Leah Lays London

The artist August 2, 2010

She isn’t my type physically. But she has a smile and a charm, an easy way of speaking, and, oh, there’s that laugh. I haven’t been with a woman since February. I go home with her.

***

We have been chatting because she liked my ad on Collarme, an alternative to Craigslist that I have been exploring. Like me, she switches with women. Like me, she prefers a submissive role to men. Like me, she is in a long distance relationship. While her partner is away, she amuses herself with the girls that she finds.

***

Her art covers her walls. I don’t find the canvases appealing. At their best, it’s Modi on a very bad day, though, I suppose, the bulk of Modi’s days weren’t good. The erotic drawings are better. They’re scenes of orgies. A woman masturbates two men at once while she sucks off a third man. Girls are doubled and tripled up. Ariadne mounts the Minotaur. Her cunt is a labyrinth. There is a small self-portrait among her pictures. She is on her knees licking semen from a girl’s cunt. A man has her on a leash. Another man, the one who has come, stands over the two females on the ground. His cock is dripping.

***

In the bedroom, we strip each other and kiss. My tongue is lazy in tracing her body’s curves. I nurse at her large breasts. My lips dawdle over her belly, floating slowly down. She keeps a soft thatch of hair on top of her pussy. I swipe my fingers through, following with my mouth. Unhurriedly, I descend to her glistening cunt. I kiss the lips below as I have kissed the lips above. My fingers delve into the secret spaces, front and back. She hands me a vibrator. Slender, pink, the writing on it is worn from use. I set it to buzzing against her clitoris while I lick at the passage. Her scents are overpowering. She tastes of musk and spice and sweetness. I make her come four times in half an hour.

***

She has a two sided dildo that is a foot and a half long and a translucent blue. She puts one end in her cunt and has me sit astride the other. The dildo is bendy. It is a challenge to find an angle that works for both of us. We abandon the sex toy and rub our pussies together directly. Tribadism, it is called. Her legs wrap mine. I press my hard clit at her entrance like it is a tiny cock. We come this way, flooding over pubises and legs.

***

There are restraints affixed to the corners of the bed. I slip into them. She buckles the leather belts over my wrists and ankles. Out comes a riding crop. She uses it to slap my breasts and thighs. She asks my age and spanks my pussy once for each year I have lived. The pain sears the nerves. I scream as the world burns in agony. She kisses my tears when she finishes and offers herself for my revenge.

***

I fist her. The lube covers my hand like grease. It is slow going. Fingers thrust together, I make my hand narrow and muscle a way through. The back of the hand, where the knuckles jut out, is a difficult squeeze, but she is wet and my hand is small. We manage. When I am inside to the wrist, I roll the hand in her cunt and swim in viscous fluids. The pads of my fingers poke at the walls of the vagina and add a twist. I reach in as far as I am able and clench my fingers into a fist. The water issues from her pores. I see it cascading over the folds. I lap at her piquant juices.

***

The mouth is everywhere on me, everywhere esurient, everywhere edacious — lipping the skin, nipping and nibbling, gnawing and knowing. The point of her tongue spins, the contact a tittle, titillation. The flat of the tongue is painting in broad brushstrokes on a canvas of strained, stained flesh. I am singing. The notes are soprano. It is an aria of indecent whispers, obscene imprecations, slanderous, scabrous, scurrilous, and without shame.