Fools for Lust (27 page)

‘Did she ever want to watch you being fucked by them?'

‘No. If she was there, she would move to another room.'

‘But did she ever ask you about what happened with the men?'

‘Curiously, no. Although I was avid to tell her all, to demonstrate the extent of my affection for her by describing the pain they had inflicted on me, how they had used me, violated all my holes, made me choke on their filthy penises and forced me to swallow their ejaculate, played with me, beat me too. I wanted to tell her, Anne-Louise I have accepted all this for the sake of you. But she never asked. And if there were marks, cuts, bruises on my body, she would whip me in response, as if it were all my fault.'

‘Sounds very much like one-way traffic to me.'

‘She said that the coming of my 17th birthday would mark a significant point in our relationship. That I had satisfied her so far and she would show me her gratitude on this occasion.'

‘What did she do?'

‘We drove to Brussels on a Saturday morning. I thought she would be getting me new outfits at the shop in the Gallerie, but this was not the case. It was a large building in the suburbs, a doctor she knew well. I would come across him again at the special parties. He used electrolysis to depilate my pubic area. I'm told it will never grow back again. Then, he pierced my breasts and fitted the rings I still have now. I was in heaven. I was Anne-Louise's slave, in both body and spirit.'

‘What are those special parties you mentioned?

‘They occurred later. I will tell you.'

‘OK.'

Their second full day in Manhattan. The spring weather is clement. They walk. Catch cabs. Shop. Snack. Battery Park. The Cloisters. Central Park, watching the squirrels hop along the scarce vegetation.

They talk.

‘Are you happy?' he asks her. ‘It's such fun showing you this city, all these places I have known and liked for years. I try and imagine what it feels for you to see them for the first time.'

‘It's nice,' she answers. ‘But you're too soft with me. I don't deserve this, you know. If I were in your place, I would be crueller, much harder. Somehow I think you're too sensitive. Almost like a girl ...'

His face clouds over.

‘If you were in charge and I was a girl, would you fuck me?' he quietly inquires.

‘I would,' Thalie says. ‘I would stretch you, hurt you until you plead for mercy, but I wouldn't give you any. I have been taught well. Switching is no problem.'

‘I see.'

‘Would you prove your devotion to me by letting me treat you like that?' Thalie asks him as they cross toward the Plaza Hotel.

He doesn't hesitate.

‘I would,' he replies.

‘OK,' she says.

They catch a cab which takes them to a dark sidestreet near the Port Authority Terminal. In a sex shop manned by Pakistani assistants they buy a strap-on dildo. Flesh-coloured, veined, awesomely realistic and life size. And handcuffs. So that he doesn't change his mind, she says.

He is in no hurry to return to their hotel room.

He reminds her she wanted to go to Macy's.

She wanders indifferently through the designer label departments.

‘I want to buy you something nice,' he insists.

‘Why?' she queries. ‘How do you want me to dress? Like a whore or a princess?'

‘As a young woman.'

She agrees to stockings, a silk cream-coloured see-through blouse and a flowing skirt in rainbow colours.

They arrive back at the hotel mid-afternoon. The room has been made, and the smells of sex have faded.

‘Undress,' she orders him, herself stripping from the waist downwards and fitting the strap-on belt around her waist. Ho notices she has reattached the safety pin and the padlock.

He silently sheds his clothes, takes a step towards the bathroom, planning to wash the sweat away from his body.

‘Don't,' she forbids him. ‘I want you dirty, I want to smell your vileness as I fuck you.'

He knows he shouldn't protest; his face reddens as his arse crack feels all clammy, and his feet sticky.

‘On your knees. NOW!'

He gets down on all fours.

‘Raise your head.'

He does. His eyes are parallel with her labial rings; he notices she is seeping there. She is excited. She thrusts the artificial cock toward his mouth.

‘Suck me,' she intimates.

The rubbery material fills his mouth, the taste is unpleasant. She only lets him suck the dildo for a minute or two then withdraws it and places herself behind him. All she wanted was for him to wet it.

She places the strap-on head against the outer ring of his sphincter and begins pushing it in.

It enters him with surprising ease. Initially, there is little pain and he is almost disappointed.

The feeling doesn't last and soon he is biting his lips to repress heartfelt sounds of anguish as Thalie goes to war on him. Viciously twisting the implement of torture within his gut as she endlessly adjusts her stance to increase its depth, the angle of attack and the unremitting pressure on his protesting bowels. He knows she is enjoying this. But he reasons, beyond the valley of pain, that she deserves at least this; that this is his own particular way of experiencing some of the humiliation that has been lavished on her by so many others. He communes with her as she keeps on fucking his arse, until the skin inside and outside of his hole is raw and mutilated from the friction. His heart beats wildly, bile pools at the back of his throat, he has difficulty breathing. There is no longer any pleasure in the act for him.

Then, as suddenly as she entered him, she pulls it out in one swift movement and he momentarily feels as his whole insides are being suctioned out.

He collapses, stomach first, onto the hotel room floor.

‘There,' she says. ‘I think you would make a better slave than a Master. Very docile. You take your suffering in silence; that's a good sign,' she remarks.

For a moment, a germ of an idea settles in his mind. An image of the two of them as slaves, collared together, made to perform for the benefit of others.

At last, he rises, as his breath returns. Thalie now sits on the bed, watching him. The strap now detached from her, her hands shielding her jewelled pubes.

‘I hurt you, didn't I?' she asks, watching him rub his hole with the back of his hand. There is some blood.

‘You did,' he says.

‘Then I must be punished,' she says. ‘That is the way.'

As he washes the traces of the fuck away some minutes later, he realises she is now testing him. It's scary: could he ever become her Master? Keep her?

He dresses.

The crease of his boxer shorts rubs painfully against his bruised flesh as he walks back into the room. Thalie is watching a game show on the TV set.

‘I'm taking you out,' he tells her, switching the programme off.

‘Where to?'

‘Never you mind.'

Somehow, he always knew it would come to this.

She understands.

Asks: ‘How should I dress?'

‘Like a whore. Wear that blouse and no bra, and stockings. And your shortest skirt. No underwear.'

She nods.

Night falls as their cab rushes down Fifth toward Soho. He instructs her. At all time, she will sit with her legs open; there is to be no false modesty. She is his property for tonight and the following day and he will broach no disobedience. She will only talk when spoken to. She indicates her assent to his terms.

‘You will take no pleasure from what is done to you, because I won't either ...'

‘A Master would take pleasure in displaying me,' she interrupts him.

He slaps her cheek, as punishment for her uncalled verbal response.

‘Quiet, now.'

Her cheek reddens from the blow. She lowers her eyes. The driver looks inquiringly into his rear mirror at the older man and the young woman. Even though the light outside is dimming, he clearly saw her nipples through the shimmering blouse as she entered his cab, and he tries to get a better look.

A jazz club. Grimy walls, cigarette smoke, dissonant melodies running like waves across the ceiling over the sparse audience. He has her drink vodka and orange, although he knows she dislikes the concoction. Men at the bar glance in their direction. Her skirt is hitched up to mid-thigh. He fingers her under the table. She squirms.

Her rings are wet with her secretions.

He informs her of the fact. Presents a finger to her.

‘Lick me clean.'

She does, just as the waitress approaches their table inquiring after another round.

‘Touching,' the waitress mumbles, visibly disapproving and mistaking Thalie's appetite for a gesture of love.

‘Isn't it?' he responds with a wry smile.

The tension is palpable, as he summons his courage.

She senses it and remains damningly silent and expressionless.

Finally.

‘Anything?'

‘Yes,' Thalie replies. ‘Anything, it is my nature to be a slave.'

He rises from his seat as the band on stage finish their set in a flourish of drum rolls and reverb, takes hold of her hand and they make their way to the toilets. He briefly holds his breath and then enters the men's, followed by her. There is a harsh smell of antiseptic lingering in the air, the ceiling is low, the surroundings claustrophobic. There is no one there. Just a yellowing row of urinals, a creaking fan circling like a low-flying aircraft close to the peeling, concrete ceiling, a sink with a dripping tap, a dirty towel, and behind a wooden door painted jet-black the lone toilet seat. He opens the cubicle and orders Thalie to sit. He pulls her blue skirt up to her waist unveiling her rings and opens the buttons of her blouse so that her breasts are also on display.

‘Like that. Yes.'

She doesn't answer.

‘The first man to come in,' he says.

She nods silently.

They wait. Each passing second extends to eternity.

Finally the door to the men's toilets swings open and a tall black guy walks in, hands already unzipping his flies.

He heads towards the urinal, his back to Thalie in the cubicle.

‘Hi.'

He recognises the guy, who played bass in the gang, a lanky man in denim.

‘Hi, man. How ya doin'?'

‘Listen. I have something for you ...'

The musician starts peeing.

‘Nah, man, I have my own supplier. Thanks anyway.'

‘It's not drugs.'

The black guy shrugs.

‘Yeah? What then?'

‘I have a woman here. She'll suck you dry for free. Interested?'

The man looks over his shoulder at him, weighing the seriousness of the offer.

Notices the open cubicle and Thalie sitting there, splayed open, all her gold rings on display.

He catches his breath.

‘What's in it for you?' he asks, turning round and zipping his jeans up. His eyes are now fixed on the obscene spectacle of the young woman, her white flesh like a beacon in the sordid surroundings. ‘Wow,' he whispers to himself.

‘I watch. That's all.'

‘You serious?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘I'd always heard you limeys got your kicks in weird fashion,' he says, a grin spreading over his dark features.

He approaches the cubicle and its immobile prisoner. He unzips and pulls out his cock. It's long, thick, uncut. Offers it to her, hesitantly as if all this is about to disappear in a puff of smoke and is but a crazy mirage, a drug-fuelled dream. Thalie bends her face forward to take the cock.

‘Sweet gal,' says the musician as her lips first graze his stem, before she takes him all in. ‘Will she swallow?' he asks.

‘Yes,' he answers.

And watches the spectacle.

Black against white.

Black inside white.

To the bitter end.

After it is over, he allows her to adjust her apparel and cups his hands together to allow her to drink the tap water and wash her mouth.

Relief floods over him that no other man entered the bathroom while the three of them were there. He's not sure he could have controlled the situation any further.

Still, she says nothing.

They finish their drinks and listen to the first quarter of an hour of the band's second set. He hails a cab and they return to the hotel.

This is the first night in Manhattan they do not make love.

Q & A

‘Did things happen that you particularly disliked?'

‘Many. What I still found most difficult was when she invited friends around to demonstrate her power over me and my subservience, and took great pleasure humiliating me in their presence. The sex I didn't mind. But I did feel shame. More so, when we left the house to go to parties and she had me walk out onto the street wearing accessories and clothing which were so explicit as to provide little doubt as to my status as her personal slave. A dog collar, a skimpy maid's outfit, sometimes even a thin metal chain that connected to the handcuffs she made me wear for the short walk to the car park.'

‘You were afraid that people might recognise you?'

‘Not really, I did not like the fact that my slavery might be recognised by others.'

‘I'm not sure I understand. You are proud of what you are.'

‘I know. The worst time was when she invited my sister along for tea to the house one evening. I hadn't seen her for nearly a year. I had to wear the maid's outfit with the apron and serve them in silence as my sister's smile nauseated me. When asked if the tea and biscuits I had baked were to her liking, my sister, no doubt previously prompted by Anne-Louise, expressed reservations and I was told the only recourse was for me to be flogged in her presence. Which Anne-Louise did with unusual ferocity. I was made to bend across a chair a few inches away from where my sister sat, my dress was pulled up above my waist and my knickers pulled down to my knees and I still remember every blow against my bare skin even now. When Anne-Louise had completed the punishment, she actually invited my sister to beat me likewise. Which she agreed to do, the damn traitor. I couldn't sit for days after that beating.'