More Than They Could Chew

I take the stairs a couple at a time. There’s an envelope on my door with my name on it. I open it—on top is a handwritten “thank you” from Tara. I look at the page—it’s one of Tara’s done-at-work fantasies, typed single-spaced on Los Angeles County Parole stationery:

She doesn’t eat for 48 hours. 24 hours before coming over, she takes several laxatives and then cleans herself out with as many enemas as it takes until she’s empty and drained. She lets herself into the apartment. Then, she’s to wait, naked, until he comes home. When she hears him outside the door, she turns the video camera on.

He walks in the room.

“You think you want this?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“It’s important that you remember, later, when you’ve lost control—when you feel me inside of you, controlling you—it’s important that you remember that you wanted this.”

“Yes, sir. I want this.”

“You’ve begged for this?” he says.

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s disgusting,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“But you can’t control your desires, can you?”

“No, sir. I can’t control my desires.”

“And you want this?”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“You need this?”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“What do you need?” he asks.

“I need to lose control. To feel possessed. To feel like I have no say in what happens to me. To be told what I am—to be forced to feel how weak I am in the face of my desires.”

“That turns you on?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re weak now? In the face of your desire.”

“Yes, sir”.

“And you’d do anything to feel the way you need to feel, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank me for this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He tells her to fill five enema bags with hot water and set them up in the living room. She obeys. She’s told to stand .in front of him and step into the straitjacket. She obeys and is bound into it—arms tied across her body. He runs a chain around her waist and padlocks it in front of her. He puts restraints on her ankles. He tells her to kneel and he caresses her head.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

She tells him she’s ready. He has her lie on her back in the pool. He connects the ankle restraints to the chain at her waist so that her knees are brought up toward her stomach. Her legs are spread. He inserts the enema tip in her ass, unlatches the clamp, and sits back.

“You begged for this.”

“I begged for this, sir.”

After the second 2-quart bag is emptied, she begins to spasm. He reaches down and begins gently caressing her cunt. He tells her that she must warn him if she’s about to come. Every time she warns him—he stops. She begins coughing—but nothing comes out. First, it’s a dry cough, then wet, then she turns her head to the side and vomits out the clear water. Several more quarts are emptied. She vomits them back out. He teases her until she’s convulsing, weakened, broken by desire and begging to be released, and then he lets her.

I read Tara’s story a couple of times. This really isn’t something I would have thought of, but she becomes so strange, so filled with joy, whenever we do one of her fantasies, that the turn-on is infectious. We haven’t yet repeated one of her fantasies; they’re new every time and I’m struck with a memory of when I was a kid:

I’m ten, maybe twelve, and I find a stack of porno magazines under my dad’s bed. One of them, I remember, had a centerfold of Joe Louis’s daughter. Another one, the one I’m reminded of now, had a cover story titled NEW STUDY SHOWS: SMART CHICKS BALL BETTER. I didn’t give it much thought at the time, but frequently as an adult, having sex with a smart woman, it pops back into my head.

I wonder for a moment about what L.A. County would think of the amount of time she must put into these, how many hours at her desk are spent typing away at her fantasies.

The lights are off and I flick the switch but the lights don’t come on. It’s then I see the ring of candles around the pool, which is inflated and in which is Tara naked and facing away from me. My futon bed is turned into a sofa, so there’s space in the middle of the room. I lock the door and dump my keys on the bookcase by the door.

Later, I’m amazed things pretty much went just like in her story. The only differences from the story:

1. We had to have her on her knees facing down instead of on her back. When she first started puking the water up, she started to choke on it, so I turned her over.

2. The straitjacket also locked through the legs. We had to leave that strap loose.

3. Right after she first started puking, something red came out and I got scared as hell, thinking it was blood, thinking it was something from inside her. I told her we were done, sorry, but it wasn’t going to happen. She told me it was a Gummi Bear that she’d put up her ass so she’d know when she stared vomiting that it had gone all the way through her. She needed, she said, to know that she wasn’t puking stomach bile; that would be unsafe. If, when she started puking, the red Gummi Bear came out, that meant she was vomiting the enema water and that everything was okay. The Gummi Bear was a safety precaution.

4. We had to move to the tub, which was harder on her knees and more difficult to fuck in, but the pool was filling up and emptying it would have been an annoying interruption.

Tara’s wrung out and messy and tired, but she’s about as happy as I’ve ever seen a person after sex, or after anything else, for that matter. The clear vomit, we did this for a couple of hours and we must have run over twenty liters of water through her, is kind of caked and dried on her cheeks. I start to wipe her cheeks and it flakes off.

“Wondering what Mr. Thomas would say about my life decisions.” She gives me a quizzical look and I explain that Mr. Thomas was my high school social-studies teacher and he had this monthlong exercise where we were paired up, boy/girl/ boy/girl, and given lives. I was with Carol Stone and we were supposed to have some jobs at some factory, some of the same blue-collar dead-end shit that killed all our fathers and mothers, and the trick to the class was you got a job, a mortgage, and all the rest of the standard responsibilities in life. It was all made up, picked out of a hat and meant to teach you about the way adults lived. Some people did well, some got the shaft. In that way it was supposed to be a life primer. And, I suppose it was.

Carol and I had trouble with our budget and we ended up divorced. I joked about it in class and Mr. Thomas tore into me, yelled at me in front of the class that someday, some fucking day, my wise-ass mouth would get me in trouble and someday I’d be faced with those life responsibilities and I would have to make some decisions. I tell Tara that I was laughing because there wasn’t a slot in his hypothetical life-choices class for a guy who drank too much and a lesbian who had an enema fetish and what hard life choices they might have to make.

I don’t tell her about the drunk’s trouble with criminals. I stay clear of whether or not our drunk is in love with the lesbian with the enema fetish.