Slave Lover (6 page)

“First law of the cosmos,” the woman replied. “And I don’t make the laws, I just obey them.”

Constance smiled and sniffed and stood up and stretched.

“All right,” she said, “let me have the happy pill. And one day you come by and we’ll get it on. Why the fuck not?”

“Yeah,” the woman grinned. “You gettin’ the idea.”

Constance took the pill, plopped it on her tongue, and washed it down with a glass of water from the bathroom sink.

“How long?” she asked.

“You got twenty minutes to get to the dressing room. The pill will start to come on in about thirty. By that time they should just be bringing you in. They’ll tell you what to expect this time.” The woman looked at Constance’s body appraisingly. “For now, just put on a robe and slippers, brush your teeth if you want to, and comb your hair, and I’ll take you to the place.”

Constance watched herself in front of the mirror as she did her elementary toilette. Five feet seven, black hair which fell down between her shoulder blades, green eyes, narrow but very full lips, breasts each the size of a small cantaloupe, and a thick, curly bush of oddly coarse pubic hair . . . all combined to make her a compellingly erotically beautiful woman. But far and beyond all these features, it was the swell of her high, broad, and deeply curved buttocks which caused men to turn and stare wherever she went. Her ass transcended the ordinary category and had to be ranked as a primary sex characteristic. The number of men who had wined, dined, and covered her with presents in order to place their hands, tongues and cocks into the tantalizing crevice numbered well over a hundred. The number that succeeded were a twentieth of that. And prior to the previous afternoon, only one had fucked her there, and then most unsuccessfully.

She became aware that she was standing there staring at herself in a trance by a knock on the bathroom door. It was the maid. Constance walked out and tittered when she saw the other woman.

“You look ridiculous in that outfit,” she said. “What is your name, anyway?”

“Carla,” the woman said.

Constance was entranced by the glow of saliva on the other woman’s front teeth. She leaned forward and brought her mouth close to the maid’s. Carla smiled. Constance licked Carla’s teeth with her tongue, and when their lips met her knees went soft and a numb hot wet tingling invaded her entire body. She moaned, and melted into Carla’s face. She became one flesh with the other woman and for a long time they remained glued to each other, barely moving, except for tiny, quick, exquisite motions of their tongue tips and great breathy swallowings of one another’s saliva.

Then Carla stepped back and the whole earth seemed to totter.

“My, my,” she said. “We are going to have a good time one day.”

“The drug . . .” Constance whispered.

“Came on a bit faster with you than with most,” Carla agreed and then went to the phone. She picked it up, dialed three digits, and after a pause said, “Bring a chair.”

Constance sat down and waited, watching herself and the world turn to rubber. The door opened and it seemed to stretch for yards. Robert walked in pushing a wheelchair. He and Carla helped Constance up, slipped a robe over her shoulders, and put her in the chair. And so she went to her assignment, drugged, sensate, wide open, rolling down the surrealistic hallway in a wheelchair.

They brought her to the dressing room where she was slipped into a hood that covered her whole head and left her mouth exposed, black boots and gloves.

“Is that all?” she heard Robert ask.

“It’s one of those nouveau riche publishers of tit books,” the dressing room attendant said. “Made a fortune in less than ten years but doesn’t have the imagination to match his newfound wealth. To him this is kinky and far out.”

“What’s he down for?” Robert asked looking at a clipboard.

“Basic stuff. Three types of whip, nipple clips, fist-fucking, ass fucking, oversized dildoes, suspension from a hanging bar. He wants to finish by pissing on her and coming in her mouth.”

“Has he been warned about the rubber bafflers if he sticks his cock in her mouth? She’s already bitten one off, you know.”

“Yeah, he’s been told. Says he’s going to jerk off on her.”

Constance heard the dialogue and almost swooned. It was inconceivable that they were discussing these things as actual events which were going to take place, and be done to her, as though they were mechanics discussing the performance of a car. But that was merely the beginning.

“How long’s he down for?” asked Robert.

“Two and a half hours,” the attendant replied. “Then she gets a half hour rest and washing down. And then she goes to Henry for five hours.”

“Henry!” Robert exclaimed, in a voice that made Constance shudder.

“Look,” the attendant replied, “I only facilitate the orders. I don’t make the schedules.”

“I know,” Robert said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“Poor kid,” Carla muttered.

“She’s tough,” Robert said, “she’ll be all right.”

Constance wanted to ask what Henry did but before she could open her mouth, the wheelchair lurched and she was pushed into the Parlor. The din was overpowering. Men shouting, women screaming, a cacophony of harsh breaths and grunts and curses and laughter. The smell of tobacco and marijuana and alcohol was triumphant. There was hardly any air left at all. She heard whips cracking, chains creaking, strange machinery operating. And occasionally, a high piercing cry of a woman yelling, “No, NO!” at the top of her lungs. The chair stopped moving and she heard a low cackle next to her right ear.

“Here she is, Mr. Caccione,” the attendant said. “Here’s your checklist. Please look it over and sign it. If you subject her to any unauthorized abuse, we reserve the right to name the size of the penalty payment.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the voice said. “Gimme, I’ll sign. Then lemme have her, gimme that luscious pussy. Oh man, look at that bush, look at them tits. Oh, I’m gonna fuck her good. I’m gonna give it to her good.”

“Also,” the slightly pedantic voice of the attendant went on, “If you wish to have her used by anyone else, he must keep within the limits of your checklist, and each such use will be added as an extra on your bill.”

“Sure, sure, money’s no object,” the voice said. “Hey, Irwin, com’ere,” he shouted. “Have a piece on me.”

Constance was pulled up, pushed back until her buttocks hit a cold leather slab, and then her arms and legs were tied down. The slab was tilted until it attained the horizontal, and for the second time in two days, she was blindfolded, drugged, and tied down on her back while some strange man prepared to do vile and disgusting things to her.

“I wonder whether understanding him compassionately would help me to accept what he’s doing?” Constance thought as the man ran hot nervous fingers over her flesh and slobbered on her breasts. Her thoughts were like distant clouds, for the drug had succeeded in dissociating her from her sense of self. She was a slave to sensation. The pulsing of her heart, the circulation of her blood, the breathing of her skin, became the screen upon which all else took place, and those processes were so impersonal she could hardly claim them at all. She had difficulty telling the difference between her body and that of the man who was debauching her. The whip fell on her like summer rain, and his fingers in her cunt were like the tongues of kittens on the eyelids. She swallowed his fist as easily as she would a bite of ripe pear. The nipple clips seemed as soft as the mouth of a toothless infant at her breast.

At one point, when the man had called several others over, and Constance was allowing herself to be totally consumed by the attention she was receiving, the entire activity suddenly took on a clinical, biophysical cast. Fist-fucking transmogrified to a grotesque anatomical idiocy in which someone found pleasure in mucking about in her entrails. Her insight at that instant struck at the heart of eroticism, which is that it does not exist except as an image. The straightforward need which sends pole into hole, or tongue into mucous membrane, or mouth onto flesh stick, is a function of hydraulics. A certain tension builds and is discharged. But when the discharge is not allowed, for one reason or another, the tension, amplified by distortions of muscular armor, erupts into phantasmagoria. Since there can be no satisfaction at that level, the person is driven to imagining wilder and wilder acts, and unless this process is harmonized, can drive the organism into bizarre behavior, which is then rationalized and synthesized within a context of consensual validity, otherwise known as subculture. Thus, for a man to slip his fist in and out of someone’s asshole is not an act in the ordinary sense of the word, but a meta-act in which image confronts the outer limits of physical tolerance.

“What’s going on here is nothing more than an idea,” Constance realized, and in a stroke liberated herself from eroticism entirely.

Having done so, she was free to appreciate the actual details of what was taking place. The pain in her nipples was just right, sending delicious zigzags of electricity through her. The suspension by her wrists from a hanging bar was perfect for pulling all the excess tension from her limbs and torso. The whip was an intermittent arousal from her tendency to fall into occluded revery. The fists in her ass and cunt provided the perfect non-attainable goal of insatiable fulfillment.

The experience was given rococo overtones by the raucous din all around her, and by the awareness that the men were as unreal to her from her point of view as she was to them from theirs, and wondered if they had the simple intelligence to realize that.

“If they did,” she reasoned, “the war between the genders would be instantly transformed by a fiat of abstraction into something like a chess game. Then we might contend with gusto.”

It occurred to her that she might not have attained to that insight unless she had been hurled into this extraordinary situation, and inwardly smiled at the irony by which slavery became the fulcrum for elevating freedom.

“Unfortunately, it’s a message I won’t survive to deliver,” she thought, “and if I did there would be no way to communicate it. What would I say, ‘I attained my enlightenment while being fist-fucked in a slave parlor’?”

Her ruminations were cut short by an abrupt reversal of posture. She was pulled down from the bar, flung on the table, and tied once more. It was time for the oversized dildoes and the finale. It was impossible for her to tell how big the shafts were that were shoved inside her, but they felt at least the width of fists. Again, it was the old one-two, into the cunt and into the asshole. She was already learning how to make certain inner adjustments in order to accommodate an act, which, she was certain, had archetypal roots.

Spread-legged, nipples pinched, orifices stuffed, helpless, she felt fingers pry her mouth open and rubber bafflers stuck in place between her teeth. With her boots and gloves and hood, she offered the classic picture of bondage.

The warm spicy liquid came next, splashing on her belly, on her breasts, on her pubic hair, and then trailing up her torso, like a tubular waterfall on her chin, and finally into her open mouth, spraying her tongue and collecting in a pool at the back of her throat. He pissed until it seemed there could be no more, and still it kept coming. Then she realized that it was splashing in several places at once, and that there must be four or five men standing over her, pissing on her. There came a moment when she could no longer keep from swallowing, and, as much as the blocks between her teeth allowed, she gulped, the briny fluid slushing down her throat.

“She swallowed it!” one of the men shouted.

“Hooray!” the others shouted.

And amidst their cheers and applause, she lay in perfect shame until they had finished turning her into a living urinal.
True to his word, the one who had bought her then straddled her head, and masturbated gleefully until he had spat his sperm also into her mouth. Then he quickly slipped the bafflers out, forced her mouth closed, and held her chin until she had gulped and swallowed his spunk.

“Whew!” she heard him say.

She was untied, lifted up, put back into the wheelchair, and whisked into an anteroom. There, a man she had not seen before took off her mask, and other apparatus, picked her up, dropped her in a tub of hot water. Two women appeared who then washed her down. She was rinsed, dried, and combed. She was given a mouthwash and told to brush her teeth. Someone handed her a glass of warm milk with honey. She drank it and felt her strength returning. The drug was wearing off but she was still surrealized by its aftereffects and by the impact of what she had just been through. She was pushed into a chair, and one of the women stood in front of her and carefully applied lipstick to her mouth. Then she was slipped into a pure white, transparent negligee. The man came over and before she could react, slipped a hypodermic into her arm.

“Not to worry,” he said, “it will only paralyze your vocal cords and jaw muscles. Henry gets embarrassed if the woman speaks to him at all.”

“Why not use a gag?” she said even as she felt her throat beginning to constrict.

“Then he wouldn’t be able to kiss you,” the attendant said. And smiling, added, “You’ll see.”

Henry was a massively wealthy man whose weight kept stride with his bank account. Well over three hundred pounds, he presented that perfectly bland and benign facade behind which fat people hide. He had the desperately reassuring manner of a nervous dentist.

He had rented a private room off the Parlor, and Constance was led in and tied to a rather plush leather table. The difference was that it was double width, and while her left leg and arm were fastened to the sides of the table, the right leg and arm were manacled to the center. When the attendant left, Henry took off his clothes and climbed on the table, his flesh rolling and jiggling. Even that minor exertion had him perspiring and breathing hard. Constance looked at him with undisguised distaste, but instantly she realized that that was precisely what he wanted to inspire. There could be few aphrodisiacs more powerful to an insecure man than to have a beautiful woman, who is tied down and at his mercy, disgusted by what he intends to do to her.