V.
Her apartment was huge. It was on the top floor of a twelve-story building. It looked as though it took up the whole twelfth floor. She slipped out of her heels and shrunk down from a height above my eye level to one below my chin.
“Take your shoes off,” she said. Every word she exchanged with me was a command. It was interesting at first, hot after a while, and now that I was closer to sex, it was getting ready to also take my pants off. “I like to keep a clean, sterile environment in my home.”
I took off my shoes and felt embarrassed at the sour smell emanating from them. What if she’s into feet? I thought. The entrance to her apartment was narrow, so as soon as she walked into the living room, I lost sight of her. I crept into the short hallway and turned right into a spacious, window-lined living room. It was beautifully furnished and decorated. She was in the kitchen, at the far end of the space, pouring a rich amber liquid into a pair of short glasses. She walked over to the living room and handed me one of the glasses. She looked less menacing without her heels, trench coat, and sunglasses.
“Take a seat,” she said, and took a seat across from me.
“This is a beautiful space,” I said. “What do you do for a living?”
She took a long sip of her beverage, exhaled, and hummed softly as she closed her eyes, relaxed.
“I’m a psychiatrist,” she said.
“Really?” I said. “That’s crazy. Uh…I mean, cool. Didn’t mean to use that word.” She smiled sympathetically. “I’m actually going to therapy myself. So, I’m not passing judgment. I actually think that everyone can benefit from therapy.”
I took a big gulp to shut my nervous chatter up, and she took another sip. This time, she placed one of the ice cubes in her mouth, making one of her cheeks bulge out to the side. I watched as she juggled the cube from one cheek to the other, at times coddling it between her tongue and lips. The sound of it clanging against her teeth, the sucking and moaning from the ice being so cold it was melting in her mouth made me forget the reason why I was even at her place to begin with. She opened her eyes, looked at me, and curled her index finger toward herself, inviting me to get closer.
As I scooted onto the cushion next to her, she straddled her legs on mine and sat on my lap. She ran her perfectly manicured nails in and out of my hair, and kissed my lips. They were ice cold, yet warm. Her slurping of the ice dripped on her chin and onto my chest snapping hot, like water on oil bubbling to fry. The ice cube in her mouth, much smaller than the ones sweating in the glasses, transferred into my mouth and back to hers as a result of our tongues slithering onto one another. By the time the ice cube had melted, my lips and inner cheeks had gone numb, which came in handy when she began to gorge deep into them with her sharp teeth. I tasted my own blood when her mouth released mine and I sucked the pain away. She kissed and bit her way from my chin to my jawbone, and to my neck.
She dug her hands out of my hair and contorted her muscular arms to her back, unzipping her dress and unhooking her bra. Her breasts were small, but when she jammed my hands against them, there was enough breast tissue in them to cause a rumble in my zipped pants.
“Squeeze them,” she moaned. “Squeeze them hard.”
I pressed her breasts against her ribcage and she let out a sharp yelp that sounded like pain. I backed off, but she slapped me and told me to push harder. When I did so, she yelped again, and bit down on my shoulder.
“Aw, God,” I yelled.
Her teeth were so deep in my skin that they felt like daggers. She felt that the pain was making me harder, so she grinded rougher on me.
“What do you want?” she said.
“I want sex,” I yelled.
She slapped me and asked again, “What do you want?”
“Sex. I want to have sex, Mistress.”
“You don’t deserve me, you piece of shit. Do you think you deserve me? Huh?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Look at my body,” she said, brusquely sliding my hands off her reddened breasts. “Look at how perfect it is. Do you think I’ve hired a bodybuilder as my personal trainer, eat like a prizefighter, and have taken care of myself for the past 44 years to simply give it up to a man? To a piece of crap like you?”
“I’ll do anything to have just one night with you, Mistress,” I yelled, but she jumped off my lap as a startled bird flies away from a willing hand full of seed.
She slapped me again. The second slap drew blood from my nose; I felt it drip warm on my upper lip.
“I’m going to ask you one last time,” she said. “If you don’t give me the answer I want, it’s off to the street with you. Now, what do you want?”
I thought about the message she had written on the bus window and how she wanted me to follow her orders.
“I want to please you, Mistress,” I said.
“Good boy,” she said, smiling. “Are you going to do whatever I tell you to do?”
“Yuh-yes, Mistress.”
She walked into one of the other rooms, and I used my sleeve to wipe away some of the blood coagulating on my lip and the tears welling up in my eyes. My heart was pumping hard, but not as hard as my penis. What the hell is she going to do to me? I thought. The fear of harm excited me as much as the possibility of sex. I had become immune to pain after my mom used it as a source of catharsis from my dad’s cheating ways. Her lashes soon became more bearable and by the time I reached junior high, I had grown numb to them, and they actually made me laugh. This and my dad’s absence were the reason why I was seeking therapy: pain and punishment without receiving the direction, discipline and control. Just empty love.
When she walked out into the living room, she was carrying a black towel in one hand and a black box with red and blue cables coming out of it in the other.
“What’s that for, Mistress?” I asked, not wanting to really know what they were for. There was an unspoken pleasure in not knowing what she wanted to do to me.
“Here,” she said, tossing me the black towel, which upon further inspection was a hooded sweatshirt. “Wear it.”
It wasn’t a hood, it was a mask, without eye or mouth holes. The sleeve holes were sewn closed as the ones on a straitjacket. I took a deep breath and dove my head into its opening.
“Wait,” she said. Part of me thought she had changed her mind, or this was all part of a big prank; however, the other part really wished she hadn’t. “Take off all of your clothes first.”
As I pulled my pants and boxers down, she looked on intently, raising her eyebrows as she saw what I had been concealing in them. I was never boastful of my body, even when I ran track in college. However, girlfriends and lovers had always complimented my lower body, especially my strong calves. They were as big as grapefruits, and were once called “blowjob handles” by a girlfriend who used to love to deepthroat my eight-and-a-half inches. However, before Mistress’s arctic eyes, my body felt small and powerless.
“What’s the box for, Mistress?” I asked, sheepishly.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
When I got down to nothing but my socks, she smiled.
“Leave the socks,” she said as I crouched down to remove them. “They match the hood.”
She took my hand and led me down the hall, past different rooms; bathrooms, and others workrooms, some filled with workout equipment and others with canvases and lumps of clay and paint jars. When we arrived to her bedroom, she rustled through one of her drawers and pulled out a black leather strap with a red ball. She placed it between my teeth before I could manage a preparatory swallow. She strapped it tight, catching and pulling a few of my hair strands out of the root with the buckle.
“It turns your Mistress on when you’re taking pain quietly,” she said.
I slipped my head into the fabric darkness. I felt vulnerable, but ready. I trusted her, that she wouldn’t hurt me just to hurt me; that she would hurt me only to feel pleasure.
Once my arms were securely lodged in the sleeves, she tethered them around my torso and hoisted them tightly on my back. At first, I could barely breathe. I began to panic. She pushed me back onto the bed. I felt disoriented, not really knowing which way was up or down. The click of a switch flicked on and a rumbling buzz tickled my balls, standing the hair on them on end. I could hear her licking something based on the sweet, piercing smell of the liquor in her breath and the soft moans. She placed something sticky and wet beneath my shriveled testicles and massaged it deep onto my skin to ensure that it wouldn’t slide off.
“Ready?” she asked.
I started to sweat under the hood. There was no turning back; she hadn’t provided me with a safety word. Not that it would’ve mattered; I wouldn’t have been able to utter it with a ball-gag in my mouth. I nodded in the affirmative.
She giggled and flicked the switch on.
VI.
Wednesday, May 21, 1986
9:23 a.m.
After Roger left San Diego to go to Chicago for graduate school, I felt a deep void inside. I missed his body, his smile, and the way he seemed to really get me. He was the only one who saw things and people the way I did. My aunt and the people back home in North Hills, California were all stupid, accepting whatever life or God gave to them. I felt anxious and depressed like a kenneled dog that’s half-domestic, half-wild. I would call Roger every day, starting with a “good morning” call at 5 a.m. Eastern time because I knew he was an early bird. He usually wouldn’t pick up, so I would leave him a message.
He often woke me up at 4 a.m. when he used to live at my aunt’s house and invite me into his room. Those were some of my fondest memories, when I would lay in bed all night waiting for 4 a.m. to arrive and hear his soft knocking on my door. My aunt lived in a three-story house and her room was on the first floor, mine on the second, and Roger’s on the third.
On the days he invited me to his room, he took me by the hand, gently interlacing his fingers with mine, and walked me up the stairs and into his room. The room smelled of him, of tobacco and vanilla mixed with beeswax. It smelled of him even on the nights he didn’t sleep there. On several occasions, I used to sneak upstairs and sleep in the sheets that somehow still smelled of him, even after they were replaced by Aunt Greta.
“I want you to keep your mouth shut, and not make a sound,” Roger said, as we sat side by side on the bed.
I remember that on the first night he had been alone with me, he laid me stomach down on his muscular thighs after I told him that I had been a bad girl for mouthing off to Aunt Greta earlier that day. He laughed and told me that maybe I should be punished, and that’s when I suggested that he spank me. When he pulled down my pajama bottoms, I felt a sense of dread, but not disgust. The trauma that I had experienced at my dad’s hands was masked by the feeling of surrender Roger was releasing in me. I had complete trust in him. The cold breeze of the air-conditioned room combined by the warmth of his hands spreading my small, round buttocks elicited a warm chill that filled the small vase of my petite body.
The inadvertent scratch on the small of my back, as Roger clawed the elastic of my panties, puckered my flesh into a thousand goosebumps. I had gotten so wet that Roger had to pull with extra force to wedge them off of me. Once off, I felt the cool breeze between my dewed legs and glistening lips. I was dying for him to dip one of his thick fingers into me, but instead, he stroked my cheeks, tenderly, slowly, as if priming a canvas with gesso. He was preparing my body for something I wasn’t really sure or fully aware of, but something I knew that I needed; the closest thing to a masterpiece my body would ever get to.
“Are you going to have sex with me?” I asked.
“Shhh…” he whispered.
Just as I was about to say that I would be fine, no, thrilled to have sex with him, that I was ready to have him enter me, he spanked me hard. So hard that, in the tepid darkness, one in which I could barely make out the shape of things, I saw stars. The adrenaline mixed with fear and blood from the self-inflicted wound on my bottom lip, from when I bit down on them, felt strangely pleasurable. I wanted to scream, but Roger placed his hand over my mouth as if holding tight to the oars of his rowing team’s boat.
“Shhh…it’s okay,” he said. “I know it hurts. I know you want to scream, but it makes me happy when you stay quiet. Can you be quiet for me?”
I nodded up and down, the only movement he was allowing me to make.
“Good,” he said and spanked me twice more, each time harder and louder than the last. It hurt to be hit with such force, but the pain would’ve been worse if he chose not to be with me. It pleased me to feel pain for him. In a way, I felt as though he was working through his own pain. I was helping him be a better person and lover. I wanted him to use me in any way that he wanted. I was his.
My face was bright red, asphyxiated. My ass felt lighter, invisible. Tears and snot rolled down my cheeks and nose onto his knuckles and fingers.
“You like giving me your tears?” Roger asked, his breathing becoming more agitated. I nodded. “I like how warm they feel on my skin. It makes me feel so hard.”
I could feel his erection getting bigger and harder, poking up at my belly button. The next three strikes to my ass were vigorous, but felt slightly different; somehow better. They no longer stung as the first few, but instead felt numb and tingly, as when fizzy sparkling water bubbles up in your nose and tickles your throat.
My labia felt wet, so wet that for a moment I thought I had peed myself from the excitement, as I did the first time I rode a rollercoaster.
“Alright, baby,” Roger said, his inhales and exhales becoming more and more labored, as if he was suffocating. I could feel heavy drops of sweat dripping off my bare back, coalescing with my own sweat and channeling down, between my shoulder blades, spine, and into the cleavage of my ass. “Are you ready to finish me off?”
I didn’t know what he was talking about. Finish what? I thought. The spanking? There was a feeling in me that I had felt before—whenever I rubbed a pillow or stuffed animal between my legs—but never this heightened. I first felt it when I placed my feet on a pulsating feet massager and on the day I first met Roger.
“Oh fuck,” Roger moaned, as he spanked me for what felt like hours, his hand splashing against a sea of red and pink, contused flesh. One hard spank after another. My ass felt like gelatin riding a surfboard in the middle of a tsunami. They bounced and bounced. Each blow stoked the fire consuming me from within. His stabbing penis on my stomach added to my excitement. I couldn’t tell how big it was because he wouldn’t allow me to touch it with my hands. Only with your mouth, he would say as he slid it deep in my mouth. Regardless, it felt so good to know that Roger was enjoying my skinny body so much. I wanted him to enjoy my sore, almost deadened cheeks as I was his strong, red-hot palms.
I felt an urge to jump off his lap and jump into an ice bath, but he pinned me down against his sharp penis, and spanked harder and faster. I needed to run away and bit down into his hand. I heard him groan and he pressed deeper into my lips. The salty taste of his blood added to my madness, my ecstasy.
Roger pumped up into my belly button as if it were my vagina and all I could feel was a sudden heat elevation and then a rush of liquid release out of me. I closed my eyes and yelled.
“I’m gonna come,” Roger said. He released his death hold on my mouth and pressed my body down onto his penis. Had he been any harder and I any skinnier, he would have impaled straight through me. “Aw, yeah, that’s it.”
Roger’s warm cum sprayed all over my stomach and lower chest. His penis continued to spasm even as he fell back onto the bed and I lay draped on his wet thighs. He pulled my depleted body up toward him and laid me on his broad, sweaty chest. We slept until it was 6 a.m. and then I went back to my room, before Aunt Greta woke up to make us breakfast.
“Breakfast is ready, dear,” Aunt Greta said as she knocked.
That’s when I decided to give my orgasms only to Roger. I swore not to touch my clit unless Roger wanted me to or if he himself did it. From time to time, especially when he was away, I would dip a finger into my pussy, but I never allowed myself to come. Not only did I want to take myself to the edge, but I wanted to make Roger work a lot harder.
“Okay,” I said. “Coming, Aunt Greta.”
If he wanted my cum, he would have to spank me even harder.
***
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Jose Oseguera is an L.A.-based writer of poetry, short fiction and literary nonfiction. Having grown up in a diverse urban environment, Jose has always been interested in the people and places around him, and the stories that each of these has to share; those that often go untold. His work has been featured in Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Rigorous, Sky Island Journal, Jelly Bucket, OTHER Magazine, TOE GOOD, the Scene and Heard Journal, Zimbell House Publishing, and Authorship by the National Writers Association.
