Cute Girls

When Petey Met Yuri

And now I wanna be your dog…

Yuri stops in midsentence of his conversation to hear the words of the song that blasts out on the nightclub speakers. Leaning across the table, he plants one elbow down to support his chin. His strange, light-colored eyes are burning, his long mobile face is drawn and tense.

and now I wanna feel your hand…

The heavy black forelock falls into his eyes; he pushes at it impatiently. “Who is this man? Who is singing of such pain?”

“Iggy Pop,” Petey says. “From the seventies, really old song…dude used to just smash himself up onstage, I remember.”

“Ah, yes.” Yuri smiles. “You are so much older than your friends here, I know.”

Petey doesn’t return the smile. She’s tired of making small talk with someone who barely speaks English. She wants to leave the table, cruise the action a little. There is a little group of girls by the dance floor — fresh, suburban. It would be easy to cut one out of the herd. Like that one, with her brown hair hanging around her face, too-dark lipstick making her look even younger than her I.D. said she was.

Yeah, now I wanna feel your hand…

“Oh, he knows what he is talking of!” Yuri exclaims. Petey looks back at him politely. Yuri shifts his weight jerkily, one hand searching blindly for his cigarette. “Petey, I must be fucked.” Petey grins, about to answer, but is cut short. “Petey, you must help me.”

“Oh. You mean really fucked. Look, Yuri, you can’t come on to a dyke in a dyke bar, don’t you know that? I’m telling you as a friend.” She makes a friendly face at this presumptuous man. “You ought to check out the Meat Market, okay? Down at the end of this block.”

“Petey.” His hand comes down on her gloved hand. He pulls it away at her look. “Sorry,” he says, referring to the hand. “I prefer women.”

“Yeah, and so do I,” Petey snaps. “You’re wasting your time.”

“And I prefer you.” He sees her face, and holds up a placating hand. “Sorry, my English — I mean that you might prefer. You see, I want to — I need to get fucked. It hurts, always, I never get used to it. I cannot hold still… So you’ll have to tie me up. Perform rape, really.” He stubs out the cigarette. “You, I think you would like that?”

“Jesus.” She leans back to think about that. Russian emigre, actor, he’s told her, working in the corner store while he waits for his break. Lean body, strong legs with nice little buns and a hugely developed chest and shoulders. Shaggy black hair half obscures a face nearly girlish in spite of the hungry intensity of expression. The boys down the street would lay down and die for this one, so why her?

“Why me?”

“Perhaps you have the…will.” The bar lights show the skull under the skin, suddenly. “A little talk about you comes my way…to look for a woman all in black leather, taller than most…motorbike she rides, a little old, but not either so loud….”

“Yeah, I keep it tuned right.” Petey is defensive about her old Triumph. “Gonna get a paint job, maybe end of this summer. What else little talk came your way?”

“Ah, that you are so unkind with nice women name, perhaps, Denise, is that correct?”

“Hah!” A bark of laughter in confirmation. Yuri grins.

“So you are hurting feelings of such a pleasant girl who only wants to talk to you — even that you hit, sometimes, some girl, and scare her so that she is running afraid…” Yuri’s grin expands. The music drops to silence suddenly, and his words are shrill and loud. “And so her friend runs to find this woman who has the desire to hit a woman. And so she becomes happy. And I think, perhaps she can be so cruel for me. And now I too have find you with your little whip, in these scary clothes.”

Petey laughs outright. “A five foot blacksnake isn’t what I’d call little, baby. Want a taste?” He’s already given his consent, she figures. She stands up, checking quickly behind her to make sure no innocent is in range, and hurls the whip forward. A red vee appears on Yuri’s left pectoral, just under the collarbone. Lovely placement.

Yuri’s eyelids fall to his cheeks, his face uplifted. The single impact sways him back, then upright again. His hands drop away from the table, fall to his sides and he stills himself. Petey is helpless against the rush of tenderness she invariably feels for her victims. “You held still for that,” she points out.

“My own will…is not big enough.” He chuckles, a ragged sound lost in the bass pulse of the speakers. “My body is strong, and I change my mind halfway into it. It is the instinct of preservation. I have everything at my house, if you wish to come there.”

“You live over near Denise and Deb. You drive?”

“No, bus merely.”

“Okay. I’ll give you a ride home.” Petey gets up from the table abruptly, smiles at nothing in particular, and heads for the dance floor. Her companion sits thoughtfully, watching Petey delight and terrorize a young girl with brown hair…

Yuri leads the way into the little house, turns on dim lights. He takes off his own bike jacket, flings it down, hesitates. Turning to Petey, he says with a grin, “Well, it’s all your show now.”

“Show me what you got.”

Yuri opens a door. His bedroom. His bed a mattress on a heavy wood frame, low to the ground. The walls paneled, vaguely Japanese, in a light-colored wood. A few simple furnishings in the same light wood. He pulls open a drawer. Cuffs in pale leather — she fingers them and judges them to be deerhide. Whips, floggers, ropes, straps. Lube, latex. All the safe sex accoutrements.

“How do you want it?”

“On my hands and knees.”

There are cuffs of golden leather for his wrists and elbows, knees and ankles. There are heavy eyescrews in the frame of the bed. Yuri puts his hands to his belt buckle, but she stops him.

“No,” she says. “Leave your jeans on for now. We’ll take it slow…show me how you want to be tied.” She wraps the cuffs onto his bare arms and over his jeans, leads him to the bed.

“Get into your position.” Docile now, he kneels down, knees and elbows, trying to bring his limbs as close to the edge as possible. Petey soon finds the corresponding eyescrews and snaps the chains securely. Runs her eyes over the brute play of muscle; his back, his lats, seen in close-up, the great shoulders and arms. Bright blue denim stretched tight over his hard little buttocks, the deep hollow where each leg joins the narrow hips. Petey finds the male anatomy strange and a bit off-putting. But how strong the legs, the swelling muscles molded in blue denim. He crouches motionless, resting his head on the mattress, caught up in his pain. He needs to feel an outside pain, to be pulled from the labyrinth in his brain. There are other, painful human beings around him, if he can be reminded of that.

Petey walks over to where her black whip lies, coiled lazily atop the dresser. She glances down and picks up a lash out of the open drawer. It’s a different type than her own, with a short, rigid handle. Time has mellowed it to a warm clear brandy color, and the old style braid is as articulate as a python. Petey shakes it out, and finds it as alive and supple as any whip she has ever held in her hands before. It returns her caress when she touches it. “Where did you get this?”

Yuri turns his head to see. “Ah, my aunt, in Russia. Georgia, she lived. It is very old now. It’s possible that no one is still alive who could work like that. Do you think?”

The whip demands her love. “I’m going to hit you, Yuri.”

“Yes,” he says, and she brings it slashing down across the back of his thighs. Yuri’s body jerks once, his breath hisses quietly. She walks around to look down at the head sunk deep between the shoulders. She takes it in her hands to face her, is struck anew by the narrow face with its delicate features, Yuri’s lips drawn back tight over his teeth, nostrils flaring. His eyes are an indefinite green-grey, with a darker ring surrounding the iris.

“You’re a pretty boy, Yuri,” she says a little wonderingly, and lets the head drop. She frees his arms and takes the cuffs off his legs.

“C’mon, you owe me a drink.”

Yuri pours her two fingers of Jack. Setting his own drink aside, he excuses himself and disappears into the bathroom, for a rather long interval. Petey smiles, hearing the running water and the flush of the toilet, thinking that this boy has nice manners.

They sit in the living room in companionable silence. Yuri sips his bourbon leisurely, sprawled over the living room floor. Petey, stretched out in a big armchair, studies him intently. His eyes meet hers, and he smiles, shyly.

“Are you ready?”

“If you are…” Yuri says and gets to his feet to lead the way. The cuffs still on his arms; he seems to take comfort in wearing them, turning his wrists inside the leather. Petey follows, shaking her head at his willingness, at the strange quietness of him. In her experience, admittedly limited, men cannot do this kind of thing without some kind of combat or bluster. Yuri, however, merely unzips and pulls off his pants, starts toward the bed.

“Yuri, stand still a minute.” He turns to face her. She watches his cock rise, dubiously. He covers it with his hand, out of decency to her, a gesture both touching and — it suddenly strikes her — rather futile, in view of the intimacy she will soon be forcing upon him. “Put your hands up.” He links them on top of his head, which brings his lats into play. She studies the rise and fall of his chest, muscled shoulders on a slender torso, and utterly hairless. His nipples rival, in size and rich color, those of any woman she’s ever met. “Turn around.” He does a slow pirouette, his black hair falling into his eyes. Petey comes over puts her hands over his braceleted wrists, holds him face to face.

“You don’t kiss men,” Yuri says harshly.

“I’ll kiss you, darling.” She puts her mouth against Yuri’s firm lips, probing delicately to part them. Yuri allows her tongue into his mouth slowly and unwillingly, then gives a quick, sudden shudder and opens his mouth to her, his eyes squeezed shut. He is quickening now. Petey feels the blood throb in her ears. She pulls away and Yuri opens his eyes, looking at her wildly.

“Tie me,” he says. “Hurry, hurry.” Pushed to the mattress, he crouches down while the cuffs are put on his legs and he is chained again to the bed. “Oh god,” he says, trembling.

Petey steps around in front of him to strip. She knows just what he is seeing. Five foot ten, she carries a compact body atop long legs. There is a lot of lean muscle clothing her bones. The long scar on a diagonal across her belly is a souvenir of a hiking accident two years ago, a reminder of folly and a six-pack, but it is intimidating for those who don’t know the real story. He hasn’t asked her to take out her ponytail; that, to her, is a measure of the respect this young man gives her, and she raises her arms to free her thick brown hair, letting it tumble around her shoulders.

Before his eyes, she steps into her harness, the heavy silicone dick bobbing as she snugs it tight on her hips. He is looking up at her, though his head is angled down, a wide line of white showing under those odd eyes. She runs her hand over her dick, casually, while she looks him over. He is mesmerized by her hand and its rhythm. Jolted by her voice.

“You gonna come when I fuck you?”

“Perhaps not,” he says after a pause, “But I need so very bad…”

“Yeah, I know. That whip, baby. Can you take that?”

“Yes,” he says. “Please. In your hands, I beg you, an honor.”

The brown whip kisses her hands in greeting. The plaits are so fine as to be nearly invisible. To hold it stirs the fine hairs on Petey’s arms and back. It whispers its complaint; idle so long…

Petey throws it hard overhead, to hear its gunshot snap. The throw she aims at Yuri’s thigh is nearly soundless. Yuri is less so. But the yelp has no overtones of complaint. The whip is a little shorter than her own, she uses the first shots to get her range. Ahh. She treats him to the sensation he has waited for, stalking around his held body, leaving her mark on his tanned skin. Yuri sighs, moans softly. Each lash makes him shudder, the muscles flex under the skin, the spine, like a string of beads, twists. She deals the last hits at the junction of buttock and thigh, one on each side, and stops. Yuri, waiting for another blow, raises his head questioningly. Petey coils the whip, places it gently aside. Picks up the bottle of lube.

“You ready?” She pours lube from high up, the glittering stream runs down her cock. Smiling as her hand cups, catches, spreads it over her dick. Fucking her hand, the familiar dull pressure against her clit, Yuri’s eyes burning as he watches. Petey is not thinking. She is being careful not to think. This man is seducing her into dropping a considerable amount of guard. Why, she decides, she will not ask just now.

“Listen, Yuri,” she says. “Do you have a safeword?”

“Please, I would use it,” he says. “For this, no word…”

“Rape. Well, then…” Petey says thoughtfully. “You’ll get what you want, don’t worry.” p>Yuri looks at her again, white-faced. “Listen,” he says, “Don’t stop even if I tell you to…”

“I know,” Petey says.

She takes her place behind Yuri, noticing the twin purple welts just under his ass, runs her fingers over them. “Didn’t that hurt?” He bucks slightly as her hand slides between his legs, his balls tight as a young boy’s, his cock straining. The chains locking him to the bed clink gently, sending her over the edge, and she slides her hand over his cock the way she had done her own. “You needn’t ­-,” he protests.

“I know that.” Petey snaps. Lust hardens her voice. “I’m gonna fuck you up the ass, little stud. I’d shut up about now, because you’re just pussy to me.” Grinning behind his back where he can’t see it. Another stream of lube. She positions the tip of her black silicone cock against his asshole, and changes her mind suddenly. The snap of a glove, a fingertip slides in. Not to feel that hot wet hole would be a tragedy. She twists, settles in, he sighs, a second finger enters, and a third. Easily, so far. Pressing against his prostate, throbbing, the heat, it could be a woman’s asshole she’s in, hunting for the G-spot through the separating membrane. The fourth, little finger — Petey drives in gently, fucking him, and he hasn’t made a sound of complaint, his cock still hard between his spread legs, just fine. “You hurting yet?”

“No,” Yuri says. He sounds a little surprised. “Petey, you are a cocksman, I know.”

“Sweet,” Petey croons. “Tight little boy-pussy…” Her fingertips opening his sphincter, investigating the turn. “I’m stretching you to take my dick, baby. Didn’t anyone ever get you ready before?”

“Petey… perhaps not…,” Yuri pants. “Petey, I want it.”

“That’s good, cause you’re going to get it. Pretty soon, boy.” Petey doesn’t want to pull her hand out of that heat. “Don’t squeeze,” she tells him. “Push, instead…” Yuri groans. “Oh, yes, baby,” she tells him tenderly. She slides her hand free, the head of her dick slides in easily. She leans in to him, to the hilt, and stays there, pushed tight against his ass. Hot right through the leather of her harness. Her thighs pressed against his. She caresses his buttocks, his skin quivers and jerks under her touch, she grinds against him gently as Yuri’s breathing grows louder, harsher. “All right.” Petey begins to fuck him, slowly, brutally, lovingly.

Yuri holding himself rigid, looking straight ahead at nothing, his breath rattling in his throat, slow, slow she takes him. His head drops to the mattress between clenched fists. Droplets of sweat form between the great muscles of his shoulders. Every breath is a sob grabbed into the lungs when it can be, and with each breath, Petey’s elation grows, the sadistic joy of forcing a foreign rhythm on this foreign soul, having this beautifully-made animal submit to her. She must test it, see how far the willed submission lasts. Each stroke of her cock comes a little harder, her hands rougher on the shining skin. Until from deep in his throat, Yuri forces out, “Oh, God! No more… Petey, stop, please!” And bucks like a horse, tearing himself free. Petey’s surprise quickly wells into anger.

“Lay down, damn you,” she snaps, and pushes him forward to the mattress. Where he lies taking great panting breaths. Petey leaps to the drawer and pulls Yuri’s collar out. Yanks his head back by a fistful of hair to put it around his throat.

“Should have put it on you in the first place,” she growls, buckling it. Yuri starts to get back into his kneeling position and she shoves him down to the mattress again. Pulls the lead forward and clips it to the frame in front of Yuri’s face.

“You won’t try that again, you little fucker.” She throws herself full length over the spreadeagle body. Squirt of lube before reentering him roughly. One hand tangled in the thick black hair, Yuri’s head turned sideways, fighting the chain. With her free hand Petey reaches under him, fingering the big nipples, ranging over the clenched muscles of his lean stomach, down to cup his balls and prick, shrunken and tight in her hand. Yuri heaving under her, gulping air, pulling frantically against his bonds.

“Petey,” he says, his voice unrecognizable, ragged. “Petey, I can’t take it… Oh, God!” he says. “God. Stop!”

Petey pauses, pressed tight into him. “Yuri,” she says. “I am your demon. I will stop when I’ve finished my task. Am I done?” And Yuri, close to tears, says, “No…”

Petey begins again, strong, slow thrusts…Break down, Yuri, hammer through that wall, I only wish I could bring you pleasure instead of pain. Maybe in time, she muses, and realizes that she plans on seeing him again. I would rather bring you to crying climax; instead I must drive you to an orgasm of grief and rage, bring that load of despair toppling off of your shoulders. His humanity hits her like a fist, his homesickness, the terrible trivial pain he bears, and the huge exaggerated cure he chooses, but in spite of her pity, Petey is near an orgasm herself. What she feels will shock her, but at some other time. The fact is, this little earthbound, male, ape-god is the best fuck she can remember.

“I love to fuck you, Yuri,” she says aloud, and Yuri groans. “I want you to scream, Yuri,” she says, and continues slow and strong. Feeling the muscles knot tighter in his stomach and thighs, she quickens her pace and Yuri is crying openly, at last. “That’s right, darling,” and Petey abandons herself at last to the heat of his body, grinding the base of her cock against her clit. Yuri screams as she slams into him, twice, three times, and Petey cries out breathlessly as she comes, her vision twists, her cunt ringing, squeezing him tight in her passion, before finally coming to panting rest. Yuri sobbing. Petey saying, “God. Oh God…” She reaches between her own legs under the dildo to find her clit. The second orgasm shakes her to the bones. Yuri’s crying increases, the dam opened; pinned flat, spreadeagled, his helpless body outraged, he gives way to a flood of hysterical emotion. Petey can only hold him while he cries. She untangles her hand from his hair and unclips the chain from his collar, and slowly she feels the body under her relaxing as the storm of tears dies away. Still laying over him, she reaches out to unclip the wrist cuffs from the frame. Yuri wraps his arms around his chest, while she strokes his back and neck tenderly. She slowly withdraws her cock. Yuri’s breath comes in an explosive gasp as she pulls out. She frees his legs and he curls into himself, shuddering.

“God, that was good for me,” Petey says wickedly. “Did you like that, Yuri?”

“No! Of course not.” His voice is muffled. His hair is familiar to Petey’s hand as she uses it to turn him to face her. He stares back defiantly, from red-rimmed eyes.

“No, but we have reason to believe that this person may still be alive, using a different identity.”

“Is there any chance he could be my husband?”

Sturgess pulled back. The woman”s answers were obviously genuine. If his suspect were indeed Patrick Summers, he had chosen a life of lonely exile, rather than subject his family to what had been done to him.

“No, ma”am, I don”t think so. Let me give you my number anyway, so you can call me if anyone tries to use his name or your accounts. Just as a precaution.”

After he hung up, Sturgess gathered up the file and tossed it onto a corner of his cluttered desk. Maybe Patrick Summers was alive somewhere. If he were ever found, there wasn”t a jury in the country that would convict him for murdering the hideous Dr. Frankenwiener.

What would something like that do to a person, Sturgess wondered. If you survived what Patrick Summers had gone through, what would you be capable of?

* * *

“Two dry martinis,” Nash told the waiter at the exclusive restaurant. He had suggested as an alternative to drinks an early dinner, and she had accepted readily. They sat side by side in a plush leather banquet in a dark corner of the restaurant, and she touched his hand as he lit her cigarette.

“You”re a very beautiful woman.”

“Do you date all your clients?”

“No,” he lied easily. “In fact, this is the first time it”s ever happened.”

The waiter returned with their martinis, and he offered a toast as she studied her menu. “To you, and your new life.” Buddy, if you only knew, Pat thought to herself as they touched glasses. As she sipped her martini, Pat felt his hand touch her knee. Deftly, she lowered her hand to his, and slid it a few inches up her silky thigh. She noticed with detachment that having a handsome man”s hand up her skirt did nothing for her. No matter. Back to business.

“Are you seeing anyone,” she asked him.

“No, I”ve been so busy with my work, I haven”t been out in ages.” Smooth, Pat had to admit to herself, since she had been shadowing him for two months, as he squired Anne Summers around Chicago.

The waiter returned, and it occurred to Pat that she was about to have her first gourmet meal in five months. Resisting the temptation to order an enormous steak, as Patrick would have done, she selected whitefish with a potato soufflé, and asparagus vinaigrette as a starter. The waiter produced a wine list, and she sat back and watched Nash order an expensive chardonnay. This was going to be fun.

She steered the conversation to her imaginary money. “Where do you think I should invest?”

“Tech stocks continue to offer the best opportunity for long range growth, and that”s what I would recommend to a beautiful young woman with her whole life ahead of her.”

“Aren”t they awfully risky?” In her prior life as an investment banker, Pat had correctly anticipated the bubble, and she wanted to find out what Nash was doing with Anne Summers” insurance money.

“We anticipate significant increases this year and for the foreseeable future.”

God, what an airhead, Pat thought to herself as the waiter produced her asparagus and his heart of lettuce drenched in blue cheese dressing. With a pang of envy, she cut a dainty forkful of asparagus as she watched him dive in. His cell phone rang, and he turned away from her as he spoke into it. Was it Anne, calling to ask why he hadn”t called? Or was she expecting him tonight? Pat strained to listen.

“I”m sorry, something came up at the office. No, I won”t be able to make it tonight. Sorry. Call you tomorrow. Bye,” he whispered.

“Have I taken you away from something important?”

He touched her knee again, this time sliding it up her thigh without invitation. “No, Pat, I”m all yours.”

Pat excused herself to visit the ladies room between courses, feeling the sudden need to get away from him for a few minutes. Nash was not only an idiot, he was a cad, taking advantage of Anne Summers and risking their daughter’s financial security. Pat would have to act tonight, she decided.

A gorgeous brunette entered the ladies room, and Pat caught herself staring at the girl as she lifted her skirt and fussed with her slip and stockings. She felt a tingle between her legs, and suddenly it dawned on Pat that she might be a lesbian. She smiled at herself in the mirror as she freshened her lipstick. A custom engineered, limited edition, lipstick lesbian.

She returned to the table just as their entrees were being served. She steered the conversation to little things while they ate. Where did Nash live? An apartment in Streeterville. Did he have any roommates? He lived alone. Would she like to see his apartment? Pat blushed, with genuine embarrassment, and said yes.

After dessert (berries for her, fudge cake for him) and coffee, he drove her to his apartment in his BMW, and she took his arm as they walked from the garage into the lobby of his smart highrise. They were alone together in the elevator, and they rode silently to his floor. She followed him to his apartment, and after he opened the door, she paused nervously before entering.

“Maybe we”re rushing this,” she said.

“I”ll just show you my view, and then I”ll take you home, if you don”t want to stay,” he said. The view was spectacular, and she stood at his floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lights of Chicago as he put on soft music and loosened his tie. He came up behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders. She turned around and reached up to kiss him, draping her arms languidly around his neck. Then, as he started to tongue her, Pat brought her knee up into his groin with terrific force.

Nash collapsed onto the floor in agony, gasping for breath as he started to throw up his steak dinner. Pat picked up a brass table lamp, and swung it down hard onto the back of his head. He struggled to get to his feet, and she hit him again with the lamp, knocking him back down. A third blow, and he lay motionless on the floor.

After feeling for a pulse, Pat removed her scarf and wiped her fingerprints off the lamp. She used it to close the door behind herself. She was not observed leaving his apartment, although the doorman later remembered seeing an attractive blonde come into the lobby with Nash, and leave alone a few minutes later.

* * *

POLICE SEARCH FOR SLAYER OF CHICAGO MAN

CHICAGO: Police are searching for a mysterious woman last seen on the arm of a Chicago man before he was murdered in his luxurious apartment. Arnold Nash, 34, was found dead on the floor of his lakefront residence, the victim of massive head trauma and a ruptured testicle. According to a spokesman for the Chicago Police Department, Nash met earlier in the day with Patricia Exman, a Chicago woman who came to him for financial advice. They had dinner together at a restaurant on Rush Street before they were seen entering Nash”s apartment. The woman is described as about thirty, with blonde hair and extremely attractive. Here whereabouts are currently unknown.

Frank Sturgess put down his Daily News and looked out the window of his commuter train. Surely it was just a coincidence, he told himself, although there was something about that name…Patricia Exman. It would be interesting to find out if Arnold Nash had any connection to Patrick Summers. If one had the inclination.

* * *

Pat Summers, her hair cut and rinsed back into a mousy brown shag, pulled long wool socks over her stockings and laced up a pair of sneakers. She dropped her heels into her shoulder bag, and set off for her bus stop.

As she made her way in the cold winter air, she stopped at a newsstand to read the headlines. She had to run to her stop in order to catch her bus. Taking a seat on the way to her new job, she felt better about herself than she had in quite some time.

Tags: Fetish, Story