3rd Place Winner of the Kinky Fantasy Fiction Contest
Where will you take me?
My darling does not answer, and I puzzle on the drive until he turns into a dark parking lot on Highway 99 and stops at the gated entry to an extensive storage unit.
I can't climb over that!
I have the key.
He dangles it like a sparkling little jewel in front of my eyes and laughs softly at my delighted gasp.
How did you -
Don't ask.
The gate cranks open on its rollers and closes after us; all at his magic key's command. It's Sunday night, the storage unit is closed for regular business. We haven't come for business or anything regular. We park the car in the back, out of sight. My darling carries a satchel with him, and again I'm not allowed to ask what's in it.
The long huts are connected two by two with narrow driveways in between and side corridors at regular intervals. The place looks beautifully ugly, a grim piece of commercial gothic. Lamps are mounted on the huts' ends which spread scant illumination into the entrances of the driveways and leave the long stretches between in shadowy gloom. The side and central corridors are dark.
He takes my hand and leads me into one of the huts. My high heels click loudly on the concrete floor. The night is still warm. Inside the building it is even warmer. Only the sealed units will be air conditioned. We walk into a tight, hot darkness and he kisses me, he runs his hand down my back, he lifts the hem of my short black dress and strokes my bare ass. No panties, no bra, upon request. His hand sucks warm and firm onto my buttock, my skin connected to the contour of his palm, the hollows like a hunger, the mounds small fleshy prologues to the extension of his fingers. They slide between my legs, dip deeper in with a slight edge of nails and find moist evidence of my anticipation. His breath is in my ear.
What's that? I hear something.
It's nothing.
The gate -
No one comes here at this time of night. They don't work on Sundays.
How do you know?
By reason and preparation.
Now all is silence, sharp as the angles of the huts.
You have one minute, then I come for you.
I bend down to undo my shoes.
No, you keep those on.
That's not fair. You're wearing sandals.
Who said anything about fair? And one other rule. No sound, no noise. We don't want
to alert anybody.
What about my shoes?
Just some machinery chattering. It's the human voice that draws attention. Don't
speak, whatever happens. Agreed?
Agreed.
I walk away, slowly at first, clack-clack, clack-clack, then faster, and then I run, clickety- clickety-clickety-clickety-clickety down the corridor and take the first right, run through the side corridor, run across the narrow driveway and into the next unit. And all the time my heels are smattering the floor like little silver hammers on taut strings. It isn't fair.
I take my shoes off and run on bare silent feet to the end of the hut and peer out. And there he is, my darling, coming around the corner on the soft slip slap of his sandals. I race back inside, take the next side corridor and put my shoes back on, run clickety- clickety-clickety-clickety-clickety down that main corridor, take another side corridor, run across the driveway into the next line of huts. And suddenly I stop, because -
No, I must have been mistaken. There cannot be another pair of shoes; it is some spooky audio effect of the resounding floor. I listen, hear nothing, it's just my imagination that creates another presence. I take my shoes off once more and trace my way back, careful at the open crossings, until I'm in the first line of huts again. I put my shoes back on, take a few steps and listen, listen. All I hear is my heart pounding in sudden fear. I run.
Smack into him!
He grips me in a tight embrace and puts his hand over my mouth to stifle my scream.
No sound, remember! We don't want to wake up the whole neighborhood.
I collapse into his arms, he holds me up, and then his mouth is hot over mine, hot on my throat, he pulls one dress strap off my shoulder, his lips run down my breast, fasten over my nipple, he sucks and flicks his tongue, he knows it drives me mad. He steps behind me, lifts my dress and smacks my buttocks, two resounding, stinging slaps. I bite my tongue in order not to cry out in pain. He turns me around again to face him, pushes me against the wall, I hear the delicious zip of his fly, his hard cock pushes between my legs, against my cunt. He pulls my hair and growls.
Little bitch. You thought I didn't know about your fancy trick?
He lifts me up and almost finds his way as I strain towards him with my soft wet plum.
Ah, not so soon!
He sets me down and turns me away from him.
Run along, have some more fun!
He slaps my ass lightly and gives me a little push. I start running, clickety- clickety- clickety- clickety- clickety. He laughs, and then I hear the lazy slip-slap of his sandals taking up the chase.
I run out the far end and into the next line of huts, down the main corridor and take the first side corridor, crossing over into the next line of huts -
And hear myself doubled. From some other part of the complex sounds another clickety- clickety- clickety, overlaying mine with just a little syncopation. I freeze, hear the belated clack before the silence, this time there's no mistake. My heart races. I start running again, along the side corridor, across all the driveways to the last line of huts, listening for my echo that now refuses to sound. I stop.
I listen, I hear something else. A softly padding run. But not quite the slip slap of my darling's sandals? First other heels, now other soles?
What lurks in the shadows, goes bump in the dark, hides under the bed, cowers in the closet, waits around the corner, all childhood rhymes of fear muffle through the thick atmosphere of night and dread pressing against me. But somewhere in the darkness, in its deep center, there's also something else, a hair-raising tingle, a high thrill that rivets through my abdomen and hums an electric tune between my thighs.
Yet I am ever so careful as I slip into the next side corridor and peer around the corner into the driveway. Empty. I run across.
And smack into him!
In one swift move he is behind me, my dress is brushed from my shoulders and falls down around my ankles, an arm encircles my waist, a hand falls on my breast. The hand is large, cold, completely smooth, without calluses, it seems to have thin membranes at the bases of the fingers, another hand slides into my steaming wet pussy, fingers that have no nails find my clit and circle it with slick ease. I want to sink onto these fingers, gyrate my body to their rhythm, but something is so wrong! His chest seems wider, his arms longer and more powerful.
My brainstem is spinning with conflicting impulses, now this now that way, there is no room for rational thought. The body has its own strategies. It leans against him, slyly manages to step out of the hampering dress around my feet without his notice, his eerie fingers so intent on their delirious rounds. The moment I feel his grip slacken I break loose and run. And seconds after I hear again the clickety-clack of high heels that aren't mine, I'm sure!
When I stop, they stop. I'm at the end of the hut and venture out, setting one foot carefully before the other to make no noise; I sneak my head around the corner and glimpse a man's silhouette hushing across the driveway into the next side corridor. He's tall, like my darling. But he's tall because he has a huge round head!
I'm shaking. I take deep breaths, strong on the exhale to blow off the fear. It's all a game, my game in fantasy and imagination, now his game in reality and execution; I try to reason with myself. What weird costumes has my darling brought with him in his satchel? A head dress of some sort? Padding for his chest? Big gloves that make his hands larger, colder, smoother and feel like - like alien hands? Why would he do that? To spice up the chase, to introduce another element of the unpredictable? And a pair of high heels to run staccato in along with my own? What of this echo of my shoes? How would he manage that?
Dare I test it? I do. I run into the driveway, regardless of the exposure - and realize that I am naked, my dress somewhere behind me in one of the huts. And there they are again, almost as soon as I begin, the other heels; matching mine so close, but not quite close enough. I hear them to my left, somewhat ahead of me.
What's worse? Knowing that high heels for his size are hard to come by, though not impossible, but more important, that he won't be able to run in them? Or finding myself in this vast deserted place completely naked?
The vision stops me, I have to savor it. I run my hands down my body and up again, cup my breasts, arch my back and think about him hidden in the darkness, watching me. I lean against the wall and open my legs and touch myself, I hope he sees me, the double image of myself and him observing me ripples in soft convulsions through my belly. And yet, there's still the other double of the heels. Definitely disturbing.
I can't stay here forever. This time I walk clack-clack-clack-clack. Immediately I hear them, walking with me. I speed up and slow down, and they're trying to match my pace, clack-ck-clack-ck-clack-ck-clack-ck. Somebody knows that I know what they're doing. But who? My heart is yet another echo in my ears.
I stop at the mouth of the next corridor, keeping my body in darkness, inching my head forward. And now I cannot be mistaken! Something sneaks across the driveway up ahead, right in the middle where it is darkest. Something very slender without clothes on, something with long, long legs ending in high heels, lifting one before the other in spidery thinness, seeking silent ground. Above an elongated nose rises the large dome of its skull -
Strangers! my mind shrieks, I clap my hands over my mouth to keep the shout inside. Worse than strangers! Others! All my clever reasoning, all my tantalizing speculations, all of my exquisite arousal fractures like a sheet of safety glass on sudden impact and fall away in a curtain of tinkling shards. My insides tumble, I run without direction, without consideration to hide either sight or sound, I don't know what I'm running away from, what and where I'm running to, all I perceive is the parallel clickety-clack of heels. I careen into a wall, reel sideways and run on, into utter darkness -
Smack into him!
It is my darling, it must be! My hands are caught in a sling and bound together, swift and tight, as if he had practiced for the moment, and in the darkness knows the hitch or handle of the storage unit he ties me to. He leaves a little slack of rope, enough to move my body, but with no hope of imminent escape.
I'm caught.
It's him. It's not him.
Long powerful arms encircle me. Large, cold, perfectly smooth and unmarked hands cup my tits and press and flick their thumbs across my nipples, thumbs without nails. His chest is wide, it needs no padding, it is naked now, tucked silky smooth onto my back. So is his lower body. A monstrous rock hard cock clubs against the crack of my buttocks.
It must be a reaction to the shock, a state of all defenses lying low, that buckles my knees and sends such strong electric currents from my nipples directly to my cunt. My body spasms. He feels it.
A cold hand glides between my legs, fingers that are all smooth round cups reach into my pussy, slipper back and forth across my clit until I start to moan, I cannot help the sound. Breath on my neck, on my shoulders, I feel the cold dome of his head against my skin. I wonder fleetingly if there is such a thing as an invasion of fantasy. I could shout for help. But I'm caught in darkness and sensation.
Slick hands caress my ass. He kneels behind me, opens my legs, his mouth finds my pussy, his fingers part my labia, the better to reach you, my dear, his long reptilian tongue tips up into my cunt, his thumb pressing against my clit, gently massaging the soft sensitive flesh around it.
I'm hopelessly lost in a dark red swirl of excitement, drawn by the gravitational pull of a giant pleasure star, merging with the electric particles of its gaseous clouds. If aliens have hands and tongues and cocks, do aliens fuck? Fuck me, dome headed reptile man, web fingered toad man, use your extraterrestrial cock and fuck me! Perhaps I say it, whisper it, moan it.
Beside me on the floor a light goes on, goes off, and up ahead another light signals in the same fashion. The light ahead comes on again and holds steady, its direction now changed, not aimed at us, but at its owner, and angled slightly upward. In its soft glowing oval pool it shows two figures from the waist down. One is him. I know him by his sandals, by the flow of his legs, the shape of his erection. He holds a long-legged creature in high heels by her hips, oh, clearly female in her swaying motion. In the shadows above I can discern the outline of her small tits, her neck, and the great alien dome of her head.
He laughs softly, the way he does, and seems to wave at me. He turns his captive's back towards us and bends her over to flash the pink of her pussy, all human, and smooth as a peach. His fingers stroke, search, spread, he lays his cock at her entrance, teases her as he teases me. And all the time my own outlandish lover keeps licking me, and what I see up there makes me rage with jealousy, and what my alien does to me makes me wild with desire.
Now he flicks on his own light, angled so we can be seen by those two as we see them.
Shame - it burns me, scalds me, flays my skin, I'm more than naked, exposed in the raw flesh, I cannot hide the urging of my hips over my lover's tongue.
Heat falls in cascades from my face over my shoulders and breasts, heat rushes up from the apex of the magic triangle and floods my belly, the two waves meet above my navel and churn up a maelstrom of excitement and thrill as the man-thing behind me repeats all the moves of the other pair. He bends me over, spreads me, and opens me with his monster cock at last. I push against the first slow entering of the head, the agonizing withdrawal, the next even slower but deeper penetration that fills my throat with an angelic sweetness and turns my cunt into a bowl of whipped cream, all soft peaks. One hand he uses to hold my body, the other to give participation to my clit and all the juicy folds of my pussy.
We fuck, with our lovers' bodies, and with our eyes feasting on each other, my darling and I. He calls my name, and I hear the alien female echo my own breaths and moans and rise into orgasmic singing.
At some time the slick exquisite hand between my legs is temporarily withdrawn to fumble at a scaly reptilian neck, a little click, a thing falls cluttering to the floor. A round bike helmet, one of the kind that don't have elongations at the front or back. The hand, on its journey back to its good place, is for a moment clearly visible, large, long fingered and covered by a flesh colored latex glove.
But I had known all along, hadn't I? But I would rather believe in aliens, wouldn't I? To ease my conscience, to resolve the tension between my jealousy and my own surreptitious longings? Oh my darling, you know me well!
Originally published October 2007 - "Kink"