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Forever and a Night
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Forever and a Night
Marty didn't know why he came to this bar anymore. It
had lost its charm, its mystery. Instead of intriguing
shadows in the corners now he just saw grime. Instead of
women of mystery the place seemed filled with the same old
brand of female. Either they were self-hating and looking
to tie you up in their web of hate and inject you with their
own bitterness, or they were self-enamored and wanted you to
toy with and to satisfy themselves with by sucking your
marrow.
The mirrors behind the bar never caught his eye.
He was thinking that it might be time for him to head
out, for the last time from this place, when they caught his
eye. Actually, the fair one caught his eye first, tossing
her blonde hair back over her shoulder as she walked from
the bar to a table carrying two drinks. But when she
reached the corner table, back-lit by shadows and smoke, his
eye was caught by her companion, too. He couldn't choose.
His glance flitted back and forth between the blonde with
her soft curves and almost glowing skin and the dark one,
with the short brown hair and the long graceful limbs, skin
a rich colour, and deep. The blonde seemed to radiate
outward, and he wanted to feel himself in its warmth; the
brunette seemed to radiate inward and he wanted to hold her
and peer into her depths.
Even for Marty Sutherland wanting them both was a bit
bold. One would burn up any normal man in a matter of
months, both could probably burn him up in a week.
But it was a risk he was just going to have to take.
He leaned back into the bar and waved the bartender
down. Marty struggled for a moment for the guys name, but
then pulled it up from God know's where. "Rick," he said,
like he was about to start a quid pro quo with the head of
KGB operations, D.C., "you see the blonde and brunette back
in the corner?"
Rick looked slowly towards the corner in question.
Marty tried to watch his eyes, but in the blue neon lighting
of the bar the bartenders blue-grey irises disappeared into
the whites of his eyes, leaving glistening orbs of uniform
colour that forced Marty to glance away. When his eyes came
back to Rick he sickeningly realized that the bartenders
face had adsorbed that same buzzing blue colour, blending
with his eyes and his formerly white shirt, and Marty found
himself looking at a clay man. A model of a man made from
wax and mistakenly left un-painted. A being of ghostly-blue
uniformity turned and looked at him again, with nothing but
wide, black pupils staring out from the nothingness of its
form. A dark line cracked across its surface and Rick
answered.
"She was asking about you."
"What?" Marty thought himself good-looking but he had
rarely been seen before he had saw. "About me?"
"Yeah," came the voice from the blue neon void, "the
blonde came up to get the drinks and asked me if you were
alone. I told her yes. Is that okay?"
"Beautiful," Marty was starting to get anxious about
talking to this Rick-thing. "Thanks a lot," he said and
abruptly turned away. It wandered back down the bar. Marty
sighed relief.
He looked back towards the pair of women again. And
found the dark one looking at him. He didn't look away.
Had she been staring, he might have. But she wasn't
staring. Even though her eyes never left him and never
seemed to have blinked in the last millennium for which she
had beheld him, her look wasn't a stare. A stare was a
punch in the gut, her look was a caress, a searching. He
was being explored, his pockets picked, his skin pinched to
make sure he hadn't been out in the fields too long. He was
too entranced to know if he enjoyed it or feared it. He
just watched her watch him.
She glanced to her companion, with a slight nod. Marty
shifted his look too, in time to see the blonde turn and
look him in the eye and smile. The smile glowed, it warmed,
it would make bread rise on a cold morning. Marty found
himself walking to their table.
He stepped up before them and put his hand on the empty
third chair at their table. He started to speak, and as he
did the crashing music from the dance floor seemed to hush
around the table, like it was a cackling hen that had been
shoo-ed away. His words dropped into muted air. "May I
join you?"
"Yes," smiled the blonde, "we'd like that."
Marty pulled out the chair and sat down, looking back
to the brunette, smiling, but she still merely 'looked' at
him and took a sip through the straw in her drink. He
turned back to the blonde.
"Hi, I'm Marty-- Rick wouldn't tell me your names."
"He doesn't know them," the blonde answered, and took
another drink, and gave another smile to grow orchids by,
"I'm ... Christina, and this is Jacquline." She nodded to
her companion.
Marty threw Jacquline a smile, and said, "Nice to meet
you," but she said nothing. "Both," he added turning back
to Christina, "I've never see you here before."
"That would be because we've never been here before,"
Christina answered. Marty chuckled, trying his damnedest to
be charming, and she continued, "we don't go to bars much at
all, but tonight..."
"Tonight, what?"
"Tonight this place looked like it might have what we
were looking for."
Marty raised an eyebrow mischievously. Entendre was
his favorite game. "And tonight you came looking for..." he
prompted, looking from Christina to Jacquline.
And that's when Jacquline first spoke to him. Except
she didn't. He heard her words, though her lips never
moved. Perhaps 'heard' is the wrong word. 'Read' might be
closer, but it was beyond that. It was more like seeing a
painting and knowing what the painter meant. Walking into a
room with a sculpture and knowing its name without ever
reading the identifying card. Reading a poem and knowing
the truth, not the lies the poet put down to fill up the
page. He looked into her face, into her eyes, and they
said, they wrote, they painted and sculpted in a perfect
meter, "You. We came looking for you. For you, so that we
might--"
"Oh, adventure, I guess," Christina said, not noticing
Marty's daze as he turned back to her. She tried a
mischievous smile, but it was too beautiful to be properly
smutty.
"Oh, uh, yeah," Marty's mind felt like mush. He was
confused by what he had seen, what Jacquline had told him,
HOW Jacquline had told him, and his mind stumbled at high
speed. Who were they? Did he really want this, how badly
did he want this, what the hell was this? He glanced back
to Jacquline.
"You," she painted.
"Do you like adventure?" Christina said to his right,
her soft voice sounding monstrously loud next to Jacqulines
silent one.
Marty looked at her again, his mind confused and not
knowing what to do, and therefore reverting back to
instinct, to what he knew best, "B-but of course. Who
doesn't like a little adventure. Maybe, even a *lot*." He
winked.
Christina tried an evil smile. It distorted comically
on her face, "Mmmmm, that's good. But how do you find one;
how do you start an adventure?"
"Why, with a trip of course. Your place or mine?"
Marty drove them in his sedan which he wrote off as a
business expense, though this was hardly business.
Jacquline sat in the back, though Marty would've preferred
to sit them both up front with himself, so that the fit
would have been tight and close. But that would be later,
he assured himself. Whenever he glanced into his rear-view
mirror he saw that she was always looking out at the city.
Christina sat up front with him and she tickled at his
neck and giggled when he tried to shrug her away with a
smile.
"What do you do?" he asked her.
"What do you *want* to do?" she asked, her eyes trying
to burn into him with passion.
"No, no," he laughed, "what do you do, like for a
living. A model, I bet you model, right?"
"No," she laughed, "Nothing so... famous."
"What then? What could possibly be good enough for
you?" he said, hoping she preferred the flattering kind.
"Oh, I think you could be possibly good enough for me,"
she said, running her finger tips along the back of his
neck. It gave him shivers and his brain threatened over-
load.
He looked in the rear-view mirror. "What does she--
what do *you* do, Jacquline?" he asked.
She glance briefly at him in the mirror. "This," she
wrote.
Marty lost track of the evening again. With Christina
everything was normal and right. He'd done this before,
he'd do it again; the conversations were always the same,
the faces became the same as they drifted backwards into the
past. Christina was a beauty, an eleven on a scale of ten,
but she would fade, metamorphosis into the faceless "Girl I
met one night". Jacquline seemed determine to defy that.
She threw him off track with every look. With every move.
When the trio had gotten up from their seats to leave the
bar she had turned out to be almost six-six. A full six
inches taller than Marty's six feet. And all the more
beautiful for the perfect grace in her long limbs and body.
Her looks and her 'words' threw Marty, broke the pattern,
threatened to upset the game forever. And it was a game he
liked.
A game he wanted to play with these two more than
anything else he could imagine wanting to do in his life.
"What do you dream of?" asked Christina, breaking his
mental ramblings.
He thought for a moment. "This," he said, echoing
Jacquline. Christina laughed.
"No, Marty, what do you want to do with your *life*?"
"This," he said again, with a laugh. She joined him.
"Now," he said, "you still haven't answered my question--
what do you do? Huh? Huh?" He poked playfully at her.
"I'm a... personal secretary."
"Oh really?" Marty asked; this could turn out to be a
connection for business too! This was turning into one hell
of a night. "For who?"
"Oh, no one noted."
"You mean 'no one notable'?"
"No, no one *noted*." She looked out the windshield at
the street, then pointed. "Turn in there."
They lived on the third floor of a three-story building
above two stories of art gallery. It was in the part of
town where the rich lived to pretend to be poor, but the
inside of the apartment made no such pretenses. It was
lavish. The carpet was thick and looked new, looked like it
would always be new, and the decorations would have put the
modern art in the floors below to shame. Cut crystal vases
and sculptures, paintings of rich colours and strokes--
nothing in the room quite matched anything else but
everything went together beautifully. Every piece of
decoration or furniture or utility had the look of having
been bought in a separate store at a separate time, and yet
when it had been brought into this room it had become rooted
here. Part of here. Forever here.
"Nice place," Marty said, realizing as he said it how
pitiful of an attempt at expressing what the room really
looked like it was. "Really, really nice," he added, before
he could stop himself, compounding the gross understatement.
"We like it," Christina said, leading him in and down
into the sunken sitting area to the couch. He sat down,
trying to be as graceful as he could, which wasn't enough in
his present surroundings. "Would you like a drink?" she
asked moving across the room to the mirrored bar near the
fireplace.
"Just a Coke, if you have it," he said, leaning back,
"I had enough at the bar." He didn't need chemical
assistance to drop his inhibitions.
She poured him a Coke, and herself the rest of the can
and brought the glasses back with her. She gave him his as
she sat down beside him.
Marty took a drink then looked around. "Where's
Jacquline?"
"She's getting ready."
These two didn't mess around. "Who... what... why... I
mean," Marty struggle for a polite way to try and ask
Christina to explain Jacquline. "How did you two meet?" was
the best he could manage.
"Well," Christina said, moving closer so that she could
put her arms around him, "Jacquline was looking for a...
roommate. And we 'met' one day in a bar. I was there
looking to pick up someone for a place to stay, because I
had just moved out on my last... lover. And we sort of, hit
it off, you might say."
That was a half-truth if Marty ever heard one. 'Hit it
off' probably meant more than a night of friendly
discussion, and she'd been careful not to specify whether or
not she'd moved out on her last *boy*friend or *girl*friend.
But did he really care, as long as he was involved in the
sweating? Hell no.
"Um," he said, "is this all hers then?"
"Yes," Christina said, "everything in here is hers,"
and then she turned her head towards the door that was
behind the couch they were sitting on. "Ready?" she asked
of someone behind him.
Marty turned to see who, and saw Jacquline coming out
of the door and towards him, moving with the bearing of a
princess and wearing nothing. He was stunned-- another
understatement. He tried to see her whole body at once,
tried to concentrate on the detail of every inch of her at
the same time and his brain burned with it. Burned with
her. She wasn't a collection of parts. She wasn't a pair
of delicious breast mounted on an unnotable frame, or a
great pair of legs that carried something about. She didn't
have arms and thighs and a face, she had a body, one
complete thing inseparable in his mind or his observation.
He couldn't break her down, he couldn't see this and then
this. He could only see it all; he could only take her in
as her whole and her body and her motion and her parts
linked by her presence-- his mind bulged with the blast of
her as she was, a complete being, without missing parts,
without damage or deformity, without fear or pain, without
pause or haste, without-- completely devoid of--
imperfection.
She held her hand out to him and sculpted, "Come."
He stood up, unable to take his eyes from her, and
moved around the couch, going around Christina like she was
so much furniture, too. He took Jacqulines hand and
followed her back through the door, which turned out to open
into a bedroom.
What the living room had achieved through opulence and
taste, the bedroom did through starkness and space. It was
large, with large glass french doors leading out onto a
balcony looking out to the bay. The carpet was grey and
matched the matte finished, grey, completely undecorated
walls. The room held only one straight backed chair, and a
bed, which the chair sat near the head of. The bed was
small, an oversized twin at best, with what had probably
been brass head and footboards, but which had been blackened
somehow. It was made with deep grey silk sheets, on top of
which laid a girl.
'Girl' was the appropriate term as she had barely begun
the transition through puberty, her breast barely more than
raised nipples, and her body still free from anything more
than the soft fuzz that babies have. Her skin was brown on
the arms and legs that would peak out from her clothes, but
her chest and pelvis were the brilliant white of never
having seen the sun. Her hair was long, straight and mousey
brown, and was tangled underneath her head and hanging off
one side of the bed. Her eyes were closed when Marty
followed Jacquline into the room. Her arms were tied at the
wrist to the corners of the bed by brightly patterned silk
scarfs, and a similar pair tied her ankles to the footboard.
A finally scarf held a gag in her mouth. Her head lolled to
one side on the pillow.
Her body had been pierce by a number of fishing-hooks
and these were attached to lines of various colours which
stretched up from her body and through eye hooks in
different places in the ceiling and then back to a common
line of hooks above the foot of the bed where all the lines
came together and were attached to a large weight which kept
the lines taut. She had hooks which pierced both nipples, a
pair through the loose skin on the inside of the upper arm,
another pair caught in the soft flesh of her stomache, two
through the labia major pulling them apart, and one through
the clitoris. Two more had been pierced through the labia
minor, the lips of the vagina itself, and pulled them out
and apart, and another hook had been forced in through the
vaginal wall and allow to exit from the anus. This hook had
two lines stretching from it towards opposite sides of to
the room, as the hook through the clitoris had, in order to
continue the symmetry of the design. Finally there was a
line of hooks down the inside of both legs, beginning in the
upper reaches of the inner thigh and continuing down in a
series of five more piercings, all whose lines led outward
from her body.
Jacquline led Marty, who was numb at the site, to the
foot of the bed, so that the weight which held all the lines
hung before his chest. From here he could see the symmetry,
the pairs of lines, always pairs, that led off from the
young body, that shot out into the room and various points
in the ceiling and then back again to the central hooks and
weight. The hooks all tugged at her body, pulling up the
flesh where they pierced into her, and giving her the look
of supreme tension. She was as taught as the lines that ran
from her though she lay there seemingly unconscious.
Marty couldn't take it all in. Her body, laying there,
restrained for him, its reality pulled taut and wide for him
to see and adsorb, on the bed perfectly placed beneath the
window-like doors which showed a sweeping view of the city
and the stars it huddled below and the ocean it leaned
against. The lines leading out from the girl, bright in
colour almost like power lines charged by her and leading
that energy away into the void and then back again to him.
It all centered on him. He tried to see it all at once.
The horror, the pain, the perfection, the beauty. It was
all conceived on a level he had never seen before. It
belied thoughts his mind had never reach before, thoughts he
knew his mind could never fully reach. He was a dualist
standing in the middle of a thought that transcended all he
knew about light and dark, right and wrong, pain and
pleasure. His brain couldn't adsorb what it was he saw,
much less analyze it or describe it. He knew it was beyond
him. He knew he wished it wasn't. To be able to think
this, to be able to be part of it and not overwhelmed, he
would die. He would kill. He would destroy all that he was
in order to become something else, something that could
think this perfect thought.
And while his mind had grappled with something beyond
his experience, Jacquline had carefully stripped him of his
clothing. Now she leaned her face down and brushed her lips
against his ear. Marty's revery was broken.
"I want..." he said.
"I know," her face said to him, and she turned her head
to the lines coming down from the ceiling. She raised her
hand and a long nimble finger reached out and plucked at one
of the lines like a harp string. There was a muffled whine
and Marty looked back to the bed to see the girls head roll
up straight and her eyes come open to stare at him.
Her eyes. It was, it was as if Marty had just heard
the most fantastic symphony he could conceive existed, and
then the orchestra had launched into a new symphony that
made the first seem like a cola jingle. His mind could just
barely grasp at the edges of what her eyes held. Pain,
despair, peace, passion. Five minutes ago he could only
have seen the pain. But since seeing this, the room and
what he found in it, his mind had already begun to expand,
like it had expanded once when he was a child. He'd thought
that his mind had grown to the limits, then. Now he knew
that it had stopped far short of what the world held. In
those eyes was more than pain, oh so much more. There was
wisdom marvelous in one so young. There was vision, a
seeing of things that shouldn't exist, couldn't exist, but
did, and thrived. Philosophers speak of that which lies
beyond, behind reality, but these eyes, the eyes before him
could see that, could SEE what others only theorize. There
was, in those eyes, more life than Marty had ever had the
balls to live.
It was beautiful. They were beautiful. She was
beautiful.
He looked at this pre-pubescent girl, this nearly
sexless child, and he wanted her, wanted her with passion
more than he had ever felt for a woman. He could feel his
penis becoming erected, rising like his blood, his whole
body becoming hot and sweat starting to slick his back. He
looked at her with a hunger that had never held him before.
And those eyes looked back at him with the same
passion. This girl, this child, had surpassed all
adulthood. She had leapt from child to beyond grown and a
passion was racking her even as he felt himself trembling
with desire.
He reached out to the lines that were tied to the
weight before him, and he pulled at one gently. He could
see the flesh pull up even farther on the inside of her
right thigh and another muffled whine came from behind the
gag.
And just then he realized that Jacquline had knelt
before him because at that whine he felt his penis slipping
into her mouth. Slowly and with deliberation her mouth
pushed down around it, and a shiver burst up his spine. Too
much, too much. He was sure that it was all too much and he
would orgasm instantly, that second, but somehow he didn't.
Deliberately, one after another he choose a string and
pulled on it. Each time was a cry and the eyes that never
left him would burn even brighter. Again the limits his
mind conceived of were surpassed, and when his mind had been
done reeling and conceived of new limits, they were
surpassed again. Like an instrument of pure feeling he
played the lines and young girl, and Jacquline played him.
The feelings from his body were like a giant pounding at the
door of his mind. He tried to ignore them, to steep himself
only in her eyes, the girls eyes, but his body refused to be
ignored. And at the same time he knew that when he let them
in they would swamp him, he would orgasm and it would all be
gone, all drained from him. He had to hold it off, he had
to hold the girl and her passion and play them, learn and
adsorb her and what her eyes screamed at him.
Part of his mind could feel everything Jacquline did
without reporting on the pleasure. Up and down she went,
letting his penis push deeper and deeper into her mouth,
down into the beginnings of her throat, in until her face
pressed against him. Her mouth enclosed him entirely, and
she sucked voraciously, pulling his seed out of him, urging,
begging him to release his seed into her mouth. Her tongue
rolled as her mouth moved up and down the length of his
penis, coaxing, tugging, pleading for his semen. Her long
arms wrapped themselves around his thighs and his buttocks
and drew him even closer to her and he read what she said,
her whole body telegraphing the message to his deaf mind:
Please, please come in my mouth.
But Marty held on. He reached out to the girl on the
bed. He pushed his consciousness out from his body and
toward the writhing, lithe beauty of pain on the bed like
she was a long lost love. And she was. Harder and harder
he pulled on the lines, farther and farther stretching the
flesh from her body, making sweat pop from her forehead, one
second dry, the next spotted with large drops. She rolled,
she riled, trying to escape, trying to move with the hooks
and lessen the distance, trying to move away from them and
pull the hooks completely out.
On, and on, no end in sight. Marty's mind stopped
seeing limits, he stopped believing in them or that this
would ever stop.
And then the same corner of his mind that reported
Jacquline's actions as cold facts noted that Christina had
entered the room. She crossed to the bed and sat on the
straight-backed chair. She was naked and her otherwise
stunning body was marred by scar after scar that stretched
across her large round breast and down her front and her
thighs. Two more scars were being born as long streaks of
red that reached across her front and leaked trails of blood
all down her front. She watched Marty and Jacquline for a
moment, then reached over with the still bloody razor-blade
in her hand and cut in two the scarf that held the girls gag
in. Then, holding the blade up between her fore-finger and
thumb she gripped against her palm with her last three
fingers the gag which had been stuffed into the girls mouth.
She jerked it out.
The girl screamed. Her lungs emptied themselves in a
massive blast that gave voice and substance to all that her
eyes had been showing to Marty, giving to Marty. It was
high and harsh and fell off into a crying sob that fluttered
almost forming words, but not. Words would have been too
little.
When she screamed Marty's mind burst. It had struggled
and come to grips with the room. Then it had struggled and
come to grippes with the passion of the girl, and his
passion for the girl. It had ignored the infinite pleasure
of being inside Jacquline, but the scream slammed into him
like a blow. It blew the breakers in his mind; he couldn't
handle it, but nor could he stop it. The sound redoubled
every feeling and thought he had already had and those had
already almost been too much. His mind broke loose and
swirled. The giant that was the feelings from his body
rushed in and he orgasmed. His whole body flared and he
ejaculated his semen with all his force into Jacquline's
mouth. She gripped him closer, her body telling him: More,
more! while the girl screamed: More, more! He gave all that
he had and still he felt Jacquline sucking on him, her mouth
pulling at his penis, and he felt himself start to give
more. Out he shot it into her mouth and she sucked it down
and into herself, out, out, more, more. Except that it
wasn't semen anymore. He didn't know what he gave her, what
he thrust into her with all the speed and strength her could
find, but with it went everything he had found. The
thoughts swirled down, the emotions drained through him, his
mind gave up all that it had in a great rushing that
trickled down her throat.
He'd never known what a soul was, until he'd lost his.
An eternity in a minute or two and then she let go of
him and he collapsed. He felt dry. He felt like an old
book in that if anyone handled him too roughly he would
crumble into dust.
His brain and eyes wandered around the room. Wall. He
saw the wall stretching up from his head and meeting the
ceiling, but he couldn't quite see the seam. He could see
where it should be, but not the thing itself. Wall. It was
dingy looking. Wasn't it? Wasn't everything here dingy and
dirty and poorly done? No, the wall was spotless. It was
pristine and perfect. Everything in the apartment was the
finest the world had to offer and showed it. Wall. Why was
the wall stretching out from the top of his head like that?
Oh, he was laying on the floor. Shadow.
His eyes rolled some more and found Jacquline standing
over him. He looked up at her and could see something in
her eyes. He'd once been able to see things in eyes like
that, once been able to read things and know things from
seeing eyes that burned like those did.
But now they just looked vaguely angry. As she reached
down for him he wondered who would play him-- and what
exactly they would play.
Pi
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