By Daddy X
I offer you the beginning of one of my more edgy pieces from “Surprising Myself”, a fictional anthology of women’s first time outside-the-box experiences. The publisher asked not for cherry-popping stories, but about sexually mature women who go over the edge. Available in audio as well as Kindle:
Heated hands roamed over my body. I wrapped myself in the soft caresses, felt the connection, the intensive focus. Theirs to explore at will.
The bite of a nipple clamp stunned me in its electric abruptness. I screamed in spontaneous shock, losing the dildo and my tenuous balance on the blocks, only to swing, kicking blindly inches off the floor. I could feel the prod bouncing against my face as it dangled in front of me. I bobbed and parried blind, trying to spin the plastic cock and balls so I could get it back in my mouth. Mortification washed over me in waves.
I caught the device, realizing I had a chicken-skin textured testicle in my teeth, not the fake cock. That was pushed into my eye socket, against the blindfold. I struggled to regain purchase on the blocks, spinning on the end of the chain. When my back turned again towards the audience, someone yanked my ass cheeks apart.
A generous someone assisted, holding my feet, placing them once again on the blocks, set wide enough apart to offer access between my legs. One hand traveled up the lower leg to my cunt and fingered my slick tunnel.
Other senses became acute behind the cloth. I could hear the crowd, initially in front of me, turn to my back. They weren’t turning. I was. Subtle sounds of someone clearing a throat. A cough here. A grunt there. If somebody had an orgasm, it was plain. I barely felt the theatre-in-the-round effect, the turntable spinning me slowly to offer a three-sixty view. Not fast enough to make anyone dizzy.
When they first led me out there, I was not yet blindfolded but bound tight in the rope halter. I didn’t expect so many people. A few had already abandoned their seats, standing in a queue along the aisle. Lined up to take a turn with me. Several had snapped on surgical gloves. Many of the older aficionados, those who’d stayed in their seats, probably couldn’t make it up on stage.
But they paid anyway. For the view. Now they all know who I am. An exhibitionist and a masochist. Someone who goes willingly on stage blindfolded, naked, trussed and suspended. Tonight with a gag of latex cock.
The thing had dropped down on a cord, dangling in my face. I was told to insert the longer part in my mouth and to keep it there, the realistic-appearing latex balls still exposed, obscuring my lips. Since the thick cock measured only a few inches, it wasn’t so difficult. Until I screamed. By then I was blindfolded, forced to bob at the thing, trying to get it back into position while both I and the obscene object hung, bumping against my nose.
I could sense those surrounding me on stage. The nearness created an echo off their bodies. I couldn’t tell if they were male or female. Touching me. I heard their breath, the slick slap of sweaty skin coming together as they encountered one another around me.
“Me first,” one of them muttered.
I heard a busy sound, repetitive, wet and quick. A grunt. A warm stream hit my leg.
For the introduction, I was left without the blindfold or gag. So I could talk and better affect my shame. A loudspeaker spoke out loud and low. I recognized the voice as the owner of the club, Brad, the man who’d interviewed me.
“And tonight we have a first-timer with us…? What’s your name again?”
“…” I was tongue-tied, too embarrassed to even lift my gaze from the floor.
“Speak up!” boomed his voice. “Are you serious about this? People come here to be entertained, young lady. Are you a poser? We get a lot of posers around here. Posers become obvious when they get on stage. Now, what is your name?’’
I raised my head. “M-Marjorie.” Though I barely whispered, the speaker system surprised me in its deep volume, saturating the auditorium in the odd familiarity of my own voice. I felt a well of shame flood my cheeks.
“Your last name?”
“I-I can’t. Can’t do that. I can’t embarrass my family,” resounded through the room.
“And we thought she was serious, ladies and gentlemen. Seems we do have another poser here. We may have to go on to our next event.”
Murmurs erupted from various areas of the crowd. Shifting in their seats.
“Marjorie. Just Marjorie.”
He’d changed from the vague but considerate man who’d interviewed me. He’d turned into the club promoter. A hustler who makes his living this way. By allowing people to delve into their deepest reaches, and for him to profit by the exhibition. I had nearly thought we had a connection back in his office earlier that week, but when I suggested we act upon that connection, for him to take me then and there, bent over his cluttered desk, he became this jaded but gracious host who although sympathized with me, claimed boredom of it all. Brad said he hadn’t gone on stage himself for years. His libido had used up all its chips.
“Then I’ll have to call you ‘Marjorie the Slut’. Would you rather that, Marjorie? Would you rather be referred to as a slut?”
I felt my face, hot in embarrassment. “Marjorie Soquantile.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it, Marjorie Soquantile?”
“No.” I lied.
“So, Marjorie. Why is it you’ve come to us this evening?”
I had told Brad why during the interview. He was just making me say those things to make me feel awkward in front of the crowd.
I said, “To allow the audience to see and touch me as I twirl; allow them to witness my behavior.”
“Is that all?”
“And for the experience itself. For me.”
“You’re admitting to wanting this? Isn’t that a shameful thing to want, Marjorie? What kind of woman would do such a thing?”
“And what kind is that, Marjorie Soquantile?”
“Only if you want to continue. Do you? Do you want to continue, my dear? Just look at those people. They’re waiting for you. They’ve paid a lot of money tonight. Do you want to disappoint them?”
“Which is it, Marjorie? Is that no you don’t want to continue or no you don’t want to disappoint our audience? Make yourself clear.”
“Because I’m a slut. I’m the kind of woman who wants sex for the sense of accomplishment when I do something new. Like I can go beyond the accepted to experience the other side. Not many women can.”
I had already disappointed enough people in my short thirty-three years. My parents. My pastor. My lovers, my ex-husband. None of them ever understood me. Sure, men had been happy to fall into someone like me, someone who fulfilled their every fantasy. They’d hit the jackpot. But then reality would slam down its fleshy hammer. We’d fall in love but I embarrassed them. I fucked their friends and sucked off strangers I met at bars. I was too much for any of them. My behavior got them into fights. Either they wanted to possess me, or were disgusted by me. Not one of them accepted me as I am.
The audio version of this anthology is worth the extra price. I’ve been paid a flat rate, so won’t get any additional monetary compensation.
Now, to get this story (and 12 others) in its edgy entirety: