Macho Sluts (13 page)

She handled and examined me, squeezing my breasts and buttocks, slapping me lightly a couple of times on the ass. When the tub was full, she handed me into the water, then settled back to watch me bathe.

Jessie obviously spent a lot of time in her bathtub. There were several different brushes, washcloths, soaps, scrubbers, and sponges arranged on a bathwheel. There were enough towels around for four people. Enough room in the tub for them, too. I lathered myself thoroughly and slowly, rinsing with equal care. She made me stand up and face her to wash my cunt, smiled, and told me to wash it again.

When I got out, she dried me, using a very soft towel. All she had to do was pat me gently all over, and the moisture vanished from my skin. She would not let me dress (or pee) again, just wrapped me in another towel and ordered me to kneel for the leash. I was so glad she did not forget that small detail. It is easy to forget a promise made to someone who is in your power. But it is by such small things that adoration flourishes or withers away.

Using the silk leash, she guided me across the hall into another room. I was in candlelight again, so I couldn't see clearly, but I picked out the vague shape of a piano in the corner. One wall was plastered with posters—no, they were blown-up photographs. I recognized Patti Smith, Chrissie Hynde, Joan Jett, Girlschool. “Where did all those pictures come from?” I asked.

“I'm a photographer,” she said briefly. “And a groupie.”

“Oh.” What else could I say? I have to admit, if any of those women made her feel the way she made me feel, I didn't want to know about it. At least, not right now.

It was a long room, and she kept me going, toward the back. There was a balcony—no, a fire escape—on my right. The window let in some light from the street, and I could see potted plants sitting outside. A tape deck and stereo gear sat in front of the window. The floor was covered with several deep, soft Oriental and Navajo rugs, thrown on top of each other. To my left was her bed. It had four posts of even height, hand-carved statuettes of naked women. And there was a large wardrobe sitting against the back wall. It was here that she led me. “Drop the towel,” she said softly, and opened its doors. A light came on inside it.

Mirrors had been hung on the doors and back panel of the wardrobe. I was startled by the picture we made. We were a study in contrasts. I was small in front of her, very naked, my skin rosy from arousal and need. My full curves were juxtaposed with her height and angularity and the black velvet suit. She looked the part of a perfect gentleman-dyke who just happened to have a lady on a leash.

We spent some time looking at ourselves. Our reflections fell behind the whips and restraints she had hung inside the cupboard. She touched each one, setting them all to swaying. There was a Victorian walking cane, a riding whip, a cat, a bullwhip, and some others I didn't know by name. A few of them looked too menacing to be applied to human flesh. I hoped they were there for effect only.

While my attention was engaged by the instruments of flagellation and various other toys in her closet, she reached for a long rope that dangled from the ceiling. She clipped the snap at the end of it through both bracelet rings, and removed her scarf from around my neck. I was sorry to see it go, it being the first thing that had bound me to her. She tickled my nose with the fringes, trying to make me laugh. I wouldn't. “Well, if you insist on getting sentimental about it,” she shrugged, and tied it around my eyes.

I could hear her moving around, humming, picking things up, opening drawers. She turned on a little electric heater—I could hear its fan. She pushed a tape into the stereo, and dark music throbbed softly in the background, gathering power.

The hairs on my skin stirred slightly, announcing that she had returned and was standing quite close to me. “I'm going to touch you,” she said, and left me time to wonder how and when. I anticipated a slap, a whip, a caress, a scratch—but not what actually happened.

She stroked me with oil. Warm oil. Her touch was firm and possessive, and left me feeling both valued and valuable. She rubbed the lubricant into my skin from the neck down, kneeling and placing my feet one by one on her thigh to massage them.

Then I felt cold metal swing against my belly. She passed a chain through the ring of my collar, between my legs, up my back, and padlocked it to itself after running it under and over the back of the collar. “Nice,” I heard her murmur. “It gleams against your skin. You make a fetching slave.”

I moved a little to feel the pull of the chain against my cunt. It was snug, providing just the right amount of friction. The oil made my thighs slip unexpectedly past each other, giving me a feeling of sensuous insecurity.

“You like?” she asked me, using a sleazy, Tijuana pimp's accent.

I did not respond.

“I like. Too bad you can't see yourself. You'll just have to use your imagination. In fact, that's all you're going to have for the next little while—your imagination. Because I'm leaving.“

I was dismayed. I twisted my head, but the blindfold prevented me from catching any glimpse of her. And my ears were not reliable. I could not tell if her voice came from behind me, to my side, or in front of me.

“Think about all those nice playthings you saw hanging in my closet. And imagine how alluring you are in chains, blindfolded, with your arms above your head.” The palm of her hand barely brushed my nipples. “You have beautiful breasts anyway, but now—well…” I heard footsteps. “Try not to dwell on all the dreadful things I'm going to do to you when I get back,” she called. “If I get back,” she added thoughtfully, as she closed the door.

The minute she left, I lost all track of time. I seemed to be there, alone, for hours. The music was still going, but I wasn't familiar with how tape decks worked or with the music. Maybe the same tape had played through several times.

My arms were not stretched so tight as to be uncomfortable, and the rug and electric heater kept me from getting chilled. But still, I fidgeted. Where was she? Was she taking a bath? Watching TV? I couldn't hear anything from the rest of the house. I squirmed impatiently. What if she had decided to leave and go back to the dance? Maybe she was asleep on the couch.

My frustration was invaded by an overwhelming sensory memory. I could hear her say, “Tilt your head back.” And I was overcome by the perfume of her sex, felt her rub her pussy into my face. “Remember me,” she had said. “This is me, my essence.”

I no longer cared how much time had passed. I waited patiently, even blissfully, only shifting position to make myself more comfortable. Someone in bondage may look passive, but you always have to work hard to stay in it.

I did not hear the doorknob turn, or her footsteps falling on the carpet. Once again, it was some imperceptible heating of my skin, an oh-so-slight stirring of the hairs on my forearms and the back of my neck, that warned me I was in her presence.

She removed the chain that bisected my body, lowered my hands, and unclipped the rope that held my wrists together. Hooking her fingers through both my bracelets, she led me—still blindfolded—in the direction of her bed. She positioned me so I could feel the edge of the mattress on the back of my calves.

“On your back and spread your legs,” she ordered. “Get your hands up and out.” She buckled leather cuffs around my ankles, then tied my hands and feet to the corner posts of her bed. “I'm going to take your blindfold off,” she said, slipping a pillow under my head. “I want you to see how fuckable you look.” The fringes trailed across my face.

She had drawn a folding screen across the foot of the bed. On the back of the screen was a delicate painting of a partially clothed Japanese geisha. She was seated in her bedroom, and between her feet she held a large mirror, tilted to reflect her genitals. Only the mirror was real, so I was the one who was caught in the mirror, not her.

My thighs were soft and round. They looked very white and vulnerable, spread open against the black satin bedspread. And my ass swelled invitingly, a little crease of it showing. My inner lips and clitoris nestled, ruddy and wanton, in a full nest of dark curls.

“Look up,” she said.

There was a mirror on the ceiling as well. I realized that if I was not looking at my own genitals, I would be viewing my whole body, stretched taut and helpless. There was no avoiding these mirrors. They confronted me continuously with my open, exposed sex; my securely restrained limbs.

As I tested my bonds (my breasts quivered every time I moved), a peculiar, flickering light sprang onto the walls. Jessie was lighting more candles. She slipped a new tape into the deck. Cool, meditative flutes played for us.

She appeared at the foot of the bed. My mouth went dry.

The candle she carried put half her face in shadow, giving her a cruel and hooded look. She wore a long kimono about her slim shoulders, belted loosely to show a hint of her breasts. The sheer silk draped well on her angular frame, whispering like a shy woman every time she moved. She stared down at me, one hand trailing cigarette smoke.

My body sang with anticipation.

She found a place for the candle on a table by the bed. Then she drew closer, stood between my legs. “How do you like them?” she asked, gesturing at the mirrors. “Does it excite you? Shame you? It's meant to do both. I want you to be able to see everything that's done to you, so you can't close your eyes and say it never happened.” She drew her fingernail down the inside of my thigh. “Such delicate skin. Even the gentlest lover would leave her mark on you. And now I have my chance.”

She moved again outside the range of my vision, back toward the wardrobe. “Did you see anything over here to tickle your fancy?” She returned with a handful of whips, and made a mock presentation of them to me. “A masochist's bouquet,” she jeered, bowing. “How about this one?” She held up the most grisly one of the lot. It had several tails that ended in sharp bits of metal.

My courage failed me. “Actually, it's only good for quickies,” she said, “and making hamburger.” I slumped with relief, then saw she was only teasing me. The monologue continued. “Now, this one was given to me as a name day present by a little old nun who only used it on Sundays—and then only on herself.” That one was made of hemp cords, each one ending in three thick knots. She tossed it away, too. “Actually,” she said, discarding the rest, “I want to use something a little more personal.” She stuck her cigarette in her mouth and talked around it as she shrugged out of the kimono. “Something you can remember me by.”

Under the kimono, she was wearing blue jeans with a broad leather belt and no T-shirt. I stared at her small, brown breasts, seeing something I couldn't believe. She smiled at me and traced the criss-cross scars with a forefinger, then turned so I could follow them onto her back. “I wanted you to see these,” she said, “so you'll know that whatever I do to you has been done to me. I know what you feel, laying there bound, awaiting punishment at my hand. I know.”

She unbuckled her belt and drew it slowly through the loops of her Levis. I tried to relax, to stop the tension building in my body, but instead my muscles began to quiver and jerk.

She doubled the belt in her hand and drew her arm back, held it poised above me. I cringed, trying to flatten myself against the bed, as it came singing down—to hit the mattress.

“Ahh—surprised you.”

She trailed it down my body, brought it up again, struck suddenly—and the belt smacked the bed between my legs. I was breathing hard. “Scared?” she asked sympathetically. And did it again.

“Do your nipples always pucker when you're frightened?” Her fingers brushed the edges of my labia, her touch insulting me. “You little whore, you're wet already, and I haven't even touched you.” She pushed two fingers slowly inside of me, turning her hand from side to side. “Either you're not really scared, or you have your wires crossed, honey.” She thrust deeper inside of me and gently moved my cervix. “Little mushroom,” she whispered, “hidden away, so spongy-soft and secret. No—don't wiggle away. Hold still.” The friction warmed my vagina until I thought I would burst into flame. To lie passive was impossible. I struggled wildly—to escape or to increase my pleasure, I hardly knew which.

“Stop that!” Her fingers were motionless within me. I rested, panting, and she began again. I moaned, and my hips rocked in response to the repeated, slow penetration.

“Lay still.”

I tried to clamp my ass to the mattress. For a minute or two, I succeeded. But she was so skillful, fucking me so carefully, I could not restrain myself. A groan erupted from the pit of my stomach, and I writhed on the brink of orgasm.

She slapped the inside of my thigh with her free hand. “You'll make me angry,” she warned. “I thought you'd learned your lesson.” Her gaze wandered around the room. Without taking her hand out of me, she plucked a candle from the bedside table.

I could see thin trails of wax running down its side. Her pupils reflected two tiny flames. “Oh! No, no, no!” I cried.

“Then—don't—move.” And her fingers worked in me again until my juices welled up in rings around her knuckles. She watched me with clinical detachment, knowing I must break sooner or later.

My thighs turned to water. I almost sobbed, and thrust my cunt against her hand. She tilted the candle. Hot wax spattered my thigh. I screamed a little—and came. She quickly pressed the heel of her hand against my clitoris and massaged it lightly until the jolt of pleasure had passed.

“You're a very slow learner,” she said when I was through. Her tone was sinister. “You just came without my permission. Spread your legs wider.”

I could not. She made adjustments to my bonds, and my legs were held further apart.

She brought the candle close again. “You can scream if you like,” she said generously.