Tarot Noir
He’s sitting there bare-assed on the concrete basement floor, with his knees pulled up against his chest and his eyes wide. He’s waiting. I draw a card from the deck on my lap.
“Queen of Pentacles, reversed: The dark essence of earth behaving as water, such as ice. A cold but generous host, driven by an overwhelming need to accumulate and maintain opulence. A person so preoccupied with wealth and security that they can never stop to enjoy either. One who reflects the weaknesses of others, breeding suspicion and mistrust.”
I cross my legs. He jerks his head up at the nylon swish. He can’t see up my black pencil skirt from this angle, but maybe if I crossed my thigh a little higher… I slide my nylon-covered thigh up maybe half an inch, just to feel the faint silky texture rub against my skin. His eyes follow but he gains nothing.
“Do you think I’m cold? If I were cold I wouldn’t be keeping you company right now. I’d leave you where you’re sitting, with the bowl of water next to you, go upstairs, and lock the door. The best part of living in the mountains is the privacy, you know. I could turn up the Voltaire and never hear you yelling.”
He kicks the stainless steel dog dish; water splashes over his bare feet and the bowl slides a few inches to his left. I let the metal clang die in the air and wait for him to ask his questions.
His eyes have gone from panicked to blazing but he isn’t saying a word. Oh. I lean forward and pull his wife’s panties out of his mouth.
His mouth opens and he breathes in sharp, then out in puffs. Hyperventillating. His face is red and his fists are tight, and the words finally burst through: “Why am I here? Where’s my – what did you do with my clothes?”
“You know why you’re here, Paul. Or did you think you could just get away with embezzlement?”
“-It was only a little skim! I promise I can pay you back. I had some, ah, some gambling debts, and-”
“…and you were being blackmailed, by an anonymous stranger. I’ve heard your crap before, Paul. The money wasn’t coming fast enough for your blackmailer and you were getting nervous. But you didn’t just mess with me; you messed with my money.”
He works his jaw but no words come out. Then: “You knew about the blackmail?”
My crisp white blouse was buttoned obscenely low, just below my breasts. I’d had the fabric pulled forward to conceal my bra and make a last stab at decency. I lean forward and the blouse edges fall back and my breasts are pushed out over the tops of my bra cups, almost spilling out. I let the tarot card I was holding fall to my feet. His exposed cockhead twitches and stretches forward, toward what he can see of my areolae. He’s cold; he’s got to be cold, he’s naked in my basement and covered in goosebumps.
“You can’t just keep me here. The police will blah blah blah…”
I like watching his soft cock extend and swell with blood. I liked feeling it harden in my mouth, right against my tongue. I wet my lips (red lipstick, his favorite) and smile. “I found out about your wife.”
He looks like I’d hit him with a brick. Not that I would – the red and yellow bruises on his side said he was fun to kick with high heels on. “No – I never told her about us.”
“Thank you for that, at least.”
He spits the words out like they taste more bitter than the cum-soaked panties that were just crammed between his teeth.
“Thank you? Sarcasm doesn’t work with a hard cock, Paul.” He winces. “Go ahead.” My fingers are at that one button just below my breasts. My eyes never leave Paul’s cock. “I want you to look at my breasts while we talk about this.” Second-to-last button: undone. “Maybe it’ll help you pay attention.” The last button pops loose, and I draw the sides of my shirt back, baring my white lace bra and my belly. “Tits and money, Paul? Predictable.” I stand up and pull the white cotton blouse from my arms.
“You were freakier in bed than she was, oh, I’ll give you that.” He’s sitting up now, on his knees. Half-laughing. He’s seen the steel doors, the rolls of duct tape. “But she has a fucking heart! She’d never put some guy she fucked in a basement with a dog dish and… she… she would never just fuck some guy.”
My back is to him. I unhook my bra, pull the straps over my arms. My pink nipples stiffen in the cold air. I kick the pile of white lace out of my way and turn to face him, cupping my hands over my bare breasts. My palms feel good and warm drawn over my nipples, down my tits, my sides. I don’t need to look up to know he’s watching. “Really? I wonder…”
I pick up the deck of tarot cards and hold it out to him. “We’re going to play a card game. Take one.”
He does. I’m watching a bead of sweat roll down his forehead, timed perfectly with the first clear drop of precum oozing from his slit.
“Show me.”
He shows me the king of pentacles. It’s the traditional Rider-Waite artwork, nothing fancy.
The zipper on my skirt sticks before opening to flash Paul the top of my black lace garter belt and prove to him that I was serious the day I said underwear were a waste of time. I tug my skirt from my hips – slowly.
“That was you. That was you. Another.”
He draws from the middle of the deck: three dancing women, raising their feasting cups, smiling. They’re dancing upside down.
Three of Cups, reversed. I start laughing. “A time of shallow overindulgence, followed by depletion. The successful but utterly unfulfilling conclusion of a matter. Satisfaction from sensual pleasures divorced from any sense of love. May indicate problems prematurely dismissed or a victory claimed before it is certain. Good choice, Paul. This is going to be all about shallow overindulgence.”
I step out of my skirt and bend over to take off my heels. I take my time – Paul loves breasts and legs and nude stockinged feet and he’s getting an eyeful of all three.
I grab his hand and put it on his cock. I curl his fingers loosely around the shaft and move his hand up and down, to get him started. My tits are in his face, close enough to lick, and he tries to catch a nipple in his mouth. I lean closer to whisper in his ear: “Stroke it.” I step back. “Stroke it for me while I watch.” He rubs his thumb over the head of his cock and nods a yes.
I lie on the couch, in my stockings and garter belt and almost-bare feet, and I caress my inner thighs through the nylon, and I tease my nipples with my nails, and I watch him circle the palm of his hand over the head of his cock.
He has a well-shaped, girthy cock and it’s always a treat to watch him stroke it. I like to watch him do it like I did it for him, use what I showed him. I like to guess which tricks were his and which were hers…
“I have some pictures for you, Paul. Pictures of me, new ones, for you to look at while you jerk that cock for me. Look in the deck.”
I’m not cold. I gave him something to remember her by before I offed her: cum-soaked panties and dozens of photographs of her and me in every possible position (and a few that stretched belief), photos of her tied, legs apart and begging like a whore, photos of her angel’s face in absolute bliss as the man I brought for her slid home, of her tear-streaked and screaming as the fifth, and the fifteenth, slammed her raw.
They’re mixed in with the cards. He finds them all. He cries, full-body racking sobs, broken and screaming and horrified and resigned. He doesn’t stop moving his fist up and down, up and down.
“Did you recognize the panties you were gagged with?” He’s nodding and crying and saying yes, yes, he thought they were hers, he knew they had to be hers, and oh God, her taste is still in his mouth…
“She was a good little slut for me, Paul. Your wife loved it when I told her I’d keep her secrets, never tell you what a whore she is, but she wanted you to taste her panties. She was wearing those when I fingered her until she came all over my fingers. I had the boys wipe off with them… thought you might like that touch.”
“Oh God… oh God. Where is she? Where’s Amy?”
I smile at him from the couch. “Last picture.”
He knew before he looked that he’d see her limbs splayed, legs wide open, cum staining her thighs, lips parted as if sucking a ghostly cock, and a dark red blotch where her heart was. The photo is blurry; I hadn’t used the tripod for that one, and my hands shook a little when I thought of that poor bitch on her knees for him, someone sad enough to cheat on such a vixen and stupid enough to steal money from me to pay me off.
I watch his expression change. His face is blank for the moment it’s too much and he steps out of himself. Then it’s over, and he’s aching visibly, and he’s beat up and empty inside and still crying. His erection somehow never wilts. The man makes me look sane.
In that perfect moment I slide my fingers into my wet, waiting cunt. My toes curl inside my nude stockings. What a perfect, perfect cock that bastard has…
“You’re going to kill me.” He groans. His hand squeezes tighter around his dick; his knuckles are almost white. His wrist keeps working; the head of his cock keeps reappearing above his fist, then disappearing from view. I don’t think he wants to stop, but he doesn’t want to come either. He doesn’t know what will happen after.
“I’m going to… I’m going to rub my stockinged feet all over your face, let you lick my soles through the nylon. I’ll let you unfasten one of my stockings, pull it down my leg, rub that cock all over my just-bare skin, maybe I’ll let you jerk off using my stocking – Mmmh, I’d love to watch that! – let you flick your tongue over my clit, 69 me, and I’d press my lips against your cock, let you push it into my mouth slowly, feel them tight around your shaft as I take you down my throat…”
I’m stream-of-consciousness sexing him from across the room, and he’s moaning, and loosening his grip, and his hand is sliding on a cock slick with precum and it just looks so juicy and I want it in my mouth right then…
He’s waiting for something.
“Yes.” He gasps, and shakes, and his body bends in half to curl over itself. I fuck myself hard and fast watching the cum shoot out of his swollen, poisoned cock and drip down his chest, thick and sticky. I’d lick it off if I could.
“Yeah, I’m going to kill you.” And he smiles, and looks up at me from the floor, and his lips blow me a kiss right before he screams.
I come hard.
—
…That is the most fucked up thing I have ever written. Gah.
That was fun!
In other news, you’re going to want to if you’re in New York. She’s curating a sex worker art exhibit, and it is going to be crazy fun. The press release with details is up on (which will experience a relaunch soon, it’s been quiet for a reason).
