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Quickies
Flashers
Poetry


The Best of 2013

The Afternoon Circle Jerk Society
by Amanda Earl

Beating the Gothic Out of Her
by Amanda Earl

Real Irish
by Amanda Earl

Mercy and the Man. . .
by Amanda Earl

The Revenant
by Amanda Earl

The Vessel
by Amanda Earl

The Too Beautiful Boy
by Arthur Chappell

The Accidental Fetish
by Corvidae

Never For Punishment
by Daddy X

Like a Brother
by Big Ed Magusson

Old Dogs
by Big Ed Magusson

Goodbye Roger
by Huck Pilgrim

He Sends His Regrets
by Huck Pilgrim

A Small Favor
by Huck Pilgrim

Ava's Honey
by john e

LOX
by john e

Eclipse Sex
by Oxartes

Adam and Eve on a Raft
by Robert Buckley

Dead Man's Switch
by Robert Buckley

Does Immortality come with a Pension?
by Robert Buckley

Embraceable Ewe
by Robert Buckley

A Fragile Desire
by Robert Buckley

Surviving Winter
by Robert Buckley

You're the Only One
by Robert Buckley

Dissolve
by Sybil Rush

Bing Cherry Silk
by Valentine Bonnaire

Colony, Collapsed
by Valentine Bonnaire

Have a Nice Day
by Valentine Bonnaire

l'heure bleue
by Valentine Bonnaire

Once Upon A Time . . .
by Valentine Bonnaire

Red Suede
by Valentine Bonnaire

Yellow, like the daffodils
by Valentine Bonnaire

Novelette

Invisible Lines
by Raziel Moore



Archives

By Alan
Curtain
Other News


By Alice Gray
Slick 50
The Fourth Veda
Stolen Hour


By Amanda Earl
Daddy Complex
The Graffiti Artist
Sex With An Old Woman
The Vampire Responds


By Ann Regentin
What Never Dies
Newborn
Remembering
Surrender


By Big Ed Magusson
The Fix
Methadone


By Brady Sutton
Girls for Leash
The Peculiar Case of...


by C. Sanchez-Garcia
An Early Winter Train
The Doll
The Lady and The Unicorn
Riding the Dog
Fidelis


By Cervo
An Evening At...
Readiness Is All
Chinchilla Lace
Fridays At The Benoit
Cruising On A Sea...
Bitsy Takes a Test
Touring Persephone
Are You Kidding?
Quigley’s Harvest
Mr. Merridawn's Hum
Angels’ Spawn


By Cherry Black
Mrs. Priestly
Face Down
Just A Simple Black Dress


By Chris Bridges
Second-hand
Fast-forwarding
The Whitechapel...
Passing Notes


By Daddy X
Nikki Didn't Like It
Overscratch
A Woman in My Position


By Dominic Santi
Drillers
Kiss of Peace


By G. E. Russell
Judgement Day
Nebulous
First Love, Last Romance
Snow White
This Desolate Eden
The Glass Cage
You Like It Like That...


By Helen E. H. Madden
When The Angels Fall
Husbands and Wives
The Fifth Horseman
The Monster Beneath...
Neighbor of the Beast
Over the Rainbow
Going Viral
Virtual Love


By Helena Settimana
Balance
Highway 69
Amadou
The Space Between


By J.T. Benjamin
The Question
Thornburg Sex Survey
Alternating Weekend
Secret Lives and Lusts
What are Friends For
Olivia's Ulterior Motive
Advice From Miss Millicent
The Baby Doll
The Journals of Chastity
Use Me
Zachary's Perfect Date


By Jill
Kidnapped
Sheila Discusses ...
It's About Sex
A House On Fire?
Maureen and Sheila...


By john e
I Wish My Dick...
johnny's jackoff journal
Saturday Morning


By Julius
In Praise of Pussy
Tight, Tighter, Tightest
You Rang Madam?
The Newcomer


By Juniper Maclay
Lunch Break
The Scientist
Public Transportation


By Keziah Hill
Laying Down the Law
Strawberry Flavoured Joy
The Second Coming
Angel
Dutch Masters


By L.A. Smith
Missionary Position
Both Hands


By Lara Nickles
Almost
Hero


By Lilie Berlin
Naughty Little Girl
Color Less Ordinary


By Mike Kimera
Kneading
Soft Option
At the Adult Bookstore
Postcard
Playing With Barney
Deserving Ruth
Till Death Do Us Part
Happy Anniversary
Mating Calls
It May Not be Art...
Living With It...
The Last Taboo
Hand-Jobs
Fucking Ugly
Paying For It
Sex with Owen
Ask Alice
The Sisters
Bar Snack

Maestro
by Rose B. Thorny © 2006



If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared. —Nicolo Machiavelli (1469-1527)

Andrea watched transfixed by the ebony figurine bobbing between her splayed legs. It might have escaped to glide over her stomach towards her breasts but for her hands, which hovered over her hips trapping it. She paddled the bath water alternating her palms in rhythmic syncopation. The black wooden cylinder shifted sideways, but like a moored vessel, could not break free of the fleshy slip formed by her wet, pale thighs. Instead, it rocked towards her then back again mimicking a weak, incomplete, fucking motion.

Except for the colour, it reminded her of the way his cock had bobbed in front of her face the very first time she went down on the Maestro, though, back then, he was still just Aaron. It was her very first blow job ever and, in her opinion, she acquitted herself not too shabbily for only having read descriptions in cheap paperbacks.

He must have liked it; he convinced her to repeat the performance every time they were together, except for the last. That was back when "safe sex" simply meant not getting pregnant. Blow jobs were a sure bet in that direction.

The water was still hot and she slid further down so that her neck and the back of her head were immersed. She had to bend her knees at a sharper angle. This had the dual effect of displacing more water and bringing 'The Boy' closer to eye level. In her mind, she played with the name of her favourite dildo. Right now 'The Boy,' was more like 'The Buoy.' She reached over her shoulder to start the jets again. There was a momentary grinding hum as the motor started then the eight spigots surged into action. Rapid streams of bubbles massaged her neck and shoulders, breasts, and thighs. She tingled from the steady spurts on the soles of her feet and toes.

Andrea no longer used her hands to impede the toy's progress, but the eddying patterns kept it suspended over the dark patch of pubic hair. She smiled. It looked like a dingy floating over seaweed.

The mechanical rumbling became music lulling her, turning the tub into a whirlpool of warm, liquid sensation. She closed her eyes.

*                *                *


Aaron was so handsome. That he took notice of her at all was at once bewildering and thrilling. He, too, was still a student, but older by several years and well-known at the Conservatory. He was brilliant and well on his way to becoming somebody. He was often chosen to be a student lecturer and his articulate eloquence always drew crowds. Andrea, new to the school, felt a little foolish falling for his clichéd good looks; a tall, blond, blue-eyed Adonis. Female students, much more attractive and talented than she, fluttered about him like moths around a flame. Andrea noted that not a few of the male students were also drawn towards him. He basked in the adulation of both, but she was pleased to observe that the boys were consistently rebuffed after the fawning was done. She hovered outside the corona, but one day had a sincere question concerning one of his addresses in the lecture hall. It was late afternoon, the end of classes for the day. She always wondered if she had subconsciously orchestrated the scenario; hanging back as the other students filed out, waiting for a couple of them to chat with him then approaching him tentatively after all had departed.

She introduced herself and made some inane comment about how much she had enjoyed the talk. Before her mouth became any dryer and her quavering voice failed her completely, she asked, "Do you really think being a little crazy helps you to become a successful artist?" God, it sounded so lame to her ears.

He turned on a thousand-watt smile and said, "If you'd really like to talk more about this, we can do it over dinner." His voice was melodious. An image flashed onto the silver screen in her mind of her cello and the way it sang to her as she held it clasped between her legs. She forced the picture away.

She wasn't sure she'd heard right. "Dinner?"

"Well, yes, but if you don't want to."

She hastened to correct any misunderstanding. "No, no. Dinner is fine. Dinner would be...um...really fine."

She wanted to smack her own mouth for stammering like an idiotic teenager. Well, she was still a teenager, if only for another year, but right now she wished more than anything that she were older and sophisticated like him. What could he possibly find attractive about her? She did not ponder the question long. It was enough that he wanted to dine with her. She was not about to pass up the golden opportunity. It was, as she came to believe, the start of life.

He was charming and witty. Everything about him exuded talent. Across the dinner table in a cosy booth of an almost empty, out-of-the-way restaurant, she watched him as he expounded on madness and the creative mind. She listened intently to his expressive discourse, though if asked, she would have been hard pressed to repeat what he said. She studied his hands, the hands of a conductor. The fluid motion of his long, slim fingers accompanied the music of his voice. She fixed her gaze upon his lips as they shaped themselves around his words. She wondered how those lips would feel against hers. How they might feel on other parts of her body. His self-confidence was overwhelming. Andrea had never met anyone so assured of his own genius.

Later, at his apartment, he stood godlike before her. She knelt, with her virgin mouth encircling his cock, and prayed she was doing it properly. Despite the misgivings she had about her ability to fellate with any degree of expertise, she elicited the desired response, a final choking thrust against the back of her throat and a gush of warmth that filled her mouth and her being. She never forgot the sensation of that first time. She gagged and swallowed, but the force of his orgasm caused some of the creamy froth to spurt around her tongue and out the corners of her mouth. She could hold only so much. She was embarrassed by that, thinking she may have done something wrong, but his moans and the way he stroked her hair, even as he softened within her, were reassuring.

Their subsequent trysts always concluded with this act of obeisance. Aaron's erect penis was Aaron; long and lean, firm and beautiful. She worshipped it as she worshipped him. She wondered a little at his apparent lack of desire to have actual intercourse with her and longed for him to make love to her. She never thought of it as fucking; that would have been too coarse a description. But she did not question him. He was the master and she the student. She interpreted his proclivity for oral sex as respect for her virginity. She interpreted his request to keep their affair quiet as respect for her honour. Despite his sensuality, he was a true gentleman.

Andrea found herself daydreaming much of the time when they were apart. She tried to feel sufficiently guilty about the growing disregard she had for her studies, but admitted to herself that she cared more about being with Aaron than she did about her music. She loved the music, but it couldn't touch her as Aaron did. He was alive, warm, and she was convinced of his devotion to her. She drifted though her classes and ignored first the mild comments then increasingly harsh criticisms from her teachers and fellow musicians. In her mind, she joked with them about giving up the cello and majoring in skin flute instead.

As spring blossomed, Andrea often sat for hours in her dorm room idly plucking at the strings of her cello, or bowing her way through the first few bars of a composition, then drifting into a fantasy involving Aaron and his magnificent member. In these flights of fancy, it satisfied all her senses. She adored the way it looked bobbing in front of her face, the way it smelled as her nose pressed into the golden curls of his belly once she had it in her and down her throat, the way it felt stuffed in her mouth, the tantalizing taste of precum on her tongue. And as his semen flooded her accommodating oral cavity, his agonized groans were all the music she ever cared to hear.

One day, after she had paid him her usual lip service, he remarked, for no apparent reason that he didn't really think she had the makings of a world class cellist, that if she were going to be successful at it, she would already be making a name for herself and, obviously, this was not happening. She felt a twinge of panic and, yes, anger, because it sounded almost as if he had lost respect for her as a musician and a person. Then she realized he was right. How could Aaron possibly be wrong? He was, after all, a genius. She truly was not cut out to be a musician, didn't really have that much talent, and wondered why she ever thought a career in music was part of her future.

Aaron was at the Conservatory, however, so she remained as well, going through the motions of being a student of music, but knowing it was all a sham. She wanted to be near him, but knew she needed to find another vocation.

*                *                *


Andrea greeted the news of Aaron's upcoming departure with fear and dismay. She knew it was coming, but kept denying it would happen. As arranged, she had met him at their restaurant. They sat in their booth. She glanced away from him for a moment, looked around, and wondered how this place ever stayed in business. There was one other couple in the opposite corner and one non-descript patron at the bar. She looked back her lover. He had already finished his dinner. She merely picked despondently at hers, alternately using her fork to stab at bits of meat and shove morsels from one spot on the plate to another.

"I won't be gone that long," he said. "When I come back, it will be just the way it is now." He laughed and added, "Except I'll be famous."

She ignored the quip and watched him sip his wine. "Not that long? Two years in Berlin?" She felt sick to her stomach.

"Well, not two years solid. I'll be back to visit. Probably in six months or so. In the meantime, it will do both of us good to branch out a little."

She had no idea what he meant. Branch out from what?

"I have something for you. A good-bye gift so you won't forget me." He set an unwrapped, black box on the table to one side of her plate. She had noticed it beside him on the bench seat, but had declined to ask about it. It might not have had anything to do with her and she didn't want him to think she was presumptuous or nosy.

She perked up slightly. A gift! He had never bought her anything before. "Oh, how could I ever forget you?"

The gleaming smile again. "Well, you're right there. I am rather memorable."

She laughed for the first time that evening. Aaron was delightfully arrogant. She envied him his self-confidence.

"Go ahead and open it."

Andrea stared for a moment at the box. It was covered by paper of a suede-like texture and she ran the fingers of her right hand over it tentatively. It was roughly ten inches long and four inches both wide and deep. She lifted the lid and set it aside then parted black tissue to reveal the object contained within the box. There was no way she was going to remove the item as long as there was a chance anyone else might see it.

Aaron, however, reached into the box, withdrew the ebony statue and placed it upright on the table between them. A furious blush spread over Andrea's face. She was hot with embarrassment.

It was a statue only inasmuch as it had the features of a human male carved into the surface of it. It tapered to a dull point, the top of the little man's head. The purpose of the sculpture was clear. In reality, it was an eight-inch tall dildo two inches in diameter.

Andrea grasped the black toy and replaced it with amazing swiftness into the box, yet even in that brief moment of contact, she noted the weight of it and she felt a rippling quiver inside her. She shifted and wiggled in her seat.

"You don't like it?" he asked sounding surprised.

Andrea thought, for a fleeting moment, that he looked just a little hurt. She smiled to reassure him.

"I love it, but."

"But?"

"Nothing. Just ... wow." She was achingly aware of how much the figurine aroused her. Suddenly, she couldn't wait to get away from the restaurant and back to Aaron's apartment. Tonight would be the night. She knew it.

And she wasn't wrong.

As excited as she was, lying naked on Aaron's bed with him kneeling between her legs, Andrea was trembling. His cock, so familiar to her in one way, suddenly seemed considerably larger than usual. It was about to be used as the weapon in the assault on her virginity. She was afraid.

"It's okay," Aaron reassured her. "Just relax."

He reached over to the night table. The black box lay open and he retrieved the dildo. Andrea's eyes widened. She was having difficulty reconciling the fear with the intense arousal she felt at the sight of him holding the thick, heavy toy.

"It's okay," he repeated. He placed the tip of the wooden tool against the wet lips of her pussy then rubbed it along the length of her slit. She felt him wedging it with just a little more force between her lips. It felt huge.

Andrea breathed rapidly, shallowly, wondering what was about to happen. Surely he wouldn't use the dildo on her first. This was not how she imagined it would be. And it was too large anyway.

He pressed the head of the statue against her clit and she jumped.

He chuckled. "Think of me every time you use this little guy."

He tossed it aside and it rolled off the bed onto the floor with thump. He leaned over her and rubbed his cock along the same path the dildo had just traced.

Andrea looked into Aaron's blue angel eyes and held her breath. She flinched then gasped at the first sharp jab. Even though he seemed to be moving gently, it hurt more than she thought it would. Realizing her teeth were clenched, she tried to relax her jaw as well as the muscles Aaron was putting to the test. She could feel tears tracing twin paths along her temples into her hair. She would remember this moment all her life. She had just started to enjoy the rocking rhythm that developed when something changed. He stopped. The stretched discomfort Andrea felt was suddenly absent and she was totally confused. She might be inexperienced in actual intercourse, but she was sure he hadn't come. This definitely was not how she imagined it would be.

Aaron pulled out of her.

She looked up at him. "What? What's wrong?"

He appeared to be unfazed, which seemed somewhat bizarre to her.

"Nothing." He rolled off her and instead of lying down beside her, sat on the edge of the bed, leaned down to pick up the dildo and put it in the box. "I'm just not in the mood tonight."

He stood up, totally unselfconscious of his deflated penis, and looked down at her.

"Geez," he said, "you're bleeding all over the bed."

His words didn't register. Not in the mood?

He pulled out a wad of tissues from a box on the night table. He reached down between her legs and wiped along her wet, bloody gash. The action was neither gentle nor rough. It was...perfunctory. He tossed the tissues into the wastebasket beside the bed.

"I have an early appointment. I need to get some sleep."

A panicky sick feeling washed over Andrea. "Can't I stay?" she pleaded.

"I'm sorry, babe, I really need to sleep. You understand, don't you?"

Andrea sat up, nodding weakly, and saying, "Yeah. Yeah, I understand. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have..." She left the sentence unfinished. "You have a lot to do before you leave, too. I'll go. You still want me to drive you to the airport on Saturday, don't you?" She thought she sounded desperate. She retrieved more tissues, pressed them against herself as she stood, lest any more blood escape, and went into the bathroom.

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

Of course she didn't mind. She would do anything he asked. She dressed, ignoring the ache between her legs, as Aaron tore the fitted bottom sheet off the bed.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I should have done that. I'm sorry about the mess."

Aaron balled the sheet up and handed it to Andrea. "Throw it in the hamper, if you would. Thanks."

She obliged him then gathered her things together. She was about to leave, after they kissed goodnight, when he said, "Hey, don't forget your boy." He handed her the box with the lid covering 'The Boy,' once again.

Two days later, Andrea drove Aaron to the airport. They kissed good-bye in the departure lounge—airports and airplanes were still safe places back then—and she stayed to watch, with a curious empty feeling, as the Lufthansa jet faded into a gray, overcast sky.

*                *                *


Andrea opened her eyes. The water had become tepid. She shut the jets off and the swirling eddies ceased their sensual massage. She reached down and grasped the floating toy half tempted to play with him right now, but the water temperature was unpleasant. She sat up, lifted the chrome plug, and stood up shivering. She stepped out of the tub listening to the gurgling of the water as it drained. She set the black dildo on end upon the vanity top and wrapped herself in a black terrycloth bath sheet. The Boy invited her gaze standing there upright, ready for action. She picked him up and dried him off lovingly. She placed the rounded tip against her lips and kissed it with a little sucking sound. He certainly had withstood the test of time. Twenty-five years of faithful service.

A string of boyfriends, some long-term, most of a shorter duration, all wealthy, often wondered at her great affection for the unique sex toy. Several bought her state-of-the-art vibrators or dildos of newer, and they thought better, materials. She let them use their purchases on her and if Oscars were handed out for best faked orgasms, she thought she'd be a shoe-in, very possibly beating out Meg Ryan. Though none ever guessed, no matter what any of her men did, no matter their fervent ardor, no matter how fancy the gizmos, she never came unless she used The Boy. Of course, her clients had never cared one way or another whether she came or not. It was irrelevant.

For a long time it didn't bother her, but lately she thought she might be missing something. She thought that perhaps she should broaden her horizons. Her epiphany coincided some months ago with finding the Maestro's North American tour schedule on-line. Tonight he was conducting in her city.

As Andrea dressed for the concert, she stopped and looked at the entertainment section of the newspaper lying on the neatly-made bed. There was no mistaking the face even in the grainy black and white photo; older, of course, but he was as handsome as she remembered. And now he was a world-renowned maestro. He conducted, he lectured; aspiring brilliant students vied to study under him. He was everything he ever wanted to be. And why not? He was, after all, a genius.

She remembered the last time she saw Aaron.

*                *                *


He had come back from Europe in six months for a visit, as he said he would, though she heard of his return through the grapevine. She had attributed his complete lack of correspondence to his devotion to studies. It was something of a reunion party. Many of the students she'd known at the Conservatory were there. Some conversed with her politely, but most did not. She was no longer one of them. When he walked into the room, heads turned. Andrea's heart went into overdrive and she beamed at him even before he noticed her. She made her way to him and placed herself squarely in his path.

He seemed surprised to see her.

"Andrea, how nice to see you."

She frowned and looked at him quizzically. He sounded so formal. "How nice to see you?" she asked wryly. "How about a hug?" She smiled and moved in closer to him.

It was almost imperceptible to anyone else, but Andrea saw how he pulled back and her smile faded.

"Aaron?"

"Not now, Andrea. Later."

She was about to ask him what he meant, when a ravishing red-haired creature, with the air of a prima donna, strode up beside him. She linked her arm through his, a gesture of easy familiarity. Andrea was stunned to find herself thinking with cool detachment that they made a breathtaking couple.

"Aaron, my love, you must introduce me to all your friends. Who's this?" she asked smiling graciously at Andrea.

Andrea just stared at the woman as she tried to digest the scene. It was difficult to maintain her composure as the world tilted away from her. The sounds around her were muffled and she felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Though it seemed an eternity, the disorientation was momentary. Her instinct to not look like a complete idiot took charge within seconds. She smiled at Aaron then at the redhead.

"I'm Andrea. I'm sure Aaron must have mentioned me."

Aaron jumped right in. "Andrea this is Diane. Diane Moore."

Diane shook her head. "No, Aaron was remiss I'm afraid. I'm sure I would have remembered an Andrea. But nice to meet you, Andrea."

Andrea stood outside herself and watched as she made some small talk with the perfect couple then headed for the bar. The bartender, an amiable sort, chatted with Andrea as he poured her a glass of white wine. Andrea sensed Aaron's approach. She felt him standing there, but he did not touch her. She turned to look at him.

"What's going on?" she asked. "Why didn't you ever write back or call? What about us?"

He didn't look the slightest bit embarrassed about the situation and didn't seem to care that the bartender was listening. In fact, he did not acknowledge the existence of the fellow.

"Listen, Andrea. You read more into it than there ever was. There was no us. I mean we only went out, what...a half a dozen times or so? It was...an experiment. Something a little different for me. It was okay, but you're just not in the same league as I am. You need to find your own niche. You really need to get on with your life."

She remembered staring at the back of his head as he walked away from her and her stomach turned over and the blood pounded like timpani in her ears. She remembered the bartender asking, "Would you like something a little stronger?"

And she clearly recalled thinking, "It was nine. It was nine times. Don't you remember?"

*                *                *


Andrea finished dressing and studied her reflection in the full-length mirrors that were the sliding doors of her bedroom closet. They emphasized the now-Spartan expanse of the room around her. The stylish black velvet pants suit was most becoming. She stood at an angle and threw her shoulders back. Inhaling deeply she sucked in her slightly rounded tummy and smoothed the plush fabric over it. Forty had brought voluptuous with it. The jacket slid apart revealing a black satin blouse with a plunging V-neck. She smiled thinking of a line from a favourite funny movie: "What knockers!" The only jewellery that adorned her was a simple silver chain around her neck.

In response to the chilly weather, she wore boots instead of shoes. They were black patent leather that hugged her calves and rose to her knees under the pant legs. The heels added four inches to her height.

Her long hair was swept up and classically coiffed further enhancing the illusion of tallness. Until last week, it still had been mostly brown, but the gray streaks were becoming more pronounced of late. In honour of tonight's planned events, Andrea's crowning glory was now a warm auburn.

In the living room, she slipped into a long black trench coat—a recent acquisition—and gathered up her purse and tote bag. She opened the apartment door, turned back to survey the almost empty space then, satisfied that what remained was in order, she flicked the wall switch to extinguish the lights. She stepped across the threshold and pulled the door closed behind her. The solid, metallic kachunk of the deadlock echoed along the deserted corridor.

*                *                *


Andrea sat throughout the concert thinking about the many things she'd done since last she saw Aaron, and all the things she never did. She clutched her purse tightly in her lap; her tote bag was firmly wedged between her feet and partially under the seat.

She barely took her eyes off Aaron, though she kept the cellists in her peripheral view to the right. Tonight they were all male. She never tired of watching the way they held their violoncellos gently, but firmly, between their thighs, heads inclined toward the neck, cheek almost brushing it, as one would lean into a lover to whisper a seduction, one hand sliding confidently along the fingerboard, holding, executing the vibrato, the other gripping the bow, coaxing the long, melancholy notes from within the depths of both the varnished wood housing and their own souls. Andrea could feel the harmonic resonance inside her.

Aaron himself was a concert of fluid, poetic movement. The baton was a living extension of his lithe hand movements. The patterns could mesmerize the willing. It seemed somehow appropriate that his back should be turned to her for the duration of each selection. She watched him dispassionately even as she breathed with the cadence of the soaring music he conducted. She held her breath through each climax. During the quiet denouements, she glanced around to study the faces of the people watching him. The adoration was unmistakable. She, herself, was not one to deny his talent, which was self-evident, or his charisma. He had both...in spades.

He also had an ego the size of Mount Rushmore; equally impressive, but much less attractive. Andrea had felt it as an actual force of nature the moment he emerged from the wings. He crossed the stage, graciously shook the hand of the concert mistress, and mounted the podium. She could also feel that it had grown. It overpowered the collective egos of the talented performers behind him. He had surveyed the sea of expectant faces as a monarch granting his subjects a glimpse of his magnificence. Even after a quarter of a century, she felt his familiar arrogance as it drowned out the applause. Recently, she wondered how she ever could have found that air of superiority appealing. Ah, well, no matter. That he still had it was to her advantage.

Getting backstage, after the initial crush of patrons had subsided, was not a problem. Aaron's people knew the type of fans he sought and to whom he granted an audience.

Carrying her coat over her arm, and hugging her tote bag and purse close to her body, Andrea made her way to him and dazzled him with the gleaming, perfect smile she had paid much to acquire. Her orthodontist had probably vacationed long and hard in some exotic locale thanks to the work he had performed on her mouth. She smiled ruefully to herself; pity the bills could not have been deducted as a business expense. She laughed nervously as she handed Aaron her programme and he perused it. His own face stared up at him.

"I feel like a silly schoolgirl asking for your autograph," she said with just a hint of self-deprecation. Her practiced voice was mellow. She had learned to modulate the pitch and knew it sounded sexier and much different from the higher, more nasal tones of her youth.

He hesitated a moment, as if he thought he recognized her. Andrea forced herself not to look apprehensive even though her heart rate increased, but his pause was fleeting. Her eyes, tinted green by contact lenses and further camouflaged by non-prescription eyeglasses, were unfamiliar to him. He would remember brown eyes, if he had remembered them at all. Perfect make-up further disguised the face he had only ever seen without cosmetics. Andrea had never worn her hair up when she was with him. There was no recognition, no remembrance. He returned the smile and nothing about his had changed.

He laughed and said, "Well, you may look like a schoolgirl, but I'm sure you're not silly." He scrawled his name on the programme absently, but did not relinquish his hold on it.

Andrea could not fake a blush, but she did incline her head down and glanced away shyly before tilting her face toward him again, staring directly into his heavenly blue eyes—she couldn't deny the magnetism—and saying deliberately, "The way you play the orchestra is breathtaking. They say you're a genius and...I believe it."

He was not abashed by the compliment in the slightest, accepting it as his due, but raised a brow. "Interesting turn of phrase...play the orchestra. Almost poetic."

Andrea inched out further along the limb. "I also heard you lecture once, a few years ago, but..." she offered up another anxious laugh, "this is going to sound foolish...I was too nervous to talk to you afterwards."

"Which lecture?" he asked, ignoring her little confession and apparent embarrassment.

Of course, she thought, he doesn't care that I was nervous or why. He only wants to know the part about himself.

"On the development of talent at a young age." Andrea paused momentarily, then added in a confident tone, "I think one of the reasons I was afraid to approach you afterward was because I wasn't sure I agreed with all your theories."

In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought then said with conviction, "I still don't."

As she spoke the last words, she stared at him unblinking. His demeanor altered perceptibly.

Hooked!

It was all she could do to keep from happy dancing and saying, "Yessss!" out loud. Instead, she fixed him with a cool stare, a subtle challenge.

Aaron glanced around at the small milling crowd then back at Andrea.

"Are you with anyone?" he asked.

"Um ... no. Why?"

"Just a moment." He turned away from her, still clutching her programme she noted, and addressed a slight, young man hovering near him.

She heard him say, "Tony," then caught only a few whispered words, not feeling well, before the aide took immediate action. The fellow cleared his voice and offered sincere apologies, but declared that the Maestro would be unable to stay any longer as he was feeling the effects of a rigorous and unforgiving tour schedule. He politely asked everyone to please leave. He was rewarded with a murmured chorus of disappointment, but these were people who were too well-mannered to press further.

Aaron turned back and placed his hand on Andrea's arm as she feigned a motion to depart.

"Not you." he said quietly. "I know it's late, but would you have dinner with me?"

Andrea watched the others leave and Tony the aide following them out of the dressing room. She smiled and asked in her best incredulous tone, "You want to have dinner with me? Surely, you must have other things planned?"

Tony had closed the door behind himself. They were alone.

"You're a breath of fresh air. I know this may seem surprising, but it isn't all glamour and black tie parties. I don't have any commitments for tonight. All I was going to do was go back to an empty hotel room and order room service. I'd love to discuss that topic of young talent over dinner with you instead."

Andrea chuckled on the inside ... Yeah, right. You just can't stand that someone disagrees with you and I must be converted. You can't wait to tell me how right you are and how wrong I am.

"Well, actually, um...I had dinner before I came here. I'm not really hungry. But if you'd like my company..."

"I would love the opportunity to talk with you and get to know you."

She laughed shortly and wondered if he wanted to get laid, or something, as well. "That could be a problem, the getting to know me part, I mean. I'm only in town for the night. I...um...I traveled here just to see you." She hastened to add, "I mean to see you conduct."

Playing the ingénue was having the desired effect. God, he lapped up the worship.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Promise you won't laugh?"

"Why would I laugh?"

"Well, it's an unusual name. I don't have drop of Greek blood in me, but my mother had an incredibly warped sense of humour. She was an entomologist of some note and specialized in arachnids ... absolutely loved spiders. Doctor Letitia Webb. She named me ... Arachnia. So, can you believe it? My name is Arachnia Webb." A suitably doubtful expression creased her forehead

He stopped and looked at her, studying her for a moment then nodded. "I like it. It's unusual. Truly unforgettable." He scrawled something on the programme above his signature and handed it back to her.

She read, 'To Spiderwoman,' and laughed out loud. "Well, I've been called that, but I've never seen it in writing." She timed her pause then said, "You know, even your signature looks somehow...musical."

"I don't suppose you know any good restaurants around here?" Aaron asked as he divested himself of the black tailcoat, throwing it carelessly over the back of a chair. It slid to the floor and he did not deign to retrieve it. He sat down in front a dressing table peering into the mirror and preened.

Andrea resisted the urge to pick up the jacket. She responded to the question, an opening for which she had dared not hope. Although she had set up a number of contingency plans, his invitation to dine was a gift.

"Well, I thought the restaurant at my hotel was more than acceptable, if you'd care to try it."

"Wonderful. I trust your judgment. We'll go there." He flashed his thousand-watt grin. "I'm really looking forward to this."

Andrea gave him her best Mona Lisa smile full of seductive promise. "So am I. Really."

*                *                *


Andrea's only concern, though not a major one, was the limousine driver. He would probably remember her and though it would make little difference, any complication needed to be considered. During the short drive to the hotel, all the while making introductory small talk about the evening's performance and the tour schedule—it was all about him—Andrea mulled over the best possibilities.

The doorman was already at the curb as the limousine coasted to a smooth stop in front of the hotel's main entrance. They got out of the car while he held the door open for them.

The chauffeur came around as well with a professional economy of movement. His words were clipped and quiet. "Shall I wait, sir?"

Before Aaron could say a word, Andrea squeezed his arm to gain full attention and looked directly into his eyes when he turned to her. She said softly, "It could be a long dinner and a very leisurely discussion. Perhaps he should come back...later?"

The expression on Aaron's face was all she hoped it would be. This was perfect. Andrea had a vision of herself holding a baton, weaving an elaborate invisible web in the air, conducting the ultimate symphony.

Once inside the hotel—the lobby was almost deserted at this late hour—Andrea first guided Aaron towards the dimly lit restaurant. Part way there, as they passed the elevators, she stopped and said, "Would you mind terribly if we went up to my room first? I really would like to freshen up a bit."

Aaron played his part as if he'd read the script. Andrea almost felt a twinge of disappointment that he was so predictable, but he looked as unsurprised by this overt come-on as she had anticipated. He expected adulation, and groupies were groupies. The high quality ones were a mainstay of his life.

"In fact," she continued, "we could order room service, have a lovely dinner, perhaps even some champagne, and enjoy some comfort and privacy up there. No reason our debate can't be friendly."

Aaron said nothing; he did not have to.

They stepped onto the elevator and watched the doors slide shut without a sound. Andrea linked her free arm through his. She felt the trembling vibrations of captive wings along invisible strands like the continuous bowing along a cello string.

*                *                *


Andrea stood over the king-sized bed gazing down at Aaron, who was partially reclining, pillows piled behind him against the cherry wood headboard. He was sipping from his champagne flute as he watched Andrea slowly stripping for him, teasing him.

He was slightly heavier than she remembered, perhaps a little prone to gustatory indulgence, but still trim enough. His genes had been almost as kind to him as Andrea's had been to her, though she suspected it was more his vanity that held him in close check. She felt no warmth at the thought, but it crossed her mind that they would have made a beautiful couple, the kind that would turn heads. Well, his loss.

Andrea's outer clothing was a black velvet pool on the deep pile, cream-coloured carpeting. She was down to just her black lace panties and lace top stockings; and the boots. The boots, she felt, added a little something to the overall effect. She reached up and unfastened the barrettes holding her hair in place, discarded them, and shook the lustrous mane. She stood tall and unashamed, with her shoulders thrust back, exhibiting her luscious, all-natural breasts.

Aaron's erection was a testament to her seductive display. He had good reason to thank his parents further for their contribution to his genetic superiority. Andrea, however, had little trouble reconciling her awe at his magnificent member with her resolve to deprive him of its use.

She had placed her tote bag casually beside the bed between the night table and the stand upon which the sterling ice bucket perched. The bottle of champagne nestled in the crushed ice was still half full. Andrea's glass stood empty on the night table.

She leaned over Aaron and curled her fingers around his rigid penis.

"Well, Maestro, you've certainly made your point," she said, giving him a little up-and-down stroke, "and I concede." She released him, wiggled out of her briefs, and climbed up on the bed to straddle him. She held her arms wide. "To the victor go the spoils."

Without taking his eyes off Andrea's tits, Aaron extended his arm and set his glass atop the matching night stand on the other side of the bed. He reached up and very lightly stroked the rounded curve of Andrea's left breast.

She closed her eyes and moaned deep in her throat. She knew it sounded genuine. It was easy enough to feel transported back in time, to recall the thrilling newness of her first sexual encounters. In the present, it was equally simple for her to feel the thrill of knowing she was composing her own concerto. How satisfying it was to know that for possibly the very first time, the Maestro was totally unfamiliar with the score.

Andrea swayed over top of Aaron, half opened her eyes, and with a sufficiently dreamy look, said, "You are so amazing. I can't wait to explore all your areas of expertise."

She leaned over him and deliberately brushed her nipples back and forth across his chest. Her lips curved in a coquettish smile and she bent close to his face, kissed him very lightly on the lips, and worked her way down his chin, his chest, his belly. She tickled him with the tip of her tongue. She explored then pretended to discover his sensitive spots. In fact, she remembered them clearly.

His responses were encouraging. The man's libido certainly seemed to have kept pace with his career.

Andrea slid her warm fingers over the gentle curve of Aaron's cock. Her nails were not too long, but well-shaped and painted in a favourite dark berry hue. She raked them, lightly over the velvet head and taut skin, following the line of a bulging vein. Beneath her touch, the beast pulsed and twitched, an entity in its own right.

Aaron groaned and reached down to twine his fingers through her hair, pressing her head with a gentle insistence. Andrea the actor had to force herself not to grin widely. Andrea the observer watched with the satisfaction of those whose mastery of the baton produces the heart-pounding crescendos.

She submitted to his coercion and pressed her lips against his cockhead. Aaron had no idea just how in her area of expertise he was. She varied the use of her lips, her tongue, and her teeth in the cause of the desired effect, and employed her hands with the finesse of a concert musician. She made all the right sounds, moaning and whimpering, gagging audibly as he butted the back of her throat, the submissive willing to choke for the master's pleasure. She glanced up at him with just the right look of wanton lust and humble servitude to feed the hungry ego that could never be sated. She worshipped, with smoky eyes, the unsuspecting condemned man savouring his last meal.

When she knew he was approaching the point of no return, she stopped and moved sinuously up his body. He muttered an agonized protest at the cessation of her attention to his painfully rigid penis and tried to push her back towards it, but she did not relent.

She nuzzled his neck and murmured, "I have something very special that I can do for you. It isn't like anything you've ever felt before."

She slid off him and reached over the edge of the bed into her tote bag. Her fingers closed around the prepared object of her search and deftly obscuring it from his view, she kissed his mouth hungrily, distracting him. Over the past month, she had practiced her moves repeatedly on a life-sized, padded dummy until they were smooth and flawless.

With the same swiftness as a spider lunging at its captured prey lest it escape, she moved her hand towards him, held the needle point firmly against Aaron's neck, pierced the flesh, and pressed the plunger without pause emptying the syringe.

She raised her head to watch as his eyelids flew open, and held him down fast feeling his body convulse against hers once in surprise then a second time in feeble protest. Within seconds she felt him fade.

*                *                *


Andrea was leaning over him when he regained consciousness. A satisfied smile spread across her face as she watched dawning comprehension.

"Oh, Aaron, if you could just see the look on your face." Andrea paused then said gaily, "Oh, wait, you can," then in a singsong voice, "Don't go away," as she headed to the bathroom. A moment later, she returned holding a large hand mirror.

She paused briefly standing beside the bed to watch him lying motionless. The shallow rise and fall of his chest and the terror-brightness of his blue eyes were the only visible signs of life.

Smiling she held the reflective surface over his face, adjusted it this way and that, and spoke conversationally.

"I know your whole face looks a little slack because that's what the stuff does. But the eyes are still so expressive. They really are windows into the soul, aren't they? Assuming one has a soul, of course. See the shock in yours...like this couldn't possibly be happening." She took the mirror away and set it on the bedside table. "But I assure you it is." She paused then stared into his eyes and said deliberately, "Oh yes, Aaron, it is soooo happening."

"You know what's really funny right now? I can actually see your mind racing. 'What's happening to me? What's she doing with me? Who is she?'

"Oh, yes. That last question is the kicker, isn't it? Who am I?"

Andrea casually caressed her breasts and toyed with her nipples closing her eyes and drifting away momentarily with the sensation, performing for her captive audience. She murmured a long mmmmm, inhaled deeply then sighed audibly.

Her reverie ended abruptly and she stared at him unblinking.

"Well, for starters ... my name is not Arachnia Webb. I can't believe you actually bought that. Well...perhaps I can. After all, it is rather unusual and noteworthy and would certainly appeal to your sense of being entitled to all that is unique."

Andrea went over to the alcove beside the bathroom and hefted a large, black sport bag from the luggage bench. She dropped it with a thump beside the bed then sat down beside Aaron's inert form.

"Now you're probably also wondering just what that stuff was. Well, it's kind of a long story. I could make it shorter, I suppose, but what the hell? I do owe you something and we have." Andrea peered at the glowing green digital display on the clock radio. "...well, a bit of time yet. So, I'll give you more than just the little blurb you'd read in People magazine, but less than War and Peace. Think of this as the Reader's Digest version.

"The name is Andrea, my dear Maestro. Andrea. And once upon a time I played cello at the Royal Conservatory right here in this fair city."

She watched as the gears ground then saw comprehension anew.

"Ah-ha! There you go. Your reputation for being a genius remains untarnished. Total recall. You're just so fucking clever.

"You were right, you know, when you told me I would never be a world-class cellist. I don't know if I actually started out aspiring to be one. I just wanted to play the cello, but the thing is, after you enlightened me as to my woeful lack talent, it never occurred to me, for years afterward, to be quite honest that being world class wasn't the point. I wanted to play the cello. I know now that I'm responsible for my own actions, but back then ... your opinion made all the difference. Do you have any idea at all how much your opinion of me counted? Well, probably not, but you will.

"The point is, my brilliant maestro, I really loved playing the cello, but you made me feel that I was wasting my time if I couldn't make it on the world stage, or be as perfect as you, or as perfect as you thought I ought to be. Certainly not as perfect as Diane was in her chosen field. I found out all there was to know about Diane and she was pretty good. Lovely soprano, but not exactly world class either. For awhile, I even followed her career, brief though it was. Shame when she did that accidental overdose, eh?"

Andrea saw Aaron's eyes go blank.

"Oh, God, you don't mean you don't remember her either? Christ, Aaron, just how many women does a guy like you have to fuck over before their names and faces start disappearing into the mists of time? I guess being a genius means never having to remember who you've screwed.

"Well, I don't want to wax philosophic. Sands through the hour glass and all that. No, the fact is that I do owe you for a couple of things. First of all, a heartfelt thank you for enlightening me as to the nature of men. I really do enjoy them, you know, but so much more for knowing what makes them tick. And second, for letting me know up close and personal the one thing I did have a knack for.

"You once said I needed to find my own niche, and thanks to you, I did. What I discovered, much to the delight of my pragmatic and somewhat mercenary self, was that what you so enjoyed me giving you for free a lot of other men were more than willing to pay for. So instead of becoming simply a mediocre cellist, I became a world-class cocksucker...in the truest sense of that word. I'll tell you, Aaron, they paid a lot more for that than they would have paid to listen to a cello concert. So, in a sense, I owe my fame and fortune to you.

"Still, you were such a shit and, honestly, I do wonder how different my life would have been if I'd pursued music." Andrea sighed, bent down, and unzipped the bag. After a moment of theatrical rummaging, she withdrew a translucent, white plastic container, snapped it open and set it on the bed beside Aaron. She carefully picked out another tiny syringe from the box and a small, dark brown bottle and held them up so Aaron could see them.

"You're probably wondering, or maybe not, but it doesn't really matter—I'll tell you anyway—you're probably wondering what I did do instead of keeping up with the cello...I mean besides starting up Blow Jobs R Me. After all, you can't suck cock twenty-four-seven, can you? Well, I guess you could, but it's hard on the jaw and would probably get a little tedious. Anyway, when I wasn't raking it in for paying lip service to a lot of rich guys, I dabbled. I ended up doing all kinds of stuff. I'll bet you never realized how bright I was. I just never was very focused...not like you at all."

With her right hand, she waggled the bottle in front of Aaron's face.

"This, Aaron, is a fascinating little substance consisting of neurotoxins and myotoxins. Do you know what those are? No? Well, isn't it nice to know you're not a well-rounded genius." She lowered her right hand. "In simple terms, they are the main ingredients in the venom most commonly found in poisonous snakes and almost all spiders. This is spider venom, of course. Only appropriate I think. I whipped it up myself. I'm rather brilliant in this particular arena. You should know that. First I harvested it—and let me tell you, that wasn't easy—and processed it, distilled it to a highly concentrated form, refined it so it would do exactly what I want it to do, then diluted it to administer. I know you've always felt privileged and you should do now as well because I did this just for you.Now the shot I gave you was rather mild and mixed with just a wee drop of a potent little tranquilizer. You were actually out cold for about half an hour. I had some other stuff to get ready for you and no reason I shouldn't let you rest up for it.

"Oh, one thing I did while you nodded off...I wheeled the dinner cart into the hall and hung the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door, so you don't have to worry at all about us being interrupted. The rest of the night is ours.

"Anyhoo, the signature attribute of these charming potions is muscle paralysis and the general destruction of organic tissue. The toxins in the venom allow the female spider, once she has incapacitated her prey, to keeping it alive so she can suck the life out of it at her leisure. An evolutionary coup, don't you think?"

Andrea held the tiny syringe a little higher so Aaron could see it clearly. His eyes had taken on a wild cast.

"Shortly, I will inject this into you because the initial dose will start to wear off. I made the first one weak because I didn't know how much you weighed. By the way, you still look fabulous. But I'm sure you're also still a shit, so how you look doesn't really count for anything. I've prepared a few doses to last us for a spell. I have to be very careful, because too much at once could kill you and we wouldn't want that to happen too soon, would we?"

She replaced both the bottle and the syringe in the plastic case, but didn't close it. Shifting her position so she could access his crotch, Andrea fingered Aaron's now limp penis. She flip-flopped it back and forth playfully.

"How the mighty have fallen," she said yanking on it a few times then letting it plop down.

"You know, this thing is looking pretty pathetic. It just isn't right. To your credit, Aaron, although you are a first class prick, you also have a first class prick and you just don't look like yourself without a good, stiff hard-on."

She got off the bed and squatted beside the sport bag rooting around in it once again. She stood erect and proudly held up 'The Boy.'

"Ta-daaaaa!"

She grinned broadly and said, "Remember this guy? Of course you do. You gave him to me so I wouldn't forget you while you were away. Something to remember you by. Well, I remember, Aaron. I remember all of it. Every... single... thing...even if you don't."

She leaned over him and pressed his legs together tightly. As expected, there was no resistance. She wedged the base end of the dildo between his thighs so the head pointed toward the ceiling. The ebony contrasted sharply against his pale skin and blond pubic hair.

She stood back and admired her handiwork.

"There. That's better. That's more like the real you; a prick with absolutely no feeling at all."

Sitting down on the bed, Andrea picked up the syringe again.

"I think we can give you a little more now. Don't want you getting up and walking out on me."

As she again stabbed him with the tiny needle and slowly pressed the clear liquid into his system, she chatted as would a nurse attending her patient.

"So, where was I? Oh, yes, dabbling. I've always liked entomology. Although I wasn't completely honest with you when I was pretending to be someone else, I was serious about my mother being an entomologist. Just an amateur of course...and not all bugs. She certainly didn't fancy spiders at all. She was a lepidopterist. Actually, she was a real bitch, too. I think that might be why she took such pleasure in catching butterflies, killing them, and pinning them to her little boards."

Andrea withdrew the needle from Aaron's neck and rested her arm on the pillow. She was looking at Aaron, but not seeing him. She gazed into some distant past.

"It was rather bizarre really. I caught her once—she didn't see me watching her—I caught her pinning a live one down. She was smiling. She watched it struggling, trying to beat its wings, legs flailing uselessly, and she just smiled. She enjoyed it you see, capturing this beautiful winged creature. It wasn't enough for her just to kill it and keep it as a trophy. She wanted it to know it was caught and would never fly free again...that it would die without ever soaring on the wind one last time. I'm not even sure how old I was...maybe ten or eleven. What I saw her doing horrified me. At that moment, I wished more than anything that I could go back, just a few minutes, and instead of stopping at her study, just passing right by it and doing something else, anything else. I have never wanted a do-over so badly in my life as I did that day. I left without her knowing I'd seen what she'd done. I went to my room and took out my cello and started playing, just playing and playing. I have no idea how long I kept at it. It could have been hours. Probably was. The room was light when I started. It was dark when I gave up. I played till my fingers bled. I started with Haydn and Dvorak then just made up stuff. Not anything you'd recognize, just notes and chords...and really loud. I just wanted the sound and the pain to drown out the vision. It never really did. I can still see that butterfly with its beautiful, useless wings and pawing the air with those spindly, weak legs in utter futility. And I can still see that smile, that satisfied smirk. Fuck, I hated it."

She fell silent, lost in the memory then jerked back to the present and said brightly, "Well, how's that for a little trip down memory lane? You never asked me much about myself. It was always about you. You and your genius intellect and your awesome talent and..." she gave his flaccid penis a kittenish bat with her free hand, "your formerly splendid cock."

She straightened, replaced the syringe in the plastic case, closed the case, and tucked it into the bag saying, "Won't need this for a little while."

Searching the bag once again, Andrea said, "But I do have something else in here that you're just going to love." She gripped the prize in her right hand.

She sat upright again and fixed him with a serene smile, keeping the occupied hand out of his line of vision. She adjusted her position then used her left hand to rake her nails lightly across his chest and down his belly to rest in his pubic hair. With a dreamy nonchalance, she twined and untwined a lock of the blond curls around her index finger with the help of her thumb. She pulled on them absently each time the strands were twisted.

"I really do love cocks, Aaron. Hate you, still love your cock."

With one smooth flourish, Andrea held up the Bowie knife in front of Aaron's face and laughed out loud when she saw the expression in his eyes.

*                *                *


"You know what I really hate these days? Package deals. Like those satellite dish packages. There's like, what, maybe ten channels you actually watch and enjoy and the other hundred-and-forty are basic shit that no one would pay for if they weren't included in the sixty bucks a month. And they won't let you do it a la carte either. It's all or nothing. You're almost like one of those package deals, Aaron. There's like three good pieces of programming with you and the rest is crap. You have this breathtaking musical talent, which I truly admire. I love music and what you do with it almost too much to take it away from the world prematurely. You also have that supreme gift of gab and I will be the first to compliment you on your riveting lectures."

"And you have...this," she said, pointing to his penis, just barely touching it with the tip of the gleaming seven-inch, stainless steel blade. She heard him sucking air through gaping lips.

"That little anecdote about my dear mater? I told you that so you'd understand that I come by my love of bugs honestly. My preference is to study them live though. Under natural conditions is nice, but under controlled conditions is my specialty. I wonder if bugs feel anything that equates to emotion. Love, hate .or fear perhaps? It wouldn't seem so, but you never know. I realize I anthropomorphized with that butterfly, but who knows? Maybe it really did know what was happening to it. What do you think, Maestro? Love? Hate? Do you feel either of those emotions? God, I wish you'd speak up. You always had so much to say and now I can't get a word out of you.

"Well, I guess I'll never know about the love or hate. But I do see fear. You are a genius, Maestro, adding two and two and coming up with fear.

"I had a truly spectacular collection of bladed weapons. Sold it just recently for an obscene sum. This is the only one left. I have a great fondness for it because it was my first, just like your cock. Your cock was just the first blunt weapon in what turned out to be a very lucrative collection of blunt weapons. The blade collection, like the blunt objects, outlived its usefulness. Shortly, this blade, to which I have a sentimental attachment, will be retired." She smiled at her own unspoken conclusion. "I can't take it on the plane and don't want to chance it in the luggage either."

Andrea tapped the glossy black dildo with the steel.

"Well, at least that's good and hard...still plenty useful."

She drew the knifepoint along Aaron's thigh. She heard him gasp as she pressed the point into the meaty flesh.

"Entomology, biological toxins, bladed weaponry. Tip of the iceberg. I studied some basic anatomy and medicine, too.

"You know what you did to me, Aaron? With surgical precision, you excised my harmless little dream. That cello was all I had, it was all I knew how to do, and for no reason that I can think of, other than your need to inflate your own fucking huge ego, you pinned my wings to the board. You were such a prick. And then that last time before you left for Europe...you may as well have been smirking at me watching me floundering like some helpless bug. There I was giving you the only thing I had left to give and... you...weren't...in the mood?!"

Andrea bared her teeth, shoved the weapon harder and twisted it. Despite the chemical working its venomous magic, pain neurons sprang to life and Aaron's leg twitched. An agonized groan escaped him.

She relaxed as quickly as she had tensed to inflict the injury. Smiling once again, she said, "I can see what you're thinking." She chuckled. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to separate you from your baton...or your lovely little castanets. God's sake, Aaron, give me some credit for originality. That's been done to death."

Still gripping the knife, Andrea rose and looked down at him. She inhaled then heaved a theatrical sigh.

"Geez," she said, "you're bleeding all over the bed."

She snickered and turned away from him then went to the mirrored dresser. She laid the weapon down on the surface, opened up a small bag and took out a digital camera. A tiny beep sounded as she activated it then after making some adjustments, she pivoted to face the bed.

"These will make really terrific publicity shots, don't you think?"

She aimed and pressed the shutter button. She moved casually around the room angling the camera and taking pictures then paused and reviewed the shots squinting at the small window.

"I love the technology these days, don't you? I've found you on a few web sites just by punching in your name. You've carved out quite a niche for yourself, but you can never have too many fans, can you? I could post these with a link to your name and cultivate a whole new audience for you. Do you think these shots would do you justice? How about a few close-ups?"

Andrea stood over the bed and aimed the viewfinder at Aaron's genitals. 'The Boy' stood out in stark relief and she snapped several shots.

"I think I'll call that one 'A Study in Contrasts,' or maybe, 'The Long and the Short of It.' God, I'm clever. I never used to believe I was a genius, not like you, but hey...think about it. I'm standing here taking shots of your limp dick and you're lying there like a crash test dummy. So who's the genius?"

She focused on his face to capture for posterity the essence of helpless dread.

"Love the look, Aaron. Still so lifelike." She went back to the dresser, set down the camera, and picked up the knife again.

Humming no identifiable tune and gripping the haft in her right hand, she returned to him.

She stared down and reached out with her left hand to caress the dildo. As she did so, she brought the knife back to the single wound. Only a thin trickle of red still seeped out.

"Hmmm. The flow seems to be drying up. It was hard to be exact with the procoagulant factor because I was working with others' research and computer models. I've never actually used this on a human, and the idea of trying it out on some helpless little animal, who never harmed me, seemed totally unjustified and unfair. So let's see what we can do about getting that flow going again."

Once more she retrieved the plastic container and took out another syringe.

"I may not have been a very good musician, Aaron, but I'm a world class dabbler. I planned for this contingency."

Yet a third time, Andrea injected her prey with a clear fluid.

"I have several options here," she said replacing the paraphernalia,

"I think, just for the poetic justice of it all, I should let you exsanguinate. That's the technical term for 'bleed to death,' but you must know that because you are, after all, a genius. Exsanguinate is forensically correct. It really doesn't sound like what it means, though, does it? It's such a lovely, melodious word. Musical." Andrea lowered her voice and, in the manner of an elocutionist using full, rounded tones, said, "Exsaaaaanguinate."

"Oh, does 'forensically' bother you? You're thinking that's the word they usually use when a corpse gets involved."

Andrea sighed. "Oh Aaron, Aaron, how can you be sooo creative in one area and so monumentally unimaginative in another? I hate having to nudge you, but." She jabbed at the wound again going deeper and watched as the flow of blood resumed.

As she continued conversing, Andrea idly caressed herself with her free hand; stroked her breasts, pinched the nipples. Her fingers found their way to her pussy and she massaged absently.

"So where was I? Oh yes. I could let you ... exsanguinate. You'd just get weaker and weaker and pass out. It really wouldn't be too exciting. Well, not for me at least. I imagine your frigid little heart would be all aflutter though...for awhile anyway. But bleeding to death is rather pedestrian, don't you think? Wouldn't make very good press either and no one would really make the connection between you shedding your blood for my pleasure the way I was willing to shed mine for yours. It's still an option, though, so let's not cross it off our list just yet.

"Option two represents the time and effort I put into dabbling in chemistry. I have two more vials in my little bag of tricks. One of them contains a simple saline solution with a sedative. The other is something totally different. It's something I concocted that would be rather fascinating to experiment with. A delicious little cocktail of toxins, but more like liqueur, highly concentrated. A super-venom combo that just shuts things down. Muscle tissue disintegrates and brain function ceases. Depending on the dosage this could occur gradually or rapidly.

"That would probably be a little more stimulating than watching paint dry. You'd probably panic a little, which would be good; once-in-a-lifetime photo op for me. And you'd feel nauseous. That would be very good. I think you should feel sick like that. I think it would do you good, just once before you die, to feel your stomach heave like someone just punched you in the gut and kicked your balls at the same time. But I'd be a lot more honourable about it than you were, because I wouldn't turn my back on you. Nope, I'd stand here and watch the whole thing. You'd feel like shit for awhile then you'd just suffocate because the muscles enabling you to breathe would just ... pffft.

"Hmmm. Your breathing is getting a little raspy there, Maestro. That's just excitement and to be expected. I haven't given you a lethal dose, so no need to get too panicky just yet." Andrea reached with wet fingers to Aaron's mouth and smeared a light coating of her own juices across his lips. They glistened.

"Wouldn't do to have chapped lips, now, would it? Heh! Bet the forensics team would get a chuckle when they analyzed that lip balm."

Andrea stroked 'The Boy.'

"I really do like men, Aaron. Oh, not you, of course, but men in general. I have to tell you, though, there's a lot to be said for the fair sex, too. That's something else I dabbled in. Still do. Quite enjoy it. I was doing a remarkable business simply catering to men, who crave a woman on her knees sucking them off. Some of them get off on it even more, if I wear handcuffs and a collar, a few chains, the occasional blindfold. In my line of work, knowing how to accessorize is really important. And honestly...I do so love indulging them. Hell, I'd do it for free, but getting paid for it is icing on the cake and I say, 'find something you love to do and make money at it.' Well, you'd know that wouldn't you? So I was doing that and one particularly adventurous evening, when I was still cultivating a loyal clientele, one of my wealthier patrons proved to me that three is a crowd, but a fun one. He presented the opportunity and, bingo, one more joy of sex.

"I did find that I lean more towards having the upper hand in those relationships and apparently I have a knack."

All helpless innocence, Andrea shrugged. "What can I say? The girls like me, too."

"Oh, stop looking so 'what's-she-on-about-now?' I'm getting to that."

Andrea checked the oozing wound in Aaron's thigh and gave it a little poke with the knife tip, testing the meat. The trickle increased.

"So anyway, not only do I indulge myself in the sheer pleasure of playing with pussy, I've formed some very rewarding friendships. And a few very sturdy bonds of something way beyond playing and far exceeding friendship. Three ladies in particular seem to think the sun rises and sets on me. Wow! I sound just like you used to. You probably still would if you could get your tongue to work and actually talk again.

"These three ladies are a blessing. Heh! A blessed trinity. I just thought that up. See how inspiring you can be even just lying there like a seemingly useless piece of crap. Anyway, I've worked with them for quite some time, trained them in many ways. They are a labour of love on a number of levels. Each on her own is a perfection and joy. The three of them in concert are a work of art, a masterpiece. In fact, I think of them as my concerto.

"Hey, you're not the only genius in this room, Maestro," she said elbowing him as a teammate would, sharing a gruff, intimate understanding of what it takes to succeed.

Andrea's demeanor transformed from playful to serious in a heartbeat.

"What I should tell you about my Concerto is that unlike me, and despite the fact that they are able to put on a really good show of being cock-worshippers, they have no use for men. None whatsoever. In fact, if I were a man, I wouldn't feel at all safe alone with any one of them. What you need to know, Aaron, what you must understand, as you may never have understood anything else in your life, is that these three ladies will do anything I ask them to do. Anything. I don't have to make it an order. I can just say, 'I would be very appreciative, if you would find a way for this fellow to suffer and die,' and any one of them will consider performing that act both a joy and a privilege. They're a little competitive amongst themselves, too, which is good because they try to outdo each other in pursuit of my happiness. They would vie for the opportunity not only to win my favour, but to satisfy their own rather perversely male-oriented homicidal lust.

"They are my third option. You're going to love the simplicity of this creation. Here's what I'm thinking.

"Other than what I've just told you about them, there is nothing else you will know about my little trio, except that one day you will meet one of them.

"She could be outstandingly, stunningly attractive, or just one-of-the-crowd ordinary. She could be blond, brunette, redhead, raven-haired ... even a little or a lot gray. Young, not so young, my age. Tall, short, thin, plump. Skin colour could be white, black, brown, creamy, olive. She could speak perfect English, or barely any, or with a foreign accent; French, German, Chinese, Australian, Italian. Take your pick. A southern belle, a Midwest farm girl, or a Boston socialite. She could be part of the audience sitting behind you, or one of the fans jostling to meet you backstage, after a performance, or an intense student hanging off every word in one of your lectures. She could present herself as artist or academician. She might approach you smoothly, but shyly, just like I did, or come across as a giggling groupie. She could be someone seemingly not paying the slightest attention to you, or a fawning acolyte. You could be seated beside her at some posh dinner party, or she could be someone totally anonymous sharing an otherwise empty elevator with you.

"The point is, Aaron, Maestro, you won't know. You will never know, for certain, who she is. Any woman you meet, ever again, could be the part of my Concerto who won the draw, earned the reward of taking you out of the picture. Anytime there are unfamiliar women around you, you will search their faces and study their behaviour for clues that will be too well hidden for you to see. Every time you are alone with a woman, you'll need to ask yourself, 'Is this Andrea's slave?'

She gazed at Aaron with an expression of serene superiority that she knew he had never before seen.

"The only other thing you need to know about option three is that you don't have to be a genius to understand I have the money, the power, and more than anything, the incentive, to exercise it."

She looked at the clock and said, "I have to get going."

She took off her boots, rose and gathered together her belongings. She put the knife and the used syringes in the sport bag, but left the open plastic case with the two vials of clear liquid on the night stand. She took three lengths of gold drapery cord out of the bag and tossed them on the bed.

After packing the velvet suit, the footwear, and the long black coat in her luggage, she dressed in stylish blue jeans and a white cotton shirt. She paused to check Aaron's pulse, nodding, satisfied that all was in order. She donned a pair of tan cowboy boots and a brown leather jacket then checked her grooming one more time in the mirror.

"I'll leave the goody bag here so that you can have everything analyzed if you want. A little additional proof for you, if any is needed, that I know exactly what I'm doing and that this wasn't all some elaborate practical joke."

Andrea stood over Aaron, reached out and patted his shriveled penis then stroked the dildo.

"I'm going to leave 'The Boy' with you, too, something of substance to remember me by. I think I'll leave him right here like this. It'll make for an interesting tableau when they find you. And they will find you. I'll make a couple of phone calls just before take-off. I've been very diligent with the quantities, Aaron. The dosages I've given you won't kill you, although, sorry, but there may be some permanent muscle and nerve damage. Nothing too drastic ... perhaps a slackness here and there.

"In any case, I don't want you getting mobile too soon. Wouldn't do to have you up and about before I'm safely in the air."

Andrea picked up one of the ropes, grabbed his left wrist, and secured it to the nearest bedpost then moved to the other side of the bed to repeat the procedure with his right arm. Finally, she bound his legs together just above the knees and adjusted 'The Boy,' who had slumped a little. Once again, it stood straight and tall.

"There. All snug. And I must say that you're looking much more erect than the last time we parted company."

"Okay, last but not least, I don't want you regaining the use of your vocal cords for awhile. Don't want you making a whole lot of noise, waking everyone up at this ungodly hour and attracting a crowd too soon."

She stretched her hand towards the night table then stopped short.

"Oh, shit!" she said.

She picked up first one vial, studied it then replaced it. She did the same with the other then sighed.

"Now how the fuck did that happen? I could have sworn I marked the killer stuff."

Andrea shrugged. "Ah, well. I guess I'll just have to take my chances."

She frowned, said, "Eeny, meeny, miney, mo" then with no further hesitation, made her choice. One last time, she jabbed Aaron's neck and depressed the plunger.

"This will either put you to sleep for a few hours then you'll wake up, if not all bright-eyed and bushy tailed, at least alive, or very excruciatingly turn everything inside you to mush before you expire. Hope I picked the right one. I really would hate to deprive one of my little slaves of my pleasure."

Andrea bestowed a benevolent smile upon her subject noting with glee the stark terror in his blue angel eyes. She watched and waited. She listened to the panicked gasps ratcheting from his throat.

Andrea cackled. "Oh relax, Aaron. That was just a little goodbye gotcha for old time's sake. Do you really think I'm air-headed enough to get my potions mixed up? You just don't get it, do you? She sighed and shook her head. "I want you to live...for now. I want my Concerto to be one of those tunes you just can't get out of your head." She patted his cock.

"Well, Maestro, I can't begin to tell you how much I've enjoyed our sweet reunion, but I have a plane to catch. I'm finally taking your advice and getting on with my life."

She turned and walked away from him. She could feel his eyes staring at the back of her head. Andrea grinned.

_______
© 2006 Rose B. Thorny.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Who is Rose B. Thorny? Read her bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.


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