Chaos In Paradise

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

I think of Keven all the time—especially how he speaks my name, Teagan, with such affection I’ve never heard from any man. He reluctantly takes me to the extremes knowing I like it rough. But I like it best with him, of all my lovers because his face pours passionate sadness into me through his eyes. I saw him first on the beach with a hatchet in his hand. He’d been chopping wood and was scraping off pine tar and shavings. I’m sure I intruded on whatever contemplation he was in the midst of—he looked so very serious—but I couldn’t help myself reflecting on his expression.

His full head of wavy brown hair falls about his face, adding to the soft look of his lips and the tender blue of his eyes. His eyes are intensely haunting and they say so much about him. He’s generous, compassionate and stern. Charismatic and casual. But he is conflicted about what he won’t speak of to me. When we talked that first time, I told him who I was and how I didn’t want to make trouble. I just wanted a home for a while where I can smell flowers when I walk in meadows, and where the streams run clear, where I can run barefoot in the dirt and feel clean sand between my toes. I don’t think any explanation of myself would have mattered. He seemed to adore me from that first gaze.

We talked for several meetings. I told him about myself, about how I assist the newsmaker preparing his presses for the papers every Friday, and sell jewelry I make from things I gather from the shoreline—shells and rocks and petrified pieces of wood. I’ve sold them at market several times in the villages, usually bartering for food. At night I weave on the frame I built, making cloth from yarn and thread I buy on market days.

Keven’s talked about his childhood, but little about his present life, except his humble profession. He says there is not much to say. I’ve had a much more fascinating life—though he knows so little of the truth.

The day I invited Keven home to see my work, I thought he’d turn me down at first. But his eyes were as swept with lust as mine. And before I had a chance to show him the jewelry and fabric, he took me into his arms and kissed my lips. Those full, sweet manly ones preyed on mine, though I can’t say I didn’t welcome them. Considering the enthusiasm with which he tore at my dress and his utter awe of me, I wondered if it had been years since he was with a woman. When he untied my blouse, it drifted downward exposing my breasts, and my n*****s instantly turned into pebbles before his aroused eyes. The half light of the afternoon brushed the surface giving them a sateen glow. His look was strangely sweet. Keven’s fingers soothed my skin, his touch feeling like melting butter. When his mouth covered one n****e, I shrunk back, stunned by the force of his lips sucking it hard, and then pinching the other so firmly, I shrieked. We both knew how that made my p***y pulse. A drizzle of s*x juice ran down my inner thigh. Tumbling to the bed, the rest of my clothes disappeared.

“No fair!” I exclaimed. “I want your cock.”

Trying to reconcile the inequality of our state of dress, I had my hand at the buttons of his britches. Fast undoing them my hands sensed hot meat throbbing inside his leather. With my face at his crotch, I took one admiring glance at his organ rising like a bird from its nest. My mouth covered it, my lips sucking their way along the blood engorged skin and veins. The purple head had smooth skin and a bitter taste and the smell of darkness and mystery. I washed him clean with my slippery tongue, imagining him about to spew his c*m. But then he pulled me on top of him and forced my legs apart, fists clutching my ass, as he positioned my wet cunt over the waiting stalk.

“You have a randy ass, b***h,” he seethed sexily in my ear.

“And you a dirty tongue,” I seethed my reply.

He spanked the tender surface, not once but ten times, until the warm sting turned painful. Then he just squeezed the globes again until I objected.

“You like it rough and dirty,” he suggested to me, while clutching my rear cheeks and spreading them wide. His hips pumped into mine, driving the erection to the painful end of the channel. Though his massage made me delirious, my climax was close. He shot and I squirmed into his groin going wild as my clit took charge and the spasming hole beneath throbbed against his withering prick.

***

My friend Mariel likes to listen to my stories about my lovers. She has the heart of an innocent but the lust of a Southern slut. I worry that she’s not going to be able to contain herself. She’ll get into trouble if she’s not more careful.

I met Mariel selling jewelry. She’s a young scampy thing, with blue/gray eyes and smooth tanned skin from bathing naked on the beach, and bright sun-bleached hair that’s naturally a tawny shade of brown. She’s engaged to be married, but nurtures a pocketful of salacious fantasies that will make her an unhappy Utopian wife. Yet, as she listens to my narratives, I think we may be abating the worst of her lechery. When she comes for tea, we always end up talking about s*x.

She sometimes urges me for revelations about Keven, though those I’m reluctant to give her, they seem especially private. I don’t tell her the whole of our affair, just a few things. “He does little things to me,” I say. I’m recalling one of the first times we were together. “We lay for some time not speaking,” I tell her ... “Keven’s at my back, embracing me with his arms, as one hand cupped my pubis. The way his fingers delicately moved into my steamy channel, I might have built to something else fast. He pinched my labia and tugged my hair until I squealed again. “You have a nasty way with you, woodcutter,” I declared.

“And you don’t like it?” he said.

“Oh, but I do,” I said turning in his arms so I could peek in his eyes. “I’m the kind of woman used to lovers that use me.” My hand stroked his smoothly shaven cheeks. Even that made me titter down below so I scissored my legs with his, riding one of his thighs like a saddle. “I like being bound, my ass spanked, my p***y whipped. Whatever kind of cruelty you want to impose on me, I can find a way to pleasure in it.”

“You like the pain?” he asked.

“Oh, yes! I adore torture because it turns to body heat. And I’d adore it even more because of you.”

“You mean that, don’t you?”

“Why would I lie?” He looked at me amazed. “Are the women so stuffy in the North that they don’t accept but one kind of pleasure?”

“I couldn’t speak for all.”

“But you have your rules here, don’t you? And I’m probably breaking some law.”

“You’re breaking no law,” he answered quickly. “Anything you want, Teagan, I’ll give you. Anything.”

“Then you’re as much a slut as I am.”

“Then I suppose I am,” I told him.

My mind returns to the present and my room. “That’s when I knew I was hopelessly in love and so was he,” I tell Mariel.

She lies with her head back on my bed, looking sultry, turned-on by my story. She’s a bit like a blooming camellia, the blossom floating on water, the petals fluted, opening in layers.

“Did that make you horny?” I ask her.

“You make me horny,” she replies.

“But women don’t belong together in the North,” I remind her.

“But they do in the South,” she says.

“But we’re not in the South now.”

“I never was,” she tells me. “What’s it like?”

“Dirty. Desperate. And there’s a dry heat all the time, unless you’re on the beach. Though there, even the birds are weary and the salt air has a rancid odor. It’s hardly as fantastical as some people here believe. And probably not as chaotic. There just isn’t any real order.”

“Tell me about the sex.” Mariel’s playing with herself through a white summery dress. I can see her small breasts barely swell the fabric, though her n*****s poke through seductively. There’s an immeasurable jiggle to her thighs, like a bit of s****l mirth. As her hand presses her crotch, she rocks on the fingers. She’s so thin, her hip bones poke up leaving an alluring swell, her pubis makes a lush hill with a tuft of brown hair I can see as the light shines through the thin material. “Tell me about the rough stuff.”

“About it rough with Keven?” I ask.

“No, how it was in the South. The best/worst lover you ever had.”

“That would be Cabot,” I tell her. “I slaved for him for nearly a year before I fled. It was wonderful and terrorizing at the same time …

I float into my memory, while sitting in my chair by the window looking at Mariel fool with her p***y, and occasionally stroke her breasts. I’m getting aroused by her, but perhaps even more by my memory.

“I thought I loved him,” I began. “He found me working for a printer in one of the larger towns. I’d proof the copy before the final press was made. But he didn’t like my boss’s politics. He was in the printing office one afternoon to complain about the tracts that were circulating, those originating in our office and other places. He was quite distinctive, wearing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, and his hair was black and very short, freshly trimmed. It isn’t often you see a man so close-clipped and manicured in the South.”

I gaze at Mariel wondering if she’s really listening. I’d like to climb on her and make love, but she has an aloof feel to her, so I return to my daydreaming.

“It was cold, that arid cold that leaves you breathlessly empty. Cabot was wearing a fine gray woolen coat. I think they’re making these heavy clothes in the East somewhere, but they are very expensive anywhere in our region. It made Cabot look formal, very official and stern. But I find that sexy too.”

“That’s not like Keven, is it?” Mariel interjects.

“No. Keven is more earthy and easygoing. Cabot was an intellectual, though I found him so alluring I let him take me from the printing office, away from my job. He planned for me to work for him in his small factory. He had a printing press too. Life was like that for me in the South. I seemed to move from place to place, from lover to lover, hardly like I had a will of my own. I moved the way the winds blew, and depending on whose hand was dragging my cunt to a new adventure. Being bored with the political tracts and lured by Cabot’s measure of authority, I didn’t give him a fight.

“I expected him to want me for s*x too. That’s how it works there. Most women give in to men without much fight, and it’s become so normal, no one thinks any different of it. That is why it seems so strange here. Anyway, we went to bed as soon as Cabot was horny. I opened my thighs for him and he had an enormous c**k that hurt almost every time he f****d me. Still, I like feeling full. He didn’t expect anything but my willingness and I was willing every time. But he did need to control me. The first time I went off on my own, he was furious when I returned.

“He hauled me by the hair into the bedroom and clamped a handcuff around one wrist and fixed it to the bed. He did the same with my other wrist, so I was lying face down, my arms stretched out to the two corners of the headboard. I started to cry, I was so afraid. When he jerked at my feet and I felt ropes tightened against my ankles, I tried to fight him, screaming, but there wasn’t anyone to rescue me. He had control of all his friends that lived with us, and the house was wedged in a valley between two hills, no one else around. There’d be no rescue.

“Tearing at my skirt, my ass was bared. And looking back, I saw him take his belt from his pants, a shiny, black substantial one. I whimpered crazed and begged him not to use it on me. But he didn’t hear me. He spanked my ass with the thing so it burned. The hot blistering made me clench my ass cheeks in fright, but then the strangest thing began to happen. He paused for a time, long enough for the pain to ease off, and when he started again, the sensation was not as severe. Cabot stopped and started at least a half dozen times and when he was finished, not only was my poor bottom feeling like molten lava, my p***y was sloshy wet, ready to orgasm against the sheets.

“‘You hot cunt!’ he seethed in my ear. He pulled me by the hair, lifting me off the bed enough so he could stuff a pillow under my hips. I felt his hand burrow between my ass cheeks and find my anus puckering. Moistening it with s*x juice, I almost screamed until I realized that his massage of my back channel made it as steamy as my horny cunt. I was opening for him, this crazy shower of pain raining on me like bits of fire. I begged him for more. The first thrust was grueling, sparks flying everywhere. He’d slap my ass with his palm if I moaned too loudly. But then I think it was just me groaning with pleasure. We came within instants of each other.

“That was the day I realized that I liked giving myself this way, that I liked pain and being owned by a man’s lust. I remained tied to the bed the entire night. When Cabot wanted me again, he took my ass—so much that I finally had to plead for him to stop f*****g me there, and he did.”

“You like taking it up the ass?” Mariel asks.

“I do.”

“I like playing with myself there,” she says. She’s in a somnambulant frame of mind, just half awake. But her knees are bent now, and her dress has fallen back so they are naked and she can get to bare flesh. I think she has both hands engaged, one with a finger at her anus—the left one I can’t really see—the other staying close to her p***y. I continue with my story, wondering if she’s going to climax listening to me.

“Cabot’s a hard man. I lived with him doing everything he asked me to do, f*****g him whenever he wanted, but still that wasn’t enough. He always found something to punish me for. There were times when he wanted me to screw his friends and I would. But then other times it pissed him off and he’d keep me chained to the bed for days, the room locked. I read a lot then, because he had dozens of old books. Most of them were falling apart and if I wasn’t careful he’d punish me for getting the pages all out of order.

“One entire day Cabot kept me locked in a cage to punish me. This was kind of strange. I had been with him for nearly eight months, living with his personal brand of anarchy and not really paying any attention to what it did to me on the inside or out, how I might be withering away. I think I liked the s*x so much, I really didn’t care. But then something I heard from one of the other women jolted me. She wasn’t speaking to me, but the words hit home. Her name was Geneva. She had blonde hair like yours and big bright red lips. She’d been with Cabot’s friend for two years, and I’d always see her primping and pampering herself like a doll. I thought it was silly and so did all the other women. She’d just smirk. Then one day this new woman asked her why she cared so much about her appearance and she smiled real broad and pretty. ‘Because if I lose my appeal, I lose my life here. And I have no where else to go. No one else is going to want me. Don’t think these men don’t cast off the lazy ones and the used-up ones and the ones without a blush on their faces.’

“That made wonder how I looked, how I really looked. I’d brush by the mirror so hastily I never took time to see myself anymore. Cabot didn’t approve of make-up and fixing my hair, but there must have been some special appeal that kept me with him. Did that remain?

“It was a strange day, clouds but no rain, unusually steamy in the valley. I felt as though things were going to explode. I took off, just for a walk. Went into the woods thinking I couldn’t use my brain while I was in Cabot’s lair—all my internal dialogue would just vanish. When he couldn’t find me in the house, he came after me. When he found me I was scared to death. His cold eyes were hot. His jaw trembled. And his lip sneered dangerously. ‘You don’t leave my house without permission,’ he said.

“‘I wasn’t leaving …’ I tried to plead with him, but I was afraid he’d slap my face, so I said no more. He drug me into the basement of the house where he kept his presses. And removing my clothes, he hog-tied me—belly down, arms back and tethered to my legs. He pushed me into a cage, gagged my mouth, blindfolded my eyes and left me there for hours.” I pause trying to remember if it was really that long. “At least until it was dark,” I finally concluded. “The first thing I felt when he returned for me was my p***y being played with. My arms ached, feeling scorched, burning from awkwardness. But I was so hungry with s****l appetite that I took his hands on me as lovers and let him raise an orgasm. Massaging my anus and my clit, my crotch was swathed in my own juices that flowed on his hand. He pulled out the gag and pressed fingers of liquid to my lips so I could smell my fragrant self and taste the sour juice. There was a dildo slithering inside my anus. Sweet bursts of pain wracked me end to end and I thrashed about the cage, groaning with the unhappy torture, while Cabot pinched my labia and clit. With him drawing his fingernail along the path from my anus to my cunt, I wobbled insanely. I came on the pain, on a dozen pains exploding everywhere.

“‘Don’t leave me, or deny me, or refuse to offer your respect, or disobey any command,’ he said. I nodded because I couldn’t speak. ‘I will string you up and beat your ass tomorrow. But you stay in the cage the rest of the night.’ He unlocked the thing, took away the bindings, even the gag and blindfold, and left me there on my honor to stay there the night.”

I look at Mariel lying on the bed, with her legs now splayed wide apart. Even from where I sit I can see her cunt juice glimmering. The light of afternoon is dying in the room. She shivers, and arches her back, raising her breasts toward the ceiling, or to heaven, whichever might be the thought in her mind.

I want to go to her and lie with her, to run my hands along her c*m-flushed skin, feel her wet pubic lips, slide my hands inside the petal soft folds and bring her juice to her lips the way Cabot brought mine to me. I think that’s what she’s thinking, but I don’t act on my desire. I remain in my chair until her undulating form finally stops the frenzy and relaxes into the crumple of sheets.

“You think I’m a w***e?” she asks.

“In whose language?” I ask.

“In any language.”

“You’d fit well in the South,” I say.

“But I don’t here?”

“That depends on what you do with your lust.”

“I don’t think I can be faithful to him.”

“Then you’d better end it now.”

“There will be quite an inquisition,” she says.

“I’ll speak for you, if you like.”

“It’s not that kind of inquisition.”

I’m not sure what she means, though I’m sure I don’t want to know.