The Taste of Women
Lauren and Eliza take the train every Wednesday night from Glasgow to Edinburgh. They order cocktails and sit on bar stools in hotel lounges. Lauren is tall and slim, she has strawberry blonde hair and behind heavy glasses her bright blue eyes need very little makeup. Her no-nonsense droopy skirts and blouses imply a cold Lutheran morality which, apart from her new hobby of group sex, is accurate.
Eliza is small and lumpy. Her short neck begins at the tip of her chin and wobbles when she lets out a wheezy laugh. She is altogether more louche. Her breasts are far and away her best features. Her striking auburn hair is of an obviously dyed shade and though she is scrupulous about personal hygiene, her unfocussed style and incessant smoking make her look unkempt.
But they have discussed and considered seriously their appearance and the message they want to convey. Now Lauren of the long shapely legs wears short skirts that draw the eye to where her thighs converge. Now Eliza of the magnificent cleavage wears spangly low cut tops, a shop window for her squeezable breasts.
Using their bodies as glittering lures, the two girls target and approach lone men, out of town sales reps and conference delegates. The men they pick up are of a generic type, ordinary looking, sometimes smaller than they are, often younger, always clean and fresh-smelling. Lauren prefers them to have long slim fingers.
Tonight they have a young man, Rannald, who is proving to have been a bad choice. In the bar he had refused Eliza’s offers of cigarettes but now that they are in his hotel room, all he wants to do is smoke a joint. The girls wait patiently, politely declining a toke but they are growing restive.
As soon as he extinguishes the spliff, Eliza moves in and kisses him. Lauren watches. She has begun to notice that there is a strong correlation between how soon the man reaches for the breast and how good a lover he will be. Her experience has been that the slower he is in making the first move, the longer he’ll last.
Eliza comes up for air and Lauren takes over. They try to make this as smooth as possible so as not to frighten him, as can sometimes happen. They have even had one guy throw them out. It is usually at this point, when the young man realises the deal, that he will request a lesbian show, a blow job, or something to be pushed up his bottom. None of these is forthcoming.
Although neither Lauren nor Eliza tell him this, his sexual gratification is their least consideration, a by-product at most. If he doesn’t come when the last girl comes, he’ll be left to finish himself, sitting on the end of the bed frantically tugging his cock while they lie sated and entwined.
Rannald is not getting hard. He apologises repeatedly and profusely but it’s not happening. Lauren reluctantly begins to masturbate him. She hasn’t invested time chatting to Rannald, giggling at his pathetic jokes, to be left disappointed.
‘Is there something that will make you hard?’ Lauren asks, as kindly as she can. ‘Do you want to sniff my shoe or something?’
She doesn’t catch his mumbled reply.
‘Tie me up,’ he whispers.
Lauren sighs loudly. This is her least favourite perversion. She rolls her eyes as she tells Eliza.
‘He wants us to tie him up.’
Eliza returns the eye-rolling gesture and goes to the window to light up a fag. It is left to Lauren to bind his arms and feet with his sober business ties. She ties his feet together and his arms behind his back. He stifles a cry of pain when she yanks the tie tight but, she thinks, he asked for it.
‘Yes, abuse me,’ Rannald gasps.
It’s obvious he’s enjoying this but as yet there are no developments in the penis department. He kneels on the bed with his arse in the air, perhaps in the hope of Lauren pushing something up it. Instead she slaps him hard, leaving red handprints on his cheeks. Eliza joins in by dragging her nails down his back.
Eliza pours herself and Lauren a drink from the mini bar. Rannald has been remiss in his duties as host and so the girls relish clinking their glasses over his trussed and flaccid body, giggling whilst they lightly drizzle him with vodka and diet coke. A libation to the god of erections.
‘I need ciggies. Ok if I nip down to the lobby and get some?’ says Eliza.
‘Oh ok. I suppose I’m safe enough with the Marquis de Sade here.’
This is boring. Lauren is still wearing her clothes but in her earlier attempts to stimulate Rannald she has removed her knickers and opened her blouse. She pulls Rannald’s ginger hair and it is a few seconds before he realises her purpose, she is not doing it to aimlessly inflict pain. Lauren stands over him and pushes his head between her thighs.
He presses his mouth firmly shut.
She slaps him lightly on the face. He responds like a puppy dog, asking, by way of panting excitement, for more. Like a puppy except that he still refuses to lick. Lauren has gone to some trouble to accommodate Rannald and his snooty distaste begins to make her angry.
‘Lick it!’ she demands, hitting him harder than she’d intended to.
No, he won’t. He keeps his mouth closed, refusing to play but his eyes are shining and there is a smile lurking beneath his tightly clamped lips.
This boy doesn’t like the taste of women, he can’t or won’t have sex with them. He is using them.
Enraged by this revelation, Lauren punches him hard on the side of the head. He gasps, this time whether from pleasure or pain she doesn’t know. She hopes it’s pain. And fear. She’s put in a lot of effort and all she’s got in return is a fist full of throbbing bones.
She holds his head at the base of his skull and feels the tendons in his neck stiffen as she forces his head forward. She rubs against the curves of his face, teasing herself on the ridge of his brow, his nose, his jaw, leaving a silvery trail. Rubbing gathers speed and catches a rhythm. She’s humping his face, her nails dug into his scalp. He resists strenuously but this makes it more fun.
Then he stops resisting. His head droops loosely from his neck. Rannald is quiet now and Lauren stops and pulls his head back to look at him. Not only is he not hard but as well as having his mouth shut, he’s closed his eyes. Lauren shoves him away and he falls back, gasping for breath.
‘Do you want me to hit you again?’ Lauren murmurs tenderly.
Rannald opens his eyes, he’s back in the room. Yes, he nods.
‘Do you want me to hurt you?’
‘Please,’ he begs.
‘Oh, Rannald,’ says Lauren as she stuffs his balled-up socks into his mouth and secures the gag with another of the ties that he’s provided, ‘we could get a bit more imaginative, more adventurous, what d’you think?’
Rannald makes his enthusiasm clear with sock-muffled grunts and vigorous nodding. Lauren removes the pillow case from the pillow and pulls it over his head.
‘Would you like me to kill you?’
His satisfied grunting turns to piggy squeals as she pulls the hem of the pillowcase tight around his neck.
‘If you’re a good boy and don’t squeal too loud you won’t get strangled,’ she quietly explains.
Rannald is a good boy. He sits still and quiet while Lauren rummages in her handbag.
‘Can you feel this?’
Lauren holds the sharp metallic point under his chin and digs it in, not enough that it will break the skin, but almost.
‘Did you think that we’d come to a strange man’s room - and believe me Rannald, you are a strange little man - did you think we’d come here without a weapon?’
Lauren tutts. She runs the point down his throat, down his chest, all the way down to his pubic hair and lets it rest there for a second, letting him take in her intentions.
‘Oh look, he’s still asleep! Oh he’s so sweet!’
Lauren bends and lightly kisses his cock before she again lets the metal bite Rannald’s delicate skin.
‘Now I seem to remember you were quite keen to have something up your botty.’
This time his denial is as vigorous, if not more so, than his earlier enthusiasm.
‘Well it’s up to you, you choose. You can either have it up the arse or I can cut your cock off. Now as far as I can see, the cock is of no use to you, I’d go for that option, what d’you think? One nod for cock, two nods for botty, okay?’
He makes no move.
‘Do you understand?’ she says more stridently.
Still Rannald does nothing.
‘Ah, I see I can’t catch you out with that old trick! Anyway, I’ll take it that you comprehend the alternatives, cock or botty. I’m afraid I’ll have to hurry you, clock’s ticking Rannald.’
Lauren waits a good minute and a half before speaking again.
‘Very well, I’ll take the decision. Cock it is.’
Lauren reaches down and presses the sharp edge into the root of his cock. Rannald squeals from behind the socks and in the same moment there is a knock at the door.
Lauren sighs, gets up and opens the door.
‘Sorry about that,’ says Eliza, bustling in, ‘the machine was out of order, I had to get the porter. Took me ages to …’
She stops and takes in the strange scene. She moves towards Rannald and drags the pillowcase hood off his head.
‘What the fuck is going on here Lauren?’
Rannald’s face is not as symmetrical as it was earlier. The left side is now much bigger than the right. His left eye and cheekbone are swollen and puffy, there’s blood dripping from his ear. Snot, marbled with blood, soaks through the gag in his mouth.
Lauren is pulling on her knickers and buttoning her blouse.
‘Nothing, unfortunately,’ says Lauren. ‘He can’t get it up.
I was just about to cut his cock off.’
‘With a nail file?’
She bats her hand at Eliza to quieten her and glances towards Rannald to see if he has understood. He’s groaning, oblivious.
‘Anyway,’ says Lauren, ‘let’s get out of here. Do you think we can still pull tonight?’
‘Yes. Absolutely. A Dutch boy was trying to chat me up at the cigarette machine, he’s on his own and inviting us to join him.’
‘Has he got a room here?’
‘Aye, 309. ’
‘Okay, let’s go get him them.’
‘Hang on, are we going to leave this one tied up?’
The girls turn to appraise Rannald. He has curled into himself as much as he is able to, with his hands behind his back. His swollen head is tucked into his chin. He cries quietly as Lauren tenderly runs her fingers through his hair and then pats his sweet little bottom.
‘Yeah, says Lauren expansively, ‘he seems to like it.’
She puts her nail file back in her bag, pulls on her jacket and moves to the door.
‘The Dutch guy, does he have long fingers?’