Read Online Slave Lover by Marco Vassi - Free Book Online Page A

them tits. Oh, I’m gonna fuck her good. I’m gonna give it to her good.”
    “Also,” the slightly pedantic voice of the attendant went on, “If you wish to have her used by anyone else, he must keep within the limits of your checklist, and each such use will be added as an extra on your bill.”
    “Sure, sure, money’s no object,” the voice said. “Hey, Irwin, com’ere,” he shouted. “Have a piece on me.”
    Constance was pulled up, pushed back until her buttocks hit a cold leather slab, and then her arms and legs were tied down. The slab was tilted until it attained the horizontal, and for the second time in two days, she was blindfolded, drugged, and tied down on her back while some strange man prepared to do vile and disgusting things to her.
    “I wonder whether understanding him compassionately would help me to accept what he’s doing?” Constance thought as the man ran hot nervous fingers over her flesh and slobbered on her breasts. Her thoughts were like distant clouds, for the drug had succeeded in dissociating her from her sense of self. She was a slave to sensation. The pulsing of her heart, the circulation of her blood, the breathing of her skin, became the screen upon which all else took place, and those processes were so impersonal she could hardly claim them at all. She had difficulty telling the difference between her body and that of the man who was debauching her. The whip fell on her like summer rain, and his fingers in her cunt were like the tongues of kittens on the eyelids. She swallowed his fist as easily as she would a bite of ripe pear. The nipple clips seemed as soft as the mouth of a toothless infant at her breast.
    At one point, when the man had called several others over, and Constance was allowing herself to be totally consumed by the attention she was receiving, the entire activity suddenly took on a clinical, biophysical cast. Fist-fucking transmogrified to a grotesque anatomical idiocy in which someone found pleasure in mucking about in her entrails. Her insight at that instant struck at the heart of eroticism, which is that it does not exist except as an image. The straightforward need which sends pole into hole, or tongue into mucous membrane, or mouth onto flesh stick, is a function of hydraulics. A certain tension builds and is discharged. But when the discharge is not allowed, for one reason or another, the tension, amplified by distortions of muscular armor, erupts into phantasmagoria. Since there can be no satisfaction at that level, the person is driven to imagining wilder and wilder acts, and unless this process is harmonized, can drive the organism into bizarre behavior, which is then rationalized and synthesized within a context of consensual validity, otherwise known as subculture. Thus, for a man to slip his fist in and out of someone’s asshole is not an act in the ordinary sense of the word, but a meta-act in which image confronts the outer limits of physical tolerance.
    “What’s going on here is nothing more than an idea,” Constance realized, and in a stroke liberated herself from eroticism entirely.
    Having done so, she was free to appreciate the actual details of what was taking place. The pain in her nipples was just right, sending delicious zigzags of electricity through her. The suspension by her wrists from a hanging bar was perfect for pulling all the excess tension from her limbs and torso. The whip was an intermittent arousal from her tendency to fall into occluded revery. The fists in her ass and cunt provided the perfect non-attainable goal of insatiable fulfillment.
    The experience was given rococo overtones by the raucous din all around her, and by the awareness that the men were as unreal to her from her point of view as she was to them from theirs, and wondered if they had the simple intelligence to realize that.
    “If they did,” she reasoned, “the war between the genders would be instantly transformed by a fiat of abstraction into