I See a Red Door

She paced slowly, methodically, back and forth like a tigress behind bars in a too-small cage. She smoked, and he hated that, but it looked right at the moment, the smoke curling from her ruby lips, sifting through her raven black hair, like flour through a sieve. She loved black it seemed, as he had seen her in nothing else. The outer garments were not present right now though, and she strutted in her black leather corset within which her breasts resisted with their every ounce of incredible being. Her high heels forced her hips forward with every step and she hummed a vaguely familiar but indiscernible song.

He watched her breathlessly as best he could, the white of her thighs between the corset and the stockings, the incredibly long silver ear-rings trimmed with black, the black eye shadow against her white face. Probably Goth at one time, he thought, but her age now, combined with the simplicity of her clothing and make-up choices, simply made her appear stunning, with sharp menacing edges, and erotic, sensual curves and shadows.

She had read him from the start. When they met at the Art Charity Function, they had both been observing a local artist's splash of colors on a canvas named "Bouquet". The colors were intense and varied, bleak-blues, ruby-reds, grass-greens.

"I don't like it," she said rather suddenly, without taking her eyes off the painting. Her breath of mint wafted his way and had an earthy tobacco edge.

Although his tux seemed to hold him rigid, he turned enough to look at her and said, "I like the colors."

She moved her eyes, but not her head, toward his gaze and flicked her observation of him from knees to head with precise and expert nonchalance. Her lithe and aristocratic body was swathed and hugged by a clingy black dress, the classic "little black dress" that fashion magazines say never goes out of style. She stood in apparent comfort in six-inch black stilettos, her skin was white at her cleavage where his eyes rested now. She was ivory and ebony and stunning.

"Are you gay?" she said suddenly, "This artist is. Too much color."

Odd thing to say, equating gayness with color. He had not taken his eyes off her, could not. "How else do you paint flowers?" he said.

"Just don't paint flowers. I like black." Then her head turned toward him and she asked again, "Are you gay then? I assume you are because you didn't answer."

He couldn't help it. He blushed and responded, "I am not gay; I'm straight, maybe a bit crooked, but not gay. I'm sexual." Why the hell did he say that, he wondered? The blush stayed with him and he wavered in eye contact. That was when she read him. She smiled.

"I see. Interesting response. You should get me a drink, a glass of wine, an oaky Chardonnay perhaps. My name is Alena." And she reached out her long arm toward him.

He wasn't sure what she wanted to do, but he took her hand and instinctively put it to his lips, and he bowed at the hip. Again, he felt silly, and he jerked his hand away while saying, "My name's Neil, Neil Webber."

She giggled slightly then and said, "Well Neil, I need a smoke desperately. Get me a glass of wine and bring it to the outside mezzanine just over there. I'll be there with all my friends." She didn't say please.

Neil strode away with as much confidence as he could muster, stiff in his penguin suit, wanting desperately to be alone with her, not with "all of her friends". With a glass of Chardonnay in one hand and a Shiraz in the other he walked over to where she had pointed and momentarily became confused, as there appeared to be no door to the outside, and when he looked outside to the deck there was no one there. Then he spotted the glass door and ventured out, expecting to be disappointed. She would not be there; she would have attached herself to someone else more interesting already and forgotten him. His insecurity always reared its ugly head when he met a fox.

The evening was cool, but not unpleasant, and the sun had been gone for an hour. Even if she was not there, it was good to get away from the stuffiness of the function. Besides, he now had two glasses of wine, and that couldn't be a bad thing. Then he smelled smoke and saw her at the far west corner of the deck, leaning on the rail, staring at the faint outline of the mountains. She was alone. He paused in momentary fear.

"Alena, there you are. Where are your friends?" He said as he brought her the wine.

She accepted the wine and laughed, "That was just a sarcastic euphemism for the fact that I'm here alone. How about you?"

"Same," he said, sipping his wine, "I hate these things really, but it's for a good cause I guess." Neil stared west as well, as the moon was beginning to illuminate the snowy, high altitude slopes. He smelled her perfume now. No, it wasn't perfume; it was...what was it? She turned to him then and he heard a distinct creak of, what was it? Then it hit him; she was wearing leather somewhere, thick leather. That was the smell, as he put it all together.

"So, what do you do Neil?"

He stared at her face, white in the night, intriguing and a bit frightening...an enigma of sorts. "I...I...I'm a geologist," he stammered, "I find oil and gas. You know, I'm one of the bad guys polluting the earth." Jesus, he was having a hard time remaining dignified.

She smiled at him and tilted her head, suggesting she was smiling at his periodic bashfulness and finding it cute and endearing. "So, you're sexual, you say. I'm looking for someone tonight. I think you are it. You're kinky and submissive aren't you?"

Without thinking, Neil raised his glass and took two gulps of wine, not sips, full gulps. How did this woman cause him to betray himself so easily?

He was now in full verbal retreat, "Jesus, you are direct aren't you? I, yes, well, no, not...shit! Listen, this doesn't feel right. I should go inside."

She grabbed him by the arm then and pulled him towards her, "Put your arms around me and say this doesn't feel right."

His hand timidly touched her tiny waist and then he embraced her. He felt the corset now, and her musk wafted over him. They kissed. They drank more than one glass of wine. They talked. He shared his deepest secrets with her. She shared none with him. She had no secrets; she wore hers like clothes for all to see all the time.

So here he was now, at her home, and he had allowed her certain, umm, discretions. When she paced too far to the left or the right, he had to give up staring at her. He was restrained. That was putting it mildly. He was strapped face-down to what could partly be described as a medical operating table, but the end where his feet were held was splayed outward and downward into a "Y" shape exposing him shamefully. His head was hanging over the other end of the table, and he was getting tired of holding it up to follow her beauty. He was helpless and he allowed his head to slump.

He had allowed her to completely dominate him from the moment they entered her home. He didn't know why; he just did. She was good. She was very, very good, and he did whatever she said. The sting of her crop reinforced her demands. The most embarrassing part of this whole scene was that she dressed him in a bra and panties, with a garter belt and stockings. She had painted his face and called him her whore. And he allowed it. Now, with the last click of the lock he was officially helpless. And it was too late to be manly.

Alena slowed her pace in front of him. "Look at me, "she commanded. She laughed now, a deliberate humiliating laugh. "So you say you aren't gay, huh? You're lying there helpless with women's clothes on and make-up. So, you must be gay, or maybe you're a woman. Are you gay, huh?" And she snapped the crop on the back of his legs, just below his buttocks. The question required an answer.

"Ow! No I am not gay."

"I see. Okay, that only leaves one alternative then, doesn't it? You're a woman, and you do look it, don't you? I'm going to use you like a woman now. Say goodbye to your manhood, my little pick-up."

Alarmed now, really for the first time, Neil said, "Wait a minute Alena; I don't like the sound of that. What are you going to do?"

She was out of his sight now, and she didn't answer, at least not right away. He heard "clinks" and rustlings behind him for a few minutes and then she reappeared.

He started squirming in futility and yelling, "No! No way. That's NOT going to happen. Alena, no!"

"What? A girl that doesn't want to be fucked? You poor thing! Let me show you what you've been missing then." And she strode behind him while lubricating the strap-on.

He yelled then, angry, shamed. He was being raped, and he had allowed it to happen. "I won't let you do this; I just won't," he screamed, "Stop it! No, oh no, Jesus...stop!"

And she did. Stop, that is. Then he heard more rustling in the background, and he was relieved that she was removing the strap-on. Without warning her hand reached around from behind and pinched his nose so that his mouth stayed open to breathe. The penis shaped gag was pushed in to the back of his mouth immediately and locked in place with a strap around the back of his head.

She came around in front of him then, grabbed his hair and pulled his head up so that she stared into his muted face, "Now you will be sucking cock while I fuck you." And she disappeared again.

He tried to protest but now it was without voice and without hope. All he could muster were deep guttural grunts, as he tried to resist the pressure of the dildo on his anal muscles. She was relentless, and without a hint or prediction of release, the shaft plunged deeply into him and she stopped, allowing him to treasure the sensation of the invasion.

She knew he would like it. They all did. Once the initial pain was over, they all succumbed to pleasure. She loved that feeling, that feeling of total dominance. The return pressure of the strap-on made her wet and anxious to continue, but she waited, gloating in her power.

He waited; the shock now over, and he felt a fullness, one he had never felt before, as he lay there helpless and taken. Then she started, slowly at first, building in rhythm and intensity. She started to moan in delight. With panic he started to realize that the pounding and rubbing on his prostate was causing him pleasure as well. He was aroused again and he couldn't help himself. This could not be happening, he thought. But it was.

She came multiple times and groaned and screamed while he tried to respond within his trussed state. Then she collapsed on his back and reached down for his cock and worked it while she worked the strap-on. She went slowly. She had things to say.

"You like the cock in your mouth don't you sweetie? This feels good doesn't it girlie? Do you want to cum now? Like a girl? Hmm? Ah, yes, you like it. You can't resist me you know. Your life is about to change. Your whole perception of sex is about to change baby."

He wanted to cum so badly, but in order to do so, it was in combination with being sodomized and sucking a penis shaped dildo. The conflict was complex and frightening. If he could have talked he would have said, "No, please, no, yes, oh yes, noo, oh God!"

He came with an intensity he had never felt before. It was like an intense buildup followed by a release of tension, in turn followed by a rush of euphoria screaming from his inside outward.

Then the guilt. He was crying. He was not gay, but he had been taken, dressed like a woman, like his perception of a gay man.

Alena smiled in triumph as she slipped the dildo out of him. "Ah, now that was good. I'm going to go get some more wine sweetie. Don't go away. Oh, and here's a book mark, so I don't forget where I left off." And she shoved a very large butt plug into him while his head shot up in shock. His sphincter held it firm.

She walked away singing her favorite Stones song, "I see a red door and I want it painted black, No colors anymore I want them to turn black..."

He laid there silently sucking the gag, tear tracks on his cheeks, immobile by design and waited for her to take him again. He moaned as he realized he was looking forward to it.

She was right. This changed everything.