Sunday, August 24, 2008

Vertical Tease by Jude Mason

Groaning, Carl Jackson ran his tongue around inside his mouth. It felt thick, too big, and his mouth was as dry as a peanut butter fart. He tried to roll over but couldn’t move much, couldn’t feel much either. He wriggled; that was all he could do, and even that was limited to his hands and feet. Like flippers, he thought, and realized he must look ridiculous. He stopped wriggling.

Sweat dripped—no, trickled—in tiny, annoying, rivulets down his back and sides. He was warm but not uncomfortably so. Something held him upright, something tight—yet forgiving. It wasn’t straps. It was more like a swimmer’s wet suit glued to the wall with him inside it, spread-eagle.

Air brushed his hands and feet, the exposed side of his face.

His reason for being there came to him in a flash: an advertisement on a website that caught his attention. Visiting the site, he found local addresses and phone numbers. Then, he found her: a woman, Lady Jasmine, who would help him explore a fantasy he’d had for as long he could remember. He emailed her several times, and they’d become—something. There were no words to describe what she meant to him, but she knew his secrets and didn’t laugh, didn’t ridicule him. Such ridicule had always been his biggest fear.

That’s why he’d never told Karen, his wife, about it. What would happen if she thought he was perverted, sick? She’d leave him, for sure. He couldn’t bear that.

Weeks of emails followed, back and forth, during frantic moments alone. Furtive phone calls left him more turned on than he’d ever dreamed he could be. Finally, his heart in his throat, he asked if he could come to her house. She made him wait a long time before she replied.

After a little more talking, and a lot more begging on his part, they’d arranged to meet.

“You think you’re ready to come to my house?” Her voice had been very deep, very stern.

He was breathless, excited, his hand buried in his crotch—not masturbating, but pressing against the aching bulge, trying to ease the unbearable tension. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, in a determined, but much weaker, voice. “I know it’s a big step. Trust and all. But, I—”

“It’s a big step for you,” she interrupted. Another pause. “Are you sure you trust me?”

Her question caught him off guard. Of course, he trusted her. How could he not? He’d dreamed of her, fantasized about her. She’d sent pictures of herself, and he believed they were real. Her voice had just the right touch of femininity along with the sternness he so desired. Trust? Yes, he trusted her. At thirty-two, he felt as if life was passing him by. He couldn’t bear to be one of those men who went to his grave wishing he’d done—something.

So, there he’d sat, in his living room, shirt off, nipple clamps firmly affixed to his tits, and his hand thrust between his thighs. He whispered into the headset, “Yes, Ma’am, I trust you.” For a moment after he’d said it, he froze, terrified he’d said too much, trusted too easily, desired too fervently. His heart drummed wildly, painfully, threatening to burst through his chest.

“Good, for me,” she replied easily. She was quiet after that, but then she laughed. It was the most beautifully cruel laughter he’d ever heard.

* * * *

That was two weeks ago. Two weeks of his wife flying out to visit her mother in the next state, two weeks of frozen dinners and late nights of fantasizing. He sent Lady Jasmine a check, an installment on their first session, as she called it. He was careful not to masturbate, at her direction, but each evening he surfed the Internet, valiantly searching for the most arousing, degrading porn he could find, also at her direction. He trembled with lust. For hours each day, the front of his slacks tented, showing his erection and a spreading stain of darker material where he leaked at an alarming rate. The closer it came to their meeting, the more he trembled and the longer his erections plagued him.

The night before, excitement and a nagging case of blue balls kept him awake. The next morning, he took an extra long time preparing. He shaved his face carefully, trimmed his sideburns, and clipped his nails. He wanted to make the very best impression he could. He pulled on the brand new black thong, knowing she wouldn’t see it, but also dreaming about her tormenting him while he slid the elastic into place. It was a good thing the pouch stretched, or he’d never have been able to cover himself. She’d said a white shirt, and he pulled one on. His hands shook so much, he fumbled for nearly five minutes with the buttons. His slacks were almost as much trouble as the shirt. His prick throbbed and his balls ached; getting his slacks zipped and buttoned took forever.

Finally, shoes shined, nails clean and filed, breath freshened by three brushings and two gargles, he stood at her door—trembling like a school boy on his first date. It was a large white house in an exclusive area of the city. His bladder felt full, although he knew it couldn’t be. He took a deep, shuddering breath and reached for the doorbell. With his finger poised over the small white button, he wondered for an instant if he should, if he dared. Then it was too late; his finger jabbed down, the bell rang, and he jerked his hand to his side.

He waited, scarcely able to get a breath. Would she answer, or leave him standing there like some unwanted relative, ignored, laughed at? He shifted his feet. Sweat trickled down his sides, and he willed it to stop.

Footsteps approached from inside. The click, click, click of heels on hardwood got closer. He stopped breathing and waited, eyes fastened on the door knob. It turned and the door swung inward slowly.

“Carl,” said the most amazing looking woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Tall, almost as tall as his six feet, she was slender but had curves in all the right places. The full-length, black, leather dress hugged her like a second skin from shoulders to knees. She’d piled her dark hair on top of her head, and her make-up was striking. The wine glass she held was half full of amber liquid. She posed, regally, a hand on the door and a look of disdain on her face.

He shifted nervously again and replied, “Yes Ma’am, Lady Jasmine, I’m Carl.” His voice sounded gruff, as if he hadn’t spoken for awhile.

“Last chance,” she said sneering at him. “You’re sure you want to come in? Now’s your last chance to leave. You come in, and you obey my rules. All of them”

Carl’s heart picked up its pace. He clenched his fists to keep from grabbing himself. “I’m sure. I can’t turn back now.”

She stepped aside, allowing him in.

His knees shook, but he made it in without stumbling.

Lady Jasmine remained where she was, forcing him to bend and remove his shoes while trapped very close to her. Her scent intoxicated him—a sweet, musky aroma that made him light-headed. He straightened up, and for a moment, dared to look into the eyes of the woman he’d been dying to meet for as long as he could remember. He wanted to say something, explain how excited he was, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out but air.

She pushed the door closed and turned her back on him. “Follow me—on your hands and knees.”

It was now or never. After an instant of heart-stopping wonder, he dropped to his knees. He crawled forward, incredibly aware of how tight the thong’s strap was and how it cut into the crease of his ass; how his cock and balls were squeezed. He eased his knees a little wider apart and hurried to keep up with his hostess. Her scent thickened, and his vision blurred.

He remembered very little after that until he regained his senses, held tightly against the wall.

* * * *