Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One Page 17

  Turning onto a busily-trafficked avenue spanning countless neighborhoods of popular clothing, he scented the distant soap depot, its proximity estimable by the number of bubbles floating about. Some were sturdy enough to survive at great length, wandering against seemingly hopeless odds into distant, rarely visited territories of clothing.

  The auditioners were still in his mind, legs working lustily to feed the need between, and he was aroused enough from the affairs of the theater to want the comfort of his flower garden, a personal harem located at a higher level of the Tent.

  But he was too tired, and the overpowering fragrance of soap lured him on to a gentler pleasure. He would enhance his next garden rendezvous by picking a new flower instead.

  To his right a sinuously winding depression in the canvas flooring was flooded to its lip with soapy water. Within it slippers cavorted in scandalously brief apparel—happily required for the efficient execution of their duties. Their physicality and the playfully random concealment of the sudsy waterline wrought a perfectly sensual tableau.

  “Lingerie in transit! Two bundles.”

  “Get the net. Soap is on the way!”

  “Where’s Melanie? It’s her turn…”

  Their brisk, functional exchanges filled the air with a simple cheer. Stepping unhurriedly along the veering bank the Merkin followed the channel around a choking hinterland of patterned skirts, eventually reaching a wider basin lit by a bright-eyed gnome hanging high, arrayed in nothing but green swim trunks. He found a relatively discreet vantage from which to observe the scene and tucked his script under one arm to watch.

  The essence of a good flower was in the lower territory of her body, for this was the region that would be visible when she was formally displayed in his garden. He favored women who offered a certain physiological partnership of rondure and linearity; long-legged creatures with elegantly tapered calves and thighs, and pertly pronounced rumps. Within that preference it was all about the genitalia. He picked all kinds of flowers for various personalities of vagina, but tonight he wanted a nice full set of lips.

  As sometimes happened, his eye found in an instant what would have been its inevitable destination no matter how protracted the surveillance. He settled back to watch a cute slipper with fair hair and a sleekly proportioned body. She exerted herself to the needs of the laundry with such a vibrant, graceful energy that he completely lost himself in the rhythm of her activity; standing chest deep in the flooded canvas sink as a bundle of soft underthings floated in from a tributary; hauling sideways to draw it up the slope and out of the water; the stomping, fitful revelation of her body that allowed him to savor each progressively lower increment of her flesh as it emerged to view.

  “That’s the green load!” she called in a light tone to another slipper.

  “Where’s the rest?”

  They sorted things out as watched.

  The Merkin indulged his infatuation with the slipper, knowing it was partly due to the way she filled out her two-piece; he had personally designed the intimate apparel worn by his women and was inevitably fascinated with its use. But it was not just that. It was the way her whole being seemed to proceed from her lovingly cupped vagina. His eyes fixed on this delicately split bulge as it flexed and whirled at the epicenter of a mesmerizing, feminine dance. Even from a distance the Merkin could feel the intrinsic potency of that tiny site, operating subtly in advance of rationality, leading her to each new moment.

  He wondered what her clitoris looked like, guessed that many of her friends already knew. Was it big? Pert? The kind you rubbed or licked? Pinched or pampered? Was her vagina deep and accommodating or tautly challenging? Did she masturbate late at night when the Tent was quiet, indulging stimulation without fulfillment? Small matters they might seem, but the Merkin’s world was dominated by them.

  “Load in!” called a diminutive slipper balanced atop a pitching bundle of dresses, waiting for transport to the drying lines and blow gnomes. The Merkin’s present inamorata waded over and hauled hard enough to topple the other woman into the sink. She surfaced with a shout.

  “Bitch!”

  There was a ripple of easygoing laughter, but it was quickly smothered by the solemn regard of several mannermen close by. The Merkin stood and signaled to them, hiding an erection with his script.

  “Her,” he pointed. “Promoted to calyx dormitory,” he ordained.

  They nodded deferentially, moved to confront the flower he had chosen as the slippers nearby fell silent. She was alarmed for a moment at their approach but it was soon clear that her life had taken a marvelous turn—she had secured the Merkin’s personal interest and could forget the labors of the laundry as long as that was true.

  He watched them surround her, five formally dressed men lurking about a slipper in dripping swimwear. They proceeded to march off toward her new destiny.

  But there it was again, he marveled; despite all the burly pageantry to suggest otherwise, the woman’s unseen femininity was the animating aspect of the group, silently conferring purpose on them all.

  The Merkin knew he was right to be cautious before this force, directly confronted the female sexuality only in his flower garden, where he was protected by the extreme leverage of its context.

  Tired from his various responsibilities and interests, he undertook an elaborate journey to a disheveled neighborhood of clothing no one ever visited, somewhere near the center of the laundry.

  This was where his bed floated; a giant round affair with a raised perimeter on which three voluptuous, back-bent women stood to hoist a red linen canopy. Their heads gazed down from under its gently tented peak and their lithe arms swept back to clasp a circular rim that draped a plunging skirt. Its lacy, wavelike hem demurely concealed the women’s magnificent rumps, but their powerfully carved legs were bared to mid-thigh. The bed had three wide drawers built into its base, only one of which opened, and a circumferential step that rode just above the water.

  This bulky furniture could accommodate a six of people on its round mattress—radially arranged with their heads near the cushion-clad perimeter, feet near the center—but the Merkin slept alone. It meandered about a small, dimly lit pool bounded by a dense barrier of clothing piled up to the canvas ceiling.

  The Merkin stripped and dove in, soothed by a water unlike any other in the laundry; it was always warm, and sometimes soothingly hot, as was presently the case. A caddy bobbling about yielded soaps and washcloths, and he put them thoroughly to use as the bed drifted about the sink with somnolent deliberation, calling ever more persuasively.

  When he was done he poured fruit tea into an ornately carved wooden flask, added a slippery little white cube and allowed himself to muse on the nature of reality as the pool steamed about him. Chaos slowly frayed his mind, took him to the limit of rational thought and beyond, surpassing any system of prediction. When the effect retreated after a while his breathing slowed and his hands unclenched to disclose a deep tracery of fingernails. Venting a hollow sigh he floated over to the bed, pulled himself up onto its step, absently plucking a drenched article of clothing from his back.

  It was a pair of panties. He almost flung the garment to the bank, then halted mid-motion to inspect its low-cut geometry. He thumbed the fine pink linen from which it was fashioned and the hair-fine stitching at the seams, abruptly realized he had never seen the exact style. That was impossible as far as he knew; neither the Gnomon or Dowser designed or manufactured clothing, and the Merkin had an infallible memory for his own art.

  He mounted the bed, reclined against its soft, circumferential boundary of cushions with the panties in hand, distractedly thumbing their fabric. The voluptuous women bearing the canopy stared down on the round plain of his cloud-soft mattress, a mute but arousing audience for his lonely affairs. The water began to bubble softly after a while, inducing his place of repose to a restive traversation of the lonely sink it occupied. A few soap bubbles were liberated by the turbulence, and the Merkin thoughtful
ly regarded the dark gradient from which they emerged far into the night…

  Wet and Dry

  They were happy.

  Ione woke to the quiet ambience of the Lap, blinking languidly in the afterglow of a pleasant dream; a carnal pageant unfolding before a rapt audience. Gnome glow rained down on her elegantly dressed flesh as she performed, cynosure of a lusty, circumscribing eye. Her body moved with unconscious perfection, ardently loosening a carefully guarded credulity…

  Emma snuggled closer, reflexively brought warm lips into proximity with her right nipple, dispelling the phantom scene. Ione let one arm roll over her lover in leisurely capitulation to gravity, squeezed the luxurious eminence of her posterior.

  “I love you,” Emma whispered.

  “I love you,” she murmured, holding her close.

  Outside, a sex or more of boisterous slippers were already splashing about the hot pool, loudly enough to be heard in the doyenne’s residence.

  “You wanna stay in?” Ione whispered. Emma issued a softly contented sound. Their society was secure and functioning smoothly, and they lay without moving for a time, wanting nothing. Women swam in from the various neighborhoods of the Lap to steadily swell the ranks frolicking in the hot pool.

  “Who’s around?” Ione finally inquired, unable to sensibly resolve the ardent sounds welling through the arch.

  “The usuals,” Emma yawned, lazily sorting it out. “Buncha couples from the avenues right around our island. Annie and her gang are in there, of course. And Astrid and Val from the dark shallows, with those noisy blonds they like to finger. Celestia and Raye and Thessaly, and those slips from the red beds. Some of the low grotto crowd, too.”

  Ione listened carefully. “Manassa?”

  “She’s there. At the center of it all, naturally,” Emma reported, unable to conceal her furtive infatuation. Ione once felt challenged by her lover’s interest in the other doyenne, but had eventually decided it was too much fun watching Emma’s endless little solicitations scatter on her moment-by-moment unpredictability.

  “She get off with anyone?”

  Emma paused. “Not that I know for sure.”

  Manassa kept her own schedule and had her own friends. She was secretive about her sexual interests, which unlike the other women of the Lap only indirectly included Mark. Ione had caught her staring at his beautiful form from a distance, but her body language seemed aggressive rather than adoring. She was more influential than Ione or Emma among the least socialized slippers, who barely acknowledged orders—or even language sometimes—but readily deferred to Manassa’s dominating scale. Ione maintained a strategic interest in her activities for these reasons. She did not like to engage Manassa directly, though she was always friendly, and usually manipulated Emma into approaching the other doyenne when her cooperation was required.

  Ione had spent more time with Mark now, trusted him better than anyone but Emma. This was to some extent due to their peculiar sexual relationship. Ione and Emma whipped his bound form to climax as required, then piled into his bed for their own pleasure. Whatever bed that was; servicing Mark was a tricky proposition as he was not a willing participant in the process. He had to be trapped wherever he was sleeping to receive their conditioning. Compounding their difficulties, these affairs had to kept secret from the Lap women, who had no idea their macho champion was brought forcibly to orgasm by the whip somewhere out of sight.

  “Anything new with Mark?”

  Emma shrugged faintly. “Not really. Can’t go anywhere without being mobbed by the next slippers on the lottery. A fortunate thing in a way…”

  Ione pondered this, stroking Emma’s soft blond locks, redolent of imaginary orchards and rain. “You still think he’s gonna screw us over somehow?”

  Emma just sighed. It was a tired topic of conversation, with nothing new to refine its paranoid postulations.

  Ione was lulled again by the lighthearted ambience of the Lap women in the hot pool, now populated by three sex of slippers at least. Someone hollered for an auction and Manassa policed the affair, audible from time to time as referee and disciplinarian. Unruly slippers were quite happily spanked on the spot. Everyone was trying to engage the big woman, enraptured by her exotically nude vagina, her unrivaled proportions and undeniable beauty. But with Emma in her arms Ione felt no jealousy. They drowsed until the noise rendered it difficult.

  Ione sat up, flinging her long brown hair to whip Emma playfully on the ass. The smaller woman giggled and propped herself on one elbow as Ione found a whisper-soft brush and groomed her golden tresses with leisurely assumption. From out in the pool a chorus of cheers erupted as someone conquered someone else. Manassa could be clearly heard above the noise, belting out warnings and judgments.

  “Where’s she sleep, besides here?” Ione wondered.

  “I don’t even try to keep track anymore,” Emma admitted. “You know how you wake up sometimes and she’ll be right next to you in bed?”

  “Yeah,” Ione sniffed and sent the brush down to presumptively stroke Emma’s delicate blond minge, inducing a blissful shiver in the smaller woman’s belly. “Worried you’ll get molested?” she teased.

  “Huh-uh,” Emma murmured. “Got someone for that already,” she purred as Ione sensually brushed her vulva.

  “I think I’ll take the heat out of you before we do the hot pool,” she decided, drawing the other woman’s thighs wider.

  “Mmmmmm…” Emma softly hummed as Ione slowly caressed her glistening lips, grazed the engorged clitoris at their apse. “Faster…” she urged.

  But Ione took her time, patiently developed her excitement one stroke on another to a shivering condition of almost-climax.

  “Oh, Ione lemme have it, please lemme have it,” Emma moaned.

  “Hold on,” she teased. “You can take a little more…” They kissed with slow urgency as Ione tortured her lover till she was desperate for release.

  “Please…”

  “You really need it, love?”

  “Really really really…”

  “Alright, then. Spread your legs a little wider and concentrate on the pleasure. I’ll give you one chance.”

  “Yes… oh thank you, yes…”

  “Here we go…”

  Ione delicately whisked her womanhood, granting her the stimulation she craved and the little blond climaxed in her arms, mumbling adorably. When she was totally spent Ione brought the twat-aromatic brush to her nose, inhaled deeply.

  “Life has nothing more wonderful,” she murmured, snuggling tight with Emma.

  “I can think of one thing,” her companion sleepily replied. “Turn over and I’ll loosen your knot.”

  Ione considered the offer for a moment, aroused enough by their intimacy to crave Emma’s muscular but canny tongue in her behind. But the other woman was totally relaxed and she decided to leave her that way.

  “Later. I’ll want the whole treatment,” she tenderly insisted. “Kissing, fingers, penetration and punishment…”

  Emma breathed a wordless assent and they lay together, entwined to the maximum contact of flesh.

  “I’m ready for a bath,” Ione declared some time later, flouncing up with enough vigor to decisively change the mood.

  “Me, too,” Emma concurred, playfully fondling her rump as she clambered over the raised perimeter of the bed.

  They padded out the ivy-laced arch at the back of the apartment to the hot pool and waded in. The slippers gave them the space all established couples had a right to expect, and Ione soaped herself thoroughly as burbling turbulence tickled her skin, sent bubbles dancing to amuse them.

  “Everyone’s in a good mood,” Emma happily observed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Half the Lap is in here,” the blond estimated, gaze slowly sweeping about the hot pool.

  Ione watched her use this random-seeming survey to scrutinize Manassa’s bouncing and brawling form. She sighed, abruptly irritated with her companion.

  “Spread’em
,” she instructed, determined to publicly redress this chronic little perfidy. Emma pulled into a backfloat, circled her legs about Ione’s waist.

  “First a brushing, now I get washed?” she hesitantly grinned, searching Ione’s expression.

  Ione proceeded to work a lathered washcloth around her companion’s widespread thighs, rubbing deep into the folds and cinctures of her flesh, then set to a licentious scrubbing of her sexuality, back and forth and around, knowing her partner would have trouble climaxing again so quickly.

  “That’s nice,” Emma whispered, eyes narrowing above raptly flared lips, wanting to believe it would end well.

  Ione soaped her forefinger and prodded gently at the smaller woman’s sphincter, eased it in.

  “Ohhhh…” she noisily suspired and a dox of nearby slippers turned to watch.

  Ione pushed further inside, probing her heat, then curled her finger into a hook to secure her flesh. She proceeded to rub Emma’s captive vulva with the washcloth in slow but deliberate circles, making sure to engage the clitoris on each pass.

  “Yesss…. just like that… oh please don’t stop, love…” Emma whimpered. Ione knew the smaller woman suspected treachery, but there was nothing she could do till it was revealed or disproven. Ione exploited this ambiguity to mean effect, washing her with a gentle, smiling menace.

  They weren’t the only ones negotiating dominance and submission. Several women were scattered on the grassy bowl circling the pool, and Ione saw one of them use a vibe on her lover, a vaginal insert attached to a thick elastic strand that could be plucked at varying levels of tension to induce a precisely shaped vibration to the genitals. Its rubbery mellisonance just reached her ears, a low tone rising…

  Next to them on the lawn a cute little slipper with short black tresses had her face planted between a brawny set of thighs. She was wearing a necknob; a thick collar attached to a pear-shaped anal plug. As she sucked away at her lover’s genitalia, the rhythmic retraction of her shoulders induced a partial withdrawal of the knob, perfectly enhancing her oral affections. The bigger woman had bound her submissive companion to service with the device, would keep the boldly flared plug trapped in her rectum till she was satisfied. Necknobs were even worn as jewelry of a very suggestive sort, and some had richly ornamented collars to that end. Ione had come to adore a passionate knobbing, and Emma kept several of the toys with their anal things in one of the three big drawers of the bed.