Goody Two Shoes (14 page)

With aching need consuming me, I put my hands on the stall wall across from me and use it for balance as I push back and forth on the protruding penis.  Not once did I feel the cock move; it stays steadfast in the hole in the wall as I fuck it at my leisure.  And my leisure at this moment is gazelle speed.  “Fuck me!” I scream to the unknown man as I suction Vagina to the bathroom wall.  My voice doesn’t even sound like mine in this hollow room; it’s guttural and deprived.  And the cock begins moving, as though it’d only been momentarily stunned by my animal like need.  It plunges into me now, each thrust sends wave after wave of pleasure into my belly.  I hold myself stone-like against his cock with my hands pressing against the adjacent tile wall and let him pound into me.

Orgasm after orgasm flushes past me.  I lose count after five but the cock keeps calling me back.  Each time it reaches my depths, my need renews and almost instantly another orgasm flows.  When I am absolutely positive that every bodily fluid I possess has evaporated, the mysterious man thrusts again, this time deep against my far wall.  I squeal with the sharp pain as his liquid fills me, causing another orgasm as my teeth begin to chatter.  My head flops downwards between my rigid arms in defeat; I’ve been thoroughly fucked.  The need for a cold glass of vodka and my warm soft bed overwhelms me as I hear the door close again.

I stand up achingly; this isn’t a twenty year old body I’m kneeling on the hard tile floor with!  It’s not like they provide a kneeling pillow or anything.  Suddenly I break out laughing at the thought of informing Jonathon that maybe this Catholic girl can teach him a thing or two about kneeling.  But the door opens again just as I’m straightening my dress.  Certainly I’m not supposed to keep going?  I glance down at my red knees doubtfully.  Jonathon’s voice reverberates against the tile walls.  “Tara sweetheart, Grace has chilled vodka for you at the bar.  You can stop wearing the vibrating panties if you like.  Or you can wear them all day every day.  Whatever suits you.  I’ll see you next week dear.  Oh, and Tara?”

“Yes?” I mumble.

“Beautiful today.  You were amazing.”  With that I hear the bathroom door close.  I slide open the lock on my own stall and peer into the room; I am alone.  All at once I sway a little as the alcohol and seedy sex adjust within me.  Vagina and Clitoris are both winded and trying to catch their breaths.  I grab the counter and peer into the mirror at myself; nipples perky, hair askew and wetness around my mouth.  I stare long and hard.  This isn’t the same woman who once balked at crossing imaginary boundaries!  No, the woman standing in front of me looks… wait for it… happy.

Simmons isn’t home when I get there, but there is a note that says that he’s doing a bunch of research at the Library and doesn’t want to drive home after dark.  He says he’s going to stay at the Francis Marion overnight.  I don’t blame him on that one; traffic can get weird in our town.  Stop lights sometimes work and the city council may have decided that it’s time to work on a random road.  They do that when they get bored.  People who have to wear reading glasses shouldn’t risk that at night.  But there I go sounding all ancient and decrepit, and that’s far from the way I feel.  I feel like a schoolgirl again.  There’s nothing quite as pleasing to a middle aged woman as a compliment from a handsome stranger.  And Jonathon Galloway makes me feel desirable again.  God help him, he’s performed a miracle.

I wander down my silent hallway thinking of this road I’m on.  At first I thought it was a straight path to Hell in a hand basket, but it’s astounding how happiness can adjust your thoughts.  Right now I want to cuddle, snuggle and feel comforted.  That’s the part that’s still missing in my transformation, and the only man I want to cuddle with is currently shacked up at the Francis Marion Hotel with a bartendress.  I shower and put on my Walmart fuzzy bathrobe and slink into Simmons office.  I’m drawn back to Ellen and Jonathon like a bug to a blue light.  I settle in to read, hoping to find Jonathon’s secret to romancing women within the words.  Maybe I’m not the one who needs classes, I think wryly, imagining Simmons receiving a firm spanking.

“This man is tied to this chair because he asked to be.  He requires discomfort for release, but he’s tiring of it.  He wants to give up.  If I let him go, then he’s un-satisfied and as a result un-happy with himself.  He needs me to help him push through this, and I’ve promised I would.  Bourbon is only going to numb his uneasiness.  I need him raw.”

Ellen Devereux

The Tramp Stamp Club

By Quinn Carmichael

Bondage

It’s my third meeting with the Galloway’s and I shouldn’t say it, because that would be a bad omen, but I don’t think they can shock me anymore.  Famous last words.  Hawthorne leads me directly into the Library this time, and I step inside as he closes the door behind me.  I stand still for a moment to allow my eyes to adjust to the forever dark room.  As soon as I can focus, I head towards Jonathon’s Bourbon Bar in the corner.  I pour a tall one and add a few ice cubes as a mixer.  Sipping it I glance around the room.  There’s no one here yet so I arrange my laptop and recorder on the armrest of my familiar leather chair.

SCREEEEEEECH

What the hell was that?  My eyes nervously look towards the corner for revelation; it wouldn’t be the first time I imagined myself alone in this room.  But Ellen’s lounger is empty.  I step further in that direction because I’m absolutely positive I heard a noise too loud to be the creaking of an old house.  Then I see him.

A man, apparently bound by a deviant rope master, is naked in a plain wooden chair next to Ellen’s lounger.  His head is down, looking at his feet, and beads of sweat drip into tiny pools on the hardwood floor below him.  I should say something - to attract his attention - let him know I’m here - but for the life of me I can’t decide on an appropriate introduction for this kind of moment.  So I wander towards him, drink in hand, slowly as if I’m creeping up on him.  If he wasn’t heaving slightly with each breath I would think he’d seen the end.

As I near, his head rises to meet me.  I don’t recognize him.  He’s not the Governor or some equally odd character.  In fact, he’s much younger than anyone I’ve seen here to date.  “Quinn Carmicheal,” I announce, but don’t hold out my hand.  After all that wouldn’t be polite considering his are tied to the back legs of his chair.

“Bourbon?” he moans.

“Bourbon?” I look down at my wilting glass.  “What?  You want some bourbon?”

His head nods hopefully.  Of course now I’m not sure if I should give it to him.  I have no idea as to why he’s tied up like this, or what possible instructions may have been ordered.  And it astounds me that I’m thinking of instructions.  But I’ve read Fifty Shades (it was one of the ten required readings to get this job) and I know this kind of oddity always comes with instructions.  So I glance over my shoulder at the empty room as if I’m checking for spies, and step towards him.

Poor guy looks parched.  As I pour the liquid into his open mouth I study the intricate knots that bind him to the chair.  “Talk about a pickle,” I mutter.

And the man issues a small chuckle.

“Tell me you did
not
give him bourbon?” the sharp recognizable voice comes from behind me; I turn like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Well, I uh, he looked thirsty,” I posture in front of Ellen Devereux.

“Why didn’t you give him water if he’s thirsty?”

“He asked for bourbon,” I shrug.

“Mr. Carmichael.”

Here it comes, the Donald Trump quote of all time…

“This man is tied to this chair because he asked to be.  He requires discomfort for release, but he’s tiring of it.  He wants to give up.  If I let him go, then he’s un-satisfied and as a result un-happy with himself.  He needs me to help him push through this, and I’ve promised I would.  Bourbon is only going to numb his uneasiness.  I need him raw.”

“Raw?”

“Without anesthesia of any kind.”

Again I turn and study the man in the corner.  His head is down again, and the muscles in his arms are twitching.  I’m caught between trusting Ellen’s judgment and dialing 911.

“Since you can’t decide what to do about this, Quinn, I’m going to let you be in charge.  I’ve absolutely got to make my nail appointment today, so Jonathon will be coming in for today’s meeting.”

I nod, because what else is there to do but stand here wide mouthed.

“So when you decide that he’s ready to be un-tied, you can just cut through the ropes.  Here use this.”  She places a silver handled knife on the sofa table behind her.  It looks as if it was last used during the Civil War, but the blade is sharpened and shiny.

“I um, I just don’t think this is a good idea at all, Ellen.”

Jonathon Galloway strides into the Library looking fresh and showered.  He’s wearing gym shorts and a Reel Fishing tee shirt.  His flip-flops glitter with specks of sand leftover from another day.  Already I really like this guy; he’s got it all but it hasn’t gone to his head.  As Ellen walks towards her conquest in the corner, I suddenly realize why he’s so well behaved.  Talk about ruling with an iron hand.

“What’s not a good idea?” Jonathon quips on his way to the Bourbon Bar.

“Quinn can’t decide whether to report me as abusive or help me.”

“Ah!  The classic dilemma.  Been there before.  As a matter of fact, that’s what I want to talk to you about today.  The first time I saw a grown man tied naked; not to a chair, mind you, but to a pole on that occasion.”

“It’s settled then.  Either leave him how he is until I get back or cut him loose.  But I’m warning you he can be a real asshole when he’s not happy.”

“We’ll check on him from time to time,” Jonathon answers flippantly.  “Don’t worry about it.  Go get your nails done and get that gorgeous ass back to me.”  He pinches her behind and bends low to kiss her lips.

I’m still not sure this is such a great plan but as long as Jonathon is here with me I suppose I’ll at least have an interesting cell mate.  I settle into my leather arm chair and turn on my recorder as Ellen prances from the room.

“So let’s get this party started!” Jonathon plops onto the sofa across from me.

And we do.

Jonathon Galloway, 1972

Jonathon couldn’t possibly have been more unaware of the actual purpose of the club.  He climbed the staircase above the Grand Ballroom at the Charleston Yacht Club with overwhelming dread.  If he didn’t consider it a slap in the face to his father, he’d be in Ellen’s bed right now instead of this tedious affair.  As a matter of fact, he’d rather be just about anywhere other than here.

The floor mirrored his steps as he strode across the upstairs landing towards the double doors where he had been instructed to introduce himself.  As he neared the intricately carved cherry doors, he realized suddenly that introducing himself would not be necessary.

“Hey Robbie!” he burst with a smile.  Jonathon’s mind drifted back four months to the last time Robbie practically dragged him kicking and screaming from the cottage behind the Devereux home.  He withheld a laugh as he held out his hand to Hawthorne.  But Robbie postured professionally, took his hand and shook it politely.

“So old chap, how do I measure up tonight?” Jonathon said with a hint of an English accent.

Hawthorne stepped back and scrutinized Jonathon.  Stepping close again, he made a small adjustment to Jonathon’s tie and exclaimed that he was, “Dressed handsomely, as expected.”  Jonathon stood back and winked at Hawthorne who returned a hint of a smile and reached to open the broad doors in front of them.

The sound blared from the room, “Oh say can you see by the dawns early light…”  Taken aback by the deep tones, Jonathon walked through the doors his hand plastered to his chest without thought.  In Charleston, men still respected the flag.  It’s hard to disrespect the essence of our country, even during this war, in the very place where so many of our own Grandparents fought for the freedom to burn it.  And across the country his college buddies were doing just that.  Already two of his fraternity brothers had left for Vietnam; they hadn’t come back.  But this very song had been scribbled on a piece of paper just beyond the very windows of this room, and it had meaning here.  Jonathon’s voice joined the rest of the tenors, most of whom had also been caught in motion as they held their cocktails to their chests, or their burning cigars, or both.  The song ended with gusto and Jonathon wandered fully into the room.

His father caught his eye from the corner of the bar and motioned him over.  Jonathon respected the ship builder, even when the rest of the world was deep in depression, saving their last pennies for bread; Jonathon Galloway Senior’s company thrived.  His employee’s never missed a paycheck, and their wives and children continued to have the best of everything his father could help them provide.  Glancing about the room, he found the same to be true of every man in attendance.  The Georgetown Steel Mill that had forged through tough economic times without a hitch was represented, the cotton factory that had sustained Charleston throughout the centuries was represented, and in fact, every successful major manufacturer in the state was present.  Attorneys, newspaper owners, builders; every icon of South Carolina business was holding a cocktail around him.  He wondered how a celebrity gathering of this sort could even get by without television reporters lurking outside.