Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One Page 5

  “Hold,” she ordered, and Emma delicately acquiesced, muscling her anus to a snug radius.

  “Suck, Emma. Really blow it for us. Make it look good.”

  Emma joyously slobbered back and forth on the oral pecker as Ione contemplated her performance.

  “More assertive. Sauce it up. Take control.” Glancing around she observed slippers everywhere about the camp in oral connections with each other, helplessly aroused by the sight of her blond lover rhythmically self-copulating on the big red blanket.

  Emma worked the jape to a faster rhythm, but Ione grew increasingly critical of her performance.

  “You’re slipping!”

  The toy was starting to wiggle in her rectum, yielding a wayward stimulation at her twat.

  “Grip it! Get your butthole under control!” Emma burred in frustration, posture softening, lost all control for a moment, tears welling to oval pools at the precipice of flushed cheeks.

  “Tighten your technique or I’ll send them away and you can go to bed hungry!” Ione threatened.

  Emma mewled in frustration, collected herself with a grunt, then screwed her posterior to a rigid noose, bracing the jape to a thigh-trembling immobility. Her abdomen knotted again, clamping the jape to her labia as her mouth resumed fellatio with new devotion.

  Manassa kneed forward onto the blanket for a closer view, provoking Ione to a reflexive display of dominance.

  “Choke on it, slipper!” she hissed, fingers coming to perch around Emma’s knotted, dusky nipples. Cram it. Deep in your jaw!” A tear swam down one trembling cheek.

  “Push it… a little farther… here we go!” There was a delicate moment as the bulging, rubbery head of the top cock slid past the constricting turn at the rear of Emma’s throat into the preciously personal tract beyond.

  “Good… You’ve done a nice, deep violation. Now keep him in there and fuck the skulk in your ass!”

  Emma warbled promiscuously around the flaring circumference of the penis in her head, began to contract and relax her midsection with a raunchy disregard for whatever decorum remained. The phallus in her hindquarters was hidden and visible in hastening alternation, and the knurled curve swept fitfully across her clitoris, a hard-won stimulation that quickly addicted the vagina.

  “Faster,” said Ione, agonizing her nipples with both hands to emphasize the command. “They’re knocking at your doors, Emma…” she teased with a mean smile. “Who’s getting in?” Emma compressed her lips around the oral pecker, gripped its head deep in her throat, desperate to climax but stymied by the devious nature of the toy.

  She began to move synthetically, feet tracing helpless little ovals in the air, features softened to an ethereal detachment that harbinged an imminent loss of control. The activities of the camp around them had built to a noisy passion, but Ione couldn’t be diverted now.

  “That’s it… let that fat mast in your mouth out just a little bit so we can admire it. Now work’em both... It’s suck and fuck, little slipper!”

  Her lover struggled for this delicate compromise. “Mmmmmmmssss…” she sputtered around the cock in her throat.

  “Faster… drink it!”

  Emma sped her effort, but the precisely reconciled tension necessary for this game of self-excitation was not possible at such a velocity, and the jape began to lurch about on her twat.

  “You’re slipping again!” shouted Ione, furiously twisting her nipples, and Emma started to cry, then desperately recollected herself to the act.

  “Harder, Emma!” The jape went almost still on her mound as the little blond’s wriggling physiology dexterously serviced the penises at either end.

  Slippers throughout the camp were shouting in sloppy imitation now, their first meaningful communications as a group.

  “Suck! Fuck! Suck! Fuck!”

  “That’s it!” Ione crooned. “Now just a little faster and one of those skulks will pop for sure…” she promised.

  Emma accelerated a last time, and the jape began to fidget back and forth, caught in a rhythmic byplay of her orifices, gripping and slipping in desperate reciprocation. A helpless sound emerged from deep inside as the textured curve of the toy rubbed away at her stiffened clit. Ione pinched her nipples to a liberating agony.

  “Fuck them!” she screamed into the noise of the women around her, happily exacting pleasure from each other in the charged ambience of their affair. Manassa had risen to her knees, showed a prominent pink tip at the arch of her freely salivating labia.

  Emma fucked and sucked at the skulks till her vagina was swished to the boundary of orgasm in their helpless supplication. She was groaning shamelessly now, heaving with the intensity of an uphill sprint as the jape slid daintily back and forth on her furiously activated clit.

  “That’s it! Suck, Emma. Fuck!” The camp women joyfully echoed her cadence.

  The pleasure between her lover’s thighs overwhelmed any other consideration, capturing her limbs to a perfectly synchronized effort as she satiated the skulks of the jape, stealing her own gratification in the undertow of their epic contention.

  “Vuckmevuckmevuckme mmmmmmmssssss…” she burbled on the penis lustily jacking her throat, feet kicking frantic little orbits as climax stalled her senses, delivered a long-stymied euphoria at last.

  “Good slipper,” Ione sleazily intoned, coaxing the culmination through a six of pulsing, ecstasy-drenched moments.

  Shown the way, a woman came noisily somewhere in the camp, precipitating a ragged succession of blissful exchanges among her neighbors.

  Ione deftly tended Emma’s satisfaction, careful to maintain the nipple-wringing connection that enabled it. Her lover slowed, halted regretfully at last, breathing chaotically.

  “Stop,” Ione gently commanded and grasped the jape at the middle, pleased by its heat.

  “Let go of the penises.”

  She eased the toy from the little blond’s exhaustively sated flesh, set it gently to one side. A capricious link to their scrambled past, it wrought a sensuous glyph on the rouge plain of the blanket, Emma’s tricky plaything of other times, far beyond her own skill to employ.

  Her lover sighed, a distant sound. Ione turned dazedly to regard her and their eyes locked, bridging all distance to banish the world beyond their soft little island on the grass. She reached for Emma, ready for a second, mutual pleasure-taking, all dignity of office forgotten.

  “That was the climax!” Manassa huskily observed. Ione started, blinking.

  She lurched to face the stranger, leering over them from her singular altitude, massive legs planted wide to boldly present her vagina. It was furiously aroused, threateningly proximate now, and Ione was suddenly grateful Emma had just been emptied of lust; a petty sentiment that instantly canceled her desire. Manassa stared down expectantly, ready for things none of them could anticipate.

  Ione opened her mouth to speak, but nothing emerged to indicate what would happen next. Clambering shakily erect, she stalked off into the camp.

  The Merkin

  Clouds sailed a warm evening, flung on a ragged spiral across the City sky from a darkened knot in their midst. At the center of the metropolis below a mist-shrouded forest issued an impenetrable stream of vapor up the altitudes to endow this eternal thunderhead. A tent-like construction dwelt there, and the Merkin waited silently within.

  He was stylishly garbed in a crimson suit of lightweight linen fluidly proportioned to his rangy physique. His dark hair was carefully conformed to a neat silhouette parenthesizing an intense visage, and a whispery fringe issued in a narrow delta about mobile lips. His eyes were steep, all-accumulating wells of shadow fixed by an inhibitory glint. Nimble hands departed crisp oval cuffs to negotiate the subtlest need, ever restless to commence. His pink satin tie was ornamented by a fine circular threadwork and knotted with flawless technique.

  The Tent was a totally enclosed domain, one that he never left, but the Merkin’s fluid imagination constantly constructed the metropolis beyond it from a kn
it of old memories and new intelligence conveyed by his street-walking minions.

  One side was dominated by cylindrical forms thrust invasively up to the sky, glass and steel buildings washed by sunset hues where they exceeded the bulk of City architecture. The greatest of these was far taller than the others, exemplar to its kind—the Tower of the Gnomon, wherein one of the Merkin’s ancient rivals devised and implemented every manner of invention—most notably the gnomes; compact, blue-hued creatures reputedly formed in his likeness that pumped water, transported travelers and lit streets in such numbers their collective ambience limned the clouds at night.

  Across the City a broad elevation reared from a coterie of smaller foothills—the domain of the Dowser, his other timeless adversary. Houses and halls spiraled along a wide avenue up this mountain to a colossal, domed edifice at the summit; his Club, high venue for appetite and gratification, its circular geometry imitated in form if not grandeur about the lower reaches of his territory. Within, the equally imposing Dowser tended bar personally, master of flows and distributions and lurid games to complicate them.

  And between them lay the park, where green things flourished in a warm vapor that thickened to inscrutability not far within.

  The people of the City were unknown to the Merkin’s direct experience, but he was not without influence where they were concerned. Numerous employees in his service staffed clothing boutiques ringing the park and beyond, the frontier apparatus of a ceaseless sartorial intrigue; a war on City culture.

  By the Merkin’s will, citizens were compelled to wear clothing in most places, though his control was not absolute—in the Dowser’s Club and the Gnomon’s Tower people went totally naked, against all reason or decorum. His jaw tightened at the thought.

  In his fancy a harsh clang erupted to trouble his ear, followed by a deep resonance. It was the sound of the Dowser’s gigantic bucket, which hung at the center of his Club. The noise of its smiting rolled effortlessly down the hill and onto the streets beyond, bringing word of his bounty, and many who heard it were diverted up to his stronghold. And around this time of evening the Merkin knew the last dispersal of sunlight flung a prodigious shadow from the Gnomon’s Tower, sweeping grandly about the City to forcibly orient everyone it touched.

  Indeed, he could conceive these phenomena at any level of detail he desired. But the Merkin was ultimately forced to speculate about what life was actually like on the streets, immersed in the influence of his rivals.

  He blinked, banishing the metropolis to its own purposes, and settled back against a compliant mound of pink lingerie to regard a shadowy landscape of skirts and blouses and dresses, a stacked and piled maze of clothing almost limitless in extent. He was deep in the laundry of his Tent, which occupied its entire lowest level; a convoluted space where true isolation might be found among slant-lit neighborhoods of clothing long out of fashion, sometimes forgotten to anyone but himself.

  From an inner pocket he withdrew his sewing things, threaded a needle with a finger-twitch and opened his play script, a valley of limber canvas sheets laced with intricate flows of cursive text, secured in a soft pink jacket by three fabric ties.

  Each letter and line of his play was hand sewn, a formidable requirement, but essential to the continuity of his work. No other method would preserve the order of his words through unconsciousness, for sleep rendered any ordinary technique of composition useless; on waking from dream the writing would be meaninglessly arranged, all sequence and context gone. The Gnomon had a similar problem with locks and keys, which never matched after a few uses. As a practical issue it didn’t matter that hand-stitching was required—the Merkin had long ago become so proficient at this craft it ceased to impede his creativity at all.

  He had been working on his script for some time, but it had only recently solidified to the extent that he was ready to search for thespians who could answer to its contradictory requirement for sincerity and artifice. On the next level up his Stage Manager was busy preparing the theater for the evening. Legions of men working under this stolid man’s oversight were furnishing the deck with set pieces and props, and a new group of auditioners would shortly vie for the Merkin’s consideration there.

  But for now the dim radiance of a distant gnome lent a peaceful rouge ambience to his hiding place in the laundry, and the Merkin found the last stitched words of the day before; a scene involving himself and the other judges. A seemingly frivolous interaction, it indirectly referenced profound notions about social sexuality.

  His needle hovered speculatively, then blurred into motion…

  SCENE: Three men meet by a small pool. A woman bathes within, resplendent in the wan light of a crescent moon. She looks up innocently at their approach, then resumes caressing herself with a soft lozenge of soap.

  NARRATOR: “How shall men of equal status share a pleasure that can’t be divided? Will some humbly give way to the ambitions of others? What injury to their collective masculinity is done?”

  THE MERKIN: “Fair night, friends!”

  THE GNOMON: “Indeed.”

  THE DOWSER: “So it is.”

  A brief interval of silence transpires as they watch the woman address the deep valley between her luxuriant breasts, lathering and rinsing them without concern for her audience. Her nipples hover just above the waterline, swaying gently on the even rhythm of her ablutions, constantly threatening to submerge from view.

  THE MERKIN: “She is beautiful…”

  THE DOWSER: “Yes. Very desirable.”

  THE GNOMON: “I wish to see her fully exposed…”

  THE MERKIN: “She will surely oblige us if we exhibit our masculinity.”

  THE GNOMON: “Perhaps… I am willing.”

  THE DOWSER: “Together, then?”

  Moving to positions evenly spaced about the pool, the men ritually unzip their pants and produce rapidly engorging genitalia to view. The woman smiles and rises slightly to show the promise of her hips. Water drips with obvious reluctance from her innocently roused nipples. She cannot suppress an interested expression as she surveys their virile presentation, eyes traveling a slow circuit from one man to another.

  THE MERKIN: “Will you oblige us with penetration?”

  The woman smiles and nods without hesitation, but makes no indication as to which man will occupy her first. Seeking to clarify their priority, the men advertise their intentions less generally.

  THE GNOMON: “I will enter you from behind…”

  THE DOWSER: “I will put you on your knees…”

  THE MERKIN: “I will spread your legs and rapture your vagina…”

  The woman acknowledges their promises with a sultry nod, but makes no move to approach them. Silence descends on the group again.

  THE DOWSER: “I am uncertain how we should proceed.”

  THE GNOMON: “Perhaps we should take turns?”

  THE MERKIN: “But that would grant someone the honor of first occupation. Who knows if there will be a second? Do either of you volunteer to cede the initial penetration?”

  THE GNOMON: “No… I do not.”

  THE DOWSER: “And neither I.”

  They lurk silently for a moment as the woman watches them with a subtly evaluative expression. Their erections begin to falter in the ambience of this unmanly irresolution.

  THE GNOMON: “Perhaps we could require her to make the choice?”

  THE DOWSER: “Which of us would begin this coercion? Shall we take turns or impose on her all at once?”

  They muse on his proposal for a little, but it is soon clear none of them are too happy with this protocol.

  THE MERKIN: “That is no answer. It would injure the masculine prerogative and reflect badly on the men chosen second and third.”

  NARRATOR: “The pressure to resolve this situation hangs heavily on the men. Then a new thought arises…”

  THE MERKIN: “We are all nominally equal in status, so we could vote on it; caucus until two of us can agree on a man to go first.”<
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  THE GNOMON: “That is interesting… The honor of sexual precedence would be countered by the power to determine who will have it.”

  THE DOWSER: “Let us try this.”

  The three men set to discussing the various choices and a long while passes as the woman continues bathing, listening without comment. And eventually an axis forms between the Gnomon and the Dowser; they take control of the group and designate the Merkin to go first.

  THE MERKIN: “It shall be myself, then?”

  THE GNOMON: “Yes. Then we will vote again to determine who shall go next, and so on.”

  THE DOWSER: “I can see no defect in this protocol. Let us proceed.”

  THE MERKIN: “Very well, then!”

  The Merkin’s erection straightens decisively and he wades into the pool. The woman smiles deferentially at his rigorously established authority.

  THE MERKIN: “Recline against the side of the pool and spread your legs.”

  She does so and he lifts her thighs to either side, hoisting her pubis above the waterline.

  NARRATOR: “And so the bathing beauty finds herself properly exercised on the Merkin’s erection. And when he is done with her flesh the vote is taken again to grant the next man his turn, and so on…”

  The Merkin’s brow narrowed in dissatisfaction, and his needle faltered. He reflexively smoothed the triangle of soft hair at his jaw, pondering the stitched words lacing the canvas.

  He knew it was not likely the foregoing scene would survive to opening night, which was a pity as it playfully delineated an answer to the great conflict that lay ahead. But even if he could get it competently performed on stage it would never be engaging enough to captivate the Dowser and Gnomon themselves, whose personalities were by all accounts as formidable as his own. He had never met either of the other judges in person and could only conjecture about their inevitable confrontation.