Alison's Wonderland (26 page)

If we did voice chat or talked on the phone, she typed once when he gave her the order, three weeks to the day after they’d first chatted, I could blindfold myself while we talk.

CUPID: Interesting idea. Dangerously close to meeting IRL.

PSYCHE: Would Sir be open to that idea?

CUPID: What an interesting question, Psyche.

PSYCHE: You are on the North Coast, yes?

CUPID: I will consider your proposal, Psyche. Good night.

The next morning she logged in, as she always did four or five or eight or ten times each day—just to check, just to verify, just to make sure that Cupid hadn’t left any messages for her in her AltFet mailbox. This time, Cupid had.

CUPID: Your proposal is accepted, Psyche. Meet me at the Venus Motel on Highway 35 at midnight tonight. Room 216. Follow these instructions—

Sarah’s heart pounded as she read the detailed instructions. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t. She couldn’t do something like this—not really. Not IRL.

But she could, and she would, and she was about to. Eleven came quickly, and midnight thundered on as she followed his instructions exactly and rode the bus out to the Venus Motel on Highway 35—talk about inauspicious. The very sleaze of it excited her.

But too much about the onrushing encounter scared her.
She’d heard stories, of course. Single women should not meet men from the Internet. Bad things would happen. Worse things, even, than she was hoping and praying were about to happen to her, in the Venus Motel on Highway 35…

She stepped off the bus in front of the motel and felt a surge of excitement. She found room 216, discovered the door very slightly ajar. She went inside; a dozen candles shed a soft light. The crusty polyester bedspread had been folded up and stuffed into the corner. In its place was a lush black silk bedcover.

Sarah’s heart pounded. She closed the door behind her and left it locked but did not shoot the dead bolt, per Cupid’s instructions.

Sarah took off her clothes.

When her coat, dress, bra, thong and combat boots were piled in the closet, Sarah took out three items: a collar, a blindfold and a ball gag. The blindfold went soft and tight around her head, and leather straps leading from it locked in four places to the ball gag that she spread her lips around, and in two places to the collar she buckled around her throat. She panicked and took the blindfold off before she could close the padlock.

Bad things happen to girls who meet men on the Internet.

Sarah put the key to the padlock under the pillow on the bed, within easy reach. Then she donned the blindfold again, locked it to the collar and lay down on the bed, legs spread, arms slack alongside her. She ran her fingers up her thighs and felt how wet she was. Her nipples were so hard they hurt. She was breathing hard through her nose, and she moaned softly behind her ball gag.

The door clicked open; heavy footsteps came inside.

“Hello, Psyche,” came his voice, deep and rich like chocolate: a man she’d never seen, whose voice she’d never heard, a man who was about to touch and spank and fuck her, a man to whom she’d pledged obedience.

Sarah felt her heart racing ever faster. She tried to nod, but even that was difficult with the blindfold and the ball gag and the collar. She managed a whimper, deep behind the ball gag, which sounded scared and, frankly, kind of hot.

She heard zippers, she heard buttons, she heard his clothing hitting the floor. He was upon her, his heat all over her, his weight between her legs and on her belly and pressed firm against her naked breasts, bearing her hard into the bed. His sounds sang in her ears: there was the bestial growl of savage lust, the sound of the bedsprings creaking under his weight, the soft shushing sound of his skin against hers as he slid over her, mouth hot and teasing, his tongue behind her ears and then down her neck and over her breasts—she tried to scream, it felt so fucking good when he suckled her hard nipples, but it came out as nothing more than a gurgle when her tongue hit the ball gag filling her mouth. Then she felt the head of his cock grazing her moist sex and nuzzling her clitoris, and she attempted to moan,
Please, fuck me!—
because she wanted to be fucked so bad that to be teased by Cupid was tantamount to being tortured.

As his cock moved from her sex to her belly, she arched her back and tried to guide him into her—unsuccessfully. She bit hard into the ball gag and drew a deep breath. His smell—God! His smell was all over her, a smell that made her wet to her core, made every cell in her body sing, made her thighs burn without the weight of his body on them, pinning them open as he fucked her. She drew great deep shuddering breaths of him, like the smell of his body was a drug.

Foreplay? No, thank you. Fuck me. Just fuck me.
Every instant he wasn’t inside her was agony.

She tried to hook her legs around him and pull him onto her, into her. He pinned her thighs open with his weight, held her down. She reached for him, and he caught her wrists easily, forcing them over her head and holding her there. She
writhed helplessly, back arched, tits high in the air, legs spread, ass hard against the silk bedspread. Suspended between heaven and earth.

“No,” she tried to cry, squirming back and forth. “No! No! No! Fuck me now!” But it was just a whimper and a whine and a moan and a grunt behind the gag, and Cupid grabbed her wrists and pinned them over her head easily with one hand, holding Sarah tight and immobile under him as he ran his other hand slowly from thigh to sex to belly to breast to neck, taking long minutes on each one, coaxing her quickly into a writhing, desperate mass, moaning behind the gag. He pinned her legs with his weight and held her wrists firmly, and implacably made her wait.

“Patience, Psyche,” he said. “You didn’t just come here to get fucked. Any man could do that to you. You’re here to get what you deserve.”

Sarah was not a large girl, but neither was she exceptionally petite. Nonetheless, Cupid seemed to exert no effort whatsoever as he grabbed her and flipped her and held her down, bringing both her arms into the small of her back and pinning her wrists.

“Count, Psyche,” he growled. “In your head. Say, ‘Thank you, Sir, may I have another.’”

He spanked her. Hard at first, making her jolt and surge and writhe. Then softer, now that he’d established she was his to spank in a manner he desired. He warmed her well—firmly but slowly, building the pressure of his blows as the heat of her round ass mounted. The shuddering smack of his naked palm against her ass sent throbbing pulses into her clitoris.

Sarah had never been spanked before. She had spanked herself, yes, more times than she could count—but she had never been spanked before. She was totally unprepared for it, especially after Cupid lifted her, effortlessly, and folded her over
his lap. He felt her sex, teased her clit and then began the regular, rhythmic spanking motions, building with harder and harder blows until Sarah realized what he was doing—her clit pulsed, her muscled tightened, and—

Sarah came, hard, over Cupid’s knee. He caressed her sex as the afterglow warmed its way through her… She tried to squirm and look up at him, but all she could see was darkness.

Cupid effortlessly turned Sarah onto her belly. With his knees, Cupid forced Sarah’s knees wide, exposing her. He put his big firm hands on her hips and lifted them. He grabbed a pair of pillows and stuffed them under her stomach, forcing her ass up high and her back into an arch; with her legs spread like that and his weight hard against her thighs, Sarah had never felt so exposed.

He pinned her there under him; his big hands went around one wrist, then the other, and he collected her wrists like a pair of errant pets. He held them tight with one hand in the small of her back. His other hand traveled with poisonous slowness up Sarah’s back, tickling her shoulders until his fingers snaked into the great sweep of Sarah’s long hair, and with a fierce implacability he seized her hair tight, making her shriek behind the ball gag.

Immobilized with his hands at her hair and wrists, his weight on her thighs, her back arched impossibly and her legs spread so wide she was all but paralyzed, Sarah knew what was coming. Just the knowledge of it was enough to make her cum—not “come” (respectable, positive, beautiful), but “cum” (filthy, uncouth, sordid, dirty). Exhilarating.

Cupid made her beg for it. Not with her mouth—she was still gagged, effectively, her pleas and protests reduced to groans and whimpers. He made her beg with her body, squirming and thrashing and trying to get her sex onto his cock, which she could feel lying smooth and hard and wet at the tip in the cleft between her ass cheeks. When she’d strug
gled and fought and could almost not stand the torture of waiting—then, Cupid gave it to her, teasing his cock head between the swollen lips of her smooth-shaved sex, holding her down hard and firm when she tried to push back onto him, and making her wait while he let go of her wrists—she brought them suddenly to her sides and tried to push herself back, for the sole purpose that she knew he would collect her wrists again, and she liked that.

While Sarah struggled, Cupid spanked her so hard she froze in an instant, shocked at the sharp sudden pain. Then he meticulously parted her sexual lips, fitted his cockhead into her entrance, and before she could even come to her senses and fuck herself onto him, he’d collected her wrists, pinned them in the small of her back, and pulled her hair so hard it sent a wave of heat through her naked body.

Then he entered her.

It went in slow at first and then fast, hard. The first moments stretched her sex so that she squealed behind the gag. Then the thickness of his head popped into her, and with a great thrust of his hips, Cupid opened her up with one long, firm, slow, sweet stroke.

He fucked her, slow then fast, then fast, faster, harder. He put one foot on her thigh and drove into her savagely, making her cry out as she mounted toward orgasm.

She came fast—twenty strokes, or thirty. He pulled out and entered her again. She heard the buzzing of a vibrator; he pressed it to her clit and behind the blindfold her eyes rolled far back in her head. She came a second time. He’d released her wrists, but she could do nothing with them; she was incapacitated by her hunger, her pleasure, the delicious sense that she was utterly out of control. Her arms stretched limp over her head, useless. He ran his hand through her hair, over her neck, down her back. He reached beneath and pinched her nipples, stroked her belly, ran nails down her back leaving
great hot furrows of sensation. She heard a gurgling sound, felt a cool slick sensation in her cleft, felt the stretch of his finger going into her ass. More slickness, then two. Cupid parted her cheeks. She felt his cockhead at her rear hole and tried to say “Yes,” but neither “Yes” nor “No” were hers to say, just a long low moan of pleasure behind the gag as Cupid fucked her again, this time a way she’d never been fucked—thought, at least partly, that she
would
never be fucked.

It was exquisite. She probably could have come without the vibrator—cum! Definitely cum, being fucked in the ass on a cheap motel bed by a man she’d never seen, and she was going to fucking cum harder than she ever had in her life. But when Cupid decided there was another orgasm in her, Sarah didn’t have a choice about that, either.

She came, powerfully, and felt Cupid pinning her under his weight as he pressed the vibrator to her clit. She came and came, and felt his essence flooding deep inside her. Her orgasm continued for what felt like minutes, as his slickness seeped into her, and his breathing went from fast to slow, gradually.

It was at that very moment that Sarah decided she was in love.

There were long delicious moments of his fingers all over her, over her neck, in her hair, over her back, across her hips where she was normally so fucking ticklish, the weight and the touch and the scent of him enveloping her.

But he never turned her over; he never positioned her to face him. His breathing went slowly dark, and soon he was snoring, still atop her.

She wanted to ask him questions. She wanted to know things. She wanted to see him.

Their scene was over, right? She could see him now. She could look at her lover.

She delicately pried herself out of Cupid’s embrace; she
reached under the pillow; the key was still there. She fumbled with the padlock, opened it. She took out the ball gag first; her jaw ached. She unfastened the collar. She gingerly took off the blindfold, running her fingers through her blond hair.

The candles had burned down. Cupid had drawn the blackout curtains. It was not long until dawn, but there was not a hint of light in the room yet, and Sarah stared into darkness at the unseen body of the man she’d come to love.

Sarah had not slept. She was punchy; when the thin strings of light began to seep through the blackout curtains, she thought she saw—

She leaped off the bed. Sarah looked into the steadily lightening gray of the cheap motel room. It was impossible.

She stumbled to the window and threw back the curtains.

Cupid awakened in an instant and threw his hands up, letting out a scream. He sat up, then, and Sarah understood why he had only fucked her from behind—great silver wings rose from naked Cupid’s back, behind him, knocking over lamps, nightstands, spilling a cheap white hotel phone with a huge ringing crashing sound. Cupid’s eyes went wide, and as he wakened, light burst from his every contour.

Sarah screamed. She stumbled back against the wall, staring aghast—it was impossible. But then, so many things were impossible.

Her jaw still ached and her tongue felt swollen from the long hours wearing the ball gag. That’s why it seemed impossible that she managed to speak:

“I love you.”

The light burst everywhere. And Sarah covered her eyes, blinded. She cowered against the wall and a great wind seared her naked body; there was a crash, almost an explosion—and when she peeked out terrified from behind her hands, the motel-room door had been wrenched from its hinges, and a great molten illumination poured through it onto an empty bed. It was dawn.