Macho Sluts (12 page)

Jessie was hooting and pounding on the steering wheel. “I can't stand it, I can't stand it! Are you bullshitting me? Did that really happen? Hot damn! And I think I'm wicked and perverse.”

All I could do was grin and swear that, yes, it really had happened. Now, I thought, I really should ask how she came to be a notorious sadistic womanizer.

“Well,” she yawned, reaching for another cigarette, “this is a challenge to my professional reputation. With competition like that, I better bring out the heavy artillery. Never let it be said that a capitalistic, bisexual madam put one over on a socialist, dyke-separatist musician. It just wouldn't do. Woman, I can't wait to get my hands on you. I can still feel those nice, soft tits of yours.” She chuckled. “I really thought you were going to wiggle right out of your skin back there in that nice, dark corner. Do you do that for everybody who puts the make on you?”

“No”

“Just for me?”

“Just for you.”

“Liar. Unbutton the top button of your jeans.” Any ideas about hearing her life story vanished from my mind.

I put my hand to my crotch and complied with her request.

She savored her smoke, exhaling it slowly and tapping her ashes lazily, as if she were on a Sunday drive to no place special.

“You can undo another button now.”

I opened my pants another notch. She took another drag, this time exhaling more smoke in my face. We played this game until there were no more buttons. Then she shifted her attention to another part of my body.

“Put your hand inside your leotard. Now touch your breast. The left one. Play with the nipple. How does that feel?”

“Ah—”

“Do the same thing with the other one. Is it hard yet?”

“Yes. Wrinkled like a raisin.”

“Can you lick your own nipples?”

“I don't know.”

“Try.”

I found that by bending my neck down and turning my nipple up, I could, indeed, get it in my mouth. The sensation of sucking on my own tit was delicious. She waited, already one step ahead of me, lost in her plans.

“Put one hand inside your pants. Can you feel your pubic hair?”

“Yes. It's crisp and curly.”

“What color is it?”

“Black.”

“You must not be a real blonde then. Cigarette—but don't move that hand.”

I managed to light the cigarette with my left hand. She watched me, amused by my fumbling.

“Slide your hand down and just cup it over your cunt. I want you to keep playing with your tits with the other hand. But don't try to beat off. Just leave that hand quiet on your cunt, like a good girl.”

“I can feel the heat—Jessie—”

“I think I'd like to listen to the radio,” she said to no one in particular, and turned it on. She sang along with the music, her harsh, vibrant voice reminding me (if I needed reminding) who I was sitting next to.

I dared complain during a commercial. “Jessie, my nipples are sore.”

“Okay, you want to stop? I don't care. Button up and put your hands in your lap.”

“Jessie, please, I'm so turned on I hurt. Please—”

“Don't,” she warned.

“I need to—”

“I don't care what you need. You'll wait until I want to hear you come.”

Five more long minutes of music. She switched off the radio in the middle of a song. “You can put your finger between the inner lips, down by your hole. Are you wet?”

“Yes,” I gasped.

“How wet?”

“I've been lubricating for over an hour, thinking about how it felt to be pressed up against your hip. Even your eyes looking at me felt like you were stroking my cunt. I'm wet enough to drown someone.”

“Put your finger just barely inside the opening. Move in little, light circles.”

“I'm burning.”

“Burn.”

There was no sound in the car save the purring of the engine and my own labored breathing.

“Can you get two fingers inside your cunt?”

“Easy.”

“Do it. Fuck yourself. I want to hear it.”

I buried my fingers inside myself and pumped. The juices made sucking noises as my hand moved up and down.

“How do you get off? Do you put your fingers on your clit?”

“No, I do it just like this.”

“Do you want to come?”

“Yes, I can't stand this. I'm so swollen, so sticky.”

“Well, I'm real sorry about that, because if you can't stand this, there's no way you're going to make it through the rest of the evening. Run your finger up and down between your inner and outer lips. Do it on both sides. Spread the wetness up and cover your clit with it.”

“It's slippery and smooth. Feels like being stroked all over. My nipples are still hard—I can feel them brushing against my leotard.”

“Jostle your clit a little bit.”

“I can't find it. It's gone up under the hood.”

Her knuckles on the steering wheel had gone white. She was staring intently at the road, but her breathing had quickened.

“I need to come. Please, let me come. I'll be good for you later, I promise. I'll do anything you want. Anything. Just let me. Come. Now, please, please.” I was babbling. I was begging so hard.

God, she was pleased with herself. “You can start,” she told me.

I cupped my hand over my mound and dabbled a finger in the molten hole of my vagina.

“Make more noise.”

I let myself moan. I couldn't believe the things I was saying, the sounds I was making. My hand moved faster, harder, higher. But my climax hung off, waiting—

“Go on, come. Come now.”

That was all it took. I had waited so long, my orgasm was unbelievably intense. My vagina tightened like a fist, then convulsed and shuddered. I counted contractions as I continued to hold and squeeze my vulva. Waves of pleasure ran down my thighs, melted away, and filled me with a warm, sleepy glow.

Jessie pulled into a driveway and turned off the engine. She reached for me and searched my body with her hands, feeling the film of perspiration that covered me from head to toe. She explored my cunt, running her fingers up and down the inner lips and probing inside of me briefly. “You weren't kidding,” she said. “You really are wet! Are you going to sing that pretty for me?” She nuzzled my neck. “That was quite a performance.”

I didn't respond. My eyes were half-closed. I felt limp and languorous. She tapped my cheek lightly. “Wake up. We haven't even started yet.” The blows began to sting, and I put my hand up to ward them off. She grabbed my wrist. “What happened to all that sweet submission, huh? You promised to do anything for me, remember? I do. You owe me, honey.”

She got out, came around to my door, and dragged me out of the car. Tugging on the scarf, she said, “Heel,” and headed for her door. I almost stumbled, then recovered my footing and followed her.

I couldn't guess where we were going. All I could see were storefronts. But she stopped in front of an iron grating and took out her keys. “No neighbors,” she told me with a grin. “It took me three months to find this place. I couldn't afford to soundproof my last apartment, and I got kicked out for making too much noise. The rent is cheap, too.”

Nobody could hear us? I felt a twinge of alarm. I hardly knew her. Anything could happen. How could I trust her? Because she never once showed any sign of doubting herself, something in me responded. There are plenty of people I've known for years that I'd never consider allowing to tie me up. Who knows why I trusted her and not them? It was an arbitrary decision, after all, and one perhaps not totally in my control.

She held the grating open behind her. We climbed the stairs, our heels clicking on the stone steps. Her key rattled in the lock. She pushed me in ahead of her, locking the door behind us. It was absolutely dark. I could not tell if I stood in a room or a hallway. She moved closer to me until her breasts kissed my shoulders and stood, not quite touching me, for several seconds. Then she sighed. Her expelled breath contained such weariness and resignation—I was overcome by an irrational desire to hug her knees and weep.

She seized my wrists, brought the scarf back through my crotch, and tied my hands together. The deftness of her movements provoked my lust again. Being tied makes me feel safe and somehow confident and very, very sexy.

She moved away from me, returning with a fat, lit candle.

“We'll go that way to the bathroom—she said, pointing down the hall. I took a step in that direction. She slapped me, hard. I rocked back on my heels, and she hit me again. My face burning, I stared at the floor and tried to control my tears. “Not so goddamn fast,” she hissed. “Who gives the orders here? You?”

“No, no,” I stuttered.

She struck out again. “Get down on you knees, damn you. Get down.”

I almost fell in my hurry to avoid any more blows. I could not balance with my hands tied behind me. Once on my knees, her hips were inches from my nose. “I'm sorry, I choked.”

“Sorry,” she sneered. “Do you think that's all it takes to get yourself off the hook? ‘I'm sorry,'” she mimicked. “You're not sorry, you're stupid. You don't do anything until I tell you to do it. Have you got that? Or are you too stupid to take orders?”

I couldn't answer. I must have leaned toward her, because she took me by my hair and pulled my head back. “Why are you in such a hurry?” she murmured, stroking my hot cheek. “Did you think I was going to fuck you in the john?” I saw her hand go back—flinched— the grip on my hair tightened, and she held my head while she slapped me.

“You don't realize just how helpless you are,” she crooned into my upturned face. “I could leave you tied up all night and never even touch you. I could open the front door and push you downstairs. Where would you be then? Hmm? Or I could go out myself, for a drive. Maybe back to the dance to pick up another piece of ass. There are plenty more where you came from. Don't you think you'd better behave yourself? You better think about someone else's pussy for a change. Keep me happy, or I won't get you off. After all, that's what you came here for, isn't it? A little fancy sex? Someone who would tickle your slit?”

I was blushing furiously. Tears were starting to wet my cheeks.

“Oh, look, she's going to cry. Are you trying to turn me on? Hmm, damsel in distress? Quit looking at the ceiling. Get your head down to where it belongs. Look at me, here.”

Her hips were tantalizingly close. There was a niche in the wall, and she put the candle on the recessed shelf. “I was going to let you eat my cunt,” she whispered, “but now, I don't know.” She unzipped the black velvet slacks. Her pubic hair sprang from the zipper like a handful of soft, dark feathers.

“Please,” I moaned.

“Beg me. You don't really deserve it.”

I exerted every ounce of my persuasive powers. I started with a simple offer to lick her clit, and went on to describe the incredible and probably impossible things I wanted to do to her.

“Whimper for it, bitch.”

“Let me kiss your cunt. Let me make you wet, then blow hot air all over you. I want to suck on your lips, run my nose and my chin against your clit. I'll do it good for you. I'll lick you so lightly, so carefully, as long as you like. Please, Jessie.”

She teased me, calling me a pussy-kisser, a cunt-lapper. Yes, something inside me said. I am all those things. And right now, that's all I want to be. I ached to redeem myself. My mouth heated, watered, hurt with the need to service her.

She shucked her pants. I kept my place. “Better,” she said approvingly. “You're learning.” She moved forward. “Tilt your head back a little,” she told me. She shoved her pussy into my face, enveloping my eyes and nose and mouth in her cunt. “Remember me,” she said, rubbing her perfume into my skin. “That is my smell, the essence of me. Now open your mouth a little and give me your tongue. Suck me. Go ahead. Eat me out. Flick that little pink tongue on my clit. Come on, you want it. Do it.”

I put my face between her thighs and devoured her, whimpering with greed. My mouth was full of her soft folds and thick honey and stray little curly hairs. She moaned when I hit a spot just above her clit, so I lavished every caress my lips and tongue could devise on it. It didn't take long. She clamped my head to her, shook and bucked, crying my name.

When she pushed me away, my cheeks were smeared with her juices. She cupped my head in both hands and wiped my face with her thumbs. Our eyes met. “Now you have a taste of what I want,” she whispered. “I am going to possess you utterly, for my own pleasure, make you completely and totally mine. Are you willing?”

“I've never wanted anything more.”

“That's the last time I'll ask for your permission or consent. Follow me.” I struggled to my feet.

She took me into the bathroom and untied me long enough to unsnap the crotch of my leotard and pull it off over my head. She retied my hands so they were crossed in front of my throat. Then she took down my pants. It was humiliating, being exposed like a small child, but comforting, too. She put me on the toilet. The seat was cold against my bare ass, but when she stood close to me and hugged me to her breasts, I was warm all over. “Go ahead, piss,” she said, a patient teacher encouraging a not-too-bright student to give the right answer to a very simple question.

To my horror, I could not. It was not the right time to get piss-shy. She made a tch-tch noise with her tongue and turned on the bathtub faucets. Keeping her back to me, she tossed two pearls of bath oil into the tub and emptied a packet of bubble bath in after them. I could smell the fragrance, but it was the sound of the falling water that affected me the most powerfully. My bladder began to empty.

She was with me in a split second, and, for a miracle, my urethra did not lock itself back up. Her arms tightened around me, and I knew the sound was arousing her. It was a very intimate moment. I felt closer to her then than I've felt to some women who had their tongues in my mouth. When I was done, she wiped me neatly, took off my boots and socks, and told me to step out of my jeans. She hung all my clothes up behind the door. The leash (her scarf) was slipped off my throat and hung there as well. “Temporarily,” she reassured me.