Zoot
Chaz Thompson
Published by Chaz Thompson at Smashwords
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©2002 Chaz Thompson. All
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“Women keep a special corner of their hearts
for sins they have never committed.”
-- Cornelia Otis Skinner
ONE
ZOOT focused on a dim crack that ran the length of his high ceiling, and began his exercises. From flat on his back, his massive chamber seemed even larger than usual, and the illusion pleased him. After a few minutes, when he was ready, he closed his eyes briefly, then opened them wide and drew a deep breath for the plunge to Earth.
Zoot knew how to slip through dimensions without causing so much as a ripple. It only required focus, stamina, and a ruthless precision for which he was famous and feared. His abilities and every endeavor they served were without compromise. No one ever made a recommendation to Zoot. He never considered alternatives. He’d been on his path too long.
So long that he had forgotten what a rush dimension-jumping had been, what innocent joy he had felt that first time. Nearly as good as his first orgasm, which had been decades before his first interdimensional sojourn.
Pleasure remained an element of dimension-jumping, if increasingly addictive and artificial, and his journeys gradually became as common and effortless as the casual dive from a low cliff into the burgundy ocean surrounding his castle. Unfortunately, the more he jumped, the more immune to pleasure he became, until his orgasms were in danger of becoming equally mundane.
Other hazards beleaguered him as well. Impulsiveness, for one. If in a hurry he might risk jumping through in an instant, detecting only a hint of that slippery, embracing fall, which was more like a whiplash, really, a purring, quick squirt into oblivion, only to have it turn into a planet, or moon, or dimensional variant. The danger in such a maneuver, of course, was disorientation, in some cases insanity. Zoot had heard too many stories about madness claiming those who acquiesced to impatience merely for the sake of immediate gratification. Existence for those anxious individuals had become an endless series of sudden, unprovoked jumps and whirling descents through dimensions and universes known and unknown, completely out of their control.
Most often, he lingered in the passing. He had been taught by his Elder to accept the journey as part of his own existence, an extension of his personality. He had been taught to not resist the overwhelming desire to penetrate and explode on the other side, but rather to diversify the pleasure of the passing, which, in turn, stabilized his effort and prolonged the experience. For those who tried too hard, who pushed too earnestly, dimension-jumping became an invasion which ultimately “soured the soul,” as Zoot’s Elder put it. If Zoot possessed one redeeming quality, it was the endeavor to retain presence of mind in everything he did. On those trips when he lingered, he entered his new world calm, even refreshed, and entirely satisfied.
Under any circumstance, he could “pierce the membrane,” as interdimensional pilots would say, as purely as a needle, leaving no space/time disturbance in his wake.
Zoot was a pro.
He was also a predator.
And his prey rarely escaped.
His needs fell into two categories, and so his prey was also limited to two types: male and female. Males never survived for very long — a week, at best — while females would live to fulfill Zoot’s every whim and desire for as long as he saw fit.
None of them came willingly.
One need was professional, while the other was unquestionably personal. The former made the latter possible.
This trip, however, would violate that order. On this trip, Zoot intended to benefit through a reverse in his standard approach. Naturally, this meant his criteria for selecting the appropriate female be modified.
If Zoot had been clinical in his appraisal of men, his selection of women was based on a more visceral impulse. That impulse would not be enough this time. A more discerning approach would be required this time.
Nothing special recommended this obscure globe among the countless stars confronting Zoot every time he meditated on a selection. The process, for the most part hit-and-miss, required of Zoot only a precursory mental scan of the dimension or world, whereupon he could continue to the next phase or make another selection. So Earth could just as easily have been Ruupalea, home of the annual Marf Runs, or rainbow-ringed Siv’leng, or even silvery Maivwey, a planet as remote and obscure as they got. Unfortunately, the women on Maivwey had fins and webbed feet, whereas Zoot preferred humanoid females.
Nevertheless, Earth it was, and it appeared pleasant enough, if rather ordinary, so Zoot sealed himself in his private quarters, relaxed in his full-body lounger which he had created exclusively for dimension-jumping, and allowed the transition to take him to Earth.
Dorsa watched him from her hiding place in the loft, as usual. Youngest of all the women in Zoot’s harem, Dorsa was precocious, energetic and quietly defiant. If she desired sexual satisfaction on a night when she was not chosen by Zoot, she would eagerly satisfy herself, occasionally with another member of the harem, though her thoughts would dally on Zoot.
Unlike most of her companions, Dorsa was infatuated with their subjugator, in spite of his dark inclinations, or, more likely, because of them. Whenever Zoot retired to his lavish room for a journey, she would sneak into the library loft above his recliner and watch. That his quarters were off-limits only fueled her determination.
He kept his cavernous room dark during dimension jumps, allowing only muted light from his thousand-gallon aquarium to transform the walls into a subtle, liquid void not unlike the very quality of the transition, making it easier to enter. The library loft evaded most of the light, and Dorsa chose the darkest of the corners for her observation and satisfaction.
From this corner she could watch him go through his relaxation exercises, which he performed completely naked. Then he would stretch and recline serenely in preparation for the transition.
Dorsa had seen him nude often, as had his entire harem. Indeed, she had enjoyed the sight and touch of his skin frequently, with his consent and participation, as had all of his harem. But this furtive adventure into the shadows of the master’s lair provided her with something which every woman in Zoot’s harem struggled for in vain: control.
If Dorsa could hold him, supine and exposed, with the force of her will, and thrill over her command of his helplessness, then she was not his captive after all. If she could enslave him with this simple deceit and take from him something so secret he didn’t know it was being taken, then she was empowered. Indeed, she was superior.
Or so she believed.
Zoot knew she watched.
He wouldn’t have discovered her at all if she hadn’t allowed that dainty gasp Zoot recognized first-hand as her personal signal of climax. Obviously, she had thought he was already into the transition.
Zoot wondered if she knew he knew. In spite of his state of relaxation on this night, the faint whimper he immediately recognized as Dorsa’s sweet climax touched a reflex in him as certain as a hammer to the knee, and he stiffened. How could she not see his growing erection? Was she bright enough and alert enough to realize his other dimension-jumping episodes had not been accompanied by such a bodily reflex? Or was this her first time observing him, so therefore she wouldn’t understand?
Regardless, though his first impulse was sexual, a more practical observation followed. Since this type of dimension-jumping left his corporeal self prone and defenseless in his private lair, this invader had the potential to upset his custom-designed province.
Before he could decide what to do, the transition took him and he was away, leaving Dorsa to guard his body with her lust. He could easily imagine her sitting on the floor in the corner, her long skirt bunched up around her thighs, fingers stroking her pubes through the thin panties Zoot required every woman in his harem wear. Indeed, Zoot insisted all of his women wear much the same thing, with only subtle variations: long, sleek skirt with a slit from hem to waist belt, a snug blouse — either pullover or buttoned — no bra, ballet-type slippers and tight, cotton undies, pastel colors only.
Dorsa had accepted the uniform gratefully, considering she had come from a world where all of her people were doomed to wear something akin to rubber armor as protection against volcanic fumes that blistered flesh if left exposed long enough. She also adapted easily to the company of her fellow concubines, since on her home planet women outnumbered men twenty to one.
Largely water, much like his own home, Zoot underestimated the extreme spectrum of civilizations on this Earth, from moderately advanced to primeval, all within the neighborhood of a single planet. His approach permitted him the opportunity to scan the globe for the proper energy and personality to suit his need, ultimately delivering him to a congested coastal city where the temperature on this day closely replicated conditions on Ruupalea, a world with six suns.
Still, the one he sought did not appear, and his thoughts of Dorsa distracted him. He would have to return another time, when less urgent concerns demanded his attention. Yet he remained a little longer, for two reasons. Firstly, he needed to convince himself he did not want to return to Dorsa. He would have remained a year if it meant eradicating the suspicion that he was drawn to her. Secondly, he wanted to test her. More accurately, he intended to catch her.
She would have ample time to kill him.
He imagined how long it would take her to trust that he was truly “gone” and risk coming down the stairs to his vulnerable body. Perhaps she had obtained a weapon, or else she would look around for something with which to strike or stab him. If he timed it right, he would arrive home just as she was exposed.
He allowed the anxiety of this newfound fear to pass through him, as his Elder had taught him, and patiently began the transition homeward.
The journey, more rushed than Zoot usually preferred, ejected him into his own dimension with a start, sitting upright so quickly his head swam.
Dorsa was not there.
Only slightly disturbed at unverified distrust, he marched up the stairs to the loft, seeking proof of Dorsa’s transgression. Her absence and the lack of evidence raised a knot of anxiety between his shoulder blades. He searched for her secret passage and found none.
He hurried down the stairs, then recognized his haste and slowed, concerned over what he considered runaway emotions. Without bothering to dress, he strode firmly from his room, through stone-tiled hallways, passing women who stopped in obedient anticipation of spontaneous sex.
Ignoring their covert expressions of relief when he passed, he strode into the heart of his castle, the octagonal entertainment hall. Three of the eight walls overlooked the sea with floor-to-ceiling windows, each thirty yards wide, the width of each wall, and as high as the hall’s vaulted peak, some fifty yards overhead. Dining tables had been arranged near the windows, which were opposite an equally large and impressive fireplace.
Women hushed and waited as Zoot stood near the center of the hall and his enchanted bed cushion, which was adorned with pillows and tapestries and silken veils. Orchestral music played faintly. He gazed sternly from face to face.
Dorsa was not among them.
Abruptly, he continued through the room to the stone stairway leading up to the first level of individual chambers. Six tiers of compartments overlooked the main hall, occupying the five non-windowed walls, with fifteen chambers on each level. Three or four women shared each chamber, and Zoot entered fourteen before he found her standing at her open window, staring at the ocean. Three moons shined brightly in the night sky, one of them a swirling wind of colors and orbiting noticeably faster than the others.
Three blondes, huddled together on one of the puffy, floor-level mattresses and nibbling on fruit from a large bowl, cut their voices when Zoot entered. When they noticed his interest focused Dorsa, who continued to stare out the window, they tossed bits of fruit at her.
“Honeydew,” one of the blondes called, and Dorsa turned, saw Zoot and drew a sharp breath. Too late to withdraw her reaction, she turned the breath to ballast and forced the slip of alarm out through a slow, confident exhale.
“Turn the lights off,” Zoot ordered, and the blondes reached for lamp switches and blouse buttons until he added, “and leave us.”
Dorsa kept her eyes on Zoot, not hearing the door seal with a thud. Obediently, she reached for her top button.
“No,” Zoot said, his tone not a command. “Let me.”
He placed a hand on her breast and kneaded gently through the fluffy fabric of her blouse. Again, Dorsa drew a breath and let her head fall back languidly. Zoot pressed closer, his free hand taking her at the waist while his hand on her breast bent Dorsa backward, over the stone window frame until her head arched out over the ledge.
Her fingers clung to his arms and she struggled to pull herself upright, but he kept her off center until her grip on his shoulders relaxed. He knew she would let him push her out. She was not in control now. This was his world. His island. His castle. His realm of power. He didn’t need her. He had hundreds of others to obey him. Some day thousands. They would all obey him. He could easily see to that. They wouldn’t sneak in to eavesdrop on his personal activities. They wouldn’t violate his most private, most sacred endeavor. They wouldn’t dare. And if they did . . .
And if they did . . .
Two birds skimmed the water far below, spiking fish with their beaks. Two birds in the moonlight.
And if they did . . .
Dorsa swallowed desperately, quietly, and her bosom trembled under Zoot’s hand.
And if they did . . .
Footsteps stealthily, cowardly shuffled down the tiled hallway.
And if they did . . .
Carefully, Zoot pulled Dorsa in and around, holding her in his arms and kneeling on one of the mattresses until she came to rest on her back. Her pulse throbbed in her neck and perspiration shined on her skin, skin darkened by the sun.
His palm returned to her breast, but now as though for the first time, as though he had never touched her before, as though he had never demanded she spread her legs for him. This time he unbuttoned her blouse with the presence of mind he usually reserved for dimension-jumping. This time he peeled her blouse away gently, as though witnessing for the first time this virgin birth of full breasts beneath him.
When he met her eyes he could see her fear had abated. Yet he recognized the bewilderment and accepted it as absolution for what he had come to this room to do.
If another woman had done what she had done he wouldn’t be so carefully touching his tongue to her nipple, tasting vestiges of salty perspiration. His breath wouldn’t be fogging her shiny, naked breast, swelling under his parted lips.
Dorsa let her head fall back as Zoot’s warmth radiated over her chest. His mouth opened on her breast and sucked it in almost completely, tongue rolling against her nipple, and her fingers coiled in the bed covers.
If any other woman in his harem had dared do what Dorsa had done Zoot wouldn’t be worshiping her breasts with such generous attention. He wouldn’t be caressing his cheeks in her smooth cleavage, listening to her heart speed with anticipation.
A warm breeze drifted in through the window and circled the room, tousling bed lace and Dorsa’s hair, a fair coffee-bronze which nearly matched her skin, which had become darker in her days at Zoot’s castle, lounging in the sunny courtyard. Zoot felt the air and hesitated. With one finger he pushed strands of hair from her face and found her eyes closed, pained, yet in what, anguish or desire?
If any of the hundreds of women he had brought to his castle had done what she had done he would not be finding the edge of her skirt so delicately, pulling the slit open to free one leg, one slender, trembling leg to lay open in the moonlight. He wouldn’t be separating her skirt like palm leaves to expose her with such appreciation, only to find with some surprise her panties already gone.
Dorsa clenched her fists because she knew, she knew, the first cardinal rule to allow him to remove her panties. Yet, she didn’t worry about the punishment. She didn’t care if he cast her into the lonely heat pit, naked with the spiders for a day. She didn’t care if he chose to hang her upside down over the cliff edge, as he had done to her roommate, Avalia. She didn’t worry he may come up with something new and unique just for her. She lamented taking pleasure from him, when all she wanted to do was give it.
Expecting a sudden end to her bliss, Dorsa flinched when, instead, his tongue stabbed between her legs, and her thighs fell open with a groan. Then, not merely tongue, but lips, tongue and lips together, yet separate somehow, tasting her, stroking and sucking and swirling with some kind of electrical current, his mouth a storm, a tornado, sucking her, sucking every drop of humid modesty from between her legs.
If any other woman, hand-picked by Zoot for the sole purpose of sexual gratification until he saw fit to return her, had done what Dorsa had done, he would not be blessing her splayed, shimmering split peach with this tribute of kisses and hungry gnawing, exalting yet desperate, needing as much as giving, lapping viciously until she squirmed for merciful deliverance. He wouldn’t be trapping her wrists in his hands to pull her closer, harder, grinding, bucking, panting for the zenith of glory to rip into her with his tongue, until she arched her back and cried to the moons for release.
A flutter of heartbeats gathered in her chest when he pulled suddenly away, and she whimpered as one abandoned. Reflex sent her hand to her groin, but Zoot threw it away, then knelt before her, expressionless, his cock standing out between his legs. Again, she dropped her hand to her damp peach and again he threw it off.
If any other woman had done what you did . . .
As though to slowly crush her, Zoot lowered himself on Dorsa, his eyes holding hers in recrimination. The utter width of his hips spread her thighs farther until the tip of his cock dipped into her and he stopped.
“No . . .,” she groaned and closed her eyes.
Holding himself up on his hands, hips poised, Zoot waited until her eyes opened. When she moves under him, up, pushing him against her, he pulled back with another accusing look until just the head of his stem cleaved the lips of her syrupy peach.
Dorsa allowed her hands to fall beside her head in submission. Did she understand? She attempted an expression of indifferent resignation, but her breathing, her runaway pulse, the subtle pressure against his cock betrayed her. He withdrew a fraction of an inch and the faint furrow between her brow deepened before she closed her eyes and turned her head away.
If any other woman had done what you did . . .
Plunging into her with bruising force, Zoot felt that mix of senseless ecstasy and power, abandon and need, which seemed to be all he lived for any more. He sank into her with a dry then moist gulp, and Dorsa snapped around him like a slamming trap. He rode the roof of her chasm like a closed fist, a shrilling, blunt fist that all but wrenched her inside out. She had no chance to counter his thrusts, no opportunity to participate consensually. He plunged again and again and again, expanding inside her, pumping himself heavily, steadily into her, again, deeper, harder.
She wanted to fight, wanted to bite and flail and whip herself against him, but she only curled around him and braced for those lunges, those back-breaking lunges bursting inside her, hammering into her like iron pistons until she shuddered with a scream, a rigid shriek which possessed her, commanded her, shredded her, and still he pumped and pumped and pumped and still she screamed and screamed and screamed.
If any other woman had done what you did . . .
Zoot felt that tingle, that approaching tingle, like a thread unraveling from the pit of his soul, but instead of resisting he focused on the feel of her breasts against his skin. Diversify the pleasure. He looked down at her face, elfin and tanned and lost, lost, lost, spinning below him, wailing, thrashing.
If any other woman had done what you did . . .
She opened her eyes, though they spun in their sockets, focused briefly, then closed tight. Her throat constricted, cutting the cry, and he knew what was next. Her muscles torqued and quaked, and he knew her dainty, throaty gasp would arrive soon, only it wouldn’t be so dainty this time. He held himself together and paid attention this time, as though entering a transition through a dimensional loop. He could ride her forever within this loop, feeling her stomach rise against him. Just pay attention, stay in control, feel it all, feel her spreading open, and pump, pump, pump.
She grunted and splayed open beneath him, a convulsing cramp flooding through her muscles in waves, biting into his thrusts, deeper, harder, again, again, and he wouldn’t spare her, wouldn’t stop, yet somehow, in the midst of her climax, she opened her eyes!
He received her gaze as though from the depths of falling, reeling away yet holding on, condemning yet embracing. Piercing, as piercing as his thrusts inside her, and it shocked him, stung him, stripped his ability to resist and he ruptured inside her with a sharp groan, trying to keep his eyes open, holding hers, but powerless to do anything except pump himself into her and rupture again and rupture again and again and . . . again . . . again . . . and . . .
How long did he keep pumping into her? Was she awake? Was she breathing? He didn’t care. His hips slowed only when his knees began sliding apart on the bed.
Eyes to eyes, they calmed, shivered and collapsed gently together, their faces coming closer, breathing each other’s breath, their mouths slack, and . . .
If any other woman had done what you did . . .
They kissed, fused tongues and bodies, his cock still inside her, still spurting in helpless, empty spasms, completely drained inside her, inside her, inside her.
If any other woman had done what you did . . .
Is this how it had once been? Is this how it had once felt? Or never? He didn’t know. It was familiar, yet new.
If any other woman had done what you did . . .
His head lolled to her shoulder and her legs relaxed around his, quivering. He dared close his eyes.
I would be dead.
TWO
ANY other day, she would have let him jog right past her. Every other guy who had tried to hit on Connie as she ran the two-mile loop from her apartment, up the beach path and back, had suffered more than a brusque brush-off. In the first place, she didn’t respond to their come-ons in her natural voice. She SCREAMED. She would come to a dead stop, within hearing range of other people, preferably beach police, stand face-to-face with the poor schnook and shout at the top of her ample lungs.
“YOU WANT TO FUCK ME UP THE ASS WITH A WHAT? THOSE AREN’T EVEN LEGAL IN THIS COUNTRY. WHAT KIND OF A FUCKING DEVIATE ARE YOU?”
Well-known by most Laguna Beach bachelors as “Connie the Cunt,” she was as vicious as she was breathtaking to behold. Often accused of “touching up” her hair color, she resented offhanded notions that her vivid red mane was not genuine. Her face disarmingly sweet, even coy, but with a spark in her eyes offered more than a warning to the unwary. Unfortunately, her bustline invited more than innocent appraisals.
“They don’t mean any harm,” Brenda offered. She had long ago stopped jogging with Connie, after frequently witnessing her friend’s scenes, and she didn’t want to become known as “Brenda the Bitch.” Ironically, Connie was otherwise congenial and considerate, if, obviously, not afraid of a confrontation.
“It’s just, jogging is my one personal activity, Bren.” They sat at Connie’s beachfront patio table, munching lunchtime salads, watching the waves spread and froth on the dark sand. “And I don’t even have to yell much, any more. No one has bothered me much lately.”
“No wonder.” Brenda was darker of hair and slighter of build than Connie. A failure as a stewardess, Connie’s profession, Brenda managed as a waitress at the Rusty Pelican, a restaurant within walking distance of her apartment, just two doors down from Connie’s. “How do you recommend the average fellow approach you?”
“I recommend the average follow stay away.” She brushed a gnat from the edge of her sunglasses and took a hearty bite of sprouts and lettuce.
“Wishful thinking.” Brenda pushed the salad away, planning on stealing a burger when she got to work. “How can you tell? How do you distinguish the non-average guy?”
“Pheromones.”
“You’re not serious.”
“It’s a start.” She followed the salad with a swig of ice tea and sighed. “I mean, that’s assuming he’s moderately attractive and we share some basic interests.”
“Pheromones?”
Connie shrugged and giggled. “Trust in the unknown, Bren. Why do you have to be so literal? When the right guy crosses my path, I will respond.”
“What if he doesn’t respond back?”
“I’ll cut my wrists.” She dipped her finger in her tea and flicked it at Brenda. “Who knows? What’s the point? All I know is, anybody who cowers when I lay into them deserves what they feel.”
“For someone who sleeps with the light on, you ought to be more considerate.”
“Hey, below the belt, Bren. A lot of people don’t like the dark.”
“Well, some day,” Brenda stood and collected her purse, “some guy is going to hurt you. You’re going to find yourself in a situation you can’t get out of, and you’re going to get hurt.”
“Never happen.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh. Tarot says I’m going to marry a king.”
“Now who’s being literal?”
“No, seriously.”
“See ya later, Connie. Running today?”
“Same as yesterday and tomorrow.”
“Well, watch out for the pheromones.”
Any other day, any other guy, she would have let him pass without drawing an extra breath. But this guy . . . this guy . . .
In the first place, he was completely naked. Most women would have turned around right there. Most women might have been so bold as to phone the police and report it, while others would have simply avoided going outside for a few days. But not Connie.
When she finally tore her eyes off his ass she looked around for corroboration from passers-by. Their expressions betrayed no amazement, or even amusement. They noticed her, for sure. They always noticed her, especially when she wore her gray jogging shorts and matching tube top. On a hot day like this she wasn’t about to wear sweats.
Any other day, any other guy, she would have stopped in her tracks and returned home. What woman in her right mind follows a naked man? Women don’t follow men, Connie knew that. Maybe if she just allowed the distance between them to grow.
His slightly longer stride advanced the distance between them quickly. With a final, disbelieving glance around her, she accelerated, trying to make it look like she wasn’t chasing him, keeping the safe distance between them from expanding too much.
The faster pace jiggled her sunglasses askew and she tore them off, amazed at the brilliance of his muscle tone. The view from behind him, below those luscious buns and through his thighs, struck her numb.
What pheromones!
Still, the distance between them grew.
An on-coming jogger, an old man huffing slowly, looked down at Mr. Pheromone’s approaching crotch and beamed. “Hiya, boy!” Then he smiled at Connie as she flew by aghast.
With three or four yards between them, they reached the outermost rim of the loop, farthest from her apartment. Straining to keep up with him around the turn, her ankle wiggled awkwardly and she stumbled to her bare knees, then rolled off the path into the sand with a crunch.
“Shit!” was about as good as she could do before she hit, but at least it wasn’t a girly squeak. At least she hit the ground bravely, if disappointed. She knew without looking that her right knee would be bleeding. Maybe her elbow, too. A moment on her side to catch her breath, then she sat up, muscles in her calves still twitching. Yep, her knee was bleeding, but not badly. And her elbow was only scraped. It would scab, though.
“That’s too bad. You were doing pretty good.” He sounded distinctively objective. Not at all concerned as he stood looking down at her. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
Connie glanced up, his genitalia just about eye level and less than arm’s length away. As alluring as she had to admit it was, she recoiled. “Do you mind?”
He studied her without expression and without backing away. “Mind what?”
What a shame, she thought. Such a bod on such a bozo.
An older woman with silvery hair rushed up, red-cheeked and out of breath. “Are you okay? What a spill.” She bent at the waist and examined Connie’s knee. “Ouch. Better get some mercurochrome on that. Do you have any mercurochrome?”
Connie looked from the woman to the naked stud who hadn’t budged. “I must have hit my head,” she muttered.
“What’s that?” The old woman knelt and frowned with confusion.
“Nothing.” If nobody else was going to say anything, she wasn’t going to say anything.
The old woman turned her gaze on the naked crotch beside her head and smiled. “I see you brought a friend along. More safe that way. Hiya, fella.”
Connie gaped at the man, who didn’t acknowledge the old woman.
A thought came to him and he nodded. “Ah. You’re the only one who can see me. This form of me, anyway.”
“What?”
“Always safer,” the woman continued, “with a big, strapping German Shepherd to run with.” She brought a finger up to stroke the underside of his penis, then scratched his hanging testicles from below. “Isn’t that right, boy. Yes it is.”
Connie stood quickly, ignoring the sting on her knee, and backed away, heart thumping.
“Are you going to be all right, honey?” The woman straightened, turning her back on the nude Adonis beside her.
Connie nodded vacantly, then went right back to jogging on the trail, forcing herself to not look back.
“Don’t forget your dog!”
“He’s not mine.” She hustled along, picking up speed, dazed, hoping she could make it home before she passed out. How stupid she’d been for following him.
When he appeared jogging alongside her, she jolted off the path, onto the beach sand, but kept running, refusing to let him affect her any more.
He didn’t even make any sound. His bare footfalls hit the ground silently. Somehow, he didn’t look real. He looked like a video of a man running, with the audio turned off. He wasn’t breathing hard. He wasn’t perspiring. Shouting at this one wasn’t going to make him shrink away.
“Would you go away, please?” Her words bounced in her throat as she lopped along the sand, avoiding the level trail.
He watched her without worrying about negotiating his own steps on the path. “Do you run this course every day?” He waited for a response, received none. “You run well in the sand.”
The sun made her sweaty skin itch, and she longed for a shower.
“Even under mental and emotional stress, her endurance is acceptable.” Was he talking to himself now? “Above average.”
She tried to cover her ears, but couldn’t run like that, so she jerked to a stop.
And he stopped.
After a moment to calm her breath, she stepped onto the trail, closer to him, and filled her lungs.
He spoke first. “You’ll be screaming at a dog.”
“GO AWAY!”
Distant observers stared as she expected they would, but clearly they were staring at Crazy Connie the Cunt.
“Okay.” She surrendered. “What? What is it? You want to go out with me? Have some coffee somewhere? Go to a movie? Do something fun? Hmm?” Doing her best to bury the terror welling in her stomach, she leveled her gaze and delivered her decree. “No.”
Something in his stance made her want to drop to her knees and take him in her mouth, but she shook her head, which was spinning anyway. When he spoke his voice sounded intimate, yet commanding. “You keep your true self hidden deep.”
He hadn’t moved an inch, yet he was closer. She could taste him in her mouth, the sensation so clear on her tongue she swallowed to fight it off. “Like you know what you’re talking about.”
Face to face by mere inches, his eyes glistened so vibrantly they scared her. “You are honest and bright, but you pretend much. Yet you have strength and agility. Perhaps enough.” His eyes burrowed into hers. “For your sake.”
Through her sudden sleepiness, she bit back. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Sunlight changed around her until she forgot about the beach and the jogging path. She forgot about the warnings from her mother and friends about strange men. She forgot about her terror. She forgot about everything except this intense sense of being enveloped by some grand liquid tent, a purring cape of a tent, comforting yet thrilling, with him at the center and her next to him, as naked as he, their bodies together, pressing closer and tighter until she succumbed to the purr, the rumbling drone cupping her clitoris and slipping in like a sly finger, opening inside her, purring and blossoming inside her, around her, purring until she burst and burst again, and his face right there above her, glowing above her, and his words unspoken, yet heard through the purr, touching her as the purring touched her.
“I am Zoot.”
THREE
THAT nap felt great. Just what she needed after a long, hot bubble bath. Connie snuggled deeper into the warm sheets, her bare skin tingling against the crisp fabric, faintly recalling a blinding orgasm too real to have been a dream. It twisted her insides like a pretzel around the finger of some giant, throbbing dragon. A dragon she’d swear had swallowed her up and flown away with her. When was that?
When was that?
Strange music filtered through the bed covers, echoing up from some distant well. It sounded remotely classical, Beethoven performed by a jazz ensemble.
Pulling the covers aside, she sat up prepared to shout at her neighbors to give it a rest, but she didn’t want to open her eyes and ruin the fragile tranquility balanced just behind her brow. So she sighed, hoping it would send the signal like a missile, a gentle missile, to blast their stereo to fucking dust. Quietly.
“Good morning.”
Tranquility shattered like glass in her chest as Connie backpedaled from the voice and opened her eyes to an immense room with an immense window and an immense, if mellow sun on the horizon — an unfamiliar sun — toasting the stone walls in its rising or setting, she didn’t know which. “Where am I?” Unable to hide the panic twisting her trembling chin, she brought the sheets up and covered her mouth.
“Zoot’s castle.” A young woman stood near a tall, wooden door, a hint of flesh peeking through the long slit in her rust-brown skirt. Her fair, coffee-bronze hair seemed rinsed with sunlight and her face, a sweet, heart-shaped face with disarming eyes, smiled placidly. Her hands folded together formally at her waist suggested she had been waiting like that for some time.
“Castle?” Connie spoke the word as though it tasted bad. She scrutinized the room disdainfully, a difficult task, considering it reeked of warmth and sensuality, scented with something between roses and spice. Her bed was not much more than an enormous mattress, elevated not by a frame but by its own thickness, nearly three feet deep. Three more such mattresses occupied the room, with plenty of space left over. Enough for clothes cabinets and make-up desks with ornate mirrors. Except for the octagonal shape of the chamber, it reminded her of a lush dormitory room.
On the one hand, it was very much castle-like, with its carved stone walls and tile floor, its heavy, wood framed window and stained glass panels, opened to reveal the sun resting on a wine-colored ocean, a little lower now, so she knew the sun was setting. On the other hand, modern buttons and switches and lamps adorned the walls. To her left was a smaller, more discrete door, most likely the bathroom. Massive paintings of landscapes only vaguely familiar decorated the walls. Her appraisal brought her back to the girl standing patiently near the large door. “Who are you?”
Accepting the question as an invitation, the girl ambled closer to the bed. “My name is Dorsa.” She gestured to a bedside table and a tray with fruit, bread and a glass of some pale reddish liquid. “In case you’re hungry or thirsty—”
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Fuck?”
“What am I doing here?”
Dorsa accepted the question sheepishly, keeping her hands folded at her waist. “You’ve been chosen.”
“Chosen?” Asking more questions seemed only to validate her presence there, so Connie tossed the blankets aside and stood up, only to discover her legs barely held her. “I’m outa here. Where are my clothes? Get me my clothes.”
Dorsa darted around the bed to help. “Careful.”
“Just get my clothes, damn it.”
“In the first place,” Dorsa stopped, but not obediently, “I am not your servant.” Her eyes, though beguiling, held Connie with a subtle fire. “Second, clothes don’t come through with the body. I don’t know what happens to them. Nobody does.”
“Woah, woah, woah.” Connie’s legs finally gave, and she sat awkwardly on the edge of the mattress. “What do you mean ‘come through’? What the fuck is going on here?” Not enough, she needed more. “YOU CAN’T KIDNAP ME.” Still not enough, so she let it all out. “GET ME OUT OF HERE I’M GOING FUCKING CRAZY!” Much better, but now she was cold. “Why am I shaking? What’s happening?”
“It happens to everyone. Get back in bed.” Dorsa held the covers while Connie rolled back into the comfort of the mattress. “It happened to me. You’re not alone.”
“I don’t care. I want to go home.” Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.
“It’ll go away in a few minutes.”
“Jesus Christ, this isn’t happening.”
Dorsa looked to the door, then back to Connie. “If I give you something to help, do you promise not to tell?”
“What is it?” Her bones were ice.
“Promise not to tell.”
“Tell who?”
“Anyone.”
A shiver snaked up her spine. “Fine, fine. What is it, a hot water bottle?”
“Better.” Dorsa dashed to a mattress farthest away and dug into the lump of bed clothes, then hustled back, carrying something Connie couldn’t see until her covers lifted and Dorsa set it deep under the sheets. At first, Connie thought it was a wound up towel, tied tightly at the ends, but when she took it in her hands she instantly recognized its intent, if not its material, which was cloth, but smooth as skin, and tight and solid and heavy.
“A fucking dildo?” Appalled that her prayer of escape had been answered with a sex toy, she nonetheless appreciated the craftsmanship. “I’m freezing to death and you want me to bang myself with a fucking dildo?”
“Quiet. Please.” Dorsa lay down on the bed above the covers. “Put it between your legs.”
“I know how to use one, sweetie.” Connie’s chilled teeth put extra Ts in ‘sweetie’.
“When I came through I didn’t have one.” Dorsa put an arm around Connie and rubbed her shoulders for warmth. “I had to use my pillow.” The sun dropped lower, giving the room a violet shine. “I made it myself. I’ll show you how, if you want to make your own. Only, don’t tell, please.”
“I don’t plan on being here that long.” She had to admit it felt right. In some ways better than the real thing. Larger, anyway. At least, larger than the ones she had known. A frosty shiver betrayed her reluctance to use it.
“Just put it between your legs. You don’t have to put it inside. Just rub yourself. I’ll leave.”
“No.” Connie didn’t believe she said that. Yet, suddenly she feared being alone.
Dorsa let her head rest on the pillow, facing Connie, but she kept her eyes down. “All right.” She continued to stroke Connie’s shoulder through the bed covers, keeping her eyes averted.
After a moment of consideration, Connie discovered she had nestled the dildo between her breasts, and it felt soothing and exciting. She glanced shyly at Dorsa, who kept her eyes closed and her hand stroking Connie’s shoulder. The top button on her blouse was unbuttoned and Connie couldn’t help but watch the girl’s young cleavage swell and relax with every breath. Holding tight to the dildo, Connie closed her eyes and repeated to herself, I like men, I like men, I like men.
She pressed the hardness against her chest, then down, to her tummy, and already the chills abated. When she shoved it across her stomach to her thighs, she wondered which was more seducing, the welcomed warmth or this blessing in her fists.
She could have stopped right there. The glaciers flowing through her blood had thawed, the muscle in her neck had stopped aching. Another glance at Dorsa, and the slit in the girl’s skirt had fallen open, exposing her leg up to the hip.
As though with a mind of its own, the dildo caressed her thighs, bringing more than warmth to Connie’s legs, which parted. “Mmm.” And again she couldn’t believe she was reacting this way. She’d been kidnapped, for Christ’s sake, but that aroma, roses or spice or was it the girl? Was it Dorsa?
The tip of the dildo sniffed through her pubic hair and found the anxious divide, sultry and steaming and eager and this has gone too far, too far, too far, but, oh, my lord, I’ve never done this with a girl watching me.
She edged the bulbous head of the dildo along her clit and couldn’t prevent her hips from leaning into it, rocking the mattress and Dorsa, but she didn’t care now, it was too late. She stretched her legs and her back and the rainbow gleamed between her thighs, sparkling with warm stars up between her thighs until she had to push it in, had to, she just had to jam it up there for that blinding gush, that crippling, blinding gush of bliss.
The first convulsion yanked her head back with a grunt and she saw Dorsa staring back, lips parted, eyes burning, arms pulling now, embracing Connie protectively. The next convulsion whipped her forward, bringing her face into Dorsa’s cleavage, bare and smooth and hot on her cheeks, hot and sweet and scented of roses and sweat. “OH!” How could she not yell? How could she contain these endless seizures, hips bucking, legs thrashing, lips smearing these breasts, breath wheezing and whining? Hold me, hold me, hold me . . .
Hold me.
How many sunsets had passed? How many summers and winters and centuries witnessed her surrender in the arms of this child? Her chin felt wet, and her face was still buried in Dorsa’s cleavage, shining with saliva. She pulled away self-consciously. “I’m sorry.”
She rolled onto her back and sighed to the ceiling, the room darker now, lit dimly by two moons high in the window.
“This is a nightmare.” Connie set the homemade dildo on the covers, still tight in her grip. “A fucking nightmare.”
“I felt that way, once.” Dorsa gently took the dildo from Connie and swiftly returned it to her own bed.
Connie looked out the window and pointed. “Oh my god, there’s two moons out there.”
Dorsa returned and sat on the edge, carefully keeping her hands to herself. “There’ll be another along soon.” She reached out to touch Connie’s hand, thought better of it and put her hands back in her lap. “Are you feeling better now?”
“I don’t know. This is too fucking weird.”
“I don’t know that word you keep using. Fuck?”
The large wooden door opened, splitting the room up the middle with a beam of light and letting in two women, both blonde, both older than Dorsa, and both built like the proverbial shit-house. Dressed almost exactly like Dorsa, they hesitated at the door. The first one said, “Okay to come in, Honeydew?”
Dorsa stood and made introductions. The taller blonde was Avalia, the other one Ul’asha, a name she claimed translated as “Child of the Sun God” where she came from. Everyone had to take her word for it, since none of them had ever been there.
The three women kept the room dark, settled on Connie’s bed and munched fruit from the bedside tray. Avalia had overheard Zoot tell Metriss he planned to be consulting with the physician for the rest of the night.
Dorsa looked at Connie. “The physician is for you. He healed your injuries.”
Connie flung up the sheet and bent her restored knee up to her face. “Holy shit.” Her elbow? Same. “Who is this guy, Zoot?”
The women looked at each other helplessly and shrugged, then Ul’asha spoke. “We don’t know much more about him than you do.” After a thoughtful pause, she added, “But Dorsa knows him better than the rest.”
“I only . . .” A pause to acknowledge the pointlessness of denial. “I pursue him.”
Connie nodded. Okay. “Doe he ‘pursue’ you?”
Dorsa nodded back. “Sometimes.”
“So, what is this place? A castle, I know. But where? Why?”
Again with the helpless shrugs. “We all came as you did.” Avalia wiggled up and rested her back alongside Connie, but without sexual intent. “From other worlds. None of us knew this was possible. One day, we’re with our families or shopping or swimming or working, and then he shows up with that beautiful body and the next thing you know you’re sliding down the longest tongue in the universe and nothing is the same again.”
“And the point?”
Ul’asha let her knees slide off the mattress, keeping her chest on, almost as though in prayer. “Sex.”
“Sex? Like, what, an intergalactic whorehouse?”
The little blonde shook her head. “More like a harem.”
In spite of herself, Connie raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You’re here to serve him? Sexually? All of you?”
Nodding heads all the way around.
“How many?”
“Never counted.” Ul’asha looked at the other two. “Maybe two hundred?”
“More,” Dorsa offered.
“Wow.” The word stamina came to mind, then she thought of something else. “Has anyone ever escaped?”
Silence.
“I’ll take that as a no.” From the tray she picked something which remotely resembled a strawberry. “Well, gals, then I guess I’ll have to be the first.”
“Please don’t.” Dorsa spoke without looking at her.
Connie stared at the young girl, recalling the taste of her breasts. “Why not?”
“Dorsa pursues women, too,” Avalia said.
“That’s not it.” Dorsa stood and walked to the window. “Anyway, all of us do, at one time or another.”
Avalia shrugged, yeah, so what.
Dorsa sat on a stool and looked down at the ocean. “I don’t want him to . . . He’ll punish you.”
“If he catches me.”
“I’m not worried about you.” She spun to face the group. “I don’t like it when he does hurtful things. He doesn’t like it.”
“Oh, please,” Avalia peeled her slippers off and tossed them to her own bed. “Like he didn’t get off hanging me out over that cliff.”
“You disobeyed him.”
“I cried when he shoved that big cock of his up my ass.”
“He doesn’t like tears.”
“He’s mean.”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Dorsa walked up to Connie. “Don’t make him do mean things. It’s not so bad here.”
Connie sat up and stared Dorsa straight in the eyes. “Dorsa, I don’t know what kind of life you had, but I had a pretty good one. So I dated a few jerks. At least I was free to try. Maybe I can’t get back there, but that doesn’t mean I have to stay here.” She settled back against the wall, next to Avalia. “No offense, ladies, but I will not join your ranks.”
Dorsa closed her eyes. “You weren’t meant to.”
“What?” Avalia sat forward, joined by Ul’asha.
“Dorsa,” Connie waited patiently for the girl to open her eyes. “Did this guy Zoot tell you something?”
She shook her head and sighed. “He didn’t have to. Look.” She stood up and flicked on a light. “No clothes. No skirt and blouse and slippers.”
Avalia and Ul’asha peeked over the bed, then glanced at each other.
Dorsa opened the cabinet drawers next to Connie’s bed. “Have you ever known him not to have a new girl’s wardrobe fully prepared before he brought her in?”
Avalia leaned back again. “He forgot.”
“He doesn’t forget. And he hasn’t been in to see her for two days.”
“I was out for two days?” Connie reeled. She didn’t like the looks from Avalia and Ul’asha. Worried looks. “Well, what else does he need women for? Cooking? Cleaning? Laundry?”
Dorsa just shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
FOUR
IN spite of her anxiety, Connie slept soundly for three hours. Perhaps it was the pale red liquid she had assumed was juice. It certainly didn’t taste like any wine she’d had before. Maybe it had been drugged. She didn’t feel drugged. She hated to admit it, but she felt fine. Better than fine. If she didn’t have to use the bathroom so badly, she would have stayed in bed and watched for that third moon to come by the window again.
Sitting on the toilet, which resembled toilets as she knew them closely enough, except this one wasn’t made from porcelain or metal but some kind of cross between stone and plastic, she thought about her dilemma. Buried under her anxiety and anger a sense of unaccountable calm sat poised to swallow her every fear, and it bothered her. Following those chills, a part of her memory seemed . . . distant. Like when you’re in a dream and, of course, you don’t know you’re dreaming. Her memory was there, naturally, but she had to concentrate to access it. Not much, but enough to be concerned about.
Was it going to get worse? Dorsa and the others didn’t mention it, and they seemed to recall enough of their pasts. How long had they been here? Must remember to ask.
Leaving the bathroom, which was as lush as she would have expected, with an opulent tub/shower and vanity, no window and plenty of female toiletries, she returned to her room and the sound of three snoring women.
They had talked for hours about this guy Zoot, how no one knew how he obtained his supplies or provided energy to the castle or, indeed, how large the castle was, since none of them except Dorsa had ventured out to investigate, and even she had not discovered its limits. Was he wealthy? Politically powerful? The word “sorcerer” seemed appropriate, if incomplete. To say they were all under his spell seemed satisfying, yet Connie wondered how much could be attributed to him, and how much to the nature of their environment.
Connie strolled around the room, looking for something to give her insight to her condition, finding none. When she came to the door and tested it, she was surprised it opened. No alarms. No guards to admonish her. What would stop her from leaving?
Her nakedness, for one thing, but that was easy to remedy. She stole a sheet from her bed and wrapped it toga-style around her body. Easing quietly through the door, she suspected her captor probably didn’t care about wandering women if, ultimately, they were all trapped on an island, and his confidence that she couldn’t escape revived her anxiety.
What would he do if she decided to cause trouble? So far, only Avalia had mentioned discipline, in the form of hanging her over a cliff. Again, the lack of patrolling guards or security cameras bothered her.
For a castle — the traditionally cold and dank stone fortress she thought all castles were — this one felt comfortable, warm and cozy, if admittedly foreboding and dark as well.
Outside her room she found herself on a deep, wooden landing which curved out, following the octagonal shape of a much larger structure. To her right, three of the eight walls were enormous glass windows, allowing her a breathtaking view of the ocean and sky, giving her, if only briefly, a sense of freedom. Its purpose must be to counter the unavoidable press of claustrophobia that would otherwise overcome the women.
She walked the landing clockwise and counted fifteen doors, including her own, three doors on each of the remaining five walls. Above her landing she could see five more and a ceiling shrouded in shadow.
As she reached the staircases, one leading up to the next level and one down, she heard the whimper, a painfully ecstatic kind of whimper echoing faintly from the room below the railing, and she knew that sound. She’d heard it often from the stewies she had roomed with during her years of flying. Hell, she’d made that sound.
Connie took one step down the staircase and peeked over the banister. From this height the mattress in the center of the grand hall should have appeared small. It should have been not much more than a postage stamp in the center of a manila envelope.
In the first place, it was an octagon, its sides parallel to the corresponding angles of the walls. Much like the mattresses in her room, it appeared to have no frame, which made its size seem even more incredible, at least sixty feet wide.
But size alone wasn’t what impressed Connie. Its substance seemed to be moving, breathing. Mounds of colorful quilts and scarves had been pushed to the rim of the huge cushion, exposing a satiny surface shimmering with waves in the moonlight. No ordinary water bed, though. This bed had muscles. And sprawled everywhere on the mattress, overlapping one another, entwined with one another, tangled and meshed and woven together, dozens of naked women writhed on the cushion, this undulating mattress which did more than merely support their bodies, it massaged them, caressed them, soothed and excited them.
And dead center, wrestling over the heart of this living bed, a couple. Again, the stabbing whimper, from the only person making a sound: the woman under Zoot. None of the others, though engrossed in their own obvious pleasures, made any noise.
As Connie moved down the stairs she seemed to enter a layer of gentle music, the music she had heard earlier that day, but this time much softer and palpable, a lagoon of music she descended into with an instinctive suck of air.
Keeping close to the windows, she looked down at the cliffs below and was reminded of Avalia. The castle must be resting ridiculously high on the island. At the base of the steps she came to an area filled with dining tables and she turned to the center of the room.
Although standing in plain sight of everyone on the mattress, including Zoot, no one acknowledged her and she wondered if she stood a chance of fleeing while he was distracted, if indeed he was.
Three high-arched passages occupied three of the five walls, one directly opposite the windows and two at perpendicular angles. She continued to circle the bed at a distance, contemplating her options.
On each of the angled walls between the passages a grand, plush fireplace glowed with ruby hot coals.