Elliot Mabeuse (15 page)

She turned her head and sucked my cock back into her mouth, as if what happened to her pussy was none of her concern.

"Raise your knees," I whispered.

She moaned around my cock and slowly lifted her legs—too slowly, so I slapped her between the legs and she squealed with alarm and lifted her knees all the way up to her breasts, leaving herself totally revealed. Another bolt of lightning lit out the inside of the van and showed her lying there luridly exposed, knees up, arms stretched over her head. I traced my finger down her slit and began to finger her, playing in the soaking slit of her sex as she sucked me, nursing on my cock like a starving child. She moaned and her knees jerked when I touched her.

"Oh! Conner! No! Don't! Please!"

I slapped her pussy and she jumped.

"Keep your knees up and apart," I warned her. "Understand?"

She was mine, my toy, all of her, and I played with her tits, her pussy, caressed her face, but mostly I lorded it over her—let the sensations of her slaving mouth satisfy me and drive me higher as I reveled in the pleasure of having her naked body right there to use with and enjoy, having her so ly and shamelessly exposed for me. I put my fingers inside her and thumbed her clit, pumped her and took her to the edge as she panted and begged and gagged on my dick—begged me not to make her come, not like this, so wickedly, so nakedly, so luridly on display. I knew she wanted to hide and I knew she wanted to refuse and I knew she wanted to resist but I wouldn't let her. I wouldn't let her hold back or deny me anything, and as she lay there with her knees up

and her legs spread and her feet twisting nervously in the air I felt her excitement pulling my own orgasm out of me. I felt an electrical quiver of violent release gathering in the center of my body and I started fingering her harder, my hand slapping against her pussy as I pushed her up and over ahead of me.

"Ugh!" she groaned. "Oh! Ugh! No! Ohh! Conner! Oh! God!"

Her own shame was making her come. It wasn't my touch. It wasn't my dick in her mouth. It wasn't being kidnapped and thrown in the van. It was the fact that I knew she loved it—she loved it all. That's what was doing it, that's why she was begging me to stop, but I wouldn't. I played with her pussy and I pumped my cock into her mouth. I held her arms over her head so she was my captive and I felt it start—hot, rich, thick, filthy—"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"—the harsh load of my seed churning up from the depths of my depraved soul in a wash of blistering ecstasy and I snarled like an animal and threw back my head and I just let it go—just let go of everything and let it come. I pushed my fingers into Emma's rich and spending pussy and felt the very center of her and I let myself come.

"Oh God, Conner! Yes! Yes! God! Yes! Give it to me! Give it to me!"

Her voice was a tight, frantic plea, squeezed out as she turned her head to watch and my steely-veined dick twitched and began to spew out his thick gouts of come, thick jets slurring down her cheek and lashing over her lips and chin in viscous strands and webbing.

Emma squealed in frustration as she came too, and her trembling made her too spastic to get my dick back into her mouth so she grabbed and searched for it with open

mouth like a baby bird frantic for food as I continued to ejaculate all over her. Meanwhile her tight pussy clamped down on my fingers and quivered and her own juice spilled out and wet my hand as if she were weeping and begging for mercy, as if it were simply more pleasure than she could stand.

"Ugh! Yes! Fuck! Fuck!" I spat, hunching my hips with every jolting eruption, holding her down, almost lying on top of her as I finished—thrusts getting weaker, spasms more prolonged—pouring the rage into her, the anger, the need and the deep, draining sense of relief—pouring it all into her, and conscious of Emma pressing up against me, her thighs squeezing my hand tightly as she too drained herself and took her reward, feeding off my pleasure and swallowing it into herself.

Slowly I stopped. My motions got less frantic and urgent as I squeezed the last bits out and ground to a halt, then pulled my softening cock from her swollen lips. I got down and stretched out next to her and we both lay there in the darkened van, panting for breath and listening to the rain drumming on the roof, the thunder pealing someway off into the distance now. Emma let her knees fall to the floor and closed her eyes and I saw her throat working as she swallowed. She brought her bound hands down and brushed some stray hair away from her face. The air inside was very still. She seemed totally relaxed, totally fulfilled.

I reached over to untape her wrists and she pulled her hands away and looked at me. "Leave it on, please, Conner?"

"You like it?"

"Yes," she said. "I do."

I leaned over and kissed her, and I wanted to stay in that kiss. I had so much to say in that kiss I hardly knew where to begin, but I remembered the pledge about love and her worry about entangling emotions. She seemed so at peace now that I didn't want to ruin it, and lying together and being aware of our shelter from the rain was enough, so I just held her and moved close and listened to the rain fall.

There was no peace though. She was against my chest and I could almost feel her thoughts and the words trying to break free.

"You don't want to talk?" I asked.

"I can't," she said. "It wouldn't be good, Conner."

I nodded. "Okay. Well, then, let's get straightened up. We should go."

"Where?"

I sat up and started pulling my pants on. Everything was damp now and it didn't feel good.

"The city. I'm still taking you to my place. The plans haven't changed."

That seemed to please her. She sat up and started arranging her clothes.

I had to redo her wrists. I tethered them with a ten-inch strip of tape which left them connected but gave her enough slack to use her hands, and that made her happy enough. As I pulled out of the lot, Emma looked in the rear-view mirror and tried to salvage her make-up and fix her hair, using her bound hands as if it were entirely natural.

It wasn't natural for me though, and driving along with this girl who loved slavery so much had me in a state of simmering arousal. The wipers lashed the rain from the windshield and the van felt like an ark.

I nodded to her hands. "Tell me about it."

She'd finished her make-up and she looked as normal as could be achieved for having been caught in a downpour. I'd given her my jacket for warmth and she pulled it around her and looked at her hands.

"I don't know. I just always liked it. It makes me feel secure, kind of, and sexy, and like adventurous. Don't you like it?"

"Yes, I like it. I like it a lot."

She looked at the tape cuffs as if they were jewelry. "I always used to play I was being kidnapped and tied up, and that's how I used to masturbate, tying my knees and ankles together and rubbing against something. I was very young when I started. It always got me off."

"And what did you think about?"

"When I was little? Nothing really. Just men tying me up. I didn't even know what boys did with girls then, back when I first started."

"And now?"

She ducked her head and looked at me from beneath her hair. "It wouldn't be any fun if I told you. You have to kind of guess."

Then she laughed and said. "So far you've done a pretty good job."

I pulled onto , the old four-lane leading to the expressway, about as scenic a road as runs out here, skirting the edges of the suburbs through some forest preserves.

The rain had let up to a steady soaking summer shower, the kind the farmers love, and you could almost feel the grass and the trees sucking it up in pleasure. The wipers could handle it easily and it was nice to be in the van. Even with the memory of the wild sex we'd just had, it was almost cozy. It felt sheltered and safe.

She leaned back in the seat and tried to stretch but couldn't because of the tape.

"But that's enough of this for now," she said, and started peeling it from her wrists.

I made a sound of disappointment and she smiled.

"You take it all so seriously. It's just sex, you know. Just fooling around. There's more to life than sex." She smiled. "There is! I'm serious!"

She tuned on the radio and hunted around for a station, found something I didn't recognize and left it there, turned way down.

"Tell me about where you live," she said. "Is that the place you talked about in class, where there's that bar where they have poetry readings? Where do you live?"

I stopped at a light and tried to think of how to describe it without alarming her.

"How well do you know the city?"

"Not very well. David—" she caught herself at the mention of his name but only for a second, "—his brother has season tickets for the Bears and Bulls and sometimes we go into the city when he's in town, and go out to dinner and stuff—Michigan Avenue—but other than that… He says it's kind of dangerous. Hard to park."

"Yeah. Well, you'll see. I live in a kind of strange neighborhood. Little Saigon they call it. Mostly Vietnamese, but it's still pretty affordable." I didn't want to insult her by telling her it was people like David who'd driven up the rents to the point where people like me couldn't afford to live there any more. "The El runs right by my place. The elevated train?" I laughed at the look on her face. "You never took the El? Don’t worry.

I'll protect you. You'll be fine."

I pulled away from the light. "So what else is there besides sex, then?" I was teasing.

"Movies, shopping." She was teasing too. "No. You know, the usual things. I don't know. Well what else do you do? You don’t just do sex all the time, do you? I mean, I hope not. Or poetry. You're into other things too. Sports and things. You're into sports."

"Actually no. I'm not. I've got no use for them."

She looked at me like she'd never heard such a thing. She must have thought I was jealous of David's brother's tickets. "What do you mean, 'no use'?"

"Just that. They don't do anything for me. Don't interest me. They used to, and then I got tired of them. It's always the same thing. Winning and losing. I got tired of it and now I don't bother. I don't miss it."

I looked over at her and smiled. "You don't really like football either, do you? I mean
really
? "

"Well, no. But it's all the other stuff—going to the game, tailgating, being with friends, going out afterwards, seeing the players, talking about it. It's something to do."

I nodded. "Yeah. I guess so. It's a spectator thing."

She was silent for a while as we drove past a stretch of road lit with overhead lights, the edge of the village of Park Forest. Thunder still pealed in the distance, sounding almost apologetic. The rain was gentle now.

"No," she said. "There's the normal things. Family and friends and a career; community, where you live and making it better—helping others. And your own family, of course. That's very important. Raising one. Having kids. A nice house and bringing them up right, a home—you know. A garden. A car."

Her voice trailed off and she was silent. We came around a descending curve at the base of a hill where Half Day Road ran into at a brightly lit intersection with a big traffic signal and extra lanes, totally deserted in the rain. On the other side of Half Day was a slight rise, and atop this rise was a park, a wide swath of grass set with ball fields and benches and picnic huts separated by big trees and illuminated by neatly spaced halogen park lamps. In the bright white light of the lamps, the rain was falling like strings of silver tinsel, shining against the green-black of the trees.

I pulled up at the red light and we sat there. It was a spellbinding sight. It almost looked like ice.

"I can't believe I just said that," she said.

We sat at the light with the wipers thunking rhythmically, and suddenly Emma wrenched the door open and leaped from the van and out into the rain. She slammed the door shut and ran across Half Day Road up the hill towards the park, her bare feet slipping in the wet grass.

There was no one around. I ran the red light and pulled over at the base of the hill, hit the flashers and jumped out of the van to run after her, slipping as she had in the rain-slick grass, falling to my knees, the warm rain soaking me.

"Emma? Emma!"

The hill couldn't have been more than eight feet high but the wet weeds were slick as glass and I was breathless by the time I got to the top and looked over the brightly lit park stretching out before me. The rain was pouring down like cascading silver in the lamplight, and Emma was running aimlessly towards the darkness of the trees—not fast, running like she wanted to be caught. I took off after her, my feet splashing in the soaked turf.

I could hear her laughing as I got close and I started laughing too, not knowing why. I was angry and annoyed. Her dress was as wet as tissue paper now and plastered to her skin. Without her panties I could see her buttocks flexing as she ran and even the muscles of her back. I reached for her and she screamed in excitement, dodging. I almost fell on my face, but I maintained my balance and slid on the grass then took off in a new direction and cut her off by a little stream that the rain had formed through the field. I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down to the ground.