Chain Of Causation By Michael F.

I sat in the student lounge with the blonde, admiring her pierced navel, when I noticed she was packing heat and carrying a copy of Venus in Furs.  Right then I knew that love had struck like lightning.

She was spread out on a leather sofa, her skirt up to her hips but her knees bent like to hide any undue vaginal exposure, her blouse creeping up as well to reveal a flat and super-toned abdomen and the requisite ruby stapled inside her belly button.  The creeping blouse also revealed the base of a leather holster with the butt of a pistol glinting out.  The book lay by her side, well-thumbed from what I could tell, even a stain on the jacket although from gun oil or body lotion I couldn’t assess.

This was law school after all, after hours.  We had tired of torts and contracts and were aiming to unwind harmlessly in the student lounge when I made to kiss her and she wiggled out of my grip to slide back on the leather sofa.  She did not resist my kisses there but held on with such a fervor that I swore she would have shred my skin was it not encased in shirt and pants.

We were equal height at five-eleven, only she was a good decade older than me, smelling faintly of clove cigarettes she smoked outside between seminars.  I sported muscular limbs from lifting weights and walking everywhere but I had an impending paunch that shattered the illusion of total fitness.  Plus I bore a receding hairline that spooked younger women into thinking I might be their daddy.

This one ached for daddy.  She put her finger in my mouth and I sucked it clean and moist.  When she replaced finger with pistol, removing it with luxurious gestures from the shoulder holster and in the process revealing a coral colored bra, I nearly swooned although from desire or sheer shitting terror I couldn’t have told you.  I sucked the gun nice as a nipple, steely taste of oil in my mouth.  She made to pull the trigger back but that did not stop my ministrations to the weapon.  Finally she let the trigger ease back into place and removed the barrel from my mouth.

“You’re a good boy,” she said, “but even good boys still can profit from discipline.”

To that end she sat up and smacked my face hard.  And again.  I clenched my teeth because I didn’t know how to respond, again that split between turn-on and torture, as if such a gesture could so deeply contain both elements.

“You want to hurt me, don’t you?” she asked.

I nodded.

“No such doing,” she said, “I am in control or we don’t play. Understand me?”

I understood and nodded once again.

Next I knew we were walking over to her flat, her heels clicking out a heartbeat on the pavement, hint of danger from crossing into the seedy side of town, waiting in this atmosphere of random violence for someone to emerge and join us in our game.  No one did.  Instead she keyed us in.

We immediately headed for the bed, a four poster number with lace canopy situated in the smack center of the room.  There we both undressed and she proceeded to mount me.  She had a star tattooed in the center of her chest which clearly covered up a surgical scar.  Perhaps her heart had been wholly removed, I could not say.

While she rode me she continued to slap my face until it burned and stung and must have been unholy red to witness.  She leaned backward a moment and I thought it was a contortion of ecstasy at the love we were making but instead she re-emerged with the pistol and lodged it in my throat.

“I will call you Severin my servant, yes?”  She asked.

I nodded, not missing a beat of lunging my hips toward her while she writhed atop me.

“You will obey my every command, yes?”

“Yes,” I said, “anything.”

She flipped the butt of the gun toward me, still holding onto the barrel.  “Kill me,” she said.

This wilted my erection like butter underneath a sun lamp.

“What?” I said, continuing to thrust my now mushy genitals in her direction.

“Kill me, I said.”

She slapped my face again, this time without restraint, so that I bit my tongue and thought my teeth might actually break out.

“I can’t do that,” I said, ceasing my humps.

She remained atop me.  I had not taken the pistol so she flipped it back to barrel pointing at me.  “Then I will have to kill you, yes?”

“I think we’ve taken this game as far as it should go.”

“Never use the word should,” she said.  “And besides, who told you this was a game?”

It was odd just how muscular she was, not ripped but just powerful.  The gun wedged into my neck again.  I could no longer look at her but licked my lips in anticipation of the sudden removal of my head once she pulled the trigger.

She smacked my face again to get me to look back at her.  This time I returned the favor, smacking her back as well, nearly knocking her clean off me as she was unprepared for the blow.  She cocked the gun.  I smacked her again, risking that the weapon would go off with the action but no longer caring.  With this she lowered it.

“Do that again,” she said.

I smacked her as hard as I could and this time it did remove her from me.  She lay beside the bed, holding her cheek which was fiery red, weeping and laughing.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” she said.

“Put the gun down,” I said from my perch above her.  She placed the gun neatly on her copy of Venus in Furs.

“Get on top of me,” she said.  The logician in me eyed the distance to the door, how quickly I could scramble out of it before she had time to seize, aim and fire the gun at my retreating back.  But there was a tortious element to all of this, a certain chain of causation that I could not cease to honor.  I climbed on top of her and we growled together, rolling across the floor, both of us shuddering in climax and yet hanging on for more.

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