EVEN THROUGH MY FROZEN terror, I can’t help but admire your gun: its uncompromising sleek curves, how it shimmers with a hard, dark beauty, like everything I desire.
Earlier, at the firing range, I wasn’t thinking about sex, or even power. I had to concentrate to learn to load the clip, slide it into the barrel, wrap my fingers around the trigger, lift, aim, fire. I was surprised at how well the handle fit my palm, how easy it was to shoot straight into the paper man’s heart.
Hold steady. Cock. Aim. Fire. Fire. I wasn’t scared; I laughed out loud, giddy with the thrill of it.
But now, alone with you and it and myself, I’m breathing hard and fast, though nothing is happening, not really, not yet. I am naked, except for rope, and those shiny red stilettos you like. You stand before me cradling the gun lightly but securely, the way you hold my fear. I always trust you to keep me safe at the edge of danger, I love the sensation of it, yet I struggle to submit as my mind races through scenarios in which the gun slips—earth shudder, freak accident, wrong word or wrong mood—and everything is taken from us.
Suddenly it does slip—twirls, jauntily—and then it’s touchng me. The muzzle teases my nipple hard; harder. I can barely breathe. “Breathe,” you say, so I remember how.
The other nipple. Cold steel, rough caresses. My whole body is suddenly alive, and I want to twist away—or toward.
“PLEASE,” I MOAN, BUT I’m not asking for anything. The word is just a formality, just a way to express that I want to beg, that I know I’m at your mercy.
“Please what?” you say, grinning, lifting the hard cold metal to my lips, tracing them with the tip of the barrel so that even if I had something to say, I wouldn’t know what it was. Your pupils are dark and dilated with desire. Without volition my mouth opens, wide, because that is what it knows to do when you touch it.
You slide the gun in, its metal-chemical taste unfamiliar on my tongue, so unlike a finger or a cock. For an instant I wonder what’s in gunpowder; maybe we should put a condom on it? How absurd, the idea that a thin film of latex could protect us from death—though that’s the way we queers have had to live, for decades now.
A sound slides me back to the world of pure sensation. Mine: a sigh from deep and low in my mouth, where I can taste and touch the gun now. I have never till this moment realized how very soft a mouth is, how much it must yield, when confronted with something hard. The gun is thinner than a cock, but less flexible; the sharp peak of its sight rakes the roof of my mouth, bruising my palate. Its tip presses straight back, probes the back wall of my throat, and I dare not choke.
Instead I learn what it wants to teach me: to open the muscles there, tilt my head to make more space for it. I hear the growl you make like a wolf or werecat, hungry, about to eat her live prey; I know your cunt is hot and wet from doing this to me. You pull it out a bit, enough that I can suck; then more, so I can twist my tongue around it, slurp and kiss, send my lust through the barrel into your hand, up your arm, through your body.
And then you are done using my mouth, you pull out, and involuntarily a moan of protest escapes my lips, and you laugh. “More?” you ask. “More, pretty girl?”
I LOVE THE WAY you call me that, I don’t care if you say it to every girl you fuck, because when you say it to me I feel real. “Yes Sir please,” I say, and I know you don’t care who else I call Sir, because when I say it to you, it makes something in you real, too. The way we name each other is another weapon, a fortress against what wants to kill us.
“More what?” you say. “Ask me for it.”
“Please Sir,” I begin, but my mind’s a blank slate, I don’t want to think or steer now, I just want to ride the intensities you feed me. Panic, pleasure, pain, joy: Here inside my Please, I can understand them all, how they are all the same thing, skin, pulse, heat. “Please Sir, whatever you want, Sir,” I manage. “I’m so wet, Sir.”
“Oh really,” you say, feigning surprise. “What kind of girl gets wet from deep-throating a gun, hmm?”
I’m watching you stroke the gun near your crotch, an obvious suggestion that captivates and distracts me. I am terrified by what I want. You watch me want you, then lift your free hand—slowly—everything is slow motion to me now—and slap my face. “Answer me, pretty girl.”
“Please Sir, I’m sorry Sir, what was the question, Sir?”
You sigh, shake your head as if disappointed. “The question,” you say, with exaggerated patience, “was (slap) what (slap) kind (slap) of girl (slap) gets (slap) wet (slap)—” and now I am writhing in the ropes which won’t let me go anywhere, moaning, “Sir, please, a slut, Sir, a perverted slut—your—Sir—”
“I see,” you say. You stroke my cheek, which is stinging a little. The sudden tenderness confuses me, I don’t know if or when your hand is going to turn mean again. You lean in, and I reach to kiss you, but you stay just out of reach, stroking my cheek, then my jaw, fingering the pulse that races through my neck, listening to my ragged breath. “Breathe,” you command, so I do, taking what feels like my first deep inhalation in years.
And then I feel the gun.
GRAZING MY CLIT. Testing the filigreed, helpless edges of my cunt lips. Teasing apart the wetness.
My eyes open wide. I can’t take them from your face or I’ll die. I strain against the ropes and keep watching you, as your steel probes my creaminess. The gun slides between my labia and pauses, and then you look at me for consent.
I want to say “No”— not to stop you, but to heighten the pleasure of being ravaged like this.
I want to beg, “Please, don’t!” even though I’d be screaming a lie since the deepest wisest part of me is urging Yes, yes.
And then the conflict is over since I am not in my body as the gun slips into a hungry, open, waiting pussy, I am in the gun as the gun is in the softest sweetest place the gun has ever been and—
I freeze. The sound of a trigger being cocked is unmistakable, even if you don’t know guns at all. And I know this gun.
“Good girl,” you say. “Is this gun loaded?
I try to remember if your pistol is the type that will cock without a bullet in the chamber, or not. Then I realize the joke, the cardinal rule of safety, the one you drilled me on earlier—always assume a gun is loaded unless you’ve specifically seen otherwise.
“Yes Sir,” I say, my muscles still frozen, only my lips moving to answer, my breathing shallow.
“Good answer, slut.”
I SWALLOW, at the change in tone of your voice, at the word which renames me. You are also very still, holding the gun steady in my cunt with the trigger cocked, holding my gaze with your eyes. I can’t bear the tension, I have to do something and I can’t do anything so I close my eyes. “Look at me, slut,” you command. I whimper and obey, and see your eyes wide, stoned on this. I am sure mine look the same. “I want you to cum for me.”
I let out a sob. It’s too scary, to think of thrusting into, around, this gun. But how can I disobey? I begin to cry, just a naked girl at gunpoint, afraid to move, afraid not to move. And you smile, gasp in pleasure. Your voice rasps as you say, “Pretty slut, pretty tears,” and lean in to taste them. I am moaning with fear, longing, and an acute awareness of how we are always on the edge of death, one inhalation all that separates this side from the other. Everything is in extreme focus: the cool spicy breeze of your breath against my wet upper cheeks, your eyelashes dark and thick almost touching mine, the hard beat of my heart.
“Don’t try to move,” you whisper. “Don’t try to fuck it, my little slut. Just squeeze.” I am awed not only by how much I trust you, but by how I should have known to trust you more. Of course you would give me specific instructions. Of course you would tell me how to give you what you want.
I clench around the gun, and suddenly I’m back in my cunt, feeling the power of my muscles grip the barrel. You nod, and I do it again, and again, you talk me through it until I almost forget it’s a gun and not your cock, not your fist, inside me, but it doesn’t matter, it’s you fucking me just the way you want. “Squeeze,” you say, “pretty slut, good girl, again,” and when the melody of my moans reaches a peak you know to say, “Do you want to cum, slut?”
“Yes Sir please Sir—”
And then you know to wait, several more please’s, until you’re sure and ready, until I sound desperate enough for you, delicious enough, and then you command: “Now.”
MY ORGASM washes through me, rippling up my body and out my throat and through the ropes, and into the gun which is not cool anymore but feels like flesh, heated up by me, that transference of molecules and energy.
Your gun will never be the same.