By Any Other Name An Erotic Novel of Suppression and Freedom http://randwrand.wordpress.com/the-books/ Prologue "Forgive him, for he believes that the customs of his tribe are the laws of nature." George Bernard Shaw (18561959) Winner of the 1925 Nobel Prize in Literature "Corazoncito, flagelo y soy flagelada.
No hay medio más seguro para despertar mis pasiones que una buena azotaina"(108).
Donatien Alphonse Francoise de Sade (17401814) from Julieta o El vicio ampliamente recompensado  First Spanish Edition, Distrito Federal, Mexico (2006) _________________________________________________ Madrid, Spain Late April The spasms subsided halfway through the heavy Guns N' Roses beat, and the young woman's breathing slowed. Hanging upright, she raised her head but could only hold it up long enough to swallow through a dry mouth and throat.
Her head felt so heavy, and the music—so loud—enveloped her in thunder. The base seemed to pound in time to her pulse. Chafing burned at her wrists strapped overhead, the sensation returning like a foggy memory, but her fingers and toes still felt numb. She hung from her wrists, feet barely able to support her weight, shoulders throbbing.
¡Delicioso! A sense of loss clouded the delicious pain.
She did not want the coming change, didn´t want to lose what they had together. Cool air chilled the sheen of sweat covering her naked body as the wave of hot pleasure faded. The coolness seemed odd because she recalled that the room had felt warm before. Polished wood felt hard but cool against her chest, taking her exhausted weight. On the second try, she managed to keep her head up. Strands of damp hair hung in her face, obscuring her features in the wide mirror.
"Welcome to the Jungle," she whispered to her reflection hanging before her. Off her reflection, in the top corner of the mirror, someone had taped a tan sheet of construction paper with the printed words in red: Sex is natural; sex is good.
Not everybody does it, but everybody should. Sex is natural; sex is fun.
Sex is best when it's one-on-one. George Michael "I Want Your Sex" The sign was new, and she agreed completely, except he forgot the sweet pain part.
Instinctively, she fisted her hands and tugged, uselessly.
No strength remained to lift herself and relieve the returning soreness at her wrists, spread and secured overhead. Only the straps and oak beam held her up.
Her sweat made the polished wood slick, and the scent of the varnish reminded her fleetingly of the wax her mother used at home. She heard the whip dropped across the iron brace of the beam. Its sound, stiff leather on wood, clipped the air softly and died, belying the power, the sting. The long dreaded end had come along with the end of the song. Sweat stung her eyes.
The room smelled of it, mixed with the aroma of fragrant oil, fresh leather, scented candles, polished wood, and his musk. Padded steps of bare feet approached from behind. He leaned against her, and she hissed a breath at the burn of his sweat against the welts on her back and buttocks. ¡Qué rico!
she thought as another delicious spasm swept through her. The silence lasted bare seconds before Rick James's Disco "Super Freak" pounded from overhead. "She's a very kinky girl The kind you don't take home to mother She will never let your spirits down. . ." Burning, and she leaned back as far as the leather straps allowed, pressing her raw skin to his naked chest: damp hairs, ridged muscle.
The sweet touch was not all she wanted; she needed to sense and recall every detail of their last moments together, before the return of the loneliness and boredom. Soft overhead light strips contrasted with the music but enhanced the flickering glow from the candles that she had spaced about the room.
Like the earthy scents, the light was warm, moving, covering her—covering them along with the heavy beat as his chest pressed to her back. She focused on the feel of the chest hair and the flexing power beneath. The long mirror reflected his form behind her. As he straightened, she noted again how much taller he was than she, so much broader through the shoulders.
He glanced down pointedly then back up and said, "M'lady, you still wear your heart on your ass, as the great man says." She sucked air in to respond. "It's where only my lover can see it." Their eyes met in the mirror, and he laughed.
His laughter hurt—Didn`t he despair of the coming change as she did? But then, he wouldn´t, she realized.
In the mirror, the thick beam nearly hid her body and the waves of dark hair hanging halfway to the floor.
Looking at her reflected image, she noted the sheen of her skin and the glistening dampness in the fine hairs along her forearms and in the dark tufts of hair at her armpits. "She's alright.she's alright That girl's alright with me.Yeah She's a super freak, super freak.
. ." . . But it was his image she sought most in the glass. She watched him, his form so tall behind her, brown skin glistening, his tight crew-cut hair with the dash of gray at the temples, his brown, intense eyes watching her as she watched him: Tyrone. She could never stay angry at him for long. His penis slid between her sweat-dampened thighs, and she tightened the muscles there and moaned.
His skin felt soft, firm, slick. A feeling of intoxication swirled in her head, heavy, dizzying. Her groin, buzzing with her last orgasm, continued to throb to the beat of her heart.to the beat of the music. She inhaled the aroma of his musk, of the candles, sending her higher. His erection rose between her legs, and she felt herself getting moist again. The head of his cock found her wet slit and he thrust, forcing a gasp from her. Gripping her shoulders, he pressed himself against the firm, damp globes of her ass and slid into her pussy, slick with the juices of her orgasms, with the new rush of juices that never seemed to stop when they were together like this.
Teeth clenched, she meowed like a feral cat as he drove into her tight sheath, pulled almost out, drove hard and deep again.
Their eyes locked in the mirror. Her sternum slid along the beam, and her hair shimmered as he thrust, her small, firm breasts revealed and then hidden by the ripples of her hair, moving in time to Rick James's rhythm. . changing. . melding. . "Give it to me Give me that stuff That funk, that sweet, funky stuff. . ." Up on her toes, the strength and height of him lifted her, impaled on his rod.
The first hot wave rolled through her body, and she moaned.
Rope and stiff leather held her up, stretched. Her fists clenched overhead as the second and third wave flowed from her cunt, electrifying her back, arms, legs.
The sudden tensing of his body and the spasms that followed coursed from his body to hers, triggering her own spasms. They both froze, pressed together, hot flesh melding, wet, slick. "Just give it to me, Baby. . ." pounded down from speakers above, from around them. Seconds passed with their breathing and heartbeats seeming to join.
She hung gasping from the straps as he finally eased himself out of her exhausted, soaking vagina. She looked up. Her feet on the cold tile could barely keep from slipping away, her legs buckling.
In the mirror, his eyes were dazed, his face flushed. The herbal scent of the candles suffused her with the sweet memory of the burning drops on her breasts, stomach and thighs. Remember, she thought, remember it all. She felt his juice run out of her, down her inner thighs—Remember. She felt him reach above her and forward to release one wrist strap then the other as the music faded. Steel buckles and rough edges of leather bit into raw flesh as he worked the straps free.
Her mind centered on each sweet stab of pain. Why were they stopping? she wondered. Why was he untying her? She wanted more. Her juices flowed with his from her vagina and down her legs. The white ceiling tiles seemed to move and slide when she looked up.
Their images in the mirror swayed, joined, doubled. The answer came to her: he had to rest, of course. A few minutes would be okay, before they began again. But she wanted more now. He caught her as her full weight leaned against him.
Another song started, but she could not place it. The beat seemed to fade in and out, and she wondered what was wrong with the speakers.
The paneled walls lost focus, sharpened, faded, cleared. The colors of the floor tiles blended. The candles smelled so sweet, she thought hazily. Maybe he was the conejo from her dream, caught, trapped. She tried to keep herself up, but she could neither feel her hands on the wood beam nor her feet on the tile. Change is coming, she thought, and she felt ill prepared. Remember, she told herself. Then the room went gray to black.