I Awoke to Horrors! by Edward Haven

I Awoke to Horrors!

by Edward Haven

For Quartilla

I never wanted to manage a building, can't stand the daily chores and getting pestered twenty-four/seven—anytime a problem arises! Everyone's my boss: owner and tenants, both! I'm caught in-between, running silly, at each's beck and call! always hearing complaints—mostly from people I despise—while having to pretend I care! There's nothing more emasculating than required politeness!

Friends and acquaintances once said I was nice, even sweet. Return to me my former liberties, or take out certain tenants, and you'll put me in good cheer! Any takers? Actually, the owner's alright—likewise, most of the tenants. I gag when I have to tape eviction notices on their doors. It's never the right ones, the thieves of time, who nag more than all the others put together! It takes skill to avoid those creeps! They often bitch to the owner about what they perceive as my lack of initiative, claiming services their leases guarantee are not provided. Sometimes they report the building to the rent board or threaten to trim their payments. The owner panics, turns on me, issues warnings! Nothing like the fear of losing a few pennies! So, until things cool again, I have to placate the twits! smile while attending to their every nipping whim!

But the current tenants are innocuous compared to the ex-tenant, Vivian, the mad heroine of this tale.

In times past Vivian could've served as a model for a depiction of the follies of lust. Her appearance shocked—even in a jaded city, known for wild characters. She was well past middle age, a ravaged beauty with dramatic features: prominent forehead, high cheekbones, full lips, intense dark eyes, snaky ink-black hair. Her tawdry makeup scheme (especially the thick rouge and sooty eyeliner) and fifties lounge attire gave her a haggish persona, except, unlike other hags, she was Dionysian: ablaze like a sex-starved maenad entering orgiastic rites. Her wrinkles betrayed excess, her constant leer hunger. I have a vivid memory of her in a bar decked out in a leopard-patterned suit, dragging cigarettes from an ivory holder, blowing smoke all over a twenty-something: a bemused, perhaps Oedipal lad. She nestled up to him, pawing his thighs.

Vivian spent her nights prowling neighborhood bars and cafes in search of boys who could pass as her grandchildren. She was gaga for arty types—dancers preferred! She'd proposition us and occasionally reach for our privates. Some retreated laughing, others scampered in fright. But the lady was innocent!—couldn't help it! She was a nymphomaniac teetering on the brink of old age; this was her last stand! And she stood it gloriously! getting away with her antics because of her years and immense entertainment value. Among local drag queens she had votaries, some followed her through the neighborhood, understudying her finest gestures, carefully noting her every hissy gibe.

As a tenant Vivian had special access to me; she stalked me in different ways. Naively I played along. I thought her rapacious thirst for youths, including myself, funny. I still find her uproarious. I've amused many with Vivian stories and still break out in hysterics at certain thoughts regarding her, but she also stars in some of my worst nightmares: she holds me in her power, stares at me with her unsated nympho-hag eyes, and I must yield to her every desire.

Why work a job I detest, be vulnerable to such misery? Simple: I got hooked by the free lodging that came with the position. Like thousands of others in San Francisco in the late nineties I was evicted by a landlord who wanted to move into my apartment. It wasn't a good time to look for a place in the city: the market value of apartments had doubled in the last few years, reports placed vacancy at less than a tenth of one percent. The city had suddenly become an epicenter for the "new economy"; the Internet kicked off a new gold rush. The ambitious streamed in to grab whatever could be had. Getting a place was like winning the lottery, with a catch: the "winner" paid the fortune.

I was resigned to moving across the bay to Oakland when luckily (or unluckily) my friend Martin told me about a building-manager job in Hayes Valley that came with an apartment. The previous manager had quit that same week without having given notice.

Martin acted fast, introduced me to the building owner. All was sealed within five minutes.

My first task was to show a dingy, basement apartment, once more appropriately used for storage. It had recently been gutted and refurbished. The prospective renters filed in, encircling me. They hated each other! But loved me, in a kiss ass way! How thrilling to have a new pack of friends! I got invited to barbecues, dot-com mixers, all sorts of rubbish! No thank you! Several offered to pay a few hundred above the asked rent. Two commenced a little bidding war. Undoubtedly such types would expect more attention as tenants. Fuck 'em! They didn't have a clue! Then, towards the end of the showing, someone with initiative stole most of the applications while exiting. Absentmindedly, I had set them on a chair by the entry. (You should've seen the concerned face I put on!) Only a few people remained, happy to have less competition, to resubmit forms. I wanted to lease to the thief!

Later the same evening I was called to fix a sink in apartment 7—Vivian's place. I quickly realized she'd tweaked the piping to have an excuse to summon and check out the new manager. Neighborhood gossip must have mentioned I was young. Martin and my new Hayes Valley acquaintances had gleefully warned me about her. They'd cruelly dubbed her, "The Viv Hag." But nothing they related prepared me for the real Viv!

Upon seeing me she beamed, promptly spilt a cocktail on her blouse, thrust her chest forward, and requested I dry her. When I didn't comply she feigned concern over the fluid dabbling the floor, bent forward, affected a loss of balance, and braced herself with a hand on my crotch. She apologized, smiling lewdly.

A minute later I naively inspected below the sink to access the leak; she took advantage: pounced my ass! blurting, "Fuck me handyman!"

I jolted, banged my head against the fixtures, roared with laughter, and withdrew to face her, said, "Missy…this naughtiness…must stop!"

She tossed her hair to the side, smacked her lips, whispered, "But the handyman can."

Such was the beginning of our manager/tenant relationship.

Shortly thereafter, her mother died.

She went to Arlington, Vermont, her hometown, for the funeral and other matters. She was gone about a month, during which a high school ex, a recent widower, called upon her, and re-won her affections. Soon after their reunion he proposed marriage. She didn't answer, said she needed time to think. I believed she was leaning toward a "yes," since around that time she decided to move back to the quaint house of her childhood.

Though I scarcely knew her I was perplexed when she related this. She seemed too San Francisco to reside elsewhere, plus I couldn't imagine her giving a thought to a man over twenty-five.

Realizing my puzzlement, she said, "I'll be lovey-dovey. For me, he's still the same eager beaver who fucked me in the school library stacks. I'm getting too old for this. (She gestured at her make up and clothing, to indicate her lifestyle.) And now the city stinks! only things left are memories, a few friends, and boys like you. Why don't you put it in me as a parting gesture?"

She moved close, became emphatic.

"My friends are all getting kicked out…and the dancers I help with are losing their studio as soon as the lease expires! commercial spaces aren't protected by rent control! so we're all fucked!

"The new blood pumping in…hasn't come for our insanity or sex and rock 'n roll! They're all too serious and uptight; and they're snatching this city away more and more each day!

"I don't know what to think anymore! I just caught a kid at the studio, a few days ago, tape measuring and penciling lines on the wall. It wasn't a dancer setting up a project! So I ask him what he's doing. And he says his business is taking over our lease…and if I'm nice…get this! …they'll let us stay an extra twelve days!

"I couldn't fucking believe it! I called 911! But the police wouldn't touch him! …said they don't get involved in property issues! I said it was defacement but they still wouldn't budge! (She rolled her eyes, threw her hands up.) I'm too sick of this shit to care anymore!"

I understood Viv's predicament but still couldn't visualize her satisfied in a small town! Especially a town Norman Rockwell had lived in. (Viv was a schoolgirl at the time.)

Funny, she claimed Rockwell photographed her in a cheerleader outfit as a study for his Post cover "Losing the Game." (She said, "If you ever see it: I'm the girl on the right. I look real pissed. It's as dark as Norman ever got.") She once dug into a shoebox for photographic proof of her relationship with Rockwell and ended up showing me a lifespan of images. I didn't see her in Rockwell's studio, as she promised, but I did see a little girl smiling with a dark purple caterpillar on the frilly sleeve of her Sunday best. She also played on swings and sleds. Who needed Norman? And there she was with Vincent—her high school and current beau—spiffed for some event. I also saw her San Francisco chronology, as a fresh, then ripe, brunette hottie fashioned in everything in the style-cycle from sixties mod to eighties new wave. Her retrospective went up to the quasi fifties Vegas look she had at the time.

She explained many of the photos, told a few decades of San Francisco stories, centered on the pursuit of epicurean delights! indulgences! and flitting about, carefree—place-to-place, embrace-to-embrace!

The night before she left Vivian pulled the pipe ploy for the third or fourth time. When I answered her page she plead for my immediate assistance, said her kitchen was flooded. I knew it wasn't true, but didn't mind. She was leaving the following day and I wanted to see her one last time. I'd grown fond of her.

I had to laugh: upon arriving I saw her kitchen had been doused by what appeared to be a single glass of water.

She was dressed to kill—for a retiree—in a sheer blouse (through which one could see a scarlet silky bra), blood-red dress, nursie stockings, and port-wine high heels. She waved a cigarette (in a green holder) like a wand and sipped at an olived martini. She set her drink down, drew out the harpooned olive, seductively pressed it to her red-glossed, pouting lips. (She was always toying with her mouth or sucking at things! Her oral fixation was excessive!)

Strangely, most of her things remained unpacked. Did she intend to slough them with her San Francisco habits? Or, perhaps, friends were to forward them. (It was mid-month; two weeks remained for clearing the place.) Yet, somehow, I didn't figure that as the case; couldn't see her play-acting "matronly" or "respectable" roles with drug paraphernalia or witchcraft books adorning her coffee table.

At a loss of what to say, I pointed to one such book, lying by a small shrine she had set up in her living room, asked, "What's this? Crowley-twaddle?"

"A book of spells; it's not twaddle. You really shouldn't mock Aleister Crowley, ya know."

She offered me a drink (I accepted) and fixed me a screwdriver with fresh squeezed juice and a twist of lime. We drifted into conversation; I got a little too sentimental with my goodbyes.

Then she advanced, lowered her voice, said, "Your the splittin' image of Jimmy Z, a Polk Street hustler I knew in the early Eighties. His clients were men, but I bought some fun too. He had a cute ass and sweet, ear-to-ear, smile, was a teaser and pleaser, like you (she softly brushed my cheek with her forefinger). But AIDS took him away. He looked like a scarecrow last time I ran into him… (She covered her face with her hands and wept.) It's over…me and this city, we're dead too."

I patted her back to console, ended up getting surprised by her life affirming response—a squeeze of my groin!

"Shameless hussy! Is that how you mourn the dead?"

"Ha, ha! Jimmy'd love it."

I backed away, wondering why she had called me a teaser and pleaser, or how she could possibly refrain from young men—whether bought or scored—as soon as she set foot in her frigid hometown.

Around that time—we had already chatted for a good half-hour—my perceptions blurred, more than a single drink could cause! I was sloshed! out of sync! couldn't say much of what I intended, but, nonetheless, plodded on; in fact, I ended up saying suggestive things best left unsaid. Drowsiness buckled my knees, made me want to lie down on the floor, zero out.

Then my memory fizzles. I can only recall a few segments. First, I see a blurry Viv, gesticulating wildly! She howls at me, brags about slipping a pill into my glass! Another, she kiss-smacks my ear, whispers, "Your mine tonight, fuck-boy." Lastly, the floor goes haywire, rocks topsy-turvy. I falter, try to remain afoot but, instead, trip and tumble. Arms clasp me; wallpaper-paisley streams past my face.

I don't know how much time passed before I transitioned back to consciousness, became vaguely aware I was thirsty and had a cloudy pain in my head; I also thought I heard female voices: talking about me? An odd feeling at my lips and a shifting weight on my stomach, must have inspired the dream I was having: a big cat was trying to prod me awake. It wanted fed. I was determined to resist its desire, but wasn't winning. I started to gather my bearings, remember what happened just prior to blacking out: my difficulty in speaking, sliding down a wall. My eyes opened. It wasn't a feline!

I awoke to horrors! Viv—ghastly, sagging in red skimpy lace—was straddling my naked body! White-hot panic flashed my nerves! Tape muted my screams! I was tied—drawn and quartered!—belly up on her bed! I ravaged my wrists and ankles trying to jerk free! All was hopeless! I couldn't lift a finger in my own defense! The villain was clearly overjoyed I'd come to! Was, no doubt, aroused by the power she wielded and stoked up by the promise of debaucheries to come! She cackled—bearing stained teeth—while taunting my side with a riding crop!

She ceased plying her disciplinary craft, poised motionless and silent like a reptile ready to strike! staring down at me like I was her next meal! (The image of those predatory eyes, smoldering with flames of primal cruelty and hunger, burnt forever into the tenderness of my frontal lobe!) Then she grinned lasciviously, leaned to my face, and lustily slobbered me with her liquored lips and tongue. My guts jolted! extremities twitched like decapitated chickens! Distress sizzled my brain: "Is she a killer? Is this foreplay for a butchering? Will I get wolfed in a stew?"

She blew her hot alcohol breath up my nostrils, kept whispering things like, "Thata boy! Wiggle, struggle, I like it!" while gazing into my quivering eyes.

After pleasuring over my fear she swished her ebony snake-locks around my chest, sat up, assumed what looked like a parody of a dominatrix's stance, and barked, "Giddy-up horse! Get it up! I want to ride! Now!" punctuating, "now!" with a whack of her whip!

Then a silly, determined expression screwed onto her face! she took off her panties, tossed them to the floor and began pulsing her sweaty ass, to-and-fro, over my navel; grabbed at the sad witheredness between my legs! trying to raise it from the dead! But no luck! What was once a vibrant, thirsting organ was already too thoroughly slain!—the evening's first casualty!

"Will it ever rise again?" I wondered.

Her touch sickened me! I desired nothing, at that vile point in time, except to deliver myself from Viv's foul proximity! I wanted to race after my poor dead cock!—across the Styx!—into Hades!

She shouted, "Lord knows this thing won't spring! Are you a stallion or a mare, boy?"

(The vanity of some never ceases to astound! What did the old slithering devil think? That she had the allure of a nubile? That the pestilence of her wretched fingers could heal?)

As if on cue, two hefty amazons—off duty policewomen getting their kicks?—came into the bedroom and watched the unhappy proceedings. White Venetian carnival masks concealed their faces: one, a smiling crescent moon; the other, a classic comedy mask. In sharp contrast to the dainty masks their bodies looked butch and brutal! I wondered if Viv needed some muscle to back her up because she planed to untie me soon. They ridiculed me for my impotence and threatened "penalties" if I didn't stiffen. Despite being intimidated by their gruff manner and having forebodings over what they might do I was somewhat relieved they'd appeared. I figured three would be less likely to kill than one.

Vivian brought her face to mine again, examining me, while addressing the others: "Ladies, I think he needs a Priapic treatment; let's paint fertility incantations on him.

"But first we'll give him sustenance; this boy must be thirsty and starved. Only the best will suit this pleasure toy. I want his tool tip top."

The assistant in the moon mask fetched a tray of sushi and fruit, and a bottle of Pellegrino. (I anticipated the removal of the tape; didn't quite know if I should feast or scream!) She set the food down on the bed and warned me not to cry out; held a row of sharp fingernails by my throat and peeled the tape from my lips. Without hesitation, I cried for help! but her swift hand instantly covered my mouth; concurrently, her other hand's nails scratched my throat.

She barked, "Okay! if that's how you like to play..." inserted a forefinger in my mouth, fiercely pinched and pulled my cheek! quickly established who was boss!

It wasn't difficult to resign myself to eating and drinking. But I felt silly having food slipped into my mouth like an infant.

After my meal, the vixens brought out tempera paints and a makeup kit!

Then the comedy-masked hoyden, perhaps angry over my audacity to yell, roughly reapplied the tape to my mouth—a white medical sort—said, "No more noise from you, bitch! By the way…Do you need to potty? No, don't get any ideas. You'll be watched. There's no escaping us!"

Horrified, I shook my head.

"Well, let us know if you change your mind, bitch."

Viv pulled out a red lipstick saying she'd draw a smile on me—"to cheer me up"! Her minions followed, caking my face with powder. I teared and sneezed as it went in my eyes and up my nostrils.

"Oh, poor bitch! Do you need a hankie?" the offending brute continued.

But inflicting humiliation and pain weren't satisfying enough pursuits for the sadists! they also had to be artsy! My skin became their canvas! They assumed an air of solemnity as they covered it with a hodgepodge of hieroglyphs, Latin, phallic symbols, and bulls, while consulting a small stack of books! At times they'd pause to ceremoniously babble some Latinate gibberish! or for Viv to expound upon the significance of a few phrases, the cult of Isis, or Priapean rites.

I was wearied from Viv's relentless persecution, became dreamy, began observing their applications of color to me as if my body was projected on a screen. I had disengaged from that time and place, reminiscing in childhood pleasantries, when, suddenly, a virulent rage seized my vocal cords! I screamed (rendered incomprehensible by the tape, of course):

"Why? …why all the scholarly attention to detail, you twit? What are you? …a libertine or pedant? … What a joke! You pathetic rapist! …trying to conjure up cock with sex-spells! You want it so bad, you ol' wheezing letch! Good luck! Sure! you've got me rigged like a puppet! But you can't control my member! You'll never get me hard…not in a million years! Ha! Ha! …who's slave to who?"

(I viewed her failure to arouse me as a consolatory victory. But I also knew I desperately needed the crutch of "little victories" because I was ashamed beyond measure!)

My muted racket distracted them; they glanced at me, annoyed; one of the amazons jabbed my ribs, told me to shut up.

Silenced, I turned my assault inward: lacerated myself over my unfortunate habit of latching onto odd characters and getting involved in their bizarre scenarios, or—as that night—falling prey to their deviant desires! There must be, I thought, a reason I was foolish enough to consider Vivian a friend, to deem, among other things, her proclivity for groping my nether regions of slight significance.

Discomforting questions ensued: Was it a fatal curiosity or quirky inclinations—ones I'd rather not face—that had propelled me into her clutches? Had I been flattered by and (unwittingly) reciprocative to the sexual advances of a much older woman? Had I provoked her into providing what I was afraid to pursue?

The clap of Viv's hands quieted such nagging queries; I heard her say: "The ritual is complete…"

They put away their art supplies, then formed a circle, holding hands, and rotated, faster and faster, giggling, like schoolgirls! It was almost cute! Viv broke away, nearly tripped, and laughing hysterically brought a mirror up to my face to show off their collective mischief! I looked excessively perverse!—like a demented mime in some cultish, erotic horror-flick!—with a big lipstick grin! screaming eyes! and three rosy phalluses painted on my cheeks and forehead!

Viv straddled me again, gripped my penis at the base and vigorously slapped it around my thighs and pelvis, frowned disapprovingly, said, "This pecker's still limp. You should be ashamed of yourself, young man."

Dejectedly, she dismounted my torso and exited the bedroom (streaks of paint on her ass), following the others. I finally had a smattering of peace and solitude, was able to relax in my dimly lit prison, taking note of a few flickering candles on a chest of drawers, emitting a pleasant vanilla perfume. I became lost in their flames and the movement of their light and shadows playing on the wall, almost forgot my sorry plight. But my respite soon vanished: the villains began chanting—starting low, each time, and working up to a frenzied crescendo—more of their pig-Latin tripe, between peals of sinister laughter! Something about hearing their foul racket yet not seeing them especially vexed me! Odd to say, it seemed some mischievous spirit had slipped under my skin to play havoc with my nerves—grind them into a tempest of shrills—like an unbridled devil at fiddle strings!

I expected new lows of bedlam! But surprise! The charade turned for the better! A naked, fetching, dark haired girl belly-danced into the bedroom tapping mini brass cymbals with one hand and waving a censer with the other.

What a source of rejuvenation that lithe lovely was! Her arrival soothed me to no end! Beauty and grace, as she had, have curative properties that make a mockery of the pills modern medicine prescribes!

Indicating the censer, she said, "This is sage; it will chase away all the feelings of ill omen that reside here."

Then striking a stagy pose, she altered her voice: "Don't you recognize me? It is, I, Vivian. You now see me as my true self; I am a young woman! I will arouse you, then leave you. When you are longing for me, I'll return in my older form. Then you must make love to me like both our lives depend on it. If you make love to me when I look older I'll become released from a spell cast upon me long ago. Happily ever after, I'll appear young. I'm the reincarnation of Scheherazade, I'll tell you one thousand and one stories, and make love to you one thousand and one nights, if you only take me once in my older form, and find me sexy that way, and make me feel desirable."

She was San Francisco with all its innocent nuttiness and charm; a young bud I longed to pluck; a flower child of the nineties; part of the wave that still flocked to the city in a belated pilgrimage to the summer of love.

She set down her toys and climbed atop me, began massaging my chest (smearing red and blue characters into violet) with firm, dexterous artistry. I felt a stir in my loins; the girl was doing what Christ did for Lazarus!

Yes! I could see her as a Scheherazade! She positively glowed in the newly-magical chamber's amber atmosphere! Uncannily, she did bear some resemblance to the young Viv I had seen in the photos! Was I disoriented, again? Hyper-impressionable? Had I been drugged, a second time? In my food? With hallucinogens? aphrodisiacs? What could explain the appearance of this erotic odalisque so kindly rubbing her heavenly hands above my racing heart! What did she have to do with Viv's evil scheme? Was she flesh and blood? or a succubus up to no good with the weapon of her immaculate body, exquisite face, and luminous sapphire eyes?

She tilted her adorable head slightly back, parted her lips, as if swooning! shifted forward, to my collarbones, placing each of her thighs against my ears, and began rubbing her clitoris against my chin! anointing it with honey dew! She quivered, became urgent in her pleasure quest, gasping erratically, unsteadily moaning, louder and louder!

I burned under her like a votive offering! yearned to leap up and clasp her taut, undulating curvaceousness! (If she'd only free me, I thought. Then I'd pay due homage! caress her every inch! whirl her into a ballet of nuptial entwinements! pollinate her pleasure trove!)

She climaxed; then, after a long sigh, gazed down, mockingly and enticingly like a courtesan gaming a suitor from fortunes! whispered, "Ah, you can't do that…now…can you?"

At that moment—and I will remember it for an eternity—she was absolute and unending desirability! Her coquettish smile seemed to echo her promise of a thousand and one nights of carnal delights!

She had aroused me to a painful stiffness!—blood engorged internal strangulation! I craved release! Mercifully, she tended me: stretched back, thrusting out her perky breasts and placing a hand on my penis!

"There," she said, averting her eyes, nearly closing them, assuming a sphinx like expression.

Her elixir-fingers promised quick liberation! My muscles tensed! I arched my spine off the mattress, dreamed of shooting my seed onto her flawless symmetry!

But no! Ruination!

Just as I glimpsed heaven's gate, Vivian rushed in frantically screaming, "You stupid slut, that's mine! You're not to frig him! He may spunk if you do that!"

She shoved at the lass, shouting, "Get off him! He's ready to fuck!"

Looking slightly embarrassed the girl giggled, saying, "Now you see my two states at once."

Viv continued, "You shut up! Wave your tits in his face! do something with your mouth! keep him hard!"

What a pliable fool I was! I'd been duped by a good cop routine! (But, in fairness, there's no way to resist arousal by such a nymph, in any circumstance!)

I groaned under the tape, shook my head: "No!" almost vomited! stomach acid gurgled to my throat! But I was also aroused! Scheherazade brushed her delightful mammaries across my imprisoned yet willing face. Conflicting sensations! Attractions! Repulsions! Vivian squatted over me, took me in her hand, grinned triumphantly, partly slid my stiffness inside herself!

She held steady, momentarily, poised at the end, then fell heavy upon my balls, with a painful thud! entirely encasing me within her loathsome cavity! said, "Ah!…darling! I've awaited this prick far too long!" and started furiously heaving up and down, bellowing, "Fuck! Fuck! Ahhh! Fuck! …"—each ass-smack rattling my already-prostrate brain! I sought solace in the haven (and scourge) of Scheherazade's youthful charms! (I say "scourge," since her attributes were wielded in Viv's service!) If only my tongue had been free! As a consolation I whiffed her fine scent and pressed my face to the billows of her plushy, heaving bosoms!

Yes, Scheherazade was Vivian's snare: without her, repulsion would fast soften my penis—grant a quick exit! But I didn't dare look away from or try to blot out my angelic seductress for a second! The balm of her beauty kept me fastened to sanity! Her silky tresses or luscious skin need only graze my cheek and I'd forget (albeit fleetingly) the pounding of Viv's flabby haunches!

I was focused on Scheherazade, but for the life of me, I couldn't ejaculate! end my unnatural coupling! I'm embarrassed to admit: the physical aspect of Viv's lubricated warmth was not unpleasant; and I tried imagining her orifice was Scheherazade's. But my cock was a dry tap! My testicles were still at a boil, but they couldn't emit: the gorgon's afflictions had sealed them tight like a pressure cooker!

Amidst her upsy-downsy antics, Viv (perhaps afraid I might discharge), shooed Scheherazade away and called to the amazons for assistance. So, the tease withdrew!—all giggles—just out of reach! The brutes came forth, untied my arms without comment, held them tightly behind my back, and forced my face up to Viv, who seized my upper body and greedily leaned into nipping and sucking at my throat!

I jerked away! Then I felt faint…nauseous.

Thwack! One of the goons swatted me, wrung my ear, directed my head back to the ravisher, barked, "Behave!"

Viv got upset, nudged her nose against mine, glared fiercely, said, "I can't ride anymore! Why don't you do your bit, whore?"

Scheherazade came close again, started rubbing her vulva against my wounded ear, said, "Isn't it lovely how she wants you. Now its time to perform your conjugal duties."

Viv ran her fingers over my chest appraisingly, murmured, "Ah, these sinews are all mine."

Then the amazons released my arms and abruptly shoved my torso back onto the bed, dragged my ass toward my feet—in conjunction, Viv comically shifted backwards, keeping me inside her—so I could bend my legs, and place myself into a decent thrusting position. And the young enchantress reclined by my side, continued with my ear, utilizing her talented tongue.

She whispered, "We expect a passionate performance," and again pulled away.

Then Viv fell forward, lost my penis, repositioned herself, began shaking her rear up and down, said, "Where are your manners, whore? Put that prick back!"

I shut my eyes, stretched my arms behind my head, as far as I could from the unsavory proceedings! But the crescent-mooned flunky grabbed my right hand, bent its fingers backwards, as a warning. I had no option but to comply. So I reinserted and obeyed an additional command to firmly grip Viv's hips.

"For fuck's sake! start bucking, stallion!" Viv shouted.

The hoydens clapped in unison, enunciating on time, "One! Two! Three! Fuck!"

On cue, I commenced stroking into and tugging Viv to and fro! who flailed like a rabid maenad! shrieked, "Atta boy! Faster! Faster!"

Dutifully, I quickened my piston mechanics! Pounded thighs against buttocks for at least thirty minutes, trying to finish the loathsome deed as soon as possible, when I happened to notice Scheherazade, off to the side, smiling the sort of sluttish smile that sends sap up my shaft. Oddly, against my notions of freewill and aesthetics, I had also become excited by the lewdness in Vivian's hag eyes. These things, compounded with the sensation of touch, caused me to ejaculate into her thieving womb!

I softened; she collapsed to my chest, said, "Ah, that does a girl good…"

Lost in post-coital bliss, she chattered aimlessly. The others went to the kitchen—off guard, no doubt, because I'd succeeded in projecting my charge toward seventh-heaven. I saw an opportunity for escape. During sex a leg had come loose. If I succeeded in untying the second I knew I'd have a shot at jumping out the bedroom window. Once in the alley, about five feet below, I could dash to my friend Martin's place.

I edged closer to the foot of the bed—with babbling Viv on top, oblivious—and toyed with the last rope. It unfastened! I pushed my oppressor to the floor! I was elated, then afraid I'd seriously hurt her. But she instantly sprang up and rallied the others with a blood-curdling cry! I yanked open the window! All three dashed in, failed to catch me but did manage snatching a blanket I was making off with!

Minus a means to cover my body I still followed my impulse to leap!

Outside a whole new set of problems hit! Beyond frigid dampness enveloping my skin I felt the shame of public nudity! Ground, buildings, and everything else surrounding seemed Argus eyed and proddingly inquisitive! A place I had routinely trod became the worst of holding pins! I trembled, terrorized by the threat of the clothed-world's glances!

I had only dashed a few yards toward Martin's, when I noticed an acquaintance—Jessica—at her window, on the second floor! I zigzagged, confused, thrown off track, then quickly retreated to a dark corner! I'd already provided too much entertainment for the night! and didn't aspire to top billing in local gossip!

I tore the tape (with some skin?) from my mouth, tried to smear to non-recognition the painted symbols on my face and body, gathered my thoughts, then slinked—staying in the shadows as much as I could—feline-like to Martin's, and tapped the windowpane. No luck! There were no other options! Scaling the fence by the sidewalk and seeking assistance was out of the question! Consigning myself back to Vivian-oblivion would be infinitely better than such social suicide!

I returned to the corner and watched for Martin's light. Three quarters of an hour must have passed and he still didn't show. Instead of showering, happily watching colors glide off my flesh and spiral to the drain, I shivered like an abandoned pet!

Shelter and warmth beckoned! I caved! scampered to Viv's window, and knocked like a returning prodigal son! A gleeful Vivian came forward, opened the window with a gesture of bravado. Then she lifted a nightie, slipped on since my escape, above her waist, flapped it, did a little cancan, said, "Beg, slut!"

To gain admission I had to plead for the privilege of servicing her again! Defeated, forlorn, I crawled back in, assisted by one of her minions, who chuckled at my reduction to beggary. I wanted to press my body to her warmth, but she shoved me away. I was an untouchable, even in that den of inequity! For a split second I was perversely grateful to Viv for taking me back; I must have succumbed to the odd feelings of reverence victims sometimes feel towards their persecutors.

"Lick!" Viv ordered, gesturing to the over ripeness between her legs.

"Go to hell!" I replied, mustering a semblance of dignity. "I'll have you declawed!"

"Bad attitude! Let's gag this ingrate!"

Collectively they overpowered me; one jabbed and tickled my ribs while the others kept me pinned. Then they dragged me to a bedpost, secured my right arm to it, left me standing, and reapplied their tape to the tender skin over my chattering teeth. Mercifully, they also wrapped me in a wool blanket.

Scheherazade was instructed to attend to me. She knelt before me, pushed aside the blanket from my crotch, smiled, took my chilled sex to the sanctum of her life-giving mouth, and applied a rotary tongue technique about the tip, all the while staring into my eyes; eased off teasingly, then alternated between vigorously sucking and lightly lapping lollypop-style. Her dexterity and seraphic flutterings quickly raised me to new heights! Then, predictably, as I forgot the night's misery—became certain all suffering is mere illusion—Vivian cut in, demanding my penis! So, sadly, I was ejected from heavenly circles—the lass's uplifting lips and tongue twirls—to the renewed lows of sex-servitude! Viv squatted in the girl's stead and performed her own brand of oral calisthenics. After Olympian feats—nonetheless, uninspiring—she stood, twisted her ass to my groin, and barked, "Mount me, fucker!" Meanwhile, Scheherazade lightly scratched my testicles and whispered lewd things, to help assure my continued stiffness. Then she—good cop turned bad!—bit my earlobe and shoved me inside Viv!

After I served Vivian a second time, the amazons bade me lie back-wise on the bed. Viv sat on my belly, put her index finger to her lips, and propositioned: "Shussss… Mum's the word. If you promise to keep quiet about tonight's fun you can have my brass bed. Jimmy? …Eddie? …whatever your name is. You'll have naked ladies splayed all over this thing in no time. You can sing 'em "Lay Lady Lay." So, we'll all walk out of here happy and satisfied tonight? You'll get your brass prize and these dears 'll get the rest of the goodies I'm leaving, right? (She pushed on my chest for emphasis.) I'll have my beauty sleep tonight, board a plane tomorrow, and fly off to a new life and future husband, deal?"

Why bother seeking retribution for wrongs committed by a nympho well over twice my age, I reasoned. Furthermore, is not assailing a soon-to-be bride a gesture in poor taste? I've always been humbled by the sanctity of marriage. Plus, I appreciated her generous offer of compensation for the evening's indignities. I nodded "yes" to the payment of one brass bed for my role in Vivian's last fuck-boy frolic.

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[Edward Haven's Bio appears on our Bio page.]