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  The breeze on the lube, like ice, my teeth chattered and I squirmed. I yelped with it, that lust, through the gag.

  Then it came. Your whole fist. Pushing and punching deep inside me. I cried. I felt the tears on my cheeks and I screamed. You pushed harder and I opened. Snot and tears messed up my face and made it hard to breathe. I was yours, I was just yours.

  You shoved two fingers into my ass and fisted me and swore.

  You fucking cunt. You stupid bitch. Stop crying, little girl! You asked for it! You begged for it!

  I tore and I bled and I came, and again. I shook. And you did whatever you wanted.

  At once I was empty. Alone. Silence, thick again, filling my ears like water.

  A light touch on my back, like a gentle brush. Then cold, and then a burning pain, hot in my head and ringing in my ears.

  I’m cutting you.

  Cold water over my head, immediate and terrifying.

  Then you were my parent. Washing me down. My snotty face. My bloody back. My ruined ass and cunt.

  The warmth and comfort of my clothes as you wrapped them softly back over my shaking body. Me, crying and euphoric.

  That’s right. Arm up. Yes. Well done. You’re so beautiful. You’re safe now. I’m taking you home.

  I don’t remember the drive home. I remember blinking into your face as the blindfold came off. That love in your face. The tears ambling lazily over your cheeks. The breathed I love you’s and the goodbye we both knew was permanent.

  It was almost dawn as I stood in the bathroom, this familiar place and saw myself in the mirror. My face had changed. I didn’t recognise myself. I looked touched, marked, moved someplace else and forever.

  I pulled my T-shirt over my head and arched my body round to look at the cuts in my back. A pattern. Two arrows. Perpendicular and point in opposite directions. So close, one and the same, but never coming together.

  Shattered Glass

  By

  Jerry Rosen

  Miss Violet was tall, slender as a whip, twenty-eight, and looked it. Mr. Blue was pleasant-faced, some might even say handsome, fifty-eight, and looked every bit of it. You didn’t have to be some Albert Einstein math genius to calculate the age gap which stretched between them like a chasm. It was plain enough for all to see.

  Furthermore, you wouldn’t be telling the absolute truth if you didn’t acknowledge that seeing the two of them together made your skin start to crawl, if only just a smidgen. For while it was somewhat disturbing to observe them in public, sitting close in cozy booths in darkened restaurants, clubs, and bars, necking with abandon, hips smashed together like a car wreck, hands crawling up and down each other’s thighs, it was creepier still to imagine what they got up to when they were alone, beyond the realm of prying eyes.

  Nevertheless he was her dreamboat and she was the greatest piece of ass he’d ever known in his whole fucking life.

  They’d met at a neighborhood coffeehouse. It was the busy hour. A great line of customers snaked back from the register. Harried commuters, already late for work, dumped packages of Sweet’N Low into their nonfat no-foam lattes. Children slyly extricated themselves from their mothers’ grasp in an effort to roam unencumbered. And above it all, soaring with the angels, Howlin’ Wolf, his gravely throat-singing voice sounding like a million shards of shattered glass, warned in a low moan that a mean ole black cat was just about to cross his path in the graveyard at midnight.

  As was his habit, Mr. Blue was buried deep in the New York Times. It was an ordinary news day. In other words, the world was an appalling mess: government scandals, incompetence, and ethical violations; military insurgencies and counter insurgencies; ecological destruction on a scale too vast to comprehend; corporate greed, profligacy, corruption, and economic disaster. And in a faraway place, a war was being prosecuted and that felt really weird. But not now. Not in here.

  Amid the bustle and hustle Miss Violet, though he didn’t yet know her name, dropped a piece of yellow-lined notepaper onto Mr. Blue’s table. She did it so surreptitiously he didn’t even notice. By the time he lifted his gaze from the op-eds, all that remained was a taut ass that looked like a million bucks in a pair of tight jeans, sashaying serenely out the door.

  The handwriting was neat and precise, devoid of even the merest trace of feminine ornamentation. Mr. Blue read what she’d written.

  “There you are. Seated in the corner underneath the skylight. A weightless shaft of sunbeams pouring down like honey on your shoulders.

  “You’re almost hidden behind the counter which dispenses the creams and sugars and fake creams and fake sugars. But you don’t strike me as fake at all. In fact, just the opposite. I think you might be the rarest of the rare: the real thing.

  “Meticulously close-cropped pepper-and-salt hair. (More salt than pepper but who cares!) A tidy trimmed moustache, the kind you (unfortunately) don’t see around too much anymore. Good upright posture. Lithe. Dark 501 Blues. Pressed white shirt. Strong hands.

  “The kind of man a little girl is elated to meet when she breaks down on the highway at night or gets lost in foreign city. The kind of Daddy whose lap you want to crawl up onto when you’ve been naughty or even if it’s just your period and you’re feeling all blubbery inside.

  “I can’t ever remember experiencing such a strong presence from a complete and total stranger. I feel like the proverbial fly drawn to the spider’s web, the trusting moth lured to the fire’s magnetic white-hot flame. So I’ll just confess and get it over with: I want to get to know you, to be close enough that I smell your scent everywhere all over my skin. I think that would put me into orbit, right up on cloud nine, in seventh heaven, completely over the moon.”

  Two weeks passed before Mr. Blue saw her again.

  Without a hint of warning, Miss Violet stood beside Mr. Blue’s table, turning up as mysteriously as she’d vanished the time before.

  Mr. Blue gave her an unhurried going over, thoroughly enjoying what he saw. He started at the summit: the black beret which sat atop her lilac-tinted hair. Then he worked south. Face like a slumming angel. Tits out to here. Her long-sleeve T-shirt had a picture of a heart pierced by an arrow. Three teardrops of crimson blood dripped mournfully from the arrow’s pointed tip. A narrow golden scroll with “Daddy” written across it in flowery script encircled the heart. At the base of the T-shirt’s right sleeve was the word “Love;” at the base of the left, “Hate.” She teetered precariously on a pair of transparent clickety-clackedy high heels. Those crazy stilettos didn’t appear structurally stable enough to support anyone in an upright position for very long. In fact, she looked like she might lose her balance and topple over and crash at any moment! Did she know? Did she care? She projected an air of reckless abandon, an aura of erotic mystery.

  “Did you read my note?” Miss Violet asked.

  Mr. Blue nodded in reply.

  “Then why don’t we go back to my place,” she said. “It’s not far from here. My toenails need painting.”

  What are you like when you’re stoned, Mr. Blue wondered.

  That was then, this is now. And right now, this very moment, not for the first time or the second or even the tenth, Miss Violet was naked, ankles and wrists chained to the voluptuous “S” loops of a handcrafted bentwood rocker. Such a refined combination of form and function, thought Mr. Blue. He was down on his knees, holding Miss Violet’s elegant, graceful feet in his generous hands. He’d just brushed on two coats of Vamp and the glossy crimson-black polish was still slightly tacky to the touch. So Mr. Blue lowered his head until his pursed lips were about two inches from the wiggly toes. In rapid succession, he produced ten gusty puffs, one for each slender piggy. But he did it with such care, such devoted tenderness and precision, that one couldn’t help but be reminded of a virtuoso performer expertly navigating the musical scale. Finally, bending lower still, as far as he was able, Mr. Blue kissed the delectable freckle which resided so unobtrusively on Miss Violet’s left big toe.

&n
bsp; She looked at him with wide beseeching eyes. “Let’s do something truly mean and nasty today, Daddy. Something irresponsible and half-baked. Something that will make me feel ever so dirty. The sky is like ashes…tear me apart. The sky is like lead…break me into a thousand little pieces. Then give me your benediction and put me back together again.”

  For a moment neither spoke. Then Mr. Blue said, “The poet Rainer Maria Rilke once remarked that in your darkest moments you shouldn’t blame your life. Instead, you should blame yourself for not being able to see the poetry.”

  “What’s that mean, Daddy?”

  “It means I’m going to give you a gift, an opportunity to glimpse the poetry. But you’re going to have to hold on tight.”

  Mr. Blue went to the kitchen. After hunting through the crowded cabinets, he removed a crystal wine glass. The round base and thin stem were pure dazzling white. The outer face of the elongated oval bowl was cut in a radiating pattern designed to mimic the delicate petals of a flower. On the interior surface, alternating bands of soft bluish-purple, the pastel hue of flowering wisteria vines, completed the effect.

  Mr. Blue held the glass aloft to check if it was clean. By chance, a glimmering ray of light was intercepted and instantly transformed into a vivid rainbow, the result of the glass’s prism-like properties. Perfect, thought Mr. Blue. It shines like a beacon. Still, he took a white linen dish towel and quickly wiped the glass both inside and out.

  Returning to the bedroom, Mr. Blue released Miss Violet from the heavy chains which constrained her movements and bound her to the chair. He raised the wine glass for her careful inspection.

  “In a traditional Jewish wedding,” Mr. Blue said, “the most dramatic moment occurs just as the ceremony concludes. At ‘Congratulations, you may now kiss your bride!’ the groom stomps his foot to smash a glass and the matrimonial couple engage in their initial kiss as husband and wife. It’s an exuberant expression of luck and joy.

  “Now breaking anything, much less glass, generally isn’t regarded as a precursor to good fortune. But Jews make an exception. There are numerous interpretations of the symbolism of this eccentric custom.

  “Many say it’s a reminder that relationships are fragile as glass. A glass, once broken, enters a state from which it can never reemerge. You can’t, when all is said and done, put shattered glass together again, just as it was before. So it is with relationships. A single thoughtless deed, an act of uncommon cruelty, a breach of trust, an infidelity, and the relationship can be damaged irrevocably, broken beyond repair.”

  Mr. Blue scrutinized Miss Violet’s face as he spoke. She listened intently, uttering not a single word in response. Her expression remained unchanged, an exquisite blank. After a slight pause to clear his throat, Mr. Blue continued.

  “Some suggest a psychosexual significance that breaking the glass represents the sexual consummation of the marriage, the breaking of the hymen. Others offer a somewhat whimsical anthropological interpretation, that this is the last time the groom gets to put his foot down.

  “More poetic or mystical explanations exist too. For instance, it’s said that during creation, God concentrated all the divine light of the universe and enclosed it in a small glass vessel. He did this to leave room for what was to come. But the light couldn’t be contained, even by God. The light expanded and, as it did, it shattered the glass, sending holy sparks flying willy-nilly in every conceivable direction, like a fantastic sparkler in a cosmic fireworks display. Today those sparks remain concealed, ensnared in shards of glass. It’s as if they’re waiting through all eternity to be liberated by acts of love, compassion, kindheartedness, and tender concern for others.”

  Mr. Blue reached out and with genuine affection helped Miss Violet rise from the rocker on which she’d been seated. She wobbled momentarily before regaining her balance, stiff from having sat for so long in a single unchanging position.

  “Kneel down,” Mr. Blue said, “and put your hands behind you.”

  Mr. Blue then wrapped the wine glass snug inside the towel and placed it on the floor in front of the obedient Miss Violet. Without hesitation, he stomped it under his heavy boot with all the force he could muster. The muffled sound of exploding glass was like the burst of a miniature grenade.

  With great care, Mr. Blue unwrapped the towel. Splinters of broken glass lay upon it all in a jumble, each razor-sharp sliver glinting like a tiny treacherous diamond.

  Miss Violet didn’t have to be told to remain as she was while Mr. Blue left the room to gather what was needed to proceed.

  “Bend over,” Mr. Blue instructed when he returned. “Hold your arms straight out to the sides, elbows locked, and keep your palms turned downward.” She looked like a beautiful diver perched on the edge of a high board ready to soar into the inscrutable unknown. Except that her face was positioned eighteen inches from the floor, directly over a menacing pile of broken glass.

  Mr. Blue placed a small shot glass on the back of each of Miss Violet’s outstretched hands. He filled each glass nearly to the brim with a rich amber-colored liquid.

  “This is my favorite ale,” he said. “It’s brewed within the walls of a Trappist monastery under the strict control of Trappist monks. It’s very expensive and very difficult to find in stores and this is my very last bottle. So if you spill it, even a drop, I’m going to push your face down into the glass.”

  Miss Violet kept her trap shut and her thoughts to herself, concentrating with all her might on maintaining equilibrium and balancing the nearly overflowing shot glasses.

  Mr. Blue picked up a stick of butter and unwrapped it from its paper casing.

  “The package says this is 100% pure sweet cream butter,” he said as he smeared a thick greasy coat onto the fingers of his right hand. “With no artificial ingredients added. And that makes it even more delicious. Now that’s good because I know you don’t really like to take things up your butt all that much and I do want this to be as delicious for you as possible. Well, here goes.”

  With a single motion, Mr. Blue slid his index finger into Miss Violet’s tender asshole. It went in to the hilt without a trace of resistance. He wiggled it around for a while and soon Miss Violet’s breathing began to grow more labored. Her outstretched arms, however, remained rigid as steel beams.

  “That was easy as pie,” Mr. Blue said. “So let’s go for two.” The supple rim of Miss Violet’s ripe hole expanded to accommodate the second digit. There was the faint beginning of a quiver in her outspread arms. The surface of the tawny liquid in the shot glasses was no longer flat and smooth.

  “Now let’s really have some fun,” Mr. Blue said. “But remember what happens if you spill, even a drop.” He inserted his ring finger into Miss Violet’s compliant and increasingly distended backside, which had begun to sway to and fro like a pendulum. She was making a muted but steady humming sound, almost as if she was singing a lullaby inside her head to soothe herself.

  “That’s three,” Mr. Blue said, twisting his hand in a corkscrew motion. “Three musketeers. All for one and one for all. Must be getting kind of crowded in there. See what you can accomplish when you set your mind to it.”

  Mr. Blue could see the beads of sweat which popped out like boils all along Miss Violet’s silken haunches. Her face had become a contorted mask of intense concentration. The hum which issued from her parted lips had undergone a metamorphosis too. Just as the shaggy caterpillar emerges from its cocoon an exquisite butterfly, Miss Violet’s song had changed in form and structure into something quite different, more reminiscent of a chant or prayer … mercy, compassion, hope, strength, faith, absolution, a state of grace. What was this new music? We don’t have a name for it.

  Miss Violet’s arms felt heavy as stone. The shot glasses shuddered and jumped around like a pair of excited jitterbuggers at a hot summer dance. Awful dollops of ale surged over the sides of both glasses simultaneously and, as if in slow motion, cascaded to the floor with sucking splats.

  At thi
s very instant, Mr. Blue grabbed Miss Violet forcefully by her hair. But rather than smash her handsome face down into the waiting glass, he yanked her head in the opposite direction and kissed her violently on the mouth.

  Lucky

  By

  Xan West

  I need to be forced to name my desires. I need to look them in the eye and accept them for mine. I need to travel that long journey through shame into pride. I am lucky to have someone willing to give that to me, who can go to those scary places with me. I am lucky to have Sir.

  Sir knows me. Knows what I want. Knows where the edges are, and how to take me there. We go for intensity, and it is glorious, and scary, and cathartic. It would not work between strangers. It would not work if Sir didn’t communicate my worth (and her love for me) in small daily ways.

  At the leather conference, Sir dressed me in the morning. I knelt and she wrapped my wrists in cuffs. She had me wiggle into a garter belt, and then sit on the bed, as she slowly rolled fishnet stockings up my legs, and attached the garters, her fingers teasing my thighs. She pulled me to my feet, produced a skirt, and slid it up my legs, smiling with satisfaction when it barely covered my ass, leaving just enough bare thigh to show off the garters.

  She removed the A-line shirt she wore the day before and through the night, and slipped it over my head, tugging it down my large frame. It smelled like her, of sweat and cologne and that musky scent that is Sir. She pulled out a deep-red lipstick, painted my lips with it carefully, and then smiled wickedly and wrote something in lipstick on the shirt. She handed me my Frye boots and ordered me to polish them and put them on. She was in and out of the shower before I was done, and pulling on her socks just as I finished. Her boots were gleaming, polished first thing that morning, and I helped her into them, my eyes lingering on the sight.