Distantly related to the Mob…
***Disclaimer***Disclaimer***Disclaimer***
The following is a work of Fictionia Erotica…or erotic fiction for those of you who passed Latin. Of course you should know this by now, and shouldn’t even be on the page it is contained within if you didn’t. So let me tell you now: it will be dealing with material of an erotic nature. If this offends you don’t read it! Plain and simple. You better get off the web site also, in fact, go buy a security program and you won’t be bothered by me anymore…..
Now
to the details…this is my attempt at a cement story. Let me tell you it is not
an easy premise to deal with, because as you should know I don’t like grim
stories. And I really can’t think of a
plausible way to wind up up to my neck in the stuff, not even in the WAMmer
Zone, but I tried. I’m not happy with the semantics, but I tried. And the
wallowing part is fun, so you’ll like it.
Also note once again I don’t die, I’m not encased in hard cement, etc.
Really this story stems from an unanswered obsession I had since a disturbed
childhood. I’ve always been fascinated by film noir, and the idea of sticking
one’s feet in that big apple bobbing tub of cement. Well, here goes, and a lot more.
Also
I’ve just now decided to change the premise of the story. I was going to have
some gangster tie in, but since I live in Philadelphia, “The City of Brotherly
Love” which is also a city of “family business”, if you know what I mean. I
think I better protect my interests from the Mafioso, but I like the title (A
play on that semi-wonderful movie Married to the Mob) and it has a nice font so
it will stay…
One
more point o’ business true believers, (I know Stan Lee uses that, but I
promise to have my own catchy catch phrase next time) a nod to the one fan I
have out there, Gisan, for posting me on his page. *Nod* Thanks for giving me a
space to ramble. Also a nod to the other guy on the page who liked
my previous stuff, and nods to those of you who just said “ Hey,
wait a minute, I like your stuff too…” It’s a lot of fun. So keep reading true
readers…. Sorry, I’ll keep working on that catch phrase.
Jeez,
this intro is already a page, so I better get to it. Hang on to your swively
computer chairs everybody its going to be a bumpy ride. ….
Oh
yeah whoops almost forgot (fem, cement, mast, anti-grim)
*** ***
***
I have this friend who is in special
effects I was visiting with one day. Walking around his studio studying all the
gibbering latex monstrosities that were the masks he creates, I noticed a big
six-foot cylinder in the corner of the workshop.
“What’s that big six foot cylinder
in the corner of you workshop?” I asked pointing to the big six-foot cylinder
in the corner of the workshop.
“That big six foot cylinder in the
corner of my workshop is known as a B.S.F.C.C.W in the business. That’s short
for a Big Six Foot Cylinder in the Corner of
a Workshop.”
“I see…” I said, but I really
didn’t.
“We use it to make large plaster
molds. I make a sculpture out of clay and suspend it in the tank and then pour
plaster around it to make a mold for other esoteric purposes.”
“I see…” I said, because now I did.
“Let me show you.” My friend said.
Let’s call him Paul for the sake of this story. I’m not being vague to protect
his identity; its just he really doesn’t exist. Paul pulled over one of those
aluminum portable stairs thingys and we walked up to peer inside.
“You see the sculpture is suspended
by a cable inside, and then plaster is poured all around, when it dries I open
the cylinder, split the plaster and have a mould.”
“What’s that little hole down
there…?” I asked.
“It’s a drain. I had that installed
in case a call comes into to cancel a job as I’m pouring in the plaster or in
case you ever wanted to use the B.S.F.C.C.W. in a work of erotic
fiction..."
“Oh, “ I said, cocking an eyebrow.
“Where does it empty out to?”
“I really don’t know, “ Paul
answered, “But then again this is a work of fiction and I don’t exist and
neither does the B.S.F.C.C.W. so what does it matter.”
“Not one bit. Say didn’t you get a
big order of cement by mistake the other day. Would you mind three days from
now mixing it up and filling me in the B.S.F.C.C.W. up to my neck and then
draining it out before it hardens so I can have a happy ending to my story.”
“Sure, why not..” Paul answered.
Suddenly it was three days later…
*** *** ***
(I
told you it was a flimsy premise…)
*** *** ***
I was dressed in a midnight blue
cocktail dress with spaghetti straps that kept slipping off my shoulders. I had
on sheer black hose and black high heels. I looked stunning.
“How do I look, Paul?” I asked.
Paul didn’t reply. He was stunned.
I kicked off my high heels and
padded up the aluminum steps to the top of the cylinder and climbed in. The
cylinder was about four feet across and ended just above my shoulders.
“This is how things will work,” said
Paul. The cement will pour in from the spout across from you. I will now wink
out of existence since this is a fem story and I don’t want you to have to
scroll back up to the top of the story and put f, m in the parentheses. I’ll
wink back in and drain the cylinder when you are finished. “
I slipped off my sheer black hose
and threw them outside of the cylinder, since I like writing about these things
in a barefoot perspective and gave Paul the o.k. He pushed a button and winked
out of existence.
Slowly, cement began to pour from
the spout across from me and plop to the floor of the cylinder, like a harsh
rainfall that had lime mixed into it spattering on a rooftop. I leaned back
against the cylinder and wiggled my toes in anticipation.
Slowly a mound of cement began to
form under the spout and slide across the floor toward me like a hungry blob. I
arched my toes, wanting to save my blood red painted toenails from the seething
cement for the moment. The gritty cement slid around my feet, and through my
wide-open toes, leaving the red polish to poke out, contrasting with the dark
gray of the cement. I wiggled my toes.
The cement felt cool on my tired feet, and gritty. I squished it through my
toes and over their blood red tips. The cement was thick and I could feel it
spread my toes apart as it seeped between them. I stood on my tiptoes in the
thick cement, letting it flow into empty gaps on the floor my feet had caused.
Slowly I lowered them down, the gritty cement sliding across my smooth soles.
The level of the cement was rising; already it had climbed past my ankle,
tickling it with a scratchy caress. I bit my lip and leaned back against
cylinder, savoring the heavy embrace of the cement on my feet.
As the cement began its slow ascent
up my shins, I lifted a foot with some difficulty from its greedy embrace. My
foot was heavy, dripping with glorious cement. I crunched my toes up, squeezing
out the thick cement trapped between them. I shook my foot sending the wet
cement flying, splattering the walls of the cylinder, the tops of my legs and by
midnight cocktail dress. I pressed my foot back into the cement with some
resistance. It was so thick and heavy that I had to point my toes and force my
foot back down. I felt the returning pleasant sensations as I pushed my foot
and leg down with a greedy slurp as the cement welcomed back its treasures.
My leg slid in deeper and deeper,
the cement crawling up my bare skin to the back of my knee. I hadn’t noticed
the level rising. The cement grittily kissed the back of my knees like a
flitting pumice stone. I tried to walk around the cylinder a bit, wanting to
churn my feet through the thick cement, but I couldn’t move. My legs were stuck
fast in the soft, squishy cement. It pressed in on my legs, swallowing my
knees. I was so thick and heavy I couldn’t pull a leg free. My fingers tingled
at this restriction. My belly stirred with pleasure at the liquid bondage. Deep
down in the cement, I could barely wiggle my toes, as they tried to plow
through the cement.
I watched as the cement, slowly
licked at the hem of my dress, sliding up my thighs. I squatted down a little,
feeling more and more of the flesh of my thighs feel the heavy folds of the
cement. And then ever so slowly, I pulled myself upward, feeling the cement
slide down my thighs, tickling and touching and biting my flesh with its thick
and gritty fingers as it went down to join its fellows in the thick puddle that
was swallowing me.
Slowly, as the cement began to scale
my thighs for real, slide up and up towards my electric flesh that hadn’t yet
met its touch. I felt my dress slide down and down a bit. The cement had soaked
the hem of my dress and now the weight of the cement coated material was
pulling it down me. I shook my shoulders to free them of the spaghetti straps
and allow the cool caresses of my liquid lover to undress me unhindered. As the
cement climbed higher up my thighs the dress slid lower, exposing my erect
nipples. I churned my legs slowly in the heavy cement, splashing goo on my
already moist panties. My eyelids fluttered and my stomach glowed hot with the
expectant embrace of the rising cement on my sex.
I was tired from churning my legs
against the restricting cement. It pressed in on me. Plastering my slipping
dress around my legs. A sheen of sweat glistened on my breasts from fighting
the embrace of the cement.
I plunged my hands down into the
cement, cooling their electric fire in its grasps. I pulled up handfuls of
thick ooze and dropped them onto my breasts. I shuddered as the cement slid
into my cleavage and down between my breasts. Like a rough tongue, it kissed at
my nipples. I pulled up more and more handfuls, sending them sliding under my
dress. The cement slid across my belly, tickling my curves as it greedily
descended to the top of my thatch as the cement surrounding me finally rose to
kiss the lips of my sex.
I bucked in orgasm, but couldn’t.
The cement held me fast, delightfully heavy and restrictive. Not only did it
kiss at my belly and the mound of my sex, but pressed against me. Kissing,
pressing, holding me in the throes of passion. I plunged my arms into the
cement wanting to be bound, to me dominated as it rose around me. My dress had
finally slipped off and down, unseen in the morass of the cement bog. I looked
at my breasts as I exploded. They were gray; nipples erect, pointing through
the mess. My arms and breasts, not yet swallowed by the rising cement, were
gray from a thin coating of the cement that had flowed down me. I was like some
unfinished statue. The cement continued to rise, swallowing my arms, lifting my
breasts and hungrily nibbling at my nipples. I tugged at my arms but they were
stuck fast in the thickening ooze, their confinement bringing me even more
pleasure. The cement flowed under my breasts forcing them upward and then over
them, pushing them down as it climbed to cover my shoulders.
Thick, heavy and hungry the cement
pressed around me, between me under me. What seemed like twenty million miles
away it tried to wiggle my toes under the cement and couldn’t. They were
trapped by its viscous bondage. I couldn’t move! I threw my neck back and held
in stasis by the cement, I felt a million different orgasms in from a million
different parts of my body flow together into one cataclysm somewhere deep in
the cement. Head thrown back I screamed with pleasure, bound, tied, held,
suspended, crushed, caressed, grasped, grappled, restricted and freed by the
cement.
Sweat moistening my brow, I panted
for awhile, just my neck and head suspended above a sea of gray. Deep down
below, I tried to stir my body but couldn’t and the cement continued to hold me
like an attentive lover.
Suddenly, Paul winked back into
existence.
“We’d better get you out of there
before I have to go get my chisel.”
Exhausted, I nodded in approval.
Paul disappeared and pressed a
button somewhere and as slowly as it had risen the cement drained away, kissing
each part of my body in farewell as it departed, taking my dress with it.
I slopped through the remaining inch
of cement, my bare toes squishing pleasantly in its thickening mire, giving me
one final fleeting shudder. There I stood, gray, glowing with the final
memories of the cement’s embrace, slowly wiggling my toes under what little
surface remained, any hint of blood red polish long covered.
Paul reappeared.
“Well, well don’t you look like a
forgotten Greek goddess.”
“Paul…”I said, giving him a wry
look, “I used that metaphor on the last page.”
“Hey! Don’t blame me I was winked
out of existence.” He replied, extending an arm down to me. “And thank god,
this is a work of fiction since that stunning midnight blue cocktail dress is
down that drain on its way to someplace we haven’t determined.”
***
*** ***
I
just checked my closet to make sure its still here. Yes, Paul. Thank god,
indeed.
