EROTIC STORIES :

THE CHANGELING - Part 2
© remittance girl, 2006

I knew about women who craved psychological abuse, or at least I thought I did. They had low self-esteem and poor self-images. They were often abused as children or grew up in unsupportive environments. I wasn't that woman.

I also knew about the sociological fallout of the sex trade, especially in Southeast Asia. All the porn in the world couldn't make women enjoy being prostitutes. It was about economic survival, pure and simple. I was sure about that.

And, if all that wasn't enough, 50,000 dead feminists had surely rolled over in their grave at the way I meekly walked out of that hotel room. I played the tape over and over in my mind; I thought of all the things I should have said, all the ways I should have acted.

There were a lot of reasons for me not to keep the Thursday appointment. I spent the whole of Wednesday convinced I wouldn't go. It was all decided until Thursday afternoon, when I got home from work and felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin. I couldn't settle, I couldn't concentrate on anything; I couldn't eat.

I was showered and changed and out of the house by seven thirty. I had to deliberately slow my pace so as not to reach the hotel too early, and still I did. I considered waiting in the lobby, but it felt stranger than turning up ahead of time. Irrationally, I imagined that everyone walking through the lobby knew what I was doing there.

The elevator ride to the 14th floor was just as disconcerting. It was crowded with people headed for the rooftop bar, and the thought of going up there again made me cringe.

Outside his door, I stopped and looked at my watch. I was still ten minutes early. I was almost sure that it would spoil the game for him if I seemed too eager. He wanted it to be a nice, neat and business-like - just like the way he dressed. The hallway was deserted, so I sat on the carpeted floor with my back to the wall and settled down to wait the ten minutes.

At five to eight, I heard the elevator doors open. I stood up quickly and pretended to be searching for a key card in my purse, but it was him.

"Have you been waiting long?"

"No. Not at all."

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting." He swiped the lock and held the door open for me. "Please, come in."

It struck me as strange that he could be so friendly and polite until the sex happened, then he changed utterly, but there was something about the immaculately balanced duality that intrigued me.

The room was exactly as it had been before, a kind of sitting room affair with a pair of sofas, a desk with a laptop on it, a built-in entertainment cupboard with a wide-screen television in the middle, all done in shades of beige. The balcony door was shut, but I could hear the faint hum of traffic from the street below.

"Would you like a drink?"

It occurred to me that this was just another politeness, that I should refuse it and get down to business.

"No, I'm fine, thanks."

"Do you mind if I have one?" he asked, taking off his suit jacket and laying it carefully across the back of one of the sofas. "It's been a long day."

"Please, go ahead."

He turned towards the bar fridge and then stopped, looking back at me. "Are you sure? I've got vodka... that's what you had the other night, wasn't it?"

"Okay, sure, if it's no trouble."

He looked at me oddly again, and began to fix the drinks. The ice cubes clinked as he dropped then into the glasses, he brought the drinks over to where I stood. I took the glass he offered.

"Thanks."

"Have a seat."

I nodded and sat down on one of the cream sofas. It felt hard and recently manufactured, and had that faintly acrid smell of new upholstery. He took a seat opposite me and sipped his drink.

For a moment, the glass in his hand made me think of the old subliminal message research that documented images of skulls and naked women in the ice cubes of alcohol print advertising. Manipulation.

"I'm very pleased you decided to continue our arrangement," he said pleasantly.

"I hadn't really intended to."

"That's understandable. New paradigms are not easy to adjust to."

I laughed, unable to help myself. "A 'new paradigm'. That's an interesting way to put it."

He smiled then, and shrugged. "A new mode of being, then."

I gave another chuckle. "Yes, a 'new mode of being'."

"Non-normative."

This time, I pealed with laughter. The language was in such striking opposition to the situation, and with that one word he'd given so much of himself away. I was finding it hard not to like him - his dry sense of humour. "Non-normative, for sure," I giggled.

"That's a very nice outfit you're wearing. What's under the skirt?"

My laughter evaporated. I cleared my throat. This time, when I'd dressed, I'd done so knowingly. I'd chosen a top with no buttons; it was silk, and wrapped around to tie at the back. The skirt was the same, like a like a sarong.

"There's nothing under the skirt."

He sipped his drink and sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "And why is that?"

"I thought..." I shook my head, and started again. "I thought there wasn't any point in leaving another pair of panties here."

"So practical, so pragmatic. But a lie, all the same."

I felt my face colour, the tendrils of heat climbed up my neck and onto my cheeks. "You tell me, then."

"You wanted to get fucked. You wanted cock as soon as you could get it."

Immediately, I was aware of the change of tone. I shrugged and smiled.

"Show me. Spread your legs and show me."

I nodded and leaned back into the sofa, inching my thighs apart until I was sure he had a good view.

His plump lips pursed, his pupils dilated behind his glasses. "Wider," he whispered.

There was something very specific about the way he consumed what he saw that sent a surge of electricity down my spine. He didn't just look. Somehow, his eyes were mouths: they tasted, they ate, they swallowed. And for my part, the act of being consumed this way was addictively erotic.

I spread my legs wider, and pulled the sides of my skirt away. Everything I was showing him started to heat up and burn: the inside of my thighs, my bare, waxed pussy, even the skin of my chest and my face.

"Touch yourself. You want to. I know you do."

At first, he was wrong. I didn't want to. I wanted him to touch me. But as I started, a hand down between my legs, fingers slipping easily between the folds of my labia, his desires eclipsed mine. After all, I thought as I began to masturbate, it was his dime.

"Good girl," he murmured. I saw him take another sip of his drink, saw him take the ice into his mouth and roll it around.

He stood up and walked towards me, and the ice in his mouth crunched as he bit it. I stopped and sat up, expectantly.

"Don't stop," he said, settling down in front of me, between my legs. "Show me."

And so I resumed my attentions all the more diligently, his close scrutiny pushed me on.

"You're wet, so wet. I can smell it." He took another sip, and another ice cube into his mouth.

"Yes." My body twitched, like it always does as I get close to bringing myself off.

He took hold of my thighs and pulled my hips to the edge of the seat, until his face was only inches from my cunt. Suddenly, he pushed my fingers aside and pressed his mouth to my mound. The cold made me squeal and arch my hips. As I did, he pushed the ice cube from his mouth into me.

The shock of the temperature change made my internal muscles spasm shut around it. Instinctively, I wanted to push it out, even as I felt it melting and trickling out of me.

"Don't."

I froze, knowing exactly what he was talking about. Still the ice cold burned inside of me. He took another cube from the glass, this time with his fingers, and pushed it into my opening. Then another.

"God!"

"Don't," he repeated.

I opened my eyes to look at him. He was holding the glass beneath me, catching the drops of melted ice. I made a wordless sound, fighting my desire to expel with all my might. It was an awful sensation. Not pain, perhaps, but a deep, throbbing burn.

He lowered his mouth onto my pussy again, covering the whole of my mound. The heat of his mouth was exquisite. He snaked the flat surface of his tongue between my lips and pressed it hard against my clit.

"Oh...Please... I'm going to come. I...I can't hold it if I come."

"Then don't come," he said, his words muffled. "Not until it's melted."

I whined, straining to control muscles that fluttered and spasmed autonomously. His tongue began wicked little flicks over my clit, interspersed with long, slow laps. My thigh muscles began to twitch, shuddering in sympathy with my cunt. Through my panting, I could hear the soft, liquid sound of water tricking into the glass beneath me.

I couldn't stand it anymore. "Oh, PLEASE!" I screamed.

He lifted his head. "Please what?"

"I need to come."

"Not yet."

"I can't...I can't hold it any longer."

He put the glass down on the coffee table, it clanked dully, glass against glass. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a condom. Carefully, slowly, he undid his belt, the button on his pants, and unzipped himself. And just as carefully, he eased his fully erect cock out of a pristine white pair of boxer shorts, and slid the condom down its length.

The minute I saw it, I knew just how deliciously hot it would feel inside me. How beautifully it would soothe the cold burn.

Picking up the glass, he took a single sip, and then drank the diluted amber liquid down in one go. The scotch, the ice water and me. He swallowed me. Then he let the glass drop to the floor and, in one fluid movement, pushed his cock deep into my pussy.

I don't know if it was the metaphors flying around the room or just the concrete sensations, but I yelled as he seated himself inside me. The heat of him was almost too much to bear after the ice.

"Like it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Good girl. Ride it."

He held himself still, his hands under my hips, so that I could roll them and push myself onto him. And I did, wrapping my legs around his hips and pulling him inside me. There was something horribly and deliciously exposed about it. He looked down at me, watching me greedily engulfing him, over and over again.

Slowly his enigmatic expression changed, as if with each stroke, I was pushing that reserve, that barrier, that hollowness away. It was a strange way to get to know someone, but that's what was happening.

He swallowed hard. I could tell he had to work to hold himself still. "Feels good?"

I smiled. "Yes...it feels fucking excellent."

"You're such a whore," he whispered, smiling down at me as I fucked myself on him.

"I know," I panted.

"You love it."

"Yes."

"Can't get enough." His voice was breaking now, and a smile was playing on his lips. He began to thrust, and was guiding me onto him, his hands on my hips.

"Never. N-neither can you." I could feel the electric swell of my orgasm beginning; a flower in the base of my spine was opening its petals, colour spreading up the synapses.

"Then you know... my secret."

"And...you know mine. I'm...I'm coming."

He grunted and began to thrust hard, deep, not even bothering to withdraw before reburying himself. He was letting my spasms do the work, squeezing and milking him.

"Sweet God," he sobbed, beginning to erupt. "You're nothing but cunt."

As the contractions eased, I was left with those words ringing in my ears. He crumpled forward, panting, his face on my chest.

"Sometimes."

I whispered it. Because it was true. Sometimes, for all the education, the centuries of civilization, the manners and the roles we all learn to play, the sophistication and complication of the whole of human society - sometimes, I was nothing but cunt. And it felt simple and good and primordial and, most of all, it felt true.

* * *

I didn't offer to stay; I knew he didn't want me to. Like the previous time, he took ten pristine hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and put them on the table, right next to the glass that had once contained the essence of me, along with some scotch and water.

This time, I didn't forget the money. I knew it would bother him if I did. I figured there was something about the money that made it possible for him to play this game. We all had our locks and keys. I tucked the bills in my purse and smoothed my crumpled, damp skirt.

"Next Tuesday, then?" Everything, including his reserve, was back in place.

"Sure. Same time?"

"Yes. That would be fine."

"Goodnight, then."

He held the door open, and wished me a good night in return as I walked out the door.