LONG POST ALERT
I'm working on my first erotica novel (really my first long-form writing project since term papers) and I'm looking for feedback—constructive or otherwise!
I'm nearing the 100 page mark and for some reason I thought that would be a good milestone to go back and edit the totality of the rough work I have so far. As you might imagine, there's A LOT of cringe in there, A LOT of purple prose, A LOT of thesaurus writing, but there's also A LOT I'm extremely proud of and I think my concept is still strong even if some of my execution can't stand on its own.
That's where you guys come in! I need a competent editor(ial staff) to give me their unvarnished thoughts and most merciless criticisms to break me of my terrible habits. I am 100% in favor of compensating you (I can't do it monetarily at the moment, but even though I'm not a Lannister I always pay my debts).
The major questions I have with the work are as follows:
Does it turn you on? Is it too much? Do the descriptions bore? Are you not (otherwise) entertained?
Does the narrator's voice work/ do you feel like it swings too dramatically (without giving too much away, my idea is she warms up and gets more comfortable with the reader as the story progresses)?
Does the person/ tense work (1st person present)?
Is the grammar too overwrought?
Is the writing too overwrought (This work has a lot of voices informing it and very few of them are minimalist)?
I'm going to try to post a chapter every few days to give ya'll some time to digest, but today I'm posting the intro/ first chapter as I'll be without internet until the weekend's over.
I greatly appreciate all who take the time to undertake this massive ask, I will make it worth your while somehow (hopefully getting you wet and or hard is a start). ALL FEEDBACK IS MUCH APPRECIATED and will be responded to either via DM or in the comments. Thank you, Thank you, Thank you so much!
TL:DR – PLEASE CRIT MY SHIT PLEASE
Without (many) further theatrics, Panties and Other Stories About Panties (W/T), Chapter 2:
Your beige nylons drape over a hanger behind the door to your bathroom. Your bed is made to military standards of immaculate. Splayed upon its carapace is a filmy blush ensemble. An exoskeleton all its own; your’s. Ghostly in its transparency and scarce in its fabric it will barely be distinguishable from the cold, maritime pallor of your own marble skin. This suit girds the manias that flow from your limbic system to your cunt. The silky garter belt, the peekaboo bra, these negligibly tiny panties—they don’t protect you like a suit of armor; they sustain you like an astronaut’s. They provide life support to your most erotic fascinations. Just like an astronaut you are an explorer. A cartographer of your own urges.
Sashing the garter belt about your waist you start to wonder about what animalist stunts I’ll have lying in wait for you. Slipping your stockings on you think of the seductions I’ve already sprung around you. The time the Japanese banker came into the shop looking for a gift for his mistress and we ended up burying you neck-deep in a laundry cart full of filthy panties and took turns spraying our cum in your mouth. You’re straightening your seams now and you want to pitch your fingers down into your cunt remembering how I bent you over my desk and drilled you hard with a strap-on while a couple browsed the store, fondling one another. You wait, sublimate your craving for release. Mortar another brick into the wall of your desire. Anticipate me. Clipping your bra now; hectic, disjointed visuals flash through your mind’s eye. A disembodied, throbbing cock boring out a famished asshole; an inflamed cunt, smiling out from behind a web of sheer, black, Spanish lace then lashed, violently with reedy whips until the skin cracks and bleeds; a dark, buxom woman ecstatically gyrating against a wet, brick wall—she lifts up her dress and tearing through the recherché fibers of her panties is a fat hard-on. And more, bodies writhing; restrained by ornate, tissuey lace. Firm, nubile flesh; worn, hoary flesh; flesh gutted with fat or sinewed with muscle; all of it fulgent with sweat and jizz and pussy juice.
Finally you take your panties and trail them over your body. Have I managed to imprint my fixation on you? Was it always there? Does everyone secretly long for the lush butterfly-kiss of silk and lace against their fuck organs? Lost in your own wonderment your id seizes the opportunity for a quick, mindless clit mashing. Spontaneously you meander your handful of panties down to your soaked pussy. Serotonin floods into its receptors within the folds of your brain. The unexpected rush of euphoria prys apart your eyelids and you realize that you’re masturbating. You allow yourself to savor a few passes of the balled-up panties against your bulging pussy. Mmmm, take a few more it’s okay, you won’t be late. Finally you restrain yourself. You exhale every gram of carbon dioxide in your body. Blood stampedes through your veins—you can feel them dithering. Your vision vibrates back to normal.
Getting up you stand before your mirror and draw your little, pink, lace panties up your legs. You pose, swing your hips, examine the way the panties’ straps bridge the prominent ridges of your hips. Shadows fall over that hollow like a cloud drifting over a valley. Turning you scrutinize the way your panties divide your little ass. Their high, bikini cut crowns your ass, pleasingly accentuates its scrawniness.
There is an entire harem nominally working for my shops. Seductively shaped models; apprentices hailing from every walk of life at various stages of their training; Amorous delivery boys; Taciturn drivers; Personal shoppers for private clientelé too busy or recognizable to set their own feet in my shops. All fatted calves for the deities of lust. You’ve met a handful of them.
Clothilde, a temptingly proportioned model; tattooed head to foot with the intertwining orgy of delirious parishioners of the Khajuraho temple complex. You fixated on her eyes and how they appeared spangled with precious jewels. I haven’t mentioned it to you yet, but her father was some philosophical Frenchman and her mother a Keralan aristocrat with anthracite skin. There’s Ginevra, another of the private model cadre. How you marveled at the round camber of her tits and ass; her lithe spindle of waist; the Brooklyn Bridge of her shoulders. Antithetic conditions clashing, then splintering into such egregious beauty. And Guy, the delivery boy whose parents could have been oxen as easily as human beings what with the bulk of his frame. Pocket-sized as he may be, he seemed to you reinforced with titanium. You wonder about the length of his cock. Its girth. How many tributaries, rills, brooks and runnels of veins scroll its tower. The steamworks of your cunt throb imagining him taking what he wants of you amidst the dusty stock boxes of the deserted backroom.
Giddily your mind cycles through pairings and permutations of dirty, sketchy-detailed fairylands. You’re becoming ravenous. A beast of my own design. If you don’t learn to control and direct the way your cunt hungers you’ll end up prowling back-alleys on all fours, dragging your teeth across the asphalt, and hopelessly frotting your vexed, ragged holes against anything even vaguely cock-shaped. Instead, as if telepathically, I send you to your bedside drawer where you withdraw the stout, little, chinoiserie box I sent you home with on your first day.
In exultant fashion you place the box atop your low chifforobe, undo the catch, and gaze upon the contents. Seven finely tapered apparatuses of various sizes and materials. Rubber; Surgical steel; tempered glass; china; bone; soft plastic that felt like flesh; and velvety, lacquered wood. All are meant to be worn secretly. Plushly constricted by the muscles of the pussy or the asshole or in certain circumstances the mouth. You select the plastic bauble. It’s a profound mauve color—Jewish wine suffused in vodka.
You fiddle with it. Grope its bulbous head. Squeeze it to see how much give it has. It’s about the size of fist belonging to a smaller than average man. It comes with a small, rubber hand-pump that affixes to its bottom. With a gurgling suspiration you stuff your cunt hole with it. Your eyes yaw back delectably. You let its size pervade you. You let it send signals of spicy warmth to the hinterlands of your nervous system. The toy defines your coastlines, there is the parts of you it touches and then there are the chilly gulfs where it doesn’t. You begin to pump and your shores accrete. Pump again, blood rushes into your oceans, warming them. Pump more violently now. Feel all of you swell up. Every unused closet, every corner, every alcove and niche within you now is filling with reverberant, high-watt, electric light. Pump more and harder, the very wavelengths of you tighten. Earthquakes cave in your pupils and towering infernos creep up your backbone.
You pump a final pump and go momentarily deaf, blind, mute, lame, invalid, impotent, hemophilic, hydrophobic, harelipped, hammer-toed and hemorrhoidal. Sanity is a quaint, bygone notion. Words can be spelled with animal parts, colors can be ingested through your pores. Whimpering you sink into the hardwood of your bedroom floor. You keep sinking, downstairs, past years of Christmas portraits and framed posters of festivals and exhibits your parents find interesting. You sink onto the colonial monstrosity of the breakfast-nook table. Your parents sip coffee and stare at their phones. Your siblings slurp cereal and stare at their phones. You lay twitching at the center of them all. Slutted out in my lingerie — your cunt filled with my toy. They can’t be bothered by your spectacle; even when you kick and thrash yourself against the table. In an act of defiance you cum—you cum a typhoon, a shockwave tall enough to drown airplanes at cruising altitude. Your body racks and spasms and shakes. Sobs peel out of you in sheets. They remain unmoved.
You phase back into conscious life — a totalled slumping pyramid of wreckage beneath your mirror. The plastic cock inside you still remains at maximum expansion which makes pulling yourself to your feet a slapstick operation. A few botched attempts give way to a successful, if not jumbled execution. You’re running out of time and you know I don’t suffer dawdlers lightly. Make-up can be applied in the car and breakfast will be taken to go. Pull on that floral shift and slide on those wedges. Your driver is pulling up outside your window. Grab your bag now. The stairs are a teetering obstacle for you with that lovely, little dandy up your snatch. You manage to reach the base of the stairs without requiring neck traction, but a peculiar sensation whirrs somewhere against your coccyx.
Suddenly you’re struck with it—the cursed knowledge of what’s about to happen. I imagine something like, no, no, no, no is worming its way through your gray matter. The tremors mount and the distended mushroom cloud summit of the fake dick stuffed up you crushes against the mouth of your cervix, sending an afflictive convulsion to shimmy up the length of you. Your body wracks uncontrolably. The plastic cock you selected for use today comes equipped with a temperature sensor that once raised above 96° alerts me via text. I can then, through an app, control the speed and intensity of the gyrating fuck-dynamo inside you thanks to the miracle of long-distance enabled Bluetooth signal. And if you think I’m going to go easy on you this morning, young lady, you’ve clearly misjudged my character.
Devilishly I throw the fuck-toy’s ferocity to maximum. Your knees become butter in a hot frying pan. Your spine feels like it’s zee-shaped. Howling you liquefy into the floor.
“What’s going on out there, Sabina?” your father calls; rending his eyes from his phone.
“Nothing, daddy!” You manage to bark. The vibrations trample through your pleasure centers as you stagger up to your feet.
“Leaving for work now…” you heave, “…no time for breakfast!”
With your knees knocked together you gracelessly Charleston out the door. The front door slams as you flounder your way to my Duesenberg Model J limousine—well a convincing replica of one anyway. The stony driver, in his jaunty woolen uniform impersonates a granite memorial of a chauffeur holding open the door to an automobile. You lurchingly slough your way into the backseat. A hopeful expression of thanks attempts to surface on your demolished face. The driver acknowledges you stoically and returns to his perch behind the steering-wheel. You’re still attempting to subsume the seizuring paradise within you as the limo pulls out nimbus smooth. By now the cunt juice soaking your panties could fill a shot glass. Between gasps you notice a wet spot on the obverse of your dress. I won’t like that. You hope that it’ll be dry by the time you get to work. In an attempt to stem the puddle’s selfish encroachment you clench your yourself and try to stop the slideshow of porno strobically boogying through your brain. It’s no good. The shockwaves tearing through you wring apart your legs and oh how you holler. I’ve outfitted all the limos with a camera array so I can watch you being consumed by your animalism. After a torturous minute of screaming, stratosphere-kissing orgasm I relent and soften the pulses in gradual steps until they flatline. You recess into the kid-leather seats. Panting you gather yourself and take stock of reality. A sheepish glance into the rearview and the driver’s eyes meet your own. The old gargoyle seems unmoved. Wordlessly he stares at you, it's almost as if the Duesenberg is piloting itself. The driver’s eyes point down at your crotch. Your legs, still parted, giving anyone inclined to look a view right up to your soaking wet panties. You blanch and immediately realize the hand-pump is still attached to the plastic cock lodged in your pussy. Your fingers work fastidiously to detach the rubber bubble. Stuffing the disused part into your purse you silently mortify. The truth is my drivers are as jaded as they come. They’ve seen every coupling and depraved clockwork my imagination (and the imaginations of my compatriots) can screw together. But your juvenile self-consciousness is something I can’t tolerate. Today will be an extra special day for your training.
As you wend through the streets you think of the actual aspects of the job. You’ve learned to count inventory, operate the antique register, interact with the variegated personalities of patrons, merchandise a showroom, take a client’s measurements (it’s just a matter of time before you can size someone up by eye), lightly keep the books and take down appointments for private showings and fittings. Above all you’ve received an Oxford-caliber edification in the history, function, construction and practice of lingerie. You’ve learned to distinguish between Galloon and Alencon laces on sight and you can differentiate charmeuse from satin by feel. Because your hips are so incisively crested you now know the most alluring cuts for your waistbands must be bikini or the itsy-bitsy straps of a tanga pulled all the way up. The sweep of your torso, you now know must be accentuated by the broad welter of a wide garter belt. Through your erudition you’re clarifying your own tastes; scalloped edges, gothic arched spans linking tower-shaped panels of fabric, cables and mazes and colonnades of rich details. Soon you’ll be able to apply these idiosyncratic bents to our customers — contrast their individualized needs against your own, distill their personality and reflect it in the lingerie they most want to purchase. You’re a quick learner and always motivated to complete the task at hand. You’re punctual and positive and a dedicated problem-solver. Heloise and I have really whipped the punk out of you and made you a model employee. But you have plenty of ground to make up before you can stand on your own as a true woman of our faith.
Our brand, that is to say my husband and I’s brand, is called Charenton. It’s named after the asylum which housed The Marquis De Sade for the final thirteen years of his life. It’s not that we wish the Marquis’ memory any vicious sentiment, but we liked that tangential relationship to the libertine; and French is perpetually sexy. Despite our near constant state of rabid hypersexed foment (read this semi-sarcastically) my husband and I managed to build ourselves into a commanding share of our local market. Exclusivity, divine artistry and whisper campaigns in the right circles furnished us a following of rabidly loyal clientele and steadily climbing demand for our products year over year. However none of Charenton’s success would’ve been possible without the financing from our mysterious benefactor, Mistress See. The Mistress is the most febrile panties worshipper I’ve had the pleasure to meet and has constructed an empire from her fixation. We are blessed to travel in the grace of her favor long enough to benefit as fruitfully as we have from her own hand. Our shops, of which there are three, are the exclusive distributors of Charenton Lingerie. We are not available for purchase online. We stock other labels, especially for pieces like nighties, teddies, playsuits and corsets which we do not design. Specialists are simply professional fetishists, they know what turns a wearer and their audience on and it’s with that in mind we only carry items produced by the finest craftspeople. We pride ourself on being curators of the intensely erotic just as well as its producers. At the risk of devolving into what amounts to advertising twaddle I’ll simply state that I am made great-hearted by my husband and I’s toiling. We continue to birth our concept into blood that courses through veins; veins that rivulet through flesh; flesh cladded in skin; and skin that constitutes a body that dances through the world.
The shop I have you working at primarily we’ve nicknamed Le Métropolitain. It is our proud peacock. The oxidized-iron-plumed jewel pinnacled on our crown. We really did do the exterior and trim the interior windows in rangy, corybantic, nouveau tendons of cast-iron transformed that distinctive, powdery green by moisture and air. A great tailfeather of scalloped and frosted glass proudly roosts astride the door, blaring out, Charenton in Guimard’s enunciated letters. Inside the walls are dressed in auroral white tiles with informationals done in a Prussian blue as deep as Napoleon’s coat as well as trim and details the color of canyon walls at sunset. Plum drapes, thick as a topsail round out the the shop’s chromatism. The ceiling rolls into a pronounced barrel vault further giving patrons the impression of a Parisian Métro station. However our lighting scheme is lower, more serene. A feeling of warmth mists the shop. Potted palms and other equatorial foliage pullulate from between displays; vines clamber up among racks; the verdurous atmosphere makes the shop positively swelter; the excess oxygen keeps the clientele nice and placid as well. The dressing stall frames are constructed of the same mossy iron and hung with the same weighty, violaceous curtains. This section is lit more seductively. We expect fucking in the dressing area and have facilitated its comfort with soft, easily washable boudoir couches, banquettes and high ottomans done in tufted, Victorian style. Rococo settees, daybeds, chesterfields, and chaises stud the showroom floor. The striking contrast of crushed velvets; toasty, lacquered wood; and samite throws against iridescent tiles and algid iron is tautened to extremity. It plays up the contradiction between the diaphanousness of the stock and its environment. I adore contradictions. The concrete power of a hard cock shrouded beneath the bewitching, epicene sheerness of a pair of panties is, of course, my favorite.
The Duesenberg glides into park outside Le Métropolitain. You’re still dazed from the tribulations of your ride. Vaguely skittering you adjust yourself for your workday. Still as ashen as ever, the driver comes to open your door. You bashfully quit the backseat and quick-shuffle across the pavement to the shop. This docile shame hangs on you malodorous. Why give a fig if someone catches you in the throes of cunt bliss? Have you no pride in your own womanhood? You must be taught that your pussy is strong enough to grind the most hard-nosed tyrants into featherweight cake flour.
You’re ten minutes early and I’m already standing at my desk with an unfamiliar woman. She is reedy and androgynous. Her hair is cropped like a soldier’s. She is wearing a chic, faultlessly tailored dinner jacket; A men’s tuxedo shirt with darted collar and ticking down its face; silk slacks with a subtle flare at the ankle; and a lushly patterned, tropical hued scarf tied rakishly at her hips like a loose cummerbund. There is an enchanted confidence in your step. It could almost be considered a stride. You were not expecting to encounter this sphinx today and her harsh, magnetic materialization has doped you—perhaps more than my rude, little larks with that plastic cock jammed up you.
“Sabina, good morning, this is my old friend Sibeal.”
Does her name serenade you? Does it rouse old-country visions of faeries and harpies? Her skin is a hardened patina of powdered abalone shells; her irises discs of malachite ore; her hair painted with some abyssal pigment whose origin is as yet unclassifiable by science.
“Hello ma’am…” you clamor with new-found sanguinity, “…would you like a glass of champagne?”
“A bit early, no?” Sibeal snorts.
“She’s eager to please. You didn’t mean any offence, did you?”
“None at all, ma’am” you beam anticrepuscular.
With hands folded behind your back you watch athirst for what the sphinx and I’s next move will be. I doubt that if both of us were to sprout wings and soar above your head, greedily wedging our tongues into each others pussies, that you’d exhibit any less bated fascination than you’re registering right now.
“Wherever did you find this absolute marvel of a girl?”
Sibeal’s canary brogue dilates your tipsiness profoundly. A smile manages to stammer onto your face through attraction’s pasty fog.
“If you can believe it she’s Heloise Caterwauler’s Niece.”
Sibeal pitches her sylph scaffold over the desk like a cat flexing open it’s vertebrae. She takes your chin in her hand and with her milky, green eyes cocked askance she drinks your face. Your rabbity smile blooms into a peach. Blood washes the dunes of your cheeks.
“So she is! This one’s a wee, feckin’ pistol too, isn’t she?”
“Indeed. A glutton for punishment, if I’ve ever met one.”
“How long have you been keeping her?”
“Just a few weeks, but she’s taken to her tutelage like a show pony to the steeplechase.”
Little ocean-liners of of jubilance set sail through the channels and shipping lanes of your neurons. Your blush intensifies and climbs the stairs to your forehead.
“Look at how proud she is of herself!”
“I am ma’am. I love my work and the woman it’s building me into!”
“Did you coach her to say that?”
“Never! Sabina’s no slave…” I turn to address you, “…you should be proud, you’ve come a very long way in a very short time. You’re doing great!”
“Thank you Ms. Esme. That means the world to me.”
“How touching!” Sibeal snorts again, this time more contemptuously.
I shoot her a bemused glower, but inside I don’t want her jibes to shatter you. I’m not sure how fragile the structure of this aplomb you’ve located within yourself is. I do know that I only want to build on your progress so I go around my desk to you and place my hand at the small of your back.
“Now Sib, be a bonnie, wee, Gaelic lassie. Our Sabina isn’t used to your unholy sense of humor.”
You titter like a peasant girl and point your gaze to my shoes. Immediately it’s back up again, coveting the bosks of Sibeal’s eyes.
“Apologies, young Sabina. I’ve got a bramble patch where my heart should be, it’s true. I didn’t mean nothing by it, I promise.”
“That’s okay. I can take a joke.”
“What else can you take, eh?” She takes your chin again; this time between thumb and pointer, giving the nexus of your jaw a debauched, little squeeze. You meet her gaze and, unprompted take her thumb into your mouth. You suck it exuberantly. After making a meal of it for a few beats you spring your jaws closed around it. Sibeal draws back her hand in shocked profanation.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean nothing by it!” You murmur. The whole time you never broke eye contact. Nicely played.
Deep inside Sibeal’s outrage quells into shock which inturn simmers down to charmed spiritedness. She laughs and sucks her own wound.
“Just like I told you, a pistol!”
“And just like I told you, a show pony.”
“Show us the little panties that your boss lady’s got you wearing today, lover.”
You glance approvingly at me and I nod you permission. You gather up the hem of your shift and present Sibeal and I a view of your pretty, little, pink panties. They rest exquisitely atop the trestles of your garter belt. The base of the simulated cock brims from out of your pussy lips and pushes out the crotch of your panties a bit. Sibeal lays a palm below the fake cock, pushing it deeper and causing you to moan.
“Every inch a show pony.” She grins.
“Why’s she here today?” You ask with a trace amount of snotty behind your giggles. Careful, lover, we don’t want the seams of your britches to tatter.
“Would you like to savvy Sabina to your business here?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t really care to inform the nippy, young cun—”
“That’s enough of that! Play nice in my shop or leave.”
Sibeal’s response is a derisive, wincing sneer.
“Fine, I’ll tell her.” I say
“Sibeal represents—” Now she saws my response off at the knees.
“I represent an internationally eminent chanteuse whom you may indeed already be a major fan of. I’m not naming names, so don’t start guessing.”
Your brain turns the multitudinous possibilities on its lathe. These thoughts dig hairline grooves into your brow that could be played with a stylus.
“This anonymous superstar happens to share your boss’s exotic predilections for the lacier things in life. Of course, I don’t preclude myself from the faith. Who do you think turned said starlet onto her lifelong love of panties?”
“It was a rhetorical question, dear.” I pat your shoulder maternally
“As fate would have it my colleague has a gig in town tonight and afterward she’ll be stopping by the atelier with some of our friends for a private fitting.”
“Would you like to join us tonight, Sabina?”
“How exciting!” you genuinely swoon.
“Tonight will be a grand spectacle…” I graze through your hair—long, tender strokes, “but we won’t only be putting your stomach for depravity to the test; you’ll also have to learn the art of discretion.”
“If you want to play with us tonight you’ll never be able to tell anyone outside the persuasion. Not even suggest it. If you do we’ll completely ostracize you from the community and you’ll never be able to play with panty lovers of our stature ever again.”
“It’s not just our company you’ll be deprived of, either. Excommunication carries the threat of crossing some of our most prominent members. People in government at all levels, in business, in the arts, academia. You run the risk of destroying any chance you have at a fulfilling life.”
“I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
“Unfortunately your word isn’t good enough, my dear. You’ll have to sign this.”
Sabiel thrusts a hidebound file into your hands.
“It’s a non-disclosure agreement, Sabina.” I respond gently.
“It binds you to your commitment to keep quiet about anything you see my client say or do.”
“Is this really necessary? I swear I won’t say anything!”
“I’m afraid so, little pistol. You see, if you should go back on your word, even by mistake, I’ll have an army of lawyers make sure your great grandchildren will be paying us back. Nothing keeps a girl silent like the threat of financial ruin.”
“I don’t know about this. Ms. Esme?”
“It’s not up to me, dear. I’ve signed one myself, but I understand if you want to sit this one out. You’re under no obligation to come tonight.”
“Can I think about it?”
Sibeal draws a watch from her jacket pocket, glances at it and slips it back.
“I must be getting back. My master’s voice, as it were. Pain in my ass to tell you the truth.”
You turn to me, sending out a search party for my guidance. I keep deadpan and go on petting the springy weft of your hair. A pause pregnant with sextuplets.
“Yes, Okay.” You expel the words like a hushed tornado. I pass you a tortoise-shell fountain pen and Sibeal points to the empty lines that raven for signatures. With that grimy bit of business behind us. Sibeal kisses us on both our cheeks and takes her leave of us like a mad, squawking, black Irish cockatiel.
The rest of the day drags. Outside a freak storm mutates the sky to a tawny French gray, a color on the brink of a Burmese rat’s fur. The rain waterlogs the pavement. White-water rapids cataract into drains. Branches do their finest impressions of junkies tilting into a nod. People hurry by shielding themselves with newspapers, trash bags, their own clothing, anything to keep their skin from going clammy once they reach their air-conditioned destinations. Cheap umbrellas capsize into elevated, concave, punch-bowls that their owners toil to correct. Selfish, smartly-dressed swells bushwhack their way down the sidewalk beneath giant golf canopies like personal tanks, displacing coils of unfortunate bystanders to the gutter. We call out for lunch. Sub-rosa I observe you chuckling faintly at your phone. Usually I wouldn’t tolerate such idling, but you’ve finished your work and your busywork so I let it slide, voyeuristically relishing all your private protocols. I contrive a scenario in which you’re trying to figure out the identity of tonight’s guest of honor.
There are several singing sensations playing around town tonight. Which one’s cunt will you have the pleasure of serving? The number of possible secret identities grows when you realize that we may be using the pronoun “she” more abstrusely. Maybe when he slips his panties on, he becomes her. I’ve explained to you how this practice especially titillates my husband, but you’ve yet to see it in practice. We’ve eyeballed each other on several occasions throughout the day and every time your eyes seem to implore me to spill my secret insight. I simply flaunt the most smug smirk in my repertoire and go about my business.
At random intervals I tease your cunt with the remote-controlled cock. Never more than an edging here and there. I confess, a few times I did it just to see you get spooked off your feet. After lunch I ask you to come into the bathroom with me.
“Have you pissed yet today?”
“Well, that’s not healthy. It’s time you did.”
“You heard me. Pull your panties down for me and go pee!”
You comply, cowed by my sudden change in mood. You begin to slide down your panties but stop while they’re just below your undergrowth of snatch hair.
“Why have you stopped?”
“Ma’am the toy.”
I stoop to inspect it closely.
“What about it?”
“Can I go with it in?”
“How have you lived as long as you have without realizing you have two separate holes down there?” I’m genuinely puzzled.
You shrug. I’m thrown off by your ignorance of your own body. I decide to make your penance more severe. I turn on the hot, little sparkplug full tilt, my eyes gleam like an arsonist’s. You almost immediately buckle and fall back onto the toilet’s tank.
You wail like an air-raid siren. I reach out and start rubbing your swollen clit-head with my thumb.
“Piss I said!”
I hike up my skirt and start rubbing my cunt—it’s as fiery as a comet by now—through my panties. You keep crying but a dribble of xanthous liquid spurts out of you.
“Stop holding back! Let it out!”
I increase the tempo of my thumb on your clit. Your head flicks back and forth epileptical. Tears are over the levees now and tumbling toward the edge of their world.
“Piss, bitch! Or so help me I’ll leave you home tonight!”
Sobbing now you unleash a cloudburst of piss. The hot elixir douces your thighs, your stockings, your panties, the hem of your dress, the rim of the toilet bowl. Some of it makes it into the toilet, but most puddles on the floor.
“Aim, twat, or I’ll make you drink it up!”
You desperately try to position yourself over the bowl, but you make it worse. There’s piss everywhere, drops have even splashed onto me. A firehose of urine keeps spraying out of you. I yank down your drenched panties, picking up your feet to pull them completely off you. Scrunching them I blot them against the stream, pushing it back onto you.
“What a filthy, no good slut you are!”
At last the great deluge trickles off. I bring the inundated panties to your face and press them into your nose and mouth. You object, but I place my hand around your arm balmily. You slightly struggle against me, but my eyes tell you to relax.
“Trust me.” I whisper. And you slacken into me.
“Feel how exquisite and warm your piss is against you.”
You begin to nuzzle your panties.
“Yes, good girl!”
I put my mouth against yours, the unwrung sponge of your panties in between us. We sigh together, luxuriating in the decadence of our tongues squirming against one another and flicking little shots of acrid piss down our throats.
“Do you want more?” I ask pulling away.
You nod and I softly move you down to your knees.
“Keep those little panties in your mouth!”
I mount your face and move it over the toilet bowl. I roll my panties down to my ankles, pressing my pussy into your face as I work. Your nose against my clit feels divine. You notice I have my asshole plugged and reach up, wiggling the golden toy inside my stingy hole. I shudder and squat down. Slowly I begin to work my fingers over my clit. Through my gauzy blouse I pull on my nipples with my free hand. My tongue flickers like the blaze on the head of a windproof match.
“Oh yeah, fuck my ass with that toy, you little whore!”
The floodgates raise and I start to pee all over you. I can’t control it. Showers of coruscating, citrine water dapple your skin and clothing. You grunt simian; bringing your face toward my concentrated, hot-springs effusion. I snatch the piss-drenched panties from between your teeth and prize open your mouth by pressing my palms against your cheekbones. Piss splashes your lips.
Your mouth swings ringent. The last gobful of my stream fills your mouth with uric astringency.
“Drink me in, Sabina!”
You swallow. I see your face painted with the palette of scandal, revolt, despair, fatigue, and mirth. Looking at your smeared mascara, mottled blush, and destroyed lipstick clinging to the fluxing zoetrope of emotions capering above your face kindles me. I plug and unplug my asshole with a shivering ferocity. My fingers strum against my seething clit. I squat lower and bellow, snarl, shudder animalistically. Through parabolic deformities of light I can see you rub yourself with a similar fierceness. To see a woman denature herself into a two-legged beast electrifies you; pulps your senses; enlightens the caged savage within you and lets her gnaw through the bars of her enclosure. I summit the obelisk of my excitement. I can feel my orgasm kicking down the gates to paradise. A magnum of pussy champagne surges out of me and into the flute of your gaping throat. Tremors arpeggio up my spine; spasms pluck my conduits; Half frozen waves lap at my temples. I step around you like a foal still wet with the unguent of its afterbirth. Your body is tossed laundry. We stagger about, the balance of our energy’s account is at zero.
I walk with you to a back corner of the storeroom where we’ve cleverly had a shower installed. I lean against a tiled jamb and watch you undress with a smile washed in wist. We deflate and slide the pumpable cock from your quim. I instruct you to drink your juices off it and you do so with a bon vivant’s brio.
“Just rinse. We’re going to ritually bathe you before we play tonight.”
“Yes, it helps to build desire.”
“I’ve been building mine all day. My pussy will be black and blue before long.”
You step into the pleasant water, twirl and begin to scrub.
“Savor the anticipation. I’m partly sorry we had our little watersports session, but I got so bored waiting around the shop…”
“Ever since our first encounter my head has been spinning out of control with wild fantasies. Every time we’ve played since then they get more…exotic? I never thought I’d ever play with…you know…like we just did.”
“I know what you’re ready for and I’ll never push you past your limits. Just remember that those wild, exotic fantasies give you power. Live in them and you will define your sexual persona. That character will color or contrast all the other facets of your life”
“And what’s your sexual persona?”
“Right now I’m your boss” I say pulling back a hank of your wet hair, “but tonight I may invite you into another room inside my mansion.”
I cut off the water and stare voraciously into your eyes. You brighten, a golden retriever smile steps onto the lime-lit stage of your face. You want to throw your arms around me; squeeze me like a near empty tube of toothpaste. You restrain yourself. Your wetness infiltrating my clothes would not play well, so you step back and I release your hair.
“Tonight is Aphrodite’s apotheosis, that is to say, the culmination of many years of training to serve the faith.”
Your cheeks burnish; your whole face illuminates with bulb-popping wattage. Your towel drops from your shoulders and plops damply on the floor.
“Aphrodite? Like Ms. Aphrodite?”
“Oh shit, that was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Oh my God! She’s amazing! I was hoping it was her! I looked up on my phone and saw she was playing at the Garden tonight.”
“Yes, well, the cat’s out of the bag. Just play it cool tonight. She’s not Ms. Aphrodite, she’s just Aphra to us. And as I was saying, tonight is a huge celebration for her. One day we’ll be consecrating your apotheosis; and since you’re our newest disciple it’s important you be on your best behavior.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing you, or her! Or anyone there for that matter.”
You moon about like a girl infatuated—pantomiming her famous dances and parroting the hooks from her hits.
“Get that out of your system now! None of this fooling around tonight!”
“Yes ma’am.” You tone out merrily and pirouette to me to plant a kiss on my lips.
“Thank you Ms. Esme, for everything!”
“My pleasure, dear.”
“Ma’am? Will there be more play with…you know…tonight?”
“It’s called piss, Sabina. Maybe there will, everyone is different, but I’ve played with Aphra and Sibeal before and I distinctly remember squatting and pissing in front of them, if not on them.”
“Will there be…” you glance about fitfully and lower your voice to a whisper, “…shit?”
“There may be, but worshippers who like to play with shit are usually conscious of others’ disgust with their medium and they’ll do so in a more private venue.”
“Do you like shit, ma’am?”
“I don’t tend to, no, but I never say never, darling.”
“That’s a relief, I don’t think I’d like to play that way. I am surprised at how much I like piss though.”