Eighty Days Blue (28 page)

‘Yes, though you put it somewhat melodramatically . . .'

‘But do you ever really know what it feels like for them to be owned so to speak, used, filled?'

‘I'd like to know, sure, but I'm straight. I don't think it's never occurred to me, but the idea of being used by another man just doesn't arouse me somehow. I'm not attracted to the gender. It's not prejudice, I assure you, just taste, like my not consuming alcohol.'

‘Don't knock it,' Lauralynn smiled. ‘Being filled has its distinct pleasures, a wonderful sensation when accomplished well. I've tried it – maybe I prefer women, but I have a past life, you know . . . I wasn't born this way.'

Dominik remembered how Summer, on that one occasion, out of the blue, had pushed a finger inside him as they fucked wildly and how vivid the experience had been, had pushed him well over the edge and he had orgasmed with unusual intensity. Was it because he had been suddenly penetrated, or was it just a result of the pleasure he had taken from her being so forward and wanton? he wondered.

Watching him, Lauralynn grinned. ‘I see I have you thinking, don't I?' she said.

Dominik pondered. ‘You have,' he confessed. ‘I am pretty sensitive there. Maybe a penis would prove an interesting experience, but then it would have to be somewhat detached from the man wielding it. A faceless man, a disembodied
cock
, what have you.' He smiled in turn. ‘Just to know how it feels,' he struggled to explain himself.

‘Oh, I think I can do better than that, but you'd need to trust me. No holds barred, so to speak. It's more fun that way, when there's an element of surprise. “Stop” can be your safe word, if you need one.' Lauralynn wet her lips and gracefully brushed her hair back from her forehead as he'd often seen her do when excited.

Dominik gave her a quizzical look. ‘Sounds ominous, but I think I could manage that.'

‘Why don't you take the train down to New Haven next weekend?' she said. She was returning there later that day. ‘I have a rehearsal on Saturday morning, but if you caught the one-thirty, you'd be there mid-afternoon. Oh, and pack an overnight bag,' she added. ‘I'll make it interesting.'

‘Is that a promise or a threat?'

She picked him up at the station. Barely more than half a dozen people had alighted from the train. It felt like a ghost town. They walked straight from the platform into the car park, where a solitary cab held vigil in the hope of a customer. Lauralynn led him past a row of pick-ups, Jeeps and SUVs in all sizes and colours to where a gleaming ivory-black Kawasaki motorbike was parked. She handed him a spare helmet.

‘Is that yours?' Dominik asked.

‘My pride and joy,' she replied, holding up her long hair and stuffing it into the helmet so that its wild strands would not be caught blowing in the wind. She wore black denim jeans, a blue leather riding jacket and what appeared to be cowboy boots; she looked like a warrior queen in the suburban desert of New Haven Station.

She was certainly full of surprises, although Dominik felt nervous about the next particular surprise she held in store. For him.

They first stopped for a snack in a small café by the river.

Lauralynn had a ferocious appetite and ate twice as much as Dominik could manage, leaving as he did most of his gargantuan BLT sandwich, barely hungry enough to dust off the substantial side salad.

They returned to the powerful Kawasaki, Dominik holding tight to Lauralynn's waist. It was a ten-minute noisy drive out of the sleepy town into the woods where Lauralynn took a sudden left turn into a leafy driveway and the bike soon screeched to a halt. The isolated house was an architect-designed, rambling faux-colonial mansion built alongside a quiet brook.

‘I only rent the artist's studio at the back of the house,' Lauralynn pointed out as they struggled out of their helmets. ‘It has its own entrance. Anyway, the owners are away in India right now, so I have the run of the place.'

‘Looks idyllic,' Dominik remarked. ‘Very private.'

‘That it is.'

She unlocked the door to the studio and they stepped in.

The circular interior was vast, with a high-ceilinged bay of skylights through which the light above poured in. Dominik could imagine how pleasant this would be for a painter or whatever type of artist worked here, but wondered what the acoustics might be for a musician. In one corner of the improvised room Lauralynn had carved herself a space: a couple of chairs, a futon, a long metal rail on which she hung her clothes, her cello case on the wooden parquet floor, a couple of suitcases open in disarray. She
visibly
lived, as he expected, in a permanent state of flux, ready to move on at a moment's notice.

She walked up behind him, tapped his shoulder and whispered seductively in his ear, ‘Now's the time, Dominik. Close your eyes.' He obeyed.

He waited a moment while he heard her shuffling around him, up to God knew what.

Then he felt an elasticated blindfold being slipped past his hair, its pressure being adjusted above his ears until it covered his eyes. He opened them. He was in pitch darkness now.

He smiled, remembering the blindfolds he had instructed the group of accompanying musicians in the crypt to wear. So was Lauralynn taking her revenge upon him? Giving him some of his own medicine?

‘Undress.'

Again he followed her instructions. She had already seen him in the buff, that evening with Miranda, so it was nothing she hadn't seen before, though it didn't stop him holding in his stomach one moment. Instinct.

‘Get on your knees.'

Again the sound of her now bootless feet shuffling by his side.

Sharp nails grazed his flank, journeyed across his bare butt, then roughly gripped his inevitably dangling ball sack.

Dominik flinched. The mistress was checking out her merchandise. He felt himself growing hard. Nothing he could do about it. Not that he was ever going to call Lauralynn ‘mistress'. Never in the world.

‘Hands. Above your shoulders.'

He raised his arms in response and felt her tie his wrists together. Probably a scarf: the material felt silky. Every time
Lauralynn
approached him, he could feel the heat from the sheer closeness of her body, her smell, a blend of unknown spices and sweat. His throat twitched.

She retreated and all of a sudden Dominik felt cold, without her immediate presence. He could hear the chirrup of birds in the woods beyond the house, the soft purr of water running down the brook, more shuffling noises, almost coming from two separate directions at the same time. Was she not on her own? Had someone else entered the room? He had not heard the heavy wooden door to the studio open or close, but maybe there was another way in through the main house.

Again a hand patting his rump.

Then the thwack of something sharp and biting on his arse cheek. The tremor of initial pain raced through his body. Oh, come on, he thought, this is all too ridiculous. Does she think being spanked is going to turn me on? He could feel his testicles retreating inside him in reaction. A bead of sweat formed between his nose and lips in anticipation of the next blow, but it didn't come.

‘So you want to understand how it feels?'

He nodded.

Then he felt something being stuffed deep into his ears, cotton. Buds of some kind? The silence became abominable and he was floating in a bubble of solitude. Naked. Alone. Two of his senses eliminated, sight and hearing. He didn't think she would gag him and block his speech, his sounds; surely that would be counterproductive, as she would be intent on enjoying his moans, his sighs, his likely protests. All part of the game.

He waited.

Sensed a shadow looming over him, behind him, likely obscuring the blue of the day peering through the skylights.

He felt hot breath down the back of his neck as she leaned over and a finger, cold and greasy, probed his sphincter, wetting it, testing his elasticity, liberally applying some form of lubricant to his opening. Dominik held his breath, now sensing what was to follow.

A blunt instrument, an ersatz cock, he guessed, pushed its way in, breaching him with surprising ease, stretching his arse lips until he could accommodate its tip. This was followed by a violent thrust inwards and he was invaded totally, felt as if he was being split apart. He bit his lips. The pain was intense. The entire periphery of his arsehole was open and forced, literally on fire, as if the wrong sort of cream had been applied, and that instead of soothing him, it was setting him ablaze down there. He tried to control the sensation, refusing to allow any sound to pass his lips.

He attempted to clench his muscles to prevent the object from reaching deeper into him, but he'd lost control, and following a few feeble thrusts, she was entirely inside him.

I am being fucked, he thought. I know what it feels like for a woman to be filled, invested in depth.

Inside the blindfold, his eyes were now closed, although it made no difference to the situation.

Clarity of thought returned to his brain and this was the moment for Lauralynn to begin a series of metronomic movements inside him: a quick partial withdrawal, followed by another deep attack, a short respite, the feeling of being vacated and empty, and then filled again and again and again. At first involuntarily and then consciously, he began to align himself with the rhythm of his fucking, riding it, flowing with it as the initial pain quickly began to fade. It
was
not replaced by pleasure, as he had hoped, but by a stampede of uncommon physical sensations he was registering and mentally filing away with every successive minute that ticked by, ever the observer, the academic. His body began cooperating and facilitating the flow and outflow of the artificial cock now ploughing into him.

He quickly lost sense of time, isolated in a cocoon of sightless silence.

At one stage – he had no clue how long for – she withdrew from him. Why? Instead his arse was caressed by the flow of the air coursing through the studio space, avid to be filled again, begging to be used, abandoned.

Then she was riding him again, and this time her thrusts were softer, the organic nature of the dildo connected to her strap-on harness (he knew she was not manipulating the dildo manually from both the natural sway of her body behind and the contact of her warm hips against his spread buttocks every time she advanced onto him) now more pliant, less rigid, almost as if it was a real flesh and blood penis now digging its way into him. Again he suspected there was a man there who had taken Lauralynn's place and was now buggering him. Surely not? And then he thought, Damn, who cares? There was little he could do about redressing matters now. Put it down to experience. She had said no holds barred and had been true to her word. He could no longer get totally hard, although he had been perilously close at one stage, when a hand had cupped his balls and taken hold of his cock and travelled up and down it as he was being fucked from behind, checking on his state, teasing him, playing with him.

Finally, Lauralynn (or whoever was impersonating her, if there actually was a third, male participant in the studio)
began
tiring and the force of the thrusts inside him began to diminish. After one rather violent final push that almost brought him down flat on his stomach with its ferocity, she (or he) withdrew from him. Again that characteristic feeling of emptiness, feeling the air caress his bruised opening – a soft, ambient breeze flowing across his hole and a wave of premature post-coital sadness.

His hearing was restored. The shuffle of feet. The sound from the brook outside and the manic chirping of small birds in the distance.

Dominik waited for the blindfold to be removed. Shuffled from his knees to sit on his somewhat tender backside. Relaxed.

She delicately pulled on the blindfold's elastic and raised it slowly across his forehead and then his hair, taking care not to ruffle it. She was now fully dressed. Or had she even undressed to fuck him? It was as if nothing had happened. A faint smile was painted across her pale lips, her blonde hair catching the rays of the sun filtering through the glass ceiling.

‘Now you know,' she said.

Lauralynn had baked some potatoes and served them with a bowlful of sour cream, alongside a selection of cold charcuterie cuts.

They were sitting on the lawn across from the house, the patio floodlight on, watching the waters of the brook flow downhill.

‘Victor tells me you've agreed to attend his going-away party,' Lauralynn said.

‘I have, although I don't know much about what's supposed to happen,' Dominik admitted.

‘Neither do I,' Lauralynn said. ‘He's being unusually secretive, the canny old bastard. Very unforthcoming.'

‘Has he invited you?'

‘We've a gig in Boston that weekend anyway, but no, he hasn't asked me. Sort of makes me suspicious.'

‘It's just a party.'

‘I know. But beware of Victor. He's more dangerous than he appears.' She dug her spoon into the steaming potato left on her plastic plate.

In his pocket, Dominik heard his phone vibrate. Just a message.

He knew only one person who sent him text messages.

He pulled the phone out, excused himself to Lauralynn and took a few steps to the edge of the water.

‘I want you so much.'

Summer.

It must be very early morning in New Zealand, or Australia, or wherever she now was.

Why did she have this knack for contacting him at the wrong time?

11

A Visit

Predictably, as so often seems the way with long-haul flights, I was seated next to an unattractive and annoying businessman all the way to San Francisco. At least it was better than a screaming child. When not asking me an endless stream of questions, he tried to win me over with a detailed and unwanted lesson in the art of digital media streaming, a subject I still knew little about even after the many hours spent listening to him with my brain switched off as the long flight from Sydney made its way through the skies.