The Pink Room, Part One

She looked, he decided, like a million bucks.  When Paul had
first spotted her, in the dim light of the bar, his first
thought was that she looked like $313,402.24.  (For Paul, an
accountant, it was second nature to calculate the net
present value -- $200 a night, twice a week for the next 25
years, discounted at 2%.)  Now, sitting on the couch of the
brightly-lit pink room, watching as her dress slid off her
shoulders and down her magnificent body, he was ready to
revise his estimate upward -- but his brain was no longer
capable of performing the precise calculation.

Had it been only an hour ago that he had gazed at her
hungrily (even though he had had a big lunch) and suddenly
realized that she was looking back at him, and smiling?  Why
not? he had thought to himself (since this isn't a story
about telepaths.)  After all, he worked out almost
regularly, and he radiated that glow of self-confidence that
comes only from the knowledge that one's underwear is clean
and free of holes.  But that was then.  Now, his shorts were
on the floor somewhere, and his undershirt torn open down
the front, although still relatively clean.

Paul was moderately successful, he did a good business.  But
he had been a free man in Paris, he'd felt unfettered and
alive.  No, wait, that's a Joni Mitchell song.  Paul had
never been to Paris, never been east of Long Island.  And he
didn't feel unfettered now, not with his wrists locked
behind him in gleaming (although he couldn't see them
gleaming at the moment, he had faith in chromium-plated
steel) handcuffs.  But he felt alive.  Oh, yes.  Definitely.

She knelt down, and her fingers wrapped around one of the
parts that felt most alive.  (Coincidence?  You be the
judge.)  It made him feel even more alive, almost too alive
to live.  It very nearly sent him into a new plane of
existence, except that he desperately wanted to hang around
this one to see what would happen next.

She wasn't wearing a bra, but if she had been the cup size
would have been the same as the letter grade you got on your
high school biology midterm.  Her breasts jutted like twin
Hindenbergs; there was no doubt in Paul's mind that he was
headed for a fiery collision that would burn the flesh from
his bones and reduce him to a heap of ashes, nor that he
would enjoy every minute of it.  It was a consummation
devoutly to be wished, but the handcuffs had him at a
disadvantage.  Probably she had planned it that way.  He was
only a pawn in her game, or perhaps not a pawn but the
racing car or the terrier.  (It depended on whether her game
was chess or Monopoly.)  He stared at her magnificent
Community Chest, and then raised his head to look into her
eyes, which were now even with his.  They told him that he
had landed on Boardwalk with a hotel, and that she wasn't
going to let him pass Go just yet.


               The Pink Room, Part 2

NOTE: One of the problems with writing this in pieces is
that I find that I may be prompted to change tone and
direction from one chapter to another.  Also, I sometimes
tend to forget minor details of the previous chapters, in
this case the gender and sexual orientation of the
participants.  I'm pretty sure one of them was being
dominant and one submissive, but I could be wrong.  I will
attempt to press on as best I can, under the circumstances.


The dominant (that's the one not wearing the handcuffs, I'm
pretty sure) pulled the slave's head roughly forward,
teasing the slave with nipples which could be kissed or
sucked for an instant and then retreated out of reach. The
dominant laughed, but did not share the joke, instead
holding it tantalizingly just out of reach.

"Incredible," thought the slave.  "My genital area is
responding appropriately more than it has ever responded
before, more than I would have thought possible.  If this
continues I will spontaneously combust."

"Do you love me, slave?  Will you do anything I ask to make
me happy?"  The question was posed for the third time.  The
first time had been in the bar, the second in the elevator
just before the handcuffs were applied.

"Yes!  Oh, yes!"

"Yes what?"

"Yes Master or Mistress, as the case may be."

"You may use the titles alternately.  It will amuse me."

"Yes, Master."

"Very well, slave.  I have a surprise for you."  Gently the
slave was pulled from the couch to a kneeling position on
the floor.  The dominant stood up, hooked waistband with
thumbs and pulled downward.  (There are, of course, sound
engineering reasons for this choice of direction.)

"My God or Goddess, whichever is suitable!  Your gender is
of a different nature than I had been hitherto led to
expect!"

"Oh, is it now?  Have you ever performed the appropriate
oral stimulation on genitalia of this particular type?"

"Certainly not!  I am completely of the opposite persuasion
from what you are suggesting!"

"Certainly not *Mistress*."

"I'm sorry, Master."

"Well, you are going to exert yourself orally in that manner
now."

"No, Mistress, I can't.  I don't.  I never would."

"You said you would do anything I asked."

"Oh, Master, I didn't mean -- how could I have known?"

"I have no patience with slaves who say, 'That wasn't what I
meant,' to excuse the fact that they didn't think through
the possible consequences of saying what they said."

"I'm sorry, Mistress, I didn't mean to say that, 'That
wasn't what I meant.'"

"Your explanation has become tiresome.  Prepare to do
something useful with that mouth."

"No, please, Master.  I'd rather have a hundred and twenty-
seven blows from a cello bow than do *that*."

"You're in luck, as it happens.  Just let me rosin it up."
Having done so, the dominant proceeded to apply the rosined
bow to the slave's double base, and played a rousingly
atonal but nonetheless interesting version of "Flight of the
Bumblebee."  The slave would, no doubt, have applauded the
performance, except for those pesky handcuffs.  Certainly it
brought tears of emotion to the slave's eyes.

"I don't know, slave," said the dominant.  "That was all
good fun, of course, but it's not enough."  This was
accompanied by the sound of cello bow slapping against palm,
by way of emphasis.  "Ouch.  That hurt.  See what you made
me do?  Are you sure you don't want to give me a little oral
pleasure?"

"I can't, Mistress.  Really I can't."

"I understand how you feel, but I need something from you
and I'm going to get it.  It occurs to me that it would be
equally adequate from my point of view to probe your anal
regions --"

"You wouldn't!  You couldn't!  Please don't!"

"-- with equipment I may or may not have, depending on my
gender.  To tell you the truth, in all the excitement I've
kind of lost track myself.  So, seeing as how if I did have
the appropriate equipment it would be as large and menacing
as literary license will allow, the question you should be
asking yourself, slave, is, 'Do I feel lucky?'  Well, do
you, slave?"

"I beg your pardon, Master, but could we go over that oral
sex thing one more time?"

"I knew you'd see it my way."

"Mistress, if you are of the appropriate gender, shouldn't
you put on a -- oh, yes, I see now that if you *are* of the
appropriate gender you're doing that now."

"Yes.  Now, why don't you -- oh, yes, that.  You read my
mind."  Okay, so I lied a little about the telepathy part.
So sue me.