Vice Cream

He yanks my head away and grabs his blue cock in his hand. His blue, bubble gum, candy cock. I want to eat his candy. I open my mouth and stick out my matching blue tongue.

A rattlesnake rattle.

His hand pumps hot juice from his cock onto my tongue, my lips, my tear stained cheeks. He lets go of my pony tail, gasping, wipes the jiz from my cheeks and lets me suck it from his fingers. It tastes like bubblegum. Candy for a good girl.

Rocky Road

"Up. Now. Bitch."

The voice shook me out of sleep. Where was I? Hotel, yes. Hotel room. I pulled off my eyeshades.

"Up on all fours, move it and keep your mouth shut," a black, meat bus was parked at the foot of my bed, barking orders at me.

A scream caught in my throat but in the light of the bedside lamp I caught sight of my master, sitting on the couch. Surely he would explain everything. As I thought that, a hand grabbed the bulk of my hair and tugged me up and onto all fours.

"Looks like someone skipped a few obedience classes."

Looking from my attacker to Master, my eyes were question marks.

"What are you looking at him for? What, you think he's here to save your scrawny ass? Dumb ass bitch."

For the first time, I gave the man a good look. He was as black as espresso and every bit as powerful. The dim lamp light made a sculpture of his muscles, every one on display since he was shirtless. I couldn't help myself, I looked back at my master for some reassurance. Instead, I got annoyance.

Then a slap. I whimpered. He'd held back, Mr Espresso, but my face still stung from his hand.

"Now, do I have your undivided?" he asked and I nodded. "Good. You are not to look at that man on the couch, you keep the pretty blues on me at all times. Seems you have a punishment owed and I'm it."

Flipping through my mental rolodex, I tried to remember any outstanding punishments but came up blank. Not that it mattered, not that I could even concentrate under these circumstances.

"Now, I hear you like ice cream, is that true?" his voice became sickly sweet.

I nodded just enough for him to notice.

"Good, because tonight you'll be having some Rocky Road. You know what's in Rocky Road, don't you?"

Mr Espresso didn't allow me time to answer.

"Well, you got your chocolate," he gestured to himself as if he were a game show hostess displaying a prize. "And you got your nuts," as he said the last word, a smile crept over his face. Unzipping his jeans, he pulled out his already hard cock, tilted it skyward to show me his balls, and chuckled.

I felt guilty for staring even though he wanted me to look. His was the most monstrous cock I'd ever seen. In his bear paw hands, it looked big; in mine it would look freakish. My mouth was probably hanging open, because he laughed again.

"That's right, slut, sometimes the stereotypes are true." Mr Espresso paused to stroke the beast and soak in my obvious fear.

"We've got chocolate, we've got nuts, now all we need for Rocky Road is..." he reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a bag I hadn't noticed in all the confusion, "marshmallows."

Marshmallows?

As he tore open a corner of the bag, he kept one eye on me. "Here's what's going down, slave girl, you're going to hold one of these marshmallows between your teeth, you think you can do that?"

I nodded as cautiously as possible.

"Good. Open wide."

He held out the sugary pillow to me as I opened my mouth. With fingers that hinted at restrained power, he placed the marshmallow halfway in my mouth and positioned my jaw so that I was barely holding it.

"We're almost there." He said, moving around the bed, running his hand down the length of my body as he did. "Remember, it's calledRocky Road, not Smooth Road, so you best prepare." His hand stopped on the curve of my ass; I inhaled, quick and sugary.

His one hand remained on my ass while the fingers of his other hand started prying open the lips of my pussy. My mouth may have been dry but those lips were not. I felt my face burn, ashamed.

His voice deepened, "This hole is first."

I couldn't help myself; I turned my head around to size up his cock once more. That was a mistake. When I turned my head back, I snuck a peek at Master, on the couch, slight smile playing at his lips.

Whack! A bear paw came down on my ass and I gasped around the marshmallow in my mouth.

"Don't pull that shit again. I told you not to look at him."

I shivered.

"As I was saying, I'm going to start by fucking this undeserving cunt of yours. When I'm done, I check that marshmallow you're holding all nice and delicate-like. If I find teeth marks, we start over. Maybe I plug up that pussy of yours, maybe..." he rested his thumb on the pucker of my ass, "maybe I move onto another hole. No matter, we're going to keep doing this 'till I pull that treat out of your filthy mouth as clean as it went in."

Had I already bitten down on it? I couldn't remember.

"You ready?"

It felt as if an hour passed before I worked up the courage to nod.

"Good," he said, stretching the word out like a melted marshmallow as he pulled me, by the hips, to edge of the bed.

His cock bullied its way into me as if it were busting through a police barricade. I tried to focus all my thoughts on the marshmallow resting between my teeth but by the second or third thrust my will dissolved.

My pussy was splitting in half. I groaned around the soft treat. Mr Espresso's hands nearly encircled my waist as he pulled and pumped.

"Oh yeah, you can take all of this," he said, driving in harder.

Images of industrial sized pistons filled my mind. He was fucking me like that. Like a machine. Relentless. Compressing my spine. Knocking my teeth together.

Fuck.

Too late. I heard thecluckof my teeth and the cry I make when pain crosses the border into pleasure territory. Mr Espresso heard it, too.

He stopped the pounding, pulled out, picked up the half marshmallow lying on the bed and shook his head. "Shit, and I thought you was some tough-assed bitch or something. I didn't even get into a rhythm yet." He held out his hand beneath my mouth and I let the other half of the marshmallow drop into it.

With the evidence in his hand, he walked over and sat next to Master, on the couch.

"Shame," I heard Master say, not daring to look, "I thought she would have held out longer."

Mr Espresso chuckled, "Don't be silly Tomas; most women would have wet themselves at the sight of such a well endowed and fierce black warrior such as myself. She has a long way to go but you were correct about her guts and determination."

Where had hisganstalingo gone? My punisher suddenly spoke like a Harvard business grad. How does Tomas find these people?

"Mmm, true." Master answered. "Still, she needs challenges. Idle hands and all that."

"I agree wholeheartedly. Speaking of which..." he stood and sauntered back over to where I remained, on the bed, waiting, confused. He picked up the bag of marshmallows. "Young miss, while I applaud your efforts, the fact of your failure remains. Now that the shock and awe segment of your punishment has passed, let us get down to the business of proper training. I believe your ass is next on the agenda. Open your mouth, please."

My jaw dropped from a combination of obedience, fear and surprise.

As he replaced the broken marshmallow with a whole one, he flashed me a brilliant smile, "Rocky Road, you have to admit, it was pretty clever."

Coconut

Sleep was not coming. Walls as thin as cardboard were no defense against theboom, boom, boomfrom the nightclub next door. The fan over my bed wasn't cooling me, merely moving the hot air back and forth. I dragged myself to the bathroom and showered, for the seventh time that evening, under a dribble of water from a pipe with no shower head attached.

Tossing on a pair of shorts and a tank top, I fought my way out the wood door that was too big for its frame and stumbled onto the 'deck' of my hotel room. The deck consisted of a plastic chair, which may have been green once upon a time, and a metal table, tilted at an angle, both on the sidewalk, facing the parking lot.

"If you ask me, this place is worth all of the seventeen dollars a night," a man said.

My neighbour was sitting on his deck. Earlier that day we'd exchanged hellos and waves. His face was painted in the yellow light of the single, bare bulb between our two motel rooms.Storywas etched into the lines around his mouth.

"I'm just here for the free toiletries," I answered.

He let out a soft chuckle. "I know a place not far from here that makes the best coconut ice cream in Costa Rica, maybe the world."

Wandering off with a strange man in the middle of the night? Somehow, as I looked in his eyes, the idea seemed logical. Then again, maybe it was those lines and their promise of tales of intrigue that talked me into it.

As we walked around the corner and along Avenida del Sol a few drunk gringos – kids freshly hatched into the wide world - passed by every so often, but it wasn't long before we left them behind to theirboom, boom, boomand their back alley puking.

"Can I guess your name?" I asked my new companion.

He smiled and spread his hands, palms up, as an invitation.

I gave him a once over. Late thirties, blond, blue-grey eyes, pale skin but he wasn't sweating, which meant he'd spent enough time here, or some place as hot as here, to acclimatize. Nordic features hidden beneath layers of jungle grime.

"Eric?" I asked.

He turned his head to me and smiled again. No answer, just lines.

"Well, I'm going to call you Eric, it suits you. You can call me whatever you like. Tit for tat."

"OK then, Miss Marigold Puddingpants."

His look was dead serious; I cracked first. Soon we were both laughing, then a quiet settled over us. The only sound was our footsteps, muted by the heavy air of the night, and the faraway thrum of the disco.

"Have you ever known something you wished you didn't know?" I asked.

Eric's lingering smile vanished. "Too much." When I didn't interrupt, he looked skyward for a moment and sighed. "Once upon a time I was a journalist. Erase all those glamorous images from your mind, I was a nobody. I spent most of my time based in Butt Fuck Indonesia or Butt Fuck Central America, working for Reuters, writing about conflicts too unpopular for more than a paragraph stuffed in the bottom of the World News section of most newspapers. Yeah, there's heaps I'd like to un-know. How about you?"

"Nothing," I lied. As I looked away and across the street, I felt him sizing me up.

"Have you been to Cambodia?" he asked, cupping my elbow with his hand and steering me away from a pothole I was about to walk into.

"Thanks. No. I hear it's beautiful, if you can stand the heat."

"It is. Hot and beautiful." He stopped and gazed up and down the street.

"What?"

"I love places like this at night. Latin countries should only be seen by night."

His words hit me like second hand déjà vu. I looked at the row of shops and restaurants crammed in together, their daytime shabbiness transformed by lights the way an ordinary pine tree becomes a marvel at Christmas.

Eric started walking again.

"In Cambodia, there's a memorial for victims of the Khmer Rouge, I was thinking you should never visit that place. You're a carrier."

"Acarrier?" my laugh was uncomfortable. "As in disease?"

"No, I mean as in someone who carries things with them. Always. Most people will walk through this town, take some pictures, look at some monkeys, go home, share their stories and gradually forget. You, you'll absorb it all and carry it with you forever. The stuff you want to un-know but you think is too petty to tell me, it's all part of your cache. Ah, here's the shop. Still open. You have to love the third world."

I had questions but we walked in the open door of theneveriaand the bright lights rendered them irrelevant.

"Bueno," an old man, with raisin skin, greeted us.

Eric ordered for us in perfect Spanish, I envied his fluency and felt a tinge of guilt that I hadn't studied the language harder. Singing a tune, the old man scooped out two cones of white ice cream for us. I held them while Eric paid.

Out on the street, I rested my back against a lamp post while I licked at my cone. My new friend gestured to the shop window and we watched the old man sing and clean as if we were watching a movie, a romantic musical about a Costa Rican ice cream vendor.

I was still smiling at the show when Eric turned back to face me. Our eyes had a brief conversation.

I know you. You're the other half of my soul that's been missing.

And we kissed.

No, we blended, merged, melded, made ourselves whole. His lips were so soft and pliable, I lost track of where they ended and where mine began. Our tongues were fearless, tumbling over each other in slow motion. Our eyes were closed and our mouths were pressed together but we still spoke to each other.

I need you.

When we pulled apart, the singing had vanished. I would always hear it, though.

I can hear it now.

He raised his left hand and brushed a strand of hair from my face. The ring I'd tried to ignore was touching my cheek. My eyes asked the question for me.

"It's complicated," Eric answered.

"It always is," I said.

Why am I always drawn to the stories?

"You'd like her. She'd like you," his mouth said, but his eyes were handing me an invitation. A map to a road less traveled.

I took another lick of my cone then leaned forward to meet Eric's mouth. 'He's right,' I thought, as I felt us rejoin, 'this is the best coconut ice cream in the world.'

Neapolitan

Easy. When Master uses that word it is always with the highest sense of irony. The challenge was simple: three flavours of ice cream in one tub, three bowls, three men, one flavour for each man, one spoon, one kitchen timer. Easy.

Strawberry for Jordan. A childish flavour to match his shaggy, surfer boy look and demeanor. For Mr Black, chocolate, dark and slightly bitter. Vanilla for Tomas, my master.Boringvanilla, he would say.

I glance at the timer, why must it move so quickly?

My task: scoop out a bowl for each man, in sixty seconds, without any of the flavours crossing over. EvenIthought this was going to be below my abilities. Silly girl. The spoon I was given was a big wooden one and the tub of Neapolitan ice cream was rock hard.

The ticking of the clock is tugging at my nerves.

Fail to complete the task on time and be punished. Each man gets a turn. This is my eighth attempt. After seven rounds of torture, I'm both weak and so aroused I can barely walk straight.

My hand trembles as I try to push aside the melting chocolate and scoop up only the vanilla. It's useless; a brown river is muddying the white plain.

"Twenty seconds, K," Master calls out from the adjoining living room.

The spoon slips from my hand, bounces off the edge of the tub and drops to the floor, splattering ice cream on Black's clean, white tile floor. This is bad.

He is next in line.

"Leave it," Black barks, when I grab a cloth to clean up the mess.

I pick up the spoon, conscious of the welts on my ass as I bend down. I'm never going to succeed, everyone knows it, but Master expects me to try my best. Once I've run it under the tap and wiped it clean, I lower the spoon into to the tub, again. I can do this.

BUZZ.

Fuck. No.

Hanging my head, I listen to the timer buzzing my defeat. One bowl, that's as far as I got and even that bowl has bits of the other two flavours in it.

"Oh boy, K, you're in for a lickin' now," Jordan says. I imagine him bouncing up and down in his chair.

I'm paralyzed, remembering the last two lashings I received by Black's hand.

"K, get over here, now!" Master's voice.

How long have I been standing here?

Hurrying from the kitchen to the living room, I stop and kneel in front of Black as I've been instructed to do. If I had the nerve to look up, I'm sure I'd see his dark eyes boring holes into me and his sharp jaw set in a scowl.

"Clumsy, messy and slow. Why Tomas suffers you, I'll never know." Black speaks as he stands. With two fingers, he lifts my chin until I'm looking up, then he slides his thumb across my lips and forces it into my mouth.

Even as I promise myself I won't, I start sucking. I can't help myself.

"Oh, right,that'swhy," Black says. Jordan howls and even Master chuckles. "But you'll have to wait. Stick before carrot...so to speak."

He grips my lower jaw with his thumb and fingers and pulls me forward until I'm on all fours, my face almost touching the couch.

"Open wide and wedge that suck tool of yours onto the edge of the couch cushion," Black orders as he removes his digits.

I obey, wincing at the dry rub of the heavy fabric.

Black steps beyond my field of vision but I can feel and hear him. He yanks both my arms out from beneath me and pulls them behind my back. Without their support, my body weight drives my head further into the cushion and I gag against it.

Next I feel rope wrapping around my wrists, binding them behind my back, my heart rate quickens and the Amazon between my thighs begins to flow again.

"Tomas, do you mind if I try my new toy?" Black's voice has an edge of excitement to it. I shiver, not because I'm naked but because excitement for Black means pain for me. He prides himself on histoysand his skill with them.

"Go ahead. I'm curious myself," Master answers.

Every muscle tensing, I strain to decipher what Black's new toy is from the sounds. Not that I need to. He sets a long, slender piece of rattan on the couch, an inch or two away from my nose.

"K, I realize you've never been caned before but let me assure you this..." he picks up the cane and drags the tip of it over my head and down my spine, "is going to hurt. A lot."

Black may be a sadist but he's an honest one.

The first strike catches me on the bottom curve of my butt cheek and stings. Master has shared me with Black enough times for me to realize this is only a warm up, which makes me shiver again.

The second and third strike, each in a different spot, each more intense, send my nerve endings into high alert. On the fourth hit I cry out into the couch cushion. I can feel my body taking over. Just as with Black's thumb, my mind may set itself against him but my body can't help but respond.

I've been lashed before, my pain tolerance is in the stratosphere, but the cane takes me off guard. It isn't the hit that hurts, it's the moment after that hit when the hot pain arrives, as sharp and concentrated as a bullet.

Counting strikes in my head doesn't work, as soon as the sweet pulses of pain start flaring I lose my grip on reality.

Was that eight or nine?

Whack. Fuck. I don't know. Please stop.

Whack. I scream. It's muted. No one can hear.

Whack. Please. More.

Black moves, alters the rhythm, speeds up, slows down, always doing what I least expect, keeping me in a state of high alert.

The strikes come faster, harder, in the same spot. It feels as if someone is lighting sparklers in my brain. Everything is bright lights and burning and sparks. I can hear a noise, guttural, primitive. It takes a moment to realize the sound is coming from me. I'm weeping, salty tears are pooling in the corners of my mouth.

Whack. Time is irrelevant. All thought vanishes. I am pain.

Ten? Twenty? A hundred? How many lashes have I received? The caning goes on until the concept of time seems foolish.

Whack. Pain.

Whack. Pleasure.

Whack. Pain.