Firstly, if it’s a relevant consideration for you, we hope you’ve had or are having a happy Beltane or Bealtain (spelling according to choice).
The story below isn’t a Beltane story, and it’s somewhat experimental. You can decide for yourself whether it’s a true story or not. I will just say some of the practices described are inadvisable due to the chemical residues involved. And if you find it too strange – well, there are others on this blog and another one will be along in a few days…
I’m bored with erotic, the cock and cunt and bondage and thwap of the flogger of it. I’m jaded. What I need is some startling image that comes from nowhere and burns itself into my brain, my desires, causes instant addiction. What I need is a new mythos of erotica. Or a new psychopathology. Or something.
Everyday life is always capable of offering the unexpected, though. Out in the local woods on an afternoon stroll – we’d just released the mice we’d caught from the humane trap in the garden – we find a burned-out estate car. It’s still warm, the paint blistered and scorched, tyres burned off, seats and dash reduced to charred fragments. There’s a smell of scorched rubber and diesel hanging in the air.
I like the abandonment, the dereliction, the suddenly frail finality of the vehicle’s state. I like the way the flames have tinged what’s left of the shell, the seared basecoat of paint, a mottled pink that looks surprisingly fleshlike. I like the fact it’s evidence of a crime. Its form has twisted, halfway between the curves of a limb and the evidence of torture. But it’s that smell more than anything that pushes me over the edge, makes me take you by surprise, grasping the back of your neck and pushing your head inside the gaping hole of the rear door.
You struggle in my hands, but playfully. You have no serious intent of escaping my grip.
“Just see,” I say, “whether there’s a body in there. Sometimes, you know, they torch up and all that’s left is fried bones.”
“Ewww…” But I’m reaching in over the top of you, pinning you down, and the baked electrical wiring on the rear door pulls away in my hands yet still has enough strength in it to slip over your wrists. I tie them to the metal frames of the rear seat, leaving you bent at the waist. I pull your jeans off. T-shirt and bra – well, I have a penknife in my pocket, always. Don’t often get to use it. First time for months.
The cool blade grazes your skin. Makes you squirm. Then you feel the flat of the blade against your labia and freeze like a mouse in the undergrowth seeking camouflage from some predator.
Your hips are swaying, a complex harmonic that means: “Someone might see us”, “We should stop”, and “I want it now”.
I stand back, admiring my handiwork. My moment of reflection, my making you wait, perturbs you. You twist, trying to see what I’m doing.
I gather up ashes from the ground, rub them into your thighs and ass, reach around to mark your breasts and face. I want you grimy, stinking of fire and diesel. I want you to become a part of the car, indistinguishable from it, grey and black streaks on your pretty skin.
That looks much better.
I climb in through a buckled driver’s door. Kneel on the blackened frames of the two front seats, pull my cock out. Instinctively you lean forward, lips apart, anticipating my intention is that you suck. You can’t get close enough. Instead I breathe the surreal sweetness of incinerated leather and pleasure myself, stroking, one finger pressed into the base of my cock against the vein there to force its engorgement.
You’re making little “Ah… ah…” noises as if they’ll encourage me to lean forwards and let you taste. A look in your eyes somewhere between a question and a request.
But what I do is this. I spurt on your face. Sticky semen plastered across your cheek, eyelid, forehead.
The mix of ash and semen on you. The shock on your face. It’s an almost spiritual, transcendental, iconic image.
I have to give myself several minutes to recover. You pull against the wire on your wrists, to see if you can release yourself. You only succeed in making angry red lines there. But that’s another fantasy, for later.
By the rear wheel there’s a silver puddle, probably an alloy wheel trims that’s melted. It’s paddle-shaped, heavy. As I turn it over I see glass nodules in it, the safety glass they use in vehicles that shatters into rounded pieces. I heft it in my hand.
When I hit your ass with it, you squeak incoherently. Protesting, yet liking it, yet wanting to not scream, to attract attention.
The small pieces of glass make angry bitemarks on your reddening ass cheeks. And since you enjoy being hit with hard implements, you’re soon squirming and hot. In fact, the repeated impacts can in themselves bring you to climax. And when you climax, you…
I give you my leather jacket to wear on the walk home. I like the way it looks on you, delinquent biker grrl style, unzipped and with nothing underneath. I like the fact you still have a smudged and spunk-plastered face.
“Don’t,” you say, “ever do that to me again.”
But a couple of days later you mention, in the casual tone you have that tells me you’re excited and really want me to pay attention, there’s a wrecked sports car that’s been burned out at the back of the industrial estate. You “just happened” to notice it, driving back from work.
Other offbeat stories? A couple. Try Scaplelfuck, from July last year, on my Fulanismut blog. If you want more fully-fledged auto-sex, there’s always JG Ballard’s book, Crash, and the David Cronenberg film of the same name, based on it… For stuff that’s maybe a little more conventional, there’s a ‘Stories Available Now’ button at the top of this page that shows you other published short stories.
Now why do I feel the need to go out for a walk with a can of paraffin…?