Laura Meets Jeffrey (8 page)

During this crisis, Laura got back into drugs. Psychedelics were her thing. Then she became friends with Lindsey, a top fashion model, who introduced her to cocaine, alcohol, uppers, and downers. Laura jumped in with flagrant disregard for her well-being. She tried everything that was offered; cocaine and Quaaludes became her favorites. With Lindsey came her flock of admiring men, and many said Laura was at least as pretty as Lindsey.

“I was really very inhibited,” Laura laughs, “except when I had cocaine and Quaaludes, which released me. Absolutely. Definitely—particularly the Quaaludes. The whole thing was so new, and such a different experience—and the drugs definitely heightened my desire for intensity. I just wanted more—more of everything!
Everything, just more intense!”

She enjoyed her reputation as an available party girl in her local town, kissing guys and girls and on the dance floor and giving head in parking lots. Sex & drugs became a united event. She started getting high almost every day.

Her first day at Eureka, she met a client, Mark, a handsome coke dealer she went home with. He tied her up and fucked her. This was new to her. She liked it. She started staying with him some weekdays, returning home to Bucks County on weekends.

Another of her tricks at Eureka was big fat tough brilliant Walter, a rich Texas oilman. She started to see him on the outside, too. He liked coke, fucking and fantasy sex, and became a kind of sugar daddy. Then she met me.

We fuck, do coke, fuck, do coke, talk, fuck, and do coke until mid-Sunday afternoon when I beg for sleep. I am careful to limit my coke intake so that it doesn't interfere with my ability to get hard. I just keep doing less and less every time.

“Let me do something for you,” she said. “I'm too coked up to sleep. You can have absolutely anything you want. Can I rub you?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

“Can I lick your asshole? Please?”

Wow.

Laura licks and sucks until I just can't stay awake for another moment of pleasure.

It was the first of many of the most peaceful sleeps I've ever known, her warm tongue kissing me good night at both ends.

I sleep without interruption. I awake early Monday. The sun is half up. She is in my arms. I smell her deliciousness before I know my own name. I remember the circumstances of how I went to sleep. I smile and think there must not be any better way to start a day.

She has a swimmer's body. She has almost no fat, except, as I said, and it's worth repeating, on her plush bum. No cellulite. Smooth skin still warmer than it should be. She is a heat pump. She is winter pussy without the plumpness. I wonder what it will be like to fuck her in the hot summer. Well, that's what air conditioning is for. If wild fucking and sucking my asshole are the only two things Laura does, if she is a Bimbo Savant, these two great skills are enough to cover at least the first decade.

Sleep has replenished my hormones and I am hard again. I must have come six or seven, maybe eight times since Friday. I wonder how long this can last, if I'll simply run out of my allotment of hard-ons.

Laura is curled between my arms and legs. We are a Turkish puzzle ring. I maneuver inside her. Her body dances with me before she is awake. She murmurs, “Please use me. Thank you for using me.” Maybe I am still sleeping. Or maybe this is a dream come true.

When I was thirteen, I made a wish at my Bar Mitzvah that I wanted God to send me a high fashion model, or at least a female who looked like one. Send me a tall, thin, preferably blonde shiksa with cheekbones, just like the girls on the Clairol hair color boxes. And I wanted her to be a “nymphomaniac,” which was the second big word I learned after “delicatessen.”

When I found out later in college that clinical nymphomaniacs didn't attain orgasm and were generally frustrated, hostile, and man-hating, I revised my still unfulfilled but unforgotten wish to “very, very oversexed female.”

God must have had an enormous amount of paperwork and my request got lost in the shuffle, but finally, twenty years after my Bar Mitzvah my wish was finally granted and I was sent this gorgeous, sweet, sexually avaricious libidomaniac.

I decide to tie her up. She likes Mark doing it so I better get on the bandwagon. The few times I'd done it with other women had been fun. I went to my closet and pulled out five or six of my least favorite ties. Bondage before breakfast.

“Lie face up,” I order with flat affect. I'm not going to lose her. She wants to be my slave and I will hold up my end. You give a submissive woman what she needs—or she'll get it someplace else. But at that moment I'm not analyzing anything. I'm just enjoying the power of domination.

My ties never looked better than around Laura's hands. I take each wrist and tie it to the bed frame. I tell her to spread her legs wide and I enter her, pulling her tightly against her bonds, spreading and bending her legs to suit the deepest entry, driving her through half a dozen screaming orgasms. I feel invincible. Maybe only Muhammad Ali or Genghis Khan ever felt this strong!

I tie her ankles to her wrists. She is folded in half, open in the middle. Her vagina tilts toward me surrounded by sparse wispy soft down. I can smell its invitation. I pull her hips until her ass is lifted off the bed. I fuck her hard. She comes before me and then with me.

“Yes. Yes. This is what I want in my life,” she cheers me on as I spill into her. Her green eyes get bluer and look up with need like a puppy.

I pull my wet dick out. It's hard, demanding more! I need to own this woman. But how can I own a woman who fucks five or six or more other men everyday, some better looking, some with bigger cocks?

I must be the only man branded into her soul, scorched into her libido, burnt into her heart. I want her to be at work fucking and thinking what a second-rate fuck she is having compared to me, Jeffrey, with the fuck no one else can provide.

I slide my hands over her. She flexes, stretches, moans and mews like a cat. I control an atavistic cannibal urge to take a bite from her flesh. I am crazed, balancing on the edge of sex madness. A million years ago after stealing and raping a woman maybe you ate her if you were hungry. Maybe one smells and tastes so wonderful you decide not to eat her, but to hunt and feed the both of you so you can keep on fucking her. The one in my bed is this one. This one lives.

I loosen the neckties and command her to get on her hands and knees. She complies. I pause. After a moment she begins to shift side to side like a bored, caged cat. I leave the room—to raise her tension—and lower mine. I need a break from her pheromones.

I stand in front of my living room window and look down twenty-four floors to the beginning of the day. There should be an audience looking up at me like they do at jumpers. How can the outside world walk by unaware of the energy I am creating? It's the ultimate solipsistic blindness of ego: how could the universe dare not know how powerful I am? With one wrong move, atoms will collide, fuse beyond critical mass and destroy everything.

Being away from her calms me. My breath slows and I walk back into the bedroom. She is still on all fours, still swaying, waiting for the next act's curtain to rise.

11

The ‘test spank' and beyond

One moment later

Many women want to be spanked. Some like it hard. Some like it gentle. Some don't like it. But most do not dislike it. At least not the ones in my survey.

I had a girlfriend who enjoyed it, as long as it was playful and very light. She was particularly fond of it when I took her over my knee and made believe she had been naughty and was being punished. Sometimes she would ask for it. I think it was a way of resolving her ambiguous sexual feelings for her stepfather who was good looking and just a few years older than me.

To submissives, the metaphor and the scenario are as important as the act. To non-submissives, the spank just gets jumbled in with all the other good feelings and heightens the intensity in some minor form of crossed-wire synesthesia.

If you want to go in this direction you need to start with a Test Spank. The proper Test Spank is two medium-firm, open-handed love taps to the fleshiest part of the bottom, preferably while you are fucking doggie style so your partner is already excited and doesn't see it coming.

The responses vary:

(1) A jerky turning around with a “Yo! What the fuck do you think you're doing, asshole?!”

(2) A civil, “No thank you, I'm not into that.”

(3) A grunted, but definitely negative, “Uh uh.”

Or if you've pre-qualified your partner correctly:

(4) A pleasurable moan.

(5) A polite “Thank-you.”

(6) A pleading “Harder,” or “More.”

(7) Or my all-time favorite from a lovely pixie and divorced mother of three who took a long, deep breath, turned and said, “Oh, thank you. I've waited twenty years for someone to do that.”

“I don't think that I ever asked Jeffrey to spank me the first time,” Laura recalls, “I'm not graphic like that. He
just knew.
He intuited it. He probably gave me a little and then I wanted more. I definitely liked the real thing. It had to be
real.
It couldn't be just patting—a patty-pat. I definitely wanted it hard.”

I come back into the bedroom and administer the Test Spank. Laura turns to me and says, “Thank you. Please hit me again. Harder.”

I hit her harder, then firmer yet, driven by her encouragement. Then she says the words that change my life, if not forever, for many years: “Hurt me.”

I stop and put my mouth right next to her ear and whisper, “You want me to hurt you? Tell me about it.” I slap her hard, half a dozen times.

“I need you to hurt me. I want it. I need to show you how much I want you to own me.”

God did I want her. I wanted to own her. How could I not?

“I need to give you my pain. Please take pain from me. I want you to take pain from me.”

I slap her bottom a dozen times, each harder than the last, to make her already reddening ass the color of Pantone Matching System color 32, nearly the red on a pack of Marlboros.

I'd heard a lot of naughty slutisms come out of women's mouths. I'd heard women say, “Hurt me with it,” to spur me on to fuck them harder, but no one ever asked me outright to hurt them.

I get behind her and push my cock inside her, reaching around to pinch her nipples. She pleads, “Harder. Please, harder.” I squeeze her nipples harder. She starts to come and begs, “More.”

I pull out, tell her not to move an inch, and tie her hands and feet with the neckties, one to each corner of the bed frame. I spank her till my hand is sore. Laura just asks for more. I pause. I am on the precipice of weighing the ethics of right and wrong but I am interrupted by another request: “Please use your belt on me.”

Fuck right and wrong. Being reluctant is over. I reach to the floor for my pants and yank off my belt. I fold it in half the way my father did before he punished me and for the first time in my life I whip a woman. In retrospect, spanking is sometimes spanking and sometimes it's S&M gateway sex.

I start light and gain momentum until I know that if she were hitting me I'd be crying. Laura moans in appreciation. Each smack ignites a vocal response that is the opposite of what I expect. She moans with pleasure. She says, “Thank you for hurting me.”

I'd like to say I didn't enjoy it as much as I did, but I fucking loved it. Immediately.

Whatever internal discussion starts in my ethics forum gets shelved in committee. I whip her and I am King of the Universe.

I look at the welts on her beautiful behind. The leather makes contact hard enough to emboss the intricate bas-relief design of the belt onto her flesh. She never asks me to stop. She just makes deep small noises. I listen closely and only hear pleasure. I am freaked out. I am afraid of really hurting her and decide to stop hitting her.

I mount her. Molten lava pours through my veins and I breathe fire. For a sex junkie this is the ultimate fix. I am at the edge, about to soar to some new place. I don't care about the danger or if there is no way back. If this is what she wants, I will do it.

I fuck her and massage my thumb into her smaller as of yet unused hole. “Yes,” she begs, “yes!” I spread her ass with two fingers and nestle my wet cock head just inside her. Lubricating with my spit I push inside her. Then I plunge inside.

She falls onto the bed shouting “Oh, my God! Take Me!” The heat of her welts warms my belly. I fuck her through three minutes of her seamless orgasms. It's time for me. I cannonball my load up into her. I am spent. This would be an okay place to die.

She is the dirtiest female I ever met. She has no bounds. I am frightened. I am excited. I'm lying there and Pink Floyd is in my head: “Ooooo, I need a dirty woman. Ooooo, I need a dirty girl. Will some woman in this desert land make me feel like a real man?”

I untie her and without speaking we curl up and fall asleep.

I wake to hear Laura on the phone apologizing to Liz that she'll be late for work. For three one-hundredths of a second I can't figure out why my right hand aches so much. Then I wonder how Laura's bottom feels. As she speaks to Liz, she's standing in front of the full-length mirror looking at the black and blue marks on her ass. “Come here,” I call after she hangs up the phone. She obeys.

I have questions about the belt scene. Did she like it? Did I hurt her? Too much? Enough?

“Jeffrey, I need what you do to me. I love it. It doesn't hurt. It just makes me feel good. Slutty. I like being your slave. I want to come home and be used by you and sleep with you every night. I'm moving out of Mark's apartment today after work. Please tell me it's okay and that you want me.”

“Of course I do.”

The next time she mentions anything about loving being spanked and/or whipped my insecurity rears its ugly head and I ask if it's different with me than with other guys.

“There are no other guys.”

“Really? Not now or not ever?

“Well, Mark spanked me a little but that's as far as it went, nobody else does it to me at work.”

“I'm the first?”

“I guess you are just the right guy at the right time.”

“Did you always want to be whipped?”

“I thought about it a lot. I masturbated thinking about it. I wanted it in a secret way.”

“Why do you like it?”

She takes her time to speak, and pauses between her thoughts. “It's what I need and you are the right man to give it to me. I love it when you hurt me. It doesn't feel bad. It feels like I'm getting rid of something that it's good to be rid of. It feels right.”

“When I was about twelve years old,” Laura confesses, “I read this salacious story about someone getting whipped in New York—and it totally lingered in my head.

“It made such a huge impression on me, it was so decadent, and it was so
other
—because this woman was totally having pleasure in searching out these hot guys who would whip her. And I was like,
‘WHAT? OH MY GOD!'

“I don't remember the name of the book or who wrote it,” Laura continues, “it wasn't
The Story of O—
I just remember that this woman was searching out hot guys who would whip her. It was such an amazing thing! It was just such a foreign concept to me. And it intrigued me—so I always wanted to be in it for real. I was creating my own novel out of my experience. I would do anything to take orgasms to the extreme, and Jeffrey was doing that for me. I was in a place where being whipped felt good and I knew Jeffrey was the right guy to take me down this road. I knew being slutty and whipped was the next place I wanted sex to take me.

“I finally did read
The Story of O
when I was going out with Jeffrey,” Laura explains, “and God,
The Story of O
definitely has preoccupied a huge amount of my orgasms for most of my life.”

She dresses, smokes a joint, and heads off to work. I wonder what her tricks will make of her black and blue ass. Out of bed and brewing coffee, I look in the mirror. She's gone. I am not Mick Jagger or Clint Eastwood anymore. I am just this Jewish guy with love handles who finally has the woman of his dreams.