When he felt the itching between his legs, Scott panicked and tried to rise from the bed, only to discover that somehow the covers had twisted around his wrists and ankles, holding him firmly in place. Chuck Scusset rose, smiling broadly now, eyes preternaturally bright. The itching sensation grew more intense, and Scott felt the muscles in his thighs and calves shifting, assuming different contours. There was an odd pull at the base of his back, as though his pelvis had assumed a different shape, and his buttocks felt broader.
'What the fuck are you doing?' He tried to put force into the words, but they sounded desperate even to him. And the voice wasn't quite right; it was higher pitched, softer than he had expected.
'You've got good hair,' Chuck spoke quietly, standing beside the bed. 'I won't even have to change that.' Scott's bonds pulled him back down onto the bed, retracting so that his limbs were drawn taut.
Chuck was holding a knife in one hand now, bending slowly down to undo Scott's belt with the other. 'It's not just movies I can change, you know. They're just easier.'
Scott was frozen by shock as his jeans were lowered, revealing far less than he was accustomed to seeing there. The blade flickered in front of his eyes.
'But this is much more fun,' Chuck breathed as the knife lowered, for the first time.
A HARD MAN IS GOOD TO FIND
R. Patrick Gates
She was wet. Again.
The answer was obvious. Right outside the window a crew of bare-chested men were digging up the road. Several of them had decent bodies. One of them was drop-dead gorgeous.
She crossed her legs. The food came.
'This doctor at the hospital says I suffer from chronic fatigue. That's a very 'in' disease, you know. Shelly, the head nurse on my floor, says he's just trying to get in my pants, but I don't know.' Her friend, Darlene, stopped talking long enough to pick through her chef's salad with a fork and remove all the onions.
'Jeff, that's the doctor, called it 'the yuppie disease.' One of the other nurses said it was contagious and I must have caught it from someone, but when I asked Jeff, he said that was baloney. Still, if it is contagious, I bet I got it from that weirdo Roger. I mean, Lisa, he is just
Darlene rattled on, but Lisa wasn't listening anymore. Everything her friend was saying she'd heard a hundred times before from her. The gorgeous one was running a jackhammer, making his muscles ripple and dance.
'When was the last time you really,
Darlene, interrupted in the middle of listing the merits of Martha's Vineyard, looked in shock at Lisa. She blushed a deep red, but a twitch of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. 'Lee! The way you talk! You sound like one of the guys!' Darlene giggled.
It was true. Lisa knew it. She'd always sounded like one of the guys. It was part of the problem.
The jackhammer stopped. The gorgeous one had noticed her practically drooling over him as he worked, and now he paused and looked at her. Lisa couldn't help herself; she licked her lips. He smiled.
'I only got… had… you know, sex like that once, I guess,' Darlene said softly, self-consciously. 'It was on the night of my senior prom in a vibrating bed at the Dew Drop Inn. A bunch of us rented a whole slew of rooms for a party — ' Darlene stopped, suddenly realizing that Lisa wasn't listening. She followed her friend's eyes to the window. A good-looking construction worker was standing, hips thrust out, hand on crotch, beckoning to Lisa. Darlene could read his lips as he mouthed, 'You want this?'
Darlene gasped in shock, then gasped again when she saw that Lisa was nodding and smiling back. 'Lee!' Darlene exclaimed, embarrassment blushing in her cheeks. 'My God! You're incredible! You'd better cut it out or he's going to think you're serious. That's how women get raped you know.'
Lisa looked at her friend sideways, then back at the construction worker who was gathering up his coat and lunch pail, his eyes still on her, beckoning. 'I'm sorry, Dar,' Lisa said. 'I've got to go.'
Darlene sat agape as Lisa left with the construction worker.
The weekend was a blur for Lisa. They guy's name was Rod and he was a weekend cokehead working his way up to a full-time habit. Lee didn't care. She'd tried the sexual enhancements of coke before, was even into it heavily for a while. If it wasn't for her deviated septum, which gave her voice its nasal twang and often prevented her from snorting and getting off, she could have easily been a coke addict, too. Now she was a lot of things, but a nymphomaniac cokehead would have been hitting the bottom of the barrel. If she'd gone that route, it would've only been a matter of time before she would have been reduced to prostitution to support both her habits.
As soon as they got to his apartment, Rod produced a large baggie of nose candy. She did a few lines and was on her way. When Rod used an artist's feathery brush to apply some of the South American jungle dust to her nipples and other sensitive areas, she was lost.
She had snatches of memory: Rod doing line after line of coke, then making wild, gymnastic love to her for hours on end; drinking Jack Daniel's from the bottle, Rod using the bottle on her, filling her, drinking from her; people coming and going (did she make it with several of Rod's friends —
When she woke, late Saturday night, her body ached everywhere and her mouth felt as if the proverbial army had marched through it — twice! Rod was asleep next to her, the rim of his nostrils caked with the remains of his last hit.
Lisa looked at his naked body in the moonlight coming through the window and felt the burning desire begin again deep in her groin. The past forty-eight hours had been the best sex she'd ever had. She'd come as close to the perfect orgasm as she was likely to get; it had taken drugs, liquor, and group sex, but still she'd come up short; still, she was left unsatisfied.
In the moonlight, she played with him, and despaired. She was never going to get what she needed. She was never going to reach the perfect plane of orgasmic fulfillment. There was no man alive who could satisfy her. She was thirty-two years old and had been searching for the perfect orgasm since she was ten and had lost her cherry to a bicycle seat on a long ride, during which she had also discovered her addiction to orgasms.
Since then she'd suffered every bizarre sexual humiliation and degradation, from having to be taken to the hospital at the age of fifteen to have a chunk of pepperoni stick removed from her womb, to taking on the entire football team after the Thanksgiving game her senior year in high school. Two decades of sexual adventurism and the closest she'd ever come to the perfect cum was this pitiful weekend with Rod and company. If AIDS didn't get her, boredom surely would.
Still asleep, Rod was stirring under her touch. He moaned deeply in his throat and his breathing became shallow. Lisa stroked him and felt the fire in her loins begin to spread. Moaning, more a cry of pain than of lust, Lisa went down on him, awakening his sleeping lust with her tongue and lips.
Rod moaned and Lee heard an echo of her pain in it. She worked on him faster, swelling him to the point of release, then backing off. Rod slept on, but his desire was fully awake and standing tall.
With a whimper of despair at the futility of it all, Lisa mounted him in the moonlight, pulling him inside her, wanting to pull all of him, his entire body, inside her as if that were the only way she could ever be satisfied.
His breathing became choppy. He began to buck beneath her. She rode him, tiny orgasms starting before she even had him all the way inside her, and sighed at the frustration of it all.
Rod began wheezing loudly with exertion as he convulsed beneath her. Just when she thought he would wear out, he began to make strange gargling noises and his bucking took on new energy. His writhing awakened the start of what she knew was going to be a truly momentous orgasm.
'Yes! Yes!' she cried.
His hands closed on her arms and he began to shake her. The first wave of the orgasm washed over her,
