8FOLD/ACRA: Kinky Romance # 1 [Very strong acra]

[Tom Russell]

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| |    DISCLAIMER    | |  | |                   | |
| |    ==========    | |  | |                   | |
| |  You're reading  | |  | |       READ!       | |
| | something called | |  | |  "WEIRD ROMANCE"  | |
| |  KINKY ROMANCE.  | |  | |         &         | |
| |                  | |  | | "DOOMED ROMANCE"  | |
| |  Of course it    | |  | |                   | |
| |    has sex!      | |  | |  BOTH AVAILABLE   | |
| |    ==========    | |  | |  FROM EIGHTFOLD   | |
| |DISCRETION ADVISED| |  | |  ROMANCE GROUP!   | |
| |__________________| |  | |___________________| |
|______________________|  |_______________________|


                    RACHEL

   There was a young Englisher standing against the
building, his hands in his pockets.  He was chewing on
something, smacking his lips and staring at me.  He
reached into his mouth and pulled the thin white mass
out between his fingertips.  He walked up to the
buggy, smiled, and stuck the gooey substance on its
side.
   "Nice bonnet you got there," he said.
   "Thank you," I said quietly.
   "What's your name?"
   "Rachel."
   He spit on the ground out of the side of his mouth.
 "Thought you all had biblical names."
   "It is from the bible."  I tried not to give
offense.
   "Hmm," he said, nodding.  "Learn something new
every day."  He spit again.  Then he reached into the
buggy and touched my white bonnet.  "Aren't you going
to stop me?"
   I did not answer.  I had said too much to him
already.  He repeated the question.  Again, I gave no
answer.
   "Guess I can have this then?" he said.
   "Please don't," I said.
   "Or what?"  He laughed again, then ripped the
bonnet off my head.  "You got beautiful hair, Rachel. 
Beautiful blonde hair."
   "Please give it back."
   He only laughed again in response.  He touched my
hair and my cheek very roughly.
   I heard the sound of the bell on the Englisher's
door, and my body felt like it was shrinking from the
inside.  I had hoped to get my bonnet back before my
father returned from talking with Mr. Lopez.
   He walked around the Englisher holding my bonnet
and sat down next to me in the buggy.
   "This your dad?" said the Englisher, waving the
bonnet in front of us.
   I looked to my father, expecting him to answer.  He
stared ahead, ignoring the Englisher as I should have
done.
   "You want it back?" he sneered.  "You can have it
back.  Just reach for it.  Just grab it from me.  Come
on."
   I began to reach when he pulled it away.  "Am I
making you angry?"
   He was making me angry, and because of that I felt
even more ashamed.  But I did not answer him.
   Eventually, he got tired and he threw the bonnet at
me.  It landed in my lap.  I scooped it up in my hands
and was about to affix it when the Englisher leaned in
and spat in my face.
   I sat there, hot and wet, wanting desperately to do
something.  But I knew it was not allowed, and that to
act on my impulse would risk meidung.  I simply put my
bonnet back on, disregarding the spittle on my face
and the Englisher's string of obscenities.
   Once my bonnet was properly affixed, my father
started the buggy back home.  My heart was still
thumping hard in my bosom, my entire body trembling
slightly.  I didn't understand it.  Everything was
right again, and I had conducted myself properly.  The
shame had mostly passed, and the anger, and yet, my
skin was still flushed deep red.  Yet my body was
still in an excited state.
   It was a new and indescribable feeling, at once the
same and quite different than the shame and anger I
felt in the moment.  It faded fairly quickly, and as
it melted away it seemed to congeal in my belly, a
pleasant sleepy feeling.

   Over the next several nights, the incident kept
repeating itself in my brain.  I wish I could say that
it happened in my dreams, that I had no control over
it, but that would be lying.  I was fully awake when I
summoned my Englisher again and again, when he stole
my white bonnet, when he handled my face so roughly,
when he spat at me and called me filthy English names.
 My skin became flushed again, and the pleasant sleepy
feeling returned and intensified with each
remembrance, settling lower and lower, deeper and
deeper within me.  I felt consumed by it.  I craved
the feeling.  I began to think about the episode even
during the day, in front of others who were none the
wiser.  But it was only during the night that I could
let the feeling boil over inside me, only between the
sheets of my bed that I could ever be sated.
   But even as my rapture intensified with each
evening, so too did my feelings of shame.  And, in
truth, one fed the other: the deeper my shame and the
more my feelings confused me, the more wondrous it
felt, thus deepening that very same shame and
confusion.  I began to wonder if I was sick, if a part
of me was missing, if I wasn't working properly.  And
that frightened me; I didn't want to be shunned.
   For two whole days I was able to stop by
threatening myself with meidung: they're going to find
out, this is wrong, they're going to find out and then
no one will talk with you, no one will break bread
with you, no one will marry you.  They will spit at
you and call you names loud enough so that you can
hear them.  They will not look you in the eye and
you'll deserve it.
   But that did not prove a deterrent.  In fact, it
was quite the opposite: it made me feel so hideously
wanton, and that made me feel better than ever before:
I was exhausted by my passion, laid to waste by my
climaxes.
   After that night, I knew two things.  One, that I
couldn't stop by myself.  That I needed help, help
from someone I could trust.
   And two: that I didn't want to stop.  I wanted--
and needed-- more.

   I turned to Leah for help because I felt I could
trust her.  Others might run and tell an elder; I did
not think the reality of it would prove nearly as
ravishing, nor did I want to risk finding out.  Leah
proved a good and loyal friend in that respect; she
did not tell the elders.
   She was walking with Luke: his hat was dented, her
bonnet was black.  I asked if I could speak with her
privately after her walk.
   "I've just finished now," she said, more to Luke
than to me.  For his part, he seemed disappointed. 
But he tipped his hat to us and was on his way.
   "Luke?" I said.
   "He can court me all he likes," said Leah.  "It
doesn't mean I'll say yes."
   "You shouldn't encourage him," I said.
   "Well, I'm not going to discourage him."  Her eyes
darted about conspiratorially.  "Or any of the
others."
   "How many others?"
   She seemed to relish the question, but not enough
to provide a clear answer.  "I like being courted.  I
think I shall like it much more than being married. 
Once I say yes to one of them, they'll grow a beard. 
All scratchy and bristles.  And in the interim,
stubble, which is even worse."
   "I think I would like a husband with a great
scratchy beard scraping across my skin," I said.
   "Not me," said Leah.  "I'd much rather kiss a soft
clean face."
   "You'd do well not to kiss Luke, black bonnet or
not," I said.  "He'll tell an elder for sure."
   "Well, just because I want to kiss someone doesn't
mean I'll do it," said Leah.  "I've not turned
simple."
   As we walked and talked a bit more, it became
harder for me to want to broach the subject.  I felt
as if I only could have done so at the beginning of
our conversation, and that I had ruined my chance by
asking about Luke.  In fact, I now hoped to continue
talking about inconsequential matters until it was
time to part ways.  But Leah didn't allow it.
   "So, was there something you wanted to talk to me
about?" she asked.
   I was at once relieved and greatly agitated that
she had asked, and I could feel both emotions inside
me, as if one filled up my left and one my right, and
as they twisted into each other I found myself
paralyzed and stammering.  And, just as suddenly, I
could move and speak again, and everything came
pouring out of me.
   Leah listened.  She didn't ask any questions, or
try to leap ahead by putting words into my mouth.  She
just stared at me and listened and she smiled at me
several times, each smile bigger and more blatant than
the one before it.  The smiles unnerved me.  By the
time I had finished the easier part of the story to
tell-- recapitulating the episode with the Englisher--
Leah's smiles had congealed into one smile the same
way milk from different cows will churn together into
the same tub of butter.  Still faced with the far more
difficult task of relating my actual problem, I
decided that her strange reaction to my
story-in-progress afforded me a perfect place to pause
and reconsider.
   "Why are you smiling?" I asked.  "He was a horrid
man, and what he did was horrid."
   "I'm not disputing that," said Leah.
   "Then why were you smiling?" I said.
   "Because you were," said Leah.  "You've been
smiling all along.  Your cheeks are deep red."
   "It's from embarrassment," I said defensively.
   "Embarrassed at what?" said Leah.  "At having your
bonnet stolen?  Or talking about it?"
   "A little of both, perhaps," I said.  I decided in
that instant not to tell her about my problem after
all.
   "Or are you embarrassed because you liked it?"
   And in that instant I decided to tell her
everything.  In a furious whisper, I described the
progression of my nightly ritual.  I was breathless,
and so was she.  I imagine that my skin was flushed
red, but it could not have been as red as hers.  Her
mouth hung open, her nose quivered with each intake of
breath.  And then, suddenly, before I could even
finish my tale, she reached out and grabbed my bonnet
roughly from my head.
   I reached for it, and she laughed, deep and
throaty, as she slowly backed away and then broke into
a run.  I ran after her, my hair whipping about my
face.
   Leah ran into her father's barn.  I followed,
cautiously.  It was empty save for the two of us.
   "Do you like it?" she teased, holding the bonnet up
between two of her dainty fingers, jingling it
noiselessly in the air.
   "No," I said.  "Because I know you're going to give
it back."
   "Mmm," she said.  "I might."
   I stepped closer, reaching for the bonnet.  She
swiped it behind her back.  "Turn around," she said. 
"Turn around and I'll give it back to you."
   I turned my back to her.
   "Give me your hands," she said.
   I put my hands behind my back.  She touched my
wrists with her bare hand, rubbing them gently.
   "Hold still," said Leah, the words soft and dry in
her mouth.
   And suddenly, I felt it: like a cord being wrapped
around my wrists.  I began to struggle.
   "Hold still," she said again.  She tied my bonnet
into a double knot around my wrists.  I made a
half-hearted attempt to budge it, but could not.
   "Untie me," I said.
   "You wanted your bonnet back," said Leah as she
moved in front of me.  "I gave it back."
   "This is stupid," I said.  "I know you're going to
untie me.  You know you're going to untie me.  So just
untie me."
   "You think you know a lot, don't you?" she said
mischievously.  "You know exactly what I'm going to do
and what I'm not going to do, right?"
   I didn't know how to answer that.  "Just untie me
before someone comes into the barn."
   "How would we explain that, I wonder?" asked Leah.
   "You took my bonnet, and you tied my wrists with
it," I said.
   "Perfectly innocent," said Leah.
   "Perfectly."
   "We'd both be blameless," she said.
   "Yes."
   "That's not very exciting, is it?"
   "No," I said.  "It's not."
   Suddenly, her fingers were upon the top-most hook
of my dress.  With a deft movement, she pulled it
apart, exposing the bare flesh of my neck.
   "What a pretty throat," she said.  She touched it
with her fingertips.  My breathing became heavy.
   She undid another hook.  "Leah, don't."
   And another.  I felt my insides boiling, hot and
creamy.  "Don't stop," I said.
   And she didn't.  Slowly, unrelentingly, she undid
each hook and latch with a measured indifference.  But
she was not indifferent.  I could tell the way her
eyes burned in their sockets.
   She ran her fingers down the narrow line of skin
between each unfastened hook and latch.  I trembled as
her touch moved lower.  I bit my lower lip, hard and
lovely, as her fingers grew nearer to the low sweet
boil in my loins.
   "Do you like it?" she asked.
   I had to take a greedy breath through my mouth
before I could answer.  "Yes."
   "How would we explain this, I wonder?" she mused. 
"What if someone caught us?"
   The thought pulsed in my hips.
   "What if an elder came in?" said Leah.  "What if I
left you here in the barn, with your hands tied behind
your back and your blouse open?  What would become of
you?"
   "I'd be shunned," I said breathlessly.  It made my
thighs throb.
   "You sound as if you'd like that," said Leah
maliciously.  "You hussy."
   Again something burned deep and hard and low inside
of me, a pulse spreading inside me like I had a second
heart within my abdomen.  "Do it again," I said,
begging.
   "Do what again?"
   "Call me a-- a-- a hussy!  Call me names."
   "You really are a hussy, aren't you?"
   "Yes!"
   "I want to hear you say it!" Leah demanded.
   "I'm a hussy," I said.  "I'm a wanton hussy!"
   She grabbed me roughly by the cheeks, pulling me to
her, pressing her soft mouth against my mouth.  I
yielded to her instantly, and though being still bound
I could not grab her face in kind, I did kiss her back
with equal fervor.  I could tell from the way her
entire lovely body was trembling that she, too, was
being consumed by a delicious passion.  Our bodies
rocked and seized up and were spent and sated.  We
crumpled up, sweating and huffing for breath.
   Leah looked at me, and I at her, and she kissed me
gently on my mouth.  She fastened my hooks, one by
one, before unbinding my hands.  She held my wrists
tenderly and kissed them, worshipped them, and then
she reverently tied my bonnet on my head.

   The next night, I invited her to supper with my
father's permission.  Leah said grace, beautiful words
formed by beautiful lips.
   We never talk much at our table, father and I, not
even when mother was still with us.  But the presence
of a guest provides an occasion for light
conversation.
   Father notes Leah's black bonnet, and inquires as
to whom her suitors are.  Leah names three or four
young men, careful to add that none of them have
really convinced her one way or the other.
   "It is good to be cautious," he advised.  "Marry as
friends. The love will come after.  It's no good the
other way.  One should be moderate in their passions."
   We nodded dutifully.  The conversation turned
(somehow; I don't quite recall) to my cousin Becky.  I
think Leah mentioned her.
   My father grew very short very quick.  "It is not
right to even speak of her," he said.
   "I mean no imprudence," said Leah.  "I just was
wondering what it was that she did."
   My father bristled all the more.  "It does not
matter what she did.  All that matters is that she did
it." He turned to me.  "You haven't been talking to--
her?"
   "No, father."
   He turned to Leah.  "I would be careful also.  Your
Christian sympathy might be misconstrued.  You do not
want to share her fate?"
   Leah shook her head, and the dinner table fell
silent once more for the duration of the meal.  Such
is the power of meidung.

   Using the pretense of bible study, my father
allowed us to sit alone in my bedroom.  We weren't
lying exactly; as soon as we had shut the door behind
us, Leah was reading to me from the Song of Songs:
"Your lips are like scarlet thread.  Your mouth is
lovely."
   And then she kissed me, sweet and dizzying.  It was
nice, pleasant, as if we were a man and his wife
gently fulfilling the duty of our bed.
   But it was also empty, bereft of that deep low
feeling inside me, that feeling that I craved, that I
needed to be alive.
   "We must be careful," she said between kisses and
caresses.  "If anyone caught us, we would both be
shunned."
   And there, like a magic key twisting its way into
me, that wonderful feeling I craved suddenly blossomed
like a faint glimmer of dawn.  It quickly began to
fade, and, wanting to hold onto it and stoke it to a
bright shining broil, I pulled her ear close to my
mouth and begged her to say it again.
   "We would be shunned," said Leah.
   "They'd spit at us," I said.
   "They might," said Leah.  Then she drew back,
wrenching up her face and spitting in mine.
   "Do it again," I begged.
   She did it again, taking her time as she gathered
the saliva within her hot mouth.  It splashed right on
my nose, exploding sticky and wet on my cheeks and
running down into my mouth.  "Oh!" I cried out.
   "Ssh," she said quietly, at once deadly serious and
stoking the molten ball in my belly.  "You want your
father to catch us?  You want him to take us to the
elders?"
   "Then they'd all spit on us," I said breathlessly. 
"And they'd scold us, they'd call us filthy names! 
Yell at me, Leah.  Call me names!"
   "I can't yell at you," said Leah.  The flat lines
of her lips suddenly crooked at the corners: "You
Jezebel."
   "Keep going," I whispered, panting.  "Call me a
whore."
   "You want to be shunned, don't you?" said Leah. 
"You want everyone to know what a wicked girl you
really are."
   "Oh, yes," I said.  "They need to know.  I need to
be shunned.  I deserve it."
   "You're getting too loud again," said Leah
nervously.  "Give me your bonnet."
   I quickly handed it over.  She shoved it in my
mouth.
   "Not a sound," said Leah.
   I nodded fervently.  My entire body had surrendered
to that second heart-beat deep within my ache, every
inch of me pulsing with each shrill breath I sucked in
through my nostrils.
   "Now this is for your own good," Leah said.  She
spat on me a third time, and it was like water hitting
the hot surface of a griddle.  I bit down on my bonnet
as I felt my body start to rock towards its next
climax.
   "You need to be punished," she added softly.  Then
she slapped me across the face.  Hard on one cheek,
then the other.  My head whirled with each blow, my
cheeks stung red and tears blistered from my eyes.  I
bit down harder on my bonnet as I was once more
consumed.

   Afterwards, Leah kissed my flushed cheeks sweetly;
they crackled tenderly.
   "Do you love me, Rachel?" she asked.  "Or do you
love what I do to you?"
   "I love both," I said.
   "That's not an answer," she said.
   I told her that I loved her.

   Over that summer, our little games increased both
in frequency and extremity.  It became normal for her
to gag me with my bonnet and to beat my rump red with
a nice hard stick.  The things she said were more
obscene with each occurence, as if she had to top what
had come before.  She tied me up with ropes, each one
being more difficult to extradite me from; she removed
more and more of my clothes: each incident increased
the possibility of being caught and the probability of
being shunned, and so each incident increased the
sublimity of my passion.  It became all I thought
about, all I wanted, and at my beckoning, Leah fed the
fire within me by choosing more and more dangerous
places to have our furtive meetings.
   This reached its apex that night in August, a night
that is as memorable as that evening so many weeks
before when my bonnet was first stolen.
   I had for the last several nights been begging Leah
to do it to me in the center of the village, where
everyone could see.  Obviously, I was being facetious,
but just as obviously, I was not.  I became obsessed
by the idea, and as we held each other lovingly
afterwards she asked if I wanted to do it for real.
   "In the middle of the night," said Leah.  "When
everyone's asleep."
   The idea made me flush all over again.  "Someone
could still see us."
   "In the moonlight?" said Leah.  "They wouldn't know
who we are.  They'd probably just watch us," she said,
nibbling on my ear.  "Watch the unrepentant hussy
bending over the well completely naked as she's
soundly thrashed on the ass.  Staring at your body,
listening for your quiet little squeals..."
   "Please!" I begged.  "Please do it to me."
   "Tomorrow night," she said.  "Meet me at the well,
at half past two in the morning.  Completely naked."
   "Completely?"
   "You're not allowed to bring any clothing," said
Leah with a devious flash in her eyes.  "You'll have
to run and sneak home naked.  Wait.  I changed my
mind."  She kissed me sweetly.  "You can bring your
bonnet."

   And I did it.  The next night, after I made sure my
father was asleep, I stripped off all my clothing save
my bonnet, fastened around my chin.  I thought about
Leah, and how pleased she would be to see me, and how
she would reward my obedience.
   It was dark that night; the moon had waned to a
sliver.  I could hardly see, but it appeared that the
village was deserted.  I could not even see Leah as I
bent myself over and braced myself against the well.
   I briefly wondered if Leah wasn't going to show at
all, and it occurred to me at that moment that this
was by far the stupidest thing I had ever done.  The
potential consequences of my actions were awesome in
their inconvertibleness.  If I was caught, I would be
shunned without any doubt.
   It frightened me out of my mind.  It also made my
body churn.
   Every logical part of my brain was spurring me to
run.  But my body would not listen; it had surrendered
to that uncontrollable, ungodly thing within me.
   And then I heard Leah's voice.  "Take off your
bonnet, lover."
   I took it off and stuffed it inside my mouth
without her even having to tell me.  She rubbed her
clothed body against my naked one, her covered loins
resting against my bottom.  She grabbed my hair and
pulled it hard.  (She knew I loved it when she pulled
my hair.)
   Suddenly, she stopped.  "Ssh," she said, even
though I hadn't said anything.
   There was silence, and then the sound of footsteps.
   "Someone's coming," she said.  "Run!  Run!"
   The instant she said it, my body was dancing with
the most intense pleasure I have ever felt.  We're
caught, we're caught!, I thought.  I let out a lusty
scream, my bonnet falling from my mouth and lilting
down into the well.
   I did not have any time to recover; Leah had
already started running and I could tell that the new
footsteps were getting closer.  I broke out into a
run, huffing and panting, running not towards my own
home but in the perpendicular direction, rushing into
the darkness.
   When I was content that I had put enough distance
between me and my pursuers, I walked home.  I walked
quickly, but I did not run, as the sound might draw
attention.
   I slipped into my bed, but I did not sleep.  I was
worried about Leah, but more than that I mourned the
loss of the precious bonnet that had started it all.

   We were never caught.  And, indeed, no one in the
village ever said anything about the two mysterious
girls at the well.  But things were also never the
same again.
   Our close call had soured Leah on such adventures. 
Our games became less frequent and far less dangerous.
 She hit me only half-heartedly, made sure we were
both completely clothed and unbound, and any insults
she whispered were mild in case they might be
overheard.  At the slightest sound, she would stop and
check if it was safe.
   And though we are still good friends to this day,
we are no more than that.  The promise of her black
bonnet was soon fulfilled, and her husband soon grew a
beard.  We shared our last and most beautiful kiss two
nights after her wedding.
   The next summer, I too wore a black bonnet and I
too was married.
   I love my husband, and will bear him a third child
before the year is through.  But I've never felt
anything with him like I did that August night with
Leah and the well.  And I haven't really told him
about those days.  I don't think he'd understand.
   He refuses to spank me or spit on me.  He will not
call me names or bind me or pull my hair.  My husband
shudders at the very thought of meidung and will not
even joke about it.
   He does love me.
   He does not love me enough to be cruel.

==+==

And so ends the inaugural issue of "Kinky Romance",
the new romance series from Eightfold.  And my natural
tendencies towards prudery force me to pen this tiny
explanation.

Now, this isn't an apology; as it says in the logo,
this is "unapologetic trash for the discerning
reader".  I gleefully admit that the literary value of
this series might be lacking when compared to that of
other things I've written.

I'm writing this series for a number of reasons.  One
is that if I stick to writing "Doomed Romance" while
"Jolt City" is on hiatus, I'm going to go insane with
all the depression and broken relationships and pain. 
I need something a little more upbeat to cleanse the
palette, and I think this more-or-less accomplishes
that.

It's also a counterpart to "Doomed Romance" in that
"Doomed Romance" is male-narrated and about failure,
while "Kinky Romance" is female-narrated and about
success.  It's about a character's journey into
herself, into the depths of her own sexuality and her
own pleasure.

But it's also about transgression.  It's not called
"Vanilla Romance", after all.  The desires and quests
of these characters are intended to be mildly shocking
and bizarre.  And this fills another writerly need of
mine: my love of crazy, wigged-out ideas.  Militant
underwater apes, six-inch tall mafioso, et cetera.

Well, with "Jolt City" on hiatus I don't really have
anywhere to fill that writerly need; it would be out
of place in the more subdued, introspective,
psuedo-New Yorker-y style of "Doomed Romance".  But I
think outrageously awesome ideas are a good fit for
this series, which is why the first issue centers on
amish bondage lesbians.

This isn't meant to be pornographic, just as (the far
more explicit) Jolt City # 8 wasn't "smut".  Though
the writing will be somewhat more direct when the
narrator isn't amish, it's not about the mechanics of
sex, which will figure very little, but the psychology
of sex.  Because of this, and because of the more
bizarre elements, I'd be fairly surprised if anyone
found any of this to be "erotic".

But I do intend it to be fun and positive.

One more note: both this series and "Doomed Romance"
are not meant to be blanket portrayals of the female
and male populaces, respectively.  In each series the
stories are narrated by a single character with a
single point of view, and the stories only focus on
that character and their point of view.

For every man who destroys a relationship by refusing
to let go, there are men who are able to move-on; for
every perennial screw-up there are men who are
competent, funny, and unselfish.  For every woman who
enjoys being spanked, there are dozens who want
nothing to do with that and probably a few who
wouldn't mind doing the spanking.

These are specific stories about specific people.

Just as it would be silly to fault "Doomed Romance"
for only portraying extremely flawed men who destroy
their own relationships, it would also be silly to
fault "Kinky Romance" for only portraying extremely
carnal women who explore desires outside social
"norms" (whatever they are), don't you think?


 (C) COPYRIGHT 2007 TOM RUSSELL. 


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