Best S&M, Volume 3 (10 page)

The drive felt like forever. You were mostly silent and when you spoke it was in gravel, aching cruelty.

You just had to push it, didn’t you? I gave you every chance. You think you can play with me, little girl?

No –

Shut the fuck up! Shut that sexy fucking mouth of yours up or I’ll come back there and smack it shut myself!

Fuck you.

(Your laughter)

Fuck you!

I think you’ll find it’s me who will be fucking you, sweetheart. Now stop being fucking precious.

The engine cut to silence. Thick silence. I was in the seat, and then I was face down and tasting mud. Flipped over and gagged, pulled to my feet. Mud in my mouth and the smell of wet garlic and grass in my nose. We were miles away from anywhere.

Suddenly I realised how little I really knew of you. Too little to play a game like this. Suddenly I saw myself; bound, gagged, and blindfolded with a near stranger, nowhere near anywhere, and no one knowing where I was or who I was with. I heard your voice from that call, “Tell no one.” I had been kidnapped. I wanted it to stop. I knew I’d gone too far.

You took my hand.

Now you have to trust me. There’s only me here. I am your eyes, your touch. I am it all. I walk away and you’re lost.

Yes.

So you need me.

Yes.

You’re fucked without me.

Fuck you.

The slap across the face. Hard. I tasted blood.

You’re fucked without me.

Yes.

I hated you, I loved you. I wanted to be fucked, consumed, and beaten by you all at once. I wanted to give myself to you. To be debased and devoured and disgraced.

It was steep and you moved me gently around and over each obstacle that I could only imagine. Down and down.

You tore my clothes off. I stood naked, blind, mute, and shivering in the night. In the silence. You tied my hands and feet to something – bars? I was stood, tied, trapped.

This is it, little girl. I’m going to have you now. However I want.

You were behind me. The softest touch of your fingers running from my neck, down my arms, over my hips, down my legs to my feet. I shook. My breath came in tugs. My cunt ached. I could feel my pulse in it. You open your palm and push lube into my cunt and my ass.

Then nothing.

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.

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.”