Page 26 - Fluxion Art Journal Issue 1

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Wrapped Like a Mummy in Fear
(Part One) by Nelda Street
Almost passed the driveway -- did, in fact. Everything's so industrial and same in West Oakland and
corrugated and painted that dull yellow. Couldn't see any numbers, but at the last second, noticed the "BIKE
SWAP" sign, hand-written kind of small with a black magic marker on corrugated cardboard hung at the edge
of a driveway. That had to be it. I swerved into the U-Haul Storage parking lot, backed out into the street
again and swung through the open black metal gate next to the "BIKE SWAP" sign. There was a building
covered with dull yellow metal paneling - long, one-story with several live-work units. Not the homiest place
and perhaps every bit as foreboding as our former Woodward Alley abode in San Francisco. I spotted his
bike outside the unit - the familiar dented up GSXR 650 next to the open door, through which I spied massive,
cluttered motorcycle paraphernalia in a cavelike atmosphere. I had experienced the gamut of emotions over
this - everything from salivated anticipation to . . . massive dread.
That recurring fantasy shot through my mind as I jolted into a parking space, the delicious fantasy
born on the train a couple of months back. It started like this: I had been absently staring out the window as
the deep red clay hills and pines flashed by, exhausted from all that train traveling from San Francisco through
Chicago and Philadelphia down to North Carolina. There, I'd finally found some respite at a friend's country
cabin. But the time had come to get back on that train, and that train was headed for Alabama, of all places,
the oppressive state of my Bible breeding. The plan was to see my close friend, Mirna in the southern part of
the state, while avoiding my parents in the north. It would be okay to be in the home state as long as I didn't
have to actually go home. I needed comfort from my trusted friends. I was grieving. I was horny. 'Oh, Jake,
why? I loved you so much - you threw it all away during a time of immensely abnormal stress! You idiot!'
His face, his eyes, that glorious hair that went on forever down his long, lean back. The chest whose nipples I
loved to bite, to sense him squirm. That enormous, smooth cock I loved to put in my mouth. 'You asshole!' I
imagined myself going to see him at his new place and pretending to be as nice and accommodating as ever.
There he'd stand - 6'3" with that wide, gap-toothed grin, laughing that grand, goofy laugh of his.
I'd never had to worry about losing track of him in the Safeway with that laugh. Completely unpreten-
tious, this obnoxious, loud gutteration often brought about the shocked stares of sudden machine gun blasts.
You couldn't duplicate it if you tried (but who'd want to?). The first time I got blasted by that laugh, I mused,
'Maybe this guy's trying too hard at that jaded, outlaw biker image, but this ridiculous laugh belies something
much deeper, something altogether innocent!' It was no small thing - that laugh fell me in love right to the
ground, . . . entirely against my better judgment.
So, in the fantasy, he's standing there rat-a-tat-tat-ing in amusement, and there I am at his side in his
new live-work pad. We hold each other, expressing how much we've missed one another. But, unbeknownst
to him, I have these handcuffs in the bag I'm holding behind his back as we embrace. Suddenly, he finds him-
self on the cement floor, cuffed, with that greasy t-shirt ripped off! He is stunned beyond expression - on his
knees with his mechanic's grease-stained jeans down around them; his big, white, hairy, girlie butt in the air,
hands cuffed behind his back, chest bare, and worst of all, held up by only a dog collar and chain! I need to
humiliate him. He is deserving.
"How do you feel now, you FUCKING LITTLE CUNT!!", my alter ego mocks. I shed my clothes, shove
my cunt in his face and order him to lick, a demand to which he eagerly succumbs. He is completely freaked
by all this; it's a new role for him - one, the thought of which, he's found tantalizing for quite some time. . .
when peering in from the outside, but he has feared it more than anything else and has never been able to let
go into it. Mmm, those licks feel great, but it's time to sneak the cock ring from my bag of tricks; I grab his
balls, squeezing the ring tightly around them. I take that cock and suck it way down, the way I know he loves.
He's squirming considerably by this time, but I mustn't let him actually experience pleasure. . . at least not yet.
What I want is for him to approach the threshold of ecstasy expectantly, but have the door shut abruptly in his
face in the most excruciating death-tease. Wasn't that what he had done to me? Just when we had gotten
uncomfortably close, just when we were sharing better and better sex, he would shut himself down, whether
merely emotionally or with some hurtful action as happened in the end. After three years, he walked out, ini-
tially striking me with a barrage of undeserved hurtful words, followed by an extended period of stone cold
silence. "YOU THINK I LIKE SUCKING YOUR FILTHY COCK, YOU PIG!!", I roar, spewing it fiercely from my
mouth as he's bordering orgasm. His face appears shocked red - exasperated; he is practically broken.