Erotic Stories

I've seen you around. Once or twice, I've even seen you naked. One of the perks of the scene is watching the woman you want cum before you've even been properly introduced. Normally I'm not much of a voyeur but something about you caught my eye. I like watching you from the shadows. You can't see me, even if you were looking and since you're involved, you're not.

I like the look of your lily white neck so swanlike and delicate. I like to imagine the skin underneath my thumbs where I can feel the firm cartilage ring of your esophagus. I imagine finding your pulse and licking it once before my fangs slide into it so I can taste the metallic glory of your blood. It's late. We haven't been introduced and you're in service anyway. I feed myself on the view instead. I'm not alone in that. These too-small rooms always fill up with the hungry and the hopeful. Myself, I'm entirely the former.

I don't notice the Top. I never do. Truth is she is just a shadow that crosses my vision now and again between you and me. It's not polite to say but she is meaningless. You. I could break her neck to get to you. That'd scare the horses I know but oh how fun it would be just once to pluck forbidden fruit right off the vine and devour it whole. No remorse. No regret. Just sticky sweet juice running down my lips like wine. I'd probably provide a year's worth of gossip to the scene if I pushed her out of the way and slung you over my shoulder on the way out into the waiting arms of the night. I can see myself doing it, too.

You're sweating. The lighting flickers off your wet skin. The lighting is never right at these public parties. Too light or too dark. Makes you look ghoulish. I like that. Your body looks gaunt, emaciated, weakened. I find the vulnerability of it enticing. You look far too frail to take the lash yet somehow you struggle through it. I think about your neck in my hands again, think about feeling the breath move in and out of you. I ball my hands into fists and hold them clenched against my sides. The Top crosses my vision again. Poor dear doesn't seem to have evolved beyond SM 101. It's not polite to criticize, but the curl of my lips would give me away if she saw my face. I make sure she can't.

A droplet of sweat snakes its way down your rib cage across the hill and valley of each rib. I imagine what you'd look like strung up. The image pleases me. I can see you dancing on your toes, your arms stretched high above your head. Short term bondage held too long. Oh I would love to fuck you like that when you were helpless to thrust against the urging of my cock. You can't weigh much over 140. I could pick you up like a rag doll. Of course throwing you down would be more fun. I'm so hungry I could eat a rabbit. Don't suppose you'd like to be my bunny?

I shouldn't think nasty thoughts but I guess I'm allowed. I paid my thirty bucks like anyone else. I guess that gives me full license to take whatever liberty I want so long as no one sees me. Standing in a dark corner for an hour motionless, I suspect most have forgotten I'm here. I like that. It's more intimate. You and I are alone this way. No one else matters. I can feel the strain of my cock against my leathers. My knife would sorely like a workout. Not tonight I'm afraid but if I could I'd cut you to ribbons and lick the ragged edge of every wound. I'd impale you like the helpless tasty morsel you are.

My mouth is watering. You are staring into her face with a mix of euphoria and disconnection. I watch your eyes roll into the back of your head. Charming. You look stoned. Must be more fun for you than me. It's been a long time since I've mated. Too long. A heavy sigh threatens to escape the prison of my lungs but I choke it back. No need to get maudlin here. You are someone else's boy. You like butches. You seem happy where you are.

I'd like to show you my inner butch. I'd like to show you my dungeon. I'd like to show you my cage. Instead I just watch knowing I am presuming far too much on far too little information. I've never been one of those Sadists that attracts a trail of waiting applicants. I've never quite figured out why that is. I'm not sure I'd like the answer. I watch you lose your strength. You're getting tired. Things should wind up soon I imagine. I'll be sorry to see you go. You're the only one who's caught my attention in years.

The spoils of war go to the quick. I am slow. Deliberate. Methodical. I imagine raping you of your will. Holding you down until you hurt in your bones. I imagine my cock overfilling your too-tight cunt. I imagine shoving my fist inside your mouth, down your throat and reaching for your beating heart. Oh I'd like to stroke that precious organ if I could. No collar on your neck but it's easy to see your devotion. You have eyes for no one else. Good boy. Best boy. Your Top's floating on air with you in tow.

You and she wind your way through the appreciative crowd and disappear into the throng of sweaty black leather. I unball my fists and head for the door. Not too much left to do but go home and wonder where I went wrong. Better luck next boy, isn't that what we tell ourselves? Don't know if it's true. Luck seems to have nothing to do with it. I never took up smoking but some nights in this town, I think I could. At least I could suck the life out of one object then, even though it's you I'd rather hold inside like the hot smoke from a cancer-stick. No one ever said the scene was easy. God knows there's nothing harder than watching you go. I should develop a different hobby.

I flex my taut muscular shoulders once. It's an unconscious reflex. My right shoulder hurts like hell. I feel the stabbing pain of knotted up tension under that shoulder blade out of the way of my reach. The burning keeps me grounded since I have nothing else to do. I suppose I could go ask someone to play but these days I never seem to have the inner chords of my soul stroked by what fills my eyes. I don't know when the scene got to be so dull. Maybe it's me. Probably it's me. Definitely me.

I head towards the meager buffet table. I'm not really hungry (and even if I were this wouldn't be the place to find food) but it's something to do. Gives me a 10-second purpose. I don't know why I come to these places any more. It's really not my crowd. They're too young or too old. Too new or too jaded. Not my type. I'm not her type. No one is that one's type. Same old, same old. Too something for me. Once in a while I'll see a boi I like but even that's pretty rare. I feel like a tiger in a cramped dirty circus cage. I stand by the doorway to the smokers lounge. The smoke is so dense it burns my eyes blinding me and the half burnt-out tea light candles aren't enough light to see any faces anyway. It's damn near impossible to cruise. Not that I suppose I expect to find anything even if I could see.

It's one of those parties. You go because there's always a chance even if it's slim, but when you get there you realize you just blew thirty bucks on flat no-name soda, stale chips and the same drama you saw last month. Once in a while a little starlet will breeze by in a shiny outfit squeezing through a too small space with her wispy frame, pretending like it's an accident that she's rubbing herself against twenty-five people between here and the bathroom. Oh yes, dear, we're all fooled. You're so clever. Sometimes I wonder if I'd been born looking like that if I'd have had a better time.

My feet hurt. Why does all the hottest clothing have something that binds you exactly the wrong way? It's a conspiracy I know it. If I ever get my lazy ass in better shape I'm giving up wearing anything but a thong. Barefoot. The idea makes me smile since it'd be pretty tough to attract one of those cute boot blacks I tend to obsess over without some boots on. I fiddle with my single tail which has started to uncoil from my waist. It's trying to tell me something. Not that it wanting to play is any news to me. I'd go along with it, if it could find me a little something to keep me occupied.

I remember being stuck on some light eyed thing, oh now it was probably five or six years ago. It was a good time in my life. Things were simpler then. I didn't think as critically about myself, about my world, about my relationships. It was easier to let it all go and forget that in six weeks you'd discover 101 things you violently disliked about the new one. I push that thought back under the surface. No need to go there, the night's young. I have hours before I'll need to resign myself to failure.

I watch a large naked redheaded woman in the corner next to a broken down black cross with an even larger woman wearing black spandex two sizes too small. Kinda hard to tell what's going on but there's lots of giggling coming from that direction so I guess it's all good. It's nice to see a couple having a good time. Provides a decent contrast between them and that one butch-femme couple I saw lingering by the sofa that breaks up every single time they go out together which lasts long enough for them both to get jealous and go into the sling-room to fuck like bunnies. Weird trip but it seems to work because there's an ear-shattering orgasm from the femme every single time.

I finally find myself in front of the food. Or what's left of it. Nothing left to drink but a half cup of off-brand sprite in a two liter plastic bottle. I know better than to think there might be a second wave of chips coming. I wasn't hungry anyway. I see the party host smoking a cigar (not in the smokers lounge either). She's puffed up like a rooster. I sometimes wonder how she stands the smell from the bullshit she spreads round. Does anyone really believe the outrageous lies? God I hope not. That'd be a real shame. Of course she's got a new bimbette in tow. Don't recognize her. Oh well, six months from now she'll be bitter like the twenty-five novice femmes the host has screwed over in every way possible in the last few years. I'm sure the story will make the rounds just like the shattered bottom will when she goes looking for a new home. Ooooh, now that wasn't nice. I must be getting old, I almost thought I said that out loud.

I sit my tired ass down. My shoulder burns to remind me I'm not dead yet. I see someone halfway attractive and imagine what I'd do if I wasn't so conflicted about playing with strangers. You never know what garbage they have in their head and they never know about your own. Seems risky at best especially since you can't tell by looking what sort of player she might be. These days a glance in the mirror confirms I look like a suburban Midwestern housewife; hopefully I don't play like that. It's been so damn long I'm beginning to worry.

I hear the crack of a single tail. Electricity moves through the crowd and I can almost feel them crowding the scene I hear but don't see. I lay down on a 2 x 10 board held up by a couple of sawhorses. Not sure if it's supposed to be a "station" but it feels sorta good to get horizontal and stare at the peeling black ceiling. I close my eyes and listen to the voices. I would really like to play. I really would. Too bad one can't order up the bottom of one's desires on command.

I finger the plait of the whip resting in a coil at my left. I'm sure my snake is jealous of the one that's getting to sing. Poor baby. Will have to give it a coat of Pecard's sometime to make up for it. My faithful companion. At least I never need worry it will end up being the wrong sort of plaything for me. Hell no. This snake and I were made for each other. I feel bad it's made of kangaroo -- because I've always thought kangaroos were cute -- but it's a sacrifice I am willing to make for a snake this fine. Straight from Australia. Green and black.

I have sorta half forgotten I'm at a party. Not really listening to the noise anymore so it's a bit of a surprise when someone clears her throat quite obviously within three feet of me. I sure as hell wasn't expecting to lay eyes on the ex I hate the most. Her. I feel the rage move through me so forcefully it's as if someone punched me in the solar plexus. My eyes narrow to slits and she instinctively takes a step backwards and looks behind her to confirm the location of the doorway. I can see she's rethinking the wisdom of disturbing me. She should. She damn well better.

I rise in one single motion until I am on my feet staring her down. I will not raise my voice for the likes of her. It pours from my throat like shards of glass only twice as deadly.

"What?"

"I, um...Hi!"

Apparently she's lost her wits. She didn't have too many to spare either. After what she did to me, I can't believe all she can muster is "hi." It's an insult of the worst kind. Well, I suppose we must all face our mistakes, it's just so much harder when they walk around on two legs. In an instant I see a half dozen possibilities rise before me in crystal clarity. I could walk past her back into the party and try and squeeze myself through the crowd to get to the exit in record time. I could stare her down and knowing there was a good chance she'd leave on her own recognizance. I could hear her out. I could kill her were it not for those pesky laws.

Instead, I take a deep even breath and feel every nerve in my soul light up like a flare, raw with agony. The enormous loss, the grief and the white hot rage -- none of that has faded at all in a half decade. Time heals all wounds -- that's pretty much bullshit. Sometimes it makes them worse. I do my best to keep my face impartial. I'm sure my eyes give me away but I put on the best performance I possibly can, thrown together after lousy night in this godforsaken city. I will not fail myself. I will not crack. My left hand travels through the coil of my snake to rest over the knife I keep hidden in that left pants pocket. The outline of the folded blade reminds me this is not some sick nightmare. This is real.

She stands there like an idiot with a half smile plastered on her face. She looks sort of sorry she mentioned anything but at the same time hopeful. Hopeful of what I cannot imagine. I see her look back at the door again and this time her gaze confirms my suspicions. A blonde head lingering nearby. The new Top. Or really, some years old by now. Great. I really don't need this kinda crap. I paid my money to stare at strangers, drink flat soda and end up smelling like cigarette smoke. I did not pay to see the only ex I never got over. I can close my eyes for that particular privilege.

I stifle the desire to pace. I do it sometimes when I'm alone with no one around to criticize me for being a "worrier." Instead I just straighten my spine past the spike of pain in my shoulder and stare at her. She looks good unfortunately. Not that I've ever seen her look bad. She's lost a little weight, added a little muscle. She's aged, of course, being a number of years older than me, which gives me some sort of perverse thrill. All in all, she looks good, like she's smiled more than not, had a good life more than not. I really can't say the same. I regret coming here even more. I could have stayed home with HBO but no, not me, had to go to an overpriced, under-talented party. And now my ex is here. Really makes the horror complete, wouldn't you say?

"So, um, how've you been?"

She looks at me with those eyes any dyke would sell their soul to look into. A strand of dark hair falls across her eyes. She needs a haircut; her hair is floppy. She's got that John Cougar Melancamp bad boy look going on. It looks good on her, naturally. Everything always does. I feel a knot the size of a softball form in my throat. I ignore it, silently curse her and swear I am not going to fall apart. I always knew this might happen. I used to role-play with myself to figure out how I'd live through it. Now that it's happening that role-play was obviously an utter waste of my time.

Should I answer her? How do you answer a question that is never meant to be a real query about one's well-being? I could say so many things yet none of them would really be accurate. Fine. OK. Good. Horrible. Indifferent. Alive. Dead. Still here. The last bitter phrase seems the most apt. I am still here after what you did to me. Still here after the only boi I ever loved walked out renouncing me and leather forever only to get collared immediately thereafter to the Top she'd been cybering with, unbeknownst to me, in our own home for months. Yea, I'm still here. Sort of. Not dead yet.

"Jag?" She spoke again, leaning towards me, interrupting my thoughts.

"Fine."

Drawn back to the here and now, I let my eyes slip over her head to toe. I see she's got some three day old bruises and temporary piercing marks showing on her arms. A new tattoo. Same golden skin with eyes to match. I wonder if this is one of my nightmares. I've had them since I was a kid. Every night. Worse when I'm worried which is a lot of the time. I look at her once more. Nope this is really happening. I wouldn't have been so creative with her image if this were a dream. There. I've managed to exchange civilities with her. Surely that must get me brownie points in the big book of Karma and I can move on now.

"So, um, Jag I really wanted to ask you something..."

She looks at her impeccably shined boots and back at me again. There was that hopeful look. So she wants something. Well, that explains it. She always comes 'round when she wants something from me. Clearly the heavens weren't going to swallow her up and let me forget this ever happened. No rest for the wicked and goddess knows, I must qualify as that by now. A smile was asking for admittance to my lips. I tried my best to suppress it but the irony of this whole thing made it hard not to see the sick humor. The one person who took the best part of my soul and left with it one cold morning in December years ago is back again and would like another withdrawal, please. Can't let me heal too much, that missing part might regenerate you know.

Just then a noisy group start to make their way into the room to set up by the mechanized wench. Suspension, oh goody. Well, I suppose this psychodrama wouldn't get the luxury of playing out with us alone after all. Now there's an audience. And great, there's Lisa. She'll be sure to take notes so she can get the rumor right later on. Isn't this nice? I am momentarily distracted by the trio of Tops sizing up the bondage frame followed by one pleased-as-punch Bottom who was clearly looking forward to hanging around. Literally. A brand new DM follows the crew to supervise. She's clearly thinking that bright red "DM" badge means she's got a little power. She starts to instruct one of the Tops about working the wench. The graying Top is more graceful than I'd be, managing to nod at all the appropriate moments despite the fact I've seen her use that wench expertly a half dozen times in as many months.

I decide I've had enough. There's no need for this. You don't get a prize for civility and I've answered her fucking question. I am walking past her towards the door before I even realize I'm leaving. My feet are on automatic. It's a big space, 5000 square feet, if I recall correctly. 4991 of it don't contain her. I'm heading that way. She jumps out of my way but just as I pass she grabs my arm. She touches me.

"Wait! Please!"

I look at her hand holding my wrist and then at her face. My expression must have said it all because she dropped her hand like she was touching a hot stove. Her other hand instinctively cradled the one that dared touch me. I leaned over her with my superior height and enjoyed watching her cower. Her eyes darted to her Top and back to me and I could see in my periphery the blonde Top hurling towards us like a bat out of hell.

In that instant while we were alone I hiss, "Don't. Ever."

 

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