Rendezvous With a Stranger (8 page)

      
Returning to my ear he murmurs, “Such beauty, Ellen Laurey.
 
And so much peace.
 
How you bloom in confinement, and how perfect your ass will look when it’s thoroughly beaten.”

      
I feel him clutch my flesh as though he’s going to tear it loose.
 
Toying with my inner labia, a sudden heaviness makes them feel as though he’s clamped them with chains.
 
Though I can’t see his handiwork, I know it by the ache.
 
I’m sure the slips of skin that bear these weights will tear free, but I’m not free to alter his plans.
 

      
“And this too …” I hear his voice, as he presses a ball-gag in my mouth and fastens it around my head.
 
“In case you’re pained so much you want to quarrel,” he explains.

      
The stranger vanishes for minutes, making me think he’s left me to suffer here.
 
No one would find me if he abandoned me to this building, no one would ever suspect me capable of this much masochism.
 
Never would Robby or Isaac, or a dozen other lovers imagine that I’d be seeking to get off tethered to a fence.
 
Never.

      
I’m alone so long I worry. Time ticks by but I have no recollection of it passing.
 
Perhaps it’s only minutes, or perhaps I’m suspended like this for an hour. I wait so long, I go inside myself and hide. Though I’m stretched to the four ends of my endurance, I feel infinitely small.
 
All the while I endure, I’m aware how my arousal builds, how I move on the fence and feel the heaviness of the weights, how they clatter at the metal before me as I try to ease this awkwardness.
 
Since I can move my crotch only in small increments there’s little reason to expect much stimulation and yet it comes.
 
The tiniest of actions stirs another deep pulse.
 
My crotch becomes acutely sensitive, aware of every flutter of air disturbing the enveloping calm.
 
My labia feels increasing pain, but the ache becomes a gentle friend, like a gentle hand rousing me with cautious fingers.
 

      
I wish for things, like water to quench my thirst, like the fragrance of the stranger’s crotch, or some heartily laid on leather stripes.
 
A lash, the crop or just his hand again.
 
He didn’t need this to assure how well he owns me—that I came in the first place suggests that.
 
Perhaps this long void is penance for my one stab at rebellion—or perhaps the stranger believes that this is what I need.

      
I’m nearly delirious. With my crotch so widely open, I expect to cum without any more stimulation than this fence.
 
I go for the finish, allowing my cunt to fuck the metal as earnestly as this confinement allows. I feel the spasms mount easily.
 
One link massages my clit as I work it against the pulsing spot.
 
I know the edge is near and groan into the gag as I start to drift into the climax.

      
But then without notice, my drifting ends.
 
Abruptly on me, like an arrow shot swiftly from its bow, a biting pain stings my back.
 
I realize my captor has returned with a lash, not the crop.
 
The first strike has hit its mark.

      
“Awake now, Ellen Laurey?” he asks as the prickly heat of the leather thong lingers a while before it disappears.
 
I have no way to answer, but surely he sees me jerk.

      
“Of course, this is not enough,” he says.
 
Coming close again, he’s at my face, stroking my exposed cheek with the smooth surface that just whipped my skin.
 
He unfastens the ball-gag and lets the handle he holds appear at my lips like a cock to suck.
 
I lunge for it eagerly, aroused by the fresh smell of new leather, praying for the taste of it on my tongue.
 
But I can’t move, there’s no way to lap at it or taste or smell or feel it because I cannot budge.

      
“Tell me, what you want, my poor contained babe,” he murmurs.
 
The lash now floats around my legs, teasing the skin.
 
“You want this?
 
You want your ass beaten?
 
You want to feel it strike, to hear the sound? You want to cum with it loving you the way it will mar your delicate skin?”
 
His hand grazes my cheek and pulls my sweat-soaked hair from my face.
 
I feel the handle of the lash against my ass.
 
With a jerk of his hand he thrusts it between my ass cheeks until it lodges next to my sphincter.
 
I fear another move will drive inside, and the stranger reads that fear in my face.
 
I stare at him.
 
Sharing just one moment of mutual intimacy, he then backs away.
 
“What you want is your ass beaten,” he says.
 
“Tell me.
 
Order me, Ellen, let me hear you say it in your own words.
 
Say it so I won’t be mistaken.
 
Tell me.”

      
“Oh, please, don’t make me suffer,” I moan.
 
My cunt’s so ready I know it will erupt spontaneously.
 
I sense it starting—with just another move, another prod of his fingers, another whispered breath at my lips or in my ear.
 
Just another moment of contact, I know I’ll cum.

      
“The real suffering begins now, Ellen Laurey.
 
We’ll have to see how much you can take.”

      
Returning the ball-gag to my mouth, I’m once again deprived of speech, left feeling as small as I’ve felt before.
 

      
As the surrounding silence drowns even the sound of my own breathing, the pain comes again … this time I feel the warnings … the air when it rustles as the lash passes through it, the vibrations of the stranger’s power, and then a sting that bounds through my body.
 
I feel many more against my skin, delivered without stopping.
 
He lashes my back and my shoulders making me seem utterly worthless as though I’m a slave being beaten solely for the joy it brings this sadistic perpetrator.
 
My body fuses with the metal as though it absorbs some of the pain for me.
 
I know that’s impossible; that the lashing begins and ends with me.

      
When the stranger lowers his aim and strikes my ass, the whipping changes to punishment.
 
My existence becomes justified by this act of chastisement wreaked by an avenging judge.
 
As lash after lash rips across the padded flesh, it’s a brutal pain I know I can’t bear.
 
When he pauses, the pain subsides, and a tingling rush augments my arousal.
 
But then, there’s more anguish as the pain in my aching labia becomes more acute.
 
These jolted clamps feel as though they’ll pull my flesh to the ground.
 

      
When the lashing begins again, the stranger focuses fully on my ass.
 
With what seems like all his might, he rips new avenues of pain on raw skin.
 
I cry into the gag, the sound muffled.
 
If I could shriek, one would reach the ceiling, beyond the pipes and brick and mortar—into the cold of the night.

      
My mind converges on feelings, on thighs that quaver weakly, on an ass that clenches hard, afraid of another blow, and on a cunt that juices with an involuntary response of arousal.
 
Perhaps he realizes what is happening to me: how in small ways my body is not so angry anymore, how with each strike I begin to absorb the fire, how beyond the pain I’m flooded with another kind of feeling that I welcome.

      
I have no awareness of how long I endure the continuous savagery.
 
Feeling as if nothing matters anymore but this, we go on in unison, until the stranger slowly takes the beating to a conclusion. Easing off gently, each last strike is like a double-edged sword: the edge that would beg it to be the last; and then that, which would ask for another.

      
It ends.

      
I feel his hand at the clamped labia, reminded again how much this ache shocks me.
 
When he pulls the metal from the pinched flesh, tears fall from my eyes.
 
The blood rushes so fast into those tiny parched veins that pain redefines itself.
 

      
And yet, I’m cumming.
 
Moments after all that wretched sting is over, I’m cringing within my cunt, writhing on his fingers.
 
I squeeze the ripened hole against them and utter nonsense into the gag.
 

      
I think it’s over too soon—so much preparation and it seems so little escapes me.
 
But loosening my feet and the strap at my waist, he holds my punished ass cheeks in his broad hands and presses his erection into my cunt from behind.
 
I’m fucked hard.
 
Ten strokes, maybe a dozen are all that’s required, and then he’s done.
 
In the process of taking his pleasure, he’s drawn from my spasming hole all that I hadn’t felt when it was just my clit going off against metal.
 
Afterwards, he pulls out and backs away, letting me wonder how long I’ll remain tethered to this chain-link fence.

g

      
I can see the neon, red that looks like faded pink, blinking against the yellowed wall of the hotel room, the light diffused by thin snagged sheers that hang from the window.
 
I know how the cold bites outside as the winds shake the lights above the street and sends tattered leftovers of leaves to the cement below.
 
While outside it’s cold, the warmth within the hotel’s walls is as sultry as a brothel’s bath. I bathe in that mellowness with a crotch that feels like liquid about to float away, and smells like semen and body sweat.

      
I’ve spent the night with him behind me, his arms folded around me as though I’m a child to be protected. When my mind becomes aware, I feel his lips at my back and neck and smell his scent.
 
He holds so dearly what he brutally punished, cupping a breast tenderly in his hand while we sleep.
 
I wriggle my ass into his plush groin, feeling the rise and fall of his limp prick undulate with the ease of sleep.
 
Does he imagine things as I do, while we remain lovers?
 
Does he drift in and out of waking with an inner eye fixed on what we have between the two of us?
 
Does he wonder what this is that brings us together?
 
Or does he always have it figured out?
 
If so, I hope he’ll tell me why we lay like this, what I’m supposed to feel and what he feels himself.
 
I’m adrift, rudderless in the wake of a craft that’s just sailed its way out of a storm.
 
Though peacefully rocking along the crest of a gentle wave, I’m content to go nowhere in these small hours between his brutality and the morning.
 
Then, I might feel differently about these rendezvous than I do on this moonless night.
 
I might find a way to deny this contentment.
 
But now, as I lay with him inside a dive hotel, with a scruffy desk clerk drinking the last of his six-pack down below, this pink/gold room feels like a palace surrounding my sleep.
 
I feel as though I’ve touched myself, said hello to the stranger in me.
 

      
As we wake, I see the dawn swallowing the light of the red neon with the day.
 
I hear a few morning crows moving from place to place in the autumn chill outside.
 
And I sense he’s about to leave me.
 
I feel his nurturing energy return to him, sucked back into his body leaving me with a shudder.
 
I pull the warmed blanket around my cooling shoulders.

      
He walks around the bed so I see him dressing, pulling blue jeans over his angular hips and round ass.
 
He’s careful with his shirt, taking time to consider each button.
 
I feel sad as his chest disappears from sight. Watching each precise move he makes, I notice how his loose hair slides from side to side, a sheet of lustrously rich black, tinged with traces of chestnut. How, almost like a woman, he tosses his head to free his face from the stray strands.
 
Still, there’s something very masculine about the move one most associates with female flirtation.
 
His hands grasp for all of it, as he runs his palms along the sateen surface and makes it smooth, then draws it all through the slide that holds his ponytail in place.
 
Not once does he bother to gaze down at me and see how I admire his morning rituals as if I’m memorizing them.

      
The stranger sits to tuck his feet into his boots, takes his watch from the table and buckles it about his wrist.
 
He pushes his wallet in a back pocket, while keys and money clip are pressed inside the front.
 
This he does standing.
 
Looking briefly in the mirror, he then looks back at me.