now, and wetness transmits heat. If we had a real metal blade, it would feel much colder against her naked wet pussy than against her throat. Plastic won't. So we tease her through the fabric - which would block enough heat transfer that even metal would not feel cold unless pressed through. Meanwhile, Wicked, concludes, take a look at the young lady. Gentle and I watch. As I am running the plastic blade over her panties, she is rolling her pelvis. Not away from the point, but to it. She's humping the blade, subtly but clearly. And she's groaning. She realizes that I can see this. She thinks there's a knife at her tender little snatch, she's gyrating to it, and it's all here for me to watch. She's performing, and it's humiliating for her. Her cheeks are blushing, no longer just from drink. I reach for the strap of the panties. No no no. It's Gentle. You can't do that. We did not come here to have you suck her pussy. Don't do it. You are SUCH a fag, Wicked shouts. What's wrong with you? This is to discover if she is a natural, Gentle insists, not to discover that she likes cunnilingus, as mind-blowingly novel a revelation as that may be. She trusted him with what, as far as she knows, is a rusty autopsy scalpel from her guggle to her zatch and you don't think that deserves a reward? Wicked is appalled. Come on. There have to be rules. He needs to cement the trust. Okay, but do it teasingly. Gentle says. Turn the panties to one side and then the other. Lick her everywhere but her clit. Make her soak and sob for it. Wicked shakes his head. What? I'm still a fucking demon, aren't I? Gentle shouts. I ignore them. I tear the panties off her, get on my knees, lift her legs onto my shoulders, hold her ass up in my hands. She parts her legs herself and I bury my face in her, tongue first. She is a peach, and I intend to have my face and hands and chest covered in sweet sticky warmth. She does not disappoint. There is no gentleness, no tease. I am famished at her. She is grinding into my face. I know she is making sounds but I do not listen for them. I am blind in her crotch, deaf, all I have is my mouth and nose. I am Hellen Keller spending a weekend at Smith College. Sucking, biting, chewing, licking, grunting. Her lips are small but I am burying myself into her folds. She is approaching climax when I hear one of the devils tell me: take one thumb, dip it in the honeypot, then do the dipstick with it. A thumb? That's all she needs for now. I soak my right thumb in her, twirl it around. She groans but the thing can't go in very far. Juices drip down my wrist. Now, chief. Without warning, I shove the thumb in her ass. She cries out. I twirl it. Her lips convulse on my face and now I can hear the scream through the gag. Her hips arch and I can tell without looking that she is doing what she did the last times when she came - curving backwards, opening her throat and rolling her eyes back. I raise myself up, intending to impale her on me. Two problems. One, I can't reach the condoms. Two, I'm not anywhere near hard enough. I sit back, watching her twist and shiver, post orgasm, as the wave of cold runs through her following the flash of the climax. We let you eat her because that's part of the experiment. Finding out that you can fuck after you eat is not. She has to make you hard in a way that proves she's a natural. Wicked is standing there, all Oxford on me again, and Gentle is nodding in concurrence. I envy guys with shoulder angels. So what's next? Wicked takes out the second blue print. I pull the mattress of the bed here and there, and hitch one scarf to the railing under the head, then another two scarves to the railing under the sides near the foot. I unhitch the scarf around her hands from the hook on the door, and carry her over my shoulder to the bed. Throwing a pillow in the middle, I lay her face down and tie her in an A to the mattress, ass up in the air, pussy touching nothing. Gentle and I shake our head no in agreement, but Wicked insists. Taking the back channel is not really my thing. I know guys who obsess over it, but I've always wondered if guys who prefer to drive the dirt road don't really have a deeper agenda at work. Wicked shows no doubt. But then again, he never does. Look at her, he says. It's what she wants. She's trembling, but she's holding still. She's not making a sound. You'd expect some protest. Well, I say. She knows what I'm carrying. It's not like I'm hung like a donkey or anything. How much could it hurt her? What's to be frightened of. Gentle shakes his head and points down. I follow his finger. Where the hell did THAT come from? I mean, it's not massive, but it's a fucking flagpole - priapus proud and patriotic. Flat against my belly. Straight as an arrow. Not a molecule of self-doubt. Wicked is saluting. In seconds, I'm wrapped and crouching over her. You know what is going to happen now, I tell her. She whimpers and nods. You know I am not going to ask if this is what you want. Another whimper and nod. Because it doesn't matter, does it? Now I can hear a sob. I rub it between her cheeks and pussy lips to get it wet. Condom latex is rougher than skin on dry skin. Gentle suggests I pick the right angle and thrust. Wicked says no. Find her and open her slowly. She deserves that. Gentle disagrees. But it hurts a hell of a lot more when it's done slowly. Does she deserve that too? No, Wicked says. But she needs it. He's right. Pushing against her, my weight does most of the work, forcing it in about an inch a minute. She's crying. I reach around and check the gag. Tight enough. I put a pillow in front of her face. I keep talking. You like this, don't you. She does not respond. Here you are, sweet little Jasmine, helpless. Your friends are in the next room. They can't hear. They can't help. You can't speak. You can't tell me no. You can't beg me. You can't do anything. Can you? Moaning, she shakes her head no. I am halfway in. I pull a quarter of the way out, sink back in, just a bit more. So hot and tight, little one. You can't tell anyone to put it there. You can't admit that. You can't even ask for a tongue in your cunt, no way can you ask for a cock in your ass, right. Sobbing. I can feel her legs tremble. But you can have it like this. Can't you? I thrust all the way in and she finds the pillow, pushes her face into it and whimpers. She's also nodding her head. Can't you? I pull all the way back out and slide now all the way in. Can't you? Another thrust. Ever heard of the clitoris, boy? The demons in stereo, one ear each. Duh. I put one hand over her mouth, the other reaching to tease her clit. She groans. And then I strip the clutch and go into another gear. She rocks underneath me as I slam harder. She's dripping onto my hand. And the screaming. Oh sweet lord, she is howling and puffing and shrieking into my hand, her breath hot on me. I can feel her ass open wide to take me again and again and again, the muscles similar but different, a whole new order of physics as she starts, as always, to push her head back as far as the ropes will allow her as her breath starts to come in pants, as the voices tell me The Nines, schmuck, do the Nines! Allow me if you will a brief digression onto the topic of the male orgasm, specifically the myth of the male orgasm. It was not until I was well into my thirties that I realized that I was not actually having an orgasm every time I managed, with or without the help of another live human being, to get put ten ccs of fluid through a tiny hole into the open air for a few seconds before it met skin, rubber, the shower tiles or carpeting, and that an orgasm was a lot more than simply the removal of a certain amount of frustration. How I realized that is another story, with which I won't bore you because (a) I know you want to get back to watching Sodom played upon Jasmine and (b) I can't really remember right now. Suffice it to say that once I did realize that there was more to a climax than a small sticky stain, I was learning about all the different levels to that experience. I had so far defined five: 1.The Zero Orgasm. This is basically the same as a simple come, only with a lot of it, usually experienced after a long (i.e., two weeks) dry spell so there's a lot of squonk in the horn. This is also known as the Harpo Marx. Loud and quick and followed generally by nervous laughter. Generally associated with slightly-better-than-mediocre blowjobs or a decent hand job. 2.The Earth Orgasm. This is where the ground or whatever I am located on appears to shake, rattle and roll, or where when it's over I fall to the ground because my legs are still wobbly. Also known as the Show-Me-The-Way-To-Go-Home. Also loud, a bit longer, followed by vertigo and/or panic attacks. Generally associated with much-better-than-mediocre blowjobs and women with strong thigh muscles. 3.The Wind Orgasm. This is where I can't help but roar like a lion at the moment, where my eyes roll up and I am not sure but I think I can see my past and future lives. Also known as the Exorcist. So loud I tend to move away from my last address after having one. Associated with about three blowjobs I have ever had and one girl who was a semi-professional swimmer and who could actually control, with her Kegels, the rate and direction of my ejaculation. 4.The Fire Orgasm. This is where my body feels incredibly hot at the moment of climax, and sweat pours out of me. Also known as the Nova or the Volcano. Noisy but all I can hear is the blood in my brain steaming out my ears. Associated with rather vigorous intercourse that lasts for hours. 5.The Water Orgasm. This is where I feel like I am a glowing liquid pouring through a pipe, rushing and boiling, melting into the women I am with. Also known as the Flush. Usually the first orgasm I have after being sick. Usually associated with falling in love, although I rarely realize it at the time. Today I discover a new one: 6.The Big Bang In Reverse Orgasm. This is where I think I am building up to one of the last two because I am sweating and melting, but suddenly I can see inside myself and instead of organs and blood and flesh and bones and all that other good stuff I am a field of stars growing brighter and brighter larger and larger achieving a huge gravitational pull and behind me there is an anchor shaped galaxy dragging with it the entire universe aimed at my asshole where it dives in and sucks the entire whole of reality my memories my fears every person I ever knew everything I ever said and it all flies into the field of stars that is what I am and it coalesces everything into one burning ball of brilliant blackness that swirls and pulses and finds the one part of me touching the real world and that's my cock inside this woman and the anchor finds another asshole to dive into and now now now oh sweet God in heaven now I know what she felt like when she thought I was going to kill her and I'm ready to go too and... Also known as the Stephen Hawking. I do not remember too much what happens after that. She's sweet about it, even hugs me after I untie her, which takes a while because it is not until the demons poke me with forks to bring me around that I remember why I am here, what I am doing, who this woman is crying through her blindfold. I can't say much, but I do thank her and at the door she asks if I'll call her on her new cell phone number sometime. Out in the parking lot, Gentle is cursing as Wicked is putting his blueprints away and reminding him of the bet. Now where the fuck, Gentle grumbles, am I supposed to get a pair of wings and a tutu...? Green Tea with Jasmine Pt. 03 About a year later in spring Water runs in the streets and over the curbs after the third day of constant rain has overloaded the storm drains and the river, pregnant with melted snow, offers no relief. I have just closed something I have been working on for a year and a half and I have delighted my co-workers with the number of ways I have been able to cover up what is a colossal deception of our counterparty. I have nothing to do with the rest of my afternoon and nowhere to go. How to celebrate yet another corporate caper? May I suggest an afternoon of blindingly inappropriate extramarital intimate physical activity culminating in ejaculation and generous tips? I turn to see Gentle dressed up like a waiter in a five-star restaurant, notepad open. Where's Wicked? He's on personal leave. That thing we did last week that put our company's counterparty into bankruptcy got him noticed at the Home Office and he's gone in to get a commendation or something. Our counterparty was more gullible than a trailerpark imbecile. As far as accomplishments go, that carries the same amount of difficulty credits as, say, seducing a dead sheep. However, as Gentle reminds me, that IS the sort of thing demons like to put on their resumes. It's just gonna be he and I for today, so let's see what he can come up with. Judging from the way my dick is hanging limp in my trousers, I don't expect much, but I do know whom to call. The first call is to a little establishment located, by the machinations of the dark celestial forces that oversee this particular city, right next door to my office. Hi, remember me and my terrible accent? Yes, of course. I want to come over in an hour or so with a lady friend, what are the options? Eight hands, full non-intimate contact, costs such and such, you can have privacy after the program. Deal. The second call is to Jasmine. Hi, great to hear from you, sure I can come to such and such address in an hour, what are we going to do? Okay, I'll trust you... On the street, coming into the café, she is dressed not to provoke attention. Simple coat, sensible boots, dark skirt, hat covering her hair. She smiles, we have an obligatory cup of coffee, and I explain a little of what is going to happen in hushed tones. She nods in agreement. She shows me that she has brought the scarves. I did not ask her to. Gentle is smsing Wicked "Yes, you were right..." A two minute walk and we are ringing the doorbell to an unmarked apartment in a nondescript building. The first floor is a shoe store, post office, hardware store and lunch place. The entryway to the apartments is around the back, and then there's a stairwell, dilapidated and redolent of old piss, the same graffiti essentially as in Jasmine's block: Eminem is KOOL, Rap is Dogshit. A girl opens the door and leads us in. I assume that girls in the industry, even if unacquainted, are fairly capable of spotting each other. Jasmine, of course, as the guest has no trouble understanding what the girls here are and what they do. What I wonder is whether they have her pegged as a pro or just some girlfriend of mine. It turns me on to think that she is so demure and so polite that they don't make her as a colleague. In this house, the rules of the crew are at work. One of the older girls is called the Mama – either because she has been promoted permanently or because that mama on the train I told you about came to visit for a couple of days. She leads us in to a living room with over-soft furniture, takes our shoes and coats, and tells us that the girls will be coming in two seconds. She claps her hands and about eight girls walk in, dressed in cheap summer resort outfits. They are all different – tall, short, curly hair, straight, one in a crew cut. The busty ones show off their chests as much as possible. The shier ones stand to the side. I introduce myself and Jasmine and ask for their names, and for each one to tell me something about herself. I do this to remember the names: #1, shy and at the end, emaciated, tells me she likes Martini. Until I moved here, I did not know that vermouth could be drunk straight. Pass. #2, chubby and smiling, tells me it's her birthday today. Possible. #3, tall and athletic, strong veined hands, tells me she likes the rain. Possible. #4, stout and dykey, shoulders like a boxer, tells me she just got back from Egypt and that's why she's tan. Probable. #5, the curviest and most vivacious, smiles at Jasmine and tells me – still looking at Jasmine -- she thinks I am a very lucky man. Definite. #6, bookish looking even if dressed in cutoff jeans and a bra, looks at her feet and tells me she's always been afraid of spiders. That makes her more of a pussy than my children, but I like the whole "librarian who has to yank pud to feed her pet birds" look. Possible. #7 , shy of her big nose, tells me she has been in the capital a year and loves it. I don't believe her on either count. Pass. #8, at the other end, has small breasts with nipples that push through two layers of clothing. I don't listen to what she says, she's already a Definite. I ask them to give us a minute and send Mama back in five minutes. Gentle has his own ideas of whom to pick but I ignore him. I turn to Jasmine and ask her. She won't choose. But I held her hand during the cattle call, and watched her out of the corner of my eye. The girl definitely is not gay, but her hand tightened when #5 looked at her, and she ran her thumb over the back of my hand when #3 introduced herself. I also watched her look up and down over the Mama, and the girl with the closest body type to Mama is #8. #4 has the closest skin tone to Jasmine's. I run those numbers by her and she nods in agreement. Mama walks in, gets the names, walks out and two seconds later in walks #5. Within a crew, there is always a leader, and she is the one who brings you in. The two of us are brought to a room with dimmed lights, a music player, a chair in the corner and a large Ikea bed from the cheap end of the catalogue. 5 asks 3 to take Jasmine for her shower, and when she leaves, she asks me what I want. I've been here before, alone (usually) and so she knows I know the basic no-nos – the guests can touch or lick a girl's breast, any orifice is off limits, sex is forbidden with the girls in the room, the girls will not play with each other unless the guest has specifically purchased that program. That does, however, leave a lot. So I tell her what I'd like to see; she asks me if Jasmine is going to be all right with it and I show her the bag of scarves. She smiles and the other two girls get to work. Jasmine comes back a few minutes later and 8 is sent to give me my shower. When I get back, Jasmine is naked on the bed, head resting to the side on her folded hands, smiling at me. 3 and 5 are on either side of her back, working her spine down to her butt and 4 is doing the feet and legs. She is gleaming with oil. They are naked as well. 5 invites me to lay down next to them, and 8 with the titanium nipples leads me over, lays me down, and works my shoulders and spine. Jasmine and I are purring. How are you, Jasmine? I ask. Excellent, she sighs. I've told 5 that you are going to do anything you are told to do, that's right isn't it? Jasmine nods. They need to hear you say it, darling. Jasmine smiles. I'll do whatever I am told, 5, she says. 5 smiles. This is a game she knows how to play. I watch them arouse her. It starts slowly, following whispered clues from 5: part her legs, or fingertip-feather down the arms. Jasmine is patient and she does not buck when 5 sits on her back and holds her hands as 3 leans on her legs and 4 runs one fingertip from the tail bone to the anus and perineum and back; Jasmine only hisses and smiles at me, closing her eyes. Meanwhile 8 is doing the same to me and I am hardening. 5 keeps a watch by the bed and after fifteen minutes have passed, she takes the bandanna I gave her and she blindfolds Jasmine, then tells her to roll over. The scarves are already fixed to the corners of the bed. I watch from the side of the bed, rock hard as four naked girls pull her extremities to the corners and hitch her down simultaneously. They hum in tune to the song on the CD player as they fasten her down. The sexiest part is 5, telegraphing orders to the other three – pass it twice around the wrist before you make the knot, re-tighten the loops around the corner once the ankle is tight – and winking at me, making me wonder who is really providing the service to whom here? Once Jasmine is spread open, 5 tests her by tickling under her arms and pinching her thighs between her legs. Both times, Jasmine yelps but does not otherwise make a sound. 3, 4 and 8 go where 5 points them. There is a simple semaphore at work here: a few hand signals and they know just what to do. 3 and 8, the strongest pair, each sit on a thigh, rubbing themselves on her, as they gently feather their fingers in a triangle around her pussy without touching the temple of Venus itself. 4 sits above Jasmine's head, makes Jasmine lick her fingers, and begins to work her breasts. Jasmine is sighing, moving, relaxed and at attention at the same time. 5 comes over to me and whispers, any specific instructions? She's rubbing my thigh, on the inside, letting her breast fall on my upper arm, nuzzling my shoulder. Does she know what you can and cannot do? We did not tell her. Can you kiss her? Not on the mouth or between the legs. That's a shame. How do you usually make women come like this? We have toys, we put condoms on them. You want me to get them? That's what's called a rhetorical question. I shake my head yes. 5 puts on a robe and is back in three minutes. The opening and closing door makes Jasmine gasp. Gentle is on my shoulder, dressed like a Japanese tourist at Disneyworld with a camcorder. What's this, I ask him. Like we haven't taken girls to the massage parlors before? It's Wicked, he explains. If he gets back from his day off and finds out I didn't take pictures, he'll kill me. He's posting them on his blog. The Big Guy has Down There wired for internet? Gentle shrugs. Who do you think invented the fucking thing? I decide to leave the realm of theo-political humor and return to watching 3 and 4 use one hand apiece to spread Jasmine's pussy wide open. Their other hands, they flutter over, around and through her garden of perdition, never actually touching her. They take turns leaning into the velvet orchid, blowing on the petals, sepals and stamen, droning like hummingbirds. Meanwhile, 8, God bless her, is going to town on Jasmine's nipples. And Jasmine? Jasmine is in durance not totally vile. 5, meanwhile, is laying down next to Jasmine so she can talk to her. In her hands is a vibrating dildo. It's not quite the size of a baseball bat. Well, not the size of a baseball bat they'd use in North America, anyway. She is rolling a condom onto the Ryugasaki Slugger, and I almost feel sorry for the rubber. A word about 5 voice. She's built like Jennifer Tilly or Victoria Jackson, and she has the same kind of ridiculously high throaty voice that in retrospect you can't believe you fell for when she drops out of it into a low front of the mouth growl that makes you think of women in trailer parks with tattoos and curling irons and an innate understanding of handguns. This is the voice she starts to use with Jasmine: You can't see what I have, can you, slut? But you'd like to, wouldn't you. Here, let me roll it across your stomach like this, see how long and wide it is? Stop squirming. Be a good slut for auntie, won't you (Jasmine is at least five years older than 5)? Don't make auntie angry, now. Here. Let's turn it on, let you feel it. 5 takes it like a bow and plays it across Jasmine's violet viola, prompting a cry. Hsst! 5 growls. Bad girl. 3, put a hand over her mouth. Clamp it. If she bites, slap her. Jasmine makes a stifled squeal, I have not heard this from her before. 5 continues to pass the baton back and forth through Jasmine's lips, over the top of her clit. 3 and 4 are moaning and sucking on Jasmine's breasts, nursing, biting, pinching, their hands teasing her arms and stomach. Jasmine is yanking on the scarfs, trying to turn her head. Is she looking for me? I'm over here, I say, it will be all right. 5 tells me to shut up. This is her show, that's what I paid for, right? Let her do her job, she says, and let Jasmine do hers. Your job is to lay back and watch your whore get screwed. For once, I do not know what to say. Let her see him, 5 commands, and 3 takes the blindfold off. She takes it and holds it between Jasmine's teeth, using her two hands to anchor the ends of the cloth and to hold Jasmine's face straight up. 4, 5 asks. Can I trust you not to come on her face? 4 nods, unsure of herself but sure of who is in charge. She turns from Jasmine's breast and squats over 8's hands and Jasmine's face. 8 pulls her hands away and now the only thing between 4's cunt and Jasmine's face is the untied-but-anchored-by-thighs cloth in Jasmine's mouth. 4 knows what she is doing – Jasmine's breath from her nose is blowing right on her clit. Meanwhile, 5 is waving the dildo in Jasmine's face. Look at this, baby, she is saying. I can put this anywhere I want to. Would you like that? Jasmine is blinking, trying to avoid my eyes. If I wanted to stop this, could I? Jasmine can't see around 8, so she has no idea what is going on down there as 5 starts to use the dildo like a club, tapping and thumping against Jasmine's pussy. Our eyes finally meet. She is trying to smile. I did not have this in mind, I tell Gentle. He's even more petrified than I am. Neither did I. This is really Wicked's territory. What do we do? I give him a withering look. I'll be damned if I have to give my fucking shoulder devil tips on what to tell me to do. 3 and 4 are left with little to do, so they come over to me and lay in my arms. This is simultaneously comforting and entrapment. I'd have to push to get them off me. I don't want to push. 5 continues to taunt Jasmine: I should just ram this in to you like the whore you are. It's more than your man has. It's more than any man has. You don't need a man. You need this. You need me to shove this in you. Don't you? Nobody knows how to fuck a whore like another whore, right? Jasmine, through cloth and the pelvic apparatus of what is by now a very red faced Vika, clearly screams NO. (It sounds like a cellar door slamming shut in a storm.) Yes it is. Look at you. You love my little bitch on your face, don't you? NO! Well her pussy and yours tells a different fairytale than that, my little bitch. Look at her, her eyes are closed. BITCH she growls at 8 don't you come you little slut. Just rape her face. Jasmine, darling, you want me to fuck you, don't you? I'm pushing it right here at the opening... NO! You don't like me? Auntie is going to shove it in like you have never -- NOOOO! I can't hear you, whore... And Jasmine goes from NO – a word she has used with me, maybe, twice in bed in what is by now over 24 elapsed hours of fucking – to a language that only women can understand, a childbirth howl of rage and despair and surrender that has three simultaneous effects: one, it makes me try to break free of these two naked nothing girls laying on me; two, it makes 5 pause, and look at me strangely; three, it makes 8 squeak Oh God Oh Mommy Oh No No NO about ten times as she shudders on Jasmine's face. All is quiet for a second. 5 waves her hand at the girls on me and they roll off. She taps 8 on the shoulder and 8 gets off of Jasmine's face, taking the cloth out of Jasmine's mouth and wiping herself with it. She sits on the side of the bed, never taking her eyes of 5. 5 looks at me and then at Jasmine, who won't look at anyone but the ceiling. 5 hisses at 8, who gets off the bed and goes to a corner to bring towels to the girls. OK girls, she says. Time to give them some time alone. They are out in two seconds, wrapped in towels. I crouch over Jasmine. I search for words. Gentle is no help, as usual. She looks at me. Please, she says. Now. Can you be slow and tender? I look at the scarves. I can untie... She nods and I release her. She wraps her arms and legs around me and lets me cover her mouth. I let her bite my hand. She comes in less than a minute, squeaking and squealing. I can't. We lay there, not saying a word. I hold her and stroke her hair. I have no idea what just happened. Gentle is no help. I look over at him and he is stroking his horns and sticking his tongue out like some lovestruck animated cartoon from the 1940s. What the fuck is with you? I ask and he turns to me with a Goofy grin and accent. Damn me if he doesn't say Gawrsh, she shore is purty. Who? 5's devil. Then go get her fucking phone number and leave me alone. Without Wicked, you're a fucking disaster. But Gentle is already gone to get some demonic 411. We stay there, silent, holding each other. I realize I want to apologize, and I realize the apology will make it worse. She wants to cry, I can tell, but she won't. Crying for what I do to her, she knows I can handle. Crying for what I let happen to her, she knows I can't. A knock at the door and 3 comes in with an actual bathrobe for Jasmine. 3 treats Jasmine like a spa patient, arms around the waist, low voiced cooing compassion. It's clear Jasmine has had her 5 dose for the day. As soon as they have gone, 5 comes in and I go for my wallet. You can handle that in a minute. Can I say something first? It's not a question, so I nod. She sits down next to me on the bed. You're welcome back anytime, of course, but do not bring her with you. Do you understand me? I think so. What did we do wrong? You did nothing wrong. Jasmine does not like girls, but she was ready to let me rape her to please you. And not because she's at work. Because she likes you. You're a nice guy and she's a sweet whore, but all that means is that you're nice for a stupid clumsy brute and she's sweet for a woman who should know better than to trust men. I can't stop you from breaking each others' hearts, but I can make sure it doesn't happen in this establishment. Do you understand? I think so, I say after a minute: the only love more impossible than a whore and her john is a dyke and a straight girl. She put on that smile, the one that says what the locals refer to as "a few brief words of French" and which we call a brief Anglo-Saxon expletive. Then she slipped back into her Jennifer Tilly doll face and voice: I was wrong about you. You're not stupid. And I'm not all that nice, either. She nodded and laughed. Look, do yourself a favor, take her out of here, get her a cab, send her home and wait a month to call her. Never mention today again, and you'll get years of fun out of her. I settled up with her and she took me to the shower, where 8 was waiting. 5 whispered to me that this was on the house and she expected me to honor my agreement. As soon as the door was shut, 8 got on her knees, took my cock in both hands, and started to jerk me off. I grabbed her hair in one hand and pulled her head back to look at me. You're 5's girl, aren't you. She nodded, vacantly. And coming is against the house rules, as is servicing in the shower, right? Another nod. She couldn't be more than one or two chromosomes away from a Nobel Prize. So this is on the house, right? I'm your punishment, aren't I? 8 nodded again, dim-witted but honest. I closed my eyes and imagined Jasmine screaming NOOO, but then I reopened them to look down on 8, grimacing in confusion and disgust as I iced her muffin from the hairline to the nipples. I left her there with a towel wrapped around me, to find 5 standing outside the door. Green Tea with Jasmine Pt. 03 How's my girl, she asked, smiling. Properly baptized, I said, smiling right back. I figure you can tell her when and if she can wash my jizz off of her face. Shall we call it even? 5's eyes narrowed. Even. And so off Jasmine and I went. I got her a cab, paid her a tip, told her I would be out of the country for the next two months but I would call her when I got back. She kissed me and said she'd like that. From then on I would call her no more often than every ten weeks. I never saw 5 or 8 again. About a week later, I was busy at work on a document that was designed to hide from our shareholders, our counterparty, our counterparty's shareholders, and the taxation authorities of four different countries the simple fact that both our company and our counterparty's companies were worthless. Wicked was looking over my shoulder, reading glasses on. Don't make this an English law deed, he's saying, formalistically it requires two signatures from each side, and then the deliberate flaw you've hidden in the consideration to make this thing implode in court won't matter. Go with a regular contract, or throw in a hidden no-demand auto-termination trigger. He's right, of course, so as I am weighing with which of these two cocks better to fuck my company's enemies (i.e., everyone), I ask offhandedly where's Gentle. Wicked chuckles. Funny story. Apparently, he got invited to some devil-girl's get-together and he went out for what he figured would be a pussylacious night, but when he came back, he just kept rubbing his ass and saying something about 'she said to tell your human that 5 says NOW we're even...' He still can't sit down and fart jokes make him really cranky. Fuck him, I grumble. Do you think they'll spot the phantom arb clause here...? Green Tea with Jasmine Pt. 04 January, 2007 Tolstoy said that every happy family is happy in the same way but each unhappy family is unique in its misery. Local winters are unhappy families and this winter is very unhappy. This has been one of the driest winters on record – the first real snowfall came three weeks ago on Western Christmas, just like in some movie. It's also cloudy and grey and dirty. Everyone is waiting for the massive blizzards that usually follow this sort of thing. Sniffles and coughs are everywhere. I'm sitting in a coffeehouse around the corner from my office, drinking green tea with jasmine with a man of about my age. He speaks rapidly and quietly, so I have to make him repeat himself. He is nondescript, handsome without being headturning, well-built without being imposing, sharply dressed without being flashy. He reminds me of someone and it nags me for several months afterwards until I watch Casino Royale and realize he looks like Daniel Craig playing a character who has not revealed himself yet as obviously lethal. He always smiles and he seems totally at home chatting with me. It's the only reason I stay cool throughout this conversation. His name is Stepa, and he is renowned among the cognoscenti of the local community as the premier local expert on how to flog a woman to whatever level is agreed between the people at both ends of the knout. About two months ago, I contacted him by email and introduced myself, and after a bit of email trades in which he shared pictures of his favorite masochists, we'd come down to arranging a cup of tea to discuss an idea I had. So, he says to me as he blows on his tea, let me get this straight. You have a lady friend that you want to learn how to beat, and you want me to test her out alone first to see if she really likes it? I nod. My two little buddies are sitting on either shoulder. Wicked is grinning and Gentle is on the phone. Stepa smiles as the waitress comes back to see if we need anything else. She is one of those girls that still thinks she has a career in theatre or dance and is keeping her tight little body in shape for the day that she gets her big break. She's got a sweet face hardened to a professional sheen. Stepa in his soft little voice tells her he would be grateful if she left us alone for ten minutes, and avoided seating anyone near us because we were talking man business. Even here, that line would earn at least a displeased look from service personnel. Except the way he says it doesn't sound rude. The girl blushes and puts her head to one side like she's having an ear tickled, says of course, Sir, and walks away with this perfect aerobics-instructor-peach-ass of hers twitching. Stepa times it perfectly – he is watching her ass long enough to make her feel it, but turns his face back to me just as the waitress gives in to the temptation to see if her sweet little can managed to attract a man who dismissed her like a plaything ten seconds ago. What she sees is the grin of a man who knows what to do with a woman, and what appears to be complete disinterest in her. She will take every opportunity to come by – wiping off the sparkling clean tables near us, walking customers past us on the long way to their tables – and he will never again acknowledge her. I need to know why you want to do it this way, he asks me. Gentle and Wicked both shrug, their signal for Fuck it, go with the truth. So. She's a pro and she likes me. I've been seeing her for about five years, on and off. She's got a fellow she's serious about who doesn't know what she does for a living, and I figure soon she'll be off for good when he is smart enough to marry her. I have done X, Y and Z with her – she always puts up with it. Now the only thing left that I want to do to her is beat her until she screams for me to stop, but I need to know that she's into it. Either her character or her profession prevents her from telling me no if in fact she does not. I'm coming to you because you do not have a relationship with her and you can probably tell me if she is a real masochist. So I'd like you to visit her, if she agrees, and work her over up to an agreed point and then tell me afterwards if she got off on it. If so, I'd like to visit her together with you and have you teach me what you did so I can do it. If not, there's nothing left for me to do to her. I know, it sounds fucked up, doesn't it. Stepa has been holding his tea cup in mid-lift through this little monologue, and now he leans on it, blowing. I can smell the jasmine. He smiles that cryptic Sphinx grin. Not all, he says. A true Thematic needs only two things. Imagination – and honesty. Everything else gets in the way. I absorb this as he sips. So, says Stepa. Do you trust me with your girl? I think. Actually, I check out the devils, both of whom are nodding. We've spoken to his devil, they say. It's a go. Only one devil? I ask. They laugh. He's a fucking local, Wicked smirks. Generally one is too many for these fuckers. Relax, chief, Gentle says. He's not tortured, not like – #5? Wicked teases. Fuck you. I was going to say like chief here. I ignore them. Now to the needful question, which I try to deliver as suavely as possible: how much? Stepa shrugs. Here's the deal. I'll call your girl and tell her you recommended me. If she's up for it, I'll go see her. That's on my account. If she's no good, you owe me – I pick the girl, you pay, I take the first half of the session and then you can have the second. If this Jasmine girl is good, you have to bring me along the next time on your wallet – I take the first half, you have the second. Sounds fair? Sounds fair. So when do you want to call? No time like the present. I give him the number off the top of my head. He dials and hands me the phone. Hi, Jasmine? So good to hear your voice, yes, it's been awhile. Listen, I have a friend I want to introduce you to. His name is Stepan, he has a proposal but it's up to you, okay? Okay, here's Stepan. Stepa takes the phone. Hello, I've heard a lot about you. Listen, our mutual friend believes you and I might get along. I'd like to call you in about ten minutes and discuss it, and then if possible stop by in about two or three hours if you are in agreement with what I have in mind. Wonderful. I look forward to it. Talk to you soon. He hangs up. There's something unpleasant about her voice, he says. She's like that at the beginning, I explain. Her voice is like citrus. It starts out tart but when everything flows it smells like slightly overripe oranges on a seaside grove. When I start talking about the smell of voices, most people look at me strangely. Stepa just tilts his head. At dawn or at evening? he asks with a grin. Dawn, on hot summer morning. He smiles. There's a lot of energy in her, isn't there. I nod. He tells me to go back to work, he'll call me. Twenty minutes later. It's Stepa, she agreed to two hours at such and such. She knows exactly what's up – two hours of straight beating, no sex. Stepa does not have intercourse except with whatever woman is living in his house as his main slave. Sex, he says, sends the energy back out. Only lovemaking keeps it rolling in a circle. I nod and pretend to understand. He tells me that if I get a call on my cell tonight from his cell phone, to answer but not say anything. Just listen. Three hours later my phone rings and I pick up. I can hear the flogger attack her flesh and I can hear her yelp with each landing. Wicked grabs his crotch and starts pumping his fist in the air, whoot whoot. Gentle is nodding. Can demons blush? Stepa is murmuring to her, I can't really hear what he is saying, she is moaning and then crying and then shouting and then squealing stop. The phone dies. Then he calls again five minutes later. Same routine. Then again ten minutes later. More of the same. My mouth is dry. I close my eyes and I can see her. About two hours later he calls again, this time he's done. He's walking home. For ten minutes he explains. Oh, yes, the girl is a masochist. She came from being beaten, at least five times. He started slowly and did not leave marks because she said she could not be left with bruises that could not be explained to her man. He agreed – her voice ripens. The energy flows. He got what he came for, and now I have to follow through. I'm too shy to do this by voice, so I sms her: Hi Jaz, did everything go OK with Stepa? All OK. He didn't hurt you? Not more than I could handle. Would you like him to teach me how to do that to you? Yes. Can I come over with him tomorrow? Yes. It will be three hours, one of him and two of me, will X cover that? Yes. So the next night, I'm up the elevator, and there she is with that grin. She hugs and kisses me. Stepa is already there. He has a bag of toys. He knows I like to tie her up so he brought cuffs from his studio. He doesn't waste his own time on bondage, he says. Takes too much time. Either the girl holds still or she's the wrong girl. To each his own. Stepa tells her to strip to her panties. She shrugs and pulls up her dress. She's in high heels and a thong. He pulls out one flogger, and snaps his fingers. She immediately puts herself into a doorway, hands up and to the sides, legs apart, ass out at us. Stepa hefts the flogger. This is a warmup move, he explains, and he swings his arm low like a tennis pro. He is standing back, so on the upswing the tips of the flogger whish against her ass and up her back, tenderly. Then he brings it back down so it snaps against the round of her butt. She pushes forward and then back, eeping at the snap. He does the same thing against her other cheek. The trick, he says, is always to know how long your arm and the flogger are and to stand accordingly so you control how hard it impacts the flesh. All of the force of your swing breaks into the tips and the flesh when they impact. If your swing is soft -- And he brushes her. -- then it just warms her a bit. She purrs and wiggles. If your swing is hard – And he thumps it down and she yelps and squeals and hisses and looks back at me and fuck me she's grinning as she's blinking the first tears out. -- then it gets the blood flowing and... And he reaches his hand and touches the crotch of her panties. Come here, he says, and puts my hand there. Wet. He wipes his hand on her hair like it's a dishtowel. She never looks at him. Just me. Gentle and Wicked are sitting on my shoulders, taking notes, nodding. Wicked is acting like he knows this shit already, but he's as rapt as Gentle is. It's my turn to try. I practice the swing before hitting her. Then I do a couple of upswipes and downslaps. She starts to make noise. Stepa urges me on, to keep going until she starts to wiggle and cry and gasp and then he has me stop. He tells her to turn around. Her nipples are rigid. Beating the breasts is a delicate matter, he explains. Too much tissue that can get damaged, not like the ass. So what we do here is this – And he takes a short handful of strands, maybe five, maybe four inches long, and just starts to slap them across her nipples. She closes her eyes and bites her lips. There are no marks, but her tits darken with circulation increase and she pumps her hips forward. My turn to try. Now she opens her eyes and looks at me, nodding, egging me on to go a little harder. Stepa does not let me. Just give her a taste he says. Warm her up for the next round. He takes her into the bedroom and tells her to take the panties off. He leaves the shoes on. He has a thing for legs and shoes. He always photographs his girls in shoes. He puts cuffs on her ankles and wrists, and makes her put her ass in the air. He cuffs each ankle to each coordinate wrist. Her asshole and pussy are wide and exposed. She waits, patiently. He takes one long strand and smacks it down across her crack. The sound is evil. She wails. Still no marks. A lot of noise, a lot of smack, but no real weight – concentrated pain without damage. My turn. Uh yeah. Yes, I am turned on. I want Stepa out of there as soon as possible. Gentle is jealous. Wicked is just impatient. He shows me a few more tricks for the road. I'll keep those a secret for now. Then he leaves the floggers and the cuffs – he'll be by another day to pick them up, he says, and I get his point, he'll be seeing her again but only for this – and he tells me to have fun. As soon as he is gone, I let her up and put a bathrobe on her. She likes a cigarette and tea break. We sit in her little kitchen. So that was all right? Not bad. You really like the pain? I do, I didn't expect to but it's a rush. So it's okay that I found this guy? I'm grateful, but I don't like him. Why not, did he hurt you? No, but I can tell he wants to mark me, even though he won't. I won't mark you. Thanks, my boyfriend wouldn't understand. How is that going? Not bad, maybe he'll marry me. I hope it works out, does he know what you like? Does any man, she asks? We both stare at each other for a second and we both know that what is possible and what is not possible have just shaken hands in mutual respect. Well, shall we? We shall. I take her back in, and this time using the cuffs and the ball gag I bought her and the scarves I secure her facing the wall. I have two floggers and I criss cross her ass until she's shrieking behind the gag. I do bruise her a bit but nothing that won't come down with ice. Then I put her on her back, and hogtie her. She closes her eyes as I whip her pussy carefully and brutally at the same time – carefully not to touch the inside of her thighs. I make her sniff and lick the tips of the flogger. She's crying and squealing through the gag, keeping her eyes closed. And she's coming. NOW whispers Gentle. She's hogtied, open, soaking. Fuck her. She's waiting for it. And she is. I can see it. She's grinning at me. She's rocking her hips. I should be stone stiff and standing. But I am not. Wicked is just sadly shaking his head. Either he didn't bring his game or he ain't playing tonight. What the fuck? Gentle and I are stunned. It's booty time. She's fucking gift wrapped for you. She's as beautiful as ever and you've smacked her to orgasm. Time to get yours. No, Wicked croaks. Stepa is right. We've gotten all we can doing this. Fucking her would erase it. Cheapen it. Cheapen her. Ruin the ending. We got what we came for. Well, I don't need either of them for this: I lay down and lick her. I love the way she moves under my tongue, and I want to remember her taste. When I am done, I release her and lift her up. The demons have retired for the evening, it's just me and this girl I've brought to this point over the last four years with nowhere else to go. Anything else, she asks? I smile and rub her ankles and wrists. A cup of tea and one of your smokes? In the kitchen? She nods, and we chat about our kids, our significant others, the weather, eating up the last half hour. I pay her, hug her, and I promise to call again. We both know I won't. As I leave the building, the blizzard blows in like an overdue promise...