Second Coming

"Then, well, what?"

He growled. "You know this impertinence will earn you my name across your back in stripes, don't you?"

I pictured him, lean and imperfect, naked at his filmy window, watching the lost and forsaken pushing their carts possessions and seeking the means to survive another day. His corner crack dealers would be setting up, slinking from back doors and shaking off malt-liquor hangovers. I'd seen him stand at the window and watch while he assumed I slept, his profile marred by fat tears that slid down his cheek and fell from his jaw to the splintery floor with a light splat.

That was the night I'd stayed over, when Mark was away on business. I'd slept gagged, one ankle cuffed to the bed, wearing only a diaper. Humiliation before breakfast, he said.

"Then what?" he repeated. "Then I give people who deserve it, people who have earned it, what they want."

"But what do you want?" I asked.

He was silent. I didn't think that was a question he often heard.

"What I want is of no consequence. It never has been," he said tonelessly. "Be at the Waldorf at nine tonight. Room 423." He hung up.

Questions filled my mind. How will you pay? What excuse can I make to get away from Mark? Will you fist my ass until my skin nearly tears and I cry in pain and scream in pleasure?

"Yes, my Lord," I whispered into the dead phone. I felt it now, beyond a shadow of doubt. He was, well, He[MSOffice1].

**

I went through the motions of the day in a stew of arousal. I picked up around the apartment, retrieved the laundry from the doorman downstairs, got Mark's dinner—yes, the usual—done early. I did it all in a fog.

This wasn't unusual. On days I was to see Him, I had to be extra careful crossing streets. The banal became fraught with danger, my mind consumed by him to the point where all else was rudely shoved aside.

Snippets are usually what I remembered from those days, much like waking in the middle of the night and drifting off again. This day was no different, I remembered the soft giggle of the Asian woman as she painted my toenails. At 4:30 PM, I moaned at the fullness as I squeezed the enema bag, my cleft already aromatic with arousal. At 7:30, I recall bidding goodbye to Mark—dinner and a movie with a girlfriend, I told him—and feeling contemptuous at his casual wave.

I was not fully inside myself and aware until about 9:15, when I was strapped to the king-sized bed in his hotel room, nude from the neck down.

I was on my back, mostly. My arms were pulled straight down at my sides by two ropes,

knotted at my wrists and the foot of the bed. My legs went the other direction, pulled up behind my head. My thighs were slightly spread and perpendicular to my small breasts, putting my calves alongside my head. My ankles were secured to the headboard, lifting my ass into the air like an offering.

Only a tight leather bondage mask saved me from nudity. Its mouth zipper was shut to keep me from spitting out the rubber ball distending my cheeks. Clothespins pinching my nipples were the only other accessory. I never felt so helpless or open.

Jesus, on the other hand, had dressed to impress. He wore an Armani suit that couldn't have cost less than three-thousand dollars. It fit like a second skin in all the right places, notwithstanding the bulge of his emboldened cock, steeled by my predicament and pathetic whimpers.

He fished out the hand mirror I kept in my purse and held it in front of my eyes.

"Smile, Toy."

He flicked a clothespin with a casual thumbnail, and I watched the apparition in the mirror writhe in pain. Scary, knowing that my face was contorted in agony, while all I could see was an emotionless mask of leather. I was not only hidden away from the world, but also from myself.

Then every philosophical ounce was jettisoned from my being, and I screamed as the

serrated wooden teeth of a clothespin bit down on my clit.

But there was never pleasure without pain, and my body knew it, overheating even before he nudged two fingers inside me and slowly, oh God, so fucking slowly, stroked the inside of my sopping tunnel like other, lesser men would caress a lover's cheek. The tenderness, so incongruous, so pleasurable and so motherfucking dead-on-hitting-the-spot-Jesus-Christ-no-pun-intended accurate, made me start to cry.

I was crying, I realized, because another being actually knew my body as well as I did.

Of course, this knowledge in the hands of another is a double-edged sword. Just as I was about to go over the edge, he abruptly pulled his fingers out.

No, oh, please, I thought. I was too full, my body was going to blow apart without release. Beneath the mask I was sweaty with need. My pussy felt too large to fit between my legs, which incidentally ached like motherfuckers in their current position. His face shone. He clearly reveled in my discomfort.

I wiggled my ass from side to side for him, giving him the show I knew he wanted. Besides, it was the only motion available to me below the neck. I watched the undisguised delight in his eyes as I moved. I felt briefly, triumphantly, in control. The defiance was heady.

He knew, he always knew, and easily deflated me. All it took was a pat on my ass.

"Good girl, shake that happy tail," and I stopped, ashamed. But he couldn't let any uprising, no matter how meager or transitory, just fade. I knew that.

Frowning, he grabbed two candles off an expensive-looking desk. He lit both, bringing one within inches of my left hip. I swung away when the teardrop flame licked my skin, feebly flinging my ass to the right, where the other candle was waiting.

Screaming, begging him unintelligibly to stop, I bounced from side to side in an obscene dance. I was firecracker-hot and sweating like a laborer from my efforts, and all the while, my shame deepened like sunburn at his words.

"That's a girl. Show Jesus how happy you are, shake your tail. My happy little slave."

My breaths came in ragged gasps. I shimmied and cried and shimmied some more for a lifetime, long after he extinguished the candles and dumped the melted wax upon my breasts. He stood with his arms folded at the foot of my bed and watched me gyrate.

"Enough, Toy."

He had to say it twice more before the words actually registered, and I stopped. The mask was sweltering, my brain felt like it was going to percolate. I concentrated on lying still, but that's not easy when you need to come so badly you feel like steam is rising between your legs.

Jesus bent at the waist—no genuflecting kneel for Him—and tossed gasoline on my flaming pussy by gently blowing on it, his breath a tongue's caress. My moan was a plea. He stood with an air of satisfied benevolence.

This was the sublime state I floated in, willing to give two years of my life for relief, when the hotel room door swung open and my husband walked in.

Most surprisingly, I would think later, was that his arrival was not the torrent of ice water I'd have expected. Maybe it was Jesus's lack of surprise. Maybe it was because I was so hot a bible study class full of septuagenarians could have waltzed in, and I would not have cared. But mostly, I think, it was because my sexless, disinterested husband was transformed into an icily beautiful stranger. He was dressed in head-to-toe black, wearing gleaming boots—where in the world did he hide those?—which my tongue ached to clean. Up top, there was no trace of his usual side part, instead his hair fell wildly over his forehead. His normally placid eyes held a heady mix of Arctic disdain and promised pleasure. He looked, in other words, like one mean sonofabitch.

He nodded at Jesus, just a quick head bob.

Jesus's mild, pale orbs had a merry, ironic tinge. Not only was he grinning at me, the bastard actually winked.

He met Mark's nod with his own and gave a grand showman's gesture, sweeping his arm toward the bed as if to say, Ta Da!

Mark grunted in approval. His eyes fixed on me as they never had before. Despite my arousal, I was slightly piqued. This was not how he usually looked at me, the woman he'd contracted to love and cherish eternally.

Then the same meek man who took off his shoes before stepping on our carpet, slid from its loops an extravagant leather belt that looked as supple as a sixteen-year-old and soft as veal. My pussy, which by this time had taken upon the dimensional importance of a starving child, began a tachycardic flutter.

"Perfect," he intoned at Jesus, still staring at me. Wrapping the belt buckle around his fist, he slashed the business end of that leather lengthwise against my pussy.

I came, screaming, at the first stroke. I came so hard, that at the angle I was tied I wound up spraying my own come straight onto my face, dousing my mask with my musk like a dog marking territory.

I've had time to think about this orgasm. I've decided it was a turning point for me. It was a release, of course, God, yes, but in more than a prosaic, physical way. It was a jettisoning of the spurious column of years I'd wasted in denial and repression. Never again could I pretend to be that person.

But this all comes in retrospect. At the time, I only knew it as the logical conclusion of hours of forced abnegation, not to mention the absolute mind-blowing reality of my heretofore-passive husband flogging me. Never before did I picture him as a player in my fantasies.

Unbelievably, the orgasm lasted at least as long as it has taken to you to read it, if not long enough to write it.

Maybe that's why, while bucking and rolling—yes, still going—in my resounding apogee of slut-shame, I had time before my eyes explored the back of my head to glance from my husband to my God. Can you not believe at this point that he is God? If you scoff at that, you must still grant he is my savior.

My eyes flitted to them both, snap-action shots in the gorges between climaxes. Mark, lordly in his lack of expression, as if making little pain-craving come-sluts orgasm with the touch of his belt was what he was born to do.

Then there was Jesus. In contrast, his face was a map of pain. His worldly, tortured visage held a look of such ineffable sadness it could only mean goodbye, forever. The sadness, I later concluded, was not entirely—or particularly—for the loss of me, but a nanosecond of indulged lament for the existence of partings. He was moving, his face said, as we all must, no matter our wishes or desires to remain in the past or even the present. The world, our world, is in constant motion. How can we not be the same?

I'd like to say—and yes, I realize that this is the longest literary orgasm in the history of ink—but my thoughts and reflections are mine to install here where I wish. You don't like it, go read TV Guide.

Anyway, I'd like to say that Jesus disappeared before my eyes as I came, but I can't. Sometimes the fitting ends just aren't true. If I haven't convinced you of his authenticity by now, then the fault is mine as chronicler, not his as God.

What did happen is when our eyes met, he gave a modest little bow that was little more than an inclination of his head. He did not speak, but like the day before his thought was as clear as the morning's first bird.

My gift to you.

Then he turned and slouched away, closing the door softly behind him as I peaked once more.

Then Jesus, forgive me, was literally thrust from my mind as Mark, pausing only to casually unzip, expose the machinery and flick the clothespin from my screaming clit, filled the aching void inside me, and I was on my way again.

"Oooh!"

Filled! So goddamn filled, by something so familiar yet so foreign. We'd last made love two weeks ago. But this? It was like the difference between taking your road test and streaking around a racetrack.

"You like being filled, woman?"

I moaned in assent.

He laughed. Sitting on his haunches like a springing cat, he gripped the headboard and fucked me like a stranger, which of course he thought I was.

Helpless, pliant, I could only take it. I was a vessel for his pain and anger. I came again before he switched to my ass, a hole he'd never shown interest in before.

I whimpered at the pain of his initial entry, and he released the headboard, running a knuckle gently over my cheek.

No! I screamed in my head. I don't want your fucking tenderness.

That was all I had time for before he slapped my face hard enough to make my ears ring—Thank You!—and forced himself all the way in with one stroke.

"Oh God, oh God," is all I could say into the soaked ball gag while he repeatedly long-stroked my ass, pulling back 'til only the tip crowned my anus, and thrusting balls deep.

He slapped me again and I came, but he didn't let up.

My hole will be unrecognizable when he's done, I thought, and another wave crashed over me.

He stopped deep inside my ass, resting, my muscles clenching him as I came down from my high. Sweat darkened his shirt and dripped from his chin onto my nipples. He yanked the clothespins off them and I almost swallowed my tongue trying to scream.

He laughed as I writhed.

"I like that, whore, it makes my cock harder. You're priceless," he panted. "Where in the hell did he get you and why in the world would he share you?"

He could have asked himself the same question, but instead used his cruel, nimble fingers to elongate my nipple by at least an inch.

I shook. I really was on the verge of passing out. The only merciful thing to do would be to untie my agonized limbs and give me water. He knew this, I'm sure, and to my delight did not at all care.

Slowly, making me feel every centimeter, he began sawing his cock a couple of inches in and out of my ass, which some distant part of my mind told me must be bleeding. I whined in my throat, loving it.

He rocked from side to side as he thrust, then up and down, changing angles with each stroke. He's deliberately making my hole wider; he's changing the landscape of my body. I trembled at the idea. At each new angle it felt like a log was being inserted, and to my ultimate shame it brought me the greatest pleasure of my life. I wept at the intimacy of it.

My muffled sobs and his measured breathing were the room's only sounds.

"You'll always think of this as my hole now, won't you, my little stranger? No matter where you are, part of you will always be mine."

I nodded and cried and moaned, and it went on forever. Even now, I can feel it: side to side, up and down, around and round, then a little more cock and the same thing all over again. Finally, with the windows announcing the gray twilight of a nascent dawn, he was completely, undeniably embedded.

His eyes met mine. They were pitiless. "Are you ready, whore?"

Never in the history of human speech was there a more rhetorical question.

His thrusts were not the onslaught I expected. They were gradual, a tidal filling and ebbing, in concert with a two-digit massage of my pussy walls that turned me to jelly.

He pumped and pumped. His cock must be raw, I thought. He took his fingers out, and I screamed in protest, then my world went out of focus at the slap of his belt against my clit.

My orgasm liquefied me. I lost time and place. When awareness returned he was in the midst of a triumphant moan and his shocking hot come was scalding my passage, spurt after masterful spurt.

We froze like that for a minute. My pretzeled body was in agony. Then he pulled roughly from my ass, his cock still long and hard, dripping with the remains of his viscous deposit.

I kept my eyes closed as he untied each leg and gently straightened them while I tried not to cry at the pain. He laid them flat on the bed once the long muscles of my thighs ceased to protest.

I kept my eyes closed as he unknotted my wrist and massaged life back into the hand.

He reached for my other wrist, then let go.

"No, we'll leave this one tied for now," he said. "Not quite sure I want you slipping away just yet. I don't think I'm done with you. Now let's get a look at the dirtiest whore I have ever come across."

I kept my eyes shut as he gently worked off my hood, and through his initial silence, counting to a slow ten. Then I opened them wide—in fear, gratitude, longing, love and hope—and looked nakedly upon the face of my new life.

***

I rest the pen on the last sheet of paper, stand and stretch my cramped hand. A glance at the clock brings a frisson of pleasure. A swollen throb beats its insistence between my thighs. Writing down our story clearly has had its effect, as Mark undoubtedly knew it would.

In the bathroom, I lather hurriedly and run a razor over my legs and pubis, resisting the urge to let my fingers spread and linger. Smooth and dry below the waist – well, smooth, anyway – I rush into the bedroom and take my collar off a peg hammered into the wall.

The leather is soft but strong, and fits snugly against my throat as I fasten it with quickening breath. I give a tiny, embarrassed jump and delight as the collar's rings chime softly as they click together.

I pinch my nipples as I run out to the hallway, a naked, servile sprite. I don't recognize the person I was a month ago. Falling to my knees in the hallway just as his key clicks in the lock, and I open my mouth and unfurl my tongue to the warm air to accept my Master's offering.