Fiction: Part of Everything

Henry looked around the room. There was a weird tension tonight he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was most of the usual people, plus a few he’d never seen before. Fresh meat, that was always good.

Some nights, the sex would start right away, clothes would peel off and lay in a heap next to the door. Other nights it was like a painful high school dance, everyone choosing corners, eyeing and sizing up the enemy from across the room. Finally some bold person would break away, stride across the room and take someone’s hand and lead them into a bedroom. Then, everyone else would find the courage to pair up and scuttle off. The sex was never as good on those nights. The nervous atmosphere was poison, he could never quite find his rhythm, and it made him angry.

The nights Henry liked best were the nights of slow seduction. Layers of clothes gradually peeling off. Maybe a woman would drape her scarf around another woman’s neck and pull her in for a kiss. Hands would find each other under blankets or tables or jackets, pants would be unzipped, skirts lifted, panties yanked down. The lights would seem to automatically dim, like in Hollywood movie set. An intoxicating heat would rise up, and the room would become a mass of writhing sweating bodies. No closed doors, no inhibitions, only the hedonistic pleasures of watching, being watched and devouring. No shame, simply reaching, kissing, caressing, fucking.

Henry had been going to these parties for a couple years now. He wasn’t sure how they started. There were a few people who didn’t come anymore, maybe they’d started them? He imagined an unbroken line of gatherings going back decades, all these long years of decadence stemming from one crazy night, maybe during Prohibition. The clothes on the floor would be dapper suits and short flapper dresses. The bathtub would be full of gin, the men would smoke cigars and grasp the short bobbed hair of the flappers as they gave them succulent blowjobs, leaving bright red rings of lipsticks on cocks as the jazz music played on.

The torch would be passed on and on, the founders overlapping with the next generation to take it on. Or maybe it was nothing like that at all. Maybe it was simply people just getting together to get their fuck on and he was being entirely too romantic about it all again. He was prone to fits of romanticism now and again.

This night was definitely weird. Henry couldn’t figure it out. There were a few new people, but not enough to throw the balance off completely. Mattie was there, breasts spilling from her cherry red latex dress as usual, rubbing up against some rather alarmed man the corner. Rob was already getting a blowjob, but he didn’t seem interested in it, his eyes were on Mattie’s tits.

A new girl, Leah, Henry thought her name was, sat wide eyed across the room, trying desperately to keep her cool. Henry watched as Mark approached her.

Mark was smooth, Henry had to give him that. He leaned over, whispered something in the new girl’s ear. Within moments, Mark was kneeling on the floor in front of her, gently sliding his hand up her skirt. She flushed. Mark had his fingers in her. She lay her head on the back of the sofa, eyes closed.

Mark would get the night started, Henry decided. Mark gave no fucks at all. The room quieted as Leah’s soft whimpers turned to full blown moans. Mattie, always seeking an opportunity to be in the spotlight, sat next to Leah and unbuttoned her blouse.  Mattie ran her fingers through Mark’s hair, then descended on Leah’s exposed breasts, squeezing one tight while sucking the other. Leah cried out. As if that were the signal everyone had been waiting for the room came alive, the barrier broken.

Mark looked around, gave someone a nod who brought him a bottle of lube. He removed his hand from Leah’s pussy, squirted lube across his hand, and plunged his fingers back into her. Mattie relentlessly sucked and bit Leah’s breasts, then lightly slapped them. Leah moaned louder, writhing as Mark stuck another finger into her. Another man, Thomas, came up behind Mattie and bit her neck. Leah was suddenly the center of a widening web, everyone somehow connected back to her through someone else.

Mattie arranged herself so her cunt was exposed as she suckled Leah. Thomas slammed into her so hard that Leah shook too. It only took moments before Mattie’s dramatically loud cries pierced the soft din of moans.

Henry heard a scraping sound as someone pulled a chair up. Sarah sat down next to him, and handed him a fresh glass of wine.

“Popcorn would be better for this show,” Henry whispered. Sarah was his co-conspirator, his friend in snark.

“Mattie never misses a chance, does she?” Sarah whispered back, “Always has to be part of everything.” Sarah and Henry leaned back against the wall, sipping wine as the display continued.

Leah was fully spread now, her knees were being held open by other people now by Mattie’s orders. Mattie held Leah’s wrists together, pinning them against the wall while Thomas now suckled and bit her breasts. Mark’s face was tight with concentration as he attempted to work his fist into Leah’s cunt. Leah was radiant with pleasure and sweat, her eyes dreamy and unfocused.

Mark worked his clenched fist in and out of her, her thighs glistened. Mattie still held her delicate wrists together, but with one hand now. Her other hand rested wickedly against Leah’s throat.

Henry felt a twinge of excitement, finally. He was feeling lately that he’d used up all his normal fetishes, that only extreme stuff could excite him now. Watching someone being choked and fisted felt fairly tame, but he was glad that it still excited him even some.

He reached over, took the glass of wine from Sarah. He grabbed her firmly by the wrist, she followed willingly. The night had taken on a life of it’s own, he could find his rhythm tonight, he was sure of it.

Dream Girl

When I enter the room, she’s standing in a corner. Why she’s being punished, I don’t know. But I’m glad she is. Black corset, black stockings. Skin as pale as the moon on snow. A cherry red ball gag against cherry red lips. Blonde curls.

It’s the hair that does it.

This is how I know it’s a dream, even submerged under heavy layers of sleep. Blondes are not my thing. When I fantasize, when my eyes follow a woman down the street, it’s always dark hair, short, androgynus. Dark haired pouty butch girls make me swoon, not curls and ribbons and red, red lips. My subconscious has it’s own fantasies.

Oh God. She’s beautiful. Perfect. I walk all the way around her, her bright blue eyes stare straight ahead, never wavering, such a good girl. When I stand behind her, I see her hands aren’t tied behind her back, she’s holding them there, just so. She’s such a good girl that I ache for her in my sleep.

There are little frills on the bottom edge of her corset, barely skimming her thighs. Black on pale. I want to lick that place where the lace touches. I reach out…

Here’s where I wake up, full of wanting. I keep my eyes shut to hold her close. Don’t let her fade, must not let her fade.

I want to bite through the elastic on the garter belt, watch each one snap back in slow motion. Run my hands down her thighs, ease down those sheer black stockings, unwrapping my present like a terrible greedy child.

I want to take those corset strings, and tie them just a little tighter, until I hear that sharp gasp of breath. That’s how I would ruin a good girl like this, centimeters at a time. I’d brush my fingers through those curls, leave a strand or two tickling her nose. I’d be so cruel, in so many little ways.

Panties, is she wearing them? Yes, midnight black, like the corset. Reach around back and yank so the lace edging scratches the inside of her thigh, so the crotch pulls up tight and uncomfortable between her legs. A little pain now to make the pleasure that much more of a treat later.

I’d kiss her around the ball gag, my lips pressed against hers, my tongue teasing hers from the other side of the prison wall. Her lips would strain to kiss me back, her eyes finally focusing on mine. I’d step back because I’m not hers to have quite yet.

Or maybe I am.

Impatiently then, because she’s such a good girl and I hate waiting, I’d slide my hand between her legs, I’d pull those goddamn panties down around the tops of those perfect fucking thighs. I wouldn’t tease her clit, I’d shove fingers in, cram them into her wet and lovely cunt. She’d  spread her legs, tremble, trying to be a good girl, struggling to remember that she had to be good no matter what. And then I’d break her. She’d cry out, muffled by the gag. She’d flinch, moan, and then she’d reach for me, but she’d stop herself, just a little too late.

Her blue eyes would go wide when she realized her transgressions. Then I could really punish her for being such a good, good girl.

Everyone calls him by his last name: Brooks.

His friends, his father, even his wife, Lee Ann. He has to calm her down all the time. Her temper tantrums are epic. She’s cold and mean, eyeing every last one of us with suspicion. To her, everything is an imaginary slight, like when Brooks forgot to hold the pickles on her burger at the drive-thru. That one made us all miss the first half of the concert. She is the match held next to the fuse in our collective powder keg.

Brooks is much older than the rest of us. He’s been sober longer than most of us have been out of school. Most of the time, when you ask him a question, he just smiles. There’s no vague answer, no sidestepping the question, only the smile that lets you know you’ll never hear the answer. His eyes are a closed door.

Our relationship is one of mild flirtation, but only when Lee Ann is not around. Brooks is a whole different person away from her. The undercurrent of churning anxiety smooths away. He relaxes, drops his guard just a little. Brooks becomes the fun guy, charming and quick witted. This is the Brooks we wait for, the sunny day in the middle of a month of thunderstorms.

I run into him at random, at the county fair. He’s sitting on a bench watching one of his kids ride the flying elephants. The sun has baked everything brown. I’m wearing a blue tie-dyed half shirt, and short shorts. It’s the fair, I’m on the prowl. I stand in front of him, chatting about whatever. He interrupts me. “I’d chew the buttons off that shirt any day,” he says. We hold onto a look, but I can’t think of anything to say.

Just then Lee Ann’s brother, Sean, comes back with a cardboard tray full of drinks and chili dogs. He won’t tell Lee Ann that Brooks has been talking to me, but it feels awkward just the same. I smile at Brooks, his eyes are hungry and it thrills me.

After a while, Brooks drifts in and out of our lives. He’s moved kind of far away, too far for us to afford the gas money on a regular basis. We do visit them sometimes, but the visits get farther and farther apart until Brooks and scary Lee Ann are dropped from our rotation of friends.

About a year later, Brooks shows up one day, just out of the blue. We’re at Manny’s house, playing cards. The door opens. No one looks up at first, people come in and out of Manny’s place all the time. After a minute, someone finally looks up and says “Brooks!”

It takes another moment to realize that Brooks is drunk. Not a little buzzed, but shit faced. He stands there, swaying, a beer in each hand. Brooks doesn’t drink. Brooks never, ever drinks. We all stare, like he’s grown a second head or something.

The Brooks we knew always went to meetings. Our Brooks gently talked to each of us in private if he was worried we were taking something too far for our own good. This Brooks is loud, some weird parody of the guy we knew. Lee Ann has left him for someone else, he tells us as he reaches for another beer from Manny’s fridge. I can’t decide if he’s mourning or celebrating. His eyes are puffy and red.

Like the old days, Brooks is always around now, but it’s this new, not improved version. He’s moved back, renting a room from his dad. The drinking never seems to ease up. We start to hide the beer when he comes around because he’ll drink it all. He wears on us, we all know it, but no one says anything out loud. Not anymore.

“Hey dude, you might want to ease up,” Manny had said to him one night. Brooks slammed the can on the table, sloshing it all over the cards. “I’ll tell you when I’ve fucking had enough,” Brooks raged. His anger was terrible and terrifying, it went on for hours. We left him alone after that.

Some nameless blurry night, we’re at Manny’s house, like usual. Brooks is drunk, I’m well on my way. Brooks and I are hurling flirtatious insults, everyone is laughing. One more drink and I’ve crossed the line from buzzed to completely fucking wasted and I need to go lie down.

As I get up, Brooks staggers across the room, helps me up the steep stairs. We stumble to the bed together and I pull my shoes off. I lay back, the room spins. I remember that day at the fairgrounds, and how much I wanted him in that moment.

“Brooks,” I slur, grabbing the edge of his flannel shirt and pulling him toward me. “Come here an’ fuck me.”

We fall back on the bed together, I turn my head towards him and wait for him to kiss me. He puts his arm around me. I nuzzle up to him, my head in the crook of his elbow. Brooks is silent and still for a long time, his fingers resting in my hair. Finally, he reaches for me, but lightly kisses my forehead instead.

“C’mon, fuck me,” I whisper.

“No, honey, not like this,” he says quietly, pulling the blanket up to my chin. As he tucks me in, I look up at him. His guard is down and his eyes are so, so sad. He looks old and tired. On his way out, he switches off the light, leaving me alone in the dark, wondering what I did wrong.