Charles

“Just a latte today please.”

With a nod the waitress departed leaving Charles to contemplate his cocoa skinned prey. Today was the day; the culmination of several weeks observation driven by a desire to add an athletic black woman of Caribbean heritage to his collection.

Veterinary school had taught him nothing of philosophy, but strangely he found a kinship with the existentialists in his work with animals, so the hunt had been a pleasure.

At the mid point of his life, Charles needed every advantage he could muster to lure young women to his chambers, especially in a Los Angeles so obsessed with physical perfection it had become the community’s raison d’etre.

It was therefore terribly appropriate that he sat reading Jean Paul Sartre’s “The Transcendence of the Ego” as his latte was hurriedly deposited before him, spilling foam onto the sun warmed bistro table. Tearing open an anti-bacterial wipe, Charles meticulously wiped down the handle of the cup, paying special attention to the rim without disturbing the coffee within.

His proximity to her was intentional, and indeed Charles had never ventured so close nor so directly within her line of sight.

“My gad… we’re reading the same book.” Naomi needed help, and she knew it. A term paper due on Monday and it had all looked so easy in the course book.

“Indeed. Do you like Sartre?” Charles began, his opening gambit one of condescension.

“I… I’m sorry. Do you know much about philosophee?” She implored, biting her lip like she was seducing her tennis coach.

“Well, yes I suppose I do. I’m Charles.”

“Naomi.” She fluttered “Can… I join you? It’s just I’m a little lost and my paper is…”

“Yes, of course.” He interrupted, gesturing to an empty chair.

“Gad, thank you. I’m so stressed over this!” Naomi hurried to his side, her white v-neck showing delicious dark circles around erect nipples.

“Believe it or not, Sartre makes a good deal more sense in his native French.”

“Really? I don’t speak French though…” She pouted.

“A shame. Now, what are you having trouble with?”

“Ontology. Can you help me?” Charles resisted the urge to smile. The concept of divorcing emotional meaning from things and addressing them simply as objects had resonated strongest in his research. “I’ll buy you lunch…”

“Alright Naomi, it’s a deal.”

Thirty minutes and a ham on rye saw Charles to the end of his knowledge of existentialist philosophy. Their fledging romance would be made or broken by his next move:

“You know, I think I have my old notes on Sartre collecting dust on a shelf at home.” He paused, filling his eyes with charity. “I don’t mean to sound creepy, but I don’t live far and I’d be happy to help out.”

“Oh I dunno. My boyfriend will be waiting for me.”

“As you like it, but I’m only three blocks. I tell you what, if you want to wait here and I’ll come back with it.”

“Ok… actually, I’m sorry Charles, I’m just being silly. You’re close by?”

“A short walk, I promise. You can tell me about this boyfriend of yours on the way.”

Two heavy steel doors opened onto a small ground floor loft converted from an old machine shop. Thick rubber curtains defined a utilitarian living space kept immaculately clean and free of clutter.

Naomi looked around curiously from the doorway, sensing something out of the ordinary. Whether it was the lack of promised bookshelves or the pervading odour of latex, she wasn’t sure but this certainly wasn’t the downtown apartment she’d expected from such an intellectual.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks. I should be going.”

“Ah right. Let me find you those papers.” Charles slipped through a curtain, moving deeper into his lair.

Naomi was nervous and considering leaving. There were no books in evidence; no lights save a single hanging bulb in a caged shade; no TV even. Just a couple of couches and a coffee table imitating a living room. Worse still, a box of surgical gloves was the only ornament to be found.

She barely felt the needle slide into her neck, but it was enough to ignite unspeakable fears.

“What the fuuuucck aaare y..yooo… phleeeese….” She slurred, her flesh slumping to its bones and her legs deflating beneath her.

“Please don’t be afraid Naomi. I’m not going to harm you.” Now naked, Charles guided her to a couch before scrubbing up and donning gloves, a new joy in his eyes.

“I’ve given you a concoction to relax your muscles, but don’t worry my dear you’ll still be able to feel everything.”

He carried her through the curtains where a large transparent rubber sack lay unzipped and spread on a steel autopsy table; it was cold and unforgiving as she was gently placed face down. Somewhere in the bedlam of her fears, Naomi felt cold steel against the small of her back as Charles cut away her clothing.

He stopped, taking in her curves and delicious skin tones while fighting the urge to touch her there and then; but no, she wasn’t clean yet.

Cool water splashed across her body as Charles rinsed away her sweat before taking a soft brush and scrubbing her head to toe with Bactine. Charles washed her back in lazy, indulgent circles before descending between her buttocks to clean her anus slowly and delicately, with a reverence and care he’d shown every one of his lovers.

He turned her over and cleaned her breasts, marvelling at how they moved and quivered under his touch. Tiny tears squeezed from eyes Naomi was unable to close as he ran the brush carefully against her sex, which moistened in defiance of her sanity.

“I apologize Naomi, but the next few minutes may be somewhat unpleasant.”

The stainless phallus of a laryngoscope clicked softly against her teeth as he opened her throat. She gagged softy as the steel cock was pushed impossibly deep before Charles fed a rubber intubation tube down her throat and into her lungs.

Naomi’s mind was already offering up fantasies to supplant the horror it couldn’t admit when he penetrated her dark flesh, sliding a needle into her wrist.

With equal measures of care and barely contained lust, Charles parted her labia, his penis stiffening at the sight of her vibrant pink pussy contrasted against chocolate skin. He calmed his fevered mind enough to finish by sliding a catheter past her slick lips and into her urethra.

She tried to sob; to release her terror but the drugs coursing through her brain left her helpless and bound tight in her own flesh.

Standing back in admiration, Charles paused. Indulging himself, he stroked his cock before feeding her tubes through a hole near the top of the latex sack and folding it over to cover her. He connected her to a ventilator, a urine bag and drip tube full of saline, nutrients, anti-biotics and more of the muscle relaxant.

“Thank you Naomi. Thank you.” He whispered as he closed the zipper and shut out any hope of life other than as an object. “I promise I will keep you from harm and love you often.”

Even in the rubber sack, Naomi could hear the vacuum sucking air from around her body. She could feel the rubber warming and closing in on her, holding tubes in place and pressing against her sex; sealing her from a world she’d never see again.

In the silence that followed, she could feel his hands moving with a sick reverence over her body somewhere outside the bag. His touch was light, almost sensual as he explored her every curve and crevice. Circling her breasts, he teased her nipples before gliding down her flanks, feeling her ribs against the latex.

His lips made soft smacking sounds against her face and she could feel him sucking gently on the bulb of her chin before licking his way down her throat to her belly, slowly descending to her crotch.

Naomi’s mind bellowed refusals with a desperate rage that came out only as the merest whimper; her terror washed over Charles in waves of delight.

He dove for her cunt, massaging above before plunging a finger either side of the catheter and spreading her lips under the latex. Pushing hard against the bag, Charles forced a finger up into her pussy, delighting at the texture of her vagina and the involuntary flood that spilled out.

In a monumental betrayal of her sanity, Naomi came hard in mind bending waves while her body lay still as a corpse.

“I think Sartre said it best Naomi: Hell is other people.”

Butch Ramrod
©2009

28.07.09