Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One Page 23

  And halfway up the ascent they began to see people walking completely naked, or wearing jewelry or accessories alone. The mannermen, inhibitingly numerous below, were almost absent here.

  They pulled off the avenue into a neatly ranked parking lot near the summit. Music could be heard ushering from open windows and doors everywhere.

  “You should strip,” said Dean. “No one wears clothing up here. Mannermen never come this high,” he assured them when Ione hesitated. Manassa shrugged amenably and proceeded to undress. Emma turned to Ione in disbelief at the unapologetic contradictions of City life, but complied when she did.

  Dean led them into a green-lit foyer where he nodded to a man seated on a tall stool by the door. Ione stared at his penis, dangling with an offhand presumption.

  “Good day,” said the doorman. “Friends of yours?” he asked.

  “You know it,” Dean grinned, leading them by as the man carefully scrutinized Ione and her companions, committing them to memory.

  They walked into a kind of closet and doors slid close on them. Emma squeaked as they abruptly ascended. “This is amazing!” she exulted, and Dean grinned down at her, moved a little closer.

  They were lifted to the top floor and exited into a short hallway. Dean’s apartment was one of only four on his level, an obvious privilege, though it was even noisier than the street. Music boomed from an open door and several men called out to the tall drummer, who was obviously well-liked.

  “Nice…” Ione heard one of them whistle as she passed, hands surreptitiously clasped over her crotch. A guitar-wielding blond dude beckoned her into the crowded salon but she turned away without acknowledging his advance.

  “Mostly musicians around here,” Dean mentioned as if it explained everything. He surreptitiously fingered a hidden lock and they entered his apartment.

  Gnomes with colorful eyes glowed cheerily onto plush jade carpet stretching seamlessly from wall to wall, and a huge picture window offered a breathtaking image of the City, dominated by the Dowser’s hill to the right. Comfortable couches lurked about a low table littered with cups, toys and oddments of musical and sexual gear. There was an attached chamber, open across a high counter, in which bottles of every description were arrayed on racked shelves.

  “Cool,” Emma gaped.

  “Hey, this is awesome,” Manassa chimed.

  “Thanks. I’ll show you everything in a bit. But first things first.” He led them down a painting-lined passageway into a bedroom, where Mark was sleeping deeply, limbs sprawled. Ione saw the characteristic bulge of his erection beneath the covers.

  “Seems okay,” Emma decided, poking him softly to elicit a sleepy grunt.

  Dean chuckled. “He crashed all day. Be up later, I imagine.”

  He conducted them next to the wondrous conveniences of his bathing room, which featured a gleaming white tub capacious enough for two people.

  “I imagine this is your concern at the moment,” he chuckled. “There’s another one down the hall,” he added. Manassa followed him off to use it, leaving them alone. Emma shut the door and latched it.

  “Let’s get the desert off us,” Ione decided and turned a gleaming valve handle. Water sprayed into the tub.

  “It’s heated,” Emma said in awe. They did not have to rely on the whim of the hot pool here. Soaps and brushes and washcloths were abundant, and they set about cleaning themselves.

  “At least we found Mark,” Ione mused.

  “But what exactly happened here last night?” Emma wondered, lathering Ione’s back. “You see how many empty bottles were lying around?”

  “Women,” she archly returned. “That’s what happened.”

  “Huh. Looks like they know how to party,” Emma mused, and Ione had to agree.

  It seemed impossible that yesterday they had been lost in the desert. “We need to be careful,” she warned. “We’re in shock. I have no real idea what’s going on.”

  “Let’s just roll with it for now,” Emma sighed. “It’s not like we have alternatives, anyway.”

  They washed themselves obsessively, using liberal quantities of Dean’s balneal sundries to erase any lingering evidence of their adventures. Emma tried to engage her romantically—and Ione had to admit the bathroom made an inherently erotic setting—but she had climaxed recently enough to prefer caution at the moment.

  “Quit.”

  Emma stepped out of the tub, sulking a little about this rejection. Ione followed her with a towel and dried the little blond’s body to mollify her. A gnome standing obediently in the corner blew warm air from its widened lips at the press of a nipple, quickly dehumidifying their long hair.

  “Why is that sink so big?” Emma wondered. “And what’s with the cuffs on the side…”

  Ione took a look at the raised, freestanding basin, quickly discerned its intended use. “Get in,” she ordered, suppressing a smile, and the smaller woman hesitantly complied.

  Ione helped position her in the deep, organically molded cavity so that her vagina was poised directly under the arched water spout. Emma reclined on its comfortably sloped contours, arms and legs dangling over the rounded sides. Ione bound her wrists and ankles to the cuffs fixed lower on the chassis, locking her in place.

  “So when did you last try to climax?” she casually inquired.

  “I dunno… at the oasis I guess,” Emma absently replied, pulling experimentally at the restraints.

  “Really? I don’t remember fooling around…”

  Emma flushed. “Oh. Yeah. Guess it was back in the Laplands,” she amended.

  “Uh-huh.” Ione turned the sink taps, mixed a lukewarm dribble onto Emma’s pubis.

  “Mmmmm,” she hummed, thighs flexing in pleasure. Ione let the trickling stimulation work on her lover for a moment.

  “So we better figure out what we’re going to do next. Our situation isn’t very secure.”

  “Dean seems alright,” Emma distractedly replied.

  “Perhaps. But we’re completely at his mercy.”

  Emma closed her eyes, surrendering to the subversive caress of the faucet. Ione judiciously raised the hot flow, prompting a deep sigh of contentment from her partner.

  “That’s nice…” she whispered.

  Ione slowly paced about the sink. “So Dean seemed pretty interested in you.”

  “Maybe,” Emma acknowledged. Ione raised her flows a little more, enough to set her labia fluttering, and she squirmed in the sink’s rubber cuffs.

  “You like him?”

  “Well…”

  “Be honest.” She encouraged Emma with more pressure.

  “I’d suck his pecker, no problem,” Emma dreamily confirmed.

  “Would you? Give him the whole experience?” Ione goaded as the water frothed merrily about Emma’s reddening genitalia.

  “Oh, fuck yes. As long as you didn’t care…”

  “I suppose you miss the feeling of semen splashing your throat,” she coaxed.

  “You know I do,” Emma blushed as the faucet lovingly sprayed her sex.

  Ione raised the hot flow again, watched the pressure invade the smaller woman’s vulva, widening it to a gape. Emma was raptly preoccupied with the speed and trajectory of the stream, thighs shifting with jittery precision to keep her straightening clitoris at the epicenter of its spiraled, sputtering charge.

  “Ione?” she wheedled.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you finish me? Twist a nipple maybe, or gimme a quick whipping?”

  “Hmmm…”

  She raised the flows a last time, sending a stiff jet of water into Emma’s twat, enough stimulation to provoke an orgasm.

  “Please?” Emma begged, twisting to offer up a fat tit. “Just grab it…” She pulled desperately at the cuffs. “C’mon! I haven’t got off in forever!” she wailed.

  Ione circled her dispassionately, measuring her frustration as the faucet aggressively spattered her pubis. Emma was sliding back and forth in rapt increments to spread its fo
rce along her vulva, pausing briefly to take the flow on her asshole before slipping back to bathe her clitoris.

  “Please Ione, I’m begging…” She glanced about desperately. “Shove that brush handle in my ass!” she implored. “Just stick it in and I’ll come all over the place, no trouble…”

  Her cuffed extremities were drawn to the clenched limit of restraint, and Ione watched the rhythmic contraction of her belly as she desperately sublimated the intense spray at her pudendum to a furious pleasure, cheeks darkening in humility.

  “Oh fuck, I gotta… you have to… Ione, just kiss me! I wanna come!” she wailed.

  “We’ll see, dear,” she mildly replied. “I’m going to check on our sleeping arrangements. You will meditate on the virtues of self-discipline until my return.” She left Emma to the taunting bliss of the sink, whimpering needfully under its liquid tongue.

  A raucous clang issued from the Dowser’s Club high on the next hill over, clearly visible through the huge salon window. Its deafening voice startled everyone but Dean, who was cheered by the sound.

  “Party’s starting!” He saluted the giant cylindrical edifice with a pale bottle of stillwater. Emma sat in cross-legged frustration next to him on the couch, sipping her own.

  “You going over there?”

  “Not tonight. I’d have to stand in line with everyone else.”

  “You don’t stand in lines?” asked Manassa, rubbing body cream into her legs.

  “Oh. Well, I’ve spent as much time as anyone waiting to party with the Dowser,” he admitted uncomfortably. “But–

  Emma stared expectantly at the sudden tension in his voice.

  “That might change soon,” he ambiguously concluded.

  From the exterior hallway came a muffled shout, trailed by the giggling emanations of women anticipating a good time. Music blared from every floor of the building but Mark was still sleeping somehow. Emma wanted to go fuck him or sit on his face; he could push pussy like no one’s business, and his cuntversation skills were unsurpassed. Both faculties had been relentlessly refined by the Lap women, granting him a towering sexual prowess to match his unique beauty.

  But Ione was watching Emma in her calculating way, about to make some pronouncement or other. Emma hated her. She turned to Dean with a coy look.

  “Hey. Wanna show me those drum thingies?”

  He was obviously flattered at her interest. “Sure. Let’s get another drink, too.” They stopped in the bar adjoining the salon, then he led her down the hallway.

  “Welcome to the noise,” he said with a grin, ushering her inside the room at its end. She was confronted by a dense assemblage of glittering circular forms.

  “This is all one instrument?” Emma was impressed by the complexity of the apparatus.

  “Yep.” Dean proceeded to name each part; a snare drum in the center, tom-toms arranged by size on an arc, twin kick drums lurking below, pedal driven hi-hat cymbals for a variable sibilance, and a forest of larger cymbals above, rides and crashes.

  Emma raised her bottle and took a careless gulp of whatever Dean had provided this time. “Play for me,” she invited.

  “You got it.”

  He seated himself on a low, cushioned stool, summoned the sensual wooden shafts Emma was already acquainted with and planted his feet on pedals. Emma heard the City breathe, countless alien sounds filtered to a single, characteristic murmur.

  Dean raised his arms and the sticks moved with the fluidity of thought to produce a music unlike anything she had ever heard; a shockingly loud and dynamic phenomenon that harbored an infinitely subtle language, expertly compelled by an onward, erotic pulse.

  She listened for an awestruck interlude, astonished at the physicality and precision of the man before her, realizing any woman hearing him play would anticipate a wild sexual experience. She certainly was…

  Moving closer to him, she innocently put her hands on his shoulders, let her softly perfumed breasts trace the writhing musculature of his back. He leaned into her embrace, and the drums fell silent with a flourish.

  Emma felt the effect of the stillwater take hold of her, blotting out fear and confusion to reveal an underlying happiness that had always been waiting… “Show me something else,” she woozily exhorted.

  Dean took this playful demand for a challenge, sent the sticks flying in an arm-twisting syncopation around the toms, thrashed the high-hat to a staccato hiss as the kick drums issued humming thunder. The snare chattered answering rain and the big ride cymbal on the right was the voice of the night, sounding with perfect regularity through the densest improvisations on the rest of the instrument. Emma mashed against him, discovered the furious excursions of his extremities were calmly reconciled at his abdomen.

  Dean proceeded to ornament his performance with showy accents and maneuvers. He chopped along the toms with an untrackable cross-armed celerity, produced a seamless drum roll with just one stick, licked cymbals with the other to generate a funky polyrhythm off the kick, convolved this fancy soundscape to a jaw-dropping, stick-twirling crescendo.

  He molded himself to her breasts as the noise peaked, and Emma let him feel the rigid interest of her nipples. She saw the head of his penis loft and reached under one arm to touch it. He came fully rigid in her grasp. Emma wet her free hand with spit and oiled his penis in leisurely disregard for the manic expression of his other limbs. Then she proceeded to beat him off, fist rising and falling to a sleazy tempo.

  He maintained his hectic rhythm despite this distraction, but Emma sensed she had put him in awkward territory and mischievously attempted to exploit it. As he chopped and licked his way to another ferocious climax she masturbated him with a firm grip, encouraging his sexuality with a slow, even stroke that casually defied his temporal authority. His performance was still without obvious flaw, but she fed her lecherous countercadence back into his body till she heard him falter, confounded by the independent schedule of her attention.

  The solo devolved to a coarse, foot-stomping din that sounded like something a skulk might have produced, and Emma grinned, sustained the meter of her lazily shifting fist, balking any attempt at reconciliation. Dean groaned, missed a tom and bounced a stick. Emma tightened her fingers, wrung him mercilessly.

  “Oh fuck!”

  His penis jerked, spat a thick, humbling jizz before them to decorate his snare. Dean choked, muttered indecipherably as his essence was encouraged by firm, climax-prolonging strokes, helpfully lubricated by the first emissions.

  “Ohhhh fuck…”

  He sagged and his arms went limp. Emma held him, sweating and breathing hard, till he turned and pushed her onto the carpet, began kissing her with a passion that was overwhelming in the sudden quiet. His lips ranged lower, found the level of her breasts, tugged softly at her thick nipples.

  He traced a winding path down her belly, and reaching to his sticks, took them in either hand, positioning them across her chest to catch the nipples between, clamping them to hoist the flesh of her bosom.

  “Yessss…” she gasped. “I love a firm grip on the tips,” Emma encouraged, instantly enamored with the technique.

  His lips slipped to her pubis, and he began to pleasure her with a nimbly fluttering tongue. Her twat was drooling shamelessly and Dean lapped it up, ravished her clitoris with an astonishing cunnilingual dexterity. The sticks rolled slowly back and forth in his fingers to induce a breathtaking nipple torture, complicating and magnifying the pleasure.

  Emma found herself helplessly succumbing to this schizophrenic manipulation of her body. Bliss neared through a fog of delight…

  “That’s it…” she willed as he bore down on her labia with a conclusory determination.

  But the pressure on the drumsticks waxed prematurely, clamping her nipples to a purpled agony, and Emma found herself smothering an unromantic objection. She desperately accommodated the lapse, rephrasing the tall musician in a rougher image, selfish and more stringent, a skulk whose brutal tatty torture was just th
e thing she needed…

  She rode this notion to climax, but the pleasure was less than expected, muddled by his untimeliness.

  “Aw, fuck… yeah. Thanks.”

  Emma was reasonably sure he hadn’t noticed anything amiss, kissed his cocky grin with as much enthusiasm as she could summon. Out in the hall she heard Mark talking with Ione and Manassa, and she joined them shortly.

  Later, when the others were asleep, Ione found herself at the picture window, watching a stream of naked revelers as they stumbled down the busy avenue spiraling about the hill, shouting raucously to cars hurtling by, packed with revelers.

  Dean’s convertible was visible to one side, and its blue gnome lurking within. She felt a queer anxiety forming, given sudden voice by the crashing pronouncement of the Dowser’s pail, a sound she had already come to detest.

  The sky flickered as lightning briefly disclosed a thick spiral of cloud. It had been raining for days according to Dean, and Ione guessed tonight would be no exception. She closed her eyes for a moment.

  Too much change, too fast. Ione had faint memories of the City, but couldn’t reconcile these disjointed impressions to her present situation. Skulks were rendered men here by some sociological phenomenon she didn’t understand, a situation that threatened old certainties, cast her relationship with Mark in a troubling new light.

  She was not ungrateful to be safe, but couldn’t fathom what was being traded for it, wondered at the compromises that time might reveal. She missed her old life in the Lap with an abrupt, helpless desire.

  Ione began to shake. There was no going back, now. It was all gone.

  She took a panicked swig of stillwater and her maddeningly dualized identity smeared to a better unified state on a gentle wave of euphoria.

  Ione stared at Dean’s green convertible, imagined for a moment she was inside, planted by its capable gnome. Going somewhere. Anywhere. Changing context with a twist of the wheel.

  It didn’t look too hard…