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C’mon, Selena, gurl! Try to tremble with fearful expectation a little! You got to make him miss that plane to Chocolate City!
“Well, Ms. Epperson, my pupil,” he whispered. “Are you ready to walk through the joyful gates of wisdom?”
Ready when you are, buster, she thought. “Yes, master,” she whispered fiercely.
“No no, Ms. Epperson, my darling pupil,” he chided her gently. “None of that vulgar ‘master-slave’ action here. No doubt you have heard many things about our discipline. Our life. Many ugly rumors. Superstitions. “Like that book The Story of O. I gave you that only to test the limits of your commitment. Look about you! You see no whips, no branding irons! No instruments of torture!”
Only your corny-ass rap, she thought.
“Your bonds are merely symbolic. It is the voluntary surrender of your will I desire. Your unforced submission.”
“Will it hurt bad?” Selena forced herself to whimper.
“Pain? No! By no means! We will not make you trod the paths of pain, we will trace for you the thin, white-hot line between pleasure and pain that leads to ultimate wisdom.”
We? Who the fuck else is up in here? What a cornball!
She sighed audibly and trembled as though it was the thing she wished for most in the world.
“Are you ready, Ms. Epperson, my little star pupil?”
“Oh, yes, teacher! Yes! Yes!”
He took off his kimono and dropped it on the floor.
I hope he don’t expect me to pick up after him, too, she thought. That would be sadistic. Then she got a good look at him. Selena had to bite her lip to keep from whistling. He was a specimen, all right. A hunka hunka burning love, muscles rippling, with giant chest muscles, bulging biceps, and a flat belly with washboard abs, just like mama liked ’em!
And he was toting a cannon, all right, with two big dumdums hanging underneath.
Be damned if he hadn’t greased himself down, so with his shaven head he looked like a giant, chocolate replica of the Oscar statue, or one of them bucks on the cover of one of them Mandingo books.
For a moment she considered crossing out Ted and Margaret and keeping this one for herself. Business! Keep your mind on the business at hand, Selena dear!
Like a black panther stalking his prey, naked and glistening, Gaddys crawled on the bed until he was over her, supporting himself on his hands. He stared into her eyes for a while, fiercely. She stared back, hungrily. Then he kissed her, lightly, then hard, then light and hard again.
She did nothing at first and then she kissed back, hesitantly, clumsily, and then harder and with feeling, and then their tongues were darting, tangling, rubbing, and she was moaning and sighing and only half acting.
And then he was working down her body, alternating a kiss and a little nip, kiss and little nip, working on her neck, then down her chest to her breasts, where he nuzzled and kissed her nipples until they were rock hard. Then he was working down her stomach, down to between her legs, alternating a little nip and suck, nip and suck, and then he went to work on her in earnest with his tongue.
Experts had gone down on Selena; on a scale of one through ten she rated this job a one hundred and eleven. He nuzzled and lapped and kissed like he was eating a sweet, tender, ripe piece of fruit; like he savored the taste, now at her clit, now around her labia, now his tongue was inside her until jolts of pure sexual pleasure washed over her in wave after wave.
She felt her control slipping away! That would never do. It was time for the mind trick of Fuck but Not Fuck.
One moment she was lying on the bed, stretched out, moaning in real ecstasy as Gaddys performed expert cunnilingus, and the next she was outside herself, standing beside the bed, looking down on herself and Gaddys.
It was a trick she had learned in a monastery in Tibet, of out-of-body consciousness during intercourse, or Fuck but Not Fuck. It was coming in handy now, because Gaddys was a cunt-lapping freak. He stayed on the oral case for what seemed like hours until orgasms ripped her body like sheet lightning, like a string of 500-pound bombs dropped from a B-52, and she was flipping like a flag in a sexual hurricane.
Only when he had stopped did she rejoin her consciousness to her body, and still the residual afterglow of his love work was almost too much for her.
Oh, he was good!
“Ms. Epperson,” he cooed in her ear. “You have been totally forthright with me, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, teacher, yes,” she gasped.
“You aren’t holding anything out on me, are you? No secrets?”
Oh, the man’s antennae for danger was marvelous. He could sense something was wrong about her. And what a great time to get a woman to drop a dime on herself. Fucking is the best truth serum there is. If she hadn’t pulled her Tibetan mind trick, she would have confessed to the Brinks job if he’d wanted her to.
