“Was he face down in the river
or just spaced out in the drive way?
I heard when they found you
You were tied up on the highway-
Stuffed up in the trunk,
Duct tape on your wrists and lips,
Not just the victim but also an accomplice…”
The boots were black and leather with stiletto heels and they wrapped around her legs all the way up to her knees. They were the kind of boots that some girls call “fuck me boots” and she was definitely that kind of girl. She was dressed immaculately in leather from breast to toe and as she paddled him across his backside all he could think about was splinters and drill sergeants. He was sweating like a dog in heat, all hot and bothered. She cracked her paddle across his ass again and he groaned in pleasure.
They’d been in the bedroom for an hour and a half. The room smelled of sex and sounded like an internment camp. She’d bark orders and crack him with the paddle and he’d whimper and moan enjoying it completely.
“SUCK MY TOES!” she commanded him, bringing the paddle across his ass again. He could feel it welting up. He was giddy.
He crawled naked on all fours across the room and started to unzip the leather strap on her boots. The boots were covered in zippers and had many removal portions. Bondage boots, for certain. He removed the cover and began to suckle her toes.
“THIS LITTLE PIGGY HAD ROAST BEEF!” she screamed. She brought the paddle down again. He continued suckling and started to masturbate. She brought the paddle down harder.
“THIS LITTLE PIGGY HAD NONE!”
He ceased masturbating and continued to suckle her toe. He wrapped his lips around it and played with the tip between her toenail with his tongue, like he was finding a hidden clitoris. The toe was very warm and the nail polish tasted horrible. This didn’t stop him.
“SUCK, YOU WORTHLESS BASTARD! SUCK!”
She kicked the stiletto heel into his neck. It pinched the skin and he moaned. It hurt so bad. He suckled the toe like a newborn baby on a teat. He played with it and she continued to paddle him and scream commands. Finally she kicked him in the stomach twice as hard as she could. He rolled over onto the ground and ejaculated twice.
“Ok, that’s enough, Greg.”
“Ok…”
He got up off the floor and began drying himself off with a towel. He was covered in sweat and he could feel several welts growing on his body. He needed a cold shower and a beer. She left the room to go and change back into her street clothing. He panted one more time and walked to the bathroom.
The shower, much like everything else in his apartment complex, was a leftover from the 1950’s and for most of the day had terrible water pressure. It didn’t matter how far and strong he’d have the water running, it never came out with anything less than a trickle that felt more like lukewarm piss than it did anything a man would find relieving.
He ran the water anyway and tried to lather the soap.
He was spaced out again. He pinched himself to make sure he was real. The skin hurt and he was relieved. He wasn’t really sure what was real anymore. He’d spend his days at the office pretending to be a regular man and his nights at home on amyl nitrate being willingly abused by her. He felt empty and fake. He wasn’t apart of one world and this one he found himself in didn’t suit him very much either.
She tied him up earlier that week with a belt and he tried to kill himself. She mistook it for an autoerotic asphyxiation, but in all reality he was trying to die. She had cut the belt and left him on the floor until his breathing returned to normal.
“How was it?” she asked.
“I was so close,” he said. She thought that he meant he had almost come. The truth of the matter was that it was not even his goal. He just let it be. She didn’t need to know anyway.
He’d thought about taking a radio in the bathtub with himself or an electric saw. He’d thought about running head first into the television set, screaming “Geronimo!” and dying in a haze of currents, perhaps surrounded by the exploding glow of ESPN or FOX or some such nonsense.
There had to be something for him that would bring him comfort.
His parents had been deeply religious people, and that had always been their answer. He couldn’t accept it, though. The answers to life didn’t lie in the clouds unanswered for him. He wasn’t particularly sure what the answers he needed were. Maybe that’s why he kept drugging, drinking, and fucking himself hollow.
Elvis Presley died on the toilet trying to make his bowels move. John Belushi died of an overdose on cocaine and heroin. Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper went down in an airplane. The crew of the space shuttle Challenger was incinerated. They were all, in his book, lucky bastards.
He finished his shower and laid down on the couch in the living room for several hours. He didn’t bother to dry off. He didn’t care. It just didn’t matter.
