The email from her master ordered her to go to the Fairmount and sit in the lobby, her legs uncrossed, allowing anyone who might look to see up her skirt. She shivered as she took the cab there, because, of course, he had insisted on no pants.
Cheryl felt her husband's hard cock against her hip as she read. His breath was hot against her skin, and his fingertips lightly explored her dark bush, teasing her. "Yes," she sighed to herself, "play with me."
"You like this one, don't you?" she asked Chris.
"I keep thinking of you. Ordered to do things. Knowing He watches you, unseen but watching. And any man might—"
Cheryl playfully slapped Chris. "You're terrible. You'd want me *****."
She felt his cock twitch against her, and a drop of his cum touched her. Warm, then cool.
"I thought you liked the sexy pants look? sheer and lacy." Like most men, he did. But she liked either going without pants, feeling naughty, or knowing that people could see her pussy if she were careless. It appealed to the exhibitionist in her, and people always looked. When she was a little girl, it was her cute smile and twinkling eyes. In school, it was her breasts. Now it was the whole package, as Chris liked to say. When she wasn't naked, she wore thongs. She could be proper, and yet there was the constant reminder as the thong rubbed between her ass cheeks and how it cupped her sex like a hand. A reminder of her power as a woman.
"I thought you liked my black thongs."
Chris rolled closer and kissed her nipple. Sucking it into his mouth and lightly grazing it with his teeth. Cheryl moaned. She loved having her nipples played with. Her hips began to pump slowly, almost imperceptibly, but she knew he would begin kissing her tummy, then her bush. She felt the growing tingle and knew he would eat her. But her words distracted her. You'd want me *****.
She pushed herself up to lean back against the headboard. "Do you?"
"Honey," he said, looking up at her, clearly desperate to make love. "Come on, it's just a story." Almost unconsciously, he wrapped his hand around his cock. "I love you. I want to...”
"I know; eat me." She smiled at him but wondered. "Do you want me to be... mastered? And used?"
"No, but the story is exciting."
"Do you want me to dress without pants all the time?"
Chris moaned, "Oh, my god, yes," he thought, "because..." He pushed his mouth against her mound. He loved the feel of her neatly trimmed strip of curly pubic hair tickling his face and the scent of her arousal, which was intoxicating and filled his lungs. His tongue opened her slit. "That is where Cheryl's master fucks her." He imagined her impaled on his cock. Her pussy stretched to take it, her soft, moist inner lips sheathing it as he sucked her swollen clitoris into his mouth.
Cheryl closed her eyes. He was good today. Enthusiastic. Hungry, yes, hungry for her. "Maybe," she started to think, but allowed the wave of arousal to pull her under.
* * * * *
It was good. They made love all afternoon, but while she was getting dinner ready, she wondered. What was it like to be used, with no consideration for her pleasure, just used? To have a master to... A tickly drop of cum oozed out of her onto her inner thigh. She pressed her pubic bone hard against the counter edge, which controlled and inflamed her sex at the same time. She closed her eyes and saw herself sitting in an overstuffed chair in the Fairmount lobby.
Like all women, she got through school expecting to be used in the way most men use women. And attractive women got it worse. The boys came quickly with her. Men too. "Did you cum too?" was the best they could do after they had, leaving her frustrated. But wasn't that the way? Then she met Chris. He loved her, and he savored her arousal. He wanted her to enjoy what he knew he would, and her enjoyment excited him more. They had discovered a collection of erotic stories about being masters. It seemed to excite him more than anything they had read or shared before. And she began to think about it.
Words like owned, branded, exhibited, and worship resonated, echoed, and set off spasms of fantasy. From the time she was a girl, she had always masturbated a lot, but now it was all-consuming. And she always ended up playing with herself for him.
What was it like to know that at any moment she was expected to be open to a man? She read Could a man ever know what it meant to be so open? How she loved being fucked; how her lovers, even the poor ones, became wild and frenzied, drowning in her sex; and in that moment, it was only her sex that could save them. But to be open, to be mounted, to be entered, to be possessed, to be taken — she had felt that a little with some men. It was more than just not cumming at the same time or being neglected. It was... that is where she stopped. "It was... " She ached now to finish the sentence — to complete and be completed!
Every man she saw, from the postman to the grocery clerk, every man or boy in the mall, on the sidewalk, in a restaurant... was a man with a cock. Behind her dark sunglasses, she stared at their crotches. With a glance and a sign, she would kneel and take out his manhood, and acknowledging the purpose of her life and body, she would be the object of his pleasure. Did it matter where they were? Who was there? Who saw?
How far would she go for her master?
She didn't think that Chris could be her master, but as the master could order her to worship any man who knew the sign, Chris could be that man. She tried to be his slave, but she couldn't talk with him about it; the words froze in her, and he didn't know. Her pussy ached for what he couldn't give her. They made love, and she was wild and clawed him, scratching his back and chest. Drawing blood. They sweated. They came harder and better than they ever had, but later, the ache was back. She would slide her fingers over her pussy. . . "For you, Master..."
At the mall, she found a "Free Swingers" newspaper holder. It took several trips around the mall, afraid that one of her friends might see it, before she finally paused and took a copy. At home, she spread it out on the kitchen table and began looking for something. She sipped a gin and tonic, and her breathing became faster as she browsed. A bar, a club, a "place." Then she found it. On East 3rd, downtown, Justine's, with an outline figure of de Sade, booted foot on the upturned ass of a young girl.
"Today," she would whisper to herself every morning, but there would be a reason to not go.
Her frenzy abated as days turned to weeks. She still whispered "For you, Master," as she played with herself, but he was less and less of a possibility. She couldn't be seen; she had her social obligations and her civic responsibilities; she rationalized. Chris loved her and pleasured her. Surely, she must leave things as they are. "Surely," she would sigh as the ache returned.
"I'll be gone a week," Chris said one evening as he took his suitcase out of the closet. "I didn't know until that call after dinner." She folded his shirts and handed them to him. "God damn Lawrence, it's his project. His convention."
"Then don't go."
Chris smiled a sorrowful smile. "Got to. But if it goes well, there's talk of a promotion."
"I'll miss you."
Chris kissed her. Her hand slid around his neck, and he stepped into her. Her large, full breasts pressed against his chest. He knew how lucky he was, how good their marriage was, and how good their sexual life was. How it has been better lately. "I'll miss you two," he whispered. Then he pushed her back onto the bed. "But I don't leave until tomorrow."
From the moment she woke, her heart raced. Chris kissed her goodbye while she was still in bed. Justine’s. The word seemed to whisper through her head. Justine’s. A fifteen minute drive, and she would be there. Fifteen minutes later, she felt the heat building in her loins.
Was that really what she wanted? Or was it what he ordered her to do? Fear? Humiliation? How could she know? She slid her hand between her legs, so familiar, yet she was shocked at how open she felt. She twitched at the realization that her inner lips were swollen and spread apart as if she were ready to mate. Her fingers were wet, and she pulled up and ******* her shrouded clitoral area. Her fingers traced tiny circles, and she threw the covers off so he could watch.
Her hips bucked as her fingers worked her clitoral area. She screamed.
Gasping for air, she slowly recovered. The sexual tension was gone. She took a bath and took time to look at herself in the mirror. A beautiful woman. Sexually aware. She knew something about her power. But there was more, wasn’t there? Something drew her into the shadows. She cupped her breasts. How nice and full they felt! Her nipples hardened, and she smiled. She slid her hands over her tummy, down her thighs, and came to rest on her bush. She remembered being a girl after she discovered self-pleasure. She would sometimes watch herself in the mirror as she masturbated. How pretty her pussy was!
Only once did she tell anyone that she loved her pussy. How odd it sounded as the words came out. It was Cindy, her best friend. They had been watching two women eating each other on a video. “I love touching myself,” she said.
Cindy giggled. “Me too.”
“Sometimes I watch in the mirror.”
“No! It’s kind of, you know, weird.”
Cheryl remembered how she felt at that moment. She smiled slyly. “Have you ever tasted yourself?”
Cindy looked away, her face red.
“Have you?" Cheryl put her hand on Cindy’s chin and turned her face toward her. “You have!”
“No! "It's just... I -"
“I love my pussy." Cheryl’s fingertips touched Cindy’s lips. “Would you like to see it?" She giggled, excited at the newness and eroticism of the moment. She jumped up and pushed her pants down. She wiggled her hips. Then, embarrassed by her brazenness and unsure if Cindy would hate her, she sat down. “I would like to taste you,” Cheryl whispered. “Please.”
The bath was ready. She lay in it, so warm. The house was quiet. Her fingers drifted to her pussy, and she gently felt herself. Not to be aroused. Not to cum. Just because she loved how she felt.
Dressed and eating a light breakfast, she saw the shopping list that she had left on the counter. The wine at the top of the list could take her downtown. “Justine’s,” she sighed. She had forgotten. But now she had promised herself. She had.
“If I find myself there,” she said out loud as she slid into the car.
She found herself driving with one hand between her legs. Shocked, she pulled it away and gripped the steering wheel. She bought everything on the list except the wine. “I’ll stop in if I find a parking spot.”
Justine’s was in the middle of the block. She couldn’t tell from the outside what it was like. And she smiled to herself, relieved that there were no parking spots. Relieved, she relaxed, but she drove around the block. And again. Suddenly, she turned into a parking lot. She had decided without thinking. “Oh, God,” she sighed.
Justine’s was dark when she opened the door. It felt like a small bar. The door closed behind her, and the bright white bolt of light that had streaked across the bar slithered back outside. And with a swoosh, the room was softly dark.
“You are a member?" A man’s voice asked towards her.
“Member?”
“Yes,” he said, with a trace of an accent. British? No. French? Caribbean? “This is a private club.”
“I thought, I mean,” Cheryl was flustered. “Justine’s?”
“Oh, yes, Madame, this is Justine’s. But it is a private club.”
“I’m sorry." Her heart sank. She had had such hope. Master. Could she give up? “I’m sorry." She turned, defeated. “I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps, Madame, would you like a cognac?" A hand touched her arm. “It would be my pleasure.”
“It’s just—“
“Just?”
Cheryl couldn’t say. Those words couldn’t be spoken out loud. “A cognac sounds good.”
He stepped closer into the dim light. “I am Antoine, and Justine’s is my club. Please." He was as black as night, tall, and remarkably elegant. Gentle, assured. Soft-spoken but commanding. A scar marked his cheek. Placing his hand on her lower back, as if he were about to guide her in the tango, he led her to a table. “I will get Madame a cognac.”
As she sat at the table, wanting so much to leave—so easy, so close—ten feet away, she was outside in the sunlight. A private club—what did that mean? Had she misread the advertisement? How could she have been so foolish? And dressing like this, dear god! A short skirt and a tight blouse. What did she expect? She looked around, her eyes not yet adjusted to the dark. She started to stand—yes, so close.
“Madame?”
“Oh,” Cheryl froze, half up, half down. “I’m...”
“Please, sit. Here,” he said, setting a crystal sifter on the table in front of her. As she lowered herself back to the chair, he raised his glass. “To health, pleasure, and synchronicity.”
Cheryl smiled, despite herself, and took a sip. The cognac ignited her taste buds. Sparkling, shocking, and teasing. Then, like a magic wind, it volatilized on her tongue, warming her from the inside out as she swallowed.
The man sipped his cognac and smiled.
Cheryl felt the flush of self-consciousness creeping up her chest and neck. She took a breath through her mouth, savoring the mellow traces of the cognac. She sipped again. At that moment, when it volatilized, it reminded her.
"I would like to taste you,” Cheryl whispered. “Please.”
Cindy giggled and turned away.
Cheryl knew she had offended her best friend. She felt foolish and angry. She looked down at the crumpled pants. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!" she screamed inwardly at herself. Tears of shame filled her eyes. “I’m... I’m sorry." She picked them up and started to leave. “I never meant to..." They had been friends since they were five, and Cindy moved into the neighborhood. They had been through so much. To be ruined by a moment of brazen lust. “I hate myself,” she said as she turned to face Cindy.
Cindy had removed her pants. She was looking up at Cheryl, confused. Her skirt was up, and her pussy was *******. In that second, she covered herself with her hands. "I... I... "
“Cindy?” Cheryl whispered.
“I’ve dreamt of this moment.”
Cheryl walked towards Cindy.
“Oh, please!" She removed her hands and spread her legs. She was red with embarrassment and lust. “Please.”
Cheryl knelt. She looked up at her friend. Cindy was so beautiful at that moment. Cheryl’s hands rested on Cindy’s thighs. She had never touched a girl before. The softness was starling, not like her boyfriends’. She looked at Cindy’s pussy! It was both familiar and different. Her inner lips were barely visible, unlike her own, which were like the edges of butterfly wings protruding between her outer lips. And Cindy’s scent was stronger than her own. Rich. Alluring. It swirled around her, teasing and beckoning. Cheryl was scared and thrilled. She looked up again at Cindy.
Cindy was staring at her. Her lips parted. Her eyes were almost glazed. She focused on Cheryl. She smiled, and she whispered, “Please.”
Cheryl placed her lips on Cindy’s mound. The fur tickled. She kissed her. Her hands slid over Cindy’s bare hips. A woman’s hips. Cheryl’s kiss was lower, where Cindy’s slit began. The fragrance of arousal was overwhelming. Cheryl’s tongue pushed between the lightly furred lips. Exploring. Savoring.
Cindy’s taste, like a fine cognac, was wicked across Cheryl’s tongue. Sparkling. Shocking. Teasing. And she knew she wanted to take her friend—her lover—all the way.
“I see Madame likes the cognac." The man’s voice broke Cheryl’s reverie.
“Yes, sorry. I was just reminded... “
“Of?”
“Just an old friend.”
The man smiled. It was the smile of secret knowledge. It said that he knew what she was thinking of. Her secrets, her tingling, and her wishes were his to see and know.
“Why did you come to Justine’s?” he asked.
“Perhaps I should—“
“No. No. I have invited you to stay. I meet many interesting people here. And you are the most charming, most attractive, and most interesting of creatures. You don’t have to answer my questions. I am — what is the word? Curious.”
“I just made a mistake." Cheryl clutched at the top of her blouse. She wanted to button it, but that seemed too obvious. “Really.”
He studied her. His eyes pierced her soul. She felt her inner self wanting to unfurl like a brightly colored spinnaker. This is me! .. She clutched her blouse more tightly.
“I have been rude,” he said. “My name is Etienne Christophor d’Saunt. I am originally from Haiti, but I have been in this country now for fifteen years.”
“Cheryl,” she hesitated, "Cheryl."
“Ah, that is enough. I can understand." His eyes rested on her wedding ring. “Madame Cheryl.”
“Thank you." She was relieved that she could keep that part of her secret, but she was disappointed, though barely aware of this, that this could not be Master, because certainly a master would want to know everything.”
“I will ask and answer some of your questions." He sipped his cognac. “I do not want to needlessly embarrass such a beautiful woman." His eyes held her spellbound. “You do not have to respond, but if you do, please be truthful.”
She nodded.
“You have come not out of disloyalty to your husband, but perhaps to discover something. You look for a maît. to be the cheval, the... Ah, I am sorry. You see, in my country, I am a houngan, a priest.”
Cheryl looked confused.
“A voodoo priest, Madame. And it to have... again, loa, you would say to be ridden or possessed by a god.”
“No, my gosh, no.”
He smiled. “But yes, Madame. You have come to Justine’s to seek a master. You think this is sexual, and you are correct, to a point. Like seeing the leaves blowing in the wind, we both see them, but to understand why and how that is very complicated,
“But—“
His fingertips touched her lips. Silenced, she looked at him. So handsome. So mysterious. In the back of her mind, she was aware that she was aroused and that the fluids of her excitement were running from her, wetting the bottom of her skirt. His fingers grazed her lips so softly that she wasn’t sure if he was touching her or not. An ache filled her as suddenly as the cognac warmed her. She kissed his fingertips.
Her eyes closed. His fingers tasted of cognac. As she inhaled, she was in the lush forests of Haiti and sensed their loss and an ache in Etienne’s soul. She saw the peristyle, the ceremonial area of his honor, his temple. Bottles of rum before the altar. Shirtless black men are playing the rada drums. And women, dressed in white, swirling, dancing, the long skirts fluttering—women possessed by the loa.
She sucked his finger as if it were a phallus. She saw a young girl, naked, dancing for the houngan and his friends. Her breasts bounced as she moved before them. Her head was rocking. Her sex was shockingly *******, with occasional glimpses of pink flesh protruding from a thick black pelt.
When the drums stopped, she kneeled before him and took his erection into her mouth.
She opened her eyes. Etienne was smiling. She sat back. Startled. Ashamed. Scared.
He waited.
And she heard herself whisper, barely more than a sigh, yet thunder’s echo cascading off the walls of her soul, “Master.”
“Yes, Madame, Master. You have found Justine’s as you were intended.”
“I am scared.”
“Yes, it is a journey. Often fearful. But underneath, you must know two things. I will protect you, although that may not always be apparent. I have no intention of destroying the ****** that is yours; instead, you may discover much to sustain and give to them. And we will share a great gift. Trust. However, when you are in Justine's, you are a possession.”
He stood and led her to the far corner, where there was a small stage. “Stand." Then, so softly that it could have been the wind, “Trust.”
The lights adjusted. The shadows opened, revealing a dozen or so black men and women. And the spotlight was on her. She felt sweat begin to drip down her underarms and chest. Her knees felt unsure. Her breathing began to pick up.
Three men can climb up from the side. Like Etienne, they were black. They were wearing black pants and white shirts. No shoes.
Drums: rhythmic, steady.
The men began to dance around her. Fingers touched her cheek. A hand grabbed her ass. Fingers ran up her thigh. Tears filled her eyes. They touched her as if shopping for food; they pinched, squeezed, and shook. She was a commodity. The men were now shirtless. Black-muscled torsos, gleaming with sweat, rippled around her. The tempo increased. Through the light, she saw everyone watching her.
Cheryl was dizzy.
Etienne stepped close, and as the men continued to dance and fondle her, he unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall from her shoulders. Tears wet her cheeks, but she stood still. He stepped behind her and unzipped her skirt—his hands sliding over her ass—and pushed it down over her hips and to the floor. Then, stooping, he lifted first one foot, then the other, picked up the skirt and blouse, and tossed them to a chair.
“Master, alone, anything, please. I will serve you alone." The words were mute in her mind. Her eyes pleaded. “I’m so humiliated, so embarrassed.”
“Why?”
Cheryl’s eyes opened wide. He had heard her thoughts. He had answered. “Why?”
“Because I am excited. Because people are watching.”
Etienne unhooked her bra and removed it. Then, standing behind her, he wrapped his arms around her. She felt his manhood hard against her ass. His hands cupped her breasts. He was embracing her. She felt his power. Masculine. Demanding.
“Yes." Her eyes closed. “Yes. I want you, only you.”
A rough hand pulled her pants down. A rough hand, the hand of one of the dancers. She gasped for air. She wanted to cover herself.
“No,” Etienne whispered in her ear. She felt him let go of her with one hand, but within seconds, it was back. “Taste.”
He put his finger on her lips. A greenish-white powder coated the tip. She opened her lips for it. A bitter-sweet taste that tasted green, like wild grass, like the secret herbs that grew in the dark shade of tropical forests.
As Etienne held her, hands groped her. Feeling the inside of her mouth, her teeth, and her tongue, she hefted her breasts as if weighing them, kneading them, squeezing her ass, prying apart her cheeks, and fingering her secret places. “Master,” she pleaded.
The people watching were standing, swaying, and dancing. Men. Women. They were chanting. They were naked and aroused. Looking out at them, she saw a dozen erections, black and stiff, moist with cumin. Women with large, pendulous breasts swayed, touching themselves, touching the men, massaging their balls, and stroking them. And everyone watched her.
The dancers moved around her. Closer. Their erections flopping to the drums, their heavy balls, so full of seed, articulated and accented the primal beat. Seminal fluids dripped, glistening their phalluses, which rubbed over her. And she wanted them. Not as a lover wants the shared intimacy of another, but raw, animal, rutting, mating, she was in heat. She needed to be mated.
But each touch shamed her. She was a proper, middle-class white woman. A wife. She was torn between the cold need to run, shame, and needing to protect her self-image—civilized—and the heat of lust and possession. Bestial. She needed these men. She needed their hands, their tongues, their cocks, and their seed.
“Master!” She cried out.
She was conscious of her perfectly formed breasts, her nipples, her womanhood—the trimmed strip of brown pubic hair drawing such attention to her sex and so different from the thick black vee’s of the watching women.
“Master!” she cried. She saw herself being shamed and felt shame, but she could not stand it. Something weighed on her. Something wanted her down. “Maît,” she cried. And she dropped to her hands and knees. Possession. She was naked. She thrust her ass into the air. Wanting. Obscenely presenting herself. Her ass, round sensual fleshy globes, strong sensual muscles, split to reveal, and below her ass, like an exotic fruit, her womanhood gaped, fleshing moist lips, like freshly born butterfly wings, stretched wet open, waiting for the moment to become.
One of the dancers mounted her. His calloused hands gripped her hips. His organs slapped her as he positioned himself. This was the first.
Not a boy, desperate in the first flush of released sexual desire, pulling her pants down, tearing the elastic, and thrusting his cock at her, missing and missing, until she held it and guided it into her. The musty smell of a basement room and the scratchy sofa. Fear of being caught. Succumbing to the biological imperative. And cumming too soon. Be aware now of the sounds of the house at night.
Not the hands and cock of an experienced older lover. Confident in his experience, savoring the youthfulness and enthusiasm that Cheryl too would lose soon enough. Hands that gave her confidence in herself, in her body, and in her power. Hands that were patient but firm. A lover’s hands. A lover’s skills. Teaching, sharing.
These were both desperate but experienced hands. These hands tore at her, not from inexperience but from experienced lust. They knew what to expect and were going to get it. They grabbed her around the hips and, picking her up a few inches, as if she were but a child, repositioned her. Hands that held her.
He thrust his organ hard into her.
She screamed at the suddenness of it. Stretching her. Impaling her. Deep. He hit her womb. Fingers squeezed her ass. Her head tossed to the drums. Her long blond hair streamed down like a river cascade, like the lust flowing through her.
And a green light overwhelmed her behind her eyes. It swirled and blurred. It began to consume her. A loa.
The other dancer knelt before her. She smelled his arousal. He swayed before her, letting his hairy black balls and immense cock hit and wipe across her face. This was new. It was black, like gun steel, and hard. It was uncut, and the glans were unsheathed. Flared. And the peephole leaked his cum. It would be sweet like nectar, she mused for a second. But this wasn’t about savoring. He was aroused, and it was she who could quench his lust. She opened her mouth for him.
Yellow green.
Without gentleness, they took her. They came quickly. Too quickly, leaving her wanting more. “Master?” she pleaded, hoping for more. I'm hoping for him.
Others from the audience took the place of the dancers. She was desperately aware of her vulnerability. She was female in estrus. Her body was public. She was ******* of the tears that now streamed freely down her face. ******* of the mascara that had run. ******* of the cum that was beginning to cover her and drip obscenely in white ribbons from her pussy. She was being used.
But at the moment she saw herself, as if something suddenly wanted her to see and know who she was. That part, the seeing part, withered and tried to crawl away. “God no!” it cried out. The shame scalded her. She was surrounded by sexually aroused, naked black men. She was moaning and grabbing for more. Her mouth is open to be used. Her ass was pushing back, thrusting against each man. She was a dog in heat. And around each cock, her lips were wrapped, trying to hold it in her. Spittle and cum dripped from her chin. Cum, the white sticky seed of these black men, spread over her.
Her hips pushed back, meeting each thrust. She sucked up anything that came near her mouth. Several women kneeled before her. Women who had been fucked and who had seminal fluid dripping from them. They presented themselves to her. Pressing their musky pussies against her face. And Cheryl hungrily licked them. Kissed them. Desired them. She tasted their arousal. She sensed their differences.
Yellow gold.
She moaned and writhed.
White.
How long? An hour? Two? The silence cradled her. She was warm, and she felt like one with the gods. But as consciousness returned, she saw herself as a rutting animal, and she cried.
A gentle hand caressed her head. Pulling her long blond hair away from her face. “Madame has returned?”
“Why?" she whispered, the “why” of a civilized man found primitive. “Why?”
Etienne sat next to her. She was on a bed, covered with a silk sheet. She had been bathed, perfumed, and dressed in a silk gown. Her legs ached from having been on her knees and stretched open. Her sensitive, secret flesh stung from the abuse. And her psyche was bruised.
“Why?”
He offered a cup of tea. “Drink this quickly.”
She opened her mouth and let him feed her the tea.
“Close your eyes.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“My precious one, you were chosen by Erzulie herself. That is a great honor. And Madame is quite lucky. Too often, Erzulie extracts a terrible price for riding you. The powder I gave you should have helped to satiate Erzulie. It did not.”
He pulled the sheet down and lifted her gown. Cool air swept over her sex. She squeezed her legs together to hide her nakedness and to protect herself from the onslaught she had only just endured.
"No," Etienne said, placing his hands on her thighs, “open." He guided her legs open.
Cheryl wanted to curl up, to be held, and to be comforted.
She felt his fingers on her sex. He was rubbing ointment on her.
“So pretty,” he said. His fingers rubbed warming ointment onto her sore flesh. “Madame has beautiful sex; yes, quite beautiful." His fingers pushed deeper, working ointment over her tight pucker.
When he stopped and she heard him putting the lid on what must have been the bottled ointment, she didn’t want him to stop. “More,” she whispered.
“The tea will help you sleep for an hour or two." He ignored her plea. “Erzulie will be in your dreams. She will explain. She will guide you to understanding why." He pulled the gown down and covered her with the sheet. “Your clothes are folded on the chair. You may dress and go home when you wish.”
Cheryl wanted him. “Maît?”
“Not now,” he answered her unanswered question.
“You don’t want me?”
Etienne laughed. He took her hand and placed it on the bulge in his pants. He was erect. Aroused. And he was huge. “When I take you, I will take you and Erzulie. She is my bride, and you will be her cheval, a great honor. But that time is not now. You must come to understand." He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “First, to never come back to Justine’s or to see you here again, this is your choice.”
* * * * *
She drove home in a daze. Later, sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, she found herself wondering if it had happened. It felt like a strange dream. And she slept.
She dreamt of Erzulie, the goddess of love. She felt Erzulie’s fondness for Etienne, and she saw him naked and proud, in full arousal for her, Cheryl/Erzulie.
It was dusk when she woke. She remembered every detail clearly now. Her hand slid down to pussy, to feel herself. She tingled, but she was not sore. A good afternoon with Chris when he was very enthusiastic usually left her a little sore. Why hadn’t a dozen huge cocks? She kept her hand there. It was so familiar and comforting, and the subtle arousal was nice. She heard herself whisper, “Erzulie.”
The next morning, Cheryl realized she had slept the entire night deeply and was remarkably refreshed. She was full of energy, and she knew she would go back to Justine’s. After a bath and breakfast, she found a long white summer dress in her closet. She smiled. “Erzulie would like this,” she thought.
Naked underneath the dress, she drove to Justine’s. The door was unlocked, but the room was dark, except for a light over the small stage. She looked around. “Etienne?" she called out, but there was no answer. She was disappointed, but she stood there. Her loins tingled. She wanted.
She walked slowly to the stage. Standing there, she remembered the drums, the dancing and swaying, and the cocks. Stiff black cocks. Fucking her. Her hands cupped her breasts, and she squeezed them as they had. Her eyes closed. She moaned. Her nipples hardened beneath her fingers, and she pulled at them. “Yes,” she whispered.
She swayed, imagining Etienne behind her, pressing against her. She smiled, remembering how his manhood felt against her ass. She slid her hand down, over her tummy, and cupped her sex. “More,” she sighed.
She sank to the floor. Her legs are open. She pulled her dress up and began to rub herself. She loved her pussy. Now, it is so smooth. Her lips were flush and swollen with desire. And she was wide, open, and ready. “Do me.”
Her hips began to gyrate as she rubbed. She fingered her clitoral area, rubbing it, making herself want more. She heard the drums, and she writhed to them. She pushed her fingers inside herself. Fucking. Fucking.
She was dripping wet. “Oh, God!” She fucked herself harder. Deeper. She needed to cough. She felt warm as if in a sauna, and she tore off her dress. Her mouth opened, hoping for a cock. Squirming, moaning, and grunting, she fucked herself. “Etienne!”
She came hard.
Laying back on the floor of the stage, she closed her eyes. Erzulie watched. Erzulie was proud.
Did she sleep? She didn’t know. But her eyes opened, and in the dim shadows, she saw the outlines of people. Quickly, she grabbed her dress and covered herself. “Oh, my god,” she shivered.
“You are not a disappointment, Madame,” she said, hearing Etienne’s voice. “We have enjoyed your..."
“Etienne, I..." she felt herself burning with shame. "I—" But there were no words.
“Shhh, take away the dress,” he said. “Show us your body.”
Cheryl pushed the dress aside. Cool air hit her body, making her pussy tingle. She felt a cold, wet spot under her.
“Very nice. Now, Madame, you must give relief to the men who have enjoyed watching you.”
“Etienne?”
“Crawl to them and relieve them. Worship them.”
Cheryl felt her husband's hard cock against her hip as she read. His breath was hot against her skin, and his fingertips lightly explored her dark bush, teasing her. "Yes," she sighed to herself, "play with me."
"You like this one, don't you?" she asked Chris.
"I keep thinking of you. Ordered to do things. Knowing He watches you, unseen but watching. And any man might—"
Cheryl playfully slapped Chris. "You're terrible. You'd want me *****."
She felt his cock twitch against her, and a drop of his cum touched her. Warm, then cool.
"I thought you liked the sexy pants look? sheer and lacy." Like most men, he did. But she liked either going without pants, feeling naughty, or knowing that people could see her pussy if she were careless. It appealed to the exhibitionist in her, and people always looked. When she was a little girl, it was her cute smile and twinkling eyes. In school, it was her breasts. Now it was the whole package, as Chris liked to say. When she wasn't naked, she wore thongs. She could be proper, and yet there was the constant reminder as the thong rubbed between her ass cheeks and how it cupped her sex like a hand. A reminder of her power as a woman.
"I thought you liked my black thongs."
Chris rolled closer and kissed her nipple. Sucking it into his mouth and lightly grazing it with his teeth. Cheryl moaned. She loved having her nipples played with. Her hips began to pump slowly, almost imperceptibly, but she knew he would begin kissing her tummy, then her bush. She felt the growing tingle and knew he would eat her. But her words distracted her. You'd want me *****.
She pushed herself up to lean back against the headboard. "Do you?"
"Honey," he said, looking up at her, clearly desperate to make love. "Come on, it's just a story." Almost unconsciously, he wrapped his hand around his cock. "I love you. I want to...”
"I know; eat me." She smiled at him but wondered. "Do you want me to be... mastered? And used?"
"No, but the story is exciting."
"Do you want me to dress without pants all the time?"
Chris moaned, "Oh, my god, yes," he thought, "because..." He pushed his mouth against her mound. He loved the feel of her neatly trimmed strip of curly pubic hair tickling his face and the scent of her arousal, which was intoxicating and filled his lungs. His tongue opened her slit. "That is where Cheryl's master fucks her." He imagined her impaled on his cock. Her pussy stretched to take it, her soft, moist inner lips sheathing it as he sucked her swollen clitoris into his mouth.
Cheryl closed her eyes. He was good today. Enthusiastic. Hungry, yes, hungry for her. "Maybe," she started to think, but allowed the wave of arousal to pull her under.
* * * * *
It was good. They made love all afternoon, but while she was getting dinner ready, she wondered. What was it like to be used, with no consideration for her pleasure, just used? To have a master to... A tickly drop of cum oozed out of her onto her inner thigh. She pressed her pubic bone hard against the counter edge, which controlled and inflamed her sex at the same time. She closed her eyes and saw herself sitting in an overstuffed chair in the Fairmount lobby.
Like all women, she got through school expecting to be used in the way most men use women. And attractive women got it worse. The boys came quickly with her. Men too. "Did you cum too?" was the best they could do after they had, leaving her frustrated. But wasn't that the way? Then she met Chris. He loved her, and he savored her arousal. He wanted her to enjoy what he knew he would, and her enjoyment excited him more. They had discovered a collection of erotic stories about being masters. It seemed to excite him more than anything they had read or shared before. And she began to think about it.
Words like owned, branded, exhibited, and worship resonated, echoed, and set off spasms of fantasy. From the time she was a girl, she had always masturbated a lot, but now it was all-consuming. And she always ended up playing with herself for him.
What was it like to know that at any moment she was expected to be open to a man? She read Could a man ever know what it meant to be so open? How she loved being fucked; how her lovers, even the poor ones, became wild and frenzied, drowning in her sex; and in that moment, it was only her sex that could save them. But to be open, to be mounted, to be entered, to be possessed, to be taken — she had felt that a little with some men. It was more than just not cumming at the same time or being neglected. It was... that is where she stopped. "It was... " She ached now to finish the sentence — to complete and be completed!
Every man she saw, from the postman to the grocery clerk, every man or boy in the mall, on the sidewalk, in a restaurant... was a man with a cock. Behind her dark sunglasses, she stared at their crotches. With a glance and a sign, she would kneel and take out his manhood, and acknowledging the purpose of her life and body, she would be the object of his pleasure. Did it matter where they were? Who was there? Who saw?
How far would she go for her master?
She didn't think that Chris could be her master, but as the master could order her to worship any man who knew the sign, Chris could be that man. She tried to be his slave, but she couldn't talk with him about it; the words froze in her, and he didn't know. Her pussy ached for what he couldn't give her. They made love, and she was wild and clawed him, scratching his back and chest. Drawing blood. They sweated. They came harder and better than they ever had, but later, the ache was back. She would slide her fingers over her pussy. . . "For you, Master..."
At the mall, she found a "Free Swingers" newspaper holder. It took several trips around the mall, afraid that one of her friends might see it, before she finally paused and took a copy. At home, she spread it out on the kitchen table and began looking for something. She sipped a gin and tonic, and her breathing became faster as she browsed. A bar, a club, a "place." Then she found it. On East 3rd, downtown, Justine's, with an outline figure of de Sade, booted foot on the upturned ass of a young girl.
"Today," she would whisper to herself every morning, but there would be a reason to not go.
Her frenzy abated as days turned to weeks. She still whispered "For you, Master," as she played with herself, but he was less and less of a possibility. She couldn't be seen; she had her social obligations and her civic responsibilities; she rationalized. Chris loved her and pleasured her. Surely, she must leave things as they are. "Surely," she would sigh as the ache returned.
"I'll be gone a week," Chris said one evening as he took his suitcase out of the closet. "I didn't know until that call after dinner." She folded his shirts and handed them to him. "God damn Lawrence, it's his project. His convention."
"Then don't go."
Chris smiled a sorrowful smile. "Got to. But if it goes well, there's talk of a promotion."
"I'll miss you."
Chris kissed her. Her hand slid around his neck, and he stepped into her. Her large, full breasts pressed against his chest. He knew how lucky he was, how good their marriage was, and how good their sexual life was. How it has been better lately. "I'll miss you two," he whispered. Then he pushed her back onto the bed. "But I don't leave until tomorrow."
From the moment she woke, her heart raced. Chris kissed her goodbye while she was still in bed. Justine’s. The word seemed to whisper through her head. Justine’s. A fifteen minute drive, and she would be there. Fifteen minutes later, she felt the heat building in her loins.
Was that really what she wanted? Or was it what he ordered her to do? Fear? Humiliation? How could she know? She slid her hand between her legs, so familiar, yet she was shocked at how open she felt. She twitched at the realization that her inner lips were swollen and spread apart as if she were ready to mate. Her fingers were wet, and she pulled up and ******* her shrouded clitoral area. Her fingers traced tiny circles, and she threw the covers off so he could watch.
Her hips bucked as her fingers worked her clitoral area. She screamed.
Gasping for air, she slowly recovered. The sexual tension was gone. She took a bath and took time to look at herself in the mirror. A beautiful woman. Sexually aware. She knew something about her power. But there was more, wasn’t there? Something drew her into the shadows. She cupped her breasts. How nice and full they felt! Her nipples hardened, and she smiled. She slid her hands over her tummy, down her thighs, and came to rest on her bush. She remembered being a girl after she discovered self-pleasure. She would sometimes watch herself in the mirror as she masturbated. How pretty her pussy was!
Only once did she tell anyone that she loved her pussy. How odd it sounded as the words came out. It was Cindy, her best friend. They had been watching two women eating each other on a video. “I love touching myself,” she said.
Cindy giggled. “Me too.”
“Sometimes I watch in the mirror.”
“No! It’s kind of, you know, weird.”
Cheryl remembered how she felt at that moment. She smiled slyly. “Have you ever tasted yourself?”
Cindy looked away, her face red.
“Have you?" Cheryl put her hand on Cindy’s chin and turned her face toward her. “You have!”
“No! "It's just... I -"
“I love my pussy." Cheryl’s fingertips touched Cindy’s lips. “Would you like to see it?" She giggled, excited at the newness and eroticism of the moment. She jumped up and pushed her pants down. She wiggled her hips. Then, embarrassed by her brazenness and unsure if Cindy would hate her, she sat down. “I would like to taste you,” Cheryl whispered. “Please.”
The bath was ready. She lay in it, so warm. The house was quiet. Her fingers drifted to her pussy, and she gently felt herself. Not to be aroused. Not to cum. Just because she loved how she felt.
Dressed and eating a light breakfast, she saw the shopping list that she had left on the counter. The wine at the top of the list could take her downtown. “Justine’s,” she sighed. She had forgotten. But now she had promised herself. She had.
“If I find myself there,” she said out loud as she slid into the car.
She found herself driving with one hand between her legs. Shocked, she pulled it away and gripped the steering wheel. She bought everything on the list except the wine. “I’ll stop in if I find a parking spot.”
Justine’s was in the middle of the block. She couldn’t tell from the outside what it was like. And she smiled to herself, relieved that there were no parking spots. Relieved, she relaxed, but she drove around the block. And again. Suddenly, she turned into a parking lot. She had decided without thinking. “Oh, God,” she sighed.
Justine’s was dark when she opened the door. It felt like a small bar. The door closed behind her, and the bright white bolt of light that had streaked across the bar slithered back outside. And with a swoosh, the room was softly dark.
“You are a member?" A man’s voice asked towards her.
“Member?”
“Yes,” he said, with a trace of an accent. British? No. French? Caribbean? “This is a private club.”
“I thought, I mean,” Cheryl was flustered. “Justine’s?”
“Oh, yes, Madame, this is Justine’s. But it is a private club.”
“I’m sorry." Her heart sank. She had had such hope. Master. Could she give up? “I’m sorry." She turned, defeated. “I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps, Madame, would you like a cognac?" A hand touched her arm. “It would be my pleasure.”
“It’s just—“
“Just?”
Cheryl couldn’t say. Those words couldn’t be spoken out loud. “A cognac sounds good.”
He stepped closer into the dim light. “I am Antoine, and Justine’s is my club. Please." He was as black as night, tall, and remarkably elegant. Gentle, assured. Soft-spoken but commanding. A scar marked his cheek. Placing his hand on her lower back, as if he were about to guide her in the tango, he led her to a table. “I will get Madame a cognac.”
As she sat at the table, wanting so much to leave—so easy, so close—ten feet away, she was outside in the sunlight. A private club—what did that mean? Had she misread the advertisement? How could she have been so foolish? And dressing like this, dear god! A short skirt and a tight blouse. What did she expect? She looked around, her eyes not yet adjusted to the dark. She started to stand—yes, so close.
“Madame?”
“Oh,” Cheryl froze, half up, half down. “I’m...”
“Please, sit. Here,” he said, setting a crystal sifter on the table in front of her. As she lowered herself back to the chair, he raised his glass. “To health, pleasure, and synchronicity.”
Cheryl smiled, despite herself, and took a sip. The cognac ignited her taste buds. Sparkling, shocking, and teasing. Then, like a magic wind, it volatilized on her tongue, warming her from the inside out as she swallowed.
The man sipped his cognac and smiled.
Cheryl felt the flush of self-consciousness creeping up her chest and neck. She took a breath through her mouth, savoring the mellow traces of the cognac. She sipped again. At that moment, when it volatilized, it reminded her.
"I would like to taste you,” Cheryl whispered. “Please.”
Cindy giggled and turned away.
Cheryl knew she had offended her best friend. She felt foolish and angry. She looked down at the crumpled pants. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!" she screamed inwardly at herself. Tears of shame filled her eyes. “I’m... I’m sorry." She picked them up and started to leave. “I never meant to..." They had been friends since they were five, and Cindy moved into the neighborhood. They had been through so much. To be ruined by a moment of brazen lust. “I hate myself,” she said as she turned to face Cindy.
Cindy had removed her pants. She was looking up at Cheryl, confused. Her skirt was up, and her pussy was *******. In that second, she covered herself with her hands. "I... I... "
“Cindy?” Cheryl whispered.
“I’ve dreamt of this moment.”
Cheryl walked towards Cindy.
“Oh, please!" She removed her hands and spread her legs. She was red with embarrassment and lust. “Please.”
Cheryl knelt. She looked up at her friend. Cindy was so beautiful at that moment. Cheryl’s hands rested on Cindy’s thighs. She had never touched a girl before. The softness was starling, not like her boyfriends’. She looked at Cindy’s pussy! It was both familiar and different. Her inner lips were barely visible, unlike her own, which were like the edges of butterfly wings protruding between her outer lips. And Cindy’s scent was stronger than her own. Rich. Alluring. It swirled around her, teasing and beckoning. Cheryl was scared and thrilled. She looked up again at Cindy.
Cindy was staring at her. Her lips parted. Her eyes were almost glazed. She focused on Cheryl. She smiled, and she whispered, “Please.”
Cheryl placed her lips on Cindy’s mound. The fur tickled. She kissed her. Her hands slid over Cindy’s bare hips. A woman’s hips. Cheryl’s kiss was lower, where Cindy’s slit began. The fragrance of arousal was overwhelming. Cheryl’s tongue pushed between the lightly furred lips. Exploring. Savoring.
Cindy’s taste, like a fine cognac, was wicked across Cheryl’s tongue. Sparkling. Shocking. Teasing. And she knew she wanted to take her friend—her lover—all the way.
“I see Madame likes the cognac." The man’s voice broke Cheryl’s reverie.
“Yes, sorry. I was just reminded... “
“Of?”
“Just an old friend.”
The man smiled. It was the smile of secret knowledge. It said that he knew what she was thinking of. Her secrets, her tingling, and her wishes were his to see and know.
“Why did you come to Justine’s?” he asked.
“Perhaps I should—“
“No. No. I have invited you to stay. I meet many interesting people here. And you are the most charming, most attractive, and most interesting of creatures. You don’t have to answer my questions. I am — what is the word? Curious.”
“I just made a mistake." Cheryl clutched at the top of her blouse. She wanted to button it, but that seemed too obvious. “Really.”
He studied her. His eyes pierced her soul. She felt her inner self wanting to unfurl like a brightly colored spinnaker. This is me! .. She clutched her blouse more tightly.
“I have been rude,” he said. “My name is Etienne Christophor d’Saunt. I am originally from Haiti, but I have been in this country now for fifteen years.”
“Cheryl,” she hesitated, "Cheryl."
“Ah, that is enough. I can understand." His eyes rested on her wedding ring. “Madame Cheryl.”
“Thank you." She was relieved that she could keep that part of her secret, but she was disappointed, though barely aware of this, that this could not be Master, because certainly a master would want to know everything.”
“I will ask and answer some of your questions." He sipped his cognac. “I do not want to needlessly embarrass such a beautiful woman." His eyes held her spellbound. “You do not have to respond, but if you do, please be truthful.”
She nodded.
“You have come not out of disloyalty to your husband, but perhaps to discover something. You look for a maît. to be the cheval, the... Ah, I am sorry. You see, in my country, I am a houngan, a priest.”
Cheryl looked confused.
“A voodoo priest, Madame. And it to have... again, loa, you would say to be ridden or possessed by a god.”
“No, my gosh, no.”
He smiled. “But yes, Madame. You have come to Justine’s to seek a master. You think this is sexual, and you are correct, to a point. Like seeing the leaves blowing in the wind, we both see them, but to understand why and how that is very complicated,
“But—“
His fingertips touched her lips. Silenced, she looked at him. So handsome. So mysterious. In the back of her mind, she was aware that she was aroused and that the fluids of her excitement were running from her, wetting the bottom of her skirt. His fingers grazed her lips so softly that she wasn’t sure if he was touching her or not. An ache filled her as suddenly as the cognac warmed her. She kissed his fingertips.
Her eyes closed. His fingers tasted of cognac. As she inhaled, she was in the lush forests of Haiti and sensed their loss and an ache in Etienne’s soul. She saw the peristyle, the ceremonial area of his honor, his temple. Bottles of rum before the altar. Shirtless black men are playing the rada drums. And women, dressed in white, swirling, dancing, the long skirts fluttering—women possessed by the loa.
She sucked his finger as if it were a phallus. She saw a young girl, naked, dancing for the houngan and his friends. Her breasts bounced as she moved before them. Her head was rocking. Her sex was shockingly *******, with occasional glimpses of pink flesh protruding from a thick black pelt.
When the drums stopped, she kneeled before him and took his erection into her mouth.
She opened her eyes. Etienne was smiling. She sat back. Startled. Ashamed. Scared.
He waited.
And she heard herself whisper, barely more than a sigh, yet thunder’s echo cascading off the walls of her soul, “Master.”
“Yes, Madame, Master. You have found Justine’s as you were intended.”
“I am scared.”
“Yes, it is a journey. Often fearful. But underneath, you must know two things. I will protect you, although that may not always be apparent. I have no intention of destroying the ****** that is yours; instead, you may discover much to sustain and give to them. And we will share a great gift. Trust. However, when you are in Justine's, you are a possession.”
He stood and led her to the far corner, where there was a small stage. “Stand." Then, so softly that it could have been the wind, “Trust.”
The lights adjusted. The shadows opened, revealing a dozen or so black men and women. And the spotlight was on her. She felt sweat begin to drip down her underarms and chest. Her knees felt unsure. Her breathing began to pick up.
Three men can climb up from the side. Like Etienne, they were black. They were wearing black pants and white shirts. No shoes.
Drums: rhythmic, steady.
The men began to dance around her. Fingers touched her cheek. A hand grabbed her ass. Fingers ran up her thigh. Tears filled her eyes. They touched her as if shopping for food; they pinched, squeezed, and shook. She was a commodity. The men were now shirtless. Black-muscled torsos, gleaming with sweat, rippled around her. The tempo increased. Through the light, she saw everyone watching her.
Cheryl was dizzy.
Etienne stepped close, and as the men continued to dance and fondle her, he unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall from her shoulders. Tears wet her cheeks, but she stood still. He stepped behind her and unzipped her skirt—his hands sliding over her ass—and pushed it down over her hips and to the floor. Then, stooping, he lifted first one foot, then the other, picked up the skirt and blouse, and tossed them to a chair.
“Master, alone, anything, please. I will serve you alone." The words were mute in her mind. Her eyes pleaded. “I’m so humiliated, so embarrassed.”
“Why?”
Cheryl’s eyes opened wide. He had heard her thoughts. He had answered. “Why?”
“Because I am excited. Because people are watching.”
Etienne unhooked her bra and removed it. Then, standing behind her, he wrapped his arms around her. She felt his manhood hard against her ass. His hands cupped her breasts. He was embracing her. She felt his power. Masculine. Demanding.
“Yes." Her eyes closed. “Yes. I want you, only you.”
A rough hand pulled her pants down. A rough hand, the hand of one of the dancers. She gasped for air. She wanted to cover herself.
“No,” Etienne whispered in her ear. She felt him let go of her with one hand, but within seconds, it was back. “Taste.”
He put his finger on her lips. A greenish-white powder coated the tip. She opened her lips for it. A bitter-sweet taste that tasted green, like wild grass, like the secret herbs that grew in the dark shade of tropical forests.
As Etienne held her, hands groped her. Feeling the inside of her mouth, her teeth, and her tongue, she hefted her breasts as if weighing them, kneading them, squeezing her ass, prying apart her cheeks, and fingering her secret places. “Master,” she pleaded.
The people watching were standing, swaying, and dancing. Men. Women. They were chanting. They were naked and aroused. Looking out at them, she saw a dozen erections, black and stiff, moist with cumin. Women with large, pendulous breasts swayed, touching themselves, touching the men, massaging their balls, and stroking them. And everyone watched her.
The dancers moved around her. Closer. Their erections flopping to the drums, their heavy balls, so full of seed, articulated and accented the primal beat. Seminal fluids dripped, glistening their phalluses, which rubbed over her. And she wanted them. Not as a lover wants the shared intimacy of another, but raw, animal, rutting, mating, she was in heat. She needed to be mated.
But each touch shamed her. She was a proper, middle-class white woman. A wife. She was torn between the cold need to run, shame, and needing to protect her self-image—civilized—and the heat of lust and possession. Bestial. She needed these men. She needed their hands, their tongues, their cocks, and their seed.
“Master!” She cried out.
She was conscious of her perfectly formed breasts, her nipples, her womanhood—the trimmed strip of brown pubic hair drawing such attention to her sex and so different from the thick black vee’s of the watching women.
“Master!” she cried. She saw herself being shamed and felt shame, but she could not stand it. Something weighed on her. Something wanted her down. “Maît,” she cried. And she dropped to her hands and knees. Possession. She was naked. She thrust her ass into the air. Wanting. Obscenely presenting herself. Her ass, round sensual fleshy globes, strong sensual muscles, split to reveal, and below her ass, like an exotic fruit, her womanhood gaped, fleshing moist lips, like freshly born butterfly wings, stretched wet open, waiting for the moment to become.
One of the dancers mounted her. His calloused hands gripped her hips. His organs slapped her as he positioned himself. This was the first.
Not a boy, desperate in the first flush of released sexual desire, pulling her pants down, tearing the elastic, and thrusting his cock at her, missing and missing, until she held it and guided it into her. The musty smell of a basement room and the scratchy sofa. Fear of being caught. Succumbing to the biological imperative. And cumming too soon. Be aware now of the sounds of the house at night.
Not the hands and cock of an experienced older lover. Confident in his experience, savoring the youthfulness and enthusiasm that Cheryl too would lose soon enough. Hands that gave her confidence in herself, in her body, and in her power. Hands that were patient but firm. A lover’s hands. A lover’s skills. Teaching, sharing.
These were both desperate but experienced hands. These hands tore at her, not from inexperience but from experienced lust. They knew what to expect and were going to get it. They grabbed her around the hips and, picking her up a few inches, as if she were but a child, repositioned her. Hands that held her.
He thrust his organ hard into her.
She screamed at the suddenness of it. Stretching her. Impaling her. Deep. He hit her womb. Fingers squeezed her ass. Her head tossed to the drums. Her long blond hair streamed down like a river cascade, like the lust flowing through her.
And a green light overwhelmed her behind her eyes. It swirled and blurred. It began to consume her. A loa.
The other dancer knelt before her. She smelled his arousal. He swayed before her, letting his hairy black balls and immense cock hit and wipe across her face. This was new. It was black, like gun steel, and hard. It was uncut, and the glans were unsheathed. Flared. And the peephole leaked his cum. It would be sweet like nectar, she mused for a second. But this wasn’t about savoring. He was aroused, and it was she who could quench his lust. She opened her mouth for him.
Yellow green.
Without gentleness, they took her. They came quickly. Too quickly, leaving her wanting more. “Master?” she pleaded, hoping for more. I'm hoping for him.
Others from the audience took the place of the dancers. She was desperately aware of her vulnerability. She was female in estrus. Her body was public. She was ******* of the tears that now streamed freely down her face. ******* of the mascara that had run. ******* of the cum that was beginning to cover her and drip obscenely in white ribbons from her pussy. She was being used.
But at the moment she saw herself, as if something suddenly wanted her to see and know who she was. That part, the seeing part, withered and tried to crawl away. “God no!” it cried out. The shame scalded her. She was surrounded by sexually aroused, naked black men. She was moaning and grabbing for more. Her mouth is open to be used. Her ass was pushing back, thrusting against each man. She was a dog in heat. And around each cock, her lips were wrapped, trying to hold it in her. Spittle and cum dripped from her chin. Cum, the white sticky seed of these black men, spread over her.
Her hips pushed back, meeting each thrust. She sucked up anything that came near her mouth. Several women kneeled before her. Women who had been fucked and who had seminal fluid dripping from them. They presented themselves to her. Pressing their musky pussies against her face. And Cheryl hungrily licked them. Kissed them. Desired them. She tasted their arousal. She sensed their differences.
Yellow gold.
She moaned and writhed.
White.
How long? An hour? Two? The silence cradled her. She was warm, and she felt like one with the gods. But as consciousness returned, she saw herself as a rutting animal, and she cried.
A gentle hand caressed her head. Pulling her long blond hair away from her face. “Madame has returned?”
“Why?" she whispered, the “why” of a civilized man found primitive. “Why?”
Etienne sat next to her. She was on a bed, covered with a silk sheet. She had been bathed, perfumed, and dressed in a silk gown. Her legs ached from having been on her knees and stretched open. Her sensitive, secret flesh stung from the abuse. And her psyche was bruised.
“Why?”
He offered a cup of tea. “Drink this quickly.”
She opened her mouth and let him feed her the tea.
“Close your eyes.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“My precious one, you were chosen by Erzulie herself. That is a great honor. And Madame is quite lucky. Too often, Erzulie extracts a terrible price for riding you. The powder I gave you should have helped to satiate Erzulie. It did not.”
He pulled the sheet down and lifted her gown. Cool air swept over her sex. She squeezed her legs together to hide her nakedness and to protect herself from the onslaught she had only just endured.
"No," Etienne said, placing his hands on her thighs, “open." He guided her legs open.
Cheryl wanted to curl up, to be held, and to be comforted.
She felt his fingers on her sex. He was rubbing ointment on her.
“So pretty,” he said. His fingers rubbed warming ointment onto her sore flesh. “Madame has beautiful sex; yes, quite beautiful." His fingers pushed deeper, working ointment over her tight pucker.
When he stopped and she heard him putting the lid on what must have been the bottled ointment, she didn’t want him to stop. “More,” she whispered.
“The tea will help you sleep for an hour or two." He ignored her plea. “Erzulie will be in your dreams. She will explain. She will guide you to understanding why." He pulled the gown down and covered her with the sheet. “Your clothes are folded on the chair. You may dress and go home when you wish.”
Cheryl wanted him. “Maît?”
“Not now,” he answered her unanswered question.
“You don’t want me?”
Etienne laughed. He took her hand and placed it on the bulge in his pants. He was erect. Aroused. And he was huge. “When I take you, I will take you and Erzulie. She is my bride, and you will be her cheval, a great honor. But that time is not now. You must come to understand." He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “First, to never come back to Justine’s or to see you here again, this is your choice.”
* * * * *
She drove home in a daze. Later, sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, she found herself wondering if it had happened. It felt like a strange dream. And she slept.
She dreamt of Erzulie, the goddess of love. She felt Erzulie’s fondness for Etienne, and she saw him naked and proud, in full arousal for her, Cheryl/Erzulie.
It was dusk when she woke. She remembered every detail clearly now. Her hand slid down to pussy, to feel herself. She tingled, but she was not sore. A good afternoon with Chris when he was very enthusiastic usually left her a little sore. Why hadn’t a dozen huge cocks? She kept her hand there. It was so familiar and comforting, and the subtle arousal was nice. She heard herself whisper, “Erzulie.”
The next morning, Cheryl realized she had slept the entire night deeply and was remarkably refreshed. She was full of energy, and she knew she would go back to Justine’s. After a bath and breakfast, she found a long white summer dress in her closet. She smiled. “Erzulie would like this,” she thought.
Naked underneath the dress, she drove to Justine’s. The door was unlocked, but the room was dark, except for a light over the small stage. She looked around. “Etienne?" she called out, but there was no answer. She was disappointed, but she stood there. Her loins tingled. She wanted.
She walked slowly to the stage. Standing there, she remembered the drums, the dancing and swaying, and the cocks. Stiff black cocks. Fucking her. Her hands cupped her breasts, and she squeezed them as they had. Her eyes closed. She moaned. Her nipples hardened beneath her fingers, and she pulled at them. “Yes,” she whispered.
She swayed, imagining Etienne behind her, pressing against her. She smiled, remembering how his manhood felt against her ass. She slid her hand down, over her tummy, and cupped her sex. “More,” she sighed.
She sank to the floor. Her legs are open. She pulled her dress up and began to rub herself. She loved her pussy. Now, it is so smooth. Her lips were flush and swollen with desire. And she was wide, open, and ready. “Do me.”
Her hips began to gyrate as she rubbed. She fingered her clitoral area, rubbing it, making herself want more. She heard the drums, and she writhed to them. She pushed her fingers inside herself. Fucking. Fucking.
She was dripping wet. “Oh, God!” She fucked herself harder. Deeper. She needed to cough. She felt warm as if in a sauna, and she tore off her dress. Her mouth opened, hoping for a cock. Squirming, moaning, and grunting, she fucked herself. “Etienne!”
She came hard.
Laying back on the floor of the stage, she closed her eyes. Erzulie watched. Erzulie was proud.
Did she sleep? She didn’t know. But her eyes opened, and in the dim shadows, she saw the outlines of people. Quickly, she grabbed her dress and covered herself. “Oh, my god,” she shivered.
“You are not a disappointment, Madame,” she said, hearing Etienne’s voice. “We have enjoyed your..."
“Etienne, I..." she felt herself burning with shame. "I—" But there were no words.
“Shhh, take away the dress,” he said. “Show us your body.”
Cheryl pushed the dress aside. Cool air hit her body, making her pussy tingle. She felt a cold, wet spot under her.
“Very nice. Now, Madame, you must give relief to the men who have enjoyed watching you.”
“Etienne?”
“Crawl to them and relieve them. Worship them.”
