Black Silk (10 page)

The scandalous was the norm when I entered that place. Same man, same room, same me, always so scared, always so willing once
I passed through the portal. My body, soft and willowy, pliable and ready. A lamb rushing into a slaughterhouse of pure visceral
joy. When I emerged, hours later, destruction. My body a mosaic of bruises artfully dressed as handprints and tooth marks,
nipples braised and glazed from the heat of oft-dripped candle wax, wrists slightly achy from the pressure of too-tight fists
encircling them, neck sore from acrobatic feats worthy of an XXX porn star. Ass a series of irreverent stings. The corners
of my mouth tender from being stretched too wide for too long, eager to display my fellatial prowess.

Despite the initial damage, things were always intact. No skinned flesh that burned when the wind hit it; no breasts that
cried out when returned to the confines of a bra. Everything had always been copacetic afterward, save for the need to drape
a scarf around my neck or pull my coat tight as I passed through the lobby doors, back out onto the street.

I’d always been able to walk—no, stride—before. Happy with the glow of the
überfuck.
No problems whatsoever. Cassis was big, but big in a good way. Not that kind of big that ripped you apart and made pleasure
an unexplorable option. Not that kind of big that men bragged about but women fled. Cassis was the kind of big that filled
you up and put just the right amount of pressure on the walls that called out for it. My body shaped itself to him, my love
canal a glove that hungrily enveloped his perfect bigness with delicate precision. His dick brought with it no discomfort
or hurt. Just an infinite completion that made me helium-heady, giddy like a crack hoe who’d hit the motherlode—a rock so
big there was nothing to do but sit and suck and smoke and suck and smoke and suck and smoke until there was nothing left
of the rock, nothing left of me. No consciousness, no sense of restraint. A zombielike state where I just kept taking hits
until I was swallowed alive by the thrill of sensation.

When Cassis did bring the pain, it wasn’t from the beat-down of his dick. It came from the nastily pleasurable feeling of
his massive hand, like an open-faced sandwich, coming down hard and wide against the expectant curl of my ass. It was the
perfect accompaniment as he thrust deep within me, like an expert cellist in perfect concert with a liquidly smooth pianist.
Me, face forward, derriere airborne, on my knees, teeth gritted, eyes closed, moaning desperately into the pillows that smothered
me blind. The sounds of the flat-faced blows of his hand ricocheting and snapping around the room like firecrackers as he
smacked me harder with each thrust. Those same hands, with me now lying on my back, squeezing and rubbing my thighs roughly,
his palms almost burning, as he pushed himself deep, deep, deep inside my wetness. Those hands hurting me, leaving purple
splotches and blue stems where palms and fingers had once been, making me writhe in ways that others less indulged might consider
abuse.

Cassis was a true artist. A masterful painter whose stroke would make van Gogh cut off more than just an ear. No lie. In fact,
van Gogh would have gladly handed over his dick. “Here man, take it. No need for me to try to compete with your skills.”

Cassis’s hands were the hands of a builder. Cassis’s hands were the hands of a murderer. Behind that door, those hands were
my source of renewal. Behind that door, his hands were my deconstruction.

Every time we coupled, I was afraid afterward to look at my body in the mirror. Things always appeared worse than they actually
were. Thighs blue, back red, face flushed, hair askew. The battle scars of a sexual warrior.

How we’d met had to be one of life’s biggest mysteries. A friend of a friend at a party that neither of us could remember.
Gravitation to one another without explanation. A conversation with no sentences, no words. Eyes staring. Mine curious, peering,
each lash a revelation. Deep pockets beneath his, what had
he
been doing of late? Three hours later, me, impersonating dinner in the hallway. Him, the diner, on his knees, tongue plunged
deep inside me. Me, hanging on to his hair, beautiful gentle ropes, delicate locks that were easily shaped into handlebars
for me to grasp. The smell of almond oil. My head back, moans evident, his head at work like Woody Woodpecker on a pulp-ripe
tree. Hush, hush. Keep it down now. Voices carry.
Fuck
voices. Deep tongue. Ass aflame. Explosions, screams, clit vigor, watchers in the hall. As I looked down at him, he was all
wicked smiles, his visage one big smear of my wetness. He let it remain, my juices a mask of honor, rose to his feet, gave
me a piercing stare that made me hostage for life. He took my hand and led me back to the party.

Once I’d had the pleasure of that tongue, it was over. Cassis owned me. I was open. Wide. Anytime, anyplace, anywhere. No
reason. That tongue was enough.

An hour later, he’d given me dick.

I had a soprano pussy.

It was news to me. I’d always thought it was alto.

I stared at Room 416.

Cassis was a Slasher—an actor-
slash
-director-
slash
-screen-writer-
slash
-author—all careers that typically seemed to mean
poor.
But he’d had a fair share of success, having written, directed, and played the lead in an indie film that won critical acclaim
at last year’s Sundance Film Festival. He’d been given a budget by a major studio and was filming his first wide-distribution
flick on location in Brooklyn and Manhattan. No small feat, considering how expensive it was to shoot in New York. He was
also at work on his first novel. He had already published—also with much critical acclaim—a collection of short stories filled
with tales that were rich with rites of passage. Cassis’s advance had been fat. Six figures, high ones, for the short-story
collection and novel that was soon to follow. They called him the voice of a new generation. I called him the tongue of my
old one.

He spent many days writing in solitude at the Parker Meridien. Expensive, yes, but the movie studio was picking up the check.
He did it all under the umbrella of working on his film (preproduction, location scouting,
yada, yada, yada,
so he told the studio). We fucked all upside and downside and inside that hotel room, compliments of the big studio’s dollar.
Thank you, Warner Brothers. Afternoon fucks and mini bars never felt so damn good.

Me, I was a successful author, too, but none of this was coming out of my pocket. My biggest satisfaction (other than the
obvious one, Cassis’s sexual skills) was that most authors’ faces were not highly recognizable. Almost no one cared what we
looked like, unless we were Slashers. Our notoriety lay in the power of the written word. Thus most authors slipped unnoticed
in and out of grocery stores, high-end boutiques, movies, Kmarts, Targets, and all manner of dens of iniquity. They knew me
here, although our conversations were always kept to a minimum. This would be the forty-fifth time I’d entered this door.
Four months was an awfully compressed amount of time to have made forty-five visits to the same hotel. I’d go to the counter,
get the card key, and make my way up.

Sometimes I averted my eyes from the clerks at the front desk, in fear that they would recognize me. Thought I was getting
the “aren’t you—?” look.
No,
I’d be thinking.
Right now I’m someone else.

Sometimes I took them head-on, flipping ghetto-fab in my posturing of defense. Yeah, I’m fucking. What you think? I’m the
hot pussy woman. You wish you were getting what I’m giving upstairs.

Fuhgettaboudit.

Their eyes reading mine. The message clear. Make way. I’m outta here. There’s a tongue upstairs with my pussy’s name stamped
on it.

Sometimes authors were the worst artists of them all.

I still hadn’t opened the door to go in. Deep below, my lips were throbbing, pained from the friction of walking, swollen
with the betrayal of rose petals.

Two days ago Cassis had introduced something new.

When I had come into the room, I was surprised to find it swimming in a sea of endless roses, red long-stemmed thorned things
covering every possible inch of surface space. The floor, the desk, the top of the TV, the bed. The pièce de résistance was
the ultimate surface: Cassis, naked, awash in an ocean of red roses, his erection breaking their seamless flow, a stem clasped
between the teeth of that wicked smile.

“What is this?” I giggled. “Are you crazy or what?”

No words from him. Just the gentle jerk backward of his head, instructing me to come closer. The subtle rise of his left brow
as I came near.

I dropped my bag on the floor, loosened my Plein Sud trenchcoat, let it slip from my shoulders and fall to the floor.

The weather outside was brick. New York City was in the midst of an ugly wet winter. Inside Room 416 everything was hot, steamy,
thick with the threat of sex. All I wore was a zebra-striped teddy and an extremely expensive pair of snakeskin boots.

Before Cassis, I had never done this type to thing. Since Cassis, I couldn’t imagine how it was that I never did.

I made a move toward the bed. With his left arm Cassis swept away a clearing for me, a slew of roses falling to the floor,
some flying across the room. I slid in beside him. He said nothing, just hovered over me sinisterly, as I leaned back into
the softness of the pillows.

Each visit with him was a treat, but this rose thing was definitely something different.

“Did you buy these?” I asked, but of course he didn’t answer. My mystery man, with his right hand, removed the rose from between
his teeth. He traced it down the center of my forehead, lightly, past my nose, over the swell of my lips, snaking a trail
down my neck that barely grazed my skin. The sensation was electric.

His eyes tightly fastened to mine, he slipped the teddy delicately off my shoulders, down my waist, enlisting my assistance
with his eyes. I pushed it all the way down, raising my butt so it could pass, letting it linger around my knees. Beneath
me, a thorny-stemmed rose punctured my ass. Caught off guard, I was instantly wet. Pain and pleasure were always excellent
bedfellows in the presence of Cassis.

He swirled the rose around my nipples, giving each its moment in the sun before encircling it with his succulent mouth. I
could feel the blood rush center stage to meet his tongue, my areola engorged in a dance of fire. I breathed in, my eyes closing,
as he nibbled hungrily on each of my buds. He rose from his worship, touched my face with his hand so that I would open my
eyes. Petal to skin, he began tracing a deeper descent down my body with the rose. When he reached my clit, he stopped, twirling
the thing in circular motions around the hood of my already swollen nub. With his left forefinger he pulled it back, exposing
my sensitive button to the now bruised surface of the rose petals. As he twirled and stoked, Cassis stared pointedly in my
face, willing reaction, willing change.

“That feels really good,” I whispered.

Cassis, my owner, my commandant, said nothing. When I parted my lips to say more, he covered them with his own, his tongue
plunging and probing deep inside my mouth.

Kissing, to me, is almost as fulfilling an act as fucking. The ultimate high is to be kissed while fucking. Tongues locked,
loins locked, all moving with fevered intensity toward common release. It makes me respond like a man. I bust nuts. Gush like
waterworks from here to Massapequa. Bed sopping. Body wet from top to bottom. Oh, goodness, nothing feels as good as a double-lipped
fuck!

All that was left was for Cassis to put it in. His dick. He already had his mouth on mine. His tongue was thrusting and sucking,
pulling and pushing at my own. Below, I was soaked, my hips throwing hints like crazy as I ground them around.

Instead, Cassis twirled the flower. The rose was now rubbing, hard, up and down the sides of my lower lips. The sensation
was wild, so keyed up was I by the kissing. The petals were giving off something that made my labia tingle, and, to me, within
the confines of this room, all strange sensations, new sensations, were good sensations. I ground harder, pressing my pelvis
up against the rose, crushing it between my legs as they scissored shut, Cassis roughly spreading them apart again and rubbing
the flower against my now drenched outer lips.