From: mew3point14@doramail.com (Daniel Snyder) The instant that he steps into the car, a thrill of power shoots through your spine. It's as if he's inside of your womb already. The limousine's interior is leather, soft and supple, how you sometimes picture the flesh of your own uterus. Instead of blood vessels, there's burgundy leather with dark blue trim. Your back is to the driver, to the tinted partition. The side and rear windows are tinted as well, dimming the outside world to night's mystery. You take another look at the specimen of humanity before you, gawking at the display of wealth and power surrounding him. The color and tinting, the warmth of the machine, and most of all the caress of the leather: the artist, you know, is no different from the art she creates. "Listen to me very carefully," you say. "From this moment on, until I decide to let you go for the night, you are my property. You do nothing without my permission, and you do not speak unless spoken to. Is that clear?" "Yes," says the vagrant. "Yes ma'am, and that will be the last time I will correct you on that point. When we reach my apartment, I will take you to directly to my room. There is a bathroom off to the side for your use, and for your use only. You will throw away all of the clothes you are wearing in a basket, then bathe yourself thoroughly using the soaps I provide. First the yellow antibacterial, and then the pink scented soap. Say that back to me." "Yellow first, then pink, ma'am." "Good. There will also be shampoo, comb, brush, nail scissors, and mouthwash. You will use them in that order. Finally, there will be a razor and a bottle of shaving cream. I want you to shave all of the hair on your body below your eyebrows. Do you understand?" "Yes, ma'am." A third look over him, then you reach forward and grab the mass of hair that hangs down onto his shoulders and behind his back. "No, I've changed my mind. You can leave this...but your beard and moustache go. And if you don't do exactly as I say, I can and will hurt you. I will make your life even more pathetic than it is at the moment. Do you understand me?" "Yes, ma'am." "By the time you're done with that, and toweled off, the champagne should be chilled. I'll give you some more instructions then." Once you get him out of those disgusting boots, he won't be much taller than you yourself are. The pea-green trench coat and once-white t-shirt hide a frame that is malnourished but otherwise healthy. He doesn't look sick, and there are no needle marks on his arms. He even has every one of his teeth. It's a pain, to slog through this detail every time, but there is rhyme and reason to it all. "You're hardly the first," you are saying, hardly aware that you're speaking aloud. "Maybe the dozenth. The first one was sleeping in the alleyway outside of my apartment building. I was so apprehensive, I tied him to the bed. The sex was marginal, but I couldn't get the smell off of me for the longest time. The second time was right after I'd bought this limo. After I was finished with him, I dumped him off on the other side of town from where we'd started. That was better, although there was still the smell problem to deal with." He makes no reply, as he has been instructed. You smile. His hands are squeezed together on his lap, he is sweating and fidgeting. His eyes are moving very, very rapidly all over the interior. You can't imagine that he's looking at any one thing. It's too fast, almost, for a nervous mannerism. But it's too contained for epilepsy. Below and around you, the car thrums and growls through the late afternoon traffic. Presently it curls into your neighborhood--your neighborhood--then slows to edge around a tight corner into a multi- story parking lot. Past the other automobiles, slumbering in their places, go you and yours; up to the third floor and a reserved parking place. The driver steps out to hold the door for you and your evening companion, then closes it behind them and leaves. He knows he has been dismissed for the evening. He is competent and discreet, everything you need in a confidant. You and your man walk side by side in silence to a service elevator. With an unduplicatable key, you call the service elevator, then direct it to your apartment. A few moments later, you and he--not "the two of you"-- are stepping out into the entry way of a penthouse. The floor is tiled in a pattern of white squares and black octagons, perfect tessellation. The walls are painted grey, and they are free of any art or other adornment. The ceiling is lit by fluorescent track lighting. This passageway is only a few steps long, then it turns abruptly to the right and stops at a thick wooden door. You open the door with a large and ornate golden key, then take your guest inside. The bedroom is huge, with more than enough floorspace for an entire apartment itself. Apart from the bed, there is little furniture: halogen floor lamps in all four corners, and a night table and a bookcase, both of wood. The case holds surprisingly few books. Its shelf space is filled with photographs, awards and citations. More hang all across the walls, right up to the ceiling and skylight. The king-sized bed is made in red satin sheets. Just above the bed, taking up the entire wall, is a picture window. It affords a majestic view out over the Tokyo-2 skyline without you having to do much other than raise your head from the pillow. You're at most a kilometer from Tokyo-2 Tower, in the heart of downtown. And this is exactly how you want it to be. Your bathroom is the one to the left, the much larger one. Since you don't have many clothes to take off, you could make do with a shower. But a shower is not good enough. In any case, it would be impossible to effectively apply perfume to your body in the shower. You have a bathtub built for one and only one, with a half-dozen massaging jets and bubble spouts to relax your aching muscles. There is a toilet and a bidet. In the expansive cabinet over your bathroom sink, there are three kinds of shampoo and five kinds of conditioner. There are also amenities which you will not need tonight: cream, razors, toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, tweezers, brushes and combs. Also, a tazer and concentrated lye. One can never be too cautious. The door to the master bathroom is closed as you enter. Off to one side is a second bathroom, not very much larger than the bed. A shower head with a drain in the tiled floor acts as the bath. There is also a sink, where the toiletries lay, and a Japanese-style toilet. By the time that the man emerges from the bathroom, night has fallen. A few stars shine down through the skylight. Over the bed, Tokyo-2 is burning with night lights: neon, argon, halogen, and invisible electricity. You've been waiting for him, dressed in a robe, sitting in a canvas-backed chair. Light jazz comes from hidden speakers. You turn up the lights at his entrance and examine him. He is within five years of your own age, and taller than you had supposed. Skinny, however; and he had refused an earlier offer of food, but shows no signs of drug use that would curb his appetite. His hands are cupping his genitals modestly. On your command he lets go, revealing average gifts. You direct him to shuffle around in a tight circle. Indeed, he's cleaned and shaved himself thoroughly. His face now shows some chin, an unremarkable nose, and two ears that stick out a bit from the side of his head. Still, his eyes refuse to meet yours, glancing around and about the room with a mixture of apprehension, anticipation and curiosity. It is nothing of importance. "Come here," you order him, and in the same moment you rise from your seat. Your moves are smooth and natural, practiced if you'd like to call it that, while he moves with a shuffle. In the back of your mind, you wonder if it's arthritis. But your attention is mainly on the man as you gently let your robe fall to your feet. Your nude body is exposed to the air in a perfect mathematical description. You picture yourself glowing in infrared. He is quite obviously entranced by the sight of your body. You pose with your hands on your hips and your left leg slightly forward, foot arched. Your red hair is pulled back away from your face in a ponytail, evocative of that once worn by a woman you...knew well. A smile is on your face, the intoxication that comes with power when couched in playful delight. "Well?" you ask breathily. "Do you think I'm beautiful?" Your companion's eyes, still itinerant with their focus, are skipping all across you: now on your face, now on your breasts, now on your womanhood, now on your hips. You do not blush. It is a moment before he can speak. When he can, he speaks softly, "Yes, ma'am...I think you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, anywhere." It is when you catch yourself on the point of saying "Thank you," that a sudden wave of familiarity comes over you. For a moment, for a very long moment, you have a powerful feeling that you've met this vagrant somewhere before. Where, though... Failing to answer the question, you put it out of your mind. You sit down and reach behind your chair, pulling out an open bottle of champagne. You cross your right leg over your left at the knee and casually pour champagne all across your foot. "Lick it off," you say, and set the bottle aside. He lifts your foot to his mouth, with his left hand under the sole and his right hand at the side. His work is very thorough, unlike the reckless abandon of some of your former one-night lovers. The raspy warm muscle runs broadly across the wide expanses of skin, and only the tip dives down between your toes to coax out tiny drops of the wine. Moreover, he doesn't shy away from the very bottom of your foot, tickling, exciting and impressing you all at the same time. "Continue," you tell him as he moves up your heel toward your ankle. Obediently, he continues to lick your bare leg, moving up your shin with care, giving it thorough and utterly uninhibited treatment. Then you and he stumble upon a sensitive point just above the knee, on the inside of your thigh. He had already finished the kneecap, and you were growing aroused by how close his warm body was to yours, when without warning something shocks your leg so pleasantly your heart skips a beat. Already aroused from your submissive partner's work and the feeling of his razor-burned skin against yours, this new sensation pushes you beyond a critical point. The familiar grip up and down your front, like a subcutaneous net electrified, is starting to erode the self- possession and control you pride yourself on so often. "Do that again," you order him, and his immediate response makes it clear that he has felt your reaction and was expecting the command. Again, that strange sense of deja vu... The man is using his tongue to massage a point alongside two tendons that lead from the quadriceps down to the lower leg. Some nerve, one you have never heard of or even considered, must have grown raw over time and is thrilling to the sweet release of the caress. Pleasure drenches your leg. After two minutes, you pull yourself out of your reverie and announce that it is time to move along. You reach behind the chair again and draw forth a small glass the size of a teacup. Pouring a mouthful of champagne, you press it into your partner's hand. "Clean your entire mouth with this," you instruct him, "but don't you dare spit it out. Swallow it, then give me back the cup." "Yes, ma'am." You return the glass to its place and then lean in towards his face, sniffing the air. There isn't a trace of foulness from his breath. Your nose, with that keenness you secretly take pride in, smells not only the vintner's handiwork but also the odors of the bath: shaving cream and rose-scented soap. There is also that smell that reminds you of fresh-split cedar. Its vapors are becoming caught in his dark hair, you know it, and soon that long hair will feel so good to lose yourself in. And every bit as important, the vagrant become lover is aroused, aroused by you. The quasi-erect penis is a testament, of course. Still, those other, subtle ways mean so much more, for some strange reason... "What are you getting off on right now?" "Ma'am?" he asks hesitantly. "What do you like the most about my body?" you say, softly and gently. The way that it comes out, the tone, surprises you. Inspired by your own semi-conscious fantasizing you ask, "Do you like my hair?" With a flourish, you pull off the red bow that holds your hair. It falls free and straight onto your shoulders, gently and gracefully. You run your fingers through a few strands, teasing the effect out for a few moments more. Letting your hair down with the lights of the city upon you is as close as you shall come to a wholesome delight this evening. And your partner's eyes are as wide open as they can be, and they are as arrested as they can be, looking all over your head and face. He catches his breath as you smile. "I do like your hair, ma'am," he murmurs. "You may touch my hair," you say, and you bring a few strands around your shoulder within arm's reach. Timidly, he reaches forward. He almost touches your hand, almost; you can feel the warmth from his palm and the presence of his underdeveloped arm as he touches your hair. His hand breaks the plane of your strands only a centimeter away from your right ear. You talk dirty to him. "Do you like my hair the best of all? Do you want to fuck my hair? Do you want to get your dick all wet, and then take a fistful of my tresses and fuck it 'til you come?" "No, ma'am!" he says quickly, and goes on. "No, ma'am, I don't want to...fuck your hair. I don't think I like your hair best of all...I like your eyes the best." And even as he says those words, he doesn't focus on your blue eyes. He looks into them, then away, then around them, then past them. His hand still touches your hair. Funny, in this light you can't quite tell what color his eyes are... "You like my eyes the best?" you ask incredulously. "Yes, ma'am." The warmth by your ear is maddening, and his body is still the better part of an arm's reach away. "Come closer," you say, "and put your hands on my hips." He shuffles forward about ten centimeters and places his hands high upon your hips, palms flat against the flesh, just below your waist. A moment before, you were going to ask him to sweep you off your feet and carry you directly to the bed, but a drifting thought--and that inner sense of pride--prevail against your libido. For the moment. You reach down and take hold of his genitals in your hands. Instantly, the man before you gasps in ecstasy. His entire body tenses and his penis, already in a firm erection, twitches a millimeter more. You smile like a huntress--he isn't badly endowed at all. Anticipation is breeding frustration. With your right hand resting on the base of the shaft, your left hand begins to play with his scrotum. Gently pulling on the skin, you rub the testes themselves in a slow circular motion using your thumb and forefinger. In only a matter of seconds the man is making a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, struggling not to speak against the wishes of his mistress. When you judge that he can grow no more firm, you reluctantly let go. "Lie down on your back on top of the bed," you say sharply, "and do not come before I instruct you to." Weakly nodding, he walks to the bed and lies down, spread eagle, eyes closed. You hold back a moment to savor watching the muscles of his legs and rear end move with each step. One instant you are detached, picturing each strand expanding and contracting; the next, you are the artist, preserving the firm curves in your memory forever. Then you join him on the bed. There is an itch between your legs, hidden away deep inside of you, an itch that you need to have scratched. On all fours you pad across the bedspread to where he lies. His eyes are closed. He will never see you as you drew back like a cat ready to pounce. He will only feel, feel every instant, as you slowly, slowly stretch out across his naked flesh, rubbing his erection beneath your belly and stroking your nipples across his chest. He is trembling over every square centimeter of his body by the time that you're lying on top of him, your face equal with his and your legs wrapped around his thighs. His hardness is very close to your softness, so sweetly close; and although you felt a twinge of guilt about his passive frustration, you aren't going to release him quite yet. The itch must be scratched, in good time. You kiss the man on his cheeks, on his lips, and under his chin. You put a finger into your mouth and drag it down his throat to the middle of his collarbone. On his sternum, you press down firmly and say "Don't..." You lean forward, casually resting your left side on his right, and blow gently into his right ear. He lets out a whimper. You smile. He has sensitive spots, too. "Come..." As you rise, you take hold of his right hand and put it on your left breast. After aligning it as you desire, so that the outside edge of his palm lies right atop your nipple, you lead him through a counterclockwise loop that stimulates without abusing you. The shock, when you let go, is riveting. Phenomenal. It is like nitro pumped into your heart. You are becoming delirious with the itch. "Until..." You are at roughly a 60 degree angle to your lover--your lover now, no one with this touch should be denied the title. Halfway lost, you start rubbing the palms of your hands lower and lower down his abdomen, as if channeling his spirit towards his erect phallus. "I..." When your hands are past the pubis, you can take it no more. Your body must be sated. Slipping one hand underneath yourself, you press two fingers firmly against the mound between the man's testes and anus. With the vas defrens under pressure, there is no chance for premature ejaculation. And so you grind down upon him. There is a dick up inside of you. His first instinct when you had touched him was to squirm away; and it was at that instant that you allowed yourself to be penetrated. The reflex action has brought the upper edge of his phallus into direct contact with the moist head of your clit. The upward stroke tears through you like a lightning bolt. You can feel some part of you gripping him in lust. Shredding the pretense of power for pleasure, you ease up on your constriction. And you thrust in perfect unison again and again. Your orgasm comes first. The mercy flashes upwards from your vagina in red tendrils, spreading across your lower body like something living, an infection contracted and overcome in a moment's time. But one is not enough for you. Breaking the union, letting his hand fall from your chest, you gasp, "Sit up." Your submissive partner obeys, forcing himself to rise. You wrap your arms across his back, holding him below the arms, as he continues to thrust, groping blind within you for his own release. "Touch me," you say in a more commanding tone. Willingly, he places his hands across your back and begins rubbing along your spine. One hand moves downward, circling between the vertebrae and pressing them on either side. The other slowly, achingly slowly, scooches upwards, first between your shoulders and then to the base of your neck. All the while, his thrusting keeps up its own rhythm. You let yourself go once again as his right hand rubs the muscles on the far side of your jaw, and his chest moves closer, somehow still closer, to your own. Then it happens. In perfect synchronization, he presses on a sensitive spot right at the top of your spine, the point where it meets the base of your skull, and firmly but gently on your bottom; and he thrusts way up inside of you. The world around you explodes. For an instant, you are surrounded by vivid colors and the sensation you are flying. You can hear a sound far away, a voice that could be yours, or his, or no-one's at all. The smell pouring into your palate and lungs is your own deep musk diluted with spring rain. It is intoxicating, terrifyingly intense. Well after you wake up, again, coherent thought becomes part of your world view. You are lying on top of him, with your head on his chest and your legs sticking down past his feet. Your arms are curled up underneath your chest, and if you press your hand between your breasts you could feel your heart racing. You look down. His breathing is calm and steady, however. There is an odor of fluids in the air. "Did I say that you could come?" you ask, more in need of information than angry. "Yes ma'am. You did," is his reply. His voice sounds distant, not at all smug. You nod, accepting the statement with equanimity, then roll off of your partner to look your body over. Apart from the expected mess, you're just fine: no unexpected bruises or cuts. He has indeed been the ideal submissive, doing nothing that he shouldn't have and everything that was required. Still somewhat at a loss for how explain the performance to yourself, you say to him, "Any time you want to go, you can go now. Don't go out the way you came in. Through the double door over by that door is a hallway that'll lead you straight out to the stairwell. There's some men's clothing there. Pick out something in your size when you go." You add a moment later, "There's also a couple of thousand yen in a drawer in the kitchen, if you can find it. You can take that, too." You're surprised when he replies, "Is that your command, ma'am?" He is still lying on his back with his eyes closed and hands by his sides. Around him there is an aura of ineffable tranquility. You'd expected him to be looking at you, or smug, or something. Instead, he's acting as if you have been discussing the weather forecast for the next day. You've been rebuffed. "Well, it's not like I can't afford it. I own this whole building, I have the patents to seven inventions that have netted me several BILLION yen." It comes out as exasperated and condescending. You begin pointing out the knickknacks on the walls. "That's former Prime Minister Ikegami meeting with me five years ago, right after I'd become a billionaire. He was an annoying lap dog, but he gave a nice speech to the people of my company. Over there is when I built a mansion in the countryside. I bought the entire facing hillside and gave it to the prefecture for a park, so I wouldn't ever have to worry about a spoiled view. Below it is a plaque I got from the League of Japanese Women Scientists..." You go on in that vein for a quarter of an hour, detailing a career enshrined on the walls of your bedroom, not knowing for sure whether he is awake or asleep, wondering if he listens in his dreams. Eventually, you grow tired of retelling your glories aloud, and sprawl out on your bed, content simply to reminisce about your past. It is in the early hours of the morning when you wake again. The bed beside you is empty. You stare at the place where he had been lying; then another wave of familiarity, akin to your earlier insights, sweeps over you. It hits you suddenly that, if you were to look outside your front door that instant, you would find the 23000 yen from your kitchen in a neat pile on the doorstep; and that if you searched all of the garbage bins of Tokyo- 2 for the next two days, you would eventually find a cast-off pair of khaki slacks and a button-down shirt. You wonder how you know these things, and how you feel about the man you had shared your bed with tonight. You wonder why you find yourself considering searching garbage bins for two days of your life, simply in an effort to confirm what you already know to be true. Below and around you, Tokyo-2 and the citizens of Japan begin making the transition from night to day. Each one endowed with a heart and a soul, each one with a history to share or to hide. There is a certain power that comes with perversion, rather, with the acceptance of that perversion for what it is, as if one could thumb one's nose at the natural order and continue with an otherwise acceptable lifestyle. Your deviation from normal intimate relationships had begun as part of a larger sense of contempt for the state of humankind's affairs. There is hypocrisy inherent in human behavior, treating pariahs with pity and hatred; you grew aware, working with various charity groups, how reaching out and striking out were one and the same. People expressed their derision through exaggerated love, smothering love, the kind that leaves no room for outgrowth. And you are not that. That is not you. -- Copyright 2001 Daniel Snyder. Permission granted to duplicate in any digital/binary/e-mail form; however, any physical reproduction is prohibited. Shin Seiki/Neon Genesis Evangelion is the intellectual property of GAINAX. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. The original draft of this story was based on a song by Whale entitled "Hobo Humpin' Slobo Babe".