Belonger (An erotic novel): Part One Read online

  “The woman makes her choice,” intoned the Merkin, ending the round.

  The men stood expressionlessly, awaiting her decision as the yellow-garbed beauty collected herself, swallowed once in subconscious digestion of the experience, nodded timidly to the man who had offered hard discipline.

  “Him,” she huskily confirmed.

  The first and third inquisitors returned to the middle as the winner reached to the woman’s crotch and pinched her clitoris firmly. Her legs flexed wide and she passed a bright red marble into his waiting hand, unseen by anyone but himself and the Merkin hovering above.

  It was known to them all now that she was a purely submissive creature, but only the man who had won her color knew which woman had already established dominance over her. The victor was careful not to glance at the tall, red-dressed slipper as he returned to the center of the stage, prize in pocket, but the Merkin knew he would be furtively maneuvering for her selection. And if opportunity brought them together he would already know something about her nature.

  “The emptied woman assumes the posture of depletion.”

  “I want the touch! Touch it!” she cheekily rebelled, rattling the whimsical structure of collaboration governing the performers. The crowd tittered, entertained for a moment by her sulky disobedience.

  “The woman assumes the posture!” the Merkin thundered, overwhelming her influence before the scene devolved to a babbling playground of slippers and skulks—the ordinary state of affairs absent a strong context of interaction.

  The yellow-dressed contestant settled back on the divan to sullenly bide her time, dress raised and legs wide, panties drawn to display her plundered vagina. The Merkin was secretly intrigued by her presumption, wondering how this bold energy could be captured for his play. He listened to the audience, assessing their investment in the proceedings, then resumed administrating the game.

  The men caucused again and a new majority formed to address a short, comely slipper in green shouldering a flowery mass of red-blond locks.

  The first man to approach her was the snatch-slapping tyrant; not what she was looking for, the Merkin guessed. The second produced a cleat from a pocket in his suit, a little pendulum with a tiny spring clamp that was released on her pinched-forth clitoris to effect a taut pressure there.

  “Feel this feeling; you will be cleated like this when I use your body later. It will swing back and forth as I take you from behind, and you will wail in pleasure and humiliation from the effect on your womanhood…” The Merkin listened to his threats, alert for markers of original wit.

  The next man was not to be outdone. He had brought a stamen; a plastic rod with an inlaid metal pattern. When a tubular collar with an embedded magnet was pumped up and down the resulting hiccup at each metal interval provoked a sensual vibration in the device.

  He placed the rubber head of the toy to her clitoris.

  “Pleasure yourself for us.”

  The slipper stared in bewilderment, unable to fathom this cynically imposed freedom, and the Merkin hastily intervened.

  “The woman clasps the head of the toy to her vagina and grips the collar with her other hand.” This sorted things out, and he saw her lips twitch pleasantly as she fathomed its use.

  “Pleasure yourself,” the man insisted, and the Merkin didn’t need to explain further.

  The woman began to work the collar back and forth, staring at the whisking form of the stamen with an infatuated expression as it delivered a steadily intensifying vibration to her vulva. She closed her eyes, swooning from the effect of the toy as its action quickened to a hum, subverting her will.

  “Open your vagina…” the man softly intoned, leaning in.

  “It’s got my twat,” she dreamily observed, pumping self-indulgently on the toy, haplessly subverting her own will.

  Her vulva was flattened by the stamen head, trapped under its joyfully burring kiss, goading her clitoris to knotted turgidity.

  “Slower,” ordered the man, threatening to take it away with a gesture.

  The collar decelerated, deepening in resonance to a soulful, snooch-pleasing shudder that prolonged the romance with each blissfully inadequate stroke. The Merkin couldn’t deny himself a certain pleasure at the sight, for a moment merely grateful to witness a pretty woman rapturing her own sex.

  “It’s good… It’s really good…” she steamily reported, lost to the affairs of the stage.

  The stamen stealthily accelerated and the man forced her to slow down again. The woman’s legs were pointed stiffly away, opened wide as she could get them, an implicit invitation to mastery.

  “Give your color to me and I will let you use it in front of everyone,” the man tantalized as she sleazily jacked the stamen on her aching pudendum. “All the way. You want to show us your joy?”

  “Yes! Let me buzz and buzz and make it gooooood!” she croaked.

  He placed one hand on the rubber head at her cleft, stalling the vibration, tormenting her with the deprival. “Give me your color or I’ll take the feelings away!”

  “No! Don’t! Don’t!” She madly hammered the collar and her inquisitor swatted her hands away from the stamen with a snarl, canceling her pleasure.

  “You may finish when you surrender!”

  The Merkin hastily called the end of the turn, and when she was offered her choice of men the one with the stamen took her color, to no one’s surprise.

  As the slippers were emptied one by one the men grew cagier, influenced by a growing sense of how the women related to each other sexually; who captivated who.

  Eventually one man with a few early wins was able to establish an advantage. Dedicated to learning the habits of each reddened womanhood he encountered, he discovered when to be firm, when permissive, when each was likely to submit. The game narrowed to a small group of slippers.

  And finally there was only one woman left; a grinning, brown-haired creature in pale blue, gifted with an exquisite, fat-lipped labia nestled amidst a tidy bouquet of shampooed and brushed pubic hair.

  He closed his eyes and drew gently on her flesh, unhooding her femininity, beseeching it with tender insistence as he whispered for her submission. Then came the slap, a taut remonstration to the lips that aggravated her lurking pride. He was gentle after that until the turn ended, lovingly masturbating her as they quietly celebrated his journey among her peers and its happy destination between her legs. She surrendered her marble to him when chance allowed, granting him a six in total—two more than his closest rival.

  The Merkin boomed new directions as the audience clapped enthusiastically.

  “A winner is at last revealed. He takes the woman of his choice for release. His competitors exit the salon.”

  The victor surveyed the slippers as his rivals departed, choosing one the Merkin had already identified as the most vital of the group, the organizing influence who invisibly seeded dominance and submission among the others—a quality for which she would now be rewarded.

  “I want to stroke off!” she demanded, looking for the stamen, but he ignored his earlier promise, stepped before her to settle between her thighs and unzipped his erection. With a firm lunge he helped himself to her red, fat-lipped genitalia, driving her deep into the embrace of the couch. She huffed, muttered something indignant as her twat was occupied to capacity.

  “Show me your womanhood!” he instructed.

  She humbly spread her vulva with both hands and he fixed the cleat to her swollen clitoris. As he proceeded to ram away it yanked back and forth, magnifying the pleasure of their exchange like a flicking finger. They all stared at it in fascination; a tiny, sensual weight locked to her stiffened kernel, conferring bliss with each flung reversal, over and back, tossed by his manly rhythm to finally force a screeching, undignified orgasm from her lips.

  “Good fuck good fuck gooooood!” she wailed, thrashing out a manic consummation.

  “There she goes!” the victor exulted and a moment later semen flooded her smiling noose
to drip pleasingly into view; a beautifully synchronized conclusion for the whole theater to enjoy.

  The audience cheered, reasonably entertained by these variations on a familiar theme, and then it was over. All in all nothing too novel had transpired, in the Merkin’s judgment. The verbalizations that arose during the games were amusing, and it was always fun to witness the vigorous, pussy-captivating effect of toys like the stamen and cleat, but no critical self-awareness had manifested among the employees that participated.

  He waited patiently for the next installment of auditioners, pondering alterations to the game, decided to expand the male complement to five, broadening the competition.

  Afterward, there was a discreet signal from the perimeter of the stage as he stepped from the narrator’s seat. He waved a tall slipper forward; a short-skirted message runner, her scandalously brief attire mandated by the athletic character of her occupation.

  She turned by protocol to face away from him, feet wide for balance, bent at the waist, back angled steeply to the floor, hands crossed behind her. The Merkin raised her skirt and slipped her panties down to expose her labia. Easing his fingers inside, he nimbly withdrew a message capsule.

  This gleaming lozenge was unscrewed to reveal a tightly rolled strip of canvas onto which various communications had been stitched, mostly updates from his clothing boutiques in the City. He studied the tallies, alert for trends and tactical possibilities of fashion, but learned nothing of real interest.

  The runner’s lithe physique looked tired but excited and the Merkin shrewdly evaluated her condition. It was always challenging to estimate how often a woman should be permitted release to maximize her sexual energy, but this one had been running messages for many days without satisfaction; she would function better after her busy pubis was given a little time away from routine. He slipped a token in the capsule before returning it to her vagina, signaling her dormitory monitor that she was to be masturbated to climax before sleep. He pinched her clitoris and oiled lips tightened muscularly about the capsule. She was probably canny enough to guess it held good news for her, rather than an order for the strap or another instructive stimulation, but the Merkin would let her wonder till bedtime, thickening doubt to intense anticipation.

  “Dormitory,” he specified, ending her day, and snapped her panties back in place. He spanked her once to indicate the completion of their business and she trotted off without delay, skirt swishing hopefully.

  The Merkin sighed and left the stage to find his own rest.

  Mark

  When they woke Ione held a meeting to discuss their next move. This nominally included just Emma, but the smaller woman casually tangled Manassa in their deliberations and Ione elected not to object. The three of them were now drifting randomly about the cavern in the largest bedboat of their fleet, a six-sleeper that had been renovated to a modest state of luxury with the best furnishings salvaged. The camp women were curious about their secrecy but had been strictly admonished to remain on the broad arc of grass where they had sexed and slept.

  “Either we wait or we go,” said Emma, putting a simple face to their deliberations.

  She peered skeptically about the cavern, steeped in the soft scarlet gaze of the gnome hung above. It was chillier than when they had arrived, and the ceiling dripped in places, sprinkling them from time to time as the boat meandered. She wondered what the weather might be like on the surface, conjurable in this forgotten place only as a hazy impression of green and blue. Was it raining?

  “If we have to hide somewhere, we won’t do much better than this,” Ione considered. “There’s plenty of space and the water is clean, for the time being anyway.” This option hung solemnly in their midst till a slipper giggled in the distance.

  “Why don’t we stay then?” Manassa suggested, somehow managing to sound lighthearted.

  “We have almost no juice left, for one thing,” Emma sighed. “We’re down to that apricot swill.”

  Ione knew this was not an immediate problem as pure water was technically all they needed to survive. But access to a variety of fruits and vegetables or their captured juices was one of the fundamental pleasures of appetite—and there weren’t many others in their current circumstances. Just sex and conversation really, mostly with slippers that could barely talk.

  “Plus, the women will pick up on our confusion soon, and it will get harder to manage them,” Emma dragged on. “Especially without any men around for–

  Ione looked bluntly away, implicitly censuring her partner, and the exchange lapsed to silence. Their activities prior to sleeping still vexed her and she had no desire to discuss anything even tangentially related to sex with Manassa listening.

  “Men around for what?” the big woman wondered. Emma did not respond and she turned to Ione.

  “I thought you said we had to avoid them.”

  “Yes. But sometimes under very specific circumstances…” Ione shrugged suggestively, but Emma was more articulate.

  “It’s hard to go without a few guys for sex when there are this many slippers involved. We usually kept a skulk or two for pleasure in the past.”

  Manassa was interested. “Did they like it? Or try to get away? Was it fun?”

  “It was only possible because we were careful and well prepared,” Ione sniffed. “And we never got greedy. Never kept more than two.” Skulk behavior changed radically when three of them lurked in the same place.

  She rose to her feet and Emma followed her to the headboard, staring at the various currents exiting the cavern.

  “So which one leads to the Lap?” Manassa yawned, joining them. The bedboat pitched at their concentrated weight, and Ione could feel the heat of her great body at close range. She found herself reflexively glancing down to the other woman’s nude vulva, but averted her gaze before anyone noticed.

  Most of the outgoing channels were broad enough to accommodate their bedboats, but several looked shallow, raising the grim prospect of grounding out far down some futile tributary.

  “I’d go with the second from the left,” Emma pointed, indicating the widest but worst illuminated of the alternatives.

  “Me too,” Manassa decided.

  Ione nodded. She had already decided on that route but was gratified by their concurrence. “Let’s get the boats packed, then. We might as well leave now.”

  Not long after they were in convoy formation, and the cavern was left to a wistful silence.

  Their journey was unchallenging at first, negotiated without trouble through a tunnel of black, ivy-draped stone that rose to either side in blurred increments. Soft brown roots wandered furtively at the waterline, some wrist-thick. It was a little warmer here, and they were all glad to be moving. The women were generally quiet, respectful of Ione’s stated desire for discretion and Manassa’s brisk enforcement of the policy.

  They were confronted with their first navigational exigency when a sharp delta loomed suddenly before them to bisect the channel. Staring intently into the murky possibilities beyond, Ione dimly discerned that the left tributary washed down to a spiraling sinkhole cloaked by a shivering effluvial mist; a fate they were just able to avoid, though she was forced to stop the convoy to rescue its last, lagging craft when it failed to bear right as required. A stout length of rope and a trix of heaving women retrieved it against the current amidst much cursing and questioning, and Ione installed two of the most sensible slippers on the craft to serve as a kind of rearguard. She signaled to the boats for closer spacing and they continued in a more tentative posture for a while.

  Ione took advantage of the time available to begin educating the slippers. This was mostly a matter of establishing stronger contexts of function and communication, but she directed Emma and Manassa to work on discrete forms of knowledge, too. Her lover was engaged for a while by the instruction of numbers, moving from boat to boat when convenient, holding up fingers in illustration as she drilled the women.

  “Let’s start over. It goes one, two, th
ree, four, five, then a six. Stay with me! Next it’s sixone, sixtwo, sixthree, sixfour, sixfive, then a dox, or double six. Then it’s doxone, doxtwo, doxthree, doxfour, doxfive, then a trix, or triple six. Then trixone, trixtwo, trixthree and so forth. Pay attention, you two by the prow… yes, you! Now, a quadruple six is a quax, and a quintuple six is a quix. A sextuple six is a sex. And a six of sexes is a sen, the largest number with a name. We’ll start from the beginning again…”

  After a long while the channel merged into a rounding current that swept by a series of jagged vertical rents in the stone. Some of them were no wider than a body, but others were broad enough to permit the passage of a bedboat. All promised dangerously unilluminated maneuvering that seemed lunacy to pursue, yet there was no way to know if one of them led somewhere they might recognize. After a brief consultation with Emma Ione fretfully let them slip by unexamined.

  The stream brought them along a broad arc to a low chamber suffused with a booming resonance from the confluence of several heavy currents. The ceiling was pocked with twisting fissures and chimneys that leaked a steady rain onto them, markedly warmer in places. There was almost no light. The women were fearfully silent, roused by a subliminal menace to occupy defensive postures about the bedboats. Two great arched tunnels led onward.

  “Let’s decide quickly,” Emma whispered, peering warily ahead. “Left, maybe?”

  “Wait!” said Ione, scanning the shadows to that side. She reached out with the oar to snag a muddy article from a spar of rock at the waterline, lofting it for the others to see; a jacket of clearly masculine dimensions—skulk clothing.

  “Other way!” she ordered. Manassa and Emma furiously waved everyone to the right and they passed through the archway into a root-strewn series of caverns, each offering a spectacle of mirror-still pools to one side or both, some of them large enough to cup tiny islands. A dim-eyed glow gnome sat cross-legged on one of these, source of a scant blue radiance that had guided them through their recent interval of travel. Ione wondered who had brought them to the subterranean world. The cavern was disturbingly quiet, but no threat had obviously materialized as yet.