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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The Art of Women By Jerome Brooke

Dear Uncle Charles. Thank you for your sage advice. The Countess is well please with my assistance with her correspondence. She is most devout, and takes great interest in the welfare of the slaves on her plantation. Your nephew, Lucian.

 

May 10, 1736.

 

“Welcome, Madame and young sir,” said the witch. “Enter, and sit here on the bench.”

The Countess DeCharente smiled, and took my arm. We sat down, while the black woman took a bottle from a table. “This is my clerk, Lucian. I have told him you have great power – and that people come to you to secure good luck.”

I had been asked by the countess to escort her to the hut of the witch, Helene. We had driven to the coast in her buggy, and arrived late morning. The witch returned with a bottle, and presented it to the Countess. To my surprise, the lady took a drink from the bottle – then gave it to me. “Try it, Lucian.” The wine had a sweet taste. I returned the bottle to Helene.

To my surprise, the witch pulled her shift over her head, to reveal her plump form.  “Do you like black women, pretty one?” the witch asked, lifting her pendulous breasts with her hands. The Countess placed her hand on my leg, with a smile. The witch had light skin, and must have been the product of miscegenation. She was a woman of years, with white hair.

“Call upon your saints to give us youth, good fortune, and luck in love,” the Countess asked, in a soft voice. The witch lit a candle on the table, and raised her arms high.  She began to chant in a strange dialect, perhaps some African tongue. As she continued her prayer, I began to feel very sleepy. The Countess began to unbutton my shirt.  She took my arm, and raised me to my feet.

As the witch continued her chant, I saw a figure emerge from a door in the rear of the room.  She was a tall black woman, also nude. Her skin was very dark, and her hair short. She came to me, and knelt at my feet. She unlaced my trousers, pulling them down. She boldly reached inside my under cloth, and grasped my manhood.

The tall woman began to practice the secret art of women, as the Countess knelt at her side. The two women took turns, ministering to me. They were soon joined by Helene in the practice of these unnatural acts. After a time, the witch rose, and took my arm.  She led me to a cot in one corner of her room. The three women stripped me of my garments, and pressed me back onto the cot.

The woman with short hair climbed atop me, slipping forward and covering my face.  After she had pleasure, the witch followed her lead. The Countess, in turn, slipped off her pantaloons, and raised her silk dress. She then followed the other two women in their perversity.

The witch then made me ready with her tongue, as her sister mounted me once more. The tall woman used her long fingers to guide me inside her womanhood. Each of the other two women followed her, in turn. After the women tired of this adventure, the tall woman knelt at my side. She used the arts of women to obtain what she desired.

The witch handed her sister a silken cloth, allowing her to spit into it. The witch took the cloth, and placed it in a leather bag.  She placed the bag on the table, near the candle.

“You have found favor with the Lady of Darkness, Lucian. She favors men with green eyes. If you serve her well, great wealth will be ours!” the countess whispered in my ear. “We must return each month, when the moon is new.”

I drew upon my clothes, as my head began to clear. As we went to the door, the two dark women shameless embraced me. I bowed, and stumbled out the door. “You are most fortunate, Lucian!” said the Countess. “You now have a powerful patroness!”