Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One Page 15

  There was a pause as he considered things. “Um… yeah. Guess that’s what I decided to do,” he muttered in bewilderment.

  She took position with Emma at the perimeter of the bed to behold his chronically aroused manhood, so frequently seen in this secret state of desperation its masterly tilt had become an ironic symbol to them. Except for the doyennes, no one was aware that he never climaxed. The Lap women jealously assumed that Ione and Emma could give him that pleasure, and they had never corrected this impression. It would have drastically reduced their credibility as lovers—and leaders.

  “Is this some twisted new version of ‘let’s remember?’” Mark demanded. “Because to tell you the truth, I’m kinda tired of talking about a past I don’t have. If you don’t trust me by now I should probably just go. It may be hard to get into the Lap, but it’s easy enough to leave.”

  “This has nothing to do with trust,” Ione quietly replied.

  “Really?” he winced, hauling at his restrained limbs till the bed lurched. “So why am I strapped down like a skulk? Seems to me trust has at least some part in whatever’s going on.”

  “You can leave if you really want to,” Emma gambled, bestowing her softest, most submissive glance on him. “You know that…”

  “Oh, well in that case… If you actually mean it… Yep; I’m gonna leave.”

  “Shut up,” Ione said in a tone that ended any pretense of friendliness. Emma produced a small toy.

  “For fuck’s sake, what is that?” Mark balefully inquired.

  The little blond was holding a compact, rigid shield that could be clamped to the base of a penis. It allowed the genitals to be whipped without concern for an over-hard strike to the scrotum, which was protected—and this was the truly devious aspect of the toy—only so long as the shaft to which it was secured remained turgid.

  “This is gonna hurt, I take it?”

  “You’re about to find out,” Ione replied, letting her grey tone express a threat words could not convey. Mark looked away, conducting a silent debate of some kind.

  “Fine,” he shrugged, as much as the thick rubber restraints allowed. “Get on with it, bitches.”

  Ione kneed onto the bed next to him and the device was fixed to the bottom of his cock by its spring clasp. The rounded metal fender hovered protectively over his balls, anchored by the implacable rigidity of his manhood.

  From the weapons dangling off the rim of the bed’s canopy skirt she selected a capable-looking fabric flogger, and Emma meditatively acquired a rubber-haired whip. They took places athwart him, staring down with quiet menace.

  Ione raised her weapon, strapped him across the chest, tagging a nipple.

  “Ow! You cunt!”

  Emma warmed his thighs with a trio of swishing impacts.

  “Oh, and fuck you too…” he advised her with a slit-eyed wince.

  “Just relax and accept what’s coming,” Ione instructed.

  Mark hissed as she laid onto his erection, striking across the underside of the shaft. The strap fell partly across his testicles where—had it landed on them directly—he would have been stimulated beyond the threshold of pleasurable pain. His penis twitched, stiffened anxiously to brace the fender, and she strapped him painfully across the body of his shaft again.

  Emma brought the whip down a moment later to impact on his cockhead, its fine rubber strands wrapping along the engorged length of his pecker and down across the testicles to shiver the metal shield; a sinister intimidation of the helpless anatomy it guarded. Mark groaned, straining to keep the fender fortified. Emma whipped him twice again.

  “Fuck, Emz!” he breathed.

  Ione grunted softly, knees shifting on the mattress for better balance, brought the strap down with perfect precision on his cock tip.

  “Asshole!”

  “He’s really warming to us,” Emma decided, and they began to methodically discipline him.

  Smack! His penis was censured by Ione’s broad strap.

  “He took that pretty well,” said Emma. She came down hard across the base of his cock with the whip and Mark yelped.

  “But that one, not so much,” Ione noted. “You work the shaft and I’ll ring his things.”

  She and Emma struck him in alternation, and his objections became increasingly violent. The bed shook despite its great size, testament to the tremendous strength of their captive, and Ione wondered what Manassa was making of it all, stationed just outside the apartment to defend them from the curiosity of other women.

  They paused after another flurry of blows. Mark was heaving about in the restraints, eyes fixed helplessly on his manhood with a flattened regard that conveyed a disturbing inner simplicity.

  “Well he does like it,” Emma crooned. “Let’s give his marbles a nice hard workout.”

  Ione smiled and lofted the fabric flogger, brought it down with unchecked force onto Mark’s groin.

  Smack!

  He shouted as the fender rang, but this time it was not a signal of negation, and Emma swung her own whip on his nuts, viciously rattling the shield again. Ione leaned in and hissed unpleasantly.

  “Make as much noise as you want. We’re never going to let you come. Don’t you get it? This is how we control you!”

  Mark was murmuring hoarsely, breath coming fast, and they raised their implements high, struck him together, weapons singing off his flesh, shivering the fender. His body spasmed direly and the bed jumped. Ione whipped his genitals back and forth till he was offering them in jumpy little presentations, meeting each whistling reproach.

  “Oh no… oh no…”

  “I think he’s softening,” Emma gibed. “Let’s get after his balls again!”

  He was treated with another torrent of blows and the fender rang repeatedly over his terrified scrotum.

  “Harden up, skulk, or we’ll make you beg!” Ione screamed, belting him furiously.

  “You love it, don’t you…” Emma rasped, smacking him imperiously on the prick head. His erection quivered in affirmation.

  “That’s right,” Ione coaxed, voice pitched to a humiliating simper. “Your cock knows what it wants, even if you don’t!”

  “He likes a firm hand on the strap, that’s for sure,” Emma jauntily observed.

  “Look at the color,” Ione marveled at his pain-darkened shaft. “Isn’t it exquisite?”

  “Let’s beat him till he cries!” Emma suggested.

  “Yeah. He needs a nice, soothing emotional release,” Ione agreed.

  They swung with a new resolve, landing a flurry of blows on his genitalia, leaving the fender to safeguard his testicles from this unrestrained censure. Its metallic resonance filled the air with indisputable evidence of their commitment.

  “That’s it!” Emma cried, lashing with all her strength till his body went utterly slack. A skulk stared back at them.

  “Now!” Ione hissed, and they trounced him together, screaming for his submission.

  Mark stiffened for one seething instant, then roared, spewing hot quantities of semen into the air to arc with dizzying leisure about the bed, spattering them all. Ione strapped him in a frenzy of satisfaction, coaxing every drop forth, watched his frustration drain with each giddy spurt till the flow relented to a dribble.

  Silence reclaimed the Lap apartment. She stared down, breathing recklessly, eyes wide.

  Mark blinked slowly. “That was intense,” he croaked.

  Ione felt a new possessiveness form as she regarded his softening manhood, satiated at last. She carefully unclasped the fender and they proceeded to remove his bondage restraints.

  “Feel better?” Emma softly inquired as he gingerly sat up.

  Mark took a deep breath, smiled shakily. “Yeah. I do…”

  Auditions

  The Tent bathed in the glow of another sunset, a heat and hue forever veiled from the Merkin’s direct experience. He had servants to describe the time of day and the moods of the sky and everything happening in the city, but their reports co
uldn’t rival his imagination for that world long lost. He had taught them not to try.

  For most of the day the Merkin had worked on his play script, motivated as always by the competitive threat of his ancient adversaries, the Dowser and Gnomon.

  By now naked partygoers would be lining up at the top of the hill for a wild night of dancing and drinking at the Dowser’s massive Club, and the Gnomon’s Tower on the other side of the City was likely just as engaged with its more cerebral concerns. Gnomes beamed down on busy streets, lit homes and buildings and plazas, stared everywhere but the park at the center of the City, suffused by a dense mist that drifted up in an impenetrable column to slake the thirst of clouds permanently wheeling overhead.

  The Merkin regarded his most recent addition to the play script; a short scene that whimsically illustrated a crucial proposition of social sexuality. The core concept was woven into the scenario, but his demonstration of the idea was flawed in some fashion he could not yet discern. Was it the subversive influence of pride? Fear? Or was something else lacking?

  SCENE: The night is quiet on the gardened walkways of a stately neighborhood. Three well-dressed men are strolling with their lovers under the amiable eye of a full moon. Their paths converge from different directions at a round, waist-high median carpeted with lush grass.

  NARRATOR: “How shall intimate love and prurient extroversion be reconciled by society? Both are required for sexual fulfillment, but look carefully and you will see that these desires work in opposition…”

  THE MERKIN: “Good night to you my friends!”

  He nods cheerfully to the other men. His companion is a smiling, full-figured beauty with a clingy red skirt flirtatiously curtaining broad hips. At his gesture she lies face-up on the grass, spreading voluptuous legs wide.

  THE DOWSER: “And you…”

  His woman, a haughty blond with an expansive décolletage, has already assumed a submissive position on her knees, full lips drawn to a ruddy pout.

  THE GNOMON: “Indeed…”

  At his bidding the Gnomon’s woman bends at the waist and plants her chest to the median, legs straight and feet wide to boldly present her pertly muscular hindquarters.

  All the women are beautifully dressed and decorated, rouged and perfumed and coiffured, every detail of their appearance contrived to accentuate the various postures of submission.

  The Merkin rubs his woman’s wide-stretched legs in affection, sociably slipping her skirt back to offer the pantied bulge of her pubis to view. As the other men admire her, he studies their lovers. After a while he speaks to the Gnomon.

  THE MERKIN: “A problem here, my friend?”

  The Gnomon looks displeased with his companion. Her flared buttocks are tense and restless.

  THE GNOMON: “No. Well… perhaps. It is long since I strolled in contentment with my partner.”

  THE DOWSER: “She fidgets.”

  THE GNOMON: “It is obvious, then?”

  THE DOWSER: “I should say.”

  The men are silent for a time.

  THE MERKIN: “Perhaps there is a means to diagnose this unhappiness. I would be willing to try.”

  The Gnomon frowns at this suggestion, glancing possessively to his woman.

  THE GNOMON: “But I am a private man…”

  The Dowser nods in agreement with the Merkin.

  THE DOWSER: “No. We must diagnose!”

  There is a distant rumble of thunder.

  NARRATOR: “A tension has arisen and a decision must be made…”

  The combined will of the Merkin and the Dowser overcomes the Gnomon. He reluctantly lifts his woman’s skirt to display the flourishing width of her bent derriere, tautly spanned by pale blue panties.

  THE GNOMON: “As you will, then…”

  The Merkin takes hold of the woman’s hips from either side, gently massages her flesh, whispering gentle sentiments. He unzips his trousers and a thick penis promptly swings erect, oiled with an unseen gesture. Slipping the woman’s panties down, he exposes her muscular sphincter; a pursed inlet compulsively gathering and relaxing to display a hidden rhythm of the body. The Merkin aims his member at this trembling mouth, then gently slides in, abetting the penetration with an unhurried step. The Gnomon looks on anxiously as the Merkin reaches deep inside his woman’s body, questing for the source of her malady. She wriggles indignantly at this occupation, but he methodically rectifies her flesh till it receives him generously, straightened on the steadfast linearity of his manhood. Silent at first, she whispers reproachfully into the grass after a little, then finally relents to a muffled warbling, helplessly rising and falling in pitch with the depth of his access. When it is clear that her mood has improved the Merkin thoughtfully withdraws.

  THE DOWSER: “Well?”

  THE MERKIN: “She obviously desires rectal stimulation—her response to penetration there is completely natural. You must continue to indulge her this way, of course.”

  THE GNOMON: “I am happy to hear it.”

  THE MERKIN: “And yet…”

  The Merkin readies his penis at her vagina, then smoothly fills this orifice, coaxing her piqued sexuality with a steadily harder copulation till her body is heaving responsively, hailing a dormant desire. She cries out, cheeks reddening in blissful dismay as her excitement intensifies, ranging toward climax.

  THE DOWSER: “Well!”

  The Merkin slows his effort of coitus and withdraws again, exposing her blushing genitals to view, twitching from a thwarted appetite.

  THE MERKIN: “It is an inflexibility of the vagina!” The other men are astonished.

  THE GNOMON: “Truly? But it seems you are right…”

  THE DOWSER: “Is there a remedy?”

  THE MERKIN: “Indeed. A schedule of rigorous penetration into the quim to complement your other habit.”

  The Gnomon nods, easing his woman’s clothing back into place, one hand lingering thoughtfully on her rump.

  THE DOWSER: “Now the night is right!”

  NARRATOR: “But even as one man has learned from the Merkin, so may another…”

  The Dowser reaches down to his kneeling woman, strokes her lustrous blond locks in a self-conscious display of affection, but she looks away, jaw tense, knees shifting moodily on the pavement. The Gnomon smiles faintly.

  THE GNOMON: “Perhaps there is a problem here as well?”

  He shares a meaningful glance with the Merkin, who is absently rubbing his woman, fingers easing round and round her pantied sexuality to provoke a rich stain of excitement for their collective enjoyment.

  The Dowser looks away from these better contented men, speaks reluctantly.

  THE DOWSER: “Yes… My woman is also troubled.”

  THE GNOMON: “Another diagnosis, perhaps?”

  The Merkin is not beyond persuasion.

  THE MERKIN: “Anything to be of service…”

  The Dowser is hesitant.

  NARRATOR: “Once more a decision must be made…”

  The combined will of the Merkin and the Gnomon overcomes the Dowser.

  THE DOWSER: “As you will, then…”

  The Merkin nods, approaches the Dowser’s woman and places his hands on her shoulders. He massages her jaw, fingering defiantly clamped lips, then steps back in slow appraisal. Bidding her rise to her feet, he positions her face-up next to his own woman on the grassy blanket of the raised median and slips her panties off with practiced elegance. Scrutinizing her spread femininity, he delicately pinches her clitoris to gauge its sensitivity. Bringing his erection up to the heat of her crotch, he slides evaluatively into her vagina, broadening it to an almost-forgotten duty. She issues a thin, promiscuous call, her first communication in their presence, knees sweeping wide to present her womanhood at a more receptive angle.

  THE GNOMON: “Look!”

  The Merkin strokes into the Dowser’s woman, a measured but provocative infiltration, nods his head knowingly.

  THE MERKIN: “This creature surely adores the ritu
al of fellatio to which she has been trained, but here too I will diagnose inflexibility of the vagina.”

  He exerts himself deeply into her, building to a sturdy pressure, and her eyes flutter shut, cueing an imminent release. A throaty, melismatic wail issues from her immaculately painted lips. The Merkin diplomatically arrests his effort, gently slides his penis free, clutched by her infatuated gulf to its dripping tip.

  THE GNOMON: “Well now! It is inflexibility!”

  THE DOWSER: “I see… There is a therapy, then?”

  The Merkin nods gravely.

  THE MERKIN: “Supplement her diet of fellatio with regular vaginal copulation—a rigorous straightening to aggressively activate the lust there.”

  The other men smile and the mood waxes cheerful as a warm wind stirs the moonlit tableau, bringing fragrant humidity.

  THE GNOMON: “Into the vagina, then!”

  THE DOWSER: “The vagina!”

  THE MERKIN: “The lovely vagina!”

  Later, the Merkin sat in his billowy narrator’s seat up in the loft above the stage, watching as Martial ordered his crew off the deck, finished with their preparations for the night’s auditioning. The Merkin was trying a different game in his ongoing quest to identify talent for the eventual performance of his play, which was named “Beholder” to remark one of the two elemental boundaries from which identity was constructed, and everything else in turn.

  The stage was set as a place of gentlemanly leisure, furnished with soft rugs and columnar statues suggestive of strong female legs. A dim radiance filtered down from the gnomes in the loft, gilding the scene with a suggestive pink light. A noisy audience of employees was present, ranged about the circular stage with an expectant air.

  “Heads onstage!” the Manager called. “Auditioners in!”

  The first hopeful thespians filed timidly onto the deck, well-fleshed women identically bedizened in gorgeous, full-length red dresses of the softest linen. They found a row of hustlers facing them; pedal-driven phalluses that thrust up through wide, plush seats. Like all things mechanical they were a product of the Gnomon’s ingenuity, but the Merkin employed them with a perverse sophistication his rival could not have fathomed.