Saturday, February 18, 2012

Finding Her (Muse 7:"Drunk on Love, Thirsting for Sex, Tasting of Lust"

Continued from Muse 6

He's got a head like a hole and swears off the booze as he lies beneath the grey quilt, rain pelting at his bedroom window. He's aware of a morning erection and nobody to share it with. God he feels horny, and thoughts of a tanned Marique enter his head. Before he can reason, his hand is at play, her lips pressed against his and her warm body gliding over his skin. He needs to pee but the sexual pleasure is too much. He waits until the deed is done. Feeling foolish and reaching for the tissues he tries to talk some sense into himself, but his heart races and his blood courses, when he thinks of her. 

He's no stranger to a random crush. His last girlfriend left him because of his romantic possessiveness, love sick poems and clinging behaviour. She also hated how he knew where she was, what she was thinking. She had no thoughts for herself, time to herself. He misses her even though the relationship ended badly. She was attractive but had a temper like a banshee. Marique wasn't like that, he was sure. She was placid, pliant, romantic. 

He shakes the vision from his head and showers, before reluctantly changing cum-stained sheets. He begins rummaging once more amid the clothes, rolled in tight rubber bands and releases a couple of T Shirts from their bindings. One, bearing a small graphic of the Eiffel Tower, the other bearing the words "Same, Same but Different", the kind bought in Thailand or Indonesia. There's no buzz of travel about them but a feint trace of perfume blended with the slight taint of dampness. They haven't been worn in a while and they're certainly foreign rip-offs. He closes his eyes and imagines her pulling the soft cotton fabric over perfect breasts. Another emerging erection is soon quelled by a disturbing vision.


She's aware that the club is less than savoury. The girls she sees during the day, well-dressed and beautiful but at night they shed their clothes for an audience of hombres. She turns a blind eye, since he's given her a room above "Club Oro", with her own bath and bed, as he has done for several others. She peers through her window late at night and sees some of the girls wonder home with their boyfriends. She knows what they do for a living, at least they have a choice. Unlike the women dragged by their hair, their husbands bleeding in the gutter back home. She does not judge, because Andrew isn't like that. He's just a business man. Her mentor and her friend. She trusts him.

He's a true gentleman to Marique and restoring her faith in men, who she once thought so rough and cruel. He's gentle and holds her hand,won't allow her on the 'floor', other than to clear tables.

"You're my bud, my blossom and not for the opening," he'd cooed in her ear. "You're not like these girls, all you have to do is clean up when we close and you can stay here as long as you like." 

He knows she's a virgin, an innocent and never 'pushes' her. She waits tables although she's barely old enough to do, so but she looks more mature in a little black dress with a little silver embellishment, sparkling and shimmering from within and without. Lips reddened and hair festooned across her tantalising shoulders.

He takes her shopping to the markets and buys her clothes.  She eyes the fake T shirts bought by tourists.

"I wish I could go to Paris and London....or Bangkok or Bali....."  The longing in her eyes betraying her need to embrace the exotic.

He takes half a dozen of the copied T's and barters them down to a drop-dead price.

"Here, perhaps the closest you'll get for now, but better than nothing."

She throws her arms around him and kisses him and thanks him as he rummages through a pile of 'pre-loved' Levis and holds  them to her waist. She's never known a more attentive man.

 "These should fit...and you need something more exotic for the club. We'll have to go shopping somewhere a little more burlesque for that. Tomorrow perhaps."

She's still getting a grip on the gringo tongue but knows he's helping her and she loves him for it.  When he buys her a silver pendant with her zodiac sign, dangling from a delicate chain, she's overwhelmed and throws her arms around his neck once again. It could have been a wedding band and she wouldn't have been more thrilled.

The first time he makes a romantic overture, the sun is close to rising. The bar closed and tables cleared, the normally incessant traffic outside silent.  She sits in one of the booths, with her back against the wall, sipping lemonade. She's kicked off her shoes providing relief to aching feet.  Her long brown legs outstretched on the garish red leather, she flexes her toes and winces as they cramp. Andrew  walks over and slides beneath them, propping her calves on his lap. 

“You did well this week my Angel. For your first job, you’ve really settled in, I’m proud of you.” 

She lowers her face in a shy, appreciative gesture before passing him a seductive Latin grin and biting her bottom lip.  His firm grip on her toes and the balls of her feet eliciting a moan as his fingers massage and soothe. She imagines what it would be like to moan, really moan in that moment with a man - a loving man. That would be so romantic, especially if it were this man.

Her mother had told her of the love she had for a man who made her moan. She wanted to feel like that, and with every waking moment. Andrew was becoming more than a crush. She loved watching him work, move, play. She loved the feel of his hands on her feet, then sliding slowly along her shins, curling round her calves and back down to her ankles. She's even pleased as an errant palm massages the inside of her thigh then teasingly withdraws.  When he finishes, he takes her hand and pulls her gently forward.

"Come to bed with me." It's a statement, not a question.

She's embarrassed. She's a virgin and afraid he'll find her a disappointment.

"C'mon, don't be shy. I'll be gentle.Come to bed.” 

He knows she's never been with a man.  He can smell a virgin. And she's one pure and simple.

She pulls hesitantly against his hand, but he’s persistent. Besides, beneath it all, she's wet and willing. Curious and intrigued and of all the men she wants to be her first, he is it. 

She allows herself to be led. Her heart is beating as the warmth between her legs escalates. He puts his arm around her and guides her forward. Once through the gaudy beaded partition, her eyes are widened by a boudoir of colour. A shimmering palace of maroon and cerise, punctuated with stripes of gold. An organza curtain becomes a faux mosquito net at the head of the bed as he pushes her gently onto her back and slides his hands upward to remove the little black dress, before unclasping her bra. Fingers gliding so deliciously over her tired form, arousing feelings within that she's only ever dreamed about.  She’s putty, as his hands slide along her belly, thumbs massaging her nipples followed by tongue and the gentle suck of a lover's kiss. Then down, thumbs again against her groin removing lace then gliding down the softness of the inside of her legs.  Hands followed by his mouth. She’s afraid of his tongue down there. It doesn’t seem natural but it feels wonderful and he’s enjoying every mouthful as her hands brush back his hair.  He raises his head and removes his own clothes. She’s shocked that she should like to look at him with such scrutiny, but she does. He glides his tongue once more from the softness of her belly to her throat, as she throws her head back and gives way to her teacher.  She, the receptive nubile - he, erect and wanting. Her body writhes and within moments his fingers explore to ensure she’s wet enough to enter.

Their copulation’s brief and apart from an initial pang, he treats her gently. His warmth entering her before she climaxes, he uses fingers to finish her orgasm with agile fingers, making her scream with delight. So this is what it feels like to be with the man you love. To consummate and conceive. She's absorbed with the selfishness of it, and overwhelmed with the passion of it. She’s fallen in love. This to her, is the confirmation, validation of their relationship. To him, it's a fine fuck inside a tight pussy and the beginning of her education.  
He is keen on virgins. They’re clean. Receptive and teachable.  It’s not defiling as much as conquering. When it comes to 'training' his girls, he wants to be the first. The tutor and the master. This week, she’s enjoyed penetration, within a month, she’ll know it all. Only then will she be ready, only then will she understand his deception. 


He comes to her often in her little room above the club. He shares her bed, her body. Tenderly at first as they move from conventional lovemaking to something less toward. He' sharing her bed but his gentleness is ebbing. He’s teaching her things that she feels  uncomfortable with. Some of his demands are awkward, but she loves and trusts him and wants to make him happy.  At first, putting his penis in her mouth seemed disgusting, and all she could remember was the flash of genitalia from Lopez' attack. But she loved Andrew and he loved her mouth around his cock. At least he seemed to, by the way he moved; slowly, back and forth, his fingers in her hair, gently pushing  her mouth further and further until she gagged. She took it on board, "This is what men like" - "This is  what women do" she thought.

He showed her how to put her hand around the shaft, how to slide her tongue from base to tip and around in circular sweeps. How to place hands and probing fingers in places she wouldn’t believe, and her tongue in those places once forbidden.  Some positions were solely to ‘feel’, others perfect to ‘look’.  Sitting on him, her back to his chest, his hand massaging her, or him on top, moving like a wave above her - every position had its pleasure, some their raw discomfort and abject pain. Some just gratuitous, others contorted. His aggression becoming more frequent, his demands becoming more perverted. The more sex she had, the more she became used to it.  The more she objected, the more he asked of her. The less she wanted to oblige.

He introduced her to erotic toys, the pleasure they gave underwhelmed by the pain they caused. 

"I don't want to do this any more, " she'd objected. 

"But I love you..." he'd replied and embraced her softly until she forgave the intrusion into every orifice.  Her ignorance believing that this is how it should be. A woman should please her man.

"I want you to do more for me," he'd said after their latest bout of sexual athleticism.

"You have a beautiful body, you could dance on the floor. Better still, I have a friend. He needs a favour. I want you to show him what you can do. He'll be grateful and I'll pay you. You can pay me back for the flat and the furniture. You don't need to wait tables any more."

It takes a while for his hint of prostitution to sink in. She jumps in horror.

"You want me to be like them? The other girls? You want me to take my clothes off in front of men?"

"Oh baby, I want you to do more than that, but we'll start with the dancing." 

She's already left the bed, embarrassed, she covers herself with a cerise satin sheet, the tears beginning to well. 

"I won't, I won't do it!"

He's already pulled on his jeans "Go shower, I'm going to introduce you to someone. You owe me Marique. It's time to pay. I have your money, your'll do as you're told."

It's then she realises he's slammed the door behind him and she hears the turning of a key. It never struck her until now that it's odd to have a bedroom with a lock on the outside. She's his prisoner and now, his slave. A gullible victim of his lust and soon to be a flesh offering to his 'friends'. Everything, including their latest 'moment', leaves a bad taste in her mouth and she wants to be sick. 

Thoughts of her mother and the compound in which she died begin to pervade. As she gazes through tears of disappointment through the barred bedroom window, watching the 'girls' heading home, it's clear - they too are victims, the laughing men once perceived as lovers, now gropers and lascivious patrons - and home is not a place they want to be.

She needs a way out.

Muse 1 A Legacy of Smoke and Shadow


  1. very good information you write it very clean. I’m very lucky to get this info from you.

  2. The comment above seems to have taken this piece as a how-to.

    "Some just gratuitous, others contorted. His aggression becoming more frequent, his demands becoming more perverted. The more sex she had, the more she became used to it. The more she objected, the more he asked of her. The less she wanted to oblige."

    My thoughts exactly.

  3. oh, that's how you do that? Now you tell me! You really excel at this sort of writing - not sure what that means, but you go girl! I see paperback bodice ripping soft porn in your future. Hey, it's not a bad way to make a living, will certainly pay your way across the states....and my wife and mother in law will prolly read a few...what's your pen name going to be, btw?

  4. Hmm...


    Can't believe I'm going to say this, but this is too much. Now, granted, had the previous chapters been slower, more detailed, this would fit right in. But they weren't, and this doesn't. Compared to the previous six chapters, this is extremely well-written, patient, and detailed. It's just too good for the rest of the story and, as a result, too much.

    Weird, that, isn't it?

  5. "Her mother had told her of the love she had for a man who made her moan." Maybe I misjudged her mom. This is a mother figure that disturbs me.

    I agree with Tom, soft porn may be the ticket.

  6. Just wondering, are any of these Aussie Breakfasts?