Best S&M, Volume 3 (19 page)

When I started to stand, Raul’s greased fingers, sheened with butter – dropped beneath my hem and slid upward along the inside of my thigh. The heated scent of them kept me in my seat.

“Tell me,” he said while he ate with the other hand, slowly, watching me with every bite.

“Nothing to tell.”

His fingers slid the tiny string of my satin thong to the side, toyed with my bare lips. A rush of heat met his fingertips and my cheeks flushed hot and hard. My hands tightened inside the fabric that bound them, scratched at each other. I was dizzy from his touch, from the scent of the food, from the eyes that roved across me, from the clang and scrape of silverware around me as people went back to their dinners.

“Tell me,” he said again. His mouth was full of salmon as he talked, his breath near my face a sea to swim in, his tongue a slippery fish that I wanted to suck.

I closed my eyes, felt my body waver. A single fingertip sank into me up to the first joint, wiggling against my slick heat until every nerve jumped and popped, my hips pushing forward against his touch.

He pulled away. The sound that came from my mouth was embarrassing, loud and groaned. I opened my eyes. He was looking at me, raising the finger that had been inside me, putting it to his lips and sucking my grease from it with as much relish as he’d eaten everything else.

I told him. The story of my mother, of me, of food. The short version. It sounded so stupid said aloud. Like I should have been smarter than that. But who can say the way things grow on us, and grow us? What small changes of body and brain will become our undoing?

He listened quietly, still eating, until I finished. Then he picked up a piece of salmon in his fingers again. This one bigger than the first. He brought it to my lips. The other hand returned to its place beneath my torn dress, fingers testing the waters between my thighs with barely-there strokes.

“I promise you,” he said. “I will not let you become like her.”

Was it so simple? Was I so see-through?

Yes. No.

The pink-red flesh touched my lips, slipped across the closed length of them. I could taste salt and sea and meat. My stomach growled and groaned, the wet sea between my thighs clenched in want, but I kept my lips pressed tight together.

He kept the slow brush of fish across my lips.

“Do you hear me? I will regulate everything you eat. I will feed you. And I will fuck you. And you will never, ever become like that woman. But you have to trust me.”

I heard him. Of course I did. Who wouldn’t? He was the first person who’d ever seemed to understand the fear. The need. Not the therapists. Not my friends. Not the other anorexics that I talked to in groups or in day-to-day life.

“Do you? Trust me?” he asked.

I raised my gaze to his, those dark depths of his eyes. I nodded.

He slid the fish between my lips as they parted in breath. Scraped his nail across my tongue as I swallowed. I sucked his fingers in a sudden hunger, groaning. Fingers slippery between both sets of lips, feeding me, ending my hunger. His other hand rose and fell inside me, until he was filling me at both ends, and I never ever wanted him to stop.

It worked. For so long, it worked. I trusted Raul and he fed me and fucked me, and I stayed healthy. Well. I didn’t eat unless he told me to. All of my faith in one basket, as it were.

Until my mother called, on her deathbed, at the hospital. Family only in those last few days. So Raul wasn’t there. He couldn’t tie me up and fuck me. He couldn’t sit across from me at a restaurant and feed me tiny morsels on a fork. It was just me and my mother, her bloated body. Why did I stay? I think I thought it would help me, if I forgave, if I let go, if I held her hand.

But no. I just… stopped. Didn’t dare speak or breathe for fear of the things I’d say to her. Didn’t dare eat. No. Not that. Not without Raul, not the way I wanted to stuff myself with cakes and cheese, with chips and ice cream and candy. I chewed my fingernails. I swallowed water to keep my stomach quiet. I watched her deflate and die, until she was a big nothing. And then I cried, but my tears tasted empty as water.

Raul waits until we get back to the house. He waits for that, at least. All this food, laid out on tables. All these people, stuffing their plates and their faces. Saying, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I keep thinking they’re talking about my weight, so I keep saying, “It’s okay.”

I can’t help but watch everyone eat, and count calories. I haven’t counted calories in years, but still it comes back with an ease that scares me. Fried chicken, potato salad, all the things that people bring to comfort themselves and each other.

“Tessa,” Raul says as we pass the table. “You have to eat.”

I know better than to deny him verbally, so I merely shake my head.

“I ate,” I say. And I stick my tongue out to show him the overly red tongue, the leftovers of the candy he fed me.

He takes my hand and pulls me past the table into the bedroom. He slides the door shut, clicking the lock, and then leans against it.

“Are you your mother?” he asks.

“No. My mother’s dead.” You’d think it would hurt to say that, but it doesn’t. There’s something almost freeing in it, as though a stone – not a stone, a mountain – has been lifted from my life.

“And do you know why you’re not your mother?”

“Because you feed me. Because you control me.” It’s the most true answer I know. But even as the spittle comes from my mouth, the hard crumbs of words, I know they’re not true. I can’t blame him. Want to, but can’t.

“No, baby,” he says. “Because you trust me. Because you’re learning to trust yourself.”

Is that true? I can’t remember. I can’t think straight. I think, somewhere behind the blur that is my mother and her big death, I think he’s right. I had started to trust myself, to listen to my body. To take the things that nourished me into my body.

“Want do you want, Tessa?”

“You. I want you.” I can already taste him on my tongue, down the length of my throat.

With little more than a groaned exhale, he comes to me and puts his hands on my shoulders, pushes me hard down onto the bed. He pulls my dark dress off in a careless yank of flesh and fabric. Seams tearing around me. His hands on my hips, he pushes me down to my knees with his hand in my hair. With his other hand, he opens his dark pants, fingers quick and rough as he pulls himself out, strokes himself to hardness.

“Eat,” he says. And he doesn’t give me time to answer. He just pulls me hard by the hair over his length, until I’m choking and gagging, trying to squirm away. “Eat,” he says again and he jams me forward and back, a hard fast stroke that makes his tip hit the back of my throat. My knees burn from the rug and my breath comes fast through my nose, small huffs of air that whistle with every thrust.

He pulls me away, so that I’m panting and snarling. Swearing at him. And then he tilts my head up so I can see his eyes, all that dark desire coiling in those depths, all that love.

He lets go of my hair, takes a step back, and holds himself in front of me. His hand holds the base of his cock so that the dark length of it springs upright, clear fluid seeping from his tip.

“You choose,” he says. And those words echo back to me from so long ago, and I shiver. Had I grown so little, come so far? My head is dull and achy from not eating, from crying, from resisting.

I open my mouth wide, like a baby bird, suddenly ravenous for every small taste. Raul smiles down at me. “Good girl,” he says, and then he lifts his length in his fingers, letting the glistening head brush my lips.

My throat and lips and tongue, so unused, so abandoned, remember how to work. I suck him in, so greedy, so hungry, licking and biting his skin until he moans my name, his hand soft in my hair. I bury myself over him, suckling his length as hard as I can.

“Tessa,” he says, all that pride and passion in his deep voice, and I feel my stomach tighten, not in hunger or pain, but in something new and nourished. He starts to come, and he pulls back like he always does, but I raise my hands to his hips and hold him inside me. I drink him down and he tastes of milk and tears, every drop as salty and sweet as life.

The Guessing Game

By

Mykola Dementiuk

It had been three weeks since he had last guessed correctly, but since she had only allowed him one guess a night and there was a limited number of colors he could guess at, the odds of hitting it correctly sooner or later should have been in his favor; but they weren’t, and once again he had guessed wrong.

“Blue!” he stammered, thinking they had to be blue; it was time for blue anyway. Yesterday was white, the day before red, before that black, and it was pink four days ago…yes, today it would be blue! It had to be blue – besides, there was only one blue pair left in her dresser drawer, only white and red and black and pink ones in the laundry hamper, and since she only had two pairs of blue ones to begin with, they had to be blue!

“Blue!” he said, and no matter how logical and calculating his reasoning, still none to sure of himself. Because all the deductions, all the snooping through drawers, through laundry baskets, had led him to wrong conclusions before; he had counted, tabulated, sorted (and sniffed, clean ones and soiled) every pair in the house – there must have been over two dozen – and still for three weeks he couldn’t come up with any pattern she followed to put on which pair with which outfit. Didn’t a black dress with black hose and black shoes presuppose a black pair of panties? No, she’d wear green ones! Wouldn’t white tennis shorts on a Sunday afternoon blend in perfectly with white panties underneath? Of course not, stupid! A shimmer of tiny red, circling, outlining, dipping into her highlighted attention-focused ass was the preferred style. So how could he ever guess what color she’d be wearing, or the logic behind it?

“Blue!” he gushed again, and winced. The look of disap-pointment was evident in her eyes, her mouth grimacing in disgust. He groaned, and felt his penis stiffen harder, more useless. But they had to be blue! They were blue this morning (he had peeked as she dressed) when she pulled on a pink skirt and went to work! But he knew they weren’t; who the hell knew what color they could be? How many times did a woman change her panties in a day? Five? Six?

What was a pair of panties anyway? A strip of colored cloth, two, three inches of elastic, stretchable material—you could squeeze one in your palm and clutch it all day, like a sacred talisman or holy amulet, a good luck charm, take it with you wherever you went, to business meetings, to restaurants, to 12-Step programs, and who would be the wiser? They were practically invisible; he had never checked her purse, but he was certain if he had he’d find a few pairs in there too, in between the makeup jars, the lipstick tubes, the eyebrow pencils, the bulging wallets and checkbooks, the tokens, the brushes, the sales coupons, the tampons, the other panties…

Hell, the things were so tiny they could be shed and replaced in an instant! How convenient! Take them off on a hot summer day: just step into a hallway, lower the damp sticky pair, powder the ass and cunt, and step into a nice cool fresh pair of dry ones…

That’s what the fucking panties in the streets were all about: everywhere you looked panties were lying on the sidewalk, in the gutters, on top of garbage cans, draped over fences, stuck on poles, everywhere you turned some cunning bitch unobtrusively tossing something invisible over her shoulder. Goddammit!! Hot sweaty cunts changing their wardrobes in the middle of the day in the middle of the street in the middle of the whole fucking city!

Of course they weren’t blue! Who could possibly know how many colors they had already been that day? The fucking things changed by themselves every fucking minute of every fucking day! Like magic! Nothing up the sleeve? Nothing around the cunt either!

She sighed, looked at him sadly, and shifted her weight on the sofa. He scowled and clutched his crotch. It had come to this: his failure at guessing correctly at least gave him the consolation of peeking under her skirt to verify his wrong assumption, the frustrating consolation of gaping up her long nyloned legs, of eyeing the glimmer of unattainable moist flesh, of staring in disbelief at whatever-colored panties clasped the bloated bulb of her un-possessable cunt…

It was always the same scenario: she sat cross-legged on the couch, he knelt before her, guessed at a color, watched her uncross her legs, peered up her skirt, and spasmed in his pants; even if he guessed correctly and been rewarded with his first fucking in weeks, he knew he couldn’t have gotten it up a second time. The anticipation, the fear, the anxiety probably brought on the force of his ejaculation as quickly and rapidly as did any abstinence or sexual stimulus under a female skirt. For three weeks he had creamed his failure at guessing correctly in his pants, and he was ready for another failed creaming right now.

She uncrossed her legs, the rustling whoosh of brushing nylons tearing at his soul and groin, and slightly pulled up a corner of her skirt, raising one leg up on the couch.

He gaped at her bare crotch.

“You fucking bitch!” he screamed. “You lying fucking whore!”

She smirked, and shrugged.

“It was almost a hundred degrees today,” she said.

“You bitch!” he cursed, and stared at her bare pantyless cunt. (When did she shave that? But then, when had he last seen it?)

“It was hot,” she shrugged, and smirked again.

He leaped off the floor.

“That’s not fair!” he screamed. “You cheated!”

This was certainly outside of the ground rules of their guessing game. This was cheating; he knew, and so did she. They agreed there’d be no trickery of any kind—no arguing or bickering over color-shades or tints: blue would always be blue, not seaside marine; red was red, and not majestic scarlet; purple would be purple, and not evening magenta; pink pink, and not pussy blush, or whatever the cunt-clothes-catalogs she got in the mail called it. And if she wore tiger-stripes or colored spots of polka dots, any color on the panty he guessed at was valid to take in the entire panty and he won. And got laid. But pantyless? And hairless crotch? This was outside the rules. This was cheating. And it wasn’t fair!