Curve

by Cobalt Jade  (2/2/99)



She was the latest in a long line of Ps--Patty, Pam, Pauline, Peri-Ann.  Her name was Paloma. Not Picasso's daughter, and not Spanish. She was in her early thirties, old enough to be creative, young enough to still have spark, noncommittal about commitment, with freckles on her chest, a pair of generous tits, and drumstick thighs he found unattractive at first but that he could get used to, if the sex was good. (His cock said sex, his intellect said relationship. But the dog is always straining at the leash.) Paloma St. Peter, on a pallid bust of Pallas by the chamber door.

The second time they had sex, they talked. The first time never mattered with a woman; it was either a happy accident or a cause for cringing, and therefore inconsequential in the long run. The third time was the meat and potatoes. There was always a third time even if the second time didn't work, because you can't plot a curve from two points.   

But by itself the second time was the middle sister, the time spent waiting in the airport terminal. It wasn't much use except as a means to get somewhere else. 

The second night with Paloma-Palomino the sex was good--not spectacular, but promising--and he took the risk of asking her about her fantasies.

"Hmm," she said, biting her very bitable underlip. "You won't think me too weird?"

"Everyone has them," he said expansively. "Some people even write about them. Come on. There's little you can say that someone else hasn't said in more detail."

"Been around the block a few times, haven't you."

"I'm on the net a lot," he said with a straight face.

"Aren't you!" she laughed. "I suppose they have stories of people doing it with watermelons, or whatever."

"Worse then that," he said, stroking a tired nipple that had had a hard workout. "Well? Aren't you going to tell me?"

She let out a breath and the nipple escaped him. "All right. But promise you won't laugh."

"Scout's honor."

She tucked her arm behind her head, looking up at the ceiling. "I'm a slave."

Now that was interesting. The dog in him began to drool. "Where?"

"A distant kingdom, a Persian nation. This is many centuries ago. I serve in a castle in the middle of the desert. They keep me naked with a collar around my neck. It has a ring so I can be chained."

"Do you have a name?"

She thought for a moment. "No, slaves don't have names. They're all interchangeable. Any lord or lady can use them. Slaves are trained to serve them in whatever they want."

"Ah. So you're a sex slave."

"That's right." Strongly said, with vindication. "I'm a girl from the northern mountains, a barbarian. I have long light brown hair and my eyes are green. Green eyes in a slave are said to be the mark of passion. My skin is light. Those of my masters are dark, for this is a desert land. They have black hair and eyes and fierce, hawklike faces, and they dress in robes of whispering silk with velvet slippers on their feet. The women wear sheer veils over their faces. They use kohl on their eyes and draw henna designs on their hands and feet. I'm an exotic to them, a novelty. They fuck me whenever they want. My pleasure does not matter, only theirs does. If I resist, I am punished."

This was *really* getting interesting. Most women didn't go into such detail about their fantasies. The younger ones didn't even have any. "Oh, making it with two guys at once," they'd drawl, as if it was the best their imaginations could do. One girl had fantasized about being turned into a portable chrome-plated soda machine with seltzer squirting out of her nipples. The next day he had US West block all her calls.

"There are many mistakes a slave girl can make," she continued, a faraway pensive look on her face. "She stumbles when she brings the master coffee, and the tray and spoons clatter on the floor. She hesitates to take a new cock in her mouth. She is tired, or bored, or rebellious, and it shows; slaves are punished every day. No matter how hard you try to please, sooner or later you get into trouble. One day I do. I give my master of the moment a searing look, and I am immediately taken by him to the Garden of Chastisement."

"Uh-oh, that sounds serious."

A secret smile played across her face. "Oh, not very..."

"So what exactly is this garden?" he said, spooning his body into hers, so his words rumbled against her shoulder.

"It's where disobedient slaves are punished. It's pretty picturesque, actually. There are fountains and palm trees and pools filled with sparkling fish. And jasmine that scents the air. Every few paces there is a pole or a wooden frame or a cage where the slaves are bound or imprisoned, so that others may look at them and know they are in disgrace. But none of those are for me. I get the cross."

He lifted his head to look at her. "Oh, it's not what you think," she said. "Not crucifixion. That--yech! I'm no pain freak. This cross is different." 

"How so?"

"It's about, oh, six feet high and made of smooth, polished wood that has seen many years of use. It has one set of crossbeams a foot below the top that is about three feet wide, and another set below them that is wider and thicker, about five feet wide. Where these lower beams cross the pole there is a little ledge almost like a seat with a polished wooden dowel in the middle of it. It's wide at the base and tapers toward the end, almost seven inches long. One of my attendants begins to grease it and I know they mean to impale me on it. 

"Oh, how I tremble, knowing the fate that awaits me." (Her voice took on a dramatic ring.) "But there is no escape for a recalcitrant slave girl. I wait with my head down on my slave leash, my nipples trembling with the fear of it. The attendants don't talk to me. No one talks to slaves, especially barbarian ones...we are only intelligent animals to them."

Damn, she was good. He found himself growing hard again. She said she booked conventions for a hotel downtown. Had she ever been an actress as well? Done phone sex? He moved his erection away from her hip. He wanted to hear the end of her story and the dog would only spoil things.

"When they finish greasing the pole they grab me, one attendant on either side. They spread my legs and lift me high in the air. The rod slides into my asshole quite easily. I am filled and stretched and it hurts, but there's a pleasure in it too. I want to yowl but they gag me with a thick piece of leather. I can only give a muffled yelp. They're going to keep me here for the rest of the day, and all night too, and everyone who passes will witness it.

"One attendant lifts my arms over the bar of the upper cross and ties my wrists behind my back, behind the upright beam of the cross, and fastens them to an hook there. The smooth wood presses deeply into my armpits. Only the dowel in my ass prevents me from sagging completely and asphyxiating myself. Then both of the attendants take my legs and spread my thighs apart as far as they can go until my legs rest on top of the left and right arms of the lower beam. They tie them there so they stick out straight to either side, which means my pussy is exposed completely.

"I flush with shame. The humiliation is unbearable. Even a slave is not so obscenely displayed. My pussy gapes like a mouth, my pubic lips pink and wet. My juices start to seep out of me. I feel the cream coat my lips and the warm oily sensation maddens me. My clit springs to life and I am helpless to hide it. The attendants laugh at me as I shift and groan, and I realize this is part of the punishment too...to be mocked for my arousal and suffer the deprivation for it. 

"But now I can no longer look at them, they've buckled my gag to the wood in back of my head so my face is lifted towards the sky. Only my eyes can move. My poor legs are stretched to their limit...but in spite of this my nipples are erect. My chest heaves up and down with every anxious breath and I see them dance as if beckoning to the attendants below. 

"I try to plead with my captors, knowing what next awaits me. But it does no good. They fasten two golden clamps to my nipples and the bite is an exquisite torture. A gold chain hangs between the two clamps and I feel the cold links swaying against my chest. Each clamp has a weight, too, a golden teardrop that drags on me and pulls my nipple down. The sensation is...electric."

The picture was a rather alarming one. "Your tits are drooping?"

"Of course not," she said, insulted enough to break character. "They're young and firm enough to stay high. They remain two perfect cones, nipples pointed to the sun, and the chain and weights dangle proudly."

"Like this?" He obliged her with his fingers, teasing the tired pink nubs into an erect state again.

"Ohhh, yes, that's it." Her breathing grew more irregular as he applied his mouth. 

"But that isn't enough for the Sultan," she continued, and he left off his suckling to listen. "Not only am I to be displayed, but punished as well.

"They take out the tools of their trade. Thick leather straps, meaty yet supple, and well tanned from long use. Slap! on my torso, Slap! on my inner thighs, Slap! on my puckered throbbing nipples. Every blow makes me jounce on the cross, which makes the dowel move inside me. Every blow strikes a welt which itches and stings. I squirm, I groan, I shudder helplessly. Tears roll down my face. But there is no mercy for me. 

"My nipples sway with every blow. My pussy yawns open every time I sink onto the dowel, and purses when I rise. They see this and strap my poor unprotected cunt, a lightning bolt that strikes my clit and makes it burn like a furnace. Every blow makes it wax larger, harder, more tender...a throbbing button of nerves. They see it growing larger and they laugh, striking it again and again. I bounce myself on the hated dowel, trying to find relief in the rhythm. I want to come so bad! I want something inside me, something huge and warm and wet and moving, but there is...oh, let me finish," she said, pushing his hand away.

"You're *wet,*" he said in amazement.

"I know, but let me finish, okay? I'm really getting into this."

"Okay."

"At last it is done," she said, her voice slightly breathless now. "I don't know how long the ordeal has lasted, but I am far from sated. I burn and tingle all over. My clit feels as big as a strawberry and as tender, and my pussy throbs like a disco. I sob quietly as my tormentors leave me. But I am not alone.  

"As always the curious come to look, both during the punishment and after it. The harem ladies come with their chaperones, then the desert princes and princesses and the court officials in their turbans. Some are very interested in me, talking in swift, conversational tones with animated gestures. Others laugh. Still others pass me by without a glance. It is always as such in the Garden of Chastisement. Whatever else happens, I can only accept the attention or contempt or indifference because I can do nothing else. Once they have their fill of staring they go back their pursuits, the feasting and hawking and opium languor, activities denied to a lowly slave such as I. 

"Some of the nobles parade their slaves past, telling them, with taps on the chin, to look up to see what has become of me. After tonight it is likely I will be sold from the castle. I cannot dream of what my fate will be, if it will be more or less severe than the life I have known in the castle, so I squirm and struggle on the wooden cross. No one touches me. Is there no relief even for a lowly slave?

"Evening comes. There are fewer spectators now. A final group of them passes, young men on the way to some activity. They merely glance at me, laugh, and walk on. But one prince remains behind.

"He stands in front of me. He is young with a sincere and honest passion, but he studies me as objectively as one would an arrangement of flowers in a vase. I moan a little. Will he release me? My limbs are so cramped. His scrutiny is different from that of the others and I feel myself flushing, suddenly overcome with a humiliation I cannot name. My thighs strain at the ropes and I feel my clit rise again, beckoning like a tiny pink finger. I can feel the cool evening air blow across it. If he touches it I think I will explode.

"But he only stands there with his hands move beneath his robe. He is masturbating. But his face remains so serene and sweet and composed. He is looking at my nipples now with their heavy chains, a glorious golden bondage he can either break or admire. I feel the chain move against my skin. I am trembling by now and my nipples move from left to right as I try to settle myself.

"Now he is looking between my legs, my smooth waxed pussy, the delicate little lips and the yawning gash between them. I am breathing as hard as he is by now. He brings his face close and I realize he is smelling me. I can feel the warmth of his breath. I am nearly mindless with heat by now and try to push my pussy at him, but the dowel in my ass holds me firm. I clench on it again and again, trying to move.

"Then the Persian prince kisses me there.

"It comes as shock, after hours of deprivation. He licks me from asshole to the front of my pussy, stopping short of my clit. He has a short black beard and the texture feels like silk. Then his warm, wet tongue wriggles inside me. I moan, twisting my hips. He burrows in even further, sucking and stabbing as his hands continue their work beneath his robe. What he is doing is forbidden. He could be punished for this if his father found out. But no one comes to the garden after twilight.

"I am coming alive all over, every inch of me stimulated. I pull against my bonds, moaning. My head rolls back and forth as much as it can. Then he touches my clit and I go crazy. Soft lips, hard teeth--sucking and swirling and gentle nips--and my cries rise in pitch as my throat constricts. I raise my head, my body tingles and goes rigid as the cross that holds me, and I scream as I come, trembling, the entire cross shaking, and the shocks race across my torso, down my thighs to my toes, and I...I..."

The story trailed off into a hiss, as he mounted her again and inserted himself, and in a few minutes she screamed and trembled the same way the unnamed narrator of her story had.

Was she a keeper? Did the dog dare hope for a...relationship? It beat gnawing bones by himself, pardon the pun.

"What is your fantasy?" she asked him, cuddled against his chest.

He told her. He hadn't planned on it, but it seemed like an opportune time. And endorphins made him silly.

"See for yourself, slave girl," he said. "Look across the garden as your prince takes his pleasures with his mouth. There you will see another cross with a good-looking male slave, tied and clamped and shaved as you are, and he is watching you as you writhe and come, for he, too, is trembling and panting as a beautiful dark-skinned desert princess stands in front of him, her veil cast aside, and takes his cock in her exquisite mouth as her hands move beneath her robe. So we watch other, two disobedient slaves, as our master and mistress blindly pleasure themselves, ignorant of the passion they give us. And we will come together, our eyes locked across the garden, and we know tomorrow there will be more perils and punishments, for we are slaves to our passions and to this house of pleasure, and we know that we will meet again."

"Aw, that's beautiful," she said. "You could be a writer."

"No, I just know how to do a good pastiche. I'm a copywriter, remember?" They kissed again, in sheets fragrant with sex.

You can't plot a curve from two points, but he was going to try.

END


This work is copyrighted 1999 by Cobalt Jade (Cobaltjade@aol.com). One copy of this story may be made for viewing. This story may not be archived or reposted without my permission. Charging a fee for access to this story, or publishing it without my approval, this preface, or my author credit, violates my copyright as stated on my home page

