Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One Page 16

  The Merkin settled the soft bulk of the script on his lap and smoothed the narrow triangle of whispery hair at his chin. Voice issuing with hieratic grandeur from the curtained loft, he proceeded to initiate the audition, using his singular comprehensibility to establish a context that would be impossible to convey by other means. As was his custom, he opened with an impromptu bit of verse.

  “Push and pull

  Take her measure

  Busy hips

  Make happy lips

  All trapped full

  Of manly pleasure!”

  “To an intimate ritual have a party of women come to exhibit their charms before men of discernment. Each takes her place on a hustler, guiding its masculine part within her body.”

  The context of the scene solidified, capturing those involved to its scheme, knitting the wayward desires of his auditioners into meaningful collaboration. Compelled by the Merkin’s voice, the women took their positions on the machines, seating themselves such that they were penetrated in the vagina by the upthrust penises. They arranged their skirts to cloak the hustlers, hiding any sexual connection to present a circle of chaste-seeming slippers innocently lounging on hidden stools.

  The gnome glow raining down and the crowd staring in from every direction clearly intimidated the auditioners. The Merkin sympathized; acting was the most challenging of all functional situations—it required a totally abstract relationship to the world beyond its workplace. An audience could be anyone, seeking anything, seeing everything disguised as real, believing all or not at all. This was why it had so far proven impossible to secure performers who were capable of conducting themselves naturally on stage, save in simplified circumstances like the games he waged. But the Merkin remained hopeful such could be found, and the auditioners below him tonight held that promise, as always. Before they started to fidget he moved the scene along to a more strongly defined context.

  “Men arrive for the game, prepared to evaluate the allure of the women. They council among themselves to determine by majority which one will entertain them first.”

  Five suited men entered the stage below to occupy its center space. They surveyed the slippers ranged about, murmuring to each other till three of them came to an agreement, selecting a pretty, brown-haired creature with a marvelous figure.

  “The men present the means of judgment,” the Merkin ordered. He started the turn by flipping his sand-filled glass timer. There was no way to know if the device consistently delivered the same interval of time—only the tracked shadow of the sun or moon could do that with any certainty—but it was the best he could do in the closed environment of the Tent.

  The men faced the selected woman as a group. With a ritual movement each unzipped his fly to reveal a jointed tube in which his penis was securely ensconced; a tool for gauging desire called a flexer. The devices were tightly curled at present to signal total flaccidity.

  “The chosen woman proceeds to excite her audience by an aesthetic effort of self-pleasure.”

  The brown-haired slipper shyly lifted her dress to reveal a nude waist. Her vagina lips were swollen around the head of a thick pink dildo.

  She commenced to pedal the hustler, cautiously easing its phallus to a point deep in her body where it plugged delicately. She squirmed on the seat, eyes flattening in pleasure, carefully cranked the penis around to low withdrawal as the men confronting her watched intently.

  With an uncertain grin she put the hustler into steady service, and the Merkin’s breath caught at the sight of her soft belly, stirred to a languid undulation by the pushy pink dick as she romanced her womanhood with muscular legs. The men were not unmoved; their flexers twitched as pressure built within, aroused by their intimate view of this vitalizing self-indulgence.

  Her turn expired and the Merkin reluctantly called for a new deliberation, yielding another majority decision. The men stepped to a thinner woman with perfect posture.

  “The next woman attempts to excite her audience.” He flipped the timer and sand tumbled again.

  The performer lifted her dress with a dainty sweep to reveal the lithe spectacle of her thighs, opened wide for the delights of the hustler cock. She began to pedal, filling herself unhurriedly, letting the motion accelerate to a smooth reciprocation. Her breasts jogged softly in her bodice, and her eyes were fixed hopefully on the men judging her allure till her turn ended.

  The Merkin called the next turn and they engaged a big slipper who unabashedly flung her hem up to reveal a truly marvelous rump. She proceeded to feed herself with a hard-working prick, oiled lips collected possessively about the fat rubber interloper, hips rolling sensually as it hurtled aggressively to and fro, gleefully packing her twat. Her clitoris perched just beyond stimulation, a tiny, gleaming finger pointed yearningly down. She shamelessly exercised her femininity for them as her passion was graded.

  The flexer mounted on one man’s penis pinged noisily and jumped, straightening incrementally. The woman sighed in pleasure, knowing she had secured at least one admirer. When her turn had lapsed the Merkin called for another caucus and she reluctantly let her dress fall.

  He stared in fascination at the next woman chosen, a truly gifted hustler with a dark blond coiffure who fucked herself with an almost violent athleticism, thighs flowing like stormy water, knees flung between wide-fixed points. Her labia grappled the jumping penis with a syrupy vigilance that stalled his breath.

  “Here’s some pussy for you,” she huskily advertised, beckoning them closer with her free hand.

  Her back was swaying, breasts hurled to a jerky, compensatory recall, every part of her mass accounted for in the fine functioning of her body. One of the men was so excited by the display his flexer sprung twice, to the dismay of the other contestants. The turn ended and she dropped her hem, breathing hard.

  “I’m next for it!”

  “I got the want hole you do!” one happily babbled, barely governed by the structure of the game.

  “Look at me! Look!”

  The men began to select from among the hustling women with increasing discrimination, rewarding those who rendered the most exotic displays of passion, giving less time to slippers who weren’t bold or idiosyncratic in some way, who shirked a total commitment to the game. The challenge narrowed as one slipper after another was excluded, resigned to the decorous containment of an unseen but seething appetite, cunt wrapped around a thick penis immobilized only by her complicity to the stage. Some of them failed at this to the Merkin’s delight, squirming uncontrollably, pedaling in hectic little increments to mitigate a raging understimulation.

  “The women remain still when not called on to perform!” he thundered. These aleatoric urges were the principal reason his narration was required, but the Merkin frequently fantasized about where things might go without a moderating influence.

  The offenders relented to an anguished calm, intimidated by his comprehensibility amidst the increasingly precarious context of the stage. The crowd hooted playfully, taunting them, and the Merkin carefully gauged its investment in the proceedings.

  A thick brunette with a mean competitive streak was selected next. Her thighs fanned a lively breeze, and she vented a lingering, theatrically pitched wail of pleasure as the hustler sped to a frenzied penetration of her mounded buttocks, visible as twin crescents of jiggling flesh from the Merkin’s perspective. A flexer straightened noisily about its straining cock, putting its bearer within reach of victory.

  “That’s the pussy you need,” she belted out in parting, saying anything to be remembered. The crowd tittered in agreement.

  Then the sonsy blond was up again, and he watched in helpless arousal as her hands jerked high and low, one with the hemline of her dress, the other with her swaggering neckline, disclosing a fat, lolling tit. Its nipple was fit with a sextant, a clamp with a weighted pendulum that engaged a sharp point when the device was borne at the wrong inclination. This setup could be used to keep a woman bent over, biting ever more painfully
as her posture straightened. But this one had been set to the opposite effect; the blond’s stiffly arched back and rearing shoulders ensured that her bosom was offered high to the men’s regard.

  Her neatly combed pubic hair made a tidy wreath about the dancing phallus as her lovely, round legs cranked enthusiastically. She bore down on the hustler to get her weight in play and the sextant’s little pendulum swung forward, levering the tooth hard into her nipple to provoke a delightful self-torment as her vagina was cyclically stuffed.

  “Oh!” she wailed, leaning back, cringing from the alternation of pleasure and pain, then bent over again for more of both as the crowd noised their approval. Two flexers bore testimony to the heat of this strategy, one straightening halfway from the anxious tumescence of its captured flesh.

  “You can bend me how you want, just let me get that cock!” she offered, and dipped dramatically to bear down on the pedals once more, eyes closing as ecstasy rushed up her twat.

  “Ah!” she cried, jumping from her bitten nipple. “But I can take it!” she bawled, counseling herself through another interval of exhibitionism. Another flexer pinged.

  The Merkin called the intervals and gauged the noise of the audience, which was outside his direct view. As flexers sprung toward liberation the men were increasingly aware of specific male-female infatuations that had formed. They maneuvered away from these liaisons by majority selection, reversing the psychology of the game to deny a winner.

  The cyclers intensified their efforts, exerting themselves to a breathless ardor, skirts fluttering high by turns. Another flexer pinged, nearly straightened, and the gent wearing it stared raptly at a fair-haired creature with a hard-stroking penis in her, clutched with mad abandon as it earnestly rammed her femininity. She pedaled her way to the brink of climax as they watched, voicing huffed, trebly syllables. The Merkin rubbed his crotch under the concealment of his script, happy she would be denied fulfillment, motivating the crowd to an otherwise unobtainable involvement.

  The women were calling out crude inducements to the men now.

  “This twat takes you all the way!”

  “Pick me and I’ll work for it all night! Let’s deal!”

  “You been tracking my snatch… gimme that cock and you can have it all for yourself!”

  “Look at my titties!”

  The Merkin observed the deepening interaction that had developed, the real justification for such an elaborate game. In the heat of competition he could perceive things about the performers that were normally hidden by stage fright.

  The fleshy blond was called again and she hustled to her utmost, reddened clitoris shifting fretfully with each thrust as she wept unselfconsciously from the tormenting bite of the sextant. They all watched in fascination as she cranked her way to the very boundary of climax, denied only by the absence of another person’s touch. Her left nipple was painfully disgorged, its scarlet tip peeping through the clamp to verify her misery.

  “Take it on the tit, take it, take it,” she muttered, voice almost lost in the collective noise of the theater.

  A flexer pinged with finality, straightened all the way, unlocking to offer a purple erection high, freed by an indomitable turgidity.

  “Fuck my hole!” the blond triumphantly screamed to the Merkin’s heated amusement. The other women shrieked in dismay, measured and found wanting, frustrated to such a degree they refused to conduct themselves as required. They began pedaling in giddy self-indulgence to abet irresponsible passions, legs madly accelerating to jam vaginas destined to leave the stage achingly unfulfilled. The crowd shouted their approval of this chaos and the Merkin boomed over the din, not unused to these situations.

  “The winner selects his prize!” he commanded.

  The bare-cocked man pointed to the noisy, ambitious blond to no one’s surprise.

  “The women dismount from the hustlers to leave the game in disappointment.”

  Martial leaped onstage with his crew to conduct lingering slippers away, using force where necessary to separate them from the addictive touch of the hustler cocks. The men who had lost followed them.

  The victor pushed the blond down to her hands and knees on the soft red rug at center stage. With a twitch the sextant was adjusted so that its pendulum was fixed straight down. He mounted her and proceeded to screw her well-prepped vagina with a purple-hard prick. The sextant swung forward, biting her already tortured nipple, and she instinctively shoved back on him, trying to arrest its painful movement.

  “Ahhh!” she whimpered, arms and thighs conscientiously braced to immobilize the device.

  Helpless to manipulate the situation for fear of a dire response at her nipple, the blond rewarded the victor with a steadfastly receptive pussy. He shagged it aggressively till she cried out in pleasure, body lurching forth and back to meet him with pain-fuelled gusto, one breast lolling happily from their congress, the other bitten mercilessly by the sextant. She took this for as long as possible, then rigidly stanchioned herself once again to stall the pendulum, desperately protecting her nipple. Her vagina met him submissively from there and he soon showered into it, provoking her climax in the process.

  “That’s good, so good so good…” she mewled, hands clenched, dress-rucked backside flared wide for the maximum effect of his manhood. They ground out a tensely synchronized bliss over a six of pulsing moments as the crowd cheered thunderously, happy to witness this resolution. Then it was over.

  There was real heat there, the Merkin mused, but it was not something he could capture in a script. He set the context for the stage and adjusted the flow of events, but he couldn’t specify exactly what happened without committing to a dangerous predictability. The triumphant man and woman below him demonstrated a sincerity of interaction that might briefly entertain even a cynical audience, but they would not captivate either of the other judges on opening night. The Gnomon and Dowser were far too sophisticated for that, had organizations as formidable as his own according to the Merkin’s spies.

  “Heads onstage! Merkin’s cloud coming down!” Martial cried. “Thank you!” roared the crew. Hemp lines flexed at the Manager’s militant proclamation and he was carefully lowered from the fly loft. The Merkin left the theater, still roused by the sight of fleshy legs hustling for pleasure.

  His steps took him down a wide, doorman-guarded canvas sleeve to the laundry—the lowest level of the Tent—where he strode through various territories of sorted and stacked clothing. The more active neighborhoods, where currently fashionable articles were kept, were carefully tended by demure women in floor-length dresses, skin visible only at the face and hands. He stopped to watch as a mannerman—one of the special minions charged with enforcing his dress code—bent a woman over to verify her compliance to regulation. Her skirts were pulled up over a full rump, legs spread wide by the burly man, who knew every specification that applied to her body, from basic policies of coverage and style to the decrees of intimate habiliment that were likely the concern in this case.

  The Merkin heard the inimitable crack of a broad fabric strap as the laundry slipper was educated about the propriety of her attire, but he wouldn’t linger to learn how many times her flesh was penalized, or for what particular infraction; pink panties on a night scheduled for white, a brassiere that failed to completely suppress erect nipples, or excessive moisture of excitation at the crotch perhaps. In the latter case her vagina would be strapped to a sopping want to punctuate the transgression, after which the mannerman would lead her to a bathing pool for a thorough soaping; specially applied to her shame-reddened lips and clitoris, rubbed round and round with a soft cloth, slowly so as not to inadvertently provoke climax. Finally she would be fit with new lingerie under his unsmiling supervision and returned to service, rendered more conservative by the humiliation of the ritual, and reminded by her smarting labia if that failed to suppress her instinct to self-expression. Every such offense was tallied for the Merkin, both in the Tent and the City, where the administration o
f his dress code was a much trickier proposition.

  It required a special kind of discipline to be a mannerman. The intimate access to women granted by their authority was a constant, coercive invitation to licentious thoughts, and the Merkin used these men as a kind of interface to the other sex. He himself did not possess the necessary dispassion to acquit their obligations.

  His path took him through a bustling corridor of colorful brassieres strung on long sashes, where he witnessed a second disciplinary incident. Down a scantly lit byway of pastel cups and straps another mannerman checked a busy slipper, expertly drawing a breast out for an instant to verify it wasn’t clamped or ornamented in some way. It was her reflexive compliance to inspection that made such a moment so affecting, as much as the sight of her humiliated blush afterward. Had she been found in violation of so significant a policy she would have been fit with a pair of punitively constrictive nipple clasps and forced to wear the devices through her working routine—an excruciating proposition as they were designed to constantly fret the flesh. A few days under this punitive regime left slipper nipples pleasingly thick and sensitive.

  Off to the right another avenue lead to the “pile”; a humongous aggregation of dirty laundry that arrived from the higher levels of the Tent by countless sleeves. A distant shriek told him an adventurous slipper had thrown herself down one of the fabric chutes, landing on its lofty peak to tumble down the steep slope of clothing. The real fun lay in hurtling end-over-end off the higher reaches of the pile till the declination was gentle enough to sprint the rest of the way. The Merkin had known this reckless pleasure many times when the area was deserted—it was the fastest route down from the top of the Tent, for one thing—but several sex of women were presently crowding the base of the little mountain, hauling its substance away in bales to maintain a vague equilibrium of total mass.