Love Me For Me

The door bell rang. It was the pizza delivery guy. Roberta had the twenty ready and handed it to thee kid and took the pizza.

“Can I ask you something?”

I looked over my shoulder towards the door. Roberta had the pizza box in one hand while the delivery guy shuffled around, trying to make change.

“Sure,” he replied.

“In your job, do you get a lot of women inviting you into their homes to have sex with them?” Roberta was wearing silk pajama pants, the color of apricots, and a lightweight robe of the same material with only one button near the top fastened. I couldn’t imagine what must have been going on in that poor Joe’s mind as she stood there in bare feet, tummy exposed, hair blue-black and slicked back from having just come from the shower; looking for all the world like any horny teenage delivery boy’s dream.

“Uh, nope. Not really,” he admitted.

“Oh. Sorry,” she chirped merrily, then closed the door.

“That was mean of you,” I chided as she set the box down on the coffee table and flipped open the lid. It was still hot enough that inviting wisps of vapor rose from the greasy, sausage-strewn surface.

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” she chuckled, snuggling in next to me on the couch and prying a gooey slice from the pie.

“Doesn’t it ever worry you?”

She was trying to bite through the cheese, but instead it slid off the slice and plopped onto her chin, smearing tomato sauce everywhere. She set what was left back down and wiped her chin, sighing.

“God yes,” she said, finally answering me. “But I figure if I exercise daily, and start eating healthy when I turn thirty or so, I should be safe for now.”

“I didn’t mean the pizza...” I hesitated calling her ‘silly’ or ‘stupid’, even in fun. “I meant, doesn’t it worry you to have those people come to your house, that they know where you live?”

She stopped fussing with the pizza, and turned to look directly into my eyes. I knew immediately I’d said the wrong thing.

“ ‘Those people,’ ” she said frostily.

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Oh yes you did, Franlin! I could hear it in your voice. ‘Those people.’ Those perverts! Those weirdoes! Those freaks!”

“Roberta...”

“Because, of course, no normal -” she said the word like she was twisting a knife, “person could possibly get turned on a the thought of someone peeing on them or riding them around like a pony! It’s even in the DSM - Sadomasochism is considered a mental illness - so, obviously only a drooling psychopath would ever want someone to do those things to them.”

“But consider this, Franlin...” Her cheeks were flushed and there was a fiery light in her eyes. “if they’re freaks for wanting those things done to them, what does that say about me that I enjoy being the one who does it!”

I shifted miserably in my seat.

“So, you’re... really into that, then?”

She laughed angrily. “No, Franlin! I took a test in high school that said I’d do well in a career that involved whips and human degradation!”

I got up off the sofa and started to walk away.

“Where are you going?” she snapped.

“Downstairs,” I replied wearily. “I’m going to get one of those gags and shut myself up before I can dig myself in any deeper.”

She leaned over and caught my arm. Looking down, I saw her eyes soften, just a bit.

“Do you know how long it’s been since a man said all the wrong things to me?” she asked.

I shrugged.

She sighed. “Too long.” She pulled me back down next to her. “It’s almost kind of endearing.”

“I have a gift,” I said dryly. She started laughing; clutching my arm and burying her face in my shoulder.

For a long time we just sat there, she leaning against me, and watched the shadows lengthen. Finally, somebody’s stomach started grumbling again, and we started in on the pizza; eating in silence.

When there was nothing left but some disconsolate pieces or orphaned crust and a big glob of cheese stuck in the center of the box; I decided to tempt fate and ask another question.

“So, what was his problem?”

“Whose problem?”

“Henderson’s. One minute he’s upset that I’m there, the next he’s crying because I’m going away.”

“Oh, he was thrilled that you were going away. He was just heartbroken that you were taking ‘My new toy’ with you without getting to play with it himself.”

“I think he’d be disappointed if he knew what it really was.”

“You cannot begin to imagine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s like they think I sleep in a coffin or something.”

“You do look a little like Wednesday Addams, come to think of it.”

She looked up at me and mugged a smile. “Thank you. Everybody tells me that. Last year I went to a Halloween party dressed up in a black dress and pigtails. Guess what?”

“Nobody got it.”

She laughed. “No! Jesus! It drove me crazy! Everybody kept coming up and asking me who I was supposed to be!”

“What’d you tell them?”

She smiled slyly. “That I was a serial killer.”

I grinned. “Because they look like everyone else.”

She didn’t say anything, but she crawled in close and snuggled her head under my chin.

The world had grown dark, and the only light in the room came from the weird purplish glow from the fish tank. I could hear her breathing softly, and felt her ribcage expand and contract peacefully against me.

“Can I ask you something else? Just one more thing? Please?”

She sighed heavily. “Only if I get to pinch you for every question you ask after that,” she replied.

“What? Ever?”

“That’s two!” she exclaimed happily, one hand pinching my inner thigh wile the other tweaked a nipple.

“Ow! Hey! Ow!”

She twisted around in my arms so that she was lying on her back, her head in my lap, staring up at me.

“Well, I figured neither of those were the question you really wanted to ask, were they?” She batted her eyes at me innocently.

“Okay,” I said, a little annoyed. She’d pinched hard. “Let me think this through - and that’s a request not a question!” I added sharply, causing the blooming smile on her lips to fade into a mock pout.

“Same thing,” she muttered sulkily, but at least she didn’t pinch.

I let out a deep breath. “What... is it about... I mean, why do you...”

She looked at me intently. “Why do I enjoy being a dominatrix?” she asked. It was the first time the word had been spoken between us, and she used it in such a casual, off hand kind of way that it sent shivers down my spine.

“Yes.”

She sighed and lifted herself out of my lap, making me regret I’d said anything at all. She stood up off the couch, arched her back and began swinging her arms around to stretch them out.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, “if it’s something you don’t walk to talk about...”

“No, it’s all right. Really. It’s just... well, I guess I was expecting a different question.”

“Like what?”

She got a gleam in her eye. “Are you asking?”

I squirmed nervously. “Uh, maybe later.”

“I won’t forget.”

“So? You were about to say...” I hemmed, trying to get the subject back on track.

“Well... I guess part of it is that I come from pretty aggressive blood. My grandfather was in Korea, and my uncle was a Marine sniper in Vietnam. My dad wanted to go, too, but grandma was scared to death she’d lose both her boys, so he stayed home and prayed for a letter from the draft board. He always had a bug up his butt about that. He still does, I guess.

“Anyway, all of them, the whole crew, were hunters. Big time sportsmen.”

She paused. her tongue flickered out unconsciously to moisten her lips.

“So, dad misses out on the war, and eventually marries, and six months later,” she winked at me and wrinkled her nose, “little Roberta is born. Ta Da!” She lifted her arms high above her head and took a sweeping bow.

“And six years after that, my sister Carol is born, and daddy begins to clue in to the fact that he probably isn’t going to have some strapping young son to take into the woods with him every weekend. So I got the call.”

Her smile faded briefly and she crossed her arms over her chest in a curiously protective manner. Then she seemed to suddenly brighten up again.

“I got my first compound for my tenth birthday! Do you know anything about bows, Franlin?”

“Not really. Sorry.”

She shrugged and sighed sadly. “Well, it was sweet! My uncle didn’t think a girl could handle the pull, but I showed him! I took down a fourteen point buck on opening day - with one shot!”

She beamed with pride.

“I have pictures somewhere. Eighteen and a half inches on the inside spread!”

“I’m not really sure what that means,” I admitted.

“No,” she agreed sadly. “I guess you wouldn’t.” She paused, took a few breaths, then started up again.

“Anyway, it turned out I hadn’t killed it outright, just mortally wounded it, so dad took me over to where it had fallen to finish it off. It was lying on its side, and it was straining for each breath. My arrow was sticking out of its ribcage and there was blood running from its mouth and nose. It was a pretty cold day, and there was steam coming off the blood.

“I remember standing over it, while dad knelt down with the knife. And... I didn’t feel bad about what I’d done at all. Not guilty or mean, or even that sorry for the deer. I felt good. I felt... alive... like I was where I belonged and this was the way things were supposed to be.”

Her cheeks were bright crimson, and there were eerie blue lights in the deep recesses of her eyes. Her breathing had that same, post-orgasmic ragged quality to it.

“I was only ten,” she repeated softly.

“Then a few years later, I discovered boys. Or rather, I discovered that they no longer seemed quite as repulsive as they did in my younger days.”

“Specifically, I discovered a boy. His name was Thomas. He was a jock, like you...”

“I was never a jock!” I interrupted. She looked at me curiously, and in my mind I could imagine her thinking, “Same thing,” but she didn’t press the issue.

“Well, maybe Thomas would have said the same. That was part of it, a big part of it. He hung out with the jocks and his body was built like a jock, but his face had such delicate features, feminine, really...” She smiled at me evilly. “...like yours.”

“He had long, blonde bangs; and those sad, expressive eyes staring up from underneath them made him look like a poet, born two hundred years past his time. I didn’t know his name at first, so I just thought of him as ‘The Poet,’ and not long after, ‘My Poet.’

“At first, I was just infatuated with the way he looked. Cupid’s bow lips, tiny, upturned nose...” She smiled again. “Come to think of it, the similarities are striking. Are you sure your name is really ‘Franlin’?”

I wriggled on the leather cushions, suddenly unable to get comfortable. “Positive.”

She hummed quietly and tapped her lips.

“Well, regardless, the whole thing came to a head. I was mooning over him in studyhall, as was my wont, and suddenly I had a vision. Thomas was running, naked, through the woods. He looked magnificent, that hard, muscular body in motion, sweat glistening on his skin. Except for his silly bits. That’s what I called them in those days, because any girl knew you could take down a man easily with one hard kick to them. They were flopping around between his legs just looking pitifully ridiculous. He was running like hell, all out, jumping over fallen trees and dodging between standing ones.

“He was running because I was chasing him.

“I was naked, too, except for my wrist guard, and my quiver. And I had my bow gripped tightly in my hand. And when the opportunity presented itself, I dropped to one knee, and lightning quick, drew and released all in one impossibly fluid motion.”

As she’d been relating the story, she’d begun to pace back and forth. She stopped at the part about firing, directly in front of me.

“And I hit him.” She grinned. “Right-” she balanced herself on one foot, like a ballerina about to make a pirouette, and poked me in the side with her big toe, “- there!”

Her whole face was red. Her eyes and her thin, pink lips glistened with moisture. A bead of sweat ran down her forehead.

“And he fell. And I walked over to him. He had rolled over onto his back, and those sad, tragic eyes seemed even more tragic now that they were filled with helplessness and tears. My arrow stuck out of the side of his abdomen, a bear hunting tip: four razor sharp sides all dripping with gore, and I ripped!-” Her sudden, yanking motion caused me to recoil out of fright. “- it from his body, and cast it aside.”

“Then I lowered my body down onto his, and I fucked him.”

“Wait. He could maintain an erection after all of that?”

“Well,” she admitted, batting her eyes bashfully, “it was a fantasy, remember.”

She cast her eyes downward, her voice trailing off sadly.

“I’m sorry, Roberta! Please, go on.”

“That’s it, basically. I didn’t really know much about what sex was supposed to be like, or, God forbid, what an orgasm even was. I just sort of imagined that fucking felt like they way I felt when I’d killed my first whitetail, only, like, times ten.” She sighed.

“And that was it?”

“No,” she said reluctantly, “but I’m not sure I want to tell you the rest. I think it would probably freak you out.”

I got up off the sofa and took her hand in mine. She still wouldn’t look at me, so I reached out with my other and gently lifted her chin until we were gazing directly into each other’s eyes.

“Please,” I said in all sincerity, “I want to know.”

She tried to pull away, but I held on to her tightly. Finally, she said, “I strung him up by his feet from the branch of a tree, bled him, boned, gutted and jointed him... and then I cooked the meat over a fire and ate it for dinner.”

That did freak me out. It took everything I had not to take a step backwards out of fear. We were both trembling.

“Anyway, when I came out of it, I’d thought I’d peed myself or something. My underwear was so wet and my pussy... hurt... So I got a pass from the teacher and hurried to the girl’s room and when I got there and sat on the toilet, I started instinctively... touching... myself. And it felt good!”

She drew out the word so that it was a long, wistful sigh: goooooooood!

“And I was right,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “it was exactly the way I felt when I killed that deer... only so much better, too!”

She lapsed into silence, and we stood there uncertainly, face to face. Then, my hand shaking, I timorously reached out and slid it under the waistband of her pajamas. She sucked in her breath sharply as I slid my hand into the yielding, sopping-wet folds of her vagina.

“Did it feel like this?” I asked softly; tenderly sliding my hand in and out of her, grasping her rising clitoris between the tips of my fingers. She bit her lower lip, whimpered, and put her arms around my neck for support.

It was like shoving your hand into the hot, fertile soil along the banks of the Amazon. I began to pick up my pace, to squeeze her clit a little harder each time. Her hips began to buck of their own accord and she began to make low, guttural sounds, like some jungle animal. My hand was immolated in her natural lubricant.

As she came, she threw her head back and cried out wordlessly in a surprisingly deep voice. Then her whole body turned to jelly in my arms and I had to stagger-carry her to the sofa where we dropped, she on top of me.

She continued to whimper faintly, curled up against my chest, as I still played with her; my hand making short, laconic strokes. I finally stopped, but neither of us made any move to expel me from there. I could feel her pulse as her blood ebbed and flowed through her vaginal walls.

The urge to flip her over and plunge my cock into that warm, damp furrow was terrible, but it would have meant sacrificing the moment we were in; and I wasn’t about to do that for anything in the world.

Several hours later, our bodies began to betray us with their thirst, their hunger, their need to eliminate wastes; and with heartbreaking reluctance, we pried ourselves apart.

After satisfying our needs, we returned to the sofa and sat next to each other, awkwardly. There was only one thing that could be said between us after that kind of experience that did not seem small and anticlimactic; yet neither of us - well, I can only really speak for myself - could find the courage to say it.

Roberta began to root through the pizza box, ferreting out bits of crust that looked appetizing enough, and started to much.

After much thought and deliberation, I made a show of stretching out my arm and proffering it to her. She looked at it, then me, curiously.

“What?” she asked, spilling crumbs out of her mouth.

“I’m going to ask another question.”

She sped up her chewing, swallowed with an audible gulp, and washed it down with a swig form the glass of cabernet she’d poured during our “break.”

“Okay,” she said, “shoot.”

“I wanted to know what it was you thought I was going to ask you.” She turned her face away from me suddenly. She crossed her arms over her chest as she had before.

“Roberta?” I asked, gently caressing her temple with the same hand - freshly washed - that had pleasured her so, earlier in the evening.

She sighed mournfully, and peeked at me shyly from out of the corner of her eye.

“Whenever I tell my boyfriends what I do for a living, they always have one of two reactions,” she began in a melancholic, yet matter-of-fact, tone. “Most run for the hills, screaming...”

“I was pretty borderline on that myself,” I admitted. She smiled; a wan, little smile.

“The others, about thirty percent of the time I guess, get turned on by it. And they ask me,” she turned her head back to look me directly eye to eye, “to dominate them, like I do my clients.”

My face must have clearly shown my confusion, so she went on.

“Franlin, as much as I enjoy dominating men, it is work. Hard work, that drains me both physically and emotionally and at the end of the day all I really want is a back rub, a foot massage, and maybe - maybe - a good roll in the sack, not some whiny wannabe sub nagging me to take him down into the dungeon and beat him!

“At first, when they would ask, I kind of liked it, but I always made sure to explain how I felt. I thought if they cared about me, like they said they did, they’d understand, but they never did. Most of them expected it, demanded it, as if domination came part and parcel with going out with me. Hell, some of them even tried to bully me into domming them! Can you imagine? ‘I bet the local vice squad would be interested in what you’re doing out here.’ That kind of crap!”

“I bet they regretted that.”

“They did, but not in the way you’re thinking. Do you know the old joke about the masochist who says to the sadist, ‘Beat me!’ ”

I said I didn’t.

“The sadist says ‘No.’ I’d tell them, ‘Fuck You! Go ahead and report me! They know all about me already!’ So long as there’s no sex, no oral or genital contact, it’s not prostitution and I’m totally legal.”

“But don’t you, uh, put stuff up their butts?”

She giggled and rolled her eyes. “Well, sometimes,” she admitted. “But as I pointed out to our local constabulary, if it’s illegal to get paid for introducing a foreign object up someone’s ass, every cop in this county who’s done a full cavity search should be arrested!”

“And that is what I was afraid you were going to ask. That you were going to be like the others and act as if you had hit the jackpot and would get to live out your cheap, Men's View fantasy.”

“Don’t worry!” I laughed. I guess I wasn’t convincing enough, because she still didn’t seem too happy, so I added, “My Men's View fantasy was always the one where I’m the pizza delivery guy who gets seduced by the beautiful nymphomaniac heiress!”

Her raucous laughter was indescribably gratifying. “Oh God!” she cried out between guffaws, “The poor thing! No wonder he never gets any! Did you see his acne?”

We held on to each other and laughed. Eventually, I started to get a little thirsty again, so I disentangled from her and got off the sofa. Without warning, I felt a sharp sting on my ass, and when I spun around, I saw her hand darting back. She was curled up on the sofa, grinning ear-to-ear.

“Gotcha!” she said, wrinkling her nose.

Not too long thereafter, we went upstairs and made love.

Afterwards, we were content to lay entangled in each other’s limbs, sweaty and spent, and let the world pass us by. Roberta lazily ran one finger up and down the length of my torso, softly humming a tune I couldn’t quite make out.

“Franlin?” she asked, breaking the long, post-coital silence.

“Mmmm?”

“What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?”

“Eleven, I think.”

She sighed.

“What?” I asked, “Why?”

“Oh, it’s just that, I was hoping you could sit in on some of my sessions tomorrow. I... liked having you there.” Her hand slid further down along my body than it had been, her nails gliding across my sluggishly responding penis.

“I liked having someone watch me,” she continued. “Someone who appreciated my performance.” Her fingertips now tickled my cock as she played me with a feather touch.

“Most of my clients are so far into their own little headgames that it’s like they hardly even know I’m there.” She sighed again. I sighed, too, but for different reasons. “I liked having someone there who saw me.”

“And there was one client I was seeing tomorrow that I really wanted you there for.” She took my shaft in her palm and began jerking me in earnest. “The appointment is for ten - surely you could stay for just a little while. Ten, fifteen minutes?”

I reached down and took hold of her wrist, bringing an end to her hand job. With great reluctance, I pulled her hand away from my groin.

“Ask me again,” I whispered. And when she did, I said yes.

Copyright ©1998 by SIC

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