Rendezvous With a Stranger (16 page)

      
“You’re going to whip her?” she asks.

      
“And you as well, if you like,” he replies.

      
“You’ll whip me too,” she considers in a voice rich with amazement.
 
What was a horny Chelsea half-wooing, half mesmerizing me, is now a Chelsea wooed by my stranger as much as I’ve been wooed.
 
Her flirting hips can’t stop undulating as though they float on a breeze blowing through the room.
 
Her eyes gaze at my nakedness, marveling.
 
When once I might have blushed with shame, I’m almost proud that I can surprise her with this bizarre scene.

      
“I’d say you have an ass that begs to be abused,” he tells her.
 
He lifts my arms over my head and attaches me to the door so I seem to swing like a loose vine dangling from the limb of a tree.
 
“Your hands can be as immobilized, your cunt as stretched, your skin as beaten.
 
But perhaps you’d rather watch first.
 
Taste Carolyn’s juices.”

      
Nicholas Riley is at my feet, securing them to two ends of a spreader bar.
 
I’ve not been this bound since the night on the fence, and my stomach rattles anxiously.
 
Chelsea’s eyes augment every sensation, adding her lust to my own climbing body heat.
 
When he finishes with my feet, he’s at my side, the doorway broad enough for him to move around me easily with a crop he uses to strike my thighs.
 
When he backs away, he strikes my vulnerable ass.
 
He hits hard enough to bring tears to my eyes—perhaps ever harder because there are her eyes looking at each strike.
 
I can’t see Chelsea with my back to her face, but I can feel the intensity of her quandary as her eyes bore into the reddened skin on my ass.
 
When he strikes my shoulders, I scream softly.
 
This unexpected change has me irate and anxious.
 
I wonder why he lets her watch as though this is some kind of sport.
 

      
What does she think of me, trading the gentler Robby for this vicious taskmaster?
 
I want to explain to her what I receive in physical joy, but of course there is no way she would ever understand unless this were a desire she had fulfilled herself.

      
Nicholas starts and stops, striking erratically.
 
I’m dancing in these tight bonds, squirming for some relief.
 
When the crop hits the parted center of my ass, the scream’s more dreadful and I wonder if I’ll faint.
 
He rouses me with more savage gifts and I find myself drifting for a while.
 
My mind is empty now, sensation overloading senses, the pain, the smell of fear, the taste of something dangerous on my lips, the sight inside my own eyes of the stranger’s next desire.
 

      
When he stops the brutal battle with my backside, Chelsea slips between the doorpost and my hanging body.
 
Hers hands, without restraint, run their way over my perspiring breasts.
 
She kisses my thirsty lips and I grab at them for more.
 
She’s as frantic with desire as I am. She sinks down, as if melting, writhing her way to the floor as her little kisses move from my neck, down my torso, about my belly to my crotch.
 
I feel the sting of the crop on my ass.
 
Chelsea jolts too, with her face pressed into my labia, her tongue seeking to find the hard head of my clit.
 
I sense the cum about explode, and with the cuts to my behind coming fast, I think I’m just seconds away.

      
When Nicholas stops, I’m put off again.
 
It’s one of his favorite practices, one that makes me feel used and hollow, one that rouses humiliation, one that I curiously live for.
 
I’m on the edge, but not allowed my pleasure until he deems me worthy, and if not worthy, until he decides
he
wants to see me satisfied.

      
I see him move to her side, lift her to her feet and bind her hands as mine are bound together at the wrists.
 
He lifts them overhead to join mine, and straps them together with a hefty belt that will not let us budge.
 
He clamps my nipples and clamps hers too, and then ties these clamps together so each move she makes will tug the strained pieces of flesh between the hard-pinching grips.
 
He treats our labia the same, with heavy hasps he connects with a short chain.
 
While my legs remain immobilized on the ends of the bars, hers are free to jiggle and shake between mine.
 
This way we’re sure to sense the pain together.

      
Chelsea stares at me, her eyes droopy like she’s going to sleep.
 
They are eyes of lust, as if she’s fallen into the hands of a master and is beginning to submit.
 
When Nicholas begins to whip her ass, she jolts and we both scream.
 
The pain won’t stop in my nipples and cunt.
 
His devious plan works as he goads us with piercing stings and pain that doesn’t stop.
 
While at first I’m comforted by her hot skin on mine, now it’s only torture being so close to this writhing creature.
 
She shocks me each time he lays the crop on her flesh. With her mouth so close to my ears, her screams frighten me.
 
The sound of them deadly. I try to move with her irregular rhythm, but there’s no catching up with her odd pivots and spins.
 
The clamps tear at my labia and nipples, as they pull every which way and strain the stretched out skin.
 
I’m sure I can’t take more, and yet I do. Perhaps only because I know that what she feels now is worse than what I endure. Oddly, I’m finding compassion in my heart for the woman who shares my husband’s bed. Oh, what a twisted life I lead!
 
What a depraved soul I have become!

      
There’s always an end, I know that from the beginning even though sometimes I worry that this next time the agony won’t stop.
 
And yes there is an end.
 
We’re exhausted but mellow.
 
Tied body to tied body we move on each other without shame, and even more lewdly when Nicholas removes the clamps from our aching nipples and cunts.
 
We kiss when we can’t embrace, and look with longing sex-hungry eyes into eyes that have hated and scorned and now share a moment of peace.
 
When our hands are freed, we move to the bed and make love.
 
Locked mouth to cunt, the pleasure seems almost like an afterthought—certainly it’s anticlimactic after the worst and the best are over.

      
She brings me off with her lips and tongue, while I have her climax on my hand. Then we lay like two lazy cats, softly pawing skin and licking lips.

      
Nicholas sits in a chair beside the bed watching.
 
Then I see him look toward the doorway as the shadow of another man appears.

      
“What’s this?” I hear a voice somewhere in the back of my mind remembering whose this is.

      
No one speaks while a pair of astonished eyes stare at the bed for a while—at a wife and a mistress/girlfriend that kiss with passion and run their hands over sweaty skin.
 
From the corner of my eye I can see the astounded look on my husband’s face.

      
“Who are you?” he asks my stranger and my stranger
 
smiles.
 
Then rising, Nicholas walks to Robby’s side.
 
He has his bag in his hand, where all his toys are now tucked away—only the nail above the doorframe remains to mark our crime.

      
“I’m the man screwing your wife,” he tells my husband simply.
 
And moving past the baffled man, he’s out the door, leaving a pair of languishing sluts to soothe this wounded man.

I can’t believe I’m the first to speak.
 
But then, there’s really not a whole lot to say.
 
Rising from the bed, I leave the graceful arms of the lush Chelsea with just a trace of sadness.
 
Then turning to Robby, I manage to capture the essence of the moment in just once sentence.
 

      
“Our marriage is over, darling,” I state plainly, and I move quickly to find my clothes.

      
Robby waits, looking oddly sad, standing motionless as though every vein in his body has frozen solid.
 
And with his face looking so terribly empty, I add my observation, “You have Chelsea, and I have Nicholas.”

      
“Nicholas?”
 
The blood seems to move in him again, and he looks out the door as though he can still see my stranger in retreat.

      
“He’s my lover,” I add, just so he truly understands.

      
I dress in what should be an awkward moment.
 
But it simply doesn’t strike me that way.
 
I’m not even thinking this situation is absurd, and I’m not really thinking revenge.
 
I’m just glad it’s over and I have a home to go to that’s much warmer and more honest than this one.

      
Packing up everything I need and forgetting everything that doesn’t matter, I leave for the city.
 
I’ll be at Nicholas Riley’s apartment by ten.
 

g

      
It’s nearly nine o’clock.
 
It should be midnight, the hour of witchery and demons, that hour when the devil begins to lay waste the peaceful dreams of children and its spirit haunts the discontented. Leaves fly against my windshield as I drive into the blackness between the suburbs and city, and gaze out looking for the first signs of those broad well-lit city streets that beckon me.
 
I think of alleys and basements with my master, his hand guiding me into crumbling hovels or high into the steel and concrete of buildings that rise to scrape the sky.
 
My mind is as perverted as his, weaving fantasies of treachery, body deeds to make me shudder and quake.
 
The wind picks up the closer I get to the cityscape.
 
But as that vast metropolitan glow begins to penetrate the night, I’m warmed.
 
I think of his fireplace, his brandy, his bed, his hair, his hefty chest, his mean riding crop and his lips.
 
I remember his blue eyes dark as the seas beyond the city.
 
I imagine myself cradled in his arms, and think of what he might say, what words would lure me more completely.
 
I say it’s love I’m feeling, but I have none of those sensations of love I’m familiar with.
 
There is passion—passion enough to last longer than this lifetime.

      
When I pull up to his building and come to halt, I let the car die and for a while stare up three flights to the windows that glow from his tulip lamp.
 
I can see the flicker from the fire he’s raised in the hearth.
 
How perfect of him to have this brand of gentleness surrounding him to take away the rawness of fear and horror he materializes so easily.
 
I answer to him so willingly, comforted to know that it’s not just remarkable sexual passion he stirs in me.
 

      
This time, it’s me stalking him when I enter his apartment using the key I keep on my key ring.
 
He sits in his chair with his back to the door, reading.
 
I tiptoe softly, and he doesn’t stir when I approach.
 
I half expect him to leap on me with another bout of terror to shock my already well-worked psyche.
 
But placing my hands on his shoulders, he jerks.
 
For a man with such acute instincts this surprises me.
 
Perhaps I’ve caught him napping and it only looks as though he is reading.
 
With my hands unable to detach from his warmth, I move around his side and slump to the floor at his feet, my palms running along his hard-muscled thighs.
 

      
“So, what do you say now that I’ve left him?” I ask, staring into the clear blue canyon of his eyes.
 
“It was a fine finish, don’t you think?”

      
“I think we’ve left the poor boy stunned.
 
I feel sorry for him,” he says.

      
“You do?”

      
“He didn’t create your messed up marriage by himself,” Nicholas reminds me.

      
“Oh, so you’re going to chastise me for doing exactly as you wanted.”

      
“Chastise you, no.
 
Just remind you that we’re a gentle breed of animal.”

      
“Men in general?” I ask.

      
“Yes, even me.”

      
“You weren’t so gentle tonight.
 
I think you left poor Chelsea as dazed as Robby was.”