Terrible, But in a Good Way

As a sixth-year graduate student in the History department, I was supposed to be finishing my dissertation on the aesthetics of Late Victorian pornography. Instead, I was spending all of my fellowship money on pot and vintage erotica.

I wasn't sure what started my malaise and stalled my writing. Perhaps it was simply that my long-standing boredom with the world had finally vanquished all of my enthusiasm. But no, my misanthropy had actually fueled my academic writing. Perhaps it was being dumped by the whiny girlfriend who couldn't understand my fascination with "the relics of the patriarchy's objectification of women". No, I think that I always secretly disliked her and the self-righteousness that informed all of her activism. Perhaps it was not being able to possess those luscious, sepia-tinted bodies, gloriously full and irregular. The sterile female bodies of mainstream modern pornography not only failed to turn me on, they disgusted me. Shaved pussies, long red nails, unnaturally buoyant tits, and vacant expressions were for the unimaginative masses.

I could, however, masturbate for hours to the favorite photos in my collection. One favorite shows a skinny, hairy man, awkwardly stiff-backed in his cross-legged position staring covetously up at a the furry crotch and ass of the sublimely round woman who kneels before him on an oriental rug, her hands tied behind her back, her fair face pressed down on the rug visible through the long dark curls. I find the triangle of beauty marks on her smooth, fair ass strangely compelling. The skinny man holds a riding crop in the hand that faces the camera, but it hangs limply—he appears to be interested in more commonplace pursuits as he licks his lips; the crop has been perfunctorily added by the photographer, perhaps. The fair expanse of the woman's back is marred by a few tiny, flowered bruises induced by mouth far more delicate than this man's. Her face is regally composed; despite her submissive position, she appears to be challenging the photographer. His stubby cock stands greedily, and I wonder if he ever possessed her, if that infinitely unworthy little man ever placed his rough hand at the nape of her neck and thrust into her, as she winced with disgust and he squealed with pleasure. It seems highly unlikely. I imagine striding into the sepia-toned drawing room, into the past, and throwing him aside, telling him to go back to his washer-woman wife and five snot-nosed children. He appears infinitely more fragile than my darling, and infinitely more base.

The woman in this photograph, I call her "S", since I was never able to uncover her identity, was unique in the world of Victorian pornography avidly traded in gentlemen's clubs. My research had corroborated the fact that, while obviously many of the models were prostitutes well-accustomed to acting out the fetishes that escaped the acute sublimation of the times, a select few were women who didn't need or want the money these modeling jobs offered. Some of the models look jaded and bored; others appear to deeply enjoy the subversiveness of their splayed positions, double penetrations, and spankings on the best parlor chair or the bearskin rug. I certainly couldn't get enough of the settings, the imaginative contexts, the eyes of the impossibly white bodies occasionally hiding genuine scandalization. Others saw only passivity behind the eyes of these models, but I saw boredom in the worst and tremulous desire in the best.

Another photo showed S crouched down facing the camera, supported on her elbows, her hands clasped. A dark stone adorns the filigree ring on her ring finger. Her impossibly round and full rump is thrust into the air, her full, pendulous breasts are squeezed into impressive décolletage between her arms. S wears a mask, a dark, feathered affair. It is the triangular birthmark on the right cheek of her rump that allows me to confirm my identification of her, but I think I'd know that delicious ass anywhere otherwise. Behind the mask, her light eyes stare fiercely at the photographer, her delicate mouth pursed in subtle disdain. I wonder who this photographer was, and whether the fact that S always meets the gaze of the lens directly means that she had a relationship with this photographer outside of the makeshift studio in the parlor room.

The intimacy of the photos partially explains S's long and successful career as a model. S was quite popular among the gentlemen by 1885, perhaps because they read her returned gaze as a direct engagement of them. A choice early photograph from the early 1880s shows my darling lifting her white skirts to reveal her plump, round ass. Although, as usual, parts of her face are blurred or obscured, the tell-tale birthmark confirms her identity. An enormous, flower-laden hat perches neatly on her head, but the drowsiness of her gaze and the weakness of her knees suggest that she has just been thoroughly fucked. As I wonder what other images the mirror, and perhaps the camera, had held, I know that the awkward angle of her image in the mirror is best explained by the photographer's desire to keep the camera out of the shot.

When I masturbate to S, I am invariably in the role of the photographer, calling out instructions, telling her to lift her ass a little higher, to arch her back more severely, to look only at me. I wear a man's cap on my cropped hair, a jacket and pants that complement my tall, large frame and disguise my considerable curves, and everybody respects me because I am fierce and, perhaps, wealthy. And even though my deep, throaty voice is full of authority and respected by the assistants and other models that are often in the room, she hears the tenderness behind my commands, she knows simultaneously how much I love her and how much it turns me on to see her obey me. After the lights are dim, and everybody has gone home, we are lovers, of course. Perhaps her rich, elegant husband is fagging around Italy and this is her home, and she is really my mistress at night. Yes, these photographed humiliations are orchestrated for her pleasure. I smoke a joint as I visualize the moment when, as I thrust my hand into her wet pussy dripping all over the damask coverlet on the four poster bed, she tells me that I cannot stop, and I know that I serve her. I ease into a deep sleep and dream of wandering over her luscious curves while she bites my ear menacingly and purrs into my ear "Melisande, you serve me".

A transatlantic call wakes me at 6:00 AM. Groggily, I realize that it's Peter, the antiques dealer I met in London while on a traveling fellowship last year. Peter is a kindly, older English gentleman man who works for a prestigious auction house and shares my obsession with19th century erotica, although his own enthusiasm for S does not match mine. He asks me whether I've received the very interesting print that he acquired for fifteen quid at an estate sale. I tell him I haven't looked through my mail lately and that I'll send him a check, but he refuses, saying that he bought it only because he couldn't bear to let something like this exist so far away from me. I thank him profusely, especially since my own finances are in a sorry state, and tell him to hold on while I check my mail. I walk the five paces to the mail basket by the door of my studio apartment. Sure enough, there it is, the tell-tale brown envelope, amidst unpaid bills and unread newspapers. I open it with him on the phone, and gasp. Faintly, I hear him say he's delighted by my tellingly silent reaction and that he'll leave me to my pleasure. "Goodbye, dear," he says and hangs up before I can gather my thoughts well enough to respond.

There she is, my glorious S, her delicate mouth embedded in the furry pussy of someone who, I know instantly, is the photographer. From a technical perspective, the shot is breath-defying, and my breath was thrice defied before I gathered my wits. The photographer is reclined upon a white eyelet coverlet, the slightly darker skin of her hips and legs contrasting beautifully with the milky whiteness of S. The perspectives is hers as she looks down upon the ministrations of her submissive partner. As usual, S's gaze is more sultry than passive, but, unusually, it is more earnest than brazen as it looks up at the face of her beloved through the camera. A hint of the beauty marks are visible on the raised, round rump behind her. Her hands are hooked around the darker thighs, the familiar ring gleaming slightly in the abundance of white-washing light as her fingers press into her partner's thighs. The lust in her dark eyes pierces me. I moan inadvertently and clench my nether regions as I imagine her holding me so.

My fantasies and projections had yielded a vital piece of information that my research had failed to even hint at. The second body in the shot was both subject and observer because the photographer had not merely positioned the camera upon the body of a second model being pleasured by S. No, the photographer of this scene had witnessed and recorded it through the lens itself, by herself. The photographer of this shot was a woman. What's more, she was a woman who tilted the frame slightly to the right, indicating left-handedness just like that of the photographer of all the other shots of S I had seen.

If I could follow this lead through to the end, it could be the discovery that saved my long-neglected dissertation. Based on the notes Peter had included with the photograph, I realized that this photo had been part of the collection of the late Mr. James Leopold Maddox, who had acquired it from his bachelor uncle, Count Leopold Tracy Maddox, a ruined Edwardian gentlemen known for having squandered his income on his flamboyant lifestyle and the financing of several rather risqué publishing ventures before the turn of the century. I had once seen a copy of his exclusive-circulation, gentlemen-only magazine at an auction, but I could not afford to pay half of its starting price.

In the accompanying letter, Peter said that he had had the chance to peruse the entire Maddox collection, and reported that it featured over eighty photos, some duplicates, of my S in the late 1880s. It was purchased almost in entirety by a friend and old lover of his from Newcastle who would almost definitely welcome my scholarly perusal of these, and other relevant materials. I should prepare to come to England by the month's end, since his friend would be leaving for his yearly six-month sojourn in Italy in December. If I flew to London by the 19th, he'd accompany me. He had been wanting to see George again...

The thrill rushed out of me. I couldn't imagine how I could gather enough money for a trip to London, Newcastle, and the Maddox estate in York. Too frustrated to contemplate it any longer, I brewed a pot of coffee and sparked up a joint as I perused a week-old edition of the Times. Six years ago, maybe I would have had the energy and enthusiasm to tackle the obstacles in my way. Now, I just felt tired, and jaded. I longed for my hometown paper, with its focus on quaint coincidences, ironic crimes, and far-fetched speculations. I absentmindedly skimmed the openings, reviews, and society pages and brooded. At the back of the Metro section, there was a small feature about an alternative, high-end escort service, fulfilling the needs of wealthy patrons who desired the company of same-sex, transgendered, and/or transvestite escorts. The proprietress was a Women's Studies Ph.D. with a wonderfully opaque way of putting things. I was particularly intrigued by the following quote: "I locate our project in the performance of identity as iteration undertaken by many sex workers, aspiring and otherwise, in the performance of the resettlement of the borderline community of gender migrants across and through market lines." The article's last sentence included a reference to the exorbitant tips the escorts received from their high-powered clients.

I made my decision instantly. Selling my body for a few nights seemed an appropriate price to pay for the chance of seeking out and piecing together the lives of S and her lover. Perhaps in another mood, I would have been slightly scandalized by the idea, but the emptiness of my life compelled me to call. The proprietress loved my credentials and within three days, I had been thoroughly examined, tested, and trained. In spite of all of her chatter, Lilith was an admirable lover and a delightful submissive. If I hadn't been positively entranced by S and her story, I may have dallied with her a bit longer—but no, she wasn't nearly compelling enough to fade S from my mind. My first call, with a regular who liked to taste all the new wares first, was set for Friday at 10:00pm. The proprietress assured me that he was an perfect scoundrel and gentleman, somewhat Wilde-ish, with keenly voyeuristic and mildly submissive tastes. I would walk away from out "date" with enough money for a round-trip ticket to Heathrow.

At 9:30pm, Lilith called me in a panic. A high-powered executive and favored client—she was sworn to secrecy about her identity, of course—had just called. She wanted a dominant-leaning, tall and full-figured, soft butch escort in her office by 10:00pm. If I was ready, the car would be at my door in five minutes. And would I please exchange the leather corset for the white silk shirt and brown trousers?

Fifteen minutes later, the driver pulled up in front of an impressive midtown building and handed me a card with instructions on how to reach Ms. Sarah Sullivan's office. I was buzzing nicely, as the driver had been kind enough to let me smoke on the ride over, but I'm not one to surrender lucidity easily. Upon giving the security desk the name given to me in the instructions, I was ushered into an elevator that let me off in a dimly lit, empty waiting room fifty stories up. Like everything else in this building, the wooden paneling, period furniture, and plush carpets were designed to impress. The receptionist's desk had been tidily abandoned at quitting time, and the silence and darkness of the room felt laden with tension. I jumped as a door in the wooden paneling creaked open across the room, spilling a sliver of light that blinded me.

"Come in," said a far-off, honeyed voice. I walked slowly towards the office. I could hear that she had moved away from the door. My eyes had barely adjusted to the light by the time I parted the door and entered her office. An enormous window showed off the cityscape dazzling through the night, and my "date", Ms. Sullivan, was bent over her desk, her stockinged round ass pointed in the air and her gray suit skirt down between her ankles. Her thick but high heels arched her calves and pushed her ass up further. Delighted, I internally applauded her decision to forego garish garters and lace. The sincere submission of her position told me that she was much too dignified for cheap effects. My heart pounded as I contemplated her vulnerability. I longed to hold her and peel off those fantastically mundane stockings as she moaned and fell to softness in my arms.

I was giddy with the idea of being able to possess this luscious being—definitely an unexpected perk in my fundraising plan. With a shock, I realized that she could see my reflection in the clean glass of the window as well as I could see hers. My heart skipped and burst with electricity as my recognition settled. This was her. This was S. Refusing to consider and weigh the facts of the case, I felt compelled to rush forward on instinct alone. We were both here for only one reason. This luscious woman was S for me. I knew that this truth obliterated all others. The chemicals in my body amplified the beating of my heart in my ears as I strode towards her, parted her hands held behind her back, raised them, and smacked them down on the desk above her head. She winced at the suddenness, but remained still. I leaned my body into her backside and bent over, nestling my mouth in the hot curtain of her curly hair. The silk of our shirts, the softness of our bodies was blissfully delicious as I let myself sink in. I inhaled the rich smell of her scalp, she stiffened a bit in response to the unusual gesture. "Yes," I mumbled, "completely." I would possess her completely, absolutely.

I ran my face down the silk of her back. Her skin smelled warm. She had been working all day in that shirt, I knew it. When I got to the edge of her shirt, I stopped, and raised it off of her back. Savoring her smell, I rained a spatter of kisses on the white skin of her back. She bucked beneath me at the first contact of my mouth with her skin, but regained her composure admirably.

When I reached the nape of her ass, I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her nude hose, and slowly, almost unbearably slowly, pulled it down to her knees.

...Squeezing her ripe hips between my hands, I kiss and nip my way from her knees to her gorgeous rump. Her soft skin is buttery sweet. Slippery, delicious. From behind, this is how I want to penetrate her. I am on my knees now, adoring her from below. I let my face brush against her most tender spot. She whimpers and rolls her rump out so that her swollen pussy peaks out from between her thighs. She will submit to me fully, despite herself.

" Spread your legs," I say. Maintaining control over herself, she complies slowly and deliberately, the sound of her heeled foot slowly dragging across the carpet communicating her lingering resistance to me...

I slapped her ass, and she jumped. I slapped her again, and she moaned. Moving my hand away and down, I slapped her pussy from below, and she leaned into it.

I slapped her pussy slowly, lingeringly, until my slaps became caresses, and she writhed against my hand, pushing, eager to feel me deeper. I dipped one finger between her outer lips, teasingly tapping her wet button. Her guttural moan stirred me.

I pulled back her hair roughly with my free hand and whispered into her hot ear,"Beg me," I said. "Beg me to fuck you."

She didn't speak for several long seconds as I continued to caress her. I darted two fingers through the opening of her hole, and she bucked wildly. I removed them, resting my palm against her lightly furred labia. She begged me. I waited until she whimpered, and then I melted with fiery heat as I thrust my four fingers into her deliciously wet pussy. I left my thumb out to press against the base of her clitoris. I savored its tightness on my thumb. I wanted so badly to caress her button with my tongue. She rammed herself onto my thrusting hand, loving the feeling of me inside of her. It seemed that I had never felt a woman so aroused around my hand. Her slippery, slick hole swallowed my hand in its warmth. I wanted to give it to her hard, and I panted as I thrust my hand in and out of her, enjoying how turned on she was by my banging her. She squealed with abandonment when I really pounded her. I could the soft wall of her vagina give in to my thrusts. "Oooooooooooh," she moaned. "Yes!" she panted. "Fuck me...fuck me!" she cried. "Harder!" she breathed. "Ooooh...yes...yes...yes...uh...yah....uh, uh, uh....!"

I could feels the walls of her pussy contracting, and I knew she was close to coming. "You want this? You want me to fuck you?" I breathed hotly into her ear. In one swift movement, I withdrew my four fingers far enough that I could insert my thumb. Now my five fingers were inside of her. I curled them up into a fist, and my hand was immersed in her up to my wrist. I loved the site of her impaled on my hand. "I'm all inside of you now...you're so open for me..." I whispered softly and began to move slowly within her.

That fullness inside of her was too much for her, I knew. She felt fucking amazing. I was completely immersed in her throbbing pussy.

Falling into a thousand pieces at the thought of my whole hand inside of her, she melted into her orgasm, thrusting her pussy and shivering clit into the edge of the desk as she strained against her trembling. A sexy, guttural cry rose through her as she exhaled her orgasm.