(No unauthorized duplication.)
“What the fuck are we even doing here?” Sotto voce, I scooted in next to my voluptuous, eternally cutting edge co-worker.
I knew she was my co-worker due to our mandatory yearly attendance of this so-called holiday themed function. I knew she was cutting edge from her particular genre of fwd’ed email.
“We’re being social,” she replied. She’d replied the very same last year. No doubt the year before as well. Apparently the answer still couldn’t satisfy me.
I leaned closer, peering at her through the dim lounge light. Were those hieroglyphics painted on her face? If so, it would soon become the newest avant-guard facial accessory.
“But it’s not even Christmas.” I complained. “It’s not even Thanksgiving. What kind of holiday party is this?”
“You know he likes to have us all get together,” she soothed, patting my arm. Her nails were long and polished and appeared to be equally hieroglyphiced. I eyed her drink with avid envy. Were there waiters at this alleged party? God knew I dreaded having to leave my cover, find my way across the veritable open tundra of the room in search of inebriation.
“He does not,” I grumbled. “He likes us telecommuting all isolated and secluded. Alienated from any, you know, personal contact. He’s afraid if we get together in any non-digitalized way, we’ll figure out this big secret project thing we’re supposed to be working on. The one we’ve been working on for fucking years without success!”
She laughed and sipped her drink. I watched the smooth contractions of her throat. Wasn’t she the one that kept sending around those blowjob memes?
“He likes to host this Christmas party every year,” she said. “This open bar Christmas party…”
Reluctant, but knowing I needed a drink or ten to get through this, I slid out of the long plush sofa.
“No panties, Annie?” I heard her laugh and realized that, damn, she’d just grabbed my ass.
It was going to be another typical office holiday party.
***
When I returned, a drink in each hand, I found that my place had been taken by yet another mysterious co-worker. If I recalled correctly, his name was Jim or Tim or Bob or something, and he was the one that consistently refused to fwd any material he deemed as inappropriate and/or profane.
Little weasel.
He dutifully moved over and I sank down. I refused to relinquish either glass to the token of a table that sat before us, instead drinking deeply from first one glass and then the other.
Ah, swill. Sweet, sweet swill. And god bless the juniper berry.
I saw that Bob or Tim or Jim had taken out his billfold and seemed in the process of procuring photographs.
“If you show one, just one, picture of your cat, I will set you on fire, I swear to god,” I stated.
He put the wallet away.
“You’re looking good, Jenny,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes.
I took another long sip and briefly considered correcting him on my name.
Nah.
“Any luck with that new program?”
Little weasel.
He knew better than to be trawling for underground information like that.
Pseudo Christmas party or no pseudo Christmas party!
Hieroglyphic nails flicked over his pale, possibly hairless wrist in flirtatious rebuke. Suddenly, I couldn’t even remember what her name was. It was impossible, it was really inhumane, the mandate that we electronically correspond using only numerical ids.
Ones and zeros, ones and zeros, that and aberrantly extreme brainpower, was all we were to our maniacal genius of a boss. He was fanatically intent on creating some kind of… something… so monstrously, incredibly, impossibly significant, that we would all finish out our lives in immeasurable fame and fortune.
At least that’s what he’d told me at my final interview. As I signed all the confidentiality forms. In triplicate. In the presence of a small tribe of lawyers. As he quipped, or presumably quipped, that he would have preferred it all signed in blood rather than ink.
“What program?” I retorted. Dammit, half of one drink had mysteriously vanished. “I sit around playing tetris in my panties all day.”
Really big tits, she snickered. He hastily looked away. Some people have that reaction to tetris. I know I used to.
A kind of hush fell over the room. I would like to add that the temperature dropped, confirming my theory that our boss was indeed Satan, but that would be an exaggeration. And a girl forgetting to wear underclothes to her first social outing in nearly a year was in no position to exaggerate.
“Oh lord,” I moaned, as I found myself standing with the rest of the high IQ’ed lemmings as our boss entered the lounge.
“Happy Holidays! Happy Holidays!” he boomed.
Oh god. There went the rest of the first drink. Most of the second followed. Why couldn’t we have this damned thing online, like civilized geeks? In some kind of, I don’t know, chat lounge somewhere?
I knew this whole thing was going to end in carnage and karaoke.
***
There’s a formula to surviving this type of thing. Hell, there’s a formula for pretty much everything.
Or so I’ve always believed. And structured my life along that theory.
Alcohol was a crucial part of this particular formula and so in accordance, I left my empty glasses behind me and wriggled out of my seat in search of fresh modus operandi.
Our boss, the patron of all he surveyed, had ousted the bartender and was mixing drinks for his throng of employees. The personal touch, appreciated by minions everywhere.
“Absinthe,” I petitioned, wending my way to the front.
“Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder,” he grinned. “Baby, how you been?”
“Eh,” I muttered, fidgeting beneath his gaze. “That thing I’m working on…”
“Oh no, no, no,” he chuckled. “No shop talk tonight! Tonight we celebrate! Tonight we have fun! Tonight’s all bacchanalia!”
He thrust a long glass filled with green stuff at me. With my luck, it really was absinthe.
“Bacchanalia, heh,” I muttered weakly. “Bring on the maenads.”
I found myself being conducted as part of the group surrounding him to another one of those low sofa areas. Squished in among the techie rabble. Any moment now, toasts would be raised, ipods would be whipped out and compared, here would come the amusing anecdote regarding one’s cat.
Someone had my hair trapped behind their shoulder. “Ow?” I entreated, turning to see who it was.
Oh.
Eye contact. “Didn’t I have sex with you at last year’s party?” he whispered, not moving to free my hair.
“I’ve pretty much deleted that memory,” I replied.
“Apparently along with my emails,” he answered.
“Uh. Yeah.” I squirmed, possibly in embarrassment, possibly because my hair hurt.
“Merry Christmas!” our host, our boss, roared genially, and we all stumbled to our feet to affirm his toast.
“It’s not even Christmas,” the object of my deleted memory bent to whisper against my temple.
“I loathe Christmas,” I muttered.
“You were really wet,” he added.
I sighed. No duh.
***
In retrospect, the only thing I can figure, is that I must have been going through a brief phase of promiscuity the year before. A brief phase comprising, say, two and a half hours.
I blame it on my ovaries. And all the porn surfing. And, of course, last year’s similarly open bar.
Still, memory, whether it be organic or digital, has a funny way of resisting deletion. I recalled the tattoo he had, high up on his shoulder blade. Some kind of reptile. Or amphibian. Certainly nothing so accessible as a mammal. His flesh had felt so hot beneath my hand as I traced the bright ink indelibly marking his skin. I had wanted to press my mouth against him there, taste him, feel the contours of him with the sensitivity of my lips.
It had all been a tangle of clothing half discarded, bed sheets all in disarray, and he had rolled me beneath him, his mouth stopping all token protest before I could even form the words.
Gin, he’d tasted of gin. Like hedges in a humid rain, like the countryside far from any terminal or dsl connection. Like nothing civilized. And I think I’d meant to stop things before they went too far. I’m pretty sure I’d meant to get up, regain control of the entire thing, leave while I still could. But it had been just too long, and what he was doing to me, what he was making me feel, was just too good.
And there was the whole gin factor thing going on.
His mouth had been on my throat, his hands finding my breasts, and somehow my legs had locked around his waist, crushing him against me.
How ridiculous, how embarrassing, even the memory of wanting someone that much. I ducked down into my drink, hoping the dim light hid my blush, trying to ignore the fact that my hair was once more trapped beneath his shoulder and arm. He smelled good. I knew the scent of him. I remembered.
There had been something about the feel of his jeans against the thin, shamefully damp silk of my panties. The roughness. The bulge of him pressing against me. Pushing against me, hard against me, separated from me by mere fabric.
I had been trying to speak. I was trying to find some words to cancel the whole thing even as I’d arched my hips hard up against him.
“Shh, shh,” he’d said, and caught my long hair in his fist, holding me down, holding my face tilted for his mouth. Oh god, as he kissed me, I’d known how it would be, known exactly how it would be to have him fuck me.
I had forgotten how it felt to need something so much. To be caught up, caged in wanting. To have lust effectively mute all other thoughts and rationale.
So it had happened. His mouth upon mine, his kiss as intense and demanding as him fucking me would soon be. And he’d touched my body without hesitation; he’d touched me like he knew me, like he owned the whole domain of me, and I could only writhe beneath him on the hotel bed, utterly incoherent, stuck in that particular rapture that shuts down all logic, all common sense, and all thoughts not leading directly to lubrication.
You know how it is? When time seems to both slow and blur, and one moment your clothes are still there and almost where they’re supposed to be? And the next, you find yourself consummately naked, and he’s naked too. And your skin is sliding against his skin, all impossibly sensitive and sweaty and heated, and perhaps you’re moaning, and perhaps you mean to say No, but it’s your own voice in your ears instead whimpering his name over and over until he fills your mouth with his tongue.
Aw, and damn, I’d never been so wet, so wanting, so nonsensically consumed with lust. And I was shaking from the force of it, and panting and arching against him as his hands gripped my breasts, his mouth found the hardness of my nipples, and the warmth, the strength, the weight of him upon me triggered emotions all primal and all out of the careful, rational, high-tech context of my life.
He’d been against me. I’d felt the press of his cock upon the swelling, the wet of my pussy. Right there. Right on the verge of pushing into me. Where my body wanted him so much to be. And my brain had tried one last time to assert its logic, its reason, its judgment over my body, commanding my thighs to close against him, hold him back.
All prehistory, ignoring the fact that we have evolved into our computers, all easy male strength, he’d spread my legs, shoved himself smooth and hard into the deepest part of me, and I’d screamed as it made me come, like a heroine in a common bodice-ripper romance, apparently forgetting the fact that my intelligence quotient was up in the proverbial stratosphere.
Oh my. And then there was the other stuff. And there went the remainder of my drink as I cringed in recollection.
All those damned orgasms. And the different positions and such. And that thing about begging him to come in my mouth.
I seized his nearly full drink. Nearly a year later. Yanked my hair from behind his shoulder, hissed, “If you do not go and get me another drink right now, I will set you on fire.”
I was pretty sure he remembered me sneaking out of his hotel room at some god-awful predawn moment, reeking of sex and his come, my come, our particular alchemy of combined come. Fleeing. Already programming my mind in forgetfulness.
Without a word, relinquishing his drink, he rose and disappeared bar-ward.
I drank deeply. Gasped. Winced. Soda water? This was getting worse and worse.
He was back quickly. I couldn’t decide if it was too soon, or not soon enough.
“I’m on the wagon,” he explained, taking back his drink.
“And I’m celibate,” I said, taking the proffered mug.
It was a ridiculously huge mug of beer. I couldn’t help but feel as though he was making fun of me in some way.
“You like beer,” he said.
“Why would you think that?” I snapped.
“All those brew pub sites you visit?”
Nothing was apparently sacred. I considered the fact that my online activity was obviously monitored, and took a long sip.
Domestic. Light. He was definitely messing with me.
“So…” he began. One of those So’s fraught with heavy significance. And then it was our mutual boss, looming over us with diabolical good cheer.
“Beer!” he boomed. “Proof that god wants us to be happy! How you two doing? My favorite employees! Sitting here together!”
“Heh,” I muttered, shooting an accusing look at my co-worker. For someone who’s name I remember not being able to stop moaning, I couldn’t for the life of me abruptly recall anything beyond the numerals of his electronic ID.
He shrugged slightly, denying any kiss-and-tell.
It seemed to me extremely likely that our employer possessed dark, geeky powers of knowledge.
Or else he’d spied on those deleted emails.
“And David! You’re not drinking! And Annie! You’ve quit sex?”
The guy paid us enough to get away with shit like this.
We both nodded like naughty children.
“It could help our productivity,” David ventured.
Yep. That was the name I remembered using in conjunction with entreaties to make me come, make me come again, and for the love of everything holy to keep doing it more even though, yes, it hurt.
“Definitely,” I concurred, even as my face flushed hot.
“Oh no, no, no,” our boss chuckled, squeezing in next to me, necessitating an uncomfortable proximity to David. “It’s carnality that fuels our genius. To feed our intellect, we must first feed our flesh. Aestheticism without desecration in an abomination, an atrocity, and a breach of both your contracts.”
I took a big gulp of beer to see if it would help. Nope. I still had no clue what he was talking about.
“Take Buffy for example, “ he continued.
“Okay. Buffy,” I frowned. I was really trying to comprehend. Really I was.
“Good Angel? Or Soulless Angel?”
“Soulless Angel,” both David and I replied in unison.
“Exactly!” he beamed. “Exactly.”
He threw an arm around both David and I. He raised what appeared and smelled to be a not-so-small mug of straight tequila.
“To our work!” he bellowed in toast.
Echoing shouts filled the room.
“Whatever it may be!” I muttered under my breath, but took a big slug of my beer.
“Our project is almost complete; I can tell you that much,” our boss grinned.
This was news to me.
“Merry Christmas!” All hieroglyphics, she came bearing a tray of drinks.
“Chastity! Baby! Sit down!”
Chastity. Somehow I hadn’t seen that name coming.
I was squished even closer to David. The short hem of my dress was riding up on my thighs. When he leaned over to take a drink, his forearm brushed my breasts.
He took a glass for me, too. Green stuff. I watched him tumble from that wagon, shudder, smile and reach for another. I decided it was better to shoot than to sip, and disposed of mine as well.
The room seemed to be growing warmer. The air seemed heavy and hot and the light seemed to be flickering feverishly. Over across the room, some of my anonymous co-workers seemed to be engaged in a kind of chanting.
Things seemed to be taking a turn for the surreal; I vowed to eschew any more beverage material.
Turning back, I blinked and then tried that old one-eyed standby. But no, I wasn’t apparently hallucinating, Chastity, my co-worker, had somehow become bare breasted as she sat chatting and laughing next to our boss.
Somehow, I didn’t recall this from last year’s party. Karaoke yes, full frontal nudity, no.
Hieroglyphics here as well. Hieroglyphics everywhere? And my, but didn’t she have huge nipples?
“I want to fuck you again,” David whispered against my cheek.
I recoiled. “I’m celibate,” I hissed. “Knock it off.”
“I want to make you come for me,” he persisted. And his breath was warm against my skin.
“I’m pretty sure this is sexual harassment,” I glared. Had his eyes always been so blue?
“I bet you’re already wet.”
Insufferable. Ego!
Someone was saying something. It was Chastity. “I love your shoes, Annie.” And our boss was scooping up my legs, tossing them across his lap, granting Chastity full access to my footwear.
“They were, uh…” She was taking them off my feet. “On sale? Online?”
“They’re hot,” she giggled, letting them fall to the floor.
My position had me effectively leaning back against David, my hemline drastically decreasing. He swept my hair back from my neck, pressed his lips against me there.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “Stop it.” Why can’t erogenous zones have a kind of shut-off switch? His mouth was warm, wet, sucking at my flesh. I felt the press of his teeth upon me.
“Don’t fight me,” he murmured against me.
“Oh, fight him a little,” our boss snickered.
Christ, Chastity seemed to be issuing some kind of salacious foot massage. And in my peripheral vision, towards the back of the room, was that flailing naked flesh I spied?
The party was clearly getting off on the wrong track and needed immediate steerage back to debate regarding, say, Reality TV.
“Quit!” I scolded, arching up to pull my legs back. David had my dress abruptly up around my waist.
I swear, I’d really meant to wear those panties.
Chastity was pulling my legs back, winding her long-nailed fingers lewdly between my toes.
“This is ridiculous,” I admonished. Was there a wind in the room? How could there be a wind, all sultry and lush and tropic? Had the air conditioning malfunctioned?
Hands slid over my bare hips, his breath touched my ear. “Open your legs for me.”
Scowling, I struggled and he locked an arm around my waist. “Will you do something?” I snapped at our boss across whose lap my legs were held stretched.
He toasted me with his drink. “I prefer to delegate.”
Upper management!
I was beginning to believe that there’d be no Karaoke this year.
Probably no secret santa gift exchange as well.
His hands moved to my breasts, molding, squeezing, finding my nipples and pinching me hard. I shuddered, I couldn’t help it, and my hips bucked involuntarily.
“She likes it rough,” I heard our boss murmur, and wondered what other sites I’d been monitored viewing.
David twisted my nipples again, and I cried out. When he stroked down my body, urged my thighs apart with his hands, I let my legs open for him. I couldn’t martial any strong resistance, and the chanting in the background had swelled to a deep, mesmerizing level. Was that Chastity’s mouth on my foot?
Wet, warm, swollen. You know how it is, when a man reaches down between your legs? Touches you and it’s as though you’ve melted into a sweltering thick pool of fervor and heat. It’s as though logic has taken a backseat to hedonism. Superego has become urgent, licentious, fleshly feral Id. And it’s hard to retreat from this point.
“All wet for me,” he breathed. A line from every piece of online porn I’d ever read.
An arm reached out, our boss’ arm, and my dress tore from my body as though made from cobwebs.
“Where’s the delegation?” I demanded.
“That’s called administration,” our boss rumbled, all smiles and tequila, and leaned back comfortably again.
It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that the carpet had seemingly changed into grass. That I saw stars where a ceiling had been. That I was surrounded by avid and nude co-workers. That Chastity had somehow acquired a huge phallic dildo and was lasciviously working it in and out of her hieroglyphiced pussy. And that I saw that they were not hieroglyphics at all, but some strange kind of rune.
It only mattered that David had turned my face for his kiss. That I could suck on his tongue as he thrust it into my mouth. That his hands were rough, hard, brutally arousing on my breasts. That he was leaning over me, holding me across his lap and he was somehow as naked as I.
I was panting. I pressed my thighs together and felt my own slipperiness. He rolled to the ground, the fertile, verdant ground, tumbled me down on what seemed to be some kind of chaise, and went to his knees, spreading my legs wide, open across his shoulders.
Oh god, his mouth on me, sucking, biting me there, and the plunge of his fingers deep into me, making me buck and writhe and beg incoherently. I could smell us both in the humid, damp air. The smell of our bodies, our sweat, the wetness that poured from me as I came. And it was rut, all heat, and I screamed beneath the sooty preternatural sky as all technology gave way to chaos.
Panting, shaking, reverberating from orgasm, I collapsed backwards as he lowered my legs.
“Do her doggie-style,” our boss suggested indolently.
Amenable, David pulled me around, down to my knees on what certainly felt like lawn, and bent me over.
Every bit the team player I’d asserted myself to be on my résumé, I bent down, arched my hips, moaned his name into the cushions.
He pressed a hand down on the small of my back, caught my hair and pulled me curved back. Behind me on the ground, between my thighs, he shoved my legs wide apart, and I felt the slide of his cock against me. Slipping over me, stroking me, teasing me as I tried to push back, tried to make him enter me.
He tightened his hold on my hair, held me still with his other hand, and I was shaking beneath him. I heard myself whimpering, heard myself pleading with him, felt his breath against the back of my exposed neck as he chuckled and pushed the swollen head of his cock in just slightly, testing the heat and wet of me, feeling the urgency of my need for him, before pulling away as I begged him to fill me.
I had no pride, no shame. I felt my own juices, as wet and warm as a summer’s rainfall, trickle down my inner thighs, and I felt as though I would have given anything, done, said, promised anything, just to have him shove the hard, heavy length of himself deep into me.
“Tell me you want me to fuck you, Annie,” he whispered. “Tell me you want me inside you.”
“Please,” I implored. The hot, damp wind seemed to roll over the coursing sweat of my body. I trembled and shook, and the ground seem to quake in a rhythm concordant and compelling. I was aching, my body was an agony of lust for him. The chanting, the inexorable, ceaseless chanting seemed to echo the pulse, the throbbing of my blood.
“Fuck me, please fuck me,” I gasped. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear I will set you on fire…”
The shrill of my screams seemed to distort the air, the wind, the unlikely constellations flickering in the night sky, as he plunged himself into me, hard, hurting, brutal and perfect, and rode my body down, down to the grass and ground, drove me wildly into a riot of baseness and bliss.
All fierce heat and fever, I bit at him, felt the sink of his own teeth into my shoulder and the bruise of his hands holding me down, down, writhing under his cock thrusting into me, tumbling me over to my back beneath him, our bodies slippery, saline with sweat, fucking with vicious exultation as I convulsed, coming for him, coming in some infernal communion that set all order to tumble into anarchy.
Rearing back, my hips held in his hands, fast, forceful, he pounded himself into me as I lay riven and breathless on the shuddering ground. Shouting, eyes rolled up to the enigmatical starlight, shouting some arcanum out into the night, and a thunder resounded in synchrony as he came hard and deep into me.
And then collapsed together, in the fluid fusion of our bodies, catching our breathes, heavy in a profundity and calm, our boss like a benediction soothing our flushed faces with the coolness of a damp towel, slaking our thirsts with the fresh chill of water from the cupped palms of his own hands.
The lawn beneath our bodies was damp and green, and the air was consecrated, heady and rich, and I sighed in the starlight, and curled up against David. All was still and slow, hallowed and ripe. The chanting had turned to a hum, a sensuous, heavy, rapturous murmur. Our boss sprawled languorous, enshrined, on the chaise lounge, a drowsing Chastity, runes slightly smeared, beside him.
All was well and all was sanctified and all the neural networking was proceeding to reduce the dimensionality of data into a perfection of perceptron learning.
Then there was the disturbance. Movement, circling around, the jerky sound of excited breathing, something being aimed my way.
I sat up, though loathe to leave the comfort of David’s body. It was so dark, all shadowy from the soaring trees encircling us. At first I didn’t see him, then I caught sight of him, dodging behind the trees, hiding behind the great stone altar, aiming his ridiculously small camera phone at me.
Little weasel.
“You take one more picture,” I snarled, “and I swear…”
I saw him take aim again, and once more, and then a volley of wind and flame, broiling, enkindled, roaring red-hot, overtook him, lifted him screeching and incandescent, setting him to blaze atop the rough altar.
The combustion illuminated our bodies; we glistened in the flare. I felt the burnishing heat press against my flesh, push against my body, and I gasped and writhed and felt David seize me by my hips, roll me beneath him again.
Sore, oh, hurting, and he shoved into me again and I cried out, feeling myself come, coming again, as all was fire and sear and the sizzle of grease, the pop of charred bone. My legs up high, spread wide over his upper arms, in me, in me, in me more, his cock hot, swollen, soaked from my slickness. And he roared above me, outlined against the flame and glow, and I caught his wrist with my mouth, my teeth, biting, sucking at him, the salt and red of his blood on my lips as I shrieked into the smoky sky, felt him plunge deep, all pain and passion and prayer, fill me with the burn of his seed, and the night wind shimmered and shuddered around us, rank and rich with scorching flesh.
***
He burned pretty quick, actually. Little weasel. I was kind of surprised. And as Chastity was helping me back into my shoes, and I was retrieving my beer mug from the little table gracing the sofa area, I took note that there was nothing much left of him but a small-ish pile of ashes.
“You did warn him,” Chastity pointed out.
“I never really liked that guy,” David remarked as he tried to hide a yawn.
“His productivity was way off,” our boss disclosed.
A waiter appeared with a tray of fresh drinks. Muzack played conventionally in the background. I took a cold, icy mug. I love beer.
“To our work!” our boss boomed. All over the room, glasses were raised, faces beaming. “Tomorrow we begin our challenging second phase!”
“Tomorrow?” I grumbled. “How about a day off? With pay.”
“Slacker,” David teased.
The Karaoke machine and microphone were being set up on the stage. I had a mean rendition of a Gretchen Wilson song I’d been working on. I wondered if David would guess that I was his secret santa. I smoothed my dress down over my hips and shook out my hair.
Damn, but I loved me some holiday office party.
]]>By Circe
October 27, 2004
Hungry for the case, even, and what I was complacently sure cracking it would gain for me.
I was ambitious; I wanted to prove myself in the Division, move up in rank, gain all those kudos of money and power.
‘Course I also had a kind of chip on my shoulder, frustrated by being seen as the new girl, the one too young, too slight of frame, too curly-haired and small-voiced to command any authority. No university degrees, no lethal acuity on the firing range, no superlative scores in Preternatural Assault and Defense, was going to change any minds around here.
What I needed was a big case. And what I needed was to solve it in a big, flashy way.
I thought I might just have found it.
“X.D., Jones speaking,” I answered the phone, consciously deepening my voice.
The Division mandated décor, and therefore cheap silvery tinsel wavered from the ceiling of my cubical, vying with tacky snowmen and dingy, cut-out snowflakes.
(Cubical! I was greedy for a real office.)
“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!” a little voice frantically whispered and I immediately sat up straight. After long boring weeks of investigating reindeer cruelty, the fear and tension on the other end of the line fired up my interest.
“And the Appropriate Seasonal Greeting to you as well,” I responded in the also mandated Correct Division-Speak. “How can I help you, Sir-Or-Ma’am?”
With these elves, you can never be too sure about gender. Better politically safe than sorry.
“I want to report…” the rest of the words were cut off in a hideous tinkle of Seasonal Muzak along with the regulated flurry of fake snow that the Division, in all its wisdom, deemed necessary to assault the entire office with at 22 minute intervals. To keep us focused, keep us in the Xmas Division mood. By the end of the day, I’d be calf-deep in faux snow, my head splitting with the sound of sleigh bells.
“Could you please repeat that?” I asked, huffing snowflakes from my face.
“Abuse! Coercion! A sexually hostile work environment!” the elf gasped. I decided right away that this was a female elf. No guy, elf or otherwise with any delusion of cojones,
was going to use that old SHWE complaint.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to be more explicit,” I said.
I was losing interest, sure this was going to be another version of the boy elves teasing the girl elves. Same shit, different day; not even the cheapest so-called media personality would come near these stories any more. At the Xmas Division, we were regularly inundated with these grievances.
Petty… my brain sighed, and I slumped back into my chair, reached for my mug of tepid coffee. Predictably, tiny garish santas cavorted around the plastic cup.
I was barely listening as the elf squeaked into the phone. “Butt plugs! Forced oral copulation! Latex body suits! Whips! Bondage! Eggnog enemas!”
That almost caught my attention. “Alcoholic or otherwise?” I asked, making notes. This might require referral to the ATF.
This paused the elf in mid sputter. “Uh… there’s just no telling! No way to be sure! But I’d have to presume… yes! Alcoholic eggnog! Rum, most likely! The Big Guy likes his rum…”
I sat up so abruptly that I set the tinsel to fluttering madly. The pencil creaked in my hand. The Big Guy? This could only mean… the case of a lifetime. Recognition, promotion, and a big fat raise.
My much coveted 15 Minutes of Fame.
***
Talk shows, book deals and film rights dancing through my head, I worked with the elf I’d immediately code-named Mini Throat, for nearly a week, exhaustively documenting each and every aspect of abuse and assault.
There was a fairly wide range of offenses. From the much clichéd Tickle My Beard/Grab Your Titties misconduct, to the graver assault of verbal harassment (“Ho! Ho! Ho!”), to the more interesting felonious assaults involving racially profiled dildos, frozen reindeer spunk and auto asphyxiation.
I kept the details of the case to myself, faking to my co-workers that I was involved drearily in yet another case of Illegal Mistletoe Harvest.
This was in direct violation of more than one Division ordinance, but I didn’t want to share. No Guts, No Glory, I told myself, and jealously guarded my burgeoning case.
I was going to single handedly bring down the Big Guy. Reveal him to the whole world as the disgusting, foul pervert he really was. Strip away that whole benevolent, benign, altruistic jolly-old-soul PR campaign thing he’d hidden behind for all these years.
Toys, candy, sled-and-reindeer! One-man charity in a red suit! Cookies and freaking milk!
I was going to ruin him.
Me.
Ruin.
Santa.
It topped my Seasonally Appropriate Wish List!
***
My one-girl investigation reached the point where the only thing left was to confront the Man In Red himself.
Of course I wore a wire. This was going to be good. I didn’t want to lose a single syllable.
I was undecided as to what actress I preferred to play my role in the miniseries I was certain this would become. I nursed a secret fantasy that I would be Discovered by the casting agent who would plead with me to give up my very powerful and lucrative command of the Division to fulfill my potential in acting.
As I pulled my arctic glider into the Guest parking lot at Kringle Central, my mind was full of the projected persuasion of the casting agent. But please Ms Jones! You must, you simply must allow the world to applaud you in this role! No one else could bring to the screen your beauty, wit, and feisty intelligence! Please Ms Jones, oh please-please-please…
“You got security clearance?” I was rudely interrupted by a misshapen little elf rapping on my window.
“I’m with the Xmas Division!” I snapped. “I don’t need any security clearance.”
The elf made a crude sound and spat into the dirty snow. I sensed his depraved little eyes on my ass as I walked up the candy cane bordered path and into the building.
The receptionist stank of cigarettes and peppermint schnapps. She indifferently waved me toward the elevator. “Big Guy’s expecting you, “ she said, puffing smoke, and then convulsing into a sort of hacking laughter.
Charming. A clear violation of the Clean Air Act. I made a mental note to report her once back at the Division.
I had to share the elevator with more elves wrangling a badly decorated tree.
“Is that from a licensed Seasonal Tree Forest?” I demanded. They just snickered. One of them tried to look under the hem of my skirt.
I fumed in silence the rest of the ascent. The corruption and noncompliance were more widespread than I’d even imagined.
The Big Guy’s floor had no number. The elevator doors slid open to reveal a foyer glowing with strings of red bulbs. I stepped out onto thick, no doubt illegally imported rug. My heels sank silently. The doors shut behind me to the disgusting mouth noises of the elves.
I fumbled surreptiously within my cleavage; activated the recording device. I strode decisively down the long hallway towards the only office on the entire floor. Holiday tunes emanated jeeringly from within. The red bulbs flickered. The atmosphere was both tawdry good cheer and somehow lewd.
“Come in! Come in!” a jolly voice called from within the vast office room. “Merry Christmas! Ho ho ho!”
I frowned, couldn’t decide if this was some double entendre of verbal abuse. Decided to let it pass. For now. Stepped into the room.
There was the proverbial fire. Things I assumed to be chestnuts appeared to be popping on an iron plate over the flames. Plates of brightly frosted cookies seemed to cover every available flat surface. Above the mantle, a reindeer’s head was mounted. The nose was a disconcerting faded claret.
His desk chair was huge. Throne would have been an appropriate word. He sprawled there, one long leg draped almost insolently over the vast plush arm of it. He was garbed in only thermal long johns and my lips tightened into a frown at this blatant show of disrespect.
I was from the Xmas Division, dammit! Get some freaking clothes on.
His bushy white beard tumbled down to his obscenely rounded belly. His lips were disgustingly bowed as they curled around his pipe stem, puffing wreathes of second-hand smoke unlawfully into the air. His nose was indeed that bright cherry red of the insipient alcoholic. His dimples were lewd.
“Wanna sit in my lap, little girl?” he leered.
“I am from the Xmas Division and I am here on official Division business, Mr. Kringle!” I proclaimed.
“Awwww,” he chuckled. “Call me Santa, honey. Everyone does. Want a cookie?”
“No thank you Mr…. Saint Nick.” I was getting uncomfortable and this annoyed me. There was something demeaning about standing here before him in his huge chair, his blue eyes twinkling impudently upon me, his tongue lasciviously darting out to wet the pipe stem.
I found myself shifting nervously, my high heels sinking lopsidedly into the rich carpeting. I forced myself to stand still. Schooled my expression into one of cold disdain.
“There have been numerous complaints lodged against you,” I began officiously.
“You cold, sweetie?” he interrupted. “Come closer to the fire.”
His eyes were unabashedly upon my breasts. My nipples had drawn into hard little peaks behind my camisole, behind the heavy silk of my blouse. I was suddenly sure that he could see the outline of the recorder nestled into my cleavage.
“Very grave complaints, Mr. Claus,” I continued sternly. “Crimes punishable by up to 30 years imprisonment.”
He laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
This was definitely not proceeding as I had planned. It was time for me to unequivocally get the upper hand.
“If you refuse to take me seriously, sir…” I began in my most rehearsed, most threatening tone.
With startling speed for such a large man, he unfolded himself from his throne and came to his feet. In surprise and what I refused to acknowledge as alarm, I stumbled backwards.
His big hands caught my shoulders, steadying me, then jerking me up against his burly chest. “How long since you been fucked, baby?” he said, and my cheeks flamed with color. “Not naughty for a long, long time, huh honey?”
I strained away from him. I cringed, repelled to feel him bulging against my tummy. The disgusting pipe smoke was going to get in my hair, too.
“Let me go! This instant!” To my dismay, my voice came out high, girlish.
“I don’t think so, cutie pie,” he chuckled. “I think you’re gonna sit down on Santa’s lap like a good girl, and tell him all the things you want.” He paused, his dimples deepened, his tongue flickered out aside his pipe stem again. “What you really want, baby. And don’t try to lie. You can’t lie to Santa. Santa knows.”
He lifted me up like a bundle of toys and I squeaked in fright.
This part was definitely going to be edited from my miniseries!
He settled into his chair, holding me as I squirmed in his lap, trying to escape.
“A lively little thing, aren’t you?” he laughed. “I bet you like it up the ass.”
I shrieked and pummeled him with my fists.
“Let me go!” I cried.
“Do you spit or swallow?” he asked.
I kicked at him.
This was not going well. Not well at all. And yet… wow, what a lawsuit this was going to make! And it was all being carefully recorded. Lawyers would be lining up to take my case. I’d be rich! I’d be famous as the woman who sued Santa.
“Owwww!” I wailed as his big fingers caught my nipple. His other hand was in my hair, twisting painfully, holding me still, ruining the carefully tight bun of my hair.
Surreally, he still puffed at his pipe, smoke haloing his snow white hair. “And what do you want for Christmas, little girl?” he chuckled. “I’m sure Santa’s got a special toy just for you!”
His hand left my breast. I was so worried that he’d find that I was wearing a wire! Setting his smoldering pipe aside, he bent over me.
“Give Santa a little kiss, baby doll,” he coaxed.
I tried to fight. I tried to keep my lips shut tight against him, but he just laughed. His fist twisted cruelly in my hair and tears sprung to my eyes.
“Give Santa your mouth, honey,” he cajoled, blue eyes twinkling with inexorable good cheer.
With a sob, I opened to him, his tongue invading my mouth, his taste all pipe smoke and pine.
I’d never been kissed like this. So hard, so brutal, with such pervasive glee behind the cruelty.
“You taste so good, baby,” he whispered against my bruised lips. “So sweet, so scared, and still so defiant.”
His hands shook out the honey-colored curls, scattering my hair down upon my shoulders.
“My pretty little girl,” he said, and then I gasped as he took hold of my blouse and ripped it wide open.
“Pretty little titties!” he laughed. “Pretty little high-tech recorder!”
I began to shake in fear and in anger. Here went my fame and fortune. Now I was going to be raped for freaking nothing. So unfair!
“We can keep the tape going, cookie, if that’s what you want,” he chortled. “A little audio memento? A little keepsake?”
I nearly swooned with relief. Yes, I saw the recording was still going, as he set it beside his pipe.
“Now show me your tits,” he ordered.
“No! No!” I cried out carefully, ever mindful of my future court case. “This is rape!”
“And what says Merry Christmas more than rape, young lady?” he chuckled, and yanked my tiny bra away from my breasts.
I struggled. My shoes flew from my stocking feet. Through the flurry of the tussle, I could hear his laughter, feel his hilarity shake through his big body, jiggle his belly, seem to further swell the hard jut of his cock. His hand pushed up under my skirt, caught my ass in a painful grip and I screamed.
“Scream, baby, scream more,” he urged, fingers digging into the soft crack of my bottom.
He bent over my breasts, his beard falling upon my belly. He dragged his teeth over my nipples. One side, and then the other. I couldn’t pull away from him. I knew what he was going to do and wailed in fear.
“Sweet little girl titties,” he murmured, and then his mouth found me.
He sucked at my nipples, he sucked with his rough, wind-chapped lips, and caught me with his teeth, biting, nipping at me.
I was begging. I was suddenly bathed in a sweat of fear. All at once, every thought of, celebrity, fortune, and those 15 fun minutes of fame, fled from my mind.
“Please Santa, please…” I pleaded, hardly recognizing my own voice.
“I like that,” he breathed, his mouth wet, his blue eyes glittering. ‘Beg me, sweetheart. Beg Santa some more.”
He lowered his head to my breasts again, his beard rough against my tender flesh, his teeth biting, his mouth sucking at me as I writhed and sobbed in his lap.
His hand tightened on my bottom, he raised his head from my ravaged breasts and seized my skirt by the fragile waistband. The sound of the fabric tearing ripped through the fire-heated room.
“That’s my girl!” he chuckled. Candy Cane colored garters held up my stockings. The wispy silk of my thong was peppermint red.
I flailed at him in a renewal of panic. I felt so small, so defenseless, held nearly naked in Santa’s big lap. The big fingers of his hand insinuated themselves deeper between my bottom cheeks.
“No! No!” I cried, whipping my head around. I sunk my teeth deep into his hard bicep.
He grunted in pain and jerked his arm from my mouth. “Baby likes to bite?” he growled. “It’s very naughty to bite Santa.”
He lifted me like a doll; I found myself sprawled over his broad lap, my bottom barely covered by my thong panties, the vast tent of his penis thrusting up beside my face as he held me face down.
“Do you know what happens to bad girls, honey? Bad girls that make Santa angry?” he asked. I shuddered, my breath hitching in my throat. “Answer me. Always answer Santa when he asks you a question.”
His hand slid up under my hair, to the vulnerable nape of my neck. He tightened his hold, making me gasp and shake harder. “Answer me!” he said.
“I…I… I don’t know,” I stuttered.
“Coal,” he said. “Stockings full of coal. That’s what you’ve always heard, right honey?” He laughed darkly. “What you haven’t probably heard, is how Santa breaks those bad little girls in so hard that they don’t sit down for weeks.”
I began to sob in earnest. Tears flooded my face, wetting the thin thermal material beneath my cheeks.
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” he sighed in pleasure, pulling my face up by my hair to further enjoy my tears. He touched my face, rolled a thick finger in that damp salinity, and then brought it to his lips to taste.
“Now are you gonna be naughty or nice for Santa, honey?” he whispered.
I could barely speak. “Nice,” I gasped. “Please Santa, I’m going to be nice!”
“That’s what I thought,” he nodded. His hand settled on my bottom again, kneading the rounded flesh there. I clenched against him, instinctively flinched away.
“Bad girl!” he roared, scaring me into a scream. His hand slapped my ass. And again, and again and my shrieks filled the hot room. “When Santa wants your ass, you give Santa your ass!”
I was frantic with terror and the pain of his big hard hand punishing me. I was incoherently begging, pleading, promising to do anything, anything, anything at all as long as he’d stop spanking me.
At some point this satisfied him and he stopped, leaving me a shivering tearful wreck upon his lap.
“Are you gonna be Santa’s good little girl?” he said and beyond speech, I nodded, nodded my head clumsily. “Get down on your knees then, baby. Down on your knees for Santa.”
I slid obediently down, kneeling on the rug before his spread legs. He seized me by the hair, crushed my face against the hard projection of his cock. The long johns were damp with the seep of pre come. I could smell the rough male musk of him.
He rubbed my cheeks against him, grunting his pleasure at my small cries of distress. Then he flung me away from him, so hard that I tumbled backwards upon the floor.
Rising from the throne, he stripped himself of his thermals. My eyes widened in horror and fear. His chest was wide, massive, thick with twisted white hairs. Arms, legs, as brawny and weathered as the branches of old trees. Wide, bulky shoulders, intermittently swathed in obscenely curling hair. Tattoos curled round his huge arms. Upon one, the jagged ring of barbed wire was interjected by the small mark, small seep of blood from my bite.
His belly, the hard big belly of a man satisfied with his life, happy with his vice, darkly, deeply cheerful, rounded out his body. Beneath it thrust the biggest cock I’d ever seen in my life.
I gasped, and he chuckled.
Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no, I thought in a terrified litany, but abruptly aware that my nipples were swollen, the crotch of my panties suddenly soaked.
His balls hung massive, white-haired and heavy beneath the jut of his cock. He was thick. It was the thickness that was more fearsome than the length. The head of his cock was flushed dark and round as a plum, shiny with the leak of his come.
“Got your stocking stuffer right here, sweetie pie,” he laughed uproariously. “Get back over here and take a little taste.”
Too scared to refuse, I crawled over to him, let him pull me between his legs as he sank back onto his chair.
“Take it,” he grunted. “Take Santa’s cock in your mouth…”
Carefully, I opened my mouth around the huge head. I tentatively touched my tongue to the wet pre come of him. Sugar cookies, I marveled. Santa’s come tastes like sugar cookies.
“Deeper. Deeper!” he ordered, and I complied, taking the hot weight of his cock further in my mouth.
I sucked, I licked, trying desperately to recall some kind of technique. I was desperate to make him come, end this nightmare without further ordeal. The thought of that cock thrust up into me elsewhere was terrifying.
“You call that a blowjob?” he rumbled. His big hands caught my face. He shoved himself deep into my mouth, down into my throat.
I fought, I tried to struggle, but he was so strong, his hands holding me easily as I choked and moaned in my throat, tears spurting from my eyes.
Finally, near suffocation, I stopped fighting, sagged on my knees, gave myself up as he fucked my mouth. And I don’t know when I became aware that I was throbbing between my legs. A slow hot throb that made me feel wet, swollen, made me arch my hips in little bucks towards him as I knelt there in front of him, his cock deep into my mouth.
He was talking to me, talking so dirty. “You’re on your knees for Santa, darlin. Santa’s fucking your little girl mouth like it’ll never be fucked again. You’re gonna swallow Santa’s come, baby. Santa’s gonna come all over your face, down your throat, in your pretty blonde hair…”
And I wanted it, wanted it as I’d never wanted it before. Wanted it when in truth I’d never wanted it before. Some guy spurting his semen into your mouth? Oh gross. No thank you!
I pressed my thighs together, feeling the slick wetness that was spreading down my legs. I was distantly appalled at myself, realizing to my confusion that I wanted this big hairy old man to do whatever he wanted to me. Use me any way he chose. Shove that hard scary cock down my throat or into my pussy or up my untried ass.
Anything. Everything. I suddenly wanted it.
He was panting, pushing deeper into my throat, and his cock had swollen tighter, bigger, thick with blood and lust.
“That’s my good girl…” he grunted, fingers digging hurtfully into my face. “That’s Santa’s good little girl…”
And he came, a hard long spurt into my throat, and fresh tears jumped from my eyes as I choked. With a gratified roar, he pulled his cock from my mouth and shot more come into my face.
Hot, thick, tasting, smelling, like some organically compounded cookie, it flowed profusely down my cheeks. He spurted again, wetting my tangled curls. I was moaning, weak on my knees, blind with his come, feeling both utterly defiled and sheerly wanton.
Beyond will, I let him pull me to my feet, tuck me into the huge upholstered chair, wipe my face with the tattered remains of my blouse.
“Sweet baby,” he whispered, stroking back my hair. His mouth latched onto my throat, sucking, licking me, bruising me. I whined against the pain, but arched against him. His thick fingers caught my nipples, pulling, rolling them, hurting me, hurting me, making me even wetter.
“Show me your little pussy, honey,” he urged, his hands spreading my thighs. “Show ol Santa your pussy, baby…”
He opened me, tearing my panties away as though they were spider web, parting me for his gaze, trailing a big finger through my heavy wetness, making me gasp and thrust against his hand.
“Some little girl wants to come,” he teased. “Some little girl is all wet for Santa.” His finger found my clit, flicked me there hard, making me cry out. “Beg Santa, baby. Beg Santa to make you come.”
“Please, please!” I moaned. The words burst from me. “Make me come for you, please, Santa, please, please!”
He chuckled, slid a finger through my wet, nudged at the entrance to my pussy. Helpless, I cried out, pushed my hips against his touch. “I’m gonna finger fuck you, darlin. Get you all hot and ready for me.”
His words heated me as much as his touch. I groaned as he slid a finger deep inside me, worked it slowly in and out. I found myself clinging to him, my hands clutching his arms, his shoulders, the snowy fall of his beard. “Gimme your mouth, sweetheart,” he whispered, and I did, kissing him, kissing him, welcoming the thrust of his tongue as I did his finger, letting him draw my tongue into the warmth of his own mouth, shaking helplessly as he brought me closer and closer.
“Come for me baby, come for me,” he ordered, his breath upon my face, his finger deep inside me, thumb on my clit, demanding, demanding, demanding that I come now, come for him, come just for him.
“Santa! Santa! Oh Santa!” I cried, body jerking, wetness spurting from my convulsing pussy, rush after rush flowing through me.
I lay collapsed damply upon the throne, barely able to catch my breath, my heart a good small thunder in my breast. I heard him chuckle as he pulled his finger out of me, wiped his hand upon my thigh. “That’s my good little girl,” he said. “That’s Santa’s good little helper.”
I was barely aware that he moved, lifted me slightly, lay me belly down over the wide, vast expanse of the chair arm.
“Santa…” I murmured languidly.
“Shhhh baby,” he replied.
It felt so nice, his big rough hands upon my skin, rubbing, soothing my back. Even when his hands dropped down lower, caressing the sweat at the small of my back, moving down further to cup the bare cheeks of my bottom.
His beard tickled my butt and thighs as he bent down to me. I squirmed a little, and his hands took my bottom firmly, his arms moved to spread my thighs wider, and his face pushed down between my spread cheeks.
I squeaked in surprise, distress, and his hands tightened warningly on flesh still stinging from his earlier spanks.
Oh! I bit my lip against the shame of the pleasure as the warm wet of his tongue laved along the channel of my bottom. Again, again, so slow, so heated, so wet, and I did not know if I was writhing away or towards this obscene thing he was doing to me.
Closer, closer, and I was barely aware that I was moaning, bent over, rocking against the big arm of the chair, and then his mouth fastened upon me there, where I had never imagined any man would want to be, and his tongue was pushing against me, working into me wetly, insistently, and it was his hands holding me against the shudders that consumed me, the taboo of pleasure that had me incoherent with want.
“Good girl, good girl,” he murmured, kissing back up my ass cheek. When his finger followed where his tongue had just been, I only shivered weakly and yielded to him.
He was going to do whatever he wanted to me. Have me any way he chose. I knew I could do nothing to stop him. Everything seemed surreal. The fire-warmed air, the dim incessancy of the carols, the lewd red glow of the tiny lights. Santa’s going to fuck my ass, I thought hazily, even as I raised my butt higher in the air for the invasion of his finger.
“Santa, Santa…” I moaned. In trepidation, in pain, in need. I felt his cock against the inside of my thigh. My ass was full with his wide finger. “Fuck me, Santa. Please fuck me…”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice thick with lust, “you’re gonna get fucked by Santa, honey.”
The swollen head of his cock parted the lips of my pussy, spreading me open. He pushed further inside and I gasped. Fear made sudden inroads against passion and I strained away. No vanilla frat boy sex had prepared me for this!
“No!” I protested. ‘Oh no!”
He pulled his finger roughly from my ass and this hurt even worse than his cock shoving barely inside me. I tried to lunge away from him and he caught me around the hips, yanked me back, impaling me even further on his cock.
He smacked me on the ass. “Like it rough, don’t you? Just like I figured.”
He pushed me face down onto the chair arm, hauled my ass up high with his hard hands. Slapped me again as I wailed into the upholstery.
“Let Santa in, cutie, let Santa into your little pussy.”
I shrieked as he thrust deeper, pulled almost completely out and then shoved in again, and again, opening me up for him, using my own wet to ease his way deeper and deeper.
“Tight,” he groaned. “Just how Santa likes it.”
He was fucking me. His hands holding me spread wide open, exposed, so vulnerable in the red lights’ glow. I felt his balls slapping against me as he worked his full way into me. My hands gripped the chair, nails digging into the plush of it, but wasn’t I getting wetter?
He was talking to me, talking so filthy. “My baby girl has such a tight pink pussy! All wet and hot for Santa. Santa’s gonna fuck you til you scream, honey pie. Santa’s gonna fill you up with come.”
He grabbed me by the hair, pulled me up in an arch. Holding his cock shoved deep in me, he reached for my tits, his big rough hand mauling my peaked nipples, pinching, pulling, sending waves of pain and perverse lust through my body.
He chuckled as I cried out, as my pussy contracted at each hard tug to my nipples. Leaving my ravaged breasts, his hand slid down over my soft belly, to my sparsely curling pubic hair. I screamed as he fisted his hand there, tugged at me, the reached down and cupped my pussy in his palm. I flailed at the chair, trying to pull away, but he held me tighter, his hand knotted in my hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me back while he shoved his cock in deeper.
“Please Santa!” I wailed. “It hurts-it-hurts-it-hurts…”
“Take it,” he rumbled. “Take it, baby.”
Rubbing me, his wide palm slick, soaked, my clit swollen and almost unbearably sensitive, his cock filling me, stretching me open, shoved full up into me, and I could barely move as he held me, used me, made me shudder and beg and convulse around the huge invasion of his cock as he brought me closer and closer to orgasm.
I screamed as I came, completely out of any control but his. Screamed as his hand tightened over my clit, as he whispered dirty things into my ear, as his old strong teeth battened on my shoulder, and my pussy quaked and spasmed, spurting warm girl juice onto his heavy balls.
Limp, shuddering, damp with sweat, soaked to the thigh, he let me collapse down onto the chair arm, still kneeling behind me, cock pushed up hard into me.
I was moaning, my body still convulsing in little helpless jerk, tightening my pussy to feel his obdurate bulk lodged firmly up in me.
“Santa,” I whimpered. “Oh Santa, oh…”
“Who’s my good little girl?” he said, his voice rich with mirth and satisfaction.
“Me, Santa,” I answered, sagging helpless beneath him. “Anything, Santa, anything you want…”
“That’s right,” he agreed in jolly good humor. I felt his hands tug me up higher over the chair and I was limp and utterly compliant. He pushed my thighs open wider with his knees and I cried out weakly as he began to slowly pump himself in and out of my swollen, heated pussy.
I felt him moving, reaching, it seemed, and then his fingers trailing through the hot damp crevice of my ass. I squirmed slightly as his thick finger began to circle me there, using my own wetness to gain access. Then he pulled his finger out of me, bent over me, above me, and raised me up by my hair.
I was confused. Nothing seemed real. He was nudging at my mouth with something. Peppermint, my mind remarked, wonderingly.
“What? What?” I murmured, and he pushed a thick rounded stick in my mouth.
“Candy,” he chuckled, twirling it deeper into my mouth. “All little girls love candy.”
It was an oversized candy cane, sticky and sweet. I sucked on it; it stretched my mouth open. I licked with my tongue. He leisurely dragged his cock in and out of my wet pussy and the scent of peppermint suffused the room.
Then he pulled the candy cane away, pushed me back down on my belly and rose up over my prone back again.
Even in my dazed state, I knew what he held pressed against my ass. “Oh no!” I protested. I tried to scoot away. He held me down, increased the pressure against me. “It’s too big! Oh Santa, please! No!” I pleaded.
“Don’t fight, baby. Don’t clench,” he coaxed. “Let Santa in. Relax, sweetie pie. Relax…”
I was whimpering and fresh sweat filmed my body.
“Open your little ass for Santa, honey. Take the candy cane.”
I felt the massive cane push finally past that first tight entrance. In tandem, Santa pushed his cock deeper into my pussy. I was panting. Discomfort, fear, shame… wasn’t there something horribly, darkly, wantonly exciting about this too?
I was raising my ass for him, welcoming all incursion, feeling yet more impossible wetness flow from my pussy. I clung to the chair, buried my face into the soft fabric, even bit at the pillow to stifle or to enhance my hoarse, heated cries.
I was helpless. It was all out of my control. I was powerless against his will. And I loved it.
I reveled in it.
Hotter, wetter, more debauched than I’d ever imagined myself capable of being. Groaning, whimpering, breathless with lust, I was begging him, urging him, imploring him to do it all to me. I was using language I’d never known I had, entreating him to fuck me harder, fuck me more, make it hurt, more and more and more...
I must have passed out during an agonized, wrenching orgasm. That’s the only thing I can figure, but maybe it was the Big Guy using some of that old, wild Christmas magick on me.
I woke up in my arctic glider, stretched out in the back seat, parked in the deserted Xmas Division parking lot. My torn peppermint red panties jauntily adorned the rearview mirror. I groaned as I sat up. Everything hurt, ached, seemed covered with dried stickiness. A pervasive scent filled the vehicle.
I sat there, holding my aching head. My hair stood out in wild dried spikes. “Sugar cookies,” I whimpered unhappily.
I became aware that I was dressed in a kind of elf outfit. An elf suit taken to distressingly sleazy extremes. Santa was nothing if not a Big Guy with a big sense of humor.
I shifted, rose up, got ready to climb into the front seat where I could see my keys awaiting me on the console. My screech of pain reverberated through the glider, followed immediately by a string of profanity that was in no way approved as Correct Division-Speak. Gravity and my sudden movement cause me to gush with horrid cookie-scented come from both orifices.
I swore even more when I couldn’t, for the life of me, recall events leading up to him coming in my ass.
“Fucking-fuck-fuckity-fucking-Saint-Nick!” I gritted. Oh, I was sore! Defiled, degraded, despoiled, ruined, corrupted… My mind ran short on synonyms.
Raped! Raped by that fucking Santa Claus.
My tape! In a panic, I rolled over the seat, crying out in pain, leaking more come, desperate to find that recorder.
Ahhhh… I sagged in relief. Here it was. Tape still within it. Tied up in a red and white striped ribbon, little candy cane stickers adorning the high-tech plastic casing. (Bastard and his bastardly humor!)
I hit reverse, randomly hit play. Cried out in dismay.
Fuck me Santa! Oh fuck my ass Santa! Fuck me so hard, oh Santa, make me hurt, come in me, come in me, Santa…
Now that wasn’t going to work! Not at all!
Unless… I could edit?
Knowing him though, that jolly old elf had his own copy.
Fucker.
I started up the glider. Shifted in my seat. (Oh my sore ass!) Sighed. Turned towards home.
21 more shopping days til Christmas, the radio advised me with frantic good cheer, then segued into some old song apparently ignorant of Rudolph’s actual ending.
I damned myself, but was helpless against wondering: Did sodomy with Santa constitute naughty or nice?
And what would be in my stocking this Seasonally Appropriate morning?
It started to snow again. I sang along with the next carol.
Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus…
]]>In the couple days since the rough passion of their sex, Santos had felt awkward in Charon’s presence. She had made it clear in an amicable and even humorous way that she was not up for any repeat encounters of a similar nature. She had cheerfully sited her inclination towards discomfort-free sitting and walking as a major reason. They were still friends - that was unshakable - and yet Gray was as confounded by what had driven him to such extremes of lust as he was discomfited to have subjected Charon to it. He struggled to regain the symmetry of his life and character. He struggled to banish his compelling hunger for the slave girl Triss Sayng-Astra.
“Asking for me?” he said, his brows raised.
“Probably to reiterate her Kidnapped By Enemies, Sold Into Slavery tale,” Charon laughed.
“Always a classic,” he said dryly. But his mind, his newly rebellious mind, told hold of this opportunity. “I suppose I should listen to her story.”
“Get another feel of those luscious purple tits of hers,” Charon joked, and was surprised and perplexed by the flicker of guilt that crossed his normally impassive face.
He finally laughed. “An interesting color for tits,” he said lightly.
“That’s right. And hopefully a profitable one. Now, there’s a new game up in the Quasi-Reality levels. Do you want to go? Quasi Spelunking.”
“Quasi what?” he asked.
“Spelunking. Crawling around underground. It’s a genuine nova of an experience; you’ll really love it.”
“No. Thank you,” he said, smiling at her, giving an exaggerated shudder. “You go right ahead, Charon. I’ll deal with that Indicolite girl. Have them send her up here.”
Santos had returned to his record keeping and communications when the slave girl was conveyed to his room. He deliberately continued with his log for a moment after the door shut behind his crewmember, avoiding looking at her as she stood in his chambers. He caught her scent, the singular, elusive scent she emanated, that perfume evocative of sex, fertility. Female musk. He steeled himself against any reaction.
He was the sovereign of a vast and intricate inter-universal corporation, captaining this one of his many vessels only as a diversion from the ceaseless pressure and certain tedium of conducting business from the Santos Pan-Universal group of home planets. A kind of working vacation in which he could renew his contacts with the corporate planets of the Newer East Margin as well as enjoy traveling once again with Charon who was as bored with being planet-bound as he was.
This outlandish lust he felt for a slave girl could have no place in his life and in the character he had so carefully formed for himself.
Resolute and composed, he paused his log and coolly looked up at her. She stood by the door, her long hair pulled forward to cover her breasts, her hands folded in front of her thighs to conceal her pubic curls. She held her head high, and only the flicker of her eyes and the color in her cheeks betrayed her tension.
‘Captain,” she said formally, her bearing almost regal. “A terrible crime has been perpetuated against me. I seek your immediate assistance in remedying this situation.”
“Let me save us both some time,” he said, his voice cold. “I’ve reviewed the records kept on you and I am satisfied that they are in order. There is no evidence of any kidnapping as you purported before, or of any crime. You are a slave in the custody of Santos Pan-Universal of which I am the head. Now unless you have any tangible evidence to refute any of this, you are wasting my time.”
“Wasting your time!” her cheeks flushed plum. “The time of a slaver! You call me a liar? Deny me your aid? I have friends in very influential stations. They will not look well upon this!”
“Friends?” he demanded, rising to his feet so suddenly that she took an involuntary step backwards. “Very well. Provide me with their names, their universal channels of communications, and we will sort this matter out.”
She frowned and looked away.
“Well?” he charged. “Names? U.C.C. numbers?”
“I…” she sighed, then swallowed hard, glared into his face. “I cannot reveal their identities, their numbers.”
“I see,” he said. “You were lying.”
“No!” she cried, her lilac eyes wide in her rage. “I do not lie. You must believe me! You must return me to Indicolite.”
He laughed.
“Or any planet!” she demanded. “You must set me free immediately!”
“Out of the question. Enough of this foolishness. Resign yourself to your fate, girl.” He moved to summon a crewmember. He was satisfied with his self-control, pleased that he had apparently combated his inappropriate lust for her.
“No!” she cried and bolted into the adjoining room.
With a crash she shoved a chair into his path as he strode rapidly after her. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for a weapon?” he asked sardonically, easily side-stepping the chair. “To take me hostage? Highjack my ship?”
“I will not be a slave!” she cried, her eyes desperately darting around the room, indeed searching for any weapon.
Santos steadily pursued her. In a panic, she found herself cornered before his inexorable approach. “No!” she panted, her breasts heaving, her eyes big with fear and fury.
“Yes,” he said, and moved to seize her.
He was surprised at her strength as she fought him, kicking and trying to strike him with her fists. And he was shocked to realize that something within him had been waiting, hoping, for this moment, this excuse to touch her again.
Something fierce, something decidedly uncivilized rose within him hotly. Her heated nakedness struggling in his arms, the sultry fragrance of her sweat, the smothering soft lash of her long hair as she grappled with him, aroused something primal, powerful, feral and male that he had never guessed to be contained within him.
He pushed her against the wall, holding her thin wrists in his hands, using his weight against her to keep her from kicking. Her face was inches from his as he bent down. Her breath was a small quick wind, warm and sweet against his face. Her eyes were wide, a clarity of pale purple as she stared at him, her body shaking with adrenaline in his hold.
“Don’t fight me, Triss Sayng-Astra,” he said, his voice a low exhale against her skin. And against all logic and upbringing, he lowered his head and kissed her.
Her lips were soft. Her lips were full and warm. Astonishingly, she tilted her head, gave him her mouth, let him enter her with the thrust of his tongue. She tasted of a warm season’s rain. She tasted like new grass and young trees, and he moaned against her lips and kissed her deeper.
Releasing her wrists, he swept his hands up her arms, through the aubergine luxuriance of her curling hair, then down her supple back to hold her closer against him.
He felt her hands clutching his shoulders, felt her body shake as he devoured her mouth, felt the need for her ache through him as he had never known need before. He felt that he was drowning in this desire for her. He dragged his mouth from hers, licked a slow wet line down her throat and exulted violently in the gasp of pleasure this drew from her. His hands coursed down to her waist, avid upon her softness, and she twined her arms around his neck, clinging to him.
Insanity! His mind rebuked him. But he did not care. His hands found the taut curve of her naked bottom. He filled his hands with her roundness, squeezing her so hard that she cried out. She arched her back, her breath short and fast, her eyes closed. He bent his head to her breasts, his mouth found the dark purple peaks jutting big and hard-nippled. She gasped at the lave of his tongue, the hot suck of his mouth, and her hips involuntarily bucked hard against him.
His cock was a reckless throb of urgent need. Gripping her bottom, he ground himself against her. His lust seemed a dangerous thing, uncultured, rough and crude. And so compelling that he shook with the desire to free his cock, bend her vulgarly over, kick apart her strong slim thighs and force himself into the secret wet heat of her virgin cunny.
Jettison the distinction of his position, the certain dignity of his character, the importance of profit over all else, and the necessity of detachment and asceticism; he wanted to fuck this girl. Triss Sayng-Astra. He wanted to revel in the scent and feel and taste of her body. Ravish her with his hands and mouth and the hard thrust of his cock. He wanted to own her, take her in every way a man could take a woman. Make her scream his name and beg him to fuck her. More and more and more.
His teeth raked her hardened nipple and she cried out but pressed hard against him. He slid his hand around, grasped her curling purple bush, and with a shudder, she parted her thighs for him. Wet. So wet. His fingers slid down through the swollen lips. She was panting, moaning, shaking so hard that he had to support her. And his head was reeling, his heart thundering in time with the hot pulse of his cock. Wet for him. Wet for his touch. Ready for his cock. His mind was caught on this litany as his fingers found the small swollen nub of her clit.
Rolling this tender swelling, rubbing her as she shook and whimpered, arching in his arms, her head thrown back helplessly, hair a wild cascade, her eyes tight shut. She was soaked to her thighs. Her hips bucked, bucked forward against his touch. The smell of her musk, heavy, richly female, pervaded his senses. He felt almost dizzy, his reason and rationale under full onslaught.
And she was coming. Coming for him, and a savage, primitive satisfaction shot through him. To be the first man to bring her there. Her little clit jerked under his palm as she convulsed, and more wetness poured from her warmly. Her breath came in little moans and sweat glistened between her breasts.
Now, fuck her. Fuck her. She’s ready for it. She wants it. His mind implored. He lowered her to the floor, following her down. He licked at the sweat sheening her lush body, making her moan louder. When his mouth found her clit, she gave a small scream and her eyes flew open.
He met the wide amazement of her lilac gaze as his mouth engulfed her warmly, his tongue making hot swirls around her turgid clit.
“Oh!” she breathed. “Oh, no.” And she tried to close her long thighs against him.
Never a man to go where unwelcome, always the epitome of deference and propriety, yet her protest stirred him, ignited some ruthless fire within him. He burned to spread her wide, smother her protests with hard kisses, make her yield to him and the passion of her own innocent body. The thought of pushing himself into her virgin cunny, forcing himself through her maidenhood, claiming her tight, sweet body, made him shudder and clench his eyes shut.
Breathing hard, he rose above her as she sprawled open upon the floor. In one motion he shed his shirt, moved to open his pants and free the pained urgency of his cock. In the light of his cabin, her body glowed. Her cunny glistened with her moisture, her clit standing forth, her nether lips plump and flushed darkly plum. Her eyes were big, the pupils dark and dilate; she watched him in trepidation but her mouth was parted with her breath and almost imperceptively she parted her thighs wider for him.
He loosened his pants and his cock sprang forth, flushed dark with blood, the head swollen big and dampened at the tip. She gasped and moved to roll away. Stripping his clothes away, he bent to catch her. He could feel the quick flutter of her heart beneath her breast as he held her. Her body felt supple, soft and warm beneath him. He urged her legs apart with his.
“No, no, no,” she breathed, but spread her legs, arched up to mash her damp cunny against the thrust of his cock. He fought for control as she ground her wetness against the jolting length of him. He trembled with the need to shove himself full into her. Everything seemed to recede into a heated haze. There was only the slickness of her body beneath him, the heavy smell of her sex, her warmth and wet, the furious urgency of his lust for her.
He rose up over her, took hold of her thighs, pulled them up and apart. She was shuddering uncontrollably; her hands grasped his shoulders, hanging on to him. He nudged his cock against her, sliding the thickened head into her slit. She moaned and her hands tightened upon him. She gave a little push with her hips, and then gasped as his cock collided with that small membrane proving her virginity. That small membrane guaranteeing her value. That tiny bit of flesh a buyer would pay dearly for.
Shock poured coldly and suddenly over him. What was he doing? Tumbled down here on the floor with a slave girl. Ready with one careless push of his cock to lose a small wealth of profit. Rutting like a callow youth, forgoing all decorum and pride, his mind superceded by the drive of his cock. It was ridiculous, it was a discredit, it was…embarrassing.
He wrenched himself from her, pulling his cock roughly from the sweet wet welcome of her portal. She cried out as he sprang to his feet.
Avoiding her wide eyes, he held a hand out to her. “Get up,” he growled, his voice more harsh than he intended. He pulled her to her feet; she was still shaking. Turning his back to her, he donned his clothing, shoving the obdurate length of his aching cock into his pants.
“I apologize,” he said coldly. “I take full blame. This will not happen to you again. Slaves are not abused prior to sale.”
She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. In an instant she transformed her expression into a coldness matching his own. She watched as he summoned a crewmember to escort her back to slave quarters. They waited in silence. As she was led out, she finally spoke, spoke without deigning to look at him.
“I despise you, Gray Santos. I despise you utterly. You are weak and you are a coward. And not for the reasons you assume.”
The door hissed shut behind her.
]]>And I can see by your face that you’re now knowing just what Empire I’m talking about, and you’re knowing now my old face. You’re thinking you know all about it from what was written and rumored through the double-damned Common Media. Well, I spit on the Common Media, and I tell you flat out that what you think you know is naught but shit. Standing here before you, I’m the only man alive with the knowledge and truth behind that great gas and gossip the CM farts through the known worlds.
And you’re thinking it’s all for the ready money that I’m here with the story. After all this time and my silence, you figure I’m aged badly, down deep on my luck, ready to spill that what I swore, back worlds from here, I never would. All for the heavy cash. And you’d be right in your way, you great, smirking fine-dressed piece of New Space shit. But you’d be wrong as well.
You see, it’s a story that needs telling, and needs telling right. It needs told beyond the sex and slaving and shady politics that gives the Space Trash Set a cheap soak in their tinsel suits. It’s not as CM made it out to be, filling the galaxies with their amplified filth and lies. There was something… noble about it.
Yes, I said noble, you wad-sucking waste of molecules. Laugh it up. You want the story or not? Well. Then pay, pay big, and you’re getting a bargain, know it or not.
***
All the stories agree (and they’d all be right), that it started near Indicolite, that group of worlds where dusk lingers long and blue and the oceans are vast, roiling, the color of bruise and plum.
He almost didn’t stop. His trader ship was full with prime ocher-colored youth from the third largest planet-world of what was called back then the Newer East Margin. Ripe, lush young men and women in every shade from deep orange to bright yellow, bred and born to slavery, optimistic over their coming chances at sale.
Slavery and eugenics, you rarely see one without the other, and for millennia more than we can know, these have been issues of morality debated with the heat of a triple nova. Stamp them out, sure, outlaw them in one century, in one quadrant of a galaxy, and sure enough, they pop up some other where and time. It’s my thinking that these are the indulgence or transgression intrinsic to higher sentient from here to the furthest corner of each and every universe. Like those diseases a man can pick up from the whores of the Upper Beta worlds, slavery and eugenics keep coming back, and there’s no sure cure for them.
The Captain, or Gray Santos as all the worlds were soon to speak of him, came from a long line of slavers. It was his grandfather who made the name Santos practically synonymous with the specialty of trading in Exotics. The old man saw that the coming market was not for slaves to toil and perform those tasks both mundane and arduous, but for slaves beautiful, exotic and well-trained, to meet the exacting demands of a wealthy market’s jaded sexual requirements.
Of course, this resulted in a reputation filled with implied prurience as well as coffers filled with well-applied wealth. The Santos, in any event, appeared satisfied with the loss of respectability in exchange for the gain in affluence.
For decades the corporation of Santos Pan-Universal had consistently surpassed all competition in supplying their clientele with the most unusual, stunning, and sexually extraordinary of slaves. They contracted with worlds distant and meticulously anonymous, where genetics could be inventively engineered, slaves artistically crafted and colored to delight the salacious appetites of the most jaded consumer. Santos Pan-Universal cornered the market and reaped the considerable rewards.
Gray Santos was born into the business, always the son and heir apparent, living in a style more lavish than the sovereigns of many empires, groomed ceaselessly for the responsibilities he must assume, both fantastically indulged and rigidly controlled. And as he’d been reared to do, at a young age, he assumed the mantle of authority, and steadily guided the multiuniversal company into greater profits and a reputation even more extreme and titillating for the procurement of the strange, the beautiful, even the bizarre, to arouse a wealthy buyer.
Although Santos was known through every galaxy in every universe, he was not a man known well. There were no salacious scandals, no rumors, no gossip of any personal life he may have had. He was respected as a man who kept his word, drove an honest bargain, and it was said that he had few words and did not tolerate fools lightly. For a man at the head of a corporation providing sex slaves of every specialty and infinite variation, Gray Santos disappointed the greedy subsidiaries of the Common Media with his apparent colorlessness of character and lifestyle.
Being in the very epicenter of the controversy ceaselessly recycled by the CM for its intrinsic audience appeal, Gray Santos’ beliefs were constantly demanded on the very issue of slavery. There was never an instance in which he expressed his judgment, unyielding in his refusal to even comment on the subject. Did he believe in what he did? Perhaps he knew that his beliefs mattered not at all.
It was Charon, the ship’s First Lieutenant, the sometime lover of Santos, and always the closest he had to a friend, who brought him the word from Indicolite.
“Purple girls,” she said, coming up behind him as he sat before his log screen. She slid into a chair across from him.
“Purple?” he said. “Girls?”
“From Indicolite. Some small-time trader’s put together a group on spec. Thinks we should buy them from him.” She laughed. “He claims we can turn a fortune in profit, claims there’s a market just panting for Purple Passion.”
Santos grimaced. “His term, I hope.” He sighed. “I thought Indicolite was a restricted area? No slave trading. Not much contact with other worlds, period.”
“Apparently that’s changed,” Charon said, shrugging. She rose and went to him, rubbing his stiff shoulders. “You look tired, Gray. You want to jettison the Indicolite deal? It sounds minor.”
He flexed his shoulders gratefully beneath her competent hands. “No, if the worlds are indeed panting for Purple Passion, who are we to deny them?” He smiled at her. “Set the course for Indicolite; maybe there’s something unique about purple tits.”
She swatted at him playfully, and his laughter followed her as she made her way to the ship’s control to turn them towards the purple worlds of Indicolite. Out of such innocuous beginnings, fates are altered and entire Empires toppled.
***
Tits and ass, while subject to much variation, are relatively consistent regardless of skin color or configuration. Charon examined the purposed items of sale while Santos reviewed paperwork with the fawning local trader. Santos raised his eyebrows in question as she joined them.
“Cute,” she pronounced, blasé, spraying her hands with cleanser. “Healthy enough. But not one of them with any training or experience.”
The trader came to his feet in protest. “Cute? These girls are beautiful! Prime young females! The best Indicolite has to offer! No training or experience? These are virgins! Certified! Beautiful young virgins! Worth their weight in Common Media vouchers!”
Santos and Charon traded worlds-weary looks. “The majority of our market,” Santos explained carefully, “finds virginity to be…tedious.”
“Messy,” Charon added. “Annoying.”
“Yes,” Santos continued. “Not exactly a point of sale.”
The trader all but wrung his hands. “The majority of your market, perhaps. But surely there’s a market, a very exclusive, elite market, which values the novelty of virginity.” The trader’s tone wheedled, waxed obsequious. “What man doesn’t want to be the first to push his cock into a tight, wet young girl? Ah, the cries, the tears, the begging, the blood! There’s money in this, I tell you!”
Santos winced. Charon hid a smile at her Captain’s distaste. “We don’t have time for this.” Santos said. “Accept our offer. Or not.”
The trader, after an affected series of affronted protests, was quick to accept and papers were signed, monies exchanged, the cargo of slave girls loaded rapidly under Charon’s directive. Gray Santos boarded his ship, returned to his exhaustive logs without setting eye upon his new acquisitions. The ship resumed its course with its usual smooth competence.
***
In space, while travel is at its fleetest, time can seem to pass at its slowest. When a crewmember alerted Santos to a certain ruckus in the quarters allotted to the Indicolite girls, he was actually glad for the diversion and made his way there directly. He found himself vaguely interested in viewing beings of a naturally occurring purple hue.
He heard the shrieks a full level and a half before he arrived, and frowned. Turbulent, negative emotion among slaves was a thing to be avoided. There was little market for the hysterical, the disobedient, the morose. And moods such as these had a way of spreading, corrupting entire cargos. This had to be stopped before it grew.
The door slid open with a barely audible hiss, and Santos saw immediately both the originator of the shrieks and his first purple girl.
The stories all vie with each other in the hyperbole of their descriptions of Triss Sayng-Astra when actually the truth needed no exaggeration. She had a storybook beauty, a loveliness mostly found in myth and legend. (Which is only fitting, as how that is what she became.) Amidst worlds virtually beyond count, worlds offering an infinite amount of variety and a plethora of diverse female splendor, Triss Sayng-Astra stood out, singular in her beauty, set apart by some grace of aura, some subliminal allure.
But perhaps all Gray Santos first saw, was a girl the color of Earthen Lupine, heavy long hair of purpled black, screaming her rage as she resisted all attempts to subdue her.
Did he take note of her lithesome young breasts, berry-colored crests hard with adrenalin, as he caught her while she tried to hurl herself past him and out the door? As he lifted her up off her feet, did he feel the suppleness of her flesh, the softness of skin covering the taut curvature of muscle? With her hair flowing wild as she struggled, lashing his face in an aubergine torrent, was he aware of her scent, the heady female scent of ripening?
All that’s known is that he pinned her firmly against him, fixed his crewmember with a firm stare, and demanded to know exactly what was going on. He was faintly surprised when it was the girl still striving in his arms to escape, who burst out in answer.
“I am Triss Sayng-Astra!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking with rage. The silence that greeted this was apparently not the response she’d expected.
“You are the property of Santos Pan-Universal. You will adhere to the codes of conduct here.” Santos said sternly as she twisted against him.
“I have been kidnapped! Betrayed! Sold into slavery by my enemies!” she cried.
The Captain sighed heavily, closed his eyes briefly. Charon laughed. “That old cliché,” she said. “If I had a CM voucher for each time I’ve heard that one…”
The purple girl shrieked in rage, tried to kick at Santos as he held her. “It’s true! It’s true, I tell you! And you will suffer for your part in this. Suffer terribly.”
Beyond, other girls from Indicolite clustered in anxiety and distress. “Separate these others,” Santos commanded his crewmembers, and it was done. Cautiously, he set the girl calling herself Triss Sayng-Astra from him. Her breasts heaved with her anger; her hands were clenched into fists. Professionally, he appraised the good round curve of her hips, her taut buttocks, the darkly purple spring of curls at the junction of her thighs.
“Get your filthy eyes off of me!” she spat.
“Watch your mouth, slave girl,” Charon warned. “There are many, many ways to punish that would leave no mark on your pretty body. We know all those ways. We even invented some.”
“Slavers!” Triss Sayng-Astra hissed. “Vile slavers!”
Santos shook his head in disgust. “This is going to be more trouble than it’s worth,” he said to his First Lieutenant. “I don’t have time for this.”
Charon tilted her head, considering. ‘We could jettison her, I suppose,” she said. Triss’ eyes grew wide in sudden apprehension. “But I was thinking. Prince What’s-his-name of Cyril 8 has purchased a half dozen of those genetically altered yellow slaves we’re bringing from the Newer East. All male. But doesn’t he have a liking for the new? The unusual? And doesn’t he like to break girls in himself? Virgins?”
Santos nodded slowly. “True. He likes them young. He likes them reluctant, inexperienced. We paid a pittance for this one here. The Prince would pay much, much more to have her.”
“No!” Triss screamed, flinging herself at him. Her fists struck at his face. “I’ll kill you!”
Santos struggled to restrain her to the sound of Charon’s amused laughter. “I’ll leave you to handle the histrionics,” Charon said. “You need a break from all your log work.”
Charon exited the room, laughing harder at his protest and the sound of the purple girl’s enraged cries.
***
Santos was not fond of any actual physical dealings with Pan-Universal’s slaves. There were myriad people specially trained to deal with all aspects of training, management and transport. He was out of breath as he tried to bring the girl under control. Finally he bent her belly down over a high table, holding her down with the press of his body. Her scent reached his unwilling senses as he held her lithe, struggling form. In a rush, he was abruptly aware of her breasts against his forearm as he held her still, of the push her tight naked bottom against his crotch as she fought to escape. To his dismay, he felt himself swell in reaction to her.
It had been many years since Gray Santos had partook of the sexual pleasures of his own merchandise. Sex with his own slaves offended some deep asceticism within him. Perhaps Santos’ greatest sin was pride, and it was pride that forbade him from what he perceived as lowering himself in an acknowledgement of lust. Let others, many affluent and powerful others throughout all the universes, crave his slaves. He would not.
But holding the girl’s lush, furiously writhing body bent naked over the table, he found himself aroused. Aroused to such a powerful extent that for an instant his only desire was to free his aching cock, thrust himself deeply, fully, inside the moist, plum colored aperture revealed as he pushed her thighs apart with his legs. He cursed softly, and mostly in surprise of his own reaction.
“Will you stop it!” he snapped, using his weight to hold her down. He was awkwardly reluctant to have her feel the hardness of his arousal as he was pressed against her.
“Take me back to Indicolite!” she gasped, breathing hard and near the end of her strength. “You foul, foul man.”
Santos was at the end of any patience he could muster. The entire situation was ludicrous. This ridiculous twit of a slave girl had the sovereign of the vast, intergalactic conglomerate wrestling her down upon a table, fiercely and preposterously hard for her. There was no dignity of his position here.
“This foul, foul man owns your pretty little ass,” he snarled, rising off of her, wrapping her long purple hair in his fist. She was on her feet in an instant, flailing wildly at him. Brutally, he yanked her hair, bringing her shrieking to her knees. “You will obey me,” he ordered her.
Tears of pain shone in her eyes. She stared up at him in silent mutiny. Even in his annoyance, he couldn’t ignore her heaving breasts, full and supple, nipples rigid in her agitation. Part of his mind whispered to him, tempted him. Why shouldn’t he seize her by the hips, throw her onto the table again, fill his mouth with her taut berry-colored nipples, stroke her until she was wet and welcoming, push the hot throb of his manhood full into her? Surely it was his prerogative. Surely he was due.
They stared at each other. Perhaps she recognized the heat in his gaze. The moment seemed to stretch. He could smell her, the richly compelling smell of her body flushed and warm, the faint musk of her sex. Her eyes dropped and the fine hue of her cheeks colored darkly.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes.”
For a confused instant, he could not recall to what she was answering. He saw her yield and for a moment took her acquiescence as sexual. Then, with an effort, he controlled himself. The girl was agreeing to obey him, nothing more. He let his hand relax in her hair, releasing the painful pull.
“Behave yourself. No trouble, no hysteria. We’re on a direct course for Cyril 8 and that’s where you’ll likely be going. We should reach planet’s orbit in ten days or less. Until then, you’ll do well to follow orders.”
He stepped back from her, letting her hair fall from his hand. Soft, his confounding mind insisted on noting. The girl remained on her knees, her eyes averted, the darkly purple wave of her hair falling over her breasts. Abruptly, he turned and exited the room.
***
Later, after having Charon carefully confirm that there were no reports of any kidnapped girls on the planets of Indicolite, Santos tried to relax and lose himself in the complexities of his log and bookkeeping. He tried to rid his mind of any thought of the slave girl calling herself Triss Sayng-Astra. But his mind refused to let go of the vision of her long blackly purple hair, her lilac colored eyes, the shudder of her breasts sheened with sweat, the nipples dark and turgid. He remembered the feel of her round bottom squirming against him as she struggled, the tender, flushed dampness he’d glimpsed between her plump nether lips; the place untouched by any man, the place the Prince of Cyril 8 would pay a fortune to possess first.
He paced, damning himself for the lust that kept him thinking of the girl, kept his cock hard and aching. It was fully ship’s night when he left his quarters, made his way through the nearly deserted passageways and levels until he was at the area where the Indicolite girls were kept.
All was quiet as he entered. The crewmember on watch rose to his feet.
“Where’s that girl who was causing all the turmoil?” Santos asked briskly.
“Quartered alone, as ordered, Captain,” the man replied, and Santos nodded his approval.
Down the short corridor, Santos entered the locked room, closing the door behind him. On the small bed, the girl slept sprawled upon her back. He watched her in silence, his eyes coursing over her breasts moving quietly with her breathing, her hair a cascade over the thin pillow. One of her small hands curved protectively over her curling pubic hair.
His breathing quickened. Against his will, he moved closer. Looking at her, Santos was nearly consumed with the urge to touch her, to spread her legs, press his face between them, lick her, taste the salty heat of her, push his tongue inside her, make her cry out her pleasure, suckle at her most sensitive part until she begged him to fuck her.
It was insanity. He had never in his life felt such overwhelming need. This was neither the time nor place, and certainly not the girl with which to start.
As if somehow sensing his thoughts, Triss Sayng-Astra cried out in her sleep and rolled to lie on her belly. The dim light in the room shone on the round curves of her exposed posterior.
It was too much. He wheeled around, fled the room, despising this newfound weakness within himself. Nodding stone- faced at the crewmember guarding the area, he strode rapidly back to his living quarters, trying to ignore the pounding of his pulse, the thick urgency of his cock.
His door hissed open, and to his surprise he saw Charon half reclining in a chair.
“I called you and when I got no answer, came by to see what you were doing,” she said, stretching her arms, yawning. “So what are you doing, Gray?”
“I can’t sleep,” he said shortly, sitting down across from her.
“Not all it’s rumored to be, is it?” she asked. “The Skin Trade.”
“No,” he said slowly. “It’s not.” Their eyes met. “Why don’t you come over here, Charon?” he said.
She rose, startled by the ardor in his face, the strength of his voice. She came to stand before him, and was even more surprised when he pulled her roughly into his lap. “Gray…” she gasped, but he caught her by the chin, silenced her with the fierceness of his kiss.
She felt desire buzz through her belly as he invaded her mouth with his tongue. He had never kissed her so hard, held her so tight. She moaned against his mouth as his hands found her breasts, squeezing until pain mixed with her pleasure. ‘Gray, Gray,” she whispered as his mouth left hers, as he pulled her shirt off over her head, freed her breasts for his touch.
His lips followed his hands and she cried out as he took the tender pink of her breasts in his mouth, as his teeth grazed her. She touched his thick black hair, tried to pull him from her breasts as his mouth grew more insistent. “Gentle, gentle,” she admonished, but he was past gentleness.
Lifting her in his arms, he strode to his bedroom, tumbled her down upon the wide comfort of his bed. Charon stared up at him as though she’d never seen him before, as though he were no longer the casual partner she’d slept with intermittently for years.
He pulled the remainder of her clothing from her. He gazed down avidly at her as she sprawled half-fearful, naked upon his bed. She swallowed nervously under his eyes, but her breath came fast and she felt herself growing wetter, slick, between her legs as he divested himself of his own apparel. His cock jerked towards his belly, swollen and dark with blood, as he reached for her on the bed.
“Gray…” she said one more time, her voice sounding small with pleading, and rolled away from him.
He caught her, pinning her down beneath him on her stomach. She felt the heat and thrust of him against her bottom. “I want to fuck you, Charon,” he whispered hoarsely against the back of her hair. “I want to fuck you hard.”
A shudder rippled through her, throbbed down between her legs. She felt herself constrict as though he were already inside her, as though she were already coming. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”
Pulling her up by the hips, pushing her legs wide, he tested himself against her, finding her wet and wide open for him. Still, her scream filled the room as he pushed deeply, completely into her, sheathing himself fully within her. He held her down, one hand hot on her back, the other holding her hip, as he fucked her, as he took his pleasure in her.
It was a pleasure not exclusive to him. The hardness of him inside her, the roughness of his thrusts, made her breath come fast. She buried her face against the sheets in an attempt to quiet the moans that tore from her lips, the invocations begging him to fuck her more and more. The pain of his bruising hold upon her somehow fueled her fervor, made the pleasure coursing through her more sharp, more intense, made her need grow to a fever pitch.
“Gray,” she begged, as he slammed ruthlessly into her. “Please, please.”
“Do you want me to bring you there, Charon?” he asked her, his voice husky, strange to her.
“Yes,” she pleaded. “Gray, yes!”
She barely recognized the sounds that came from her as he reached around and touched her. His fingers slid over her, her wetness like a thick warm oil. He teased her with his touch as she cried out, his fingers light, tantalizing, building her arousal to an unbearable height.
His cock filled her, stretched her so that she knew she would be sore for days. Slowly he pushed into her, dragged himself out, as his fingers played with her engorged clit. She bucked beneath him, writhing and desperate for release. She was nearly sobbing before she finally granted her the relief she craved. His touch skillful, sure, he grasped her mound in the damp palm of his hand, pressing, pressing, sliding against her until her incoherent cries rose through the bedroom and her hips arched back helplessly against him.
She tightened around his cock as she came, making him gasp with the intense pleasure of it. Again and again she clasped him, until she collapsed weakly beneath him, shaking helplessly, her body soaked with sweat, her own fluids drenching the bed beneath her.
Close, so close himself that a fine tremor shook him, he took her bottom in his hands, spread her wide so that he could see the thrust of his cock in and out of her swollen wet warmth. His own orgasm overtook him and he pounded himself into her mercilessly. He closed his eyes and faintly damned his traitor mind that insisted on thinking of the purple slave girl, of Triss Sayng-Astra, as in a hot rapture he shot his seed deep inside of Charon.
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***
I was sunk in my own personal mire of wrong place, wrong time, stuck in the small town cliche: small place, smaller minds.
He came, heavy with his inhumane criminality, to my tiny, xenophobic hometown. He traversed borders and boundaries of variously cultured loves, truths and hatreds, to be the very catalyst in my final break for freedom. The encounter was one of those small bright threads in Fate's tangled tapestry, an inexplicable serendipity.
It is discovery made, more by accident than sagacity, that perhaps can end and perchance conclusively begin, one quest or another.
And it's all about quests, isn't it?
Even in the blatant horror of war crimes, even in the quiet, tenacious horror rampant in small town Texas. Those who quest, and those who do not. Those who wonder and those who never will. Those who seek a single shining thread in the murk and malice of the mundane cruelties and despair epidemic through each one of us.
Hoping for more, questing, he traveled arid, heartless regions, crossed the roughness of waters beneath starlight, stole and lied and changed his name more than once, to arrive where he would never be welcome.
The town where I was born, drearily raised, dared beyond the bleak commonality of my hometown to quest and hope for something different, something more.
Here was an ugliness so different, so unlike, the swarming, sullenly heated rainforest, that he could strive to fool himself into thinking that, so drastically dissimilar, it might not be ugly at all. But ugly has many faces, and I knew well the ugly of my hometown. Knowing it like my own face in the mirror, so accustomed and familiar, that I could almost--but not quite--accept it as natural. As right.
But this small town was as wrong as the little village where a woman shrieked on through the night, spread out on the floor, her legs held wide, the blood of her husband staining the wall upon which her head repeatedly struck as she was propelled by the force of the man thrusting into her unwilling body.
As with ugly, there are myriad kinds of wrong.
He arrived in the smoldering heat of August. Looking for work. And there was always work for his kind. Work as vital and necessary as it was condemned as being beneath those men who wore their skin at a lighter hue.
Work he found, and work he did. The smooth brown of his flesh growing stronger with muscle, shining with the health of sweat, and he saved every cent he could. To make a home here? To return to his homeland a wealthy and redeemed man? To rise from the powerlessness of poverty?
I never knew. I was busy saving my own pennies. Financing the escape I'd dreamt for years. Too many years, in which a failed marriage, an aborted child, numerous attempts at higher education, had participated in or interrupted that dream.
I had to get out. I had to get away. Before I lost my will, lost my strength, gave up all quests and settled into the damp miasma of my small town.
It was this thought that terrified me. That woke me in the hot stickiness of the night, my heart all anxious thunder beneath my breast. It could happen to me. As I'd seen it happen to so many before me. I could be here forever. Sink into this town, become the sediment that held it like glue to the flat and fruitless plains of this stretched-out Texas landscape. This town would be me. And I would be this town.
It maddened me. As August swelled hotter and hotter, I lay awake sleepless, slick with my own sweat, desperate to take some kind of action. Affect some kind of change. Something big, something extreme. Something violently right, or violently wrong.
I was a fuse--he, my fire.
***
How does one break boundaries in these small, brutal towns? With a leap? Or should one sneak through the very precepts of fanatical bias and prejudice? Is one a rebel or a traitor? And where does the difference lie?
I first saw him on a day when even my neighbor's pit bull terrier was too hot to enact its ritualistic attack as I neared the fence between the two properties. He was mending fence through the hottest time of the day, when I could feel the scorch of the dust through the thin soles of my sandals, and chickens lay panting beneath the droop of the spindly cottonwoods. The sky was that flat, near-white, as though the heat had faded away all the blue of it, and cicadas whirred a maddening rhythm from the scrubby cedar trees.
I didn't know how he could bear the heat. These were temperatures and humidity beyond any hope of acclimation. He wore old, no doubt second-hand jeans, a long sleeved, button-down shirt, a feed store cap over his head. He looked up at my approach, his face expressionless, his eyes flat and watchful, very dark.
"You speak any English?" I asked, and he shook his head.
In my faltering High School Spanish, I said that I was looking to hire someone to put up a new chicken coop for me. He nodded. He told me that he could do this. He smiled slightly.
I was struck by the sheer whiteness of his teeth behind the black of his mustache, the good curve of his lips. He caught me staring at the same time I realized it, and I looked away.
Was he handsome? I still don't know. He was so foreign to me, it was impossible to attach terms such as handsome or not handsome to him.
Imagine a race of people never having seen a cat before. Imagine their reaction to their first sight of a cat. How could a creature so exotic, so unfamiliar, be defined by any classification so simple?
And how could I have passed through my life, accustomed to the transient class of illegal immigrants so essential to this economy, and never feel that I had ever really looked at one of these people? Seen one.
But it was as though suddenly, I couldn't stop seeing him.
As we discussed with awkward bilinguality, plans and price and design for the chicken coop, my eyes dwelt on the solid, shining black of his hair. The way it was a little bit long, as though he hadn't thought to cut it recently. The way as it lengthened over his collar, it turned in small dark waves. His shoulders were so broad. His shirt was damp and clung to the smooth muscles of his arms. Where his first button was undone over his wide chest, fine straight black hair showed.
I felt an absurd desire to reach out, touch this profusion, test it with my fingertips to see if it was as sleek as it looked to my eye.
Through the sun shimmering air, I could smell him. Salt and male and some exclusive tang of a primeval sea; the same sea, perhaps, haunting my own blood.
It was good. A scent to shoot straight to my limbic system, that old, old center of the brain, curator of mating, and the desire to mate. On a chemical level, I was smitten in those first moments, long before my mind caught clue of it.
Through a haze of pheromones, we concluded our business. And parted. But like a heroine in some pathetic novel, I let his image lodge in my mind. Unshakable. Fodder for fantasy, substance for dreams.
But dream of him I did, in the throes of a stifling Texas night, when I twisted on sweat-sodden sheets. I dreamt that I was coolly buoyant on clear deep waters, calm and easy in my body as I never quite was in reality. And he emerged from the depths, sleek and dark skinned, black hair scattering sparkling droplets of water. His eyes intense, black, compelling upon me, he moved through the water, arms strong as they stroked smoothly through the stillness of the wilderness pool.
I was transfixed in this dream, transfixed by him. Stirred by some feral mixture of fear and desire. Attracted and afraid, at the fierceness of his masculinity, as he closed in upon me.
Then he was reaching, reaching for me, and I was yearning for and dreading his possession. I was swooning, swooning through the liquid clarity of the water, sinking breathless through the diffusion of light, through the depths of the water, only to be caught by the strength of his hand. Propelled upwards, out of the water, suddenly gleefully airborne and into his arms.
I awoke on the verge of climax, confused and vaguely ashamed at this response. Sleep was labored in its return. I could not rid my mind of him.
***
What hidden forces are at work, compelling or containing, holding or hurling us into situations defying coincidence? What subtle sway turns a woman from the contemplation of farm market fruit, to the relentless passion for a man barely known? Why would the memory of his mouth stir her to a fervency of warmth and wet? The remembrance of the fine dark hair upon his dark chest make her nipples grow tight and aching? The perfect ripeness of a summer peach, juice overflowing her suddenly joyous mouth, bring her mind and body to a ripeness for the touch and taste and feel of him?
Strange and inexplicable. Impossible to resist.
***
So I sought him out, as callow as a young girl, bearing a cooler of cold brew, as he toiled upon my neighboring fence, dreading that my lust would show raw on my face. Fearful that he would somehow sense the extremity of my need.
Hot in the sun and nearing tipsy, handing him tools and tracing aimless runes in the dust with my bare toes, I watched him work.
What was it that caused me to hunger for him so, gazing at this man as he labored? I ached for him, literally ached, dizzy from this sun and this beer and this lust. I felt that my yearning must certainly be visible, rising, perhaps, from my skin like a vapor, like smoke.
His hands, square and strong, brown and calloused, were strong and sure upon the tools. He never missed driving a nail cleanly home, or fumbled with unnecessary movements or effort. He made it look smooth, and my eyes were glad, watching him.
I found myself leaning closer, the better to inhale his uniquely good scent. My eyes strayed to the damp salty skin of his throat, and I longed to press my mouth there. I even loved the smell of his cigarettes, and the beer upon his breath.
It was ridiculous. I had no business being there with him. Feeling these things for him. And it was a very good thing that my road was off the main streets, and there were no local witnesses to my folly. Judgments were swift and final in small town Texas.
He drank with me, leaning upon the final fence post, as his job was done and a reluctant sun settled into the sullen orange sky. I somehow never wanted this time to end. Wanted to stay here with him in this hot mezzo land between lust and consummation, where all was possible but nothing was committed.
But nature also abhors stasis, and with a breath of anticipation strangely coupled with reluctance (as though he too would have held to the moment if we were not nature's male and female), he moved closer to me, annihilating the vastness between us conclusively, and placed a work-roughened hand against my cheek.
I froze, the bridging of this gulf a shock and astonishment, even as I felt my cheeks flush with sudden warmth, as though the touch of his hand could draw the tide of my blood.
I think I made some small noise. Some breath of fear or of longing. I swayed on my bare feet as though inclining beyond will towards a gravity greater than my own. And he drew me against him, and I was as wide-eyed and trembling as if I had never been touched, as though I had never been around this small town block of petty promiscuity, brief cohabitations and briefer marriage. The shame of waking up beside drunken strangers, the guilt of being pressured and coerced and overpowered into sex against my will, the embarrassment of believing fervent declarations of love leading to shabby backseat sex and ridicule.
I had no business shaking as he held me against him, against the strength and foreign maleness of his body. I had no reason to offer my mouth to him as though a kiss were something new and bright, all hot and untarnished, molten as precious metal.
He tasted of heat, and rains on landscapes strange to me. Of exotic foods eaten in childhood, of language with impossible sibilants, of traditions beyond my grasp, of sufferings and joys I would never comprehend.
And he kissed me deeper, and harder, and I gave my mouth to him as though I would surrender, as though I would yield to him every territory within the province of myself. As though I wanted this kiss, this union, to infuse each tiny molecule of my being, and change me into something new.
What would conjure such a passion? Even today, I cannot demean what I felt. Cannot diminish or doubt it.
It was the conveyance into a different land, a land consisting only of this need. A place where it was essential only that he kiss me more, hold me tighter, push into my mouth with his tongue, find my breasts with his hands and cup them fiercely. Spill the buttons from my shirt with one careless tug and find my hard nipples with his avid mouth.
I was panting. I was innocent of shame. I pressed his head down against my chest, arched my back as his teeth raked me, clutched his thick black hair in my fists and cried out in the Texas heat. There was simply the want for him. This need.
I pulled at his shirt, hungry for the feel of his flesh, and obligingly, he stripped himself of it. His shoulders, his chest, the soft skin of his throat, were desperate targets for my mouth, my hurried hands. Everything was a rush, a blur of lust and necessity.
"Wet, wet," he whispered in Spanish, his hand inside my cotton panties, his finger pushing deep inside where I was slick and swollen for him. He pulled my shorts down my legs, lifting me in his hurry to have me naked for him.
At the end of a dusty, unpaved road, as burning day gave final way to humid night, I let him raise me onto the tailgate of his battered truck, spread my legs under the first stars' light, and thrust himself into the very core of my accumulated longing. The warmth and wet and plea of my desire, that part of me often abhorred and the subject of my shame, suddenly strangely hallowed and revered as the prize of his potency.
I felt whole in my lust for him. I felt an utterly unfamiliar purity in what should have seemed nothing more than mindless rutting.
He filled me. I wrapped my legs around him, my muscles shaking, my body taut with need. His hands gripped my hips, holding and raising me, seeking deeper and complete possession of me. It was a feral coupling. Something far removed from the tameness and tedium that were my best experiences of sexuality. Wild, I rose to grasp his shoulders with frantic hands, press my mouth against his.
Deeper, harder, rough and overwhelming, he took me, and I arched against him, my breasts sliding damply against his furred chest, his hands hurtfully hard as they grasped my bottom, held wider my thighs, the pain only urging me toward wanting more. His teeth found my shoulder and my shriek stunned the cicadas to quick silence. The impact of our union rocked the truck on its tires.
Closer, closer, straining against him, smearing his belly with my wetness, crying out again as his mouth found my breasts, the rigid ache of my nipples inviting his bite. And it seemed that I was crying. Tears as copious upon my flushed cheeks as the wet that welcomed his cock within my body. I came in a deluge of sensation, writhing beneath him, against him, biting his fingers as he covered my scream. Clenching around him, muscles seeming to want to pull the adamant thrust of his cock further within me, hold him there, keep him.
He flung back his head, his silhouette darkly obliterating the stars, and gasped something I could not understand. In me, in me, as far as he could fit, I felt him come, felt the short spurts of his seed, a thing I'd never been able to feel before with others. I felt myself convulse again around him, helplessly, hotly, making him exclaim something, and then smile down at me as I collapsed limply into the bed of the truck.
How to describe the feeling? The feeling that follows powerful sex? My body felt at once filled, full to overflowing with awareness, with sensitivity to every response, and empty as well. Washed clean somehow of every vestige of awkward self. The burden of propriety, of guilt and fault, sluiced away as the sweat slowly drying in the desultory breeze.
I felt adrift, and it was as though being adrift were akin to freedom. I felt light, strangely buoyant, as he gathered me up against his body, smoothed my sweat-dampened hair from my face, murmured to me. I lay against h