Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One Read online

  Ione kneed over between her thighs to better watch the action and Manassa impetuously bounced down on the other side, jogging them all.

  “Go slow so I can see,” Mark requested, breath coming in humid installments behind her, reminding Emma they had him exclusively to themselves. No competition, no lies and secret policies…

  She eased her neck forward a little to send the header drifting along her vulva. The resulting sensation provoked a helpless exhalation, a soft warbling that issued wetly around the plug in her mouth. Her clitoris was gently wheedled left and right by the toy’s grooved underside, a measured touch that responded perfectly to her urging. She drew back on it, lingering at the limit of the stroke, luxuriating in the slow escalation of desire.

  Rain curtained the tenement roof in wind-blown waves, a stuttering impingement that expressed the destiny of the night in a million little voices as Emma fellated her imaginary skulk, cunt shivering under the header’s sinuous kiss.

  “That’s it,” Ione crooned, reaching one hand down to put a lubricated finger to her anus. She pushed into Emma’s rectum, began to softly ply it with a soothing, knot-loosening circle. Emma sped her effort to a sturdy fellatio, blowing the header phallus like a big skulk boner, a real throat-choker with a mean disposition. Ione reached between her legs, eased Mark’s erection forth and oiled it. She slipped another finger inside Emma, flexing her sphincter, then forced the head of his penis to it.

  “Open up,” she demanded.

  Mark’s cock slid fractionally into her—a carefully measured intrusion, but Emma whimpered as her asshole was dramatically broadened. Her neck stalled, depriving her for a moment of the header’s caress.

  “Go on,” Mark coaxed, affectionately twisting her nipple tips.

  Emma bobbed again, fancifully rendering head to her imaginary skulk, and the pussy bliss recommenced as the header slid on her cunt. Her already drink-fogged identity was further confused by the synchronization of her oral service to the rapture at her snooch.

  “Like that, don’t you slip?” Ione commented, taking the sprawling bulk of Mark’s testicles into her hands to push his genitals a little deeper inside Emma.

  “Let’s get you loosened up…” she whispered, a half-insulting, half-amorous communication that nourished Emma’s humiliation as she sucked one penis for fulfillment while another plugged her butt. She slurped the header with a syrupy need, glorying in the sensation of its long, oily tongue licking her stiffened clit.

  “Look at her go,” Ione goggled. “Thing’ll train you how to suck dick real fast if you don’t already know…”

  Which was the actual purpose of the toy, Emma woozily recalled. The header forced a woman to reconcile the male and female techniques of oral sex.

  Thunder crashed about them, heralding a new deluge.

  “Faster, Emma!” Ione cynically implored. Mark had begun to move irresistibility in her trembling hindquarters.

  “She loves it!” Manassa whispered in glee.

  Emma communed with the toy, hazily fascinated by her own thoughtless acquiescence to its function. Ione pushed Mark’s penis farther up her sphincter and he reflexively tightened his grip on her nipples. Manassa slapped at her own vagina, eyes narrowed in pleasure, and Emma felt herself nearing climax at the incredible femininity of the sound. Their thighs were touching.

  “C’mon Emz, get that penis!” the big woman cheered.

  She gargled around the header dick, necking back and forth with hectic self-interest as the toy sleazily flattered her pubis. It was all too much to deny…

  “Mmmfwahaaa!” she choked. Mark thrust himself hard into her ass and ecstasy bloomed at her cleft. Emma lost herself to a euphoria of group-induced bliss, sucking shamelessly till her twat was rubbed to relief.

  Then they were disengaging, fumbling for a new conjugation as the bottle made another circuit.

  Later that night Ione woke to the waning resonance of a timeless dream. Water falling forever; a rain that never ceased…

  –or never landed.

  What was the distinction?

  The storm had diminished to a rumbling, restless drizzle that veiled the world beyond their room. She was pleasantly achy. Mark had used every threshold of her flesh—a rigorous rite of sexual cleansing—then finished her off with a sumptuous labial poetry that reduced her to demented incoherence at climax.

  The effect of the Dowser’s drink was still perceptible in the ponderous but mellow progression of her thoughts. She sought to rub her fellatio-stressed jaw, became gradually aware of a constriction at her wrists. They were tangled behind her somehow. Blinking, she turned to investigate, dimly perceived strange men moving about their room.

  She twisted upright, shouting to warn the others, but her words issued only as a wanton, sexual wail, and she was suddenly conscious of an obstruction in her jaw.

  An intruder was reflexively repelled by Manassa as the big woman woke. Her hands were already bound, but she managed to stagger erect, bouncing into another enemy. Mark and Emma emerged from slumber and a chorus of licentious sounds filled the room, the collective result of their mad venting into trills; self-retaining mouth baffles that reduced anything spoken to a raunchy moan. Anyone listening would just hear drunk, late-night revelers, nothing more.

  She was on her knees now, staring in terror at the men, who had collected shoulder to shoulder, blocking the approach to the hallway. The door was securely barred, and the empty stillwater flask Emma had sloppily abandoned lingered at the base, somehow undisturbed by its swing radius.

  Ione bent her whole intellect to the advantageous employment of what liberty remained, and as the skulks prepared to charge she connected the available clues to discern what had transpired. Summoning her friends with a scandalous ululation, she launched herself toward the curtain-cloaked window, guessing the men had tricked it open somehow. Mark immediately fathomed her intent and shoved Emma in the right direction, but Manassa squared her shoulders and stepped toward the closest marauder as he lurched for them. She raised one giant leg and planted a foot on his chest, instantly canceling his momentum, then sent him hurtling back with colossal force to tumble ass-over-elbows past the bed. The others rushed her, but she was already sprinting after her friends, whooping deliriously through the toy jammed in her jaw.

  “Hooooooeeeyoooooeeeyoooo!”

  Ione hastily gauged her trajectory and dove out the window, folding in mid-air to land with a metallic thud on the roof of the convertible, ears ringing from the impact. She woozily observed Mark head-butt one of the skulks back from the window, giving Emma time to overcome her fear. Her lover jumped, arrived gracelessly on her side and slid off the car to hit the parking lot hard, trill bleating joyously. A moment later Mark and Manassa leaped at the same time, arriving with enough force to violently bounce the vehicle.

  Ione dropped to the pavement, rolled upright and shoved her back against the quarter panel over the rear wheel on the driver’s side. She found the hidden finger hole in the gap above its fender skirt, jabbed it desperately to release the locks and lurched over to fumble the front door open with her cuffed-back hands. The men bellowed down at them as she threw herself inside and wriggled into position. Mark got a passenger door unlatched and Emma launched herself in after him, followed by Manassa. Ione could see the men were preparing to jump.

  “We’re coming!” one promised.

  “To return then slippers we did!” his accomplice raged.

  Ione slammed the go gnome’s left nipple with her forehead twice and warbled a calamitous warning to the others as it shuddered into service. Manassa was only half inside when she stamped on the pedals. The convertible lurched backward, tires screeching, and their would-be captors crashed down on cement, sprawled awkwardly. One recovered quickly, stumbled after them and succeeded in clamping a hand on Manassa’s ankle, hauling at it as he sprinted along. She was almost dragged away, but Emma savagely kicked the man’s fingers till he spun free with a curse.

  The car ca
reened along in reverse to bounce off the wall of another tenement. Ione wailed in frustration, unable to turn the wheel with her bound hands. The men, five in number, were racing across the parking lot toward them, shouting dire but indecipherable threats. Their broken language confirmed that the skulk mentality could at least temporarily overcome the civilizing influence of the City when there was sufficient motivation.

  “Sucking when they hot her use body forever!”

  “Twat nice if chained how I get!”

  Lacking any more constructive plan, Ione moaned seductively through the trill in warning to her group and reversed pedaling to send the convertible hurtling straight toward the men. They scattered before it, hissing frenzied tactical possibilities to each other. Three of the skulks overrode some more cautious inclination of the other two and they collectively raced to follow Ione’s group.

  By now Mark had grasped the fundamental constraint on their options. His muscular leg slid past Ione over the seat, foot lodging in an open recess of the steering wheel. The car swerved precipitously as he clumsily spun it, delivering them on a sweeping arc around the lot into an adjoining alley. Without slowing they hurtled past the rear facades of several small, grim-looking dwellings and blew through the nearest intersection.

  Everyone was wailing in fear and anger, and a shambling group of partygoers on the sidewalk laughed hysterically as the convertible veered haplessly by, convinced a rowdy, rolling celebration was in progress.

  “Look at those slips! Fucking gorgeous!”

  “Ohhh yeahhhh!”

  “Where’s the party, sweetheart?”

  They bleated cheerfully in response, leaving the onlookers with a pleasant impression of their company to belie the curses they vented into spit-showered trills. Ione stopped out of immediate danger a couple of blocks away, panting musically, shocked and unable to move.

  After some effort Emma managed to wriggle out of her cuffs, and they were freed one by one. Ione clasped the spring-widened dental grips of the trill, unlimbered it from her aching jaw. She turned to the others when her rage had subsided enough to speak.

  “The fucking doorman was one of them.”

  They returned in silence to Dean’s apartment. Assuming they were still his guests, the doorman let them up without challenge, bemused by their ragged appearance and wary distrust for his function. They took the elevator to the top floor and Emma knocked on Dean’s door, loudly enough to be heard over the general din of the building. There was a confused shuffle from within, then the tall man answered.

  “Oh, hey. Where have you been? Thought you’d be back a long time ago,” he frowned. Emma wasn’t sure how to interpret his reaction.

  “Yeah…” she began, fumbling to explain what had befallen them, wondering whether Ione would prefer discretion. “We were sort of hoping we could crash here.” From beyond she heard a woman’s voice drunkenly call for the drummer’s return.

  “Look, this isn’t exactly the best time,” he said, trying to minimize an obviously frustrated erection.

  “Yeah?” Emma nonchalantly shifted to where she could see farther inside. A naked woman emerged into the salon, joined promptly by two more. They regarded her narrowly.

  “Who’s that?” one pouted, lipstick smeared from aggressive drinking or half-hearted fellatio.

  Emma noticed a wide fabric band dangling from her hand, and slipped past Dean with a loose smile, sure it was the latter situation.

  “Is that a rubbernecker?” she innocently demanded, walking over to acquire it. “Anyone use it tonight?” She directed a scornful look at the women before they could answer. “Or try to, anyway?” They stared at her in outrage.

  “Get out!” one hissed.

  “Yeah, go!” the others chimed.

  “Come here, Dean,” Emma said, crooking a finger over her shoulder as her companions discreetly entered and shut the door.

  “Um, maybe tomorrow would be–

  Emma pushed him against the wall, silencing his objections. She flung the elasticized fabric ring around his waist, then knotted it behind her neck so that her head was forced to a close embrace with his groin.

  In front of the gawking women, Emma threw her weight back against the rubbernecker and slipped Dean’s hardon into her mouth, allowing the tension behind her head to drive her lips all the way to his scrotum. She looked up to his amazed grin, letting him enjoy the sight of his competently enveloped member.

  “Huh,” one of his guests grunted insecurely.

  Emma drew her head back with a coy expression, slowly restoring Dean’s manhood to view, pausing at the tip to show him the whole aching length. With a throaty sigh she let the necker pull her slowly but irresistibly to his crotch again.

  “C’mon, Dean! We were having fun without them,” a woman called uncertainly from behind. Emma ignored her, and so did the big man in her embrace.

  The secret to rubbernecking was in its philosophy. Fellatio was normally performed by a steady equalization of forces to and from the subject, but the necker made full insertion the nominal condition, rendering the act a constant effort of withdrawal, a simplified service that guaranteed a smooth rhythm.

  “You take it dickhead, suck him real good!” the angriest of Dean’s jilted guests demanded.

  Emma throat-fucked herself with an easy self-possession, lavishing showy suctions on his head with each bouncing retraction, then admitting him without resistance back to the balls, perverting the already submissive character of head-giving to a ritualized imprisonment. She closed her eyes after a little, operating strictly by feel, letting her thighs do most of the work, knowing Dean would enjoy watching the elegant play of forces down her back, the flare of her buttocks at the limit of each penetration. The necker brought her stiffly rebounding onto his cock from each withdrawal, and the perfectly regularized tempo of this stimulation activated Dean’s passion for rhythm, as it would for any man—consistency was by far the hardest thing for most women to deliver. As a further seduction Emma began twisting her face a little with each lunge to come at the root of his manhood from a different angle, working her tongue in shifty spirals to accentuate the effect.

  “Oh fuck, that’s…” he groaned. “That’s so…”

  “Slipper can suck,” one of the onlookers remarked in sullen acknowledgement.

  Emma rendered a generous, throat-packing physicality, blond locks flying about his groin, blowing him till he capitulated to her energy and skill.

  “Here it comes!” Dean breathlessly prophesized.

  She took a steamy, frustrated expulsion in her mouth, let the jizz slap to a froth from their hectic conjunction.

  “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…” he was mumbling.

  She finished without lingering, slipped the necker off and rubbed his testicles to symbolically verify their depletion.

  “Now… who needs to go?” Emma inquired.

  Manassa opened the door with a grin, and Dean’s antecedent love interests dejectedly filed from the apartment.

  Emma shortly retired to the bedroom with her musician lover, and Ione hoped she would get some rest. Mark wasn’t tired, too roused by their recent adventure, and after a while they wound up going down for fresh air, diplomatically excluding themselves from two all-night parties on the way. The doorman nodded deferentially as they passed.

  Not wanting to linger in his vicinity they wandered back over to the convertible, leaned against it to morosely survey the main avenue.

  “You okay?” he asked when she failed to provide any conversation.

  “No. It’s depressing to use Emma like that.”

  Mark stared. “Didn’t seem to bother you much where I was concerned. I can still taste all that Lap twat.”

  Ione blushed, turned to him sympathetically, remembering his tireless service. “You’re right. I never–

  The Dowser’s bucket clanged, stalling their conversation. Its complex aftertones lingered, jagged and mellifluous by turns, slowly coalescing to a deep, directionless hum.
Ione scowled and waited for it to recede, unwilling to compete with the sound.

  “Wanna get in?” Mark suggested. She shrugged in affirmation and they reclined on soft green upholstery together. She could feel his stillness, carefully separated from her own.

  “What the fuck is going on?” he finally said.

  Ione was silent, wondering how far she would let the conversation go. Emma was the only person she trusted completely, but her companion didn’t really have the patience to carefully assess their options.

  “Right now, Dean’s hospitality is the only real security we have,” she considered. “It might endure, depending on how things go with him and Emma. But given the scope of his musical ambitions and carnal interests, I don’t know how far we can presume on him.”

  “Or trust him,” Mark added blithely.

  Ione sighed, accepting the rebuke. She had been forced to reconsider Mark’s loyalty after the Lap was taken, and he had undoubtedly felt her distance. The timing of their betrayal pointed to someone’s treachery without a doubt, and he was the logical suspect. Then there was the frightening business of the hotel…

  She tried to conceive him as a villain, but he just looked tired and saddened by what had befallen them, uncertain who to trust himself. For the first time Ione perceived the carefully masked loneliness behind his amiability, a self-constructed isolation that had developed from the constant, cynical expectations of the Lap women.

  She slid over and put an arm around his shoulders, drew his face to her own and kissed him. He responded with a shy sensitivity that only served to feed her sympathy, and she moved a hand down into his lap, fingering his manhood. It hardened instantly, reminding her that many days had passed since his last release.

  “I think this is what Dean calls parking,” she quipped between smooches, and he chuckled. They were silent for a time as she handled him meditatively, neither really expecting anything to happen.