Bitch Magnet by David Aaron Clark

By on April 12, 2010

“MY PHILOSOPHY?” says the trim black man in the white shirt with bemused wonderment.
“I have no philosophy. I live, I act, I react. Life is short, there’s no time for philosophy. What’s your philosophy?”
I allow as that I have yet to settle on one. I explain that I am, in fact, here at this disreputable West Side club because I’m still busy exploring the ramifications of several conflicting trajectories of rationalisation.
He smiles, teeth startlingly white against the deep brown skin of his face.
“Okay, I’ll accept that. A seeker. Which way do you find yourself going?”
“Dominant at the moment, I think,” I answer, glancing as casually as possible down at the elegant furrow bisecting the set of perfect globes jutting upwards next to me. A semi-anonymous pussy, sitting at waist-height and jutting open for my inspection. It occurs to me that it might as well have been the discarded bottom of some outdated department store mannequin.
But these disembodied-seeming haunches instead belong to one of three female slaves that the man I speak with has led into the club on a single leash, earlier in the evening.
A train of barefooted slavegirls dressed in cheap shifts with their eyes cast downward, they’d seemed on their way to an authentic auction block – not a faux comedy played out by leather and studded weekend masters with play dollars, but a true auction block of the soul, beaten down smooth by years of abuse and directionless yearning thwarted by either personal defect or the uncaring machinations of the world.
One was an attractive young black woman, with her hair curled and allowed both makeup and the most frilly, most vain of the unappetizing shifts. Another of the unfortunates wore huge, out-of-date brown-framed glasses with thick lenses, and beneath her pale blue shift her ample breasts pointed unappetisingly downward, her belly a round shadow against the material. She looked like a grammar-school teacher. The last of them was the prize. The possessor of handsome if bland features, she wore a torn brown shift that exposed a beautiful strong back, shoulderblades brushed against by bluntly-cut fine brown hair. Even in bare feet, her calves were perfect and her ass high. Her small breasts sat proudly with no need of support, jutting hard nipples through the thin material that covered them.
This sorry trio had been directed to kneel in a broken line across the club’s empty stage, from where each of them took a turn bending over a leather-padded horse so that their master might idly spank them, bending down to whisper in their ear after each blow. The cumulative effect of their waiting, fecund asses in a row reminded me of a musty grove of mushrooms straining from the forest loam after some long, polluted rainstorm.
I suppose their master was frightening in a way, though I felt no threat toward myself emanating from him; just the subtle push of highly honed and directed madness.
His self-assurance was preternatural. He didn’t look like most masters. The only leather he wore was his shoes; no jacket or vest, no wrist bands, no gaudy display of straps and whips hanging from an oversized belt.
He knew that with his enviable build and rich brown complexion that the simple open-collared white shirt that billowed at the waist and pulled at the broad shoulders, the tawny, small-waisted slacks were impressive enough. Any more would have been gross overstatement, a cheap parody. His power didn’t need the support of an agreed-upon structure of signifying clothing. A small black pager hung clipped to his belt.
He told me he had surveyed the scene at the club and been disappointed to see there were no other “men,” only what he regarded as aimlessly wandering cattle, cursed with slack faces, drooping bellies and badly-fit clothing. All on some kind of desperate automatic pilot that sought out any hint of a “scene,” of a sexual power play they could feed off, living vicariously through for a few more moments, imagining in their minds they might just be invited to join in.
Still, this master was generous enough with his three slaves that hunched there on the stage before him with their asses in the air. If any of the cattle just found enough sinew in his heart to merely ask, to pay the man the respect he was ultimately so hungry for, the slaves asses were theirs’ to play with, under the master’s watchful eye. But of course these hungry seekers were mere props in some exchange between master and servant, an instrument to instill discipline, to engender trust, to punish and reward. He’d stand back smirking as the horny men poked and prodded at the women’s genitalia, his sadistic glee ignited not by the women’s position but by the men’s, by their basely obvious, unconcealable desire to touch this anonymous feminine flesh.
“Go ahead, if you’d like,” he told me, seeing my own appreciative glances at the nearest slave’s rich ass – the one with the broad, proud back. I weighed my dignity against the cheap pleasure of the moment. The moment won.
I ran my hands over the girl’s tautly flexed cheeks, running a tentative finger across the indentation of the anus, the bold bulge of perineum, then dipping down into the lightly furred cleft between her labia, which were conveniently bulged out, forced open by her kneeling position.
I plucked an ice cube from my plastic cup, held it in the air for him to inspect. He nodded his approval, offering the slightest grin of condescension and amused appreciation; I was civilised enough to seek his permission, but not man enough to simply take what I wanted. Score one for me and one against me. I felt a tug within me, as I wondered if there was a part of me that, given the wrong circumstances, that could seek this haughty stranger’s approval just as desperately as these women hunched before us.
I found the ring of her sphincter with the more beveled edge of the cube. A shiver ran the length of her body and it seemed for an instant as if she might pull away. But she was better trained than that; though mine was an unknown hand, one that could belong to anyone from a cop or a nun or a diseased drooling drunkard wandered into the club from the bleak warehouse district outside, she stood firm as I forced the ice up into her lower colon.
I hold my hand under her asshole, and when it begins to force the ice back out, I push the cold package back into place, ignoring her small squirms of discomfort and repeating the process until the cube had melted to a small enough dimension so that she can retain it while it melts away into nothingness.
Putting down my cup on the ledge of the stage, I run my other hand further up between her thighs, pushing past their compressed fat until my index feature reached the sloping nether surface of her clitoral hood. Her ass flexes with pleasure, and as I push the hood open and seek the nubbin within, she aids me with a discreet raising of her ass she probably hopes is imperceptible to her master.
He sees anyway, and smiles, his strong perfect teeth nearly fluorescent against his shadowy features. I look at him once more.
“She’s well-trained,” he says, smiling.
A few strokes and a thicker moisture than that of the water began to flow over the pad of my thumb. I continue to rub her clit until she begins to visibly buck, the static electricity crackling through both our bloodstreams, building her pleasure further and further until I abruptly strike her right cheek with the open palm of my other hand.
She gasps and rises slightly up off her heels to either avoid or meet the next blow, which I delay until my thumb can plumb the depths of her wet pussy all the way up to the web between it and its attendant forefinger.
I feel the muscles in my arm jump as I lift her ass higher, the weight of her hindquarters balanced on my thumb stuck inside her cunt. She scrabbles her dirty heels against the stage, seeking purchase against my thrusts. I frig her for a few strokes, feeling the edge of my nail scrape slightly against the walls of her vagina.
With my free hand I slap her right cheek twice, savagely.
She grunts her distress. I procure another ice cube from the cup and run it over the corrugated flesh of her abused ass, the terrain now so similar to the ruffled terrain inside her cunt.
She sighs and pushes back toward me again, soothed and relieved until I lift the hem of her pushed-back shift further and run the ice up and down the column of her lower spine, eliciting a gasp. Then I jam a thumb up her ass with no warning, the only lubrication the thin layer of shit covering her interior walls.
I pump my stiffened digit back and forth in her ass, and begin to slap her haunches with my other hand, setting up a rhythm whereby as soon as she feels the relief of one insult withdrawing the other takes up the slack.
When she can take it no more, she falls sideways. Her face is still hidden, but I can tell by the shaking of her broad, handsome shoulders and the muffled sobs seeping out from within the arms thrown across her eyes that she has been reduced to terror and misery. I turn to her master.
He comes forward and sets her back up on her knees again, and gestures for me to continue if I so wish.
“She’s a good slave, but she’s still learning. She has to find her way past the fear of pain, of what might happen, and then she’ll be all right.”
“Is there a safe word?”
He looks at me as if he hasn’t heard me right.
“A safe word or a gesture she can make to say that she’s had enough?”
He shakes his head, offering me the same smile he might bestow with utter magnimity upon the village idiot as he inquired over the existence of Santa Claus, The Bogeyman or a final redemption.
“There is no safe word.”
When I’m through with her I dash what’s left in my cup across her now horribly bumpy red ass, watching her flinch in fear. The ice cubes clatter off the low edge of the stage and to the floor; the bourbon-spiked water leaks down past the depression where her ass cheeks split into hypnotic abstraction and drips between her legs into a radiant pool. The thin trails across her abused crimson flesh look like tears.
David Aaron Clark

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