The Blackboard

It was a thunder crack when he smacked her, then a still moment as the world went silent, then lightning behind her eyes. Everything vibrating and swimming. Blood rushing in her ears, her face heating and turning red, her vision blurring, and then finally his face coming back into focus.

He was right in front of her, filling her line of sight, his hand closing back around her neck.

Rope made her strong. Her muscles stayed tense, always fighting against her bonds, never resting, never giving up, even when she knew how good his knots were and how well he knew her wiggling ways. She would show him.

They sat on the blond parquet floor, both cross legged, her back against the cool eggshell wall. He sat in front of her, just as straight backed as she was, facing her, their knees touching.

Next to them was a thick metal radiator and above it the window, with a splash of blue sky visible from their vantage. A little late summer breeze tickled her sweaty naked skin.

She wore nothing, except for the little blackboard. It was about the size of a composition notebook, smooth wood framing a rectangle of dark gray slate. On the surface were two short stark white lines.

Her feet were tingling from the position she was in. Her arms were behind her back, wrists tied together. The little blackboard hung from a coarse piece of twine that she felt cut into the tender skin of her nape.

She was confused and wanton. Her head spinning, her body nothing but the begging need to get fucked, her brain nothing but the compulsion to get his questions and rules and instructions right.

"And so why did you think it was okay to come this morning before work?" he asked, one hand on her throat and the other holding a piece of chalk.

She blushed, on top of the blush that was already there. There were so many rules in place, rules she had requested, about when and where it was okay to come. She tried to remember the email he had sent about what to do the mornings before she saw him.

"I don’t, I-" she started to answer but he cut her off, taking his hand off her throat just long enough to smack her hard across the face again.

He marked the chalkboard with one more short white line.

She didn’t know what the lines represented. He’d just tied her down when she got to his apartment and started asking her questions and slapping her and it was all so much. So many feeling. She felt like she was going to burst, but she couldn’t because he wouldn’t let her. She could even wipe away the tears because her hands were tied.

The chalk marks could mean hits with the cane or orgasms or something horrible she couldn’t imagine. He might opened that closet of his and take out anything.

He took his hand off her neck and stood up in front of her. His knowing fingers on his thick black leather belt. His zipper meant his cock would be in her mouth soon. She swallowed quickly, trying to wet her dry lips.

There was a rush when she was going to suck his pretty cock. It was like nothing she had felt for a cock before. When he finally pulled it out, she smiled because it was hard. That meant, even if she didn’t know what she had done right, she was making him hard and that was a little victory.

He held her by the hair, cock millimeters from her lips. She whined and tried to connect. She pulled against the fist holding her hair and her scalp burned, but she just wanted it. She wanted it more then his rules at that moment. She pulled and cursed under her breath.

"Just-please-fuck-just let me-" she pleaded.

Then the lightning and thunder again. Two quick slaps. Vague recognition of two more marks on the chalk board.

"For language," he remarked coolly.

But more than the fear of what the marks meant was the sadness that his cock was gone, never touching her lips.

"Let’s start again," he said, sitting.

She didn’t even know what game they were playing anymore. The questions were all nonsense. Her whole body was on fire with need and shame. She rocked back and forth on the floor and let out a long wail of frustration.

Which lead to another slap and another mark on the board.

how to be great writer by charles buckowski

how to be great writer

you’ve got to fuck a great many woman
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.

and don’t worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.

just drink more beer
more and more beer

and attend the racetrack at least once a week

and win
if possible.

learning to win is hard–
and slob can be a good loser.

and don’t forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer

don’t overexercise.

sleep until noon.

avoid credit cards
or paying for anything on time.

remember that there isn’t a piece of ass in this world worth over $50
(in 1977).

editors note: $50 in 1977 is about $192 today.

I Can’t Wait All Day

A fat ripe plum, with a white sticker on it, sat on the table like an eight ball.

The girl with the curly hair was standing still, looking down at her warped reflection in her shiny black shoes. Her hands were behind her back.

The man with the expensive watch sat at the other end of the table, watching her. One elbow was on the table, his hand on his chin, his fingers tracing the bottom of his lip contemplatively.

The expensive watch was there, on his somewhat hairy wrist. Thick heavy silver and a broad face with nimble hands moving with imperceptive accuracy. Just before the watch, further along his arm, the line of his dress shirt’s crisp cuff, which sparkled with a small silver cufflink, lead to the line of his suit. The shirt was white with fine blue pinstripes. The suit was a dark charcoal gray.

The girl with the curly hair looked up at the man with the expensive watch. Her eyelashes caught the light, a dark auburn. Her face was an explosion of freckles, nearly so many that they overtook the tan of her skin. Equally, her hair was an explosion of dark brownish red curls.

She wore a simple white cotton summer dress, which set off the dark tan of her skin. Her freckled legs were muscular. She wore long white socks that came perfectly to her knees. The white of the dress matched the white of her socks and the black of her patent leather Mary Jane’s matched the short string of black Tahitian pearls around her neck.

In the distant hallway, the grandfather clock ticked away.

quickienewyork

quickienewyork:

“I’m not monogamous”, sounds different to me than “oh yeah, we’re poly” — with a long ‘o’ and a rolling ‘l’ like David Duchovny talking about bloooooogs. Not to skew the sample, but clearly I’m having a word issue today. Aside from the problematic latin/greek roots issue, what bothers me is that…

I rebut (sort of) here: http://blog.writingdirty.com/post/91874851143