Fiction

Saint Lucy - Part 2

By Rachel E. Pollock/'Lady Bathory'

Lucien flipped through a coffeetable magazine to pass the time 'til Lulu came back. She'd gone into the other room to fix a couple of drinks and change clothes. He ran his hand over his crotch, thinking of the sly little twist of her lips when she informed him that she would not be going home with him, but rather that he would be coming home with her. "A girl can't be too too stupid these days..." she'd said. "Of course, the wise-beyond-their-years ones just don't pick up strange men, period." Then she'd slipped a hand under the lapel of his brocade smoking jacket and squeezed his nipple. Hard. Damn, he hoped she was the BandD type.

Just then, she swirled back into the room in a translucent, floorlength, silk chiffon jade-colored negligee. With that corset underneath. Now that he could view it in its entirety, he saw that it cinched her from just below its pointy bracups down past her ass, and came complete with garter clips and stockings. Probably a period piece. She turned to set the tray she was carrying down on the sideboard and he noticed that she had the thing laced all the way down...22" maybe? 18"? Definitely BandD. Yeeesssss.

She had two highball glasses and, surprise, a one-third-empty bottle of Macallan 25. The icecubes popped and plinked as she poured out three fingers each of the ambergold liquid. She handed him one and, taking the other, settled herself into his lap. She clinked her glass playfully against his and said, "To us. Lulu and Lucien...the Sky...With Diamonds." He smiled as she gulped hers down, taking only a small sip of his own. "What's wrong? Drink up!"

"I'm not a big Scotch fan. and I don't really need another drink anyw-" The bones of her corset dug into his thigh as she hauled off and cracked him one across the mouth.

"Drink it, you filthy bastard." Before he could react, she threw her glass over his head, busted it all over the wall and some crappy oil painting, tangled her hands in his hair. Fists pulled hanks of it, tongue thrust against his own...he tasted blood from a cut in his mouth. He knew she tasted it, too. Lucien pictured the deliciously long night ahead of him. He ran his nails slowly across her upper back, scoring the flesh. Abruptly, Lulu sprang to her feet and said, "You will come with me." She disappeared through the door in a swirl of green fabric.

Lucien was sure he'd never looked so ridiculous, but he also knew he'd never felt this good. Lulu had buckled him into some odd device—a leather collar with a strap that went down the length of the back, attached to which were three other collarlike restraints for cinching arms together behind the back. Then she'd handcuffed each ankle to the splayed legs of an odd-shaped backless chair.

When he protested that, in his past experience, he'd never played the unreciprocal sub, she'd hit him in the face with a closed fist, called him a Pathetic Motherfucker, and thrown about an inch of hot wax from a nearby column candle all over his chest and abdomen. Then she'd clamped her frosty mulberry lips around his burnspeckled, toohard erection.

There were welts on his chest from the cat-o-ninetails she'd used to punish him after he came in her mouth. She'd spat the slimy mixture of sperm and saliva in his face, then made him say "I love you Lulu" every time she struck.

Twenty-four lashes for twenty-four letters: Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds.

Twenty-four pairs of eyelets in that bitchgoddess corset.

Twenty-four useless years of his meaningless life. By about number twelve, he wasn't playing the game anymore. He loved her. Every bit of her.

(crack) Twenty-two.

I love you, Lulu.

(crack) Twenty-three.

(wince) I love you, Lulu.

(crack) Twenty-four.

(gasp) I love you, Lulu.

Wordlessly, she'd turned and left him there. He waited.

She came back into the room pushing an odd little rollercart like room service comes on, only it was covered with tubs and tubes and bottles, creams and lipsticks and sprays. There was a little skirt of fabric concealing the area beneath the top shelf but above the wheels. "Now you're going to watch me get ready for bed." She pulled the jade chiffon thing over her head, leaving only the corset with its garterstockings.

Lucien smiled. "I love you."

"Shut up."

"I mean it. I love you."

"I said, shut up."

"C'mon, playtime's over. Can we quit the whole sub-dom thing now? I'm trying to be sincere, hon."

"Shut fucking up!!!" Lulu shrieked. Her arm shot out and a glass coldcream jar struck him full in the face. His nose started to bleed profusely. Lucien started to cry.

"I think you broke my nose," he finally whispered through gulpy sobs.

"You broke my goddamn nail, you turd." She flipped him a bird, sans its dragonlady acrylic nail. Then she giggled her dulcimer exercise and broke the rest of them off, pausing after each one to playfully flick it at Lucien. She peeled off the flutter-bye lashes, too, but placed them carefully and lovingly in a blue plastic rectangular case.

She upended a Sea Breeze cleanser bottle on a gigantic cottonball and began buffing her face with it. Deep bruise-colored halfcircles appeared beneath her eyes, as did a portwine birthmark splattered across her upper neck and jaw. Her beauty mark and her archy eyebrows disappeared completely. "I know that you're really twenty-eight years old." She tissued away her creamydreamy lipstick to reveal thin, sad, colorless lips.

Lucien's reply was a bloody, snotty sniffle. "How?"

Lulu rummaged beneath the cart's skirt and produced a styrofoam wighead. "I know that your real name is Leonard Scalf." She pulled off her wig to reveal a bald, scabby scalp patchy with tufts of colorless hair. Lucien gasped, both at hearing his given name and at the sight of her seemingly ringworm-ravaged head.

"Wh- What has happened to you?"

"Lululucien wouldn't give a shit about that. It wouldn't be conducive to his fucking image, would it?" she mocked. Lulu plucked absently at a tuft of her sparse hair; it came away in her hand. She kept humming that goddamned Beatles song.

"No. I guess it wouldn't. So tell Leonard. Tell twenty-eight-year-old Lenny." There was a long silence.

"Chemo."

He processed the word, felt the room swing round.

"What kind of cancer?"

"What's your day job?"

"Come ON!"

"What's your day job?" She was hefting another coldcream canister. Nose jobs were expensive.

"Dairy Queen."

"Front line?"

"Drive thru. What kind?"

She reached into one of the pointy bracups and extracted a disembodied jiggly fake tit. She walked over to him quickly, holding it at arm's length. "Don't you want to kiss my lucious breast?" He looked away. "I wouldn't let a filthy liar like you touch it anyway. Yeah, the other one is real. Prolly not for long, though."

She pulled the ends at the bowlaces at the back of her corset and began loosening the twenty-four eyelets worth of cinching. "I know you wouldn't be kind enough, or man enough, to help me with this. So just stay where you are. Hmp. As if you could move." She'd loosened it enough to pop open the stiff row of nailhead hooks comprising the corset's front busc-closure. As Lulu sloughed it away, Lucien gaped in fascinated revulsion at the impressions of the boning left on her completely figureless bulgy body.

"Hourglass figure generously provided by two years of steroid treatment." Lulu made a noise like the roar of a crowd, then wolfwhistled. "Of course, cancer isn't the only cause of dis-figure-ment. Lupus lets you in for loads of thrilling surprises." There was a loud mucousy sucking sound and two plates of dentures plopped into her hand. "Not what you thought I was, eh?" Her enunciation was bit less sharp now. Lucien felt his stomach somersault as she dropped the teeth into a glass of green liquid.

"I've got one more surprise, Leonard. This one's got a story, but don't worry. It's a short one.

"When we were little kids, my brother and I used to play war games. G I Joe. I was quite the tomboy, not interested in dressup and dolls and stuff. No, he and I loved to play war." She sucked her gums like a WWII vet. "We'd go out in the woods, we'd have our plastic grenades, our bottle rockets, our waterguns. Kids' stuff. Well, my brother, he captured me as a POW once. He wagered me I was too chicken to let him tie me to a tree for a 'firing squad execution'. Now I’ve always been the betting type, so I said sure. That was the last time I played the sub." She reached up with two fingers and plucked out her left eye. She held out her hand to him; it sat there on her palm like some small pet, or an hors d'oevre. "You know what they say about it being fun and games until..." Lucien lost the contents of his stomach.

Lulu started singing lispily, "The girl with a kaleidoscope eye..."

"Yes, I still love my brother, though. He didn't know any better, we were just little kids fucking around. It was my mum that turned a blind eye to two schoolkids with a mess of firecrackers. Ironic cliche, eh? And I still make bets with my brother on occasion. As I said, I'm the gambling type. Of course, we plan things a little more carefully now. Lenny? You listening to me? You'd really love my brother. I'll have to introduce you sometime. His name is Lord."