The Pink Room, Part One She looked, he decided, like a million bucks. When Paul had first spotted her, in the dim light of the bar, his first thought was that she looked like $313,402.24. (For Paul, an accountant, it was second nature to calculate the net present value -- $200 a night, twice a week for the next 25 years, discounted at 2%.) Now, sitting on the couch of the brightly-lit pink room, watching as her dress slid off her shoulders and down her magnificent body, he was ready to revise his estimate upward -- but his brain was no longer capable of performing the precise calculation. Had it been only an hour ago that he had gazed at her hungrily (even though he had had a big lunch) and suddenly realized that she was looking back at him, and smiling? Why not? he had thought to himself (since this isn't a story about telepaths.) After all, he worked out almost regularly, and he radiated that glow of self-confidence that comes only from the knowledge that one's underwear is clean and free of holes. But that was then. Now, his shorts were on the floor somewhere, and his undershirt torn open down the front, although still relatively clean. Paul was moderately successful, he did a good business. But he had been a free man in Paris, he'd felt unfettered and alive. No, wait, that's a Joni Mitchell song. Paul had never been to Paris, never been east of Long Island. And he didn't feel unfettered now, not with his wrists locked behind him in gleaming (although he couldn't see them gleaming at the moment, he had faith in chromium-plated steel) handcuffs. But he felt alive. Oh, yes. Definitely. She knelt down, and her fingers wrapped around one of the parts that felt most alive. (Coincidence? You be the judge.) It made him feel even more alive, almost too alive to live. It very nearly sent him into a new plane of existence, except that he desperately wanted to hang around this one to see what would happen next. She wasn't wearing a bra, but if she had been the cup size would have been the same as the letter grade you got on your high school biology midterm. Her breasts jutted like twin Hindenbergs; there was no doubt in Paul's mind that he was headed for a fiery collision that would burn the flesh from his bones and reduce him to a heap of ashes, nor that he would enjoy every minute of it. It was a consummation devoutly to be wished, but the handcuffs had him at a disadvantage. Probably she had planned it that way. He was only a pawn in her game, or perhaps not a pawn but the racing car or the terrier. (It depended on whether her game was chess or Monopoly.) He stared at her magnificent Community Chest, and then raised his head to look into her eyes, which were now even with his. They told him that he had landed on Boardwalk with a hotel, and that she wasn't going to let him pass Go just yet. The Pink Room, Part 2 NOTE: One of the problems with writing this in pieces is that I find that I may be prompted to change tone and direction from one chapter to another. Also, I sometimes tend to forget minor details of the previous chapters, in this case the gender and sexual orientation of the participants. I'm pretty sure one of them was being dominant and one submissive, but I could be wrong. I will attempt to press on as best I can, under the circumstances. The dominant (that's the one not wearing the handcuffs, I'm pretty sure) pulled the slave's head roughly forward, teasing the slave with nipples which could be kissed or sucked for an instant and then retreated out of reach. The dominant laughed, but did not share the joke, instead holding it tantalizingly just out of reach. "Incredible," thought the slave. "My genital area is responding appropriately more than it has ever responded before, more than I would have thought possible. If this continues I will spontaneously combust." "Do you love me, slave? Will you do anything I ask to make me happy?" The question was posed for the third time. The first time had been in the bar, the second in the elevator just before the handcuffs were applied. "Yes! Oh, yes!" "Yes what?" "Yes Master or Mistress, as the case may be." "You may use the titles alternately. It will amuse me." "Yes, Master." "Very well, slave. I have a surprise for you." Gently the slave was pulled from the couch to a kneeling position on the floor. The dominant stood up, hooked waistband with thumbs and pulled downward. (There are, of course, sound engineering reasons for this choice of direction.) "My God or Goddess, whichever is suitable! Your gender is of a different nature than I had been hitherto led to expect!" "Oh, is it now? Have you ever performed the appropriate oral stimulation on genitalia of this particular type?" "Certainly not! I am completely of the opposite persuasion from what you are suggesting!" "Certainly not *Mistress*." "I'm sorry, Master." "Well, you are going to exert yourself orally in that manner now." "No, Mistress, I can't. I don't. I never would." "You said you would do anything I asked." "Oh, Master, I didn't mean -- how could I have known?" "I have no patience with slaves who say, 'That wasn't what I meant,' to excuse the fact that they didn't think through the possible consequences of saying what they said." "I'm sorry, Mistress, I didn't mean to say that, 'That wasn't what I meant.'" "Your explanation has become tiresome. Prepare to do something useful with that mouth." "No, please, Master. I'd rather have a hundred and twenty- seven blows from a cello bow than do *that*." "You're in luck, as it happens. Just let me rosin it up." Having done so, the dominant proceeded to apply the rosined bow to the slave's double base, and played a rousingly atonal but nonetheless interesting version of "Flight of the Bumblebee." The slave would, no doubt, have applauded the performance, except for those pesky handcuffs. Certainly it brought tears of emotion to the slave's eyes. "I don't know, slave," said the dominant. "That was all good fun, of course, but it's not enough." This was accompanied by the sound of cello bow slapping against palm, by way of emphasis. "Ouch. That hurt. See what you made me do? Are you sure you don't want to give me a little oral pleasure?" "I can't, Mistress. Really I can't." "I understand how you feel, but I need something from you and I'm going to get it. It occurs to me that it would be equally adequate from my point of view to probe your anal regions --" "You wouldn't! You couldn't! Please don't!" "-- with equipment I may or may not have, depending on my gender. To tell you the truth, in all the excitement I've kind of lost track myself. So, seeing as how if I did have the appropriate equipment it would be as large and menacing as literary license will allow, the question you should be asking yourself, slave, is, 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do you, slave?" "I beg your pardon, Master, but could we go over that oral sex thing one more time?" "I knew you'd see it my way." "Mistress, if you are of the appropriate gender, shouldn't you put on a -- oh, yes, I see now that if you *are* of the appropriate gender you're doing that now." "Yes. Now, why don't you -- oh, yes, that. You read my mind." Okay, so I lied a little about the telepathy part. So sue me.