June 18, 2008

Etched in Stone v.1

Posted in stories tagged at 10:21 pm by littlesubmissions

Note: I wrote two versions of this story, with different protagonists. The other version is above. I like one more as a story, the other better as porn, even though they’re damn near identical for most purposes. And I ain’t telling which is which.

He had hoped it would rain tonight, or at least stay cloudy. Not that it was necessary, but it would have lent the whole scene an appropriate sense of melodrama.

Even grief can become pretentious, given the right circumstances.

But the clouds had evaporated and he was standing under merrily blinking stars while music wrapped around the tombstones and wandered through the trees. The college dorms were a few blocks away, and the goth kids were out tonight. He heard their voices over the mournful tune. The rain would have kept them inside.

Or would it?

Did they even call themselves “goth” anymore?

Or were they “emo” now?

What was “emo” anyway?

He looked over, towards the sound of the music, and one of them was walking towards him. She looked dismembered, black clothes blending into the night and soft pale skin pierced with silver studs shining, a happily dissected cadaver bouncing across the grass, her torso left on the operating table.

“Oh, hey. I thought you were someone else.” She stopped when she saw his face, cocked her head and looked at him.

He shrugged casually, and smiled at her. “No problem.” He saw her start to turn, then her eyes caught the flash of light from the chains stretched between his wrists.

She paused, licked her lips, shifted her weight from one clunky Army surplus boot to the other. “I like your coat. Is it real leather?”

“I’m not sure. Probably not.” He looked away.

He heard the click of a lighter a few seconds before the acrid smell of smoke hit. She followed it over to stand at his side, a few feet away. He could see her reading the inscription on the tombstone in the starlight. Her eyes glanced across his face, took in the hair line starting to receed, guessed his age, dropped again to the handcuffs when she thought he wasn’t looking. “Your wife?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” It was still a harsh croak, something he didn’t want to admit even after all the years that had passed.

“Sorry.”

“Me too.” Another shrug.

“So she still have the keys to the cuffs on her when they put her in the ground?”

His eyes went wide and he stood, open mouthed, looking at her looking at him. Finally he laughed, shocked at the suggestion and shook his head. “No, we…” He saw her piercings and the fishnet tights crossing her legs, and wondered again at how worldly young people seemed nowadays. “We were kind of kinky. I put on some things and come out on our anniversary. Kind of a tribute I guess.”

“Cool. Sorry if that was a little rude.”

“No. Well, yes. But it was the kind of joke she would have made.” He caught her eye and smiled. “It’s fine.”

Her head rocked back and forth, first in agreement then keeping time with another song from the stereo. The silence stretched. “So what else?”

“Huh?”

“What else do you have on? You said, ‘some things.'” She exhaled smoke away from him, and turned back in time to see his blush. “Plural.”

He started to stammer, looked from her to the silent granite block, trying to put his thoughts together. “Ah well, uhm, some nipple clamps.”

“Really?” She smiled, dimples appearing on her cheeks. She took a last drag on the cigarette and stood on one leg to put it out on her boot heel. He noticed pale flesh appear as her clothes shifted, vanishing again as she stood straight and slid the butt into a pocket. “Are they the clover or spring kind? Let me see.”

His legs wouldn’t move as her hands started undoing buttons on his coat, pulling it open and reaching inside. His eyes moved back to the tombstone again, and he started to tremble. Afraid of getting caught, even though it made no sense. He started to sweat, felt panic rising, but by the time he started to stammer a protest her hands had opened his coat and found the chain linking the clamps. She pulled the metal links up, stretching his nipples, raising the clamps up and pulling on them harshly as she moved the chain from one side to another to examine them from all angles.

“Clover huh? These look like good ones.” She rolled her fist, wrapping the chain around her knuckles and stretching his flesh even more, until the teeth of the clamps bit into him, tiny needles of pain in his chest that made him rise up on his toes. “What else?” She twisted harshly when he didn’t say anything, then let up on the pressure a little. “If you want me to stop, say ‘Red,’ ok?”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything. He couldn’t think. He could smell her breath, feel the heat coming off her body, almost taste the leather from her fingerless gloves, but couldn’t make himself say anything.

She rolled her hand again back and forth, pulling and releasing, twisting and letting go, and he yelped. “What else?”

His hands thrashed up and down, getting near hers then falling back to his waist. Another twist and he crumbled, blurting out an answer, anything to make her stop, to make her continue. “A cock ring!”

The dimples reappeared. “Ooh, my last boyfriend had one of those. One of the nicest things he ever did for me, actually.” Her hand snaked down inside his coat, and he swallowed hard as she curled the arm holding his chain, pulling him to her. Fingernails traced a line from his navel down, circling under his balls, cupping them, finding the rubber ring cinched tight. She held him close to her and he closed his eyes, rolling back and forth, stretching the chain on his nipples, timing the pain with the slow strokes she was using on his cock.

She stopped, and he groaned in frustration. “What else?”

He rolled his hips but her hand moved away and she let slack into the chain. He moaned but didn’t hesitate before he answered this time. “A butt plug.”

He felt a warm, crimson blush wash up his face and screwed his eyes shut. The chain fell against his chest, her hand moved away, and he choked on a sob, afraid she was disgusted and leaving.

His legs locked hard and he could feel the pressure in his knees as she wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling him in tight and rocking back and forth with him before sliding the coat down his back. Her hand moved down and inside the coat, massaging the base of his spine before her palm found the wide part of the plug between his cheeks. She rolled her hand across it, pushing it hard against him. Delicate fingers worked their way under the base, pulling it back until it was ready to pop out before showing it back into him, hard, making him bite his lip to keep from crying out. Her other hand crept around him, found his cock again, slowly jerked him off as she twisted the plug, fucked him with the widest part, pushed hard against it to change the angle and work against his prostate.

She let his lust build, brought him to the edge and backed him off, brought him to the edge again and reached between his legs to pull down hard on his balls. He whimpered and she forced him to his knees, kicking his legs apart until he could feel wet grass tickling him. She stood up and stepped around him.

“Lick my boots.”

He looked at her flushed, pale skin, the shining leather of her boots, and v of her legs framing the tombstone of his wife. Her name written in block, Gothic letters on gray stone.

It all came crashing down, and he felt hollow, cold, alone.

He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

She stepped back, and shrugged. “So… are you saying ‘Red?'”

“Yeah.” He looked away from her. Away from everything.

“Cool, that’s fine I mean.” She made a popping sound with her mouth, started to turn and go then stopped. “I don’t think she would have wanted this for you though. I mean, I didn’t know her or anything, but I think she would have wanted you to be happy.”

He nodded with slow, tiny, jerking movements of his head. “You’re probably right.” His voice was flat, monotone.

The silence stretched between them, and even the music faded away as the CD ended. He thought it was almost as good as the rain he’d wished for earlier.

“Well, take it easy. We’ve got some beer over there, and a thermos of coffee. If you want to wander over.” He didn’t say anything, and she walked away.

He waited, still on his knees. His breathing came easier now, he could forget the pain in his nipples, in his ass, if he didn’t think about it. He wanted to turn and go, leave and get a bottle of wine on the way home and continue his interrupted torture alone. Drunk and full of self-pity he’d loathe himself for in the morning.

Instead he crawled forward, wrapped his arms around the cold stone. Slid the chain between his wrists down the back of the granite and pulled his body tight against cold stone. Felt the solid geometry of the rock, it’s eternal, uncaring hardness. He cried as his tongue came out and began to trace each letter of her name, tasting granite and dust.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

2 Comments »

  1. Lotus said,

    Wow, this is a pretty amazing story. I’m totally adding your blog to my blog roll. I love it!

    I found your link from Bitchy Joneses Diary

  2. littlesubmissions said,

    Thank you, I confess I haven’t read your blog before, but it certainly looks intriguing.

    And yes, I am a fan of Ms. Jones myself. Was thinking of calling the blog “Keeping up with the Jones,” but since she has a few hundred thousand readers head start that just seemed positively masochistic.


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