Alice

‘It’s not fancy, but it’s nice’, he assures himself not for the first time, as he looks nervously at the entrance. The bunch of daisies beside him beginning to look not as proud as they had half an hour ago when he arrived, wet palmed and heart racing. He’s had time to cool a bit, and his shirt has had time to relax it’s carefully pressed fabric, the anticipation, and self-doubt are beginning to find their own time in the back of his thoughts. ‘What if she’s not what she said? What if she sucks? What if she doesn’t think I’m what I said? What if I suck?’

He runs their conversations through his mind, bits and pieces of verbal nostalgia playing in his ear, letters, phone calls, all that shared and private laughter. The smile that plays on his lips is as unconscious as the blush at his neck, both the result of their more, sordid conversations. She’s everything he’s looking for, and no strings. And as that thought comes to him, again his gaze drifts to the entrance.

His heart soars as the world slides into slow motion; the doorway is filled with the same girl from all the pictures, those deep brown eyes, tan legs flashing beneath the wine colored halter dress. He steps to her, stammering, “H- Hi…” and his voice betrays him with a crack and a squeak, because he can’t help but imagine those legs opening close enough to his face for him to feel her heat on his cheeks, back arching as the deep red silk slips up her thighs and drapes across her sex like a theater curtain.

Her smile reads his thoughts, with a playful toss of her hair and a swish of her skirt, she takes his hand, leaning forward she places a kiss at his neck just below his ear and whispers.” I know what you’re thinking, and yes. But let’s get a table first.”

Before he really knows its happening she leads his hand through the slit in her dress, pressing his fingertips into the soft fabric of her panties, warm, not damp, and then it’s gone, and the hostess is asking them to follow her to their table. His sad little daisies lay forgotten on the waiting bench.

Dinner, for him, feels like a dream, his mind spinning through the courses laced with her electric touch, brushing his leg, his shoulder. Each new plate seeming to spur on her advances, appetizer, to entrée, hot fingertips tracing his hardening cock through his pants, or leading his to that secret paradise between her thighs. Entree to dessert has her voice in his ear, spilling dirty thoughts into it, while images of cream melting across her tongue fill his thoughts. All the while filled with deep eye contact, and her silvery laughter, their conversation falling from them like a moment lost in time.

In the cab, on the way to her flat, she allows him to taste her. Laying supine across the back seat and holding him with those beautiful legs he hears for the first time without a speaker, her sounds. He tongues her swollen clit and toys with the jewelry she has there, three pair of labia rings, interlocked, bar his fingers, but create and intriguing texture against his lips, the taste of the surgical steel mixing with the sweet salt of her bites his taste buds with a coppery sting. She uses her panties from behind his head like a net, pulling at the waistband to lock him to her; and grinds her sex into him, mashing his teeth against her clit as he tries desperately to pull his lips together around it. And between her puffing breath and moans he hears her giving the cabbie directions, and describing what the rearview mirror can’t show.

He’s in a world he never thought he’d really know, surrounded by the sounds and textures and scent of her, his cock throbs with need, and he questions, for a moment, the jewelry. She’d never mentioned them, and he was certain from the phone calls that they weren’t always there. It’s a fleeting thought, though, because he needs this too badly to question any of it. ‘It’s been so long since I’ve had a real girl…’ he thinks and, his fingers clinch at her hips in desperate gratitude, ‘…no more silly bitches, Tommy. Only class A kinky thinkers from now on boy!’ and that thought sends him reeling, hips grinding against the bench seat in a frantic display of his desire.

He tries to pull his shoulders in, wanting to slid up, needing to feel her thighs on his, to give his restless prick something to shove, the idea of at least rubbing against that web of metal making him hungrier, but she rolls her pelvis to match his movements, keeping his face where she wanted it, keeping the control she’d promised she could provide. He whimpers and submits, frustrated, and sucks angrily at her clit forcing her orgasm. He feels the cab swerve and know what the driver is feeling, he’s been there. He remembers driving, one hand on the wheel, the other on his cock, and her in his ear lost deep in some dirty fantasy, ‘How sweet’, he thinks, ‘to finally control those sounds, to feel her flesh, to taste her’.

Sweet release finds him in the elevator, twelve flights never felt so long with her lips hugging his cock in a full mouth embrace. Her tongue rolls against his flesh in hot waves, lip and tongue piercings drawing smooth pressure points, proving her abilities in rhythmic taps as she pulls. His climax comes in perfect time with the belly dropping sensation of the lift settling.

~x~

My new plaything is lost in it’s own mind when I shove the decoy aside and start to really play. All night I’ve been letting her share, she’s had to do a lot of work to get us this one. While it’s dizzy and weak minded, I lead it to the door, it thinks it’ll get sex, so it follows.

The blind little sheep, stupid little cock driven animal! It doesn’t even notice she’s gone, that the swing in my step isn’t the same as hers. It doesn’t notice that I almost choke on my bile as it shoves that weirdly squirming tongue against mine, but it seems to like the taste of itself in my mouth. It thinks the disgust on my face and the strength I show when I shove him to the couch is a game she promised to play.

She told it there would be ropes, but she was wrong, she doesn’t know about the drug. She doesn’t even know about the job that opened the door to it. The toy barely notices the needle when I pair it with a well placed bite, and its racing heart and ragged breathing hasten the effect. Curare is a powerful drug. Its eyes widen as it realizes it can’t move, blinking rapidly.

“This stuff,” I say, waving the syringe so it can see, “works quickly. Without respiratory aid the diaphragm paralyses within several minutes, good for us I don’t need nearly that long to see what you’re made of.”

I raise its arms, working quickly, but carefully rubbing the warm, dead, palm against my nipples, my other hand expertly releasing the jewelry she didn’t know she was wearing, I take his greedy flesh into myself rocking and working myself against a cock I know will die happily inside my orgasm.

“I know you feel everything,” I say, letting laughter play in my voice, taunting it, “ you told her you wanted to be helpless, vulnerable to a powerful creature to use for pleasure. She told you to be careful what you wished for. You should have listened.”

The pupils are drawn to pin-pricks now, it’s close, the buzzing starts, the gift begins. From below the cushions I draw my blade, making sure it sees, squeezing my muscles around it mimicking the way she used her tongue in the same place, using it now to press against the sacred mound within me, the chain mail web grinding against it’s testicles, a few rings swinging with my movements.

The eerie silence when there should be screams as I bring the skin from its ribs away from its torso and use the crimson wine to paint my breasts, my belly; its cheeks, spur me to come stronger than I’ve ever known. The gift presents itself in perfect time; I watch its eyes and know that the last moment between this world and that was split equally with the crest of my orgasm, a perfect way to start the game.

My toy is now complete, and still oh, so warm and sticky. I lose myself to my playtime, spending hours taking things apart, and learning things, tasting, touching, using it. I splash around in its insides a bit before I prepare it. Experience has shown me that a popsicle stick works just beautifully to keep the penis useful. The hands I remove and place in the lockbox in the bedroom. I take the rest to my temple, to use later, when time has had a chance to change it a little for me.