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The Cunt
🕑 Added 2020-09-29 17:30:57 +0000 UTC
Powdered hemp cutting into soft, bruised flesh. Jax tries to hook a finger between rope and skin and finds there isn’t room. It excites them, knowing that she’s grown since last time. With a sigh they press their face against the shelf of her ass where it dimples against her back and inhale her smell — milk and lilacs, and beneath it the faint musk of sweat from her walk over. Her inner thighs are slippery with sweat. They savor the way she tenses when they touch her there, trailing a finger from the dimple of her knee up and around the leg to the slick, fragile skin in the hollow of her thigh where it meets her pelvis. Inches from her cunt.
“That tickles,” she says, tension at the edge of her throaty voice. She hates to be tickled. For a moment the temptation to do it anyway — to scrabble at her warmth, her softness, until she convulses in rippling, helpless anger and laughter — is almost overwhelming. A thin body only has so much surface area, so much broadcasting equipment to communicate emotion. Laura’s temper is like the ocean. They take their hand away and bring it to her lips, letting her taste her own exertion and the first whiff of her arousal. She strains to suck their fingers. Rope creaks. The whole rig shifts, the six cabled leads testing their knots, the bar above dipping ever so slightly. Her face is flushed as they pull their fingers, spit-slick and glistening, from between her lips. Her shadow drifts ever so slightly over the scuffed hardwood.
“Please,” she begs, a quiver running through her like a breeze over a bowl of cream. Pale ripples eddying through yielding flesh.
Jax licks the wetness from their forefinger. They make a show of enjoying it. A cat bathing itself in the sun. “Please what?”
“Please, daddy.”
They let her lick the back of their hand, pressing their knuckles to her full lips, against her cheek and the worn black leather harness holding her head in place. With a swift jerk of their wrist they seize her chin and bend to kiss her. She whimpers as they take her lower lip between their teeth. The bar creaks again, and the oak frame that holds it. They lean into the kiss and thrust their tongue deep into Laura’s mouth, lapping at her molars, her pointed incisors, the Giger arches of her palate. I want to make a map of you, they think as they reach to knead her teacup breast, small and heavy in their hand. The running thunder of her heartbeat pulses down through their finger bones into their metatarsals. I want to kiss the soft, wet fat beneath your skin, the muscle squirming under it. I want to kiss the jumping fibers of your heart and lick unprocessed toxins from your liver.
They pull back and Laura cries out, a bead of blood welling from her lip where they bit her. It runs fat and red down to the corner of her mouth. They watch, breathless, as it grows heavy and falls. Llicking the bead’s crimson trail, fingers digging hard into her tit. Pulse jumps. I love you. They’re so hard it hurts. A susurrus of conflicting emotions as they touch themself. Sticky strands of joy and guilt and burning shame. They pace around her, drinking in the sight of her body partitioned by boundary lines of tripled ropes and sailors’ knots. Her soft forearms pulled in between her little breasts. Her belly, red where it presses against skeins of hemp, elsewhere soft and white and striated with rivers of pale silver stretch marks they have traced with tongue and fingers enough times to memorize.
Tying Laura up is like putting the sea in chains.
Reverently, they touch a finger to the dimple of her right knee, suspended level with the tops of their thighs. She whispers, “Daddy, daddy,” and they let the word run over them, let it flow like oil over the crown of their head and down through the wavy curtains of their auburn hair. Not dad, who kissed your scrapes and sent you running back to play, who took you fishing upstream from the moss-covered bridge and flipped the river rocks to show you crayfish scuttling through clouds of stirred-up silt, but daddy, who had eyes like cinders and whose breath smelled of strong cinnamon and cigarettes, whose body is wrong and irresistible. Daddy. Powerless and full of crushing strength.
They kneel, their open robe pooling around them, and stare into the just-parted lips of her cunt, guiding her left thigh to rest on their shoulder while her right sways, even with the top of their head. The little toes they so adore stretch and pop beside their ear as Laura flexes a dainty foot, the motion echoed in the clenching of her asshole, the sudden tension of the great thick bands of muscle underneath the quivering curve of her wide hips. They squeeze cold lube from a bottle on the floor into their palm and rub their hands together, warming it. Bitter winter sunlight slanting through the water-spotted window panes to bathe Laura’s back and cast a shadow along the deep cleft of her ass. They lean forward to kiss the swell of her cheeks, one lube-slicked finger pressing down on the hard arch of their — what? — no word feels right. Their mind flits away from names and cleaves instead to raw sensation.
My body is a machine, and if I touch it right I will have pleasure.
They lick her, tongue darting close to her anus. Taste of salt and sweat. The civet stink of sex. Ropes creak. They feel for the flushed lips of her cunt with their thumb, running it along the seam where her labia meet, up to the hooded bud of her clit, that delicate tendril of flesh and nerves that is all that remains of what the surgeons cut and folded with Cronenbergian ingenuity into the organ that swallows their first two fingers and clamps tight around them. They stroke her, tracing the paths of her cunt’s hidden musculature, imagining as they do what it would be like to have one, to dissolve into anesthetized nonbeing while masked and gowned attendants grasped the thing between their legs and split it open like a flower, a tubular lachenalia spreading its petals to the sun.
Laura bucks as they press the flat of their tongue to her cunt, licking their own fingers and the length of her lubricated slit. Taste of iron and salt. Her right thigh strikes the back of Jax’s head and drives them deeper, pressing their nose inside her. She lets out a thin and desperate cry and they seize hold of her, clinging to her warm and reassuring bulk as she sways away from them. Lurching after, hungry for her fat, flushed lips and the dark heat behind them. Their own spit on their chin. A thread of drool glistening. Swinging. Then, with a groan of wood and rope, the return. Her velvet weight enveloping them. Sound lost in the rushing beat of her pulse. Clutching handfuls of her belly like fresh dough. The sublime, almost totemic height of dykedom. Eating your lover out, which has always sounded to them like an attempt at cannibalism. Like she has something you want, and you’re going to chew and tear and rip it out of her.
She always thrashes when she comes. Even trussed and suspended she throws her whole body into her climax. They weather it, moving with her, still hungry for the heat of her cunt against their face, for the soft pad of fat above it under their fingers. For the faint taste of piss, hot and acrid on their tongue. The places where their bodies meet and deform against each other. They love to feel her bound strength jerk and tremble. They love knowing what it feels like when those huge thighs slam together in ecstatic release, and that they can’t because of them, because they decided that it wouldn’t happen and she let them render it impossible. They come in their own fumbling hand, spilling on the floor with a half-numbed rush of nauseous relief.
Later, as they lie in bed, the red marks of the ropes still livid on Laura’s pale skin, Jax holds her close and dreams of something else. Not a cunt, and not the nameless thing between their legs: A star. A flower. Soft bioluminescent light and delicate fronds like a moth’s antennae. Anemone fingers moving lazily in a slow current. They reach down to finger what they have, to trace its aching, stiffening length and press their thumb against the slit at its end where precum wells against the whorl of their thumbprint.
The word for what they want doesn’t exist yet, but they can feel its ghost on their tongue and under their thumb, and in the way it feels to curl against sleeping Laura. They close their eyes and lay their cheek on the pillow of her upper arm, dreaming of new flesh and flashing steel, of the gender that is making, the body that is being seen. A point of white light burning hot between their legs.
Comments
Gretchen Felker-Martin
hey thanks!
ziggy
Tardy to the party but I love this so, so much
Gretchen Felker-Martin
thank you so much <3
mastercraft, blew my feet from under me
Gretchen Felker-Martin
What?
What the fuck
