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Not Gouda
Not Gouda, Not Tonight
Copyright 2000 The Scribbler
Who assures readers that no cheese was injured in the making of this story.
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If Kathy had found her way to the Rijksmuseum, none of this would
have happened.
But on the way to see "The Laughing Horseman" she managed to take a
wrong turn, down past the Oudekirk, and one or two wrong turns later
Katherine Scott Warren, -the well-coiffed, well-dressed, well-
manicured, on the Stairmaster at 9.30, lipstick a shade of pink that
was only very subtly different from the color of her lips-blonde hair
pulled in a pony tail pulled tight with matching grosgrain ribbon, -
that Katherine Scott Warren, was staring through a plate glass window
at what was, if not Amsterdam's most diverse collection of sexual
appliances, then representative of a wide range of human sexual
expression, and consequently more varied than one might encounter in
daily life in Grosse Pointe.
But it did happen, and while her husband Mike spent the day at the
Schiphol Airport Conference Center, evaluating wiring harnesses and
brakepads at "Eurocomponent 2K", Kathy did spend perhaps longer than
one would have thought likely regarding the assortment of leather
chaps, anal distenders, friction gloves, vaginal clamps and nipple
jewelry.
And first, wrinkling her nose and making appropriate blushes of
revulsion-- out of force of habit, as there was no morning audience
to approvingly note her distaste, she felt herself becoming wet. That
was the problem; she knew it. She shouldn't give in to these
things . . . well, there was the very chaste ivory vibrator she kept
by her bed, and her long morning cums . . . but that was miles
removed from these dildos, great things in all colors, veined and
detailed, looking very much like the vandalized statuary of the
ancient world had deposited its Herculean castrations here in an
Amsterdam sex shop vitrine.
She turned with a start as slurred voice spoke to her. . .in what
language she couldn't say. He looked like a junkie of some sort, and
she hustled on, her lizard shoes pattering out a staccato click-click
on the cobblestones. Around the corner, a tout loafed by a sign and
when he called to her, bidding her come see a "sexy show". . .well,
for some reason, perhaps her fear of the tramp, perhaps the warmth in
her belly, she turned down the narrow stairs.
The tout, a little with a droopy mustache seemed just as
surprised as she that she had accepted his offer. . .blurting out the
entrance fee of 75 florins, he opened the door for her and led her to
a narrow theatre. It was dark, and the air was heavy with the prior
evening's smoke. A pervasive smell of sweat clung to everything,
exhaling from the upholstery as she sat back into her seat. From her
spot, perhaps three quarters of the way toward the back of the
theatre, she could ponder her madness in a comforting shadow. Who
were those lumps in the seats forward-- men, she supposed, and
she would rather not meet. What if one of them saw her, raped her?
Heat ran into fear as she bundled up the courage to bolt from and run
to the street.
A small shudder in the velvet curtain. The little again,
announcing for the sparse audience "Rex Nubis"
The curtain parted, revealing a cheap stage set-- perhaps a middle
school production of "Caesar and Cleopatra"? - complete with papier
mache Sphinxes (mysteriously, there were two) and a vaguely
hieroglyphic backdrop.
Kathy was ready to go. This promised to be awful. If only she could
get out, get back to her hotel, everything would be just fine, this
morning's insanity would disappear like forgiven sin. . .
And then she saw him. A . . .not like she knew. Not brown,
not chocolate, not African-American-- a with skin like coal
and eyes that shone like brilliant beacons. He was bare chested, his
head and body equally hairless, and as he moved, his muscles
rippled, glowing under the sheen of oil. His lips parted slightly,
revealing bone white teeth. He put his hands to the belt of his long
billowy trousers, and released them.
And what she saw next fixed Kathy in her seat. A huge penis, long and
jutting out at a perfect right angle to its bearer. The African
turned this way and that, so that his audience could admire its
length, and perfect solidity. And then he lay back on what was
perhaps meant to be a palanquin or altar, his jet erection pointing
straight up.
From offstage, two small emerge, one of them the ubiquitous
droopy mustache. They are dressed in what is a hopeful approximation
of Egyptian costume. But what draws Kathy's interest is what they
lead at the end of the eight foot leather tethers. . .a woman,
arms bound behind her back, with a collar drawn by these leashes.
She has hair, that spills over her shoulders in a golden wave,
and is wrapped in a robe of some shiny manufacture.
"Hier Marijka!" shouts droopy mustache, as he pulls the robe from her.
And standing there, in the cold light, is the most beautiful, most
vulnerable girl. Big face, with broad high cheekbones, and slightly
slanted eyes-- slightly Mongol, like a Russian or Ukrainian. Her full
lips slathered with a fiery lipstick, her large and firm, her
hips swollen and feminine.
She regards the African, his giant erection rigid and vertical and
her eyes widen.
Her handlers give the leash a tug, she lurches forward. Kathy
squeezes her legs together. How degrading! To be brought here, before
an audience, like cattle. A slave brought before an audience, forced
to abase herself, to reveal herself as nothing more than another hot
slit. . .Kathy adjusted herself in her seat, leaning back and easing
into the chair.
Again the handlers pull and "Marijka" resists, giving a shout and a
cry, finally on her knees, plaintively looking for assistance that
does not come.
Droopy mustache yells something at her and she is drawn to her feet.
He pulls her over to a railing that is perhaps waist high. Her head
and shoulders are pulled across it, her arm shackles are buckled to a
rope from overhead that is then tightened. She is pitched forward,
her bottom face back to the audience.
Her tormenter takes a short leather crop, and delivers a flurry of
blows to her buttocks. Kathy watches with astonishment, and feels a
familiar wetness creep into her loins. She looks over her shoulder--
is anyone behind her? Will anyone notice if she were to pull up her
skirt and slip two fingers inside her panties?
No, the shadows in the front are quiet. She hikes up her skirt
slightly, and slides a finger under the elastic legband of her
panties. There, just there.
The girl's bottom is leathered by her tormenters, twisting under the
lash, Kathy guiltily exults over the little shrieks. As her bottom is
colored and heated by the crop, Kathy feels the shame of her wetness
seeping down. Her will smell with it; to avoid staining her
skirt she sweeps it up in behind. . .she wonders about all the semen
that's been spilled on this very spot . . .a seventh grade girlfriend
once told her she could get pregnant this way -- or more or less, the
whipped slavegirl not being a part of the at the time.
And Marijka is being whipped, reduced to tearful evasions with her
bottom. She twists and turns, hoping to avoid the punishing leather,
but cannot. She is sweating, and the whipping stops.
The handle her crudely from behind, droopy mustache spreading her
lips wide to show his comrade, who squats down for a better view.
And Kathy watches with a special fascination, the degradation, the
humiliation of a fine girl. She is on display, her vulva and
anus objects of curious sport, her bottom a welted cushion. Kathy
should get up, call a stop to this-- that is her PTA instinct
speaking to her. But something else is as well, something about the
rhythm of Marijka's hips under her beating; something about the
sudden shriek and the flash of her shocked and frightened eyes as one
of her tormenters decides to explore her bottom, something ancient
and distant.
How can she watch another woman humiliated so? The thought creeps
through her head as the two little essay a greasy black anal
plug, consult, and then noting the girl's apparent capacity, try a
somewhat larger one.
It occurs to her then, that she might like such a thing. This thought
does not come completely unbidden. Her Hanro are by now
sodden and pushed down, a circlet around her lizard shoes. A busy
finger is massaging her clitoris, stopping only every so often for
insertion into her now lubricated cunt.
"How does it feel?" is the thought that comes bidden by her
masturbation. How does it feel to be bare-ass naked, tied over a
trestle, whipped, handled, exposed to an audience? Shameful, yes,
but anything else? Marijka exists only to be spanked, displayed,
spread, and penetrated for prying male eyes . . .nothing but
a "fucktoy", thinks Kathy, as she imagines herself for a moment, just
for a moment, bent and spread, handled by dirty little men. . .
Marijka is released from her trestle, and made to stand above the
African. Oh this is too much. . .thinks Kathy as he hand becomes a
blur. The is pulled down, impaling herself on the rigid black
shaft. She moans and winces at the size of it. And then the
looks out at the audience, and begins to pump her hips on her rigid
pinion.
She moves and writhes, rather like a rider posting on a fine horse,
Kathy thinks. . .where do they get such men; the African is stock
still, rigid and unmoving. As Marijka rises, Kathy can watch the pink
folds of her cuntlips drag upwards along the phallus, fascinating
Kathy with the slick trail of shiny wet they leave.
Kathy looks up and for a second, meets her gaze. . .it shouldn't be
possible; the stage is lit, and the little hall is dim. But Marijka
sees her, their eyes lock. Kathy, demure and blonde, Marijka naked
and debased. And for that second, thinks Kathy, she knows. The
knows, somehow, as her mouth curls up slightly into a smile . . .a
smile that disappears as Kathy squeezes shut her eyes and brings
herself to explosive relief.
That afternoon, Kathy disappoints her husband Mike when she tells him
that she needs to get a little more shopping done and is going to
stay in Amsterdam tonight, missing the
Conference's farewell dinner . . ."but darling", he says
plaintively, "we're all going to Gouda.. .
And then: "You wouldn't want to miss the Festival of Cheese,
Holland's for it".
A moment's pause.
"I'd love to go, I really would . . .I'll have something to look
forward to for our next trip, then, won't I?"