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Message-ID: <52388asstr$1131005403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Toran <toran_29@yahoo.com>
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 03 Nov 2005 00:06:10 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Disenchantment (M/f, BDSM, reluc)
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Date: Thu, 03 Nov 2005 03:10:03 -0500
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The following is a work of fiction and the copyright of the author.  All 
comments are appreciated and can be sent to the author at 
toran_29@yahoo.com - just take out the _

     DISENCHANTMENT
     By Toran (10/29/05)
     
     Disenchantment.  It's what I sense, what I feed on.  It's my "in."
     I'm a server at Cinnamon Dream, slinging cinnamon buns at yuppies while 
the mind that earned a Masters in Literature slowly dies.  Soon I will be 
someone else.  I am finished here but that is a story for another time.  The 
stoplight is too long and I slip the transmission of the '91 Escort into 
neutral so I can rev the tired engine and spew blue smoke into the blistering 
heat.  I relish the coughs from those around me.  Those poor unfortunates who 
refuse to sit inside their safe climate controlled cars.  I rev the engine 
again.  It is, after all, what I imagine a disenchanted Cinnamon Dreamer would 
do.  I've spent little enough time in this body to know for sure - I hate the 
smell of cinnamon.
     I glare at the middle-aged man in his respectable Sable next to me and the 
smell that emanates from him pierces the blue cloud I've created.  
Disenchantment.  Strong, sensual.  Alive.  I grin.
     And leap.
     And melt.
     I know he has a sudden headache, one that will pound him almost senseless. 
 I know because the ache is me.  Reading him, turning the images of his life 
like a page in a photo album.  Martin.  His name.  His work day has been shit.  
I blow past that.  The ring on his left hand is all I need to see.  It's her 
that I want.  I want to feel her, smell her, crush her.  She will quench my 
thirst.
     Mary.  What a beautiful name.  I make him say it, relishing the sounds 
coming from our lips.  Later I will take him completely and forgo the subtle 
commands - later I will do what I please with our hands.  Do what I please to 
Mary.  Such a pretty, pretty name.  Mary.
     Mary doesn't like to fuck Martin anymore, at least that's what he thinks.  
And he's probably right.  He has a middle age paunch, a small dick, and a 
strong case of lack of interest himself.  He knows Mary's body like the back of 
his hand, touched and kissed every inch of her flesh during the last fifteen 
years.  Ten years married, five years fucking around.  There are no more 
suprises.
     Now, he takes his little dick into the study, fires up his computer and 
jacks off into the wastebasket as images of naked twenty-somethings play with 
themselves.  All while Mary sleeps.  I wonder if she knows.  Most of them do.  
I wonder if it bothers her, if she falls asleep with tear stains on her pillow. 
 I have a hunch she doesn't.  I have a hunch the house that Martin and Mary 
share reeks of the smell that drives me wild.
     The stoplight has changed and horns are blaring.  The kid in the beat up 
Impala looks as stunned and dreamy eyed as I assume Martin looks right now.  
Only Martin has a splitting headache and the kid has finally lost his.  Funny 
thing, that, the kid is probably thinking.  He revs the engine then slams it 
into drive and squeals the tires, lurching away in a cloud of rust and blue 
smoke.
     Martin swears, rubs his temple and eases up on the brake.  The horns stop 
but some fat dough-faced executive sails the middle finger at us from his 
climate controlled Lexus as it roars past.  Martin doesn't notice but I do, and 
if I had a mouth that was my own I would be grinning.  I do the next best 
thing, and in spite of possibly the worst headache he's ever had, Martin laughs 
a little.
     Martin and Mary haven't made love in almost two years.  He's pounded into 
her spastically off and on at a rate of once or twice a month, whenever he can 
convince her to let him do more than give her good-bye and hello kisses and the 
perfunctory hug now and then.  Neither enjoy it and they haven't lusted after 
the other for years.  At least that's Martin's appraisal, and I doubt he is far 
off the mark.
     Two kids in college, both gone, the only reminders that Martin and Mary 
ever produced offspring sit on their respective work desks in tiny frames.  And 
the constant drain on the savings accounts set up long ago.  Some holidays come 
and go with as empty and quiet a house as any other day, with only the smell of 
turkey in the oven or the sparkle of lights on the plastic Christmas tree to 
herald any change to the rut that has become both Martin's and Mary's life.
     Lately, Martin thinks about wrapping his Sable around a tree, on some 
remote wooded country road.  Just another crash caused by a deer, the animal 
making it safely back into the woods, Martin dying in the ruins of twisted 
sheet metal, leaving all the money from the life insurance to give Mary 
whatever she wants the rest of her life.
     I page through Martin's pathetic existence, my arousal growing with every 
glimpse of the woman that I will bind to me.  I will do to her what Martin only 
dreams about doing while he spurts his seed into the crumpled tissue lined 
wastebasket where it pools and cools on the empty electric bill envelope.  I'll 
do everything he's seen on his computer screen and more.  To Mary.  Such a 
pretty, sexy name.
     ***
     I digest as much of Martin's memory as I can.  I would vomit had I a 
stomach.  Such a waste.  Disenchantment is paralyzing, this I know all too 
well.  I wonder at the depth of the well that bubbles it out like delicious 
perfume, wonder how someone like Martin taps into that well and keeps the 
waters flowing.  It is too much, sometimes, for even me to take, so strong and 
powerful and complete is the disenchantment.  The loss of innocence.  The death 
of wonder.
     Martin sits through his beef stroganoff, hardly eating.  His headache is 
killing him, but I'm almost done.  Almost ready to fully slip into his body 
like a pair of soft leather gloves.  Mary is pissed.  She looks even more 
delicious in person - for some reason, Martin frames her angry faces with 
gilding and hangs them prominently on the walls of his memory.  I see a soft, 
slightly pudgy woman with stunning green eyes and an ass that will look 
wonderful as it glows red from my paddling.  Mary is pissed because she knows 
that beef stroganoff is Martin's favorite and it takes her a long time to make 
it the way he likes it and even though he's told her he has a headache and has 
even followed her orders to take aspirin, Mary has a wounded suspicion that 
Martin is only biding his time until he can excuse himself and retire to the 
den where behind closed and locked doors he will beat off to the surgically 
altered sluts on the computer, the sluts who are ruining their marriage.  
That's my hunch, they're my words.  Mary just sits and stews quietly.
     He's given me few options.  Her mood is irreversible, at least tonight.  A 
bottle of her favorite wine, a gift card from Macy's, tickets to Vegas - 
nothing is going to get her to willingly hop in the sack where I can play her 
body like a fine Stradivarius as she enters the Hall of the Mountain King.  So 
I go the other way.  Mary is going to be a bad girl tonight.  Even though she's 
made Martin his favorite meal, cleaned the house, done the wash and ironed his 
uniform white collared shirts and pleated every-color pants for tomorrow's 
work, Mary will be a bad girl and will need to be tied down and spanked.  And 
then fucked.
     I surge forward and Martin's headache disappears.  In fact, Martin 
disappears.  I lock him far away, deep down with his demons - the ones that 
have fishing hook teeth and huge glowing eyes and sleep under his bed or far 
back in the closet.  Leaving him caged and screaming to be released may be good 
for him - maybe give him some balls.
     I push away from the table, just another middle aged middle management 
husband, middle paunch and all.  
     "Hon, I'm going to finish up the bills in the den."
     Her glare is hot and hits me like a laser.  "The bills?  Do them out here."
     I smile, feeling Martin's lips pull back from his teeth, stretching maybe 
just a little too much.  Phony.  "That's ok.  I like the den better.  I won't 
hear your TV."
     Her cheeks flush and her eyes smolder.  "You're not doing bills back 
there.  Why do you lie to me?"
     I take a few steps towards the hallway then I stop.  I try to imagine the 
nervous little guilty voice before I use it - Martin has this tone embedded in 
his vocal chords.  "What do you mean?  I'm just doing bills."  I pause, 
savoring the silence.  "Nothing else."
     I hear her stand up, feel her heat.  I imagine her as being so beautiful 
when she's enraged but to turn now and take in her beauty would be too hard to 
conceal the arousal between my legs.
     "I know what you do back there," she hisses, and I wonder how she will 
sound when gagged with her own panties.  "I have to peal the paper out of the 
wastebasket when I empty it.  You're looking at porn."
     I turn around forcing her to look me in the face, not at the bulge in my 
pants.  Were she not standing so close to the knife rack I would rush her now - 
Martin fears her anger and sometimes wonders if keeping a loaded pistol in the 
house is a good idea, especially on those nights when she loses her voice, 
slamming and re-slamming doors as he retreats to his bed.  I already know where 
the rope is - Martin told me earlier.  But I'll content myself with words as I 
draw close to her.  Close enough to spring.
     "Why would I look at porn when I have you to look at?"  I say it with just 
the right amount of Martin indignation.  I know she hates that tone.  Martin 
knows it too.  Her distraction will give me the opportunity I need to get to 
the drawer that holds the clothesline.  An old image of ropes crossing her 
breasts floats to me, a fragment of Martin's memory, and I'm surprised that 
Martin has tried bondage with his pretty wife.  In the image she looks much 
younger.  College experimentation.  I wonder if she liked it and I grin.
     Her lips are drawn down at the corners.  "You don't know how often I think 
of leaving, do you?"  She points a finger at my face as I brush past her.  
"Almost every fucking day!"
     Oh, Mary swears nicely.  I fight the urge to pause and wrestle a kiss from 
her swearing lips but the utility drawer is before me and the rope that will 
tie my Mary up tight is just inside.
     "You're getting on my nerves, Mary.  I told you I had a headache."  Buying 
time while I bend down and fumble through the drawer.  Ahh, there's the rope.  
Heavy-duty clothesline.  It will leave chafe marks on her lovely skin for days.
     "Fuck you, Martin!"
     I close my eyes, savoring the symphony in my ears.  Mary swears 
poetically.  I whirl and confront her, loosening the rope coils and getting the 
lengths ready.  Mary doesn't notice, so intent on my reaction.
     "You're being a very bad girl, Mary.  Do you know that?"  I can tell by 
her reaction that she's never heard Martin talk like this.  It's as if I've 
slapped her in the face, and though that is on the agenda for later, all I've 
done is used Martin's tired voice to deliver a new world to pretty Mary.
     "What?  Fuck you," she stammers taking a step back.  She hasn't noticed 
the rope yet.  But I've noticed a shifting of shade.  Her eyes have changed.  
She's still angry, oh yes.  But someplace deep inside, Mary is puzzled.  
Intrigued.  Possibly intrigued enough to pause the relentless attack that she 
is just warming to.
     I take back her step.  "Yes, Mary.  You're being a very bad girl.  Do you 
know why?"  My voice is a purr.  Martin's voice is gone.  I'm playing his vocal 
chords now.  I'm the lone cello playing the major refrain in the minor, slowing 
drowning out the rest of the orchestra by my pulsing discord.  Mary has entered 
the Hall of the Mountain King, whether she knows it or not. 
     Mary says nothing, confusion plainly evident on her face.  The corners of 
her lips relax, giving her that pouty look that both Martin and I have fallen 
in love with.  Her eyes can't conceal the sparkle that dance just behind her 
green pupils.  Her cheeks seem more suffused with blood.
     I wait until she has enough time to glance down at the coil of rope in my 
hand.  Her confusion deepens.  I know she isn't thinking about ropes binding 
her wrists behind her, anchored by a waist and crotch rope, while more rope 
serves to keep her legs from flailing to block the onslaught of my palm against 
her ass cheeks.  Honestly, I don't think she gives the ropes much thought at 
all.  Mary simply registers that her husband is now holding rope in his hands 
and talking in a way that somehow has caused her anger to shift gears into 
something else.  Her choice is to either devote time to thinking what that 
something else is or to answer me.  Her decision is voiced by her silence.
     I step close to her, looking down into her upturned face.  She steps back, 
but only a half step back.  "Answer me, Mary.  Do you know why you are a bad 
girl?"
     "No."
     With one trembling word I know that Mary has crossed over from anger to 
fear.  I'm not the Martin that carefully locks the door to the den before 
pounding my meat in time to internet porn.  I'm not the Martin that prefers to 
kiss his wife briefly on the lips only once on his way to and from work.  I'm 
not the Martin that can only master two things in the bed he shares with his 
wife - sleeping and farting.
     Mary's afraid because she doesn't know who I am.  I slip a coil of rope 
around one delicate wrist and Mary lets me.
     "You are a bad girl, Mary, because,"  I pause, appearing to think about my 
words while I snug the rope tight and knot the end.  "Well, I guess you are a 
bad girl just because.  Just because.  And do you know what happens to bad 
girls, Mary?"
     "I'm not a bad girl," she whispers, almost in a trance.  This is not the 
way the standard tirade goes, not at all.  I know I'm only seconds away from 
her reaching the conclusion that this is scary shit - that either Martin is 
crazy or, well, that Martin is crazy.  I hope that deep down inside, a part of 
Mary is equating the rope with sex.  Wild hope, but that's what crosses my mind 
as I finish with one hand and reach for Mary's other hand.
     "Yes you are, Mary.  You are a very bad girl.  We've established that."  
Martin's voice is smooth, so fucking smooth.  And condescending.  "My new 
question is do you know what happens to bad girls?"
     Mary seems to stop breathing.  I watch her eyes closely, then see the fear 
and anger shoot into them and realize that I won't be getting her other wrist 
as easily as the first.  I feel myself grin.  Showtime.
     "Fuck you, Martin!  You're fucking crazy-"
     The orchestra swells with the beginning of the full fledged anarchy that 
accompanies Mary as she races through the Hall of the Mountain King.  I forget 
about Mary's other wrist and spin her around, keeping her roped wrist in my 
hand.  Mary's smallish body is suddenly off balance, largely due to me holding 
her arm behind her back and she slumps against the kitchen table, the soft 
mound of one breast pressing flat in her plate of beef stroganoff.  
     I press down on her with Martin's body, quickly capturing her flailing 
free hand and binding her wrists together behind her with the course rope.  Her 
profanity, though limited mostly to the fuck word, sing shrill and sweet.  She 
squirms beneath me, her hands testing their cruelly limited freedom and I can't 
hold off any longer.  She just feels so good underneath me.  Holding her chest 
fast to the kitchen table I flip up her skirt and tear down her dainty pink 
panties.  Her profanity stops for the moment, as if her sudden confusion can be 
intensified by the actions that have made her helpless and lying in her own 
dinner isn't enough.  But a few sharp slaps to her ass get that wonderful 
stream running again and I busy myself with undoing Martin's ridiculously nerdy 
work pants and briefs.
     Then I lean in with the money line, the line that every hero utters before 
ridding the world of scum like me.  It's different in every case, crafted to 
suit the needs of the situation.  But it's bronze plaque worthy all the same.  
As I press Mary into her beef stroganoff, feeling her hands wriggle against my 
chest, Martin's little erect dick poised at the dark tunnel of Mary's virgin 
asshole, I whisper in her ear, the thundering crescendo of drums and strings 
and trumpets heralding the demise of disenchanted little Mary in the Hall of 
the Mountain King.
     "Bad girls get hurt."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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