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21
Following the Equator.
Mark Twain didn’t in the book he wrote with that title more than a century ago. In fact he spent almost no time at all on the Equator except briefly when crossing it four times.
The Equator is father south than most people think. Not geographically, but relatively.
Start at Greenwich, England, Oº Longitude, and follow the Equator east.
Your first landfall will be far down the African continent near Libreville, Gabon. Cross the Congo. Pass just north of Nairobi and Kilimanjaro--”Snow capped mountains on the Equator! Impossible!” scoffed 19th Century skeptics. Over the Indian Ocean you will barely notice the atolls of the Maldives, and with continued global warning, soon you won’t notice them at all. Beyond the mountain jungles of Sumatra, you will pass just south of Singapore. On to Borneo. Celebes. Hundreds of smaller Indonesian islands. The Pacific will seem as empty as the Indian Ocean, and much, much bigger. Don’t blink or you will miss Tarawa, where Japanese and Americans slaughtered each other for a while before uniting in the common interests of baseball and consumerism. Not long before you reach the Galapagos, of tortoise and Darwinian finch fame, you will be two thousand miles south of San Diego, California. Another continental landfall at Quito, Ecuador. Northern Brazil. The mouth of the Amazon. And back out over the South Atlantic where you began.
Almost all the world’s landmass, people, and troubles--which is perhaps redundant--are found north of that convenient, but imaginary line. As are Brad Tomalin, and Carol Edwards, and Ross Edwards. A triangle, not of love, but linked by other powerful imaginary lines.
…
Ross Edwards was becoming a regular at the shop on Upper Bukit Timah Road. The clerk, always the same slight Chinese middle aged man, neatly dressed in an open collared white dress shirt and dark slacks, now gave him the smile of recognition for a valued customer.
Ross had hoped that making the decision to divorce Carol, even if he couldn’t act on it until he found time to return to California, would free him. No longer would it be his woman who was doing Brad Tomalin’s bidding. But it hadn’t.
The emails, the answering messages, the images, the videos, all continued. He could, of course, close those accounts or block Brad Tomalin as a sender. Or he could just delete unread and erase unheard. But he couldn’t.
Today’s embarrassing purchases were the result of the combined influences of an email that morning in which Brad told him of inserting a butt plug in Carol at lunch which she wore until he removed it at the condo that night, including all afternoon in her office, and an earlier image.
The clerk wrapped the items carefully, smiled politely, handed the parcel to Ross Edwards, and gave a slight bow.
When Ross got home, he found the clerk had also included a guest pass to a place called, The Kricket Klub. Ross recognized the address as being in one of Singapore’s few remaining old quarters, yet to be redeveloped into high rises.
Somehow he doubted that the Klub had anything to do with the English game, though there might be a ‘silly mid-off’ and more than a few ‘stumps.’
…
Ross Edwards squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He needed for this meeting to be over. Desperately. He was too full and he itched. Finally it was, and with great relief he stood and returned to his office, hoping he was walking normally.
Traffic that evening was interminable, and as soon as he reached his apartment, he turned on several lights, walked to the over size windows, on which he too now left the curtain permanently pulled to one side, and stripped off his clothes. Calvin Kleins down, black tail fell from where he had wrapped it around his waist. Except that his sprouted from a black plug rather than red, it was identical to the one Carol sometimes wore. Ross had discovered that the two foot long strands of ‘hair’ were plastic. Conveniently washable.
He had intended to remove the plug as soon as he got home, but walked into the bedroom and turned, looking over his shoulder in the full length mirror. Carol looked sexy; he looked ridiculous. ‘I am ridiculous,’ he thought. ‘If I’m going to be a jackass, I might as well wear the tail.’
The tail swished against the backs of his thighs as he went into the den. His cock swayed side to side. Fluid had been oozing from it all day. Although he deliberately hadn’t masturbated at the office, he’d had repeatedly to unzip and wipe with a tissue.
Bending to unlock the lower drawer in his desk--this had been the day for his cleaning lady--caused the plug to press harder against his prostate. He removed yesterday’s other purchase, a black leather penis gag. Beside it was the Kricket Klub card. ‘I am not going there,’ Ross Edwards told himself. Yet he kept the card.
Placing the plastic penis in his mouth and tightening the buckle at the back of his head, he returning to the living room, took his MacBook Air and lay down on the couch. His tongue sought a comfortable position around the intruding plastic. Carol took cocks in the mouth and the ass. This must be what it feels like, he thought. But was it really? He could find out at the Kricket Klub.
Deliberately he broke that off and opened his MacBook Air. He was disappointed to find no new emails.
He pressed the ‘play messages’ button on his answering machine and when he got over his initial surprise reached down and began to stroke his seeping cock.
…
“Hello, Ross. Rik Cronin in case you don’t recognize the voice. It has been a while.
Your lovely wife is here, too. Brad wants you to know that I’m using her. Probably more than anyone else these days. And that’s saying something. Prerogative of convenient access. Two or three times most weekdays. I’ve always liked my work, but never looked forward to getting to the office this much.
I’m in a somewhat graceless but extremely pleasurable position at the moment. Naked from the waist down, shirt and tie above. My feet are on my desk and Carol is under it. Completely naked. Licking my ass. Rimming and probing. The beautiful stand-offish Mrs. Edwards, the office brown nose. A dream come true. I must be being rewarded for the good I did in a previous life.
Brad specifically wants you to know that she’s down there precisely at 9:00 a.m. Monday through Friday. Not licking my ass. Sucking my dick. It’s become an office ritual. Everyone knows. Just before 9, Mrs. Edwards enters my office, without knocking. Lipstick pristine. And fifteen or so minutes later, she leaves, lipstick smeared. I could let her use my bathroom, but don’t. At least not for that, though we do go in there sometimes.
I know that I’m not the first one she does every morning, but I love that when she applies that lipstick in your condo, she knows that in an hour it will be rubbing off on my cock.
Don’t know when 9 a.m. here is your time.
When it that in Singapore, Carol?
Midnight, she says.
That’s all right. My balls now.
I usually have her again later in the morning or a couple of times in the afternoon. Have to get some work done, you know. Though Carol is, perhaps understandably, falling behind a bit. Her boss doesn’t seem to mind.
Those vary--the later times. Sometimes her mouth; sometimes her ass. Sometimes my office; sometimes hers. Sometimes I have her strip completely naked again; sometimes I just pull up her skirt. No underwear permitted here either. Sometimes I have her leave only her shoes on. Sometimes I have her come in here and strip and just sit around naked until I’m ready. Or kneel. Got a chair across from my desk that she looks great in with a leg over each arm. Trouble is that I can’t glance up too frequently at that glistening wet slit without getting on with it.
That first one at 9 a.m., though, she is always completely naked. Comes in. Strips. Crawls under my desk and starts sucking.
Funny you always want what you can’t have. Most women you have a hassle getting deep throat or them taking it up the ass. With Carol I can’t have her cunt and so I find myself really wanting a normal fuck. Ah, well.
Bought a new wall mirror for my office, so I can see both sides now. Wasn’t that a song? You wife does look great on her knees. Back too for that matter. But I think knees best. Though I certainly couldn’t choose between the way she is now with my balls in her mouth--move on up to my cock--or with my cock up her ass. There is being on your knees and there is being on your knees. All good. You know how great it is to have a couple of hot wet holes to dump a load in whenever you want. Sorry, forgot that you don’t know. At least not any longer Carol’s holes.
I like dropping into her office and sticking my cock in her mouth while she’s sitting at her desk, or having her stand and bend over the desk, lift her skirt and stick it up her ass. Sometimes I just take a few strokes, have her lick it clean, and leave. Of course she never knows how far I’m going to go when I start.
And of course she hates that its me. And I love that she hates it. But I’m beginning to suspect that she’s so kinked that she loves hating it. If you follow.
Despite that--or because of it--she tries so hard to please.
Or I reach down and play with her tits. Squeeze those big dark nipples through her dress or blouse. I trust you recall how that turns her on. Hypersensitive nipples. Told me once that she feels they are wired directly to her clit. Get her panting. Then leave.
That’s it. All the way down.
She is good, Ross. Quite the little woman. You’re a lucky man. Or not.
You know the thing--opps. Going to have...to excuse me. Getting close to coming.
The thing--ohh, that is good.
The thing is not her beauty. Though I must admit that she looks...even...better naked that I imagined. And I imagined a lot. And---ohh, shit. Hold there. Ohh. Ohh.
Whew. Woman going to be the death of me. Be worth it.
That’s it. Get it all. Missed a drop. There.
What was I saying?
Oh, yes. Beauty. Woman has the best body I’ve ever seen. But the thing is that she is also the biggest slut I’ve ever known. Does things that would make a Tijuana whore blush. And I’ve gone across the border often enough to know. Looks so innocent. A female Dorian Gray. The lower she sinks, the purer she appears.
Licks come off the desk, off the floor, out of the toilet--but Brad says you already know that. Gives the best head I’ve ever had. Hardly ever gags. I can sit back and let her do all the work or make her squat with her back against a wall so she can’t move away and skull fuck her. Takes it as hard as you want up the ass. Love pounding her and seeing those big tits sway. You must remember what that’s like. Though I hear you didn’t use her ass much. If you ever get the chance, you’ll find it’s still tight. I can still make her squeal though. Enjoy that. She’s always embarrassed leaving the office after that happens.
Well, got to go. I think I’ll have time to do her ass later. Might sit back and let her fuck her own ass. Looks great with her facing my feet, crouching, my cock disappearing between those beautiful rising and lowering cheeks. Slap them to control the rhythm. Slut takes direction perfectly.
Man, I’m getting turned on again.
We all owe you a debt of gratitude for going to Singapore, Ross. Great move.
…
Ross Edwards scrambled to his feet and, choking on the penis gag, stumbled to the living room window. Reaching back with one hand, he grabbed the base of his tail, ripped out the butt plug, jammed it painfully back in, while he pulled on his cock with his other hand until a jet of come soared out.
On shaking legs, he watched it ooze slowly down the glass.
A line of headlines passing far below. LIghts on in an identical building across the street. He could see into apartments. A couple in the flickering blue light of a television. A woman ironing. A family sitting around the dinner table. He could see them. They, if they bothered, could see him.
People who live in glass houses shouldn’t wag their tails. But, in a gesture of derisive defiance, Ross Edwards turned and waged his anyway.
22
After they left her, even though it was almost midnight, she pulled a long white cotton beach dress over her head and went barefoot down to her car, a yellow VW Beetle convertible. In the adjoining space was their other car, a Land Rover that Ross wanted for some reason, although he only ever drove it on freeways and city streets.
With the top up, she drove down the hill to Mission Beach, a narrow two mile long sand bar of densely packed beach houses, where she was lucky enough to find a parking space.
She swung herself easily over the waist high sea wall, and crossed twenty yards of soft sand, cool on the soles of her feet, to continent’s edge.
Water and sky were black and the horizon where they met indistinguishable. Sky filled with stars. Water broken by five or six constantly changing pale lines of surf, the most distant where 5’ waves first broke, the closest only an inch or two high where sea lapped at sand.
She was standing on wave-washed sand that was smooth and hard. Cool water dashed up and over her feet. In the darkness, illuminated only by lights on the other side of the sea wall, and beneath swirling water, the coral pink polish on her toenails appeared black. Her mouth and throat were coated with come. She could still taste it. Wavelet receded; another approached. She reached down and scooped up a handful of salt water and brought it to her mouth. Rinsed. Spat out. Come was trickling down her thighs. She raised the hem of her dress and brought another handful of water up between her legs. Then a second, before dropping her dress again. Salt burned raw flesh.
For several more minutes she stood there, watching pale lines, listening to the surf, before turning and walking north toward the lights on the hill at La Jolla, wavelets playing over her bare feet and ankles.
The beach was mostly deserted, but at one of the concrete rings provided at intervals for that purpose, a dozen or so people were sitting around a bonfire. Someone was playing a guitar, and others were singing.
A woman’s voice called to her, “Come. Join us.”
Carol Edwards waved, smiled ‘no’, and walked on in darkness.
23
“You do it this time.”
“No. Please. I can’t”
“If you do, I’ll let you come. If you make me do it, it won’t be just one needle through your nipples, but several, and maybe one in your clit as well. And you won’t get to come.”
“I can’t. I really can’t do that to myself.”
“Of course you can. Just take your right nipple between the thumb and forefinger of your left hand. Go ahead. Do it. Now stretch it out. Good. Take one of the needles in your right hand. Do it, damn it!”
A hand slapped bare flesh.
“Ohh. No. Don’t. I’ll do it.”
“That’s better. Stretch the nipple out again. End of the needle right there. Press down. You know how sharp those needles are. It will go right through. Hardly hurt. A pinprick. Literally.”
“I can’t. I just can’t.”
“I’m going to tell you for the last time. If I do it, it will hurt. Serious pain. Not just needles through each nipple, but at least one driven right in, buried. Think about an orgasm. When did you last have one?”
“L..last week.”
“You must need relief. DO IT!”
“Aghh.”
“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Only a drop of blood. Now the other. Stretch it out. Make it quick before you have time to think.”
“Ohh.”
“Good. Good slut. I like the look. Not as much as steel or gold rings, but Brad won’t let me permanently pierce you. Yet.
“Now let me loop these weights over them, and you can suck me off, and then I’ll let you come. You can even choose: my fist, the big dildo, your own fingers. Or maybe you’d like to get off rubbing your clit against the toe of my boot? You seemed to enjoy that. Which will it be?”
“Your fist. Oow, that hurts.”
“Start sucking. The sooner I come, the sooner you will. And then I’ll remove the weights and you can remove the needles.”
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