Tyler Knight

They say the average man thinks about sex every seven seconds. Death perverts my thoughts.

The women float in. Into the chamber with blacked-out walls, floor and ceiling, which renders the illusion of an expanse as infinite in all directions as space/time itself. The floorless room makes the girls’s movements seem as though they swim through space. One of them, a redhead, carries a cat o’ nine tails. It’s Lana Pierce.

The women stop at the foot of the bed, which is covered in red silk sheets. In the featureless room the bed drifts between dimensions of nothingness.

I lie on the bed dressed in a rubber dress, eyeliner, lipstick, no underwear. Leather straps bind my hands and feet, tethering me to the bed’s posters, sprawling me spread eagle. A pillow props my head up so that I can see.

The women move into position, encircling me. Their hands caress my body; my erection screams to life, splitting the very air around it.

Lana kisses me and her hair brushes my face, painting my cheek with the sweet scent of ozone after a summer rain. One-by-one, the women lean over and pour their red-hot bodies onto me like molten steel flowing into a mold.

Everywhere, wet tongues and steaming breath. Panting from near my feet and next to my crotch and moaning in my ear as the girls alternate tongues on my body and theirs. More women stream into the room. Lana stands over me, straddling my face. I’m looking straight up into the crevasse of her glistening pussy and her ass cheeks, and this image eliminates any doubts about the existence of God.

I take a deep breath; she lowers herself onto my face; my field of vision goes black and I assault her clit with greedy laps of my tongue.

She squirms and wiggles, smothering me with her cunt and ass. Her thighs clamp down on my head, covering my ears, squeezing, and my diaphragm, needing to exchange air, ripples protest in my chest. My wrists and ankles strain against the bindings, and just when the sparkly stars ping before my covered eyes and I feel myself slip away, she stands. Air bursts from my open mouth, then whooshes back in, and as my vision adjusts to the light, the next girl’s supple ass looms above me. This one’s skin has deep coloring you get from lazy August afternoons in the sun, but where I’m looking up into her crack she’s as pale as the day she was born. The tan-less zone says, This is forbidden. The crease that forms the boundary of cheek and leg is deep and snug enough to hold a pencil.

To my left and right I notice that while my face was covered someone has pushed more mattresses flush with the bed. Girls continue to float in and the number of women in the room has doubled from when the scene started.

Is this really happening to me?

The girl above me sits, catching me between breaths. Darkness.

An unseeable hand strokes my shaft, a tongue glides up one side while another tongue glides down the other and something–I‘m not sure what–is wet and hot on my scrotum, and lips seal around my glans while the tongue that belongs to that mouth whorls its nubs over my head, and every image I paint in my mind to associate with these sensations suggests bodies in impossible configurations. The pussy on my mouth rocks back and forth. Without vision the sensation of salty tastes, scents, and textures–everywhere–takes over, then nothing. A hot, tightness slips down my shaft that can only be a vagina, then up-down-up-down-up on my dick, the girl on my face grinds down harder, up-down-up-down-up, the sparkles return as my brain fades once again, the sitting girl stands, leaving girl-goo on my lips then steps out of my line of sight as another woman rotates in.

The girls rotate from my face to my dick, sitting, and sucking, and screwing. Moaning punctuated by the occasional outburst of staccato laughter. The room smells of fresh pussies mingled together. Through the bodies I see the action unfolding on my dick. A triple blowjob: two girls lick while another one slurps. My perception of reality is filtered through an oxygen-starved brain, so it’s as though I’m watching someone else’s cock on television, but it has to be mine because the dick lobs pleasure signals underhand across the fiber optics of my spinal cord and to my brain at the speed of lust. Someone takes a nibble and I don’t know why but this makes me giggle and I can’t stop.

Death claims thousands of souls each year by erotic and autoerotic asphyxiation. Symptoms of danger include: a giddy sense of euphoria…

A tickle of liquid (Drool? Pussy juice?) streaming from my mouth and onto my cheek that I cannot wipe vexes me the same way these women take me to the brink of coming, only to yank me back from the edge of the cliff. A girl mounts my cock and her juicy tits bounce as flesh slaps on flesh.

Lana sits on my chest, smiling at me. She’s got the whip in one hand and a straight razor in the other. I inhale, but with Lana on my chest it’s a half-effort; another girl sits on my face. Darkness.

The girl riding me works my cock and I feel my rubber costume cut away from my body. Ass cheeks hug my face, my nose burrows in cunt, and the chick fucking me knows what she’s doing because I’m about to burst, but a sharp sting cuts across my chest–girl-ass muffles my wail. Face sitting girl raises to a squat and the last half of my yelp is released into the room.

The face-sitting girl leans over to kiss the girl who’s fucking me. The clicking of metal tongue rings. Lana, off to the side and holding the whip, smiles; the kid fucking me resumes fucking; I inhale and the girl hovering a tongue’s length above my face sits once again. My body tenses, I’m on the verge of releasing when another sting ripples across my bare chest, but this time the girl on my face does not let up and the one that’s fucking me speeds up. Searing red pain crackles across my chest again; I exhale the best I can through a small rent between cunt and chin, but when I try to draw a sip of air the gap closes. My lungs yearn for a breath that’s no longer there the way the tongue misses the one taste of icecream that fell off the spoon.

This cunt on my dick is intent on kneading me dry and my balls are going to explode. Not even the subsequent cracks of the whip can stop this. My cock tenses as my mind fades away; a phantom scent of fresh-baked cookies comes (which can’t be real because–

The face sitter sits up and a torrent of air floods into my lungs, and the girl that was riding me is now milking my dick between her tits, I’m still coming, and coming, spraying all over those lush breasts. Coming harder than I ever have in my entire life. As the effects of ass-phyxiation wears off, a tingling sensation buzzes at the roof of my mouth. My ears ring; my eyes regain focus on a spec of red glitter drifting between air currents.

The French call orgasms, la petite mort: the little death.

All the women float out or the room, one-by-one, the way they came in. All except Lana, who still holds the razor. She presses the tang to open it at a 45º angle so that it resembles a mini scythe. With it, she traces outlines of the reddened welts on my chest with the flat edge, never breaking eye contact with me, pausing the tip over my heart. She spits on the blade and scratches a path down my abdomen, through my pubic stubble, stopping just shy of the base of my penis. My wrists lunge at the bindings. She spits on the blade again, then trims the stubble from around the base of one side–scrape, scrape, scrape–then moves the penis aside to trim the other side. Scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape. Then on the scrotum. Scrape-scrape. She positions the blade to the shaft itself and I tense, anticipating a nick. The blade scraaape-scraaapes the few errant hairs on the penis without incident.

Lana, straddling me, puts the razor to her own pubic mound, scraping pussy hairs that are both alive and dead at the same time, mingling her fresh-reaped shavings with mine.

She folds the razor and casts it aside. Then she purses her lips and blows, scattering the shavings and buffeting my genitals with her breath. To my surprise, my dick twinges. Noticing this, she cuts me an incredulous look that says “pervert!”, shakes her head as if deciding something, then, arriving at a decision, takes me into her mouth. The next set of events occur within moments: she suckles me to semi-hard again, mounts me, squeezes my neck with her hands which builds pressure behind my eyes and makes my cock burst at the seams, and I’m coming once more–so hard I may have pulled a ball muscle. Lana doesn’t dismount; she laughs as I finish inside her. Strands of drenched hair cascade over her face. She releases my throat to tuck them behind an ear, revealing a quicksilver tear streaming down her cheek, reflecting my vacant gaze back to me.

Angel lust, or a death erection is a post-mortem erection, technically a priapism, observed in the corpses of human males who have been executed, particularly by hanging. Thus the term, well-hung.

I never see the slap across my face coming, and my head feels like it’s knocked off another person’s shoulders, and my body feels numb–floating. No sooner than I’ve worked out what she’s just done–bringing me back from the abyss–she got the razor in hand once again.

Lana reaches over, then cuts a hand free, the leans to the other side to repeat the action with the remaining hand. Now semi-freed, I still don’t move. Not sure I can. Lana collapses onto me, blanketing me with her warmth, and I stare at the ceiling. My penis wilts inside her; she squeezes me out the rest of the way with a few flexes of her Kegels. I’m anesthetized with what could be the satisfaction a man gets when coming inside a woman, but probably isn’t.

I’m never giving this up.

She’s breathing heavy in my ear. My arms wrap around her.

She says, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Never.

______________

The girls, led by Lana, return to the set so we can re-enact the scene for sex-stills photographer. All that’s required of me is to lie there. He and I joke around about the shredded dress I wore and the marks on my chest, and he devises shots to hide them with the women’s bodies. The girls chat and gossip about a party last night where “some tapped-out milf stole two eight balls of Trent’s coke, drove her Camaro through a 7-11 window, then fled the scene leaving the baggies of fuck-dust in the front seat her running car. How it turned out the coke was cut with strychnine, which would have caused her to asphyxiate to death. Lucky to be alive…” as they go through the positions, rotating from my cock to my face.

Stills done, the photographer and the girls leave the set and I’m left with Lana.

At the same time, we both say, “How are you?”

We laugh.

“Ladies first.”

“Great!” She laughs and folds her legs under her, indian style. “So, you’ve signed a contract with the studio…”

This is the part where she’s supposed to say “Congratulations, Baby!” so I wait for her to continue her sentence. She doesn’t. The pressure to fill the void in the conversation overwhelms.

“Yeah,” I say, “This is all still–”

“Unreal?”

I sit up, matching her position. Something about her is nagging at me.

“Yeah. I mean, when I met you…shit, who am I kidding? Just one week ago I was–”

“That was the past.” She touches my knee.

“Yeah.”

Lana leaves her hand on my knee, looking at me–yet, not.

“So,” I say, “what about you?”

“Well,” she says, “I just got nominated for Female Performer of the Year.”

“That’s great! You…don’t seem too excited about it.”

She leans over and kisses me on the forehead, and when she does, I realize what it is that’s off about her: it’s as if she’s aged a lifetime since we’ve first met.

Lana voice lowers to a conspiratorial level even though we’re alone. She says, “Yeah, well, I’ll let you in on a secret, Eric. None of this matters.”

Lana pats my knee and slides off the bed. With timing that’s too perfect to be accidental, production assistant enters the set holding open a black bathrobe for her, which she slips into and ties at the waist. She waves an arm around the room in a sweeping gesture, and says, “This is all just a dream. One day, we have to wake up.” She pulls the hood over her head, casting her face in shadow.
“Everybody wakes up.”

She leaves. The straight razor sits next to me on the bed. I open it. There is no blade.

End.

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Tagged: Fiction