This week's guest post is from the story Mr Friday's Midlife Crisis: an erotic entertainment by Terrance Aldon Shaw. And since this is going to have to tide you over for two Blue Mondays, it's a double-length treat :-)
Sami:
“Sit on the bed.” Mr. Friday’s all business, “Put your legs together, and don’t move them apart.”
He adjusts her limbs, fussing over the naked girl until her legs and torso form a rigid L in profile atop the mattress.
“The Japanese call this wakamezake; I was introduced to it by a particularly talented Geisha girl on Okinawa. Over there they use saki. I prefer a good aged Scotch.”
The old man uncorks an expensive-looking bottle.
“Don’t move a muscle,” he commands, “This is single malt, and I’m not wasting a drop.”
Slowly, carefully, he begins to pour the whiskey over her breasts. Sam can feel her nipples hardening as the warm liquid trickles down through the narrow channel of her cleavage and over her tummy, pooling in the natural basin between her tightly clenched thighs.
“Very nice.” Mr. F bends down to lap up the fluid that now engulfs her mound.
It feels fantastic, especially as he begins to preen the dregs, simultaneously whipping her clit into a state of adamant delight. He holds the throbbing bud between his lips for a few seconds, creating a painful vacuum, and with it, an almost unendurable ecstasy. Sami cries out as he releases her, though she resists the temptation to grab his head or stroke his hair or touch him in any way—all the little gestures of encouragement that come so naturally. She must retreat into herself in order to maintain control—must think of other things if she is to keep from coming. Tonight she is his Geisha girl and will not disappoint; will not move till he orders it.
He works his way up her torso, imbibing the essence of twelve-year-old Glenlivet on her skin; licking the damp residue from her belly, slurping up the puddle formed in the miniature shot glass of her navel; tasting the tiny droplets that fall from her swollen nipples, kissing the fiery nectar from her breasts. He raises his head, looks her in the eye; brings his mouth close to hers.
Sami opens to him slowly, lips forming a perfect ‘o,’ wetted invitingly with the tip of her tongue. “Just this once?” she murmurs, her voice a sibilant caress, words like the tickle of a soft feather, so low and still as to barely trouble the air.
“Hm,” he appears to consider the prospect for a moment; frowns, looks away. “Why?”
“Because . . . maybe it might be fun?”
“It’s rather . . . intimate.”
“Yes.”
“Beg for it, then. I want to hear you.”
“Yes.” She takes his hand and guides it to her inner thigh; lays her cheek against his so that he can feel the subtone of her soft plaintive whispers vibrating deep in his loins.
“I’ve been saving for something—ever since that first night at the old hotel downtown. I thought that once I’d made enough to get what I wanted everything would go back to the way it was . . . before; with my life; with school; my boyfriend and all that . . .”
“But?”
“I had enough money three weeks ago.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning . . . that tonight you can have me for free—I’ll give myself to you for nothing, only—”
“Only . . . what?”
Sami is breathless, undone; a feverish urgency invading her tone as if she’s about to climax.
“I want to do it face to face. I want you to look me in the eye while we fuck. Oh my God! I want to see your expression when you’re about to come. And, just this once,” she breathes, “oh, please, yes! I want you to come inside me.”
“Is that all?” He pushes her down to the mattress, pinning her arms above her head. “Shall I order room service, too?”
“Just fuck me,” Sami spreads her legs, “Fuck me like the world ends at midnight.”
Dustin:
The camera zooms in on her face; the image repeated a dozen times, filling the bank of monitors in the security center, now a wall of erotic icons, stacked in neat immutable symmetry; three horizontal rows of four; four vertical columns of three. It reminds Dustin of an Andy Warhol print he saw once in a book. He stands in front of the screens, despising himself for being so turned on; staring, awe-struck, a small-town hick getting his first taste of big-city porn, belt and fly undone as he coaxes his pole to rigid life; the new instrument of his hate.
There’s no sound, no closed captioning; but it hardly takes a lip reader to guess what Sami’s saying to the old man; no mistaking what “fuck me” looks like, even viewed in infrared. There’s the way the flesh surrounding the mouth puffs out ever so slightly to release the initial ‘fffff’ on a narrow stream of breath; the little explosion as the lips jerk apart to form the ‘uh’ sound, and the quick sharp click of the ‘ck’ between the roof of the mouth and the back of the tongue; then, the subtly kissable upside-down smile, after-image of ‘me.’ Dustin’s heard her—seen her—say it many times, whenever they’ve been together that way. But the word—that ugly, ugly word—never really turned him on. Not until tonight.
Sami’d wanted to hear him say it, too; but he just didn’t have it in him; couldn’t quite bring himself to that casual state of mind where those kinds of words come easy—not for something that was supposed to be special—not for what they had. Why was she so eager to cheapen it all when she knew it made him feel like dirt? He’s beginning to understand now. Sami never really felt the same way. And tonight she’s doing it with this stranger, and saying it, over and over, as if she knows Dustin’s using the CCTV to spy on her; as if she’s planned this whole thing just to punish him for being the way he is.
A quick glance at his watch. He’s supposed to be making his rounds about now; check to make sure everything’s in order; see that all the guests are squared away, snug and smug; all potential discontent efficiently contained. Fat chance! Dustin pauses the live feed on screen 12. He’s done the same thing with all the monitors on the top row; capturing Sami and her lover in every conceivable variation of the act; freezing them in the moment. He’ll set them in motion again, just before his final release.
For the moment he brings up another view—this one on the lower right of the array—technically vacant room 230, where Mr. Patel has whisked the chambermaid for an “employee evaluation.” No clothes have come off yet—thank God!—they’re still talking, negotiating, setting ground rules. Branka’s a brunette this evening in a shoulder-length hime-cut wig, an uncanny echo of Sami’s latest look. Patel’s sitting on the end of the bed, patting the coverlet at his side, inviting her to join him. Good. There’s time.
Back to Sami, still live on screens 2 through 8. She’s tossing her head from side to side. Dustin imagines her moaning, pleading, praying; making all those needy primal feminine sounds that come when arousal takes her past the point of no return. He grits his teeth; biting down on his rage. She’s got to be out of her mind. How else could this guy, this stranger have gotten to her? Dustin doubts straight seduction; more probably money or drugs were involved; maybe even some weird form of brainwashing. That has to be it; the guy’s a cult leader; one of those charismatic control freaks who’re always prowling around college campuses, on the lookout for impressionable young girls . . . But this is Sami—his Sami! She’s holding her head still now, arching her body from the neck down; throwing herself at this cradle-robbing, youth-sucking monster that might as well be from another planet. It’s bizarre. It makes no sense.
She never really felt the same way. Remember?
A sudden blur of movement on the screens. With his free hand, Dustin pulls back on the joystick that controls the camera, adjusting for a wider view of the room. Sami and the old man have switched positions. She’s on top now, bobbling up and down, straddling him cowgirl style as she works up a frothy rhythm. Dustin fine-tunes his stroke to match. He’s been there, knows exactly how it feels to fill and be surrounded by her; infected by the wild, shameless enthusiasm that masks her vulnerability. He’s sensed the terror of it, even as he embraced its wonder.
She’s leaning forward so that the stranger can kiss her breasts before they jostle for the top again. Another smudge of motion as they switch and the bastard’s humping her, his lean frame floating, seemingly weightless above her; supporting limbs taut, muscles wound tight with kinetic potential; body animated by a ferocious desperation. Dustin imagines an alligator doing pushups as it prepares to devour its victim. But Sami’s no damsel in distress; she’s begging for it—he can see it on her lips; practically hears her telling the old man; “Come in me. Oh god, fuck yes! Fill me up. Please, please! Come in me, now!”
“You’re mine,” the boy snivels, startling at the sound of his own voice. “Mine!” He nearly loses control before un-pausing the earlier feeds, a jumbled fugue of images, playing themselves out one by one, dovetailing like choral voices in a round; past advancing inevitably into present again and again. His scrotum’s tingling, that ticklish pressure building at the base of his wood, rising inexorably towards the head. He keeps his hand steady, pushes forward with his thighs, threading the needle of his fist as he angles the shaft upwards, aiming for the beautiful silent face that mocks him still.
“You’re mine!”
The tide surges all at once; the whole world slipping toward the edge of consciousness. He’s erupting; spewing, overflowing; translucent filaments spattering the monitors, showering the control panel, all momentum spent but for the sticky trails dripping down over the sterile hi-tech surfaces to pool and dry on the carpet below.
“Mine . . .” The word’s a strangled sob at the back of his throat. Dustin slumps forward, surrendering to the maelstrom within; and suddenly, in the calm eye of the storm, knows a dark peace; an all-encompassing certainty; the clear vision of what he must do.
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Terrance Aldon Shaw was born and raised somewhere to the left of Chicago in that vast whitebread wilderness known as the American Heartland. TAS' stories often feature strongly erotic, transgressive themes and situations elucidated in the language and style of mainstream literary fiction. He blogs at Erotica For the Big Brain, a site he founded in order to help raise literary standards, and foster greater respect for the erotica genre.
TAS is old enough to know better, but still young enough to wonder why.
TAS at Erotica for the Big Brain
TAS' Amazon Author Page
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