Self Help Destruction

My first submission of erotic literature. More will follow, should reception be positive.

For Claire.

Self Destruction. That's what I wanted. Release from being wound too tight; like a coiled spring, like a tensed muscle. I just wanted freedom. To let go, to breathe deep and long. I wanted to cry wet thick hot tears. I wanted to scream. I wanted agony. Pain releases us, it purifies us. For those few moments in our lives when we are truly in pain, nothing else in the world matters. For that infinitesimal percentage of our existence, we become animals again. Cro-Magnon Men, Self-centered, inconsiderate, egocentric little creatures. We become a world of one. One creature and their pain, wondering when it will end but secretly hoping it won't, because for those short intense little moments we are truly alive.

The old saying goes that that our body is a temple. I want mine to be in ruins. Like those Sun-God monuments lost deep in the jungle. A shrine to some lost forgotten deity, worshiped by a long dead tribe. Merely a gap-toothed stone foundation; fallen pillars, green moss-covered, weathered, rounded, cracked misshapen boulders. A fallen headless idol worn nearly unrecognizable, laying across a cobbled floor split by overgrowth and little burrowing animals. If my body's a temple then I wanted to be reduced to rubble, and wasn't going to get there sitting in a Starbucks sipping a five dollar latte.

I'm a coward, though it certainly doesn't seem it at first. I have an important job. I hold the respect of my subordinates, I make hard & fast decisions all day; managing other people's finances with a calm and straightforward manner, never hesitating, never worrying, never second-guessing. I hate my work, but I go about it like it is my passion. I am in control, and I loathe it. More and more often I catch myself becoming distracted. Looking at internet porn on the job. Reading erotic literature over my bag lunch at the parkbench in front of my office. Staring without shame at every tight-skirt-clad executive assistant who strides past me in her high heels and her perfect makeup and her no-nonsense hairdo. Never do I speak to them, never do they speak to me. Just a blank smile or an impersonal nod.

Walking back to the pay lot where I park my car, a block or so from the office, I don't remember exactly what motivated me or what crossed my mind, but I decided to leave the car and to keep walking, at least for another block or so. The night was warm, the streets were empty, it was late, I was tired, and I simply couldn't face the possibility of climbing into my car. That stuffy little glass and steel coffin, lined with leather and plastic and carpet, the recycled filtered air from the A/C, the dull drone of the motor, the blank stare of the dials on the dash. I simply couldn't face it again, not yet. So I walked past the car, and on into the city.

Eventually my calves hurt and I began to worry about the trip back to the parking lot, so I decided to turn back. I spun on my heel, braced for the journey in the opposite direction, and then a glimmer of amber light caught my eye. Down a short alley, off from the main street, a small sign; "Solaris." A bar. Or a night club, a dance club. The little yellow sign in the shape of a tribal sun had just the one word. Solaris. I approached. The door was steel, painted dark brown. A deep throbbing bass beat from behind. I pulled the handle, a thick waft of warm air poured out, carrying the scent of a thousand brands of perfume, cigarettes, cloves, hash, sweat, and alcohol. I walked in, found myself submerged in a deep red and orange light, just enough to see the immediate area around me, but darkness and haze hid the walls and ceiling Giving it a sense of infinite space. The whole room seemed ethereal; a whole plane of sensual throbbing music, writhing bodies on the dance floor, small round tables with packs of beautiful women and beautiful men, engaged in conversation- or whatever; lips to ears, lips to lips. Those who weren't engrossed with one another cast their lusty eyes toward the dance floor, animals overtly scanning for carnal prey. Nobody was pretending that this place was anything less than a hunting ground. There was something refreshing about the honesty in that. Honesty like that can be intimidating, terrifying.

And before I'd even realized, I had been spotted, tracked, separated from the herd, chased, and brought down. She'd spotted me standing there, in my white buttoned-down cotton shirt and silk tie and pleated trousers and alligator shoes. I stood like an idiotic little beacon in that leather, vinyl, and fishnet crowd. I could feel her stare, even in the din and the smoke and the dance club lights, I could sense her eyes on me. I scanned the club for the source of this notion that I was being watched & found myself staring back at the predator. As a rule, I never approach women. I'm a flight animal, not a fight animal. I was ready to leave, I wanted to leave. I had to get out of there. All I needed to do at that moment was to walk right back out that door. She knew it, too. She simply shook her head "no" and then tilted her head to the empty chair at her table. And just like that, walked over and sat down.

We hardly spoke. A few words, shared our names, made pleasantries, mild flirtations. We ordered drinks. Gin Martini, up, with an olive. We stared, her hand on top of mine on the table, her red-red painted nails scratching little patterns into the back of my hand. In the club's meager light her skin looked like porcelain; flawless, smooth, impossibly white. Thick red hair in loose curls rolling down to bare shoulders, a strapless abyssal-black dress. Glossy candy-red lips, full, firm, perfect.

We drank. Our eyes hardly left one another's; as if I were afraid to look away, for fear the other would take advantage and attack. No, not as if. I actually was mortified. She wasn't. She knew she had me. She leaned in to say something to me, right into my ear, the music was loud and this is the only way, besides shouting, that two people could communicate in a place like this. As she leaned in, so close I could feel her breath on me. I expected a thank you; good night, thanks for the drink but I really must get going, work in the morning, you understand, it was nice meeting you. Instead, she asked simply "I know what I need. Do you?" I felt like a cannon ball had been dropped on my chest. How does one reply to a question that? Um. Yes, I think so. "Then let's go."

I followed her out of the club and back into the alley. She walked with purpose; long hard strides. Her high-heels making a Tok Tok Tok sound across the pavement. I followed, watching her ass bob left to right in that tight black dress. Her legs long and smooth, the single black stripe of the seam of her nylons perfectly straight. She glanced back over her shoulder. I hurried to catch up beside her. We crossed the street, down another alley to the next block, through a paved park of public art, across another street and into the glass lobby of a high-rise apartment building. Classy.

Into the elevator and the doors closed. I stood at the back, she stood in front of me, watching me in the reflection on the polished aluminum doors. Under the bright lights of the elevator I was finally able to take in the finer details of this magnificent specimen of a woman. A lace-work of pink freckles dappled across her pale shoulders. Her makeup: flawless. Her hair: perfection. Her dress: not a stitch out of place, hugging her curvaceous figure as if sewn specifically for her. I don't know if was the rise of the elevator or simply nervousness, but I felt a weight in my stomach as if I-- and before I could finish my thought, she was on me.

She spun around and slammed her body against mine with enough force to drive me into the back wall. Her lips on mine, her hands on my chest, her hip dug into mine, her knee sliding up my inner thigh. Our lips parted and her tongue darted into my mouth, flicking at mine, and out. My tongue reflexively chased hers back into her mouth, and her teeth clamped down. She yanked her head back, scraping her teeth the length of my tongue until the tip popped out and her jaw snapped shut. She let out just the slightest growl, teeth clenched and bared, I jerked my own head back from her as far as I could, which wasn't but an inch- being pinned against the wall. I only succeeded in rapping the back of my skull into it. Ow.

She leaned in further, nibbled on my chin, ran her tongue up my jawline and to my ear, wriggled it around the lobe and licked, making smaller ans smaller circles around my fear. Chills shot up my spine, goosebumps popped across my neck. She pressed her body into my right side, wrapped her arm around my shoulders, her hand slid around and over my throat, gripped and pressed. I couldn't breathe. She whispered: "I get off on pain..." Hot breath across my wet ear. I felt her other hand making its way down toward my hardening cock. Down over my stomach, past my belt, resting on top of the growing bulge in my pants. She squeezed, hard. "...giving it. I get off by hurting men, inflicting... terrible pain. It makes me--" and the elevator chimed. Ding. Our stop. Her floor. She released my neck and manhood, stepped back, turned, and the doors opened. She stepped out. I was frozen in place, gasping for air. She leaned forward and whispered. "If you're sill sure of what you want, come along." And she proceeded down the hall.

Risk assessment. What did she mean by terrible pain? Was it worth it to find out? Would I regret if I went? Would I even live to regret it? How often does a chance like this come along; what are the chances that a woman as beautiful would ever invite me into her world again? She'd nearly bit my tongue off, strangled me, and did I even know her name? Claire. Her name was Claire, She told me at the bar. She was walking away. I'm still not moving. Elevator doors closing. Now or never. I stepped into the hall & followed.

I sprinted to catch up, but something in her body language told me to stay back a few paces. She didn't look back, did she even know if I'd followed? The soft carpet absorbed our footsteps. Dead silent in this hall, All I could hear was my own heart pounding away in my head. My imagination; who can hear their own heartbeat? Was I really that nervous? She slipped a keychain from her purse & stopped at her door. Turned the lock, swung it open. My last chance to bail out. She walked in, left the door open behind her. I followed in, closed the door. She reached past me & turned the deadbolt. That victorious little twist of her wrist spoke volumes. What had I gotten myself into?

"Take off your tie." It wasn't exactly an order, not a command. A request, maybe. The way she said it made me want to pull it off, as if doing so would please her, and pleasing her would be good for me. I tugged the knot to loosen it. "Not all the way undone, let me." she grasped the loosened knot, slid it down, until the loop was wide enough to lift the tie over my head, and removed it. She put it over her own head, lifted her hair through it, let it lay loose around her neck. Her long, elegant, slightly freckled neck. The tie draped over the pale fleshy tops of her breasts and hung down between, against the black dress. Burgundy tie, black dress, alabaster skin, red hair, pink freckles, and she made it look like that tie belonged on her, as if it were the highest fashion; to wear a fifty dollar tie with a who-knows-how-expensive designer dress. She slid open the frosted glass door of the coat closet and dropped her purse inside, then bent over to open a shoebox on the closet floor. Bending like that made her dress ride up, past the tops of her stockings. More porcelain skin. Garters & suspenders, and oh that perfectly round ass.

She found what she was searching for in the shoebox and stood back up. If she knew I was staring (and I assume she did) she didn't show it. She simply turned to me and held out her hands. A leather strap, long and slender in her left hand. In her right, a black leather collar with a shiny silver ring and buckle. She waited for me to react. Did she want me to put it on? I reached for it. She pulled it away. I took two steps forward, now directly in front of her. She reached for my neck and reflexively I dipped back. A chiding look crossed her face. I took a breath and leaned forward. Around my throat the collar felt cool on my skin. She pulled it just tight enough to feel uncomfortable, but not painful. I could breathe at least. In a moment it was fastened and with a metallic click the leash was attached to the ring. She stood back to admire the fit. I felt awkward.

She hung the leash's hand-loop over the closet's doorknob and slid open the drawer of a little table and pulled out a tiny elastic band. with a flick of her wrist, with the grace of a cat, she rolled her gorgeous hair into a tight bun at the back of her head. With her hair pulled back tight like that, her demeanor completely changed. More stern, more authoritative. She lifted the leash with one finger and strode deeper her apartment. I followed (not much choice).

The living room was decorated in the contemporary style; chrome pipe-frame chairs with black leather, broad white-cushioned sofas, glass tables, colorful Pop-Art strategically hung on the stark white walls. The occasional hunk of distressed wood dark-stained and cleverly fashioned into a bar-top or mantle piece. It was tasteful, but cold. It didn't seem like she actually live here. It felt more like the waiting room for some big corporate executive office. Impersonal. Nonetheless, I noticed the trademarks of habitation; a soft throw blanket cast across the sofa in case she was chilly, a book half read & left on the table, along side a coffee cup and television remote control. It was obvious she spent time here, and if she was as cold and detached as her decor, then I might be in trouble.

She led me by the leash to the chaise and sat. I stood before her, not sure what to do with myself. She tugged the leash, forcing me to stoop over, face to face. Her mouth was on mine again, her fingers dug into my hair, our tongues met and danced, mine cautious for fear she may bite again. Her lips tasted like strawberry and wax- that dark red glossy lipstick melting between our mouthes. Her fingers were beginning to hurt; pulling my hair, digging her nails into my scalp. Both of her hands full of my hair means she must have dropped the leash. Not that I was going anywhere. I place one of my own hands on the bare skin above her dress, upon her left breast. Warm, soft. I slid my fingers downward, under the top of the dress. She froze, jerked my head away, smacked my hand off. Pulled her dress back into place while glaring at me. I'd angered her. I'd crossed a line. Taken too much initiative. It was made clear an that moment: I was meant to follow her lead and not take liberties. I could tell she was turned on though. Her neck and chest were flushed, the freckles blending into the heated reddening skin. She was breathing heavy.

"Strip." She punctuated it with a dismissive little hand gesture, shooing me away from her, toward the center of the room. "Slowly. Belt first, then shirt, then work your way down." Pressing a button on a small controller on the table to her side; "To the music." a slow electronic ambient dance beat began to play. I don't dance, I've never removed my clothes to music. Now here I was, about to perform before this woman, embarrassed, nervous, aloof. She released the leash and it dropped to my chest. I took it up. "Leave it. Don't touch." She whispered. I complied. My hands, slightly trembling, went to my belt, Unbuckled, loosened, pulled it off. She held out her hand, made a "give me" gesture. I placed the black leather belt in her palm. She sat back on the lounge, legs crossed, and nodded for me to proceed.

My shirt came off next, one button at a time, as much to the rhythm of the music as I could. I pulled it off my shoulder, folded it lengthwise & looked at her for instruction on where to place it. She pointed at the floor. I dropped it off to one side. Lifted my T-shirt over my head, pulled the leash through the neck-hole, dropped it onto the pile. Bare-chested. I blushed. She raised an eyebrow. I don't go to the gym often, but I'm no slob. I have some definition, a little, maybe. I continued. Unfastened my trousers, drew down the zipper, slid them down. I realized that I'd forgotten to remove my shoes. I discretely pulled them off and then my slacks followed. Now down to my socks and boxers. She eyed the visible lump in my pants. "Turn." She sounded fascinated, as if studying a lab specimen, or a gallery piece. I made a sheepish little rotation. She took it in; my ass, my back, my calves, whatever masculine feature that women admire or care to examine. She appeared interested, but seemed to be playing it off as detached amusement or half-boredom. I bent over to pull off my sock. "Ah-ah. Do that facing away from me, please." I turned, and bent at the waste to pull off the sock again. She watched my ass. Then I removed th other sock, tossed them with the rest of my clothing, stood back straight, faced her. Did she want me to continue? I waited for her to say. She just looked me up & down. Was she waiting on me? Should I ask? Should I drop my shorts? I adjusted the bulge beneath them. Her eyes danced, seemingly amused. "Finish, I'm waiting." I nodded, tucked my thumbs into the waste band, and pushed them to the floor. Tenderly, with my foot, I placed them on the pile. And stood before her. Naked.

Claire gazed at my half-hard penis as she sat back up at the edge of the chaise, uncrossed her legs, took a deep breath, and held out her hand. "Leash, please" I handed the loop to her. She gave it a tug, I stepped forward. She reached up, dug her long (and surprisingly sharp) fingernails into my chest and drew her hand down, leaving pinkish scrape marks. When her hand came to my cock, she gripped it and tugged. It continued to harden in her hand. Long and thick. "Good." she stated, released her hold, and ran her hand around to my backside. She cupped an asscheek. Her eyes never left my erection. She drew her hand away, and then smacked it back down onto my ass. My dick jumped. She drew her hand back again. I winced & tried to brace for the impact. Her other hand gave my dick a cruel squeeze and tug, and then smacked again, on the same spot as the first. My ass began to tingle. She released my member and pulled the leash down hard, and I fell to my knees.

"Get on all fours, face that way." I complied, now on my hands and knees, parallel to the chaise. She picked up my belt from her lap. Folded it in half, held it at one end, and drew her arm back for a strike. When it landed it felt as if I... well, as if I'd been whipped. Quickly another one came, then another. My butt was beginning to sting terribly. She alternated from cheek to cheek with the belt, occasionally hitting both simultaneously. Five more times the belt landed. My ass was beginning to burn. I was aware of nothing but the pain, my eyes were shut tight, my jaw clenched, my elbows locked, my head down. She had a rhythm down, and it seemed like it would never end. Another ten swats, and then it stopped. I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. My butt felt like it was on fire, but the sting was already fading. "Turn toward me, please." I complied, remaining on my knees, kneeling before her. Her legs were parted in a most unladylike pose. She appeared to be short of breath, and her upper chest was now flushed as bright red as her hair. With her knees parted, I could see up her dress. She noticed my stare and lifted her body just slightly, enough to hike her dress up over her ass. Black lace panties, matching garter belt. Her fingers dropped to the front of her underwear and traced a line up & down. I watched, licked my lips. The red fingernails made their way to one edge, pulled the lace aside. "I'm already so wet" she whispered. "Come and taste."