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I never knew rose petals could hurt.
It was two days later and I still couldn’t walk straight. I semi-waddled down the quiet hall of the hotel toward the room where this last disaster had most recently occurred. That I was back again was a miracle within itself. Recovery was not even near being complete.
The door was closed. New York’s equivalent of the do-not-disturb sign was hanging on the handle: FUHGETTABOUDIT.
Cassis was in there. I could feel his presence, even through the heavy divider. He was probably lying back, propped up against four ultrafluffy pillows, languishing in the feel of the soft down-filled duvet as it draped haphazardly across his body. His left hand would be gingerly cradling his nut-brown shaft, the fingers deftly working. His right hand would be gingerly cradling the black shaft of the remote. The fingers deftly working.
I stopped just outside the door, listening to the dim hum of the television as channel after channel whizzed past. He was changing the thing with remarkable speed, much too quickly to register images. Which meant the fingers on the remote were truly fast at work. Which meant the fingers on his shaft, in turn, were just as active.
Cassis would be hard for me. So hard, it would hurt. He would be wincing when I walked in. I already knew. His dick would be a dagger of pain, fat with hot blood that boiled up within it. He would look to me for release, eyes blazing in demand that I let him stab me with the boiled-blood dagger. I hesitated as I stood by the door. Afraid to go in. Couldn’t wait to go in.
Le Parker Meridien was a dangerous place. Safe for patrons. Dangerous for me. Undeniably upscale, the hotel was nestled in the heart of Midtown Manhattan, respectably perched on Fifty-sixth Street between Sixth and Seventh. Behind door 416, however, some not-so-upscale or -respectable happenings had been jumping off for quite some time. Four months, to be exact. Amid eighteen-dollar bran muffins and twenty-dollar pots of tea, wicked acts were taking place. Things that made me sink into prayer once they were over. Things for which I was certain I would go straight to hell.
The scandalous was the norm when I entered that place. Same man, same room, same me, always so scared, always so willing once I passed through the portal. My body, soft and willowy, pliable and ready. A lamb rushing into a slaughterhouse of pure visceral joy. When I emerged, hours later, destruction. My body a mosaic of bruises artfully dressed as handprints and tooth marks, nipples braised and glazed from the heat of oft-dripped candle wax, wrists slightly achy from the pressure of too-tight fists encircling them, neck sore from acrobatic feats worthy of an XXX porn star. Ass a series of irreverent stings. The corners of my mouth tender from being stretched too wide for too long, eager to display my fellatial prowess.
Despite the initial damage, things were always intact. No skinned flesh that burned when the wind hit it; no breasts that cried out when returned to the confines of a bra. Everything had always been copacetic afterward, save for the need to drape a scarf around my neck or pull my coat tight as I passed through the lobby doors, back out onto the street.
I’d always been able to walk—no, stride—before. Happy with the glow of the überfuck. No problems whatsoever. Cassis was big, but big in a good way. Not that kind of big that ripped you apart and made pleasure an unexplorable option. Not that kind of big that men bragged about but women fled. Cassis was the kind of big that filled you up and put just the right amount of pressure on the walls that called out for it. My body shaped itself to him, my love canal a glove that hungrily enveloped his perfect bigness with delicate precision. His dick brought with it no discomfort or hurt. Just an infinite completion that made me helium-heady, giddy like a crack hoe who’d hit the motherlode—a rock so big there was nothing to do but sit and suck and smoke and suck and smoke and suck and smoke until there was nothing left of the rock, nothing left of me. No consciousness, no sense of restraint. A zombielike state where I just kept taking hits until I was swallowed alive by the thrill of sensation.
When Cassis did bring the pain, it wasn’t from the beat-down of his dick. It came from the nastily pleasurable feeling of his massive hand, like an open-faced sandwich, coming down hard and wide against the expectant curl of my ass. It was the perfect accompaniment as he thrust deep within me, like an expert cellist in perfect concert with a liquidly smooth pianist. Me, face forward, derriere airborne, on my knees, teeth gritted, eyes closed, moaning desperately into the pillows that smothered me blind. The sounds of the flat-faced blows of his hand ricocheting and snapping around the room like firecrackers as he smacked me harder with each thrust. Those same hands, with me now lying on my back, squeezing and rubbing my thighs roughly, his palms almost burning, as he pushed himself deep, deep, deep inside my wetness. Those hands hurting me, leaving purple splotches and blue stems where palms and fingers had once been, making me writhe in ways that others less indulged might consider abuse.
Cassis was a true artist. A masterful painter whose stroke would make van Gogh cut off more than just an ear. No lie. In fact, van Gogh would have gladly handed over his dick. “Here man, take it. No need for me to try to compete with your skills.”
Cassis’s hands were the hands of a builder. Cassis’s hands were the hands of a murderer. Behind that door, those hands were my source of renewal. Behind that door, his hands were my deconstruction.
Every time we coupled, I was afraid afterward to look at my body in the mirror. Things always appeared worse than they actually were. Thighs blue, back red, face flushed, hair askew. The battle scars of a sexual warrior.
How we’d met had to be one of life’s biggest mysteries. A friend of a friend at a party that neither of us could remember. Gravitation to one another without explanation. A conversation with no sentences, no words. Eyes staring. Mine curious, peering, each lash a revelation. Deep pockets beneath his, what had he been doing of late? Three hours later, me, impersonating dinner in the hallway. Him, the diner, on his knees, tongue plunged deep inside me. Me, hanging on to his hair, beautiful gentle ropes, delicate locks that were easily shaped into handlebars for me to grasp. The smell of almond oil. My head back, moans evident, his head at work like Woody Woodpecker on a pulp-ripe tree. Hush, hush. Keep it down now. Voices carry. Fuck voices. Deep tongue. Ass aflame. Explosions, screams, clit vigor, watchers in the hall. As I looked down at him, he was all wicked smiles, his visage one big smear of my wetness. He let it remain, my juices a mask of honor, rose to his feet, gave me a piercing stare that made me hostage for life. He took my hand and led me back to the party.
Once I’d had the pleasure of that tongue, it was over. Cassis owned me. I was open. Wide. Anytime, anyplace, anywhere. No reason. That tongue was enough.
An hour later, he’d given me dick.
I had a soprano pussy.
It was news to me. I’d always thought it was alto.
I stared at Room 416.
Cassis was a Slasher—an actor-slash-director-slash-screen-writer-slash-author—all careers that typically seemed to mean poor. But he’d had a fair share of success, having written, directed, and played the lead in an indie film that won critical acclaim at last year’s Sundance Film Festival. He’d been given a budget by a major studio and was filming his first wide-distribution flick on location in Brooklyn and Manhattan. No small feat, considering how expensive it was to shoot in New York. He was also at work on his first novel. He had already published—also with much critical acclaim—a collection of short stories filled with tales that were rich with rites of passage. Cassis’s advance had been fat. Six figures, high ones, for the short-story collection and novel that was soon to follow. They called him the voice of a new generation. I called him the tongue of my old one.
He spent many days writing in solitude at the Parker Meridien. Expensive, yes, but the movie studio was picking up the check. He did it all under the umbrella of working on his film (preproduction, location scouting, yada, yada, yada, so he told the studio). We fucked all upside and downside and inside that hotel room, compliments of the big studio’s dollar. Thank you, Warner Brothers. Afternoon fucks and mini bars never felt so damn good.
Me, I was a successful author, too, but none of this was coming out of my pocket. My biggest satisfaction (other than the obvious one, Cassis’s sexual skills) was that most authors’ faces were not highly recognizable. Almost no one cared what we looked like, unless we were Slashers. Our notoriety lay in the power of the written word. Thus most authors slipped unnoticed in and out of grocery stores, high-end boutiques, movies, Kmarts, Targets, and all manner of dens of iniquity. They knew me here, although our conversations were always kept to a minimum. This would be the forty-fifth time I’d entered this door. Four months was an awfully compressed amount of time to have made forty-five visits to the same hotel. I’d go to the counter, get the card key, and make my way up.
Sometimes I averted my eyes from the clerks at the front desk, in fear that they would recognize me. Thought I was getting the “aren’t you—?” look. No, I’d be thinking. Right now I’m someone else.
Sometimes I took them head-on, flipping ghetto-fab in my posturing of defense. Yeah, I’m fucking. What you think? I’m the hot pussy woman. You wish you were getting what I’m giving upstairs.
Fuhgettaboudit.
Their eyes reading mine. The message clear. Make way. I’m outta here. There’s a tongue upstairs with my pussy’s name stamped on it.
Sometimes authors were the worst artists of them all.
I still hadn’t opened the door to go in. Deep below, my lips were throbbing, pained from the friction of walking, swollen with the betrayal of rose petals.
Two days ago Cassis had introduced something new.
When I had come into the room, I was surprised to find it swimming in a sea of endless roses, red long-stemmed thorned things covering every possible inch of surface space. The floor, the desk, the top of the TV, the bed. The pièce de résistance was the ultimate surface: Cassis, naked, awash in an ocean of red roses, his erection breaking their seamless flow, a stem clasped between the teeth of that wicked smile.
“What is this?” I giggled. “Are you crazy or what?”
No words from him. Just the gentle jerk backward of his head, instructing me to come closer. The subtle rise of his left brow as I came near.
I dropped my bag on the floor, loosened my Plein Sud trenchcoat, let it slip from my shoulders and fall to the floor.
The weather outside was brick. New York City was in the midst of an ugly wet winter. Inside Room 416 everything was hot, steamy, thick with the threat of sex. All I wore was a zebra-striped teddy and an extremely expensive pair of snakeskin boots.
Before Cassis, I had never done this type to thing. Since Cassis, I couldn’t imagine how it was that I never did.
I made a move toward the bed. With his left arm Cassis swept away a clearing for me, a slew of roses falling to the floor, some flying across the room. I slid in beside him. He said nothing, just hovered over me sinisterly, as I leaned back into the softness of the pillows.
Each visit with him was a treat, but this rose thing was definitely something different.
“Did you buy these?” I asked, but of course he didn’t answer. My mystery man, with his right hand, removed the rose from between his teeth. He traced it down the center of my forehead, lightly, past my nose, over the swell of my lips, snaking a trail down my neck that barely grazed my skin. The sensation was electric.
His eyes tightly fastened to mine, he slipped the teddy delicately off my shoulders, down my waist, enlisting my assistance with his eyes. I pushed it all the way down, raising my butt so it could pass, letting it linger around my knees. Beneath me, a thorny-stemmed rose punctured my ass. Caught off guard, I was instantly wet. Pain and pleasure were always excellent bedfellows in the presence of Cassis.
He swirled the rose around my nipples, giving each its moment in the sun before encircling it with his succulent mouth. I could feel the blood rush center stage to meet his tongue, my areola engorged in a dance of fire. I breathed in, my eyes closing, as he nibbled hungrily on each of my buds. He rose from his worship, touched my face with his hand so that I would open my eyes. Petal to skin, he began tracing a deeper descent down my body with the rose. When he reached my clit, he stopped, twirling the thing in circular motions around the hood of my already swollen nub. With his left forefinger he pulled it back, exposing my sensitive button to the now bruised surface of the rose petals. As he twirled and stoked, Cassis stared pointedly in my face, willing reaction, willing change.
“That feels really good,” I whispered.
Cassis, my owner, my commandant, said nothing. When I parted my lips to say more, he covered them with his own, his tongue plunging and probing deep inside my mouth.
Kissing, to me, is almost as fulfilling an act as fucking. The ultimate high is to be kissed while fucking. Tongues locked, loins locked, all moving with fevered intensity toward common release. It makes me respond like a man. I bust nuts. Gush like waterworks from here to Massapequa. Bed sopping. Body wet from top to bottom. Oh, goodness, nothing feels as good as a double-lipped fuck!
All that was left was for Cassis to put it in. His dick. He already had his mouth on mine. His tongue was thrusting and sucking, pulling and pushing at my own. Below, I was soaked, my hips throwing hints like crazy as I ground them around.
Instead, Cassis twirled the flower. The rose was now rubbing, hard, up and down the sides of my lower lips. The sensation was wild, so keyed up was I by the kissing. The petals were giving off something that made my labia tingle, and, to me, within the confines of this room, all strange sensations, new sensations, were good sensations. I ground harder, pressing my pelvis up against the rose, crushing it between my legs as they scissored shut, Cassis roughly spreading them apart again and rubbing the flower against my now drenched outer lips.
“Fuck me,” I declared, mouthing the words around our dueling tongues. Cassis responded by kissing me harder, tossing the sopping rose aside, and beginning afresh as he rubbed a new flower against my pussy.
The tingling intensified, a distant fire aflame deep within the dermis of my cooch.
I worked my hips now, not just out of lust, but in response to an itch, a hunger, born of rose petals, that desperately needed scratching. I reached for him, rock hard amid a bed of thorny stems. I held him in my hand, trying to guide him home. Above me, Cassis still worked his magic upon my mouth. I wanted to come so bad, I could barely breathe. I wanted him in me, deep, hard, I wanted those hands crushing my thighs, I needed my pussy scratched, my labia scratched, the double itch was too much for me to take.
Before I could get him close enough to my pussy to matter, to my own surprise I erupted. Something deep, deep, deep inside of me let go, and then a jarring sensation that rushed in a wave to the outer edges of my walls, filling them with heat, quakes, an ultrastrong spasm, and, finally, release. Cassis still inside of my mouth, I moaned heavily around him. Thrashed against him, collapsed like a bitch.
He released my tongue and pulled away, the victor, smiling above me.
No words, just smiles.
Beneath him, me, frail, quivering, stunned by such immediate release with what wasn’t my typically necessary closure: tongue-on-clit or dick-in-pussy.
“Nice,” he finally muttered.
My thighs were trembling much too hard for me to try to form words.
The rose-capade had been so exhausting for me that I had fallen immediately asleep. Slept deep, too, for three solid hours, Cassis over at the desk, naked, hard at work on his book.
The pecking sound of fingers on keyboard finally broke my stream of unconsciousness and I rose, groggy, hungry, my bladder full. I stumbled from the bed, toward the bathroom, blindly flipping on the light, finding the toilet, sitting down. As I relaxed to release my bladder, absently rubbing my eyes, I felt a fullness below that seemed unnatural. Tight skin. Puffiness. I stopped rubbing my eyes to take a peek.
My labia were swollen five times their natural size. As the flow of pee made contact with the skin, I let out a squeal so steep that it didn’t even seem to come from me.
Soprano. Only this time the singing emanated from my mouth.
From the room, I could hear the deep distant hum of Cassis’s familiar chuckle.
I stood outside the room now, legs barely able to close, the card key in my hand, poised to open the door. Through the barrier, the sound of changing channels. Still flickering by with lightning speed. Cassis’s hand on his joint must be doing the same.
I stood there, staring at the number on the door.
416.
The number of times I’d come in the past month.
416.
The number of times I’d think about him in the course of a day.
416.
The number I would count to, there, outside the door, until Cassis had jerked himself to completion. Then I’d walk away. My lips couldn’t take it.
Fuhgettaboudit.
Sometimes, even a pussy needs a chance to heal.