Here’s a new excerpt from one of my books-in-progress, Girl in the Night: Erotic Love Letters to the Muse. (It amounts to approx. 10 pages) As always, gang, this includes sexually graphic material that will be inappropriate and perhaps offensive to some readers, so please be forewarned. Thanks!
Plenty Of Rope
IN THOSE DAYS, THE DAYS BEFORE YOU, those days of lesser men long ago, I always had to take a lover on the side. Always. And almost always a woman. Because none but other women could keep up with my insatiable longings.
I was 35, for god’s sake. It was no longer just a question of transcending the scope of my erotic mind; it was hormones peaking. Plain and simple. Hormones at the gallop, trampling that open range in search of whatever else was out there and physical. It had become biological now. The human drive to create life for hour upon hour, out on that magnificent erotic plateau.
It had become a question of stamina. Who can go as long as I can while under this spell of galloping hormones? Whose pumping blood; whose beating heart and breathing lungs; whose bones and solid muscle can keep up with my need?
Who out there needs what I need for as long as I need it when I am 35?
Surely not a husband, who goes in and out of my days, barely glancing at me; he desires only to be left alone; to drink vodka out on the street and to passively admire the passing cleavage of undemanding women who are not his wife. He desires to pass his hours in drunken bliss and to not be trampled.
A lover is the one who sparks instead; she answers that clarion call.
The call to stamina. To unfiltered cigarettes. To a bottle of St. Estephe or St. Emilion. The call of the unholy tryst in the unbridled hours of a free afternoon.
The phone conversations were brief but sweaty – in the days when telephones were still connected to walls. When every breathless expression of a sordid desire might possibly be overheard by people who trusted other people not to be indiscreet.
Keep it short. Keep it quiet.
When can you meet? Where should we go this time? Which shoes should I bring? Can you get to a hardware store and buy a decent amount of good rope?
In those days before you, the galloping hormones craved the lasso.
Rein me in, they cried in chorus. Force me to be still. To endure your will over the unceasing call of my own.
It was the only rest I could get back then: Rope.
Please, please tie me up with some good quality rope.
Now have mercy, baby.
Stick something in.
Take my advice, dear, and don’t be deceived by girls. They are ruthless and cunning, hatching the eggs of Eros all their lives. They are fearless, wily creatures who lurk in the depths of women. French wine and cheap American cigarettes usually call them out.
Like gangbusters, they will come. Ravening wolves they are, those girls. Their kisses are not sweet – they taste like tobacco and complex wine.
Kissing the girls who lurk inside of women is asking for trouble. They come out to play with fully-formed vulvas that are swollen with lust. Dripping pussies, overheating, begging for all-comers to come on already. Stick something in.
That’s how an afternoon with a tied-up girl starts out – it starts with that kind of kiss when only her wrists are tied together in front of her and then it leads to that deafening sound –
oh my god, it says.
A breathless sound but overpowering nonetheless, as two fingers finally go up her soaking hole.
Tied as I am, my whole world becomes those two probing fingers.
I cannot push my hole open wide enough for them. They are strong fingers, going deep; feeling around in there as I’m bearing down. She’s very thorough. It feels so good.
“Turn over,” she says.
“I can’t,” I say. “You have to untie my hands.” But I don’t really want to be untied. I just want to lay there naked, flat on my back, with my knees to my tits, and her fingers stuck up me, working in my hole.
“No,” she says. “I wanna see you try. Turn over.”
So I try. I try turning over for her with my hands tied. It is a graceless feat, but I accomplish it. I do it because of her. She urges me on. Her fingers are still up in there, feeling around, feeling so good it’s making my eyes roll up in my head.
But now I’m face-down in the bed pillows, my tied hands are under me – my knees are, too. I’m stuck there, at her mercy, displayed – like some really pretty dog in heat that needs to be mounted in so many unflattering ways. And still I’m wondering how, in this submissive and conquered position, I’m ever going to get another glass of wine.
That’s my hedonism speaking – no, exploding. My hedonism shouts from every pore. It needs wine. It needs nicotine. It needs a pussy that is perilously stretched until it’s stuffed to bursting with anything that wants to get up in there. And it needs something rubbing against my clit. It needs something substantial in my ass – something it can really feel; something that stays up in there and doesn’t just pop back out. It needs to be filled; it needs to stay filled. It needs all things. I am 35.
It’s the reason I need so much rope.
Who am I? I am the girl full of stories. Dirty stories, naughty stories, frightening and challenging stories. I am going to beg you to look at yourself in my stories because I am so tired of this damn mirror.
We are in a motel. A very, very cheap one off the Cross Bronx Expressway. Not because it’s all we can afford, but because we are being tacky. We are cheaters who are only making it worse and wallowing in the depths of our crumbling vows.
Our shattered vows. Our vows crushed beneath the grimy tires of passing 18-wheelers, going nowhere and getting there fast.
Both of our marriages have an expiration date that is steadily coming towards us on a high wind, but we are oblivious to anything but our pussies. Our slick, soaking, hormone-engorged pussies. No one on planet Earth is hornier than we are, 24/7. Yes, we are both 35. I am married to a man; she is married to a woman. Soon enough, everyone is gonna get wise.
But for now, we light our cigarettes from the same Zippo lighter. We sit naked on the bed and smoke in our cheap motel room that still allows smoking; that allows free bad porn on its Mafia-owned TV circuit. We drink our expensive red wine without savoring it in any way. We have come only for our pussies; to try to get them to calm the fuck down.
In Health class, when you’re still in school – trusting, squirming, not really paying attention – they tell you that girls reach their sexual peaks in their mid-thirties. But in no way do they warn you what that will look like, or how it will feel, or what it truly means.
They don’t tell you to marry someone who can survive that with you or you will tear your marriage to pieces.
They don’t say: “On second thought, girls, just don’t get married until you’re maybe about 42. Oh heck, just don’t get married at all.”
They conceal it – what it will feel like to be a tiny, squiggling, ill-informed girl stuffed inside the bones of a 35-year-old, sex-crazed bisexual woman.
Don’t go gentle into that good night, they’ll whisper instead. But you gotta really listen in order to hear them. They’re telling you to wear some killer high-heels. That they’ll make your already long legs look great. That it’ll be worth the pain. You’ll look so good in the mirror when you’re coming all over some other girl’s face.
Or she’s coming all over yours.
Girls are messy, messy, messy. Their bodies dribble and drip and ooze and squirt.
They ought to warn you about that, too, but only because it’s so interesting. And so unexpected – when you’re that girl.
In the years before you… Oh my love, I wandered.
Lonely as a cloud? No. Feverish and impatient. Angry and short-sighted. Turning over every rock that sprang into my constantly expanding field of vision. Each rock yielding a new surprise but usually not a welcome one.
You were out there – yes you were. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know I was even looking for you. I only knew: EMPTY.
Fill. Fill. Fill.
It’s that rope again. I feel so safe.
My wrists are tied behind me now.
It’s a whole new bed. A whole new girl. She’s much older than I am. Not married at all. An executive in TV, fresh from a cancelled show.
Boy, has she got time to kill. And she kills it with me.
I have found these impossibly sexy shoes. Black silk T-straps with a heel that’s straight out of 1922.
I’m slender. So straight up & down that I don’t wear a bra under my black gingham baby doll dress. I don’t need one. And I don’t wear panties, either. Or garters. I wear stay-put stockings that stay put religiously at the tops of my thighs. And it’s Spring!
Yes, I’ve come clear across Midtown Manhattan in a short black gingham baby doll dress and I wore no panties. All I lacked was a good strong wind to expose my final secret and make my whole life go up for grabs out there in the real world of New York City in broad daylight.
Yes, in those years before you, I was out of my mind. Nuts, they call it in the more colloquial fiction.
I once met a short-lived fiancée for brunch at a Polish diner wearing nothing but a pair of black leather flats and a plaid trench coat, buttoned all the way up and belted tight.
I was not an exhibitionist; I was not planning to publically disrobe. No, I’d come bearing gifts. Gifts for the imagination! Gifts of vulnerability! Gifts that promised a sexy good time after a hurried Sunday brunch.
When he learned I was naked under my coat, my gift was not met with merriment and delight. It was met with fear, outrage, disgust: “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”
Well, yes. But that was beside the point.
Today, though, the TV gal meets me at her front door and is overwhelmed by the sexiness of the black silk T-strap shoes. She yanks me into her apartment and pushes me down onto a living room chair, shoving up my dress in full view of the open windows that look out over Second Avenue. Falling to her knees, she spreads my legs and licks my pussy – ardently, all over it; then sucks my clit until I come.
She does not care that I was naked under my very short dress. She doesn’t wonder if I’m out of my fucking mind. In fact, my wearing no panties has saved her the 4.6 seconds she would have wasted pulling my panties down. Time that wound up being more wisely spent sucking on my stiff little clit.
Although it by no means felt little to me.
My clit has always been the hardest thing to ignore in the picture, regardless of how it was framed. My clit is a scene-stealer. My clit is unruly, inciting the mob to riot. It’s as hard as a rock, too. A massive rock. As big as that asteroid that’s headed straight at us and that will one day collide with the Earth. POW! Right smack into everything we thought we knew. Oh the humanity! What a collision!
Or at least until I come. Then my clit is so quiet, you won’t even know it’s there.
But this is the story about the rope.
This is the story about my wrists tied behind me now and about how I feel so safe.
Yes, I’m still married. Yes, I’m still 35. And, no, I don’t mind confessing to you all the lurid details.
The TV gal was a strap-on queen.
She knew her way around a black leather harness and a flesh-colored silicone dick.
She always had me turn over on her bed, my face in her pillows, my knees under me, ass in the air. The rope was my idea but she went along with it because she knew how much it mattered to me to feel subdued. To feel reined-in. To feel choice-less, at her mercy in the matter, as she shoved that huge silicone dick into my slick pussy. Relentlessly. Ruthlessly. Always, always, always driving it home.
She was not satisfied until I cried out, cried out, and cried out: Oh god, it feels so good.
It felt so good. It felt so good to get fucked by her.
And I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t get away. My hands were tied. And that thick fake dick kept coming.
Slamming in. Pounding against that place inside my pussy flesh that simply could not yield another inch and so I would cry out.
Oh god, it felt so good. So good to be helpless to that unremitting cock-force as she held so tight to my hips.
She fucked me hard because she hated that I was married. She fucked me hard because she hated that I was pretty. She fucked me hard because she hated that I refused to admit I was a dyke and not some lame marshmallow bisexual who always went off in the end with a man.
I didn’t care what she thought or how she felt; I just wanted to get seriously fucked by her.
And so it was written. And so it was done. And the cunnilingus wasn’t bad, either.
She had a perfect pussy.
She was much smaller than me and so always on top during 69. And I loved nothing better than to have her wet pussy in my face, my mouth all over that swelling mess of her slick, soaking lips, her open hole, her clit that tried to fight off my incessant tongue but would yield instead, making her grind down on me, her whole pussy right on my face, on my eager mouth, as she moaned deliriously, her own hot tongue down there darting in and all over my own soaking hole – until we were two trapped clits climbing toward orgasms, clinging for dear life to each other’s naked thighs as the pleasures mounted and finally tripped the spring-door onto wide open ecstasy, hips bucking, muscles in spasms, cries of relentless female lust that were surely heard all up and down the Second Avenue night.
Her pussy in my face was indeed heaven.
I didn’t think I was a dyke, and I’d given it some very serious thought over the years. I did love women and sex with women, and I did sometimes choose the woman over the man. But I loved men, too and sex with men, too. And when I closed my eyes to the world and strove to find meaning in my being here and a way to connect, to create, to transcend – then there was always a man and only a man. A man of vision, of marvelous words. A man in the clouds. A man with an angry black heart and a streak of pure white joy.
In the years before you, I did not know this man could possibly be real.
What was it about bondage that I so much needed?
It started in my girlhood, then on into my teens. It plagued my conscience in my twenties. It sent me into rapture in my thirties. Then it hit the fine open road one early morning in my forties; headed steadily past the line of the horizon and, in essence, never really came back.
There were moments when lovers in my forties suggested I be tied up and I went along with it. It was fun, but nothing I truly needed.
But as a young girl of 12, and then a growing girl, an aging girl, and then a girl who looked in the mirror and realized she was a woman and had been for some time – that girl needed the rope.
Plenty of rope.
I did not really know why. The simple fact of it alarmed me, humiliated me in my own thoughts, degraded me, scared and perplexed me. Until finally I was old enough to meet people who embraced the need for rope in me, who encouraged my need for bondage. And that’s when the lust came home to roost.
That’s when my erotic mind soared and welcomed in whoever it was I really was.
I hated leather restraints. I hated cold metal handcuffs. I hated certain types of unacceptable rope. But when the rope was right and the lover was right, my kisses were deeper than you can possibly know.
You can’t know those kisses because, like a fool, I gave them away.
Had I known you were out there; had I only known…
When I was blindfolded, naked and tied down tightly to the bed – but in a seated position; my legs spread wide, each ankle tied securely to the bedframe, a large dildo stuck up in me. In fact, I’ve been tied as tightly as I am to the bedframe to force me to sit all the way down on that dildo until it can go up me no farther. When my clit aches and can actually feel the base of the dildo that’s wedged up in me, it’s gone in that deep; when my hands are tied behind me and a warm hand finds my breast, gently tugs the erect nipple, sending me into ecstasy, my moans deep as I rock all over the thick fake dick wedged up inside me – at that moment, when he yanks my long hair back and leans over into my blindfolded darkness, into my ecstasy, and kisses my open mouth with his open mouth…
I would not have returned that kiss had I known you were anywhere out there, ever.
I would not have let that kiss be so deep.
I would not have allowed my soul to enter that equation, even though I was married to that man.
Had I known you were out there, I would have withheld. I would have waited.
I would have saved myself, my ecstasy.
Now I am grown. So grown that all that is left for me now is to recede.
Now I can stand alone out in the middle of an empty highway, look in all directions, not just ahead or behind, but all directions and I can see the sunrise inching its way up the incalculable distance of that road, from out of the East, from where miracles have always arrived. I can look out in that direction and know you are coming. You are out there. I can’t see you but I know you are there. Finally. You are there.
And I’m here. I’m waiting. I’m not tied down in any way, to anything, anymore. I’m simply waiting, for you. Of my own volition.
© – 2019 Marilyn Jaye Lewis