Home > The Red(10)

The Red(10)
Author: Tiffany Reisz

"Hold it in,” Malcolm said. His hand covered her entire pubis, blocking the bottle’s exit. She clutched at the sheets, her body taut, tense, and ready to snap. But she held it, she held her breath and held the bottle in her. Malcolm tapped the base of the bottle and she felt vibrations all through her hips. She groaned, moaned like the whore he’d made her. More taps, more vibrations. He put two fingers on the base of the glass and moved it side to side, up and down, around in a circle. The pleasure was maddening. She’d never taken so much. She had never been opened up and filled like this. Not even his huge organ had split her so wide as this. She came up on her elbows, unable to believe it was happening, but when looked between her thighs, there it all was—the bottle buried in her, Malcolm’s hand holding it in, her clitoris swollen more than it had ever been before. She pushed air through her lips like a woman giving birth.

"What do you want?” Malcolm asked. "Do you want it in or out?”

"I don’t know,” she breathed.

"I like it in. Very nice,” he said. "But you must be about to die, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you love to come?”

"I need to.”

"You don’t need to. You want to. And I want to keeping fucking you with the bottle. Push it out.”

"This is…perverse,” she said between breaths.

"Don’t complain,” he said. "I could have used a wine bottle.”

She tightened her inner muscles and forced it out of her. She watched it emerge from her wet sex and into Malcolm’s hand. But as soon as it was out to the mouth of the bottle, Malcolm eased it back into her, all the way in again. He slid his arm under her shoulders and she lay back across it. The position forced her back to bend and thrust her breasts into the air. Malcolm licked and sucked at her nipple as he toyed with the bottle inside her. Mona begged him to let her orgasm, implored him, offered up her body to him, which was meaningless since he’d already bought it from her.

"Soon…” was all he said. Soon. He rasped it into her ear. Her body shook and shivered, shook and tensed. She had to come, had to, absolutely must…

He was fully erect again, his cock pressed against her thigh. She reached down and grasped it in her hand, held it simply to hold it, this instrument of her pleasure and her torment. Malcolm shuddered and chuckled, no doubt amused by her desperation. The begging went on. Soon the only word she knew was "please.” She said it over and over. Finally, he gave in.

"Push it out,” he said and she rolled up again to force the bottle out of her. Malcolm mounted her quickly, penetrating her with a stroke. With her breasts in his hands, he rode her into the bed. The thrusts were rough and rapid and bruising. He squeezed her breasts with brutal strength, and she didn’t care, not at all. She cared only about the huge hard shaft slamming into her over and over. She arched into the orgasm, crying out louder than she ever had, her vagina closing in quick contractions all around the brutal organ inside her. Her entire body flinched with the muscle spasms. God, what was he doing to her? How could she ever return to a normal life after this?

She collapsed back onto the pillows and Malcolm pulled out of her. She rolled onto her side and he lay beside her, his chest to her back.

"I have to sleep,” she said as he kissed the side of her neck under her ear. "I can’t go on anymore. I have to sleep…just for a minute. I think you killed me…”

She was out of her mind with exhaustion. Malcolm laughed that gentle mocking laugh again. He pulled the red rose from behind her ear, unpinned her hair and let it lay free on the pillow. He teased her nose with the petals and kissed the back of her neck.

"Sleep then,” he said. "I don’t mind. Sleep and I’ll take you while you’re sleeping.”

"You wouldn’t…”

"Don’t you know better than that by now, darling?”

Mona did know better than that by now. Smiling, she nodded, shifted forward onto her stomach, her knee up to leave her sex open to him. As she drifted off to sleep, she felt him enter her again. Surely she couldn’t sleep with his cock inside her. But the thrusts were long and slow and for once, quite gentle. They were steady and rhythmic and it was as if he was rocking her to sleep. And she fell asleep with him inside her, his warm breath on her naked shoulder, her name on his lips as he kissed her earlobe.

When she woke, sunlight streamed through the skylight over the bed and Malcolm was gone. Slowly she rolled up and pressed a hand to her forehead. The last thing she remembered was Malcolm taking the red rose from her hair and the velvet choker off her neck and penetrating her gently from behind.

If asked, she doubted she’d swear on a Bible that she trusted Malcolm, but this morning she awoke unharmed, not raped, nor mutilated or murdered. He’d fucked her, yes, consensually. How many times? She wasn’t sure if she should count her orgasms or his. And she couldn’t count his because he’d fucked her while she’d slept. Had he done it only the one time? Or several times throughout the night? The thought of him gently rutting on her unconscious body aroused her, though she wished it didn’t. She had to admit to herself she enjoyed being thoroughly used. It was new information about herself. It didn’t trouble her to make this realization. It only troubled her that it didn’t trouble her.

Mona laughed.

She laughed because Tou-Tou slept curled in a ball at the end of the bed and she wondered if Malcolm had picked the little cat up and put him there in the night. For in Manet’s Olympia, a black cat stands guard at the end of his mistress’s bed. The black cat symbolized prostitution. Mona had to wonder if the term "pussy” came into fashion before or after Olympia.

Tired as she was, Mona would have liked to stay in the bed all day. Unfortunately, the gallery doorbell buzzed. There was work to be done. Always more work.

"Just a moment.” Her voice was hoarse as she called out, but the buzzing stopped.

Her body ached in places she’d never ached before and her nipples were ringed with pale blue bruises from his mouth and hands. As quickly as she could, she pulled on her skirt and bra and shirt. Had it all been real? She looked at the bed, the sheets wildly askew and dotted with dried fluid stains. Oh, yes, it had been real. Every sore muscle in her body, especially the ones inside her, told her it was. She went to the side door in the office, the delivery door, unlocked and pushed it open.

"Yes? Can I help you?”

A woman stood across the threshold, dark skin with a white scarf in her hair. She was beautiful as a Raphael, and in her arms she cradled a bouquet overflowing with white roses and baby’s breath.

"Delivery for Mona St. James. Is that you, miss?” the woman said in an island accent Mona couldn’t place. Something lovely and Caribbean anyway. Had Malcolm found the prettiest woman in the whole city to bring her flowers? She wouldn’t put it past him.

"It’s me. Thank you,” Mona said, taking the flowers from the woman’s arms. She should have seen this coming. In Manet’s Olympia, a woman stands by the courtesan’s bed presenting her with white flowers. "Is there a card?”

"Not a card, miss,” the woman said. "But he told me to give you this.”

She handed Mona a clear glass bottle sealed with a cork.

Mona laughed to herself. Terrible man.

"If you’ll wait here, I’ll find some cash.”

"He tipped me well enough for ten men,” the woman said. "Enjoy your flowers. He said you’d more than earned them.”

The woman gave her a knowing smile and stepped away. Mona set the flowers on the desk. They smelled of summer, which it was today—June 21st, the summer solstice. A new summer full of promise. She pulled the cork from the bottle. There seemed to be a note inside. It took a little doing to ease the rolled parchment from the bottle’s mouth, but at last she worked it out.

Mona unrolled the paper and her eyes widened. She dropped down into her desk chair, heedless of the discomfort.

The paper wasn’t a note at all but a drawing. Not a drawing but a sketch—a sketch she recognized instantly. She knew those curves, those watery lines. A sketch of a dancer. Not any sort of dancer. A ballet dancer.

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