September 28, 2005
Fiction
Typewriters Have No Mercy
Typewriters have no mercy. If you make a mistake, it’s there, in black letters on white paper. There’s no easy way to correct it, no way to hide. On some newer models there are ways to go back and expunge, but the classic finger-workout Olivetti that clatters when you type reveals all your faults instantly and without any recourse save the shame of correction fluid. On a computer, you can fix an error as easily as you make it. On a typewriter, you are committed to every slip of the finger.
Andrew likes that about the Olivetti. That and the fact it looks like it belongs in the disheveled office of some film-noir detective, on the battered desk that holds the gun and the whisky bottle. Andrew has two obsessions. One is black-and-white movies, the kind where men wear fedoras and smoke incessantly and tough-talking, dark-lipsticked dames in nip-waisted dresses either get put in their place and like it or steal the show, the cash and the hero’s heart. The Maltese Falcon and The Big Sleep are his two favorite films.
His other obsession is one that I share, but the movies fit in there too. You see, there are two types of women in the movies he loves: the good, sweet, submissive girl who’s a constant victim and the femme fatale who gets under the hero’s skin but needs to be taken down in the end. When we get into what we call film noir mode, I get to play a succession of roles, all of which lead to my getting into some kind of painful, yet exciting trouble-all supplied by Andrew. Sometimes I’m a damsel in distress, a naïve lady whom he has to rescue from bad guys (also played by Andrew) and then chastise for being so clueless. Sometimes I’m a bad girl who gets punished for her misdeeds. And sometimes, I’m the detective’s sexy but not-too-competent secretary/assistant, who is constantly messing up and getting punished for it. I was never that big a fan of film noir until I watched a few movies with Andrew and we sensed how the genre fed into our shared interest in finding new and creative ways for him to “discipline” me.
Today we’re in his office. It’s an homage to classic detective films. Movie posters and blow-ups of old mystery novel covers decorate the walls. A ceiling fan turn lazily overhead, even though there’s perfectly good central air conditioning. Dusty Venetian blinds, the old-fashioned wooden kind, filter the afternoon light, filling the room with stripes of sun and shadow. And in the center of the room is a big, battered wooden desk, crowned with the typewriter. (He has a laptop computer, but it stays out of sight when he wants to emphasize the atmosphere, as he does today.) There’s an old-fashioned radio cabinet disguising the CD player. Andrew doesn’t smoke and rarely drinks, but you’d expect the room to smell like cigarette smoke and spilled whisky and the lived-in odors that suggest the heroic, but slightly seedy detective spends way too much time there, either cracking cases or drinking in solitude to escape his tragic past.
More often than not, it smells like sex, or the aftermath of sex, or the anticipation of sex that hasn’t happened yet, Chanel Number 5, his old-fashioned but pleasant bay rum aftershave, and the slight edge of fear I always feel before a scene starts, no matter how excited I am by it.
Today I play the sexy secretary, wearing a 40’s-style rayon dress, soft and silky against my bare skin, seamed stockings, a garter belt and no underwear. There’s a CD of big band music playing. I am sitting on his lap in the desk chair, attempting to type. His cock is inside me, there’s a fat butt plug in my ass and he’s alternately stroking my clit and fondling my rayon-clad breasts as he dictates. If that all doesn’t make it hard enough to type, and trust me, it does, he’s speaking nonsense in an effort to confuse me further. “Oranges are not the only fruit. Your tits are more like casaba melons anyway.” He pinches the underside of a breast; the fabric moving over my nipple adds its own soft caress to his harsher one. At the same time, his other hand slaps lightly at my clit. It’s pain, but the good kind of pain, the kind that makes me draw in my breath sharply and lose track of my fingers. “And we must look for more clues in the Sullivan case.” He peers over my shoulder. “That’s not how you spell casaba. That’s not how you spell tits, either.”
Sure enough, I’d typed ttis. It’s hard to type well when both your cunt and your ass are full and a finger is skillfully keeping you just on the verge of coming. But I don’t argue with him. Arguing is not part of this game. We’ll squabble at other times, like any couple might, but never when he’s put me in some crazy but pleasurable situation that will end in him punishing me. Punishing, we call it, as if I don’t crave it too. Not to mention that he’s put his fingers, musky with my own juices, into my mouth for me to clean off. I couldn’t talk if I wanted to, but I don’t have much to say. Moving up and down on his slick cock is the main thing on my mind, followed by trying to keep track of what my fingers are doing, and now tasting my own slickness on his fingers.
”One stroke with the cane for each typo,” he reminds me, then commands, “Add that phrase to the letter, ‘One stroke for each typo.’” As I attempt to obey, he raises the stakes by slipping out the butt plug and replacing it with his cock.
I freeze for a second, unable to do anything but feel him inching into me, opening me up, filling my ass as he eases me down onto him. All my world centers on the place where our bodies join, that intense sensation.
This is new. We’ve played the dictation game before but never while he took me anally. Ass-sex is a pretty recent addition to my repertoire. For years I was ashamed of my own curiosity about it, and so nervous that I couldn’t relax enough to do it. He’s worked on me gradually with fingers and butt-plugs and an inexorable determination that, no matter how much time it took, he would get me not only to accept his dick where none other had gone, but get me to like it.
He’s succeeded with that, almost too well. The feeling is still new to me, and more intense for its novelty. Just the feeling of him stretching me further, slowly pushing deeper inside of me, is enough to drive me over the edge. He flicks his fingers on my clit again and I lose it. An orgasm like lava-first the volcanic eruption and then the continued red-hot flow, slow and pulsing and enduring. I’m not generally a screamer, but I’m a scratcher, and it’s all I can do not to gouge the desk. I want to ride it for a while, just give up on typing and grind against him so the pleasure continues at that level. Better yet, I want to face him, with him still in my ass, and ride him into the sunset, letting my clit work against him so I can come again and again.
But I don’t. I revel in the orgasm, but I breathe deeply to maintain a little control and try to keep typing.
I know I’ll take pleasure in the inevitable caning, but at the same time I dread it, dread the pain of each stroke, never mind that the pain transmutes itself almost instantly into an equally fierce pleasure. Through my hormone haze, I do my best to keep up with Andrew’s words, knowing I’m failing, and both longing for and fearing the result of that failure. The longing and the fear fill me, acting in concert with the cock in my ass, Andrew’s fingers, the sense of being filled. Violated, but wonderfully violated. Anal sex just feels dirtier to me and that makes it feel sexier. And no matter what, I’m going to get caned.
Thinking about it makes me convulse again, even harder. This time I do scream as I come. I certainly lose track of what he’s saying for a little while.
He continues dictating nonsense up to the point when he starts shouting incoherently.
Later, after we’ve cleaned up a bit, we count together. Twenty-three errors in the document. Andrew rounds it up to twenty-five because I didn’t even try to type his guttural arghs and ohgods. This is the worst it’s been in a while, but he was pushing today, with all the non-sequiturs, not to mention the butt-plug and the ass-plowing. I guess I’ve gotten too good at withstanding the distraction of a cock in my cunt, too good at anticipating what he’d say next when he was dictating something sensible.
I tremble with fear and anticipation as I lean over the wooden desk where the Olivetti sits and stick my ass out. Andrew flips my skirt up, and it falls covering my face.
He likes it best when I’m still in costume, when in his mind he can be either the detective-the good guy, sure, but still dark and angry-or the bad guy mistreating the detective’s secretary. My seamed stockings are now slightly sticky at the top from lube and our mingled juices. He always says the garter belt frames my ass nicely for the caning. The breeze from the ceiling fan tickles my bared skin, then carries the scent of our mingled juices to me.
I get a few seconds’ peace as Andrew stands back, admiring the view. No, not peace, really-anticipation. I know what’s coming. Part of me wants to run away, but my pussy is weeping with renewed excitement. I hold my breath.
And then he begins.
The first few blows are light, a warm-up. They sting, but don’t sear, and the sting abates quickly to a sensual glow. This eases my fear a little, reminds me that, despite the scenario we act out, this is not a punishment. No anger, no real fault, just a harsh pleasure we both desire. I start to breathe normally again, release a little bit of the tension in my legs and butt.
Sensing this, he hits a little harder, then harder yet. Each blow jars me, hot and cutting. It feels as if I should expect blood. Yet between each stripe, he stops, lets me catch my breath, gives me enough time to let the initial shock of intense pain pulse out and fade into something more diffuse-still painful, yet sending waves of ecstasy throughout my body. Long before he reaches twenty-five, I am lost somewhere in a place where it makes sense that I am crying and coming at the same time, where it makes sense that I am cursing Andrew and telling him I love him on the same breath.
After the twenty-fifth blow falls, he throws down the cane, enters my cunt from behind. The first fuck, while I was typing, was slow and controlled until the end, but we are both frenzied now. He slams against my hot, tender butt and I drive back against him, savoring his hardness, savoring the pleasure of his cock and the renewed pain. We’re moving with such force that my breasts bounce rhythmically against the typewriter. I certainly don’t need more stimulation, but the slap-slap-slap of my tits against the cold metal provides it, pushing me over, pushing him over in turn. I attack the desk with my fingernails as the orgasm floods over me, and the splinters feel good. He roars.
When I find my voice again, I say, “Next time I want to be the femme fatale. I’ve found this gorgeous vintage evening gown.”
“Are you sure you want to wear it for this?” He knows good vintage from the forties can be both pricey and delicate-we’ve had that conversation before.
“I got it for $10 at a yard sale. It’s ripped and mended, but it still looks great.”
He smiles and says, “Perfect!”
Perfect, that is, for the irate detective to tear off the evil, manipulative bitch before he slaps her around a little and puts her in her place.
I can’t wait.
• • •
Erotic fiction by has appeared in Best Women’s Erotica 2004 and 2005 and The Good Parts: Pure Lesbian Erotica, as well as in an earlier editon of Fishnet. She also writes with Dayle A. Dermatis (Andrea Dayle) under the name Sophie Mouette; a Sophie Mouette erotic novel, Cat Scratch Fever, is forthcoming from Black Lace Books in March 2006 and short fiction appears in Sex in the Sports Club, Sex in Uniform and Sex in the Kitchen. When not writing, Teresa can often be found bellydancing or enjoying the beautiful beaches of New England.
