FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS: CHAPTER SIX (Simone)

Then suddenly she told me.

"Let's go upstairs."

Simone took me by the hand and led the way to one of Marc's guest rooms. She had become so domineering that it seemed I had no choice but to be submissive. Her wish was my command. I may as well have been on a leash.

"Do you trust me?"

What was I to say to that? I hardly knew the woman, didn't want to know her other than in the biblical sense. She had imparted a few tidbits about herself throughout the evening. If given a quiz on her life I would be able to furnish answers regarding Simone's career; where she was born and raised; the jumbled heritage responsible for her unique features, the irony that she did not and had no inclination to learn how to ski; that she had been a blonde for four years before returning to her native brunette status; the fact that she was opposed to the death penalty, except for child molesters for whom she felt it should be mandatory; and that she was a vegetarian with a weak spot for White Castle hamburgers. Did having this information deem her trustworthy? My dick and brain engaged in a brief debate, with the undefeated champion once again emerging as victor.

"Implicitly, Simone."

"Then take off your shirt."

I complied, then stood still as she dragged her fingernails slowly down my well defined torso. When I tried to bring up my hands to return the expert caressing, she pushed them back to my sides.

"Relax. I'll take care of everything."

"You don't know what you're missing," I said.

"I don't intend to miss a thing."

My objective here is not to be pornographic. You may have noticed that I have not gone into explicit detail about the sexual aspects of my liaisons. But Simone was by no means the typical girl next door, so I feel impelled to give an in-depth account of what proceeded in order to illustrate this.

"Grab hold of the headboard."

I obeyed her command, showing no reaction or resistance when the steel cuffs bound my wrists and ankles to the bed. Only one part of my anatomy stirred as she put a blindfold on me. I won't tell you which, but it is considerably south of the eyes.

The fingernails etched their path again, much firmer this time. I grimaced, but did not flinch or make a sound. In such a vulnerable state it seemed crucial to appear strong. I felt my belt being unbuckled and pants slid down. Then Simone sat astride me and rocked ever so slightly back and forth. Her nails dug into my skin with what had to be all her might. Pleasure and pain dueled to the death. She sucked on my nipples, duplicating most of my best moves. When she bit down, my silence could no longer be maintained. Her response to the groan was to laugh and accelerate the movement of her hips into my pelvis. I didn't know which would burst first, me or the bed.

Simone intuitively stopped moments before I was about to lose the battle. She began applying a lotion of some sort to the scratches she had made. Before I could be grateful I learned that the substance was intended not to soothe, but burn. It was as if I had shaved my entire body and then slid into a bathtub filled with cologne.

"Tell me you want me," Simone purred, resuming her exquisitely torturous grind.

"I want you."

The sting of leather went across my chest.

"Like you mean it."

I repeated the proclamation, louder and with more assurance. It must have been satisfactory, for she moved on to the next demand.

"Tell me you need me."

"I need you."

The rocking accelerated, her metallic-like fingernails dragged down my stomach again, we both moaned deliriously in tune with the creaking of the mattress.

"Tell me you love me."

The ensuing silence was like a gun shot in a library. It was ended by two more lashes. Then Simone did something far crueler than inflicting pain. She raised off of me. Never before had I so missed a woman's touch.

"Tell me."

"Fuck you."

The words left my mouth too swiftly to halt them. What was I thinking? One more lie is all that was needed. I had lost count of how many I had already told that evening. I had revealed nothing of my true self, whatever that was, but presented Simone with smoke and mirrors. The practically naked man beneath her was a cleverly constructed hallucination. Only the name and scarred body tissue were real. So why couldn't my character claim to love her? Why couldn't his mouth, or mine, or whoever it belonged to utter three monosyllabic words?

"What did you say?"

I was being given a chance to change my answer, to say the one fib I had never made. I often wondered if the situation would ever arise when the words would be true. If so, would I be able to utter them then?

"I said fuck you."

I felt what could have been nothing but the blade of a knife against my throat. The dull edge of it traced down my body. Then Simone placed the blade on my most cherished possession. The knife began cutting through my underwear. A scream prepared to leap from my throat. Would it be for help, or the three words Simone had requested? The former would likely not be heard over the din of the party, and even if it was, would bring the cavalry too late.

I heard the knife clatter to the floor. Before there was time to register surprise or relief, Simone said a single word. "Okay." Then she climbed back on and simulation gave way to the real thing.