Best S&M, Volume 3 Read online

  The guy next to me was perhaps the only interesting thing about the night, and only because I couldn’t read him. People wear all sorts of stuff to goth clubs. We have the punks in chains, high goths in velvet, fetish crowd in latex and leather, and then on Halloween you can mix in a lot of other randoms in black. This one was in leather, but he wasn’t done up like the fetishwear people usually were. It’s hard to explain. He wasn’t projecting an image with what he wore, unlike everybody else in the place. He was in black leather pants, a black silk shirt, a leather vest, and a leather jacket. He projected an air of ease, like this was what he wore every day. He was drinking water, leaning against the bar next to me, looking utterly relaxed and calm in the hubbub of the club. Relaxed, yes. Like he belonged there? No.

  I guess you could say I got a bug up my ass about him. I set about tormenting him. It was pretty crowded, even on the far side of the bar so close to the wall, people were jostling past us, taking the long way around to the dance floor. I grabbed some kid I barely knew, Gary or Gerry or something, on the shoulder as he went by, just so I could bump into mister leather, step on his soft riding boots with my hard combat boots. “Sorry,” I said in his general direction as I got back in place at the bar. I did a bunch of shit like that. I guess he had decided he had had enough when I ordered a water myself. I was perched on my knees on a bar stool then, and reached way over him to grab it from Dessa when she poured it.

  My plan was to dump it down his back and play drunk, all oopsy, but as I pulled my hand back toward me, suddenly his hand was on my wrist, his other hand on the cup, pulling me forward off my tipsy stool. I didn’t see where the water went but I ended up stretched out across his chest. One of his arms was under me, and he hitched us both into my bar stool, me flat across his knees. One elbow pressed between my shoulder blades. The other arm swept my little dress up onto my back, and then the flat hard side of his hand came down on my ass.

  I was so shocked that for a second I couldn’t think of what to do. Kick my feet and squeal like a little brat? Curse him out? He had hit me four or five more times while I lay there limp before I decided to slip out of his grip and just get out of there.

  Decided. But he had that elbow pinning me and one fist wrapped tight in the excess of my dress. Four, five more smacks. Just enough to make it really hurt. Then he let me go and I tumbled into the legs of the people making their way past. Jaded fucks, no one even gave me a second glance. I climbed up his leg ready to give him a piece of my mind, but as I tried to get my feet under me, my fingers grabbing at his thigh, his hand was on mine. He slid it onto his fly, his eyes burning down at mine. I had the “w” of “what the fuck is wrong with you” already bowing my lip and instead I just stared. He moved my hand forward and back on the hard spine of his dick inside his leather pants, never taking his eyes off mine.

  And where were my fucking friends to see this gorgeous fucking spectacle? Nowhere. No one was even looking. No one had even noticed. I narrowed my eyes and made my hand into a claw, squeezing him through the pants. His fingers went all the way around my wrist. Fucking hell. I should be kicking him in the shins right now, is what I was thinking, but it’s not every day you meet somebody like that. I mean somebody who is just so outside the normal, so whacked out, different... I could feel his dick throb under my hand and his eyes flared a little when it did. You don’t say no to a gift like that, to the challenge of which of us was crazier or more out there. My other hand came up and started tugging at his belt.

  He leaned forward on the stool. His jacket swung open and he let my other hand go. As I got his belt unbuckled, his pants unbuttoned, I could feel the bones of his hips. Under that jacket I hadn’t expected to find him so underfed.

  His dick wasn’t so skinny, though. I fitted my lips over the head and smeared my pearlescent lipstick up and down the shaft. Delish. I was down there in the dark, the smell of leather, the taste of it on the veal-soft layer of his skin, salty and sweet at the same time. I held his erection in my hands and swirled the wetness of my mouth all around the crown. The shaft was so fat, I couldn’t get any more of him into my mouth.

  Was I loving every second of it? Yes. Was I even then thinking of how to get the mother fucker good? Yes. And I knew how. I knew if I could make him come it would undo him. My feet were tangled with his somewhere under us, my knees had come to rest against the legs of the stool, and my head was completely hidden from the pandemonium of lights and music and fake fog and jostling that was The Strand. Just my mouth and his cock, my tongue working and my hands pumping at the same time since no way was that horse cock going any deeper. Wet. Hot. No air in there, really, nowhere in that damned building but especially not down there, not while I was working. It was feeling like a bone in my mouth, like something supple wrapped around something else.

  He was like a marble statue. He didn’t move. Maybe he couldn’t, jammed onto the stool in the crowd. If he was breathing heavy, I couldn’t hear it. I couldn’t hear anything, duh. I couldn’t tell how close he was, and for a while it didn’t matter. For a while it was like I wasn’t even there, my whole body broken apart into sound and darkness and motion, like dancing, like those moments on the dance floor when the music eats you.

  But I couldn’t well forget myself completely forever now, could I. After a while I wondered how much time had passed with his cock in my mouth, fatigue burned my jaw, and I realized I had no way of telling how much longer it might go on. What was it I had thought when I had first seen him there? That he was hard to read?

  So could I stop, would my pride let me? No fucking way. I kept sucking him, licking him, pumping him, the thump of an industrial beat through the floor keeping me going. Come on, mother fucker, give it to me.

  His hand in my hair, jerking me back, my eyes aperturing open to see his again, his face close to mine, waiting for a kiss, bastard. He leaned in close, his mouth opening for a small breath, but never quite touched me. His other hand was getting his fly together again, dammit. And then he was pushing me into the crowd, his hand on the back of my neck. Where are we going, fucker? What’s your plan?

  The men’s room. I should have known. You think it’s the first time I ever sucked somebody off in the men’s room of The Strand?

  The truth?

  Of course it was the first time I’d sucked a man’s dick in The Strand. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This kind of crazy fucked up shit doesn’t happen every day. If only. I was sick to death of the mundane crap that lurked just under the fishnets, the velvet, the tattoos. I wanted a bite of something weird and wonderful in life, I’d been looking for it for a couple of years – god, had I found it? It was my first year of drinking legally but not my first year of being a freak, after all. My heart thumped as loud as the bass as he pushed me through the black doorway, to the back, to the last stall and its door scarred with reverse graffiti, scratched out of the black paint with car keys and wristband spikes. He shut the door and I was amazed the latch worked.

  The sound in here was muffled, the light dim but steady, but my nerves made it seem as loud and confusing as it had been out there. He knocked the lid down, and sat on it, his cock standing up again. He dug in his jacket pocket a second while I wondered whether I was going to get down on my knees on the damp floor or what. But no. He pulled something shiny and square out of his pocket. Gimme that.

  I ripped open the foil packet of the condom and held it up in front of me, pinching the tip between my finger and thumb. I kept looking in his eyes and I can’t really tell you what he was saying through them. Do it. Go on. You know you want to. It sounds stupid when I try to translate it. I rolled it onto that stallion dick, planted my feet on either side of his, my hands around his neck, and tried to lower myself down. Yes, I was dripping, honey heavy, and I got one hand down there and moved the rubberized tip of him back and forth along my wet slit. Okay mother fucker, here it comes.

  I settled the head between my lips and sank down an inch and had to stop. God, so big. I bac
ked off and slid down again. Just the tip fucking me felt nice, but two inches only does so much, for me, for him. I wasn’t trying to be a tease. Suddenly I didn’t want him thinking that was my game. “Okay, okay,” I said to myself, to his ear, trying to get it deeper in. Oh god, this is just not going to work. Not like this, not this position. I tried to jam myself down, just get it in there and everything will be fine, right? Or would it? I felt like something literally might have ripped. I was frightened to look, but at the same time I thought, fuck, nothing bad is going to happen. That just wouldn’t happen. It just wouldn’t.

  I kept thinking that. But I couldn’t get him in. It hurt too much. And the friction right around the opening to my vagina seemed to be making me all the more aroused, and all the tighter. I gasped every time I had to pull off of him, until the gasps were sobs, and the sobs were me crying into his overlong hair, draped over his ears, my legs shaking because I could hardly hold myself up anymore, and I wanted to fuck him so bad, I wanted to lose myself on that prong the way I had when I was sucking him, but this time I couldn’t use my hands to cover all but the last few inches of him, this time I couldn’t be satisfied with that. “I’m sorry,” I was saying into his ear, “I’m sorry, I can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry,” unable to say more than two words at a time between sobs.

  His hand on my back, bracing me, holding me, hugging me. The other hand moving his cock out of the way. He turned me on his lap then, my feet scrambling to catch up with the rotation of my upper body, until I was sitting on his lap facing the other way, his chest to my back, his cock sticking up between my legs.

  His hand turning my head back so our tongues could meet, so hungry, so much wanting him. His other hand sliding in the wetness between my legs, his fingers sliding into me then, deep into me, long slender fingers so kind, seeking their way in, two of them it felt like, two merciful fingers, reaching into me, while his thumb or the palm of his hand or something ground my wet clit.

  Oh my god, he was making me come. This is wrong, I thought, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. How did I know how it was supposed to be? What were the rules? I had no idea, I just knew it was wrong. “No, no,” I said, even as my body was beginning to shudder. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go...” I was supposed to make him come, make him lose it, out there by the bar. “Not supposed to...” Barely being able to speak because of my lips still touching his, my neck still craned back, my chest still heaving with sobs. Off the map. Crazy. I cried from guilt, from failure, from how I couldn’t stand the kindness of his touch after all that. But here it was coming, like a tidal wave, nowhere to run. He let my head go and I began to buck on his lap, his mouth at my ear, and I heard his voice for the first time. I couldn’t hear what he said, but a shock went through me, almost like the shock of recognition. I think he was telling me to come, ordering me, even while his hands gave me no choice.

  The come hit me hard, climbing up the front of my body, shaking me on his lap, bent back by his hand now on my throat, holding me to him. Wanting to kick my feet and squeal like a little girl. Or curse. Instead I just wailed.

  When it subsided, he held me to him until my muscles started working again. He tore off some toilet paper and handed it to me and I wiped up the puddle that was mostly on him. I wanted to go home and cry myself to sleep and I didn’t even know why. The pit of my stomach felt empty and I was dizzy.

  I thought, fuck, I ought to just dash out of here right now. That’s what I would have thought I was going to do anyway. But I wanted to hear his voice again. I wanted something more. So I stayed. So I stayed, and waited to see what would happen next.

  He zipped himself up, looking at me the whole time. I had to look away, that staring, who’ll blink first game... I felt like he could look through my skin, like his fingers had been so deep inside me he must have known what was in every nook and cranny. He reached for me then, his arms enfolding me, until my face was against his breastbone and his mouth was making soft sounds in my ear.

  And again, his voice, his arms wrapped tight around my back, he said just one word, “Come,” and my body writhed in his embrace, rubbing against the long spike of his body, my scream muffled by his chest, his jacket, as I convulsed against him. The sensation was like pain, opening and blossoming in my stomach but not a full orgasm – a quickening, a spasm, that left me still hungry. I ground myself against him, my whole body buzzing and shaking with the crescendo of coming, or almost coming, whatever it was. I slid my own hands along my thighs, and found my clit too slippery to handle, so hard and swollen I didn’t know how to make myself come with it like that. I wanted his hand, his rough fingers, rubbing it raw. And I wanted to take that horsecock inside me. I wanted it and yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  He loosened his hold and held me at arm’s length. I was afraid he was going to say it again, order me to come, and this time watch me twitch helplessly without even his leg to rub against. Like I was under some kind of a spell. All he had to do was say it. I reached out my hand to his fly of my own accord this time, pressing my palm into the protrusion. I felt like I should be begging for it just then, but I didn’t know how, didn’t know the words, didn’t know how this ritual worked. So I just rubbed him until he took a deep breath, and then carried me out.

  He carried me right out of the club, and I smiled when I caught a glimpse of Ash jabbing Micah in the shoulder, pointing for him to look! He carried me to a small black car which beeped as we approached. He settled me into one snug-fitting seat, and then came around the other side and got into the driver’s seat.

  I don’t even remember the drive. Maybe five minutes later he pulled into a driveway, and then led me by the hand from the car to a doorway in the back of a house. In the outdoor October air I could smell The Strand on us, the cigarette smoke and fake fog and sweaty sex smell, and then I was following him into the back stairwell of an old house, the smell of old wood and lead paint and the stairs creaking as we went up.

  Inside his bedroom he lit a candle and turned on a small bedside light. I could make out shelves of books, small heaps of laundry on the carpet, but not much else. The window was dark and the bed itself was a mattress and box spring set directly onto the rug, no frame. I could almost feel a wisecrack about that bubbling up in my throat. But I kept it there. He had not said a word and I was not going to speak first.

  He sat down on the edge of the mattress. And yes, he spoke first. “I want you to take off your boots,” he said. I bent over and the wig, which had stayed with me thus far, finally slipped completely off my head, revealing my dark bob underneath. It took what seemed like too long to undo the knots in my laces, and then another forever to loosen the laces enough to step out of them. Now I was barefoot in that little girl dress. He stood up and let his jacket slip to the floor. I stared as he unbuttoned the silk shirt, undid his cuff buttons, and let it fall also. I knelt down to get a hold of his boot to let him step out of it. I don’t know why I did. It just seemed right. Then the other one. And then I was helping him out of his pants.

  Standing naked in front of me, he seemed no more vulnerable than he had when clothed. His cock seemed even wider because of the narrowness of his hips. From where I was on the floor it seemed very large and very close and I reached up to kiss it. Yes, I want it, I was trying to tell him with the kisses, the hungry nibbles.

  He understood. He took my hand and we turned in place like a pair of ballroom dancers, and then he backed me to the bed. I sat down, which put my mouth near him again and I reached out with my tongue to suck him. There was the residual sweetness of the old condom, and the musk of him, making me tremble all over again. He was already steely hard but I sought to delay him another minute.

  A minute, but a minute only. Then he pushed me back onto the bed, and wrapped my wrists in straps of soft leather. His voice was only a whisper as his body covered mine and it seemed to me like the words came out of the darkness I was floating in: “If you need to get out, say ‘I’m not worthy’ and I�
�ll release you. Otherwise, I’ll release you when I come.”

  And what came out of my mouth was “Oh yes please,” which really made no sense. But it did, emotional sense. I quivered under him and he lingered there a while, kissing my neck, running his hands under the dress which I was still wearing for no reason other than neither of us had taken it off. Then he slid down to secure my ankles, my legs spread wide. My heart hammered in my chest and I examined the emotions flying around in the dark. Fear. I gasped and fear felt like an old friend. Little girl on Halloween night waiting for the ghouls to come eat her soul. His tongue found my clit and lapped at it like a cat, rough and methodical. His fingers searched inside me again and I found I could grind my hips despite the bonds.

  And then he was leaning his bony hip against my thigh, one of his hands moving that tree trunk of a rubber-covered cock up and down against me, against my wet spot, and I froze. His hands coaxed me to relax, kneading my ribs through the virgin cotton of the dress, his lips on my neck again, the tip of him slipping in and all of me seizing it. My shoulders strained as my arms tried to hold onto him, but they were held fast against the bed. His face was above mine now, his eyes looking down into mine as he held himself up on his arms. His hips moved in a circle and I moaned, but he came in no deeper. I rocked my pelvis upward, and he slid an inch, like a seismic shift, two huge pieces of the earth being pried apart. My breathing grew rapid as I anticipated the pain, and I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyes closed against it. But he held still. His lips brushed mine and I heard my breathing begin to squeak in and out of my throat. Terrified. Like that moment when you are hiding behind the closet door, and any moment the monster is going to rip it open.

  He paused, one arm holding him up still as the other reached down between us. Those fingers, pinching my swollen clit. My eyes flew open at the surprising sensation, like pain but not a pain I expected, a shock. When I was a little girl I used to put clothespins on my clit and try to masturbate, and I could always make myself come. And then I knew what he was going to do.