Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One Page 26

  “Mark?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are you… well, the way you are?” She squeezed his cock to narrow the context of her question. “Why does it take pain for you to take pleasure?”

  “Wish I knew.” His low tone signed an unmistakable desolation of spirit.

  “Do you think there’s a reason?”

  He looked away, silent for a long while.

  “Mark?”

  “Yes,” he finally replied, almost whispering. “There’s a reason.” Ione knew without asking that he could not explain himself beyond that admission.

  She scanned the parking lot and the avenue beyond, still trafficked by pleasure-minded revelers despite the depth of the night.

  “Hey. Wanna try something?”

  “What?”

  “Well, I was thinking… Maybe it’s not a woman’s authority you need in order to get off.” She could sense his embarrassment.

  “Instead of waking up in bondage—which is very hard to arrange—what if we played a game; one with rules that were just as stringent?”

  He paused, then shrugged minutely. “Guess I’m up for anything at this point…”

  Ione nodded. “Alright. Ever play auction?”

  “Saw Natalie and her slips go at it a few times back in the Lap. I know the rules.”

  “Then gimme that bottle of lube under the seat.”

  She oiled his penis thoroughly, then shifted to sit on his lap. Mark enclosed her in his bulky arms, fingers reflexively alighting on her nipples. His breath was humid on her neck.

  She took his penis in her hands and centered it at her asshole, settling slowly onto it, swishing her buttocks down his abdomen to park herself above his testicles, fully penetrated. They began to move together, a mutual effort of gratification.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Two,” she began conservatively. Mark immediately upped her.

  “Three.”

  “Four,” she responded.

  He didn’t raise the pledge and without altering the rhythm of penetration Mark spanked her vagina, making her jump. The pleasure of their leisurely copulation built as he swatted her three more times. Her twat was quickly aroused by this abuse.

  “Two,” he said, to begin the next round.

  “Three.”

  “Four.”

  Ione measured the pain at her labia, then bid higher. “Five.”

  “A half-dox.”

  She relented, settling her fingers about his testicles, massaging them gently. She bore down on his penis, working her buttocks in a hard, coaxing rhythm as her hand rose to slap his balls. Mark groaned from this exquisite mistreatment, rendered six times, then composed himself for another round.

  “Two,” she offered.

  “Three,” he grudgingly replied, still smarting from her touch.

  “Four.”

  He was still too recently punished to bid higher, and Ione got herself slapped firmly in payment.

  “Fuck, that smarts,” she hissed, limbering herself energetically up and down his cock to make the most of the pain.

  “Two,” he prompted.

  “Three.”

  “Four.”

  “Five.”

  “A six!”

  “Sixone!” She bid aggressively, wanting climax.

  “Oh fucking take it then,” he griped, and proceeded to smartly cuff her sex as she bounced on him with escalating zeal for the interval of the half-dox of stiff impacts he delivered.

  The bidding recommenced, and this time the numbers got out of control.

  “Sixfour.”

  “Sixfive!”

  “A dox, you bitch!” They were grinding hard now, muscularly rocking the convertible. Ione stopped at the tone of his voice, realizing he was so aroused at this point he wouldn’t let himself be outbid. She wondered whether it would be enough to provoke climax, and the thought of this possible triumph induced her to surrender the round.

  “Fine. Take it, skulk.”

  She bounced her way up to a boisterous reciprocation, careful to retain his cockhead well inside so it would be consistently subjected to the orbiting stresses of her rump. Mark was groaning unabashedly as she rancorously cuffed his scrotum, a dox of repetitions in fast sequence.

  “Fuck!” he implored, desperate to get off.

  She mercilessly castigated his penis, finishing his payoff as he shuddered uncontrollably under her.

  “Oh… that fucking hurts!” he exulted.

  “Two,” he gritted a moment later.

  “Three.”

  “Four.”

  “Five!” she pledged, and he let her have the round, clapping her viciously on the snooch as she snarled in excitation. A new round commenced.

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  “Four…”

  The numbers built again, and this time Ione couldn’t stop, didn’t care about anything but getting off.

  “Sixfive.”

  “A dox!”

  “Doxone.”

  “Doxtwo.”

  “Doxthree.”

  “Doxfour…” he croaked, faltering at the contemplation of so much torment.

  “Doxfive!” she cried triumphantly, knowing he would not bid one more to a trix.

  “Screw you,” he bitterly capitulated, promising by his tone she would regret the victory.

  She whimpered as her punitive smacking proceeded, glorying in the fierce stimulation of her labia. This was the essence of feminine submission—a governing hand at the vagina, ready to correct a woman’s ambition if she overstepped her place. He struck again and again as she corkscrewed on his erection in crazed hurt and need till she couldn’t withstand the game any longer, surrendered with a wail on count doxtwo.

  “Oh fucking hit it, smack it up smack it up smack it up!”

  Joy flooded her, raised to a furious potency by his huge penis and the strenuous vaginal reprimand thrashed out to the count.

  “Ohhh, yesss!” she sobbed, extracting all possible humiliation from the exchange, savoring each tear-flinging pudendal connection till she was utterly humbled, bent over and shaking.

  Mark held her as they throatily respired, too tired to move. After a bit she let herself off his prick, sat next to him. The windows were fogged solid.

  “Sorry that didn’t help you,” she drawled, slowly massaging her chastened twat.

  “Uh-huh. Good show. Please don’t suppress the instinct to share any other ‘theories’ you wanna test…” he facetiously enjoined.

  They were quiet again and his erection relented to a drooping, inconsolable presence. He slid over to the door. “Wanna head back in?”

  “In a bit. I need to think.”

  Mark seemed to understand. “Be careful,” he wearily sighed and departed the convertible. She watched him tread back into the foyer.

  Ione relaxed into the cushioned embrace of the convertible, meditating on recent history. She heard a gang of rowdy women skip down the hill along the sidewalk, homeward bound after a night of drinking. They were completely safe here she knew, protected by the exclusivity of the neighborhood.

  She absently glanced around, saw the lonely gnome Dean kept in the rear of the vehicle, toppled onto the floor from their earlier fracas with the hotel skulks. Righting it, she whimsically punched its left nipple, wondering what it did.

  The gnome’s eyes lit to regard her with an ultrasaturated blue gaze. They were too dim to illuminate anything, but eerily ineluctable in the dark. Nothing else happened and she was about to turn it off when the gnome blinked. Its eyes opened again after a moment, shut once more. She considered this behavior, then pushed its right nipple.

  The flashing cadence of its eyes accelerated slightly, and she slapped its nipple repeatedly, raising the frequency of blinking to a steady pulse. She hit the left nipple again and its arm waved at the same tempo. Ione got it to wave with the other arm, snap its fingers, nod its head, tap its feet—even wag its penis, whic
h stiffened to a high inclination for this purpose.

  “Heh.” She stared at it in weary amusement.

  Someone nearby drunkenly bellowed for another drink, momentarily overcoming the cacophony of parties going strong in Dean’s building and elsewhere on the hill. Slapping both nipples at once, Ione restored the strange gnome to quiescence, wondering why it was in the convertible.

  She sighed and stepped back out into the baffling complexity of the metropolitan soundscape, crankily slamming the door to exercise a presumption that moderation had no meaning on Dean’s hill. Adding a smothered curse to its ambience, she trod back in to rejoin her friends, finally tired enough to sleep through the noise.

  In the morning, they gathered in the drummer’s salon once again. The din issuing from his music room was more intense than ever. Emma wearily explained that he would be pitting himself against the champion musicians of the City that evening, vying for a patronage at the Dowser’s Club.

  “He’s obsessed,” she grumped. “Won’t shut up about it.”

  “Is this the first time he’s auditioned?” Mark asked.

  “No. And I think that’s why he’s so jumpy about it. The Dowser’s place is the top joint. You have to be one of the best drummers in town just to get a chance.”

  They fell silent as his percussion momentarily overwhelmed the apartment. Ione cringed and Emma helplessly channeled her lover’s unhappiness with their situation, trying to fathom the concept of status, that invisible gauge of entitlement that lurked about them like a spiteful skulk, slamming doors everywhere they turned. It would take a significant change in their status to secure a living space that was safe and quiet, and she guessed Ione would be thinking of nothing else at this point. As much as she liked Dean, Emma’s long experience as a doyenne informed her that their social utility to him was a real factor in his friendliness; his apartment door was regularly assaulted by friends and neighbors looking to flirt with his exotic new companions. The tall man’s reputation had risen considerably since their arrival.

  “Dean said he could bring us along as support crew tonight for his audition,” she mentioned, wondering what might be involved. “He needs us there by noon to help him set up, though.”

  “You go. I think I’ll drive around a little more, Ione demurred. “Try to figure out what’s next. He said I could use the convertible again.”

  Mark nodded. “I’ll go with you. But we can all meet up later at the Dowser’s Club to cheer him on,” he reassured Emma.

  Manassa drained a pallid glass of apple juice. “I’m going to take a walk down by the park. There’s a bunch of fashion boutiques there. Thought maybe I could find some better clothes for us.”

  Ione measured their divergent plans, eyes narrowed in calculation. Emma could tell she was uncomfortable with the risk of splitting up, but there was no denying they needed more traction in this strange new place, and their efforts to maneuver as a group had brought them nothing but disaster so far.

  “Fine. But we need to be fucking careful,” Ione emphasized. “After last night I don’t want to risk any more encounters with skulks. They’re here. Some men are obviously capable of ignoring whatever social force limits their ambition in the City. They’re the same assholes we know from the Lap, just hiding in plain sight here.”

  Emma shrugged. “Dean said the really creepy ones generally keep to the outer neighborhoods. Anywhere downtown you’re safe. Just watch for mannermen and make sure you’re dressed right.”

  Ione started to speak again, but the Dowser’s bucket clanged, quashing any possibility of dignified discourse for the moment.

  “Oh, screw it all. Let’s go,” she shouted to Mark and strode from the apartment, barely pausing to receive Emma’s kiss.

  Lightning

  The Tent hummed with activity.

  Deep within the laundry, its lowest and broadest level, the Merkin paced about his former bedroom. This once secret space was now invested by many dox of mannermen, vigilantly stationed around the heated pool in which his great round bed had once floated. A gnome had been recently hung to light the area, haphazardly attired in jeans and a sweater found nearby.

  The strangely styled lingerie panties that surfaced to confound him some time before had convinced the Merkin to risk sending men down to investigate. They dove deep within the canvas declivity to discover a tunnel leading down, flooded by a breathable fluid that changed its direction of flow at dawn and sunset. The mannermen journeyed far below the basin of civilization, eventually emerging in a subterranean hot pool on the other side of the world.

  There they had witnessed a fantastic society consummately devoted to female pleasures. Called the Lap by its residents, it was a sight the Tent-bound Merkin was deeply regretful he could not experience firsthand. There was fierce resistance, but his men had taken control of the place, and many women were sent back up the passage to the Tent, where they were subsequently installed in one of his secret dormitories situated on a higher level. He had interviewed some of them himself—from behind a curtain—and while the intricate context of their underworld culture had largely evaporated from comprehension, the Merkin still learned many things, including the nature of their leadership.

  These four extraordinary personalities had eluded capture by fleeing to the forested surface above the Lap, where they apparently vanished despite doubled and redoubled efforts to find them. The Merkin wondered who had tipped them off about the raid; it pointed to a spy in his own organization. He wrung his hands for a while, then scheduled a permanent detail down in the Lap, equipped with a huge quantity of soap to flood the reservoir and its vast network of tributaries in case the leaders were still hiding somewhere in the subterranean world. Finally, he conveyed their descriptions to his mannermen patrolling the City.

  Now he was in a high state of excitement; they had been seen on the streets! Mannermen stationed at a busy thoroughfare near the park had reported encountering a group answering to their description yesterday.

  The Merkin was desperate to see them for himself after hearing the Lap slippers describe the women, particularly the one called Manassa—her name whispered like rain in his imagination—a surpassingly beautiful creature by every account. She seemed both a figure of authority and an object of infatuation, much as her friend Emma and their tall leader, Ione.

  But circumstances would have to be precisely manipulated to bring any of them closer. The Merkin dwelt in the Tent, and they were out in the City, hiding in the hills controlled by the Dowser, effectively beyond the reach of his minions for the time being.

  He would have to be patient, and very careful. Only the mannermen moved on their own cognizance between the City and Tent, the rich inner existence of which urban dwellers were not directly aware; it couldn’t be discerned from the outside at all. But the Merkin knew the leaders of the Lap had unusual powers of inference and intuition; if they made the connection between his desires and their circumstances it would become far more difficult to manipulate them. He decided he would try to engage just Manassa for now, and only where he had total control of context; he would bring her onto the stage.

  It would not be difficult to pique her interest. His lead performers, once chosen, would live quite lavishly on a sprawling upper level of the Tent reserved for their exclusive use, every conceivable desire accommodated by a horde of personal servants. But he had to move quickly, before she was established enough to have real status and its protections, and before the other judges got to her group…

  Five runners were positioned nearby, feet planted wide and backs arched steeply down, hindquarters deferentially presented for his access, vaginas waiting patiently for purpose. The Merkin slipped fingers into fleshy twats, inserted message capsules for various functionaries in the City. When he was done he drew their panties back up, smoothing soft linen on softer skin. With a clearly enunciated destination and a firm swat each was sent sprinting away, agents operating with an independence to which even his mannermen couldn’t aspire
. His runners were comparatively unthreatening and possessed a physical allure that opened doors barred to any man. And their near-nudity gave them close access to the headquarters of the Dowser and Gnomon, where all went naked. That was their only real limitation actually—they had to be kept minimally attired or he lost them to the other judges.

  When they were gone the Merkin hefted his play script under one arm. He had writing to do. What he needed now was a scene devised specifically for Manassa, carefully structured to embrace and enfold her giant personality. He set out to find a well-isolated place in the laundry where he could work in peace, free from disruption.

  In his long rivalry with the Gnomon and Dowser, the Merkin had sought for a way to impose his culture all the way to their bedrooms. The result was a stylish but restrictive sartorial system that offered a way to legitimize his authority over the most intimate affairs; rubber sex.

  Rubber sex meant gloves. These could be textured to provide all kinds of stimulation, from delicate patterns that delivered a sensitive genital caress to deep-ridged contours designed to induce orgasm as authoritatively as possible. Some had special fingertips for touching specific erogenous territories, others were flowlined to effect a kind of stuttering resonance in the skin, and yet others had dimpled protrusions to punish and overstimulate. Some were simply very thick, multiplying the impact of a good spanking. Their purposes were actually so varied they were often color-coded by function.

  Rubber sex also meant panties, which were fitted on slippers with incorrigible habits of masturbation, or where a carefully moderated interaction was desired. A woman in rubber lingerie could be sensually manipulated by touch without overstimulating her sexuality. The Merkin had observed the effect of various gauges of material—thin rubber panties accentuated the labia and offered enough mobility under the fingers to allow for very nuanced and expressive stimulation, even cunnilingus. Heavier panties generally secured a slipper from climax. And a woman could be put in the very thickest variety as a form of education; the confinement of the genitalia by such means produced an erotic claustrophobia that would eventually reduce even the most troublesome slipper to weeping humiliation, humbly begging for the possibility of arousal.