August 29, 2007
Fiction
Folsom
Folsom Street is just a couple of seedy city blocks that burn in the late summer sun as the kink turn out to christen the city ‘Sodom Eats Gomorra’ for another 365 blissful days.
Thousands arrive to ‘make the scene’, dragging their butts into Flash Gordon black latex crotchless tights, nipple rings and pretty pony bit and halter. Street theater. Being in the kink is phat, cool, rad or whatever the fuck the in word of the day is.
I have never been so popular, the Grande Dame Diana in Leather Slave Queen or something. I am never sure what they expect, of me, of themselves, these masses of undulating flesh. The street reeks of hormones, sweat and sex. Crowds so dense that getting a body rub is part of the game. You know you are having sex with countless strangers just through random contact. And, out there on the edges, leaning up against the walls the police watch, their eyes and thoughts hidden behind heavy dark glasses.
As soon as I arrive I am ready to leave. A searing certainty that every upstairs window houses cameras and listening gear, stiff faced, unsmiling men and women in prim business suits cataloguing every single individual. Collecting data, putting us all in a file. It’s a trap. Invite the kink to a party, make them welcome, allow them to set up booths, demonstration areas. Double whammy. Get the voraciously curious tourist crowd to pay good money to peep in on the deviants.
Paranoia chokes me, adding a hint of panic to my erratic movement through the crowd. What got me here this time? The voices of my companions interrupt my thoughts.
The plump slave girl tugs at me earnestly, insisting that I can’t pass this booth without connecting with . . .the name she says fades out against the cacophony of noise. I want to ditch the slave, let her do the necessaries, but she is like a bloodhound sniffing me out as I try to disappear around corners or wind my way amidst a small cluster of gay boys with their luscious asses bouncing and bobbing just at my finger pinching height.
My own proclivities are a weakness I never underestimate. I want to be nobody in this crowd, just one of the loose hormones breathing in and sucking out the energy. Warped. Twisted. Hungry, as the predator wakens.
The small dyke with the big hands and hard eyes grabs my hand, reminding me that this year she is the cause of my misery. I decide in that moment that I will make her pay for that. I force a smile to my face, see the desire instantly rise in her eyes and try to quash my smile. Fuck. Guest of my house, invited in. I turn away, saying something out loud which I am certain is unintelligible. That’s right, have to show off the city for the visiting kink.
Plump slave girl puts her hands on her hips, shakes her head at me, frustrated, knowing that I keep trying to escape. I hunt around inside of me for that ready Domme, Bitch, Cunt-slapper stare. It’s hiding. So I shrug at her, as if it is all an accident, how I keep wandering away.
Some guy is behind the booth table, broad smile, requisite leather clothes, mandatory bits and pieces of chrome ring and snaps. He thinks he knows me. Gush. I nod. Inane words of greeting or acknowledgment. His hand is wet. I feel slimed. Dyke puts her hand around my waist. I take the opportunity for payback and introduce her to the self-anointed master.
She flashes a glare at me. I see the scorecard in her eyes, the promise of retribution. She and I know she doesn’t really have the balls to step fully up to the plate. I didn’t get my rep for nothing, even though these days I am mostly trying to avoid those who want to see, want to peek inside my psyche to see what it is that earned that rep.
I manage a much wider smile back at her. See her flinch. I chuckle, nodding at the master whose name I never catalogued and shove slave girl forward. Next. Next.
The flow of flesh entices. I tug myself free once more, drifting over to an old man who is standing on the edge of the curb an iron collar permanently welded around his neck. Rough. Brutal. Instant turn on. His shirt is made of little metal rings, woven together, tied crudely up over his shoulders using cheap metal clothing hangers. His way to pass through the street censors no doubt.
My eyes drift down to his dick. I can tell that my attention on him is arousing him. I count eleven scrotum rings, my finger almost but not quite touching them as I rattle off the numbers. This is years of stretching, the sign of a real. My pussy moistens. I reach out and tug at his homemade chain mail. It rattles. He shudders. I feel better. I whisper to him that he looks fabulous.
His face blossoms red, his hands move in agitated delight. Dyke lifts my elbow, dismay at my fascination. Just a stupid man, her face tells me emphatically. I wink at him.
I step away attention caught and captivated by a moving blanket of tattoo. Body suit. The girl is a boi wearing ‘gay sign’ like a proud badge, not understanding this regimentation is just another type of conformity, the very thing she believes she is escaping. Ah, to be a young believer again.
I touch her shoulder, watch her companions turn, ready to snarl at me. I grin. She hesitates, her eyes flickering from the dyke one step behind me on my left to the hard breathing open faced slave girl on my right. Then she looks to her daddi for imput on what it is. I interrupt her before she can get the instruction she needs.
“Is it a story?” My question slips past her eyes at first, confusion then the dawning understanding that it is her tat’s. Her eyes flicker to her daddi once more only to see what I knew the moment I saw them that daddi had no information, was caught in one of those in-between things as she tries to decipher our intentions.
Boi manages a half smile, nods and tells me that it is tributary, a documentary of the travails of lesbians. I am already losing interest but manage a nod and another fleeting comment that it is very nicely done. I wonder if she knows that give it a few years and she will look like a wrinkled cartoon drawn on wet smearing newspaper.
I hear dyke cursing under her breath as I move away. “Do you know what the fuck you are doing?” She asks me. I almost giggle, my eyes sliding over her. Paranoid worries fading a bit. I see her back up slightly, not ready for the changes in my eyes.
I laugh aloud. “Want me to go there, cunt?” I ask her. She blushes, backing up even further while still managing to keep the tips of her fingers on my elbow. I have crossed that threshold of polite acceptance, veering into a decision that the dyke will be cunt not dyke. As ever, I am no thought process just action, decision.
Slave girl comments, “You are awful!”
She is right. I am. I want to leave again but not as much as I wanted to before. We bump and wind our way forward, caught in the flow of flesh. I detest the heat knowing my too white skin and red hair will drive me off the sidewalk soon anyway. Dyke has a problem, I have moved chess pieces on her, changed the game, broken the rules. She is cunt. Unaddressed she will be my cunt. Addressed she has potential losses she isn’t sure she can afford.
I can hear her mind ticking, weighing the odds, wondering why her pussy is beginning to throb, her clit to ache.
I never tell anyone that I feel the whole fucking crowd, brain whispers, sensory flow on some level that is not a sense according to science. Glutton now, energy so vast here that I am oozing from my pores. Play time.
I sheer away from slave girl, watch her turn toward me her face clouding up once more as she tries to summon energy to keep me on task. Don’t I know this is for me? She is thinking.
“We will be around here,” I point at a cluster of overcrowded stores and restaurants. My eyes harden. Slave girl swallows her comment, looks unhappy but turns back into the crowd. Bitch is back and she knows much better than to go there, now.
I walk up to three tall thin garishly dressed queens, one sprawled across two of the white resin chairs. They look at me with little interest. I grin.
“Cunt and I want to sit.” I say brightly. I can feel dyke trembling at my side, anger rising inside of her at this overt display of diminishment, control, ownership of her. Humiliated.
The reclining queen looks mildly amused, dipping into the same invisible flow of understanding that I do. She pushes one resin chair free.
“Cunt is stormy.” She laughs, eyeing dyke face on. Her eyes running up and down dyke’s body to casually undress her.
“Not yet.” I answer, lowering myself into the chair.
This brings another laugh. I do not look at dyke but stretch into a more comfortable position.
“Make it wet and cold, cunt.” I offer at the air.
“Fuck you,” dyke manages abruptly.
The queens look back and forth between us before Top queen still sitting says, “Oh, you would like to fuck her now wouldn’t you - cunt?”
I hear dyke’s harsh intake of breath, fury and panic rising hard and fast inside of her. The bitch inside of me unfurls further, drinking, tasting, becoming.
“Wouldn’t you?” I turn to catch dykes eyes wild and full, my words racing out there to hover between us.
She isn’t ready yet, her head shaking back and forth.
“Wet and cold . . .cunt.” I reiterate, this time flicking my fingers at her. Dismissal. Dyke teeters fully on the edge of slave.
Her fury is palpable but she is turning, stiff and so upright I think maybe she will fall over. I wonder if she can smell the skank sweetness of her overflowing pussy juices the way I can as she moves.
Telltales. Body lies. Traitor.
I relax.
Queen Top leans forward. “I know you, don’t I.” She says quietly.
“Maybe.” I answer, looking up into her face calmly. We all know each other, always have. I am too full now, that wary caution so much a part of me lost among the throngs.
Queen Top grins, leaning back in her chair. “You don’t make the scene much these days.” She offers me no name, its own truthful honorific.
“Queer fucking scene.” I answer, my eyes lingering on the tantalizing bodies brazenly exposed before me, strutting and striding past me, for my pleasure.
Queen laughs.
“Finite game this street theater crowd. Actors performing. No resonance.” I looked up into Queen Top’s eyes, “I ain’t here.” I comment dryly.
She nods. “Me either.” Her hand dips inside the tight corsetry of her top to pull out a business card. She passes it over to me. It doesn’t have a name on it, just a phone number.
I nod, tucking it down into my waist pouch.
“Call me . . .anytime.” Queen Top rises slowly out of the resin chair, her companions coming to life around her.
I smile.
“Ahhh, cunts back.” Queen Top’s smile widens before looking down at me once more, “Make her beg for it, oh yeah, make her scream.” She offers loudly before turning away.
I stretch my legs up onto the emptied chair, a denial of a seat to dyke.
Bottled drinks slam down on the tabletop surface.
I can hear the words swirling inside of her, the outraged fury of all the conclusions she has reached while buying the drinks.
I loosen the thin top, half knotted across my chest. Peeling it off to reveal just my jogging top. It is purple and shoves my very large breasts into a single rounded bump.
I heard dykes jagged intake of breath, her brain shifting gear between everything she needs to say to defend her dykeness and the long plunging wedge of my cleavage fully exposed to her.
“Bitch.” Is all that finally wavers out of her mouth. I ignore her, lifting the cold bottle of soda up to rest against my chest. I am so fucking hot.
“Oh Christ.” I hear her mumble as some of the moisture runs off the bottle onto my skin.
Dykes are like men, when they look at a woman they get horny. They want to fuck, suck and lick. Want to take or be taken. Play or be played. They want it now, want it hard, want it cruel. And me, I like being mean.
The world is one big twisted, demented place of torment, a ragged game of cock tease gone pussy. Mostly het women like me enjoy the doubled blades of ‘come hither no touch’ against both men and women. I laugh.
Queen Top was right. She needs to beg, to scream obscenities into the blissful temple of my pussy.
I wonder if the street crowd will notice, decide that they are too busy masturbating their own way through the day.
I take a drag on the bottle.
“Don’t fucking ignore me.” Dyke reaches over to grab the second bottle.
I take another drink then reach under the table to drag the long length of my thin flowy skirt up over my knees.
I heard dyke stop again, her eyes too watchful of any movement I might make. She’s wary now and just slightly desperate.
I turn to look at her, making her eyes lock into mine, making her shudder. She begins to breathe hard.
“Your pussy stinks - cunt.” I say conversationally.
Her head jerks, breath spasming out of her diaphragm.
“You smell of throbbing, aching, hunger to fuck.” I continue.
She slams her bottle down on the table.
“You twisted bitch.” The words burst out of her mouth.
I grin, then begin tugging my skirt higher. No panties today. I only wear panties when I intend to stuff them in someone’s mouth for cleaning. I lean back a little further in the chair. I know she can see the edges of my labia, the moisture, the glisten of sweat. I know she can probably smell me too. I rub at my already throbbing clit, my eyes wandering amongst the crowd picking out visual body parts. Nipples, rounded ass cheeks, a smiling mouth, a semi-hard penis wrapped in imprisoning bars.
“Fuck.” She turns away, body becoming increasingly agitated, trying to find somewhere to go, something to do.
“I can’t do that.” She offers, her back still to me. “Not here.” She shakes her head back and forth.
I begin to laugh, my arousal building. “They will see you, won’t they cunt?” I comment. “Everyone will know that the dyke is really a cunt slave, desperate to lap pussy on command like the little whore she is.”
Dyke whirls around, intending to rage at me, her mouth all full of words. Then she sees my face, the intensity of arousal in my eyes, the truth of my laughter. Knowing her in some terrible evil way, finding that hidden piece of her that needs to grovel in a public place before strangers, to lap pussy like a kitten drinking milk.
Her whole body shakes. “I hate you.” The words fall pell mell between us.
I nod. Doesn’t matter to me if she hates me, just that she crawls her tight ass down under the table.
My thoughts hang there in the stagnant air. Silent command.
She shakes her head no. I watch her mouth open, eyes widening in confusion as a single word slips off her lips. “Please.”
“Clean me slave.” My voice orders calmly, no evidence of the tiny breaking waves of orgasm already washing through my body.
She looks around wildly, perhaps seeing the voracious hungry eyes of other diners, the people standing out of the direct sun just under the canopy. Everyone making the scene.
I flicker my fingers, then reach over to lift my bottled soda again, tilting back in my chair to let the cold fluid wash down my throat.
I feel more than hear her movement. Listen to the gasps and whispering conversations of the people I am ignoring the existence of. I wonder if I am going to get arrested for having sex in a public place. Wouldn’t quite be the first time. I grin.
The arrival of her tongue against my clit wrenches my body upward, an instant blossom of ejaculatory eruption. I moan, reaching under the table to pull her face harder into my pussy, knowing that if I had a crop I would be beating her, driving her faster and faster. As it is, I knot my fingers in the shortness of her hair, twisting until I can feel the pain running out of her, into me, adding to my pleasure.
I hear gasping laughter from the diners at the next table over, embarrassment and voyeuristic greed holding them tight to the scene.
I hear her making tiny animal sounds as I jerk her rhythmically against me. Hungry, desperate sounds. I know the cunt is building to her own orgasm, dyke illusions lost to the slavery of her own lust.
I tell her no. She is mine to fuck, not here for her own pleasure. The crowd around us laughs, caught up in their own arousal and need to be part of what is actually happening, sensing perhaps that they are bystanders, excluded from the willingness to risk anything real. I find laughter in my throat. They are safe, in some other world that I can see but have never really visited. They can see me too, can hear cunt dyke no more, whispering and begging me, desperate to cum. I force her face harder against my pussy, one hand reaching down to the nipple pressing hard against her shirt. I always know just where nipples are.
I jam it between my fingernails, feeling her scream of agony echo inside of me. I flood with cum again, releasing that energy back into her face.
Plump slave girl bumps against the table, getting my attention.
“Oh man, what are you fucking doing?” She glares at me, then around at the circle that has closed around us. “Fuck, this will bring the cops.”
I shove dykes face backward, allowing the flow of my skirt to drop.
“Well, I do feel . . .better.” I comment easily.
I rise, hearing the resin chair topple over behind me. I shove the table sideways, revealing the now cowering cunt. I grin. Another day at Folsom. My fingers twirl her hair into a short leash. Then I drag her forward into the crowd. Slave girl hastens after me, full of where I must go to attend to those who have come so far to see me.
Her words pass over me, belonging to her idea of who I am. I tug at the hair leash, feel my new cunt trembling in pain and confusion. Well, maybe I will attend Folsom again, someday.
• • •
lives in Northern California and is currently working toward an upper degree in Neuro-Psychology. She writes nonfiction articles/essays as well as literary, speculative fiction and erotica. She is the author of "Extreme Space, The Domination and Submission Handbook" (nonfiction), and the erotica books: "18," "Rhapsody," "Not Quite Forbidden," and "Gornoston." Recent published short fiction and article selections can be found in Freya’s Bower: "of Lilies" and "Cherie," - 2007, FATE Magazine, "Let’s Get Psychic," - 2006, Women’s Voices, "The Garden of My Soul,"—Issue 252, February 2006 and Ethereal Gazette, "Reject,"—Issue III, Spring 2006. Her author website can be found at: http://www.mallorywrites.com.
