Paradise Island

The nametape on his right breast said Thompson, but that could hardly distinguish between the two of them. His first name was James, but, aside from her, and from his blood relatives, no one called him that. She wore no tag or labeling, generally, but from time to time at the conventions, symposiums, and signings that she attended from time to time, hers preceded their shared surname with "Lucy." In her spare time—and their Spartan lifestyle and his career left her, all too often, with nothing but overwhelming, suffocating spare time—she wrote. Poetry, essays both fact and fiction, novellas ...everything that she had dallied in for her own joy, her own private pleasures—and she smiled inwardly whenever that pun showed itself—were now hers to enjoy productively.

And profitably, she reflected. Her income wasn't far behind his, and unlike Jason, a day's work didn't leave her with either odor or agony. She had polished off chapter seven of her current opus in the morning—after abrupt awakening and furious typing at five AM—and was rewarding herself with a long, hot shower. It had started just before 11:30, and she was toweling off slightly past noon. She hung the towel back up on the rack, and walked across the hall to the master, and only, bedroom.

If you or I had watched her pass in the full length mirror in the corner, by the bedroom door, we would have marveled at the perfection of her body.

Her skin was smooth, a color somewhere between the skin of an apricot and the flesh of a peach, and gave the appearance of being both slightly plump, and resoundingly firm, the figure of a person who ate properly, and exercised as much as any person could without becoming an athlete, bringing her tone and muscle to the maximal tone it could without making it look like she tried. Her belly was not quite flat—it had the slightest curve, which in her case, you would surely conclude, simply make her look, again, like an effortless beauty, blessed with a figure like a gift from above, freeing her to be a wonderful person, rather than an obsession that consumed her every hour, displacing the worthwhile activities of her life.

You would call ass and breasts where neither large nor small, rather place it in that wonderful middle, both sharing the remarkably precise dimensions that, when she stood still and bent over, they were exactly large enough that at their perigee, they kissed together. The puckered dimple behind her was just barely occulted by the two firm mounds she sat upon, and, if she were so bent, the two orbs that dangled from her chest looked like two pairs, just minutely overlapping at their broadest point. Indeed, the analogy of pears would reinforce itself, because at the same place as the brown nub on the fruit that marked the stem's antipode, on Lucy's breasts lay two small, crimson, perfectly round nipples. Ironically, and in perhaps the only parts of her body out of the ordinary—seductive, enchanting, average and ordinary perfection—were those pink nipples for their inversion, and her belly button that protruded out. In the case of all three, you would probably call them adorable.

Her eyes were green with hazel veins through them that seemed to grow and throb, or shrink and diminish with her mood. Her nose was sharply defined, upturned, small, and, for lack of a better word, pert. Her lips were pink, lighter than her breasts, slender when she grinned and fat when she frowned or cried or puckered. Her lashes were long, her brow thing, her hair smooth, straight, and silky, a light brown that in some light appeared blonde, in others red. Her ears were small, spirals and curves wrapped around one other, hidden under her locks,

Her hair below was the same way. Shaved into a small, thin strip, no more than an inch long and a centimeter wide, and that into a close cropped, thick, soft tuft, sat crowning a perfectly symmetric, fleshy crease. Sealed together, normally, as she became aroused it would bloom like a rose, the crease opening into a slit, the slit into a fissure, the fissure into a chasm, its walls in mirrored, pink folds with the smallest fringe of brown. As the petals spread thusly outward, at their peak, a bulb would appear, and the hood pull slowly back, until at last, no larger than a pea, would sit the naked, unprotected seat of her femininity.

All in all, Lucy's body was, to an impartial observer, perfect. Where she walked, trousers bulged. In her life, she had been pined for, worshipped, and, for more than one compatriot, an 'exception' to otherwise strict sexual preferences. Boys and girls in her high school, men and women with whom she had studied lived and worked in adulthood, had thought of her at night.

But she saw none of that.

If she saw herself in that full-length mirror, she would have turned away, her cheeks blushing not in bashful pride, but embarrassed shame. Her eyes saw her skin's shade as sickly, her eyes as achromatic, her hair hideously lacking curls or life. She saw asymmetry where there was none between her legs. She saw her limbs as amorphous lumps of fat, her forehead furrowed. Inverted nipples and an outie belly button were just freakish insult to hideous injury. But more than anything else about herself, she was hated and shamed by the fact that she did nothing to change it. In many ways she wanted to be anorexic or bulimic—at least then, she reasoned, she would have the motivation to 'fix' herself, misguided though it may be. She despised herself for lacking the will to change anything about herself—ironic, in consideration of the fact that, to any other observer, she was Venus incarnate.

It was just past noon, however, and Lucy was naked in the bedroom. James had been gone since four Monday evening, and wasn't due back until two in the afternoon. He would be famished, she was sure, and yesterday she had raided the commissary, gathering what she needed for a feast. It would take an hour, perhaps, to prepare—cooking, after all, being far faster when no one at the table ate meat—and perhaps fifteen minutes to prepare herself. That left, she grinned, looking at the hall clock walking towards to kitchen, forty minutes to herself. Lucy slumped on the puffy living room chair and grinned, closing her eyes and sighing. There was no separation between the kitchen and their living room in the small home, and Lucy had no intent to get up and start lunch for at least thirty of her allotted forty minutes were consumed.

Thirty seconds later, one calf dangled off the chair's right armrest, the other off the left, and one of her fingers was invisible down to the first knuckle. Goosepimples covered her body, and she moaned contentedly, eyes opening and closing in lazy cycles, shifting her mind between imagined orgies and visible copulations as the porn's muzak came at her from either side, thanks to the 5.1 speakers.

Three minutes later, two of her fingers were unseen, and her pelvis began to happily buck. Her eyes clamped shut, and her moans grew louder. The rippled rides insider herself, tactile in spite of the slick wetness she emitted in apparently unlimited quantities. Her other hand was clamped to her breasts, twitching and flicking her body every which way as, in feeling inside herself, her insides began to detonate. Her moans coalesced into a single, pure, primal, high pitched whine. Her eyes opened wide as she crested, and, at the same time, she pulled her fingers out of herself, and pinched their dripping digits on her tiny, throbbing clitoris, like a bulging grain of pink rice.

Almost as quickly as her eyes flashed open, however, her cry died. On the chair across from her was James, calmly unlacing his right boot. His left was already off. She hadn't heard him come in over the music, nor seen him enter the room, thanks to the... diversion... of her attentions. She gasped in sudden terror, and gripped the armrests, clamping her legs together in front of her. Her chest heaved up and down, her heart racing, and she looked straight ahead, right at him. His second boot was off, now.

He stood up. She expected him to say something, yell at her, but he didn't. He was filthy, the tan, gray, and brown of his camouflage an almost undifferentiated muddy wall of grime. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Montana peaked hat—she slapped herself inside, correcting herself 'campaign cover'—on the end table. His expressionless face disappeared as he pulled the blouse over his head. His undershirt was technically green, but it more resembled the old, brown issue, so saturated was it with sand and muck. Seeing how clearly evident the last seventy hours exertion were, she felt suddenly indolent and cheap for spending it dallying in MSWord, showers, sleep, food, and, most recently, masturbation.

As if in synch with this sensation, James camouflage blouse at her, and, with a heavy thunk due more to the absorbed water dirt and mud than to any property of the cloth, it struck her in her naked chest, its sleeve whipping against her face. The slight pain of rough sand whipped against her nude form did nothing to dampen her own self-indictment of hedonism. Her eyes staring forward, focusing on nothing, she folded the blouse and placed it on her lap, struggling to control her breathing and get her pulse under control. James had taught her how a thousand times, but now, as ever, when she needed it the skill escaped her. In unfocused vision, she saw an object flying at her, and, without seeing it, she knew what it was. A black cloth belt, with one red stripe—indicative of the highest level of hand-to-hand fighting ability and training that the service awarded, and, furthermore, the certification to instruct others—its metal buckle leading the charge towards Lucy's face. She caught it without focusing her eyes, and rolled the belt into a tight clump, and placed it on the folded blouse.

By the time that task was complete, the trousers were flying at her, and before those were done folding, James walked over and placed socks, undershirt, and undershorts on the blouse. She finished folding the trousers, and slid them under the blouse. Her chest heaved—once, twice, three times—as she waited for the other shoe, proverbially, to drop.

Finally, he said something. His voice was hoarse, his throat sore beyond the knowledge or experience of even the most petulant child or energetic cult politician. But hoarse though it was, it still boomed, and carried on its wings power and dread.

"Well?" was all he thundered, and, with a barely-contained yelp, she shot up, and ran to the washing machine, leaping down the basement stairs six at a time. She was back perhaps twelve seconds later, seated, legs together, heels together, feet fanned out, hands on her knees, back ramrod straight, eyes forward and unseeing, even as James's crotch danged barely three feet, directly in front of her at eye level. His legs were spread a meter or so apart, his hands clasped behind him. His face was stone, but his eyes were fire, as he mulled things over. His right hand, seemingly conjured from ether, appeared, and he gestured, one finger pointed up. She understood, and stood up, her strong legs noodles, her lips thick, and she bit the lower one.

Her hands were tiny fists at her side, and she still couldn't get her breathing under control. She knew he was timing how long it took her to regain composure, and she knew—or, rather, was ignorant but in utter dread of—what lay in store if it took too long. It took only a moment to realize that a moment to regain composure was already far too long, and in that brief heartbeat, his right hand began moving again. The open backhand struck her solar plexus, and she gasped, and stepped back. It didn't hurt—whatever else he did, he wouldn't actually abuse her—but for a moment, it was terrifying and disorienting, unnerving and disconcerting. He had delivered such a blow to a thousand people a thousand times, and he had perfected the art of the unbalancing, yet harmless strike.

Lucy stumbled back a step, and the back of her knee struck the chair, and she fell back. She half-turned, and caught herself, one hand stopping her plummet by bracing on the back of the chair. Even as she started to stand back up, James fell upon her. His left hand clamped across her mouth, his right grabbed her right knee, and pulled it out and up, so that the air felt cool across her wet folds.

"Indolence and laziness," he began, "jacking yourself on furniture that I sweat to afford, as I sweat to afford. "Disgusting. Can't even wait an hour or two for me to come home and indulge you, so impatient you've got to do it yourself." He was projecting into her ear from inches away now. With a serpentine malice, he said what he and all of his ilk said a dozen menacing times a day—"Good."

His hand came off her mouth, and went between her shoulder blades, as his hand went to her abdomen, its middle finger's final digit lying on the small strip of fur. She breathed in sharply as his left hand pushed forward, smashing her face into the soft, smothering cushioned headrest of the chair, his right braced, keeping her ass elevated. For a terrifying moment, she couldn't breathe, enveloped by impermeable leather for an instant, until the strong hand gripped her hair, and pulled back, laying her throat uncomfortably against the chair, but allowing her to breathe.

"Well, if you want something in your cunt," he spat, the epithet for her flowering reinforcing her own internal feelings of filthiness. She yelped as she felt him enter her. She had already slickened herself, soaked herself, indeed, she had already had the aborted beginnings of an orgasm from her own touch, so he met little resistance as his mushroomed peak slid in, and only slightly more as the shaft sank up her.

James pulled her hair as he sank in deeper. Her eyes begin to well up as his cock bottomed out inside her, and began to stretch. They'd been together three years, but she still had never been able to take all of him inside her. She tried at every opportunity. She had taught herself to kiss the base when he fucked her throat, but her other lips had never touched there. Her ass cheeks felt the ripples of his abs as he deepened his penetration. She hated herself for masturbating when she could have waited. She hated herself for taking a long, luxuriant shower when he had been laboring in ways she couldn't imagine.

Most of all, though, she hated herself for enjoying this. She hated her knees from going weak from the deep penetration. She hated her pussy for melting as the spear pierced her. She began crying uncontrollably, even as her pelvis began to quiver again. He saw her tears, and just plunged deeper, hissing "Fucking bitch, you're going to cry now? Dirty cunt." He pulled her hair harder, and started thrusting into her. "You probably want me to do this," he concluded, and began to flick his middle finger, the one that lay across her pubes, left and right. It stroked over her clit, and her mouth soundlessly opened, a giant mute O. Her oozing became a cascade, as though a wound bleeding clear from a stab from a thick, flesh sword. Every muscle in her body slackened, her eyes rolled back in her head. Her pit emptied and filled, her body pinned against the chair, and her clit suffered the stroking abuse of a rough finger. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she stopped breathing for perhaps ten seconds, even as her heart raced. It felt like her chest was going to burst, her lungs on fire, dying for air, her breath held from pure ecstacy. Those ten seconds felt like an eternity, asphyxia spotting her vision.

When the world stopped spinning, Lucy was on the ground, James standing above her, staring down in utter revulsion. She was spread eagled, bruised, pink, wet, covered in sweat. His gaze into her eyes was unbroken, his mouth turned in a disappointed sneer. She bit her lip harder. Her arms came in from the eagle's position, and moved to her crotch. She closed her eyes started to stroke. Tears of shame still streaming down her cheeks, she whispered "More please," and sobbed.

"What?" he demanded.

"More please!" she half-shouted. Her eyes popping open. Her head tilted back as her fingers reentered her sanctuary. He kneeled down, lying his package between her breasts. He said just one word—"Slut"—and it cut her deeply. And she enjoyed it. And that made her feel even worse.

She began to pump her fingers in and out of herself, thrusting them in and out in an echo of the penetration she had just received. "Selfish bitch," he threw at her, grabbed her nose, and pulled her head forward. She yelped quietly, as his cock stabbed the soft underside of her chin. She opened her mouth, and moaned lightly as she suckled on his head. She tasted herself on him, and sucked in, as he pumped her head onto and off his shaft. Her tongue played with his head, as her hands played with her clit. She stroked and frigged herself, while circling his head with her tongue tip.

"Dirty bitch, you like tasting your cunt. How many times did you do it while I was working my ass off down at Page? Huh?" he pumped her head harder, his cock abusing her mouth. She couldn't meet his stare, all the more so because of how good it felt—her masturbation, and the punishment in her jaw—and she squealed as James's free hand slapped her tits, and began to rip and tear at her nipples, pinching the areole whole, and smacking the tender flesh.

She looked forward, down the long shaft emerging from her mouth, to the thick black hair at its base. She struggled to catch glimpses of the bouncing sack almost completely obscured by the cock and her tits. The porno was still playing on the TV, and an extremely attractive woman was taking a strap-on to the ass from a similarly gorgeous lover, and Lucy's eyes started to drift, indecisive for a moment between the two glorious sights.

"You fucking skank," he growled, and tugged back hard on her head, pulling her hair, and digging his hands hard into her tit, his knuckles curling into the tender flesh. His cock popped out of her mouth, and she stabbed deeply into her pussy, her fingers stabbing herself, dancing hard as she embraced the fuck. A hot jet of white struck her between the eyes. "Fucking skank," he repeated as another jet flew at her, and another, leaving streaks of white across her face, and again, unless her face was covered in flecks, and a puddle began to form at the base of her neck.

His hand still on her hair, James twisted, forcing her to look to the side, watching the porno. "You like that shit. Strap-ons, anal, lesbian shit." He stood up, and pulled her up by her hair. He was still hard, and, as he started walking, forcing her to follow, she tried to grab his cock and stroke. Before she could get one pump in, he slapped her tits hard, and she leg go. "Fucking cock slut, we're getting to that. You have to know why you're about to get punished, first, you dirty bitch."

He dragged her into the bedroom, and threw her on the bed. He dragged a plastic container out from under the bed, and opened it. He pulled out a book and a pair of handcuffs. Her face turned pleading, but she put up no resistance. He tossed the book on the bed, and grabbed her wrists, pulling them up, and cuffing them behind the bedpost. The post wasn't so tall that she couldn't slip her arms over it, but to do so she'd have to shimmy her ass right up to the head of the bed, considering her petite 5' frame, and he was hardly about to allow that. He walked to the foot of the bed, and grabbed her ankles, hoisting her up. With one hand, his left at that, he pulled her almost vertical, so that she was balanced on her shoulders and the back of her head.