passenger (fiction inspired by the deftones' song)

warning: the following story is erotic fiction. it describes and/or hints at sex acts. moreso, it is easily the kinkiest thing i have written. sometimes i don't write the story, the story writes me. read at your own risk. you've been warned.

he stood beside her car in the enormous parking garage underneath her apartment building. she was slightly bent, taking her time inserting the key into the door, a wicked smirk playing across her blood-red lips.

everything about her was dark. her hair, the black sunglasses she wore in defiance of the half light in the concrete structure. she was encased in a black blouse and tight skirt; the hem riding high on her luxuriously long legs, her calves pushed up into tight knots by the heels of the shiny black stilletos.

the car was like the last cock he had sucked, sleek and black. built for speed. the flourescents cut angular lines of blinding white across the highly-polished enamel. he noted with a quick gunpowder flash of agony that the windows weren't as tinted as he had hoped. at each stoplight, passersby might be able to see inside.

much like they might be able to see him right now, should they choose this moment to leave the garage. he was clad only in her favorite ball-gag and a pair of cuffs. the cool underground air brushed his skin like dead lovers, and he agonized again over how long she was taking to unlock the car.

she knew this, and for this reason had chosen the key instead of simply pressing the button on her fob. now, one fanglike tooth sneaking out to bite her swollen bottom lip, she pushed the key into the hole and pulled it back out over and over again, watching him as he tried to shrink into himself. the more he tried to be invisible, the more his organ asserted its presence.

finally, he was in the passenger seat, the leather cool and smooth on his naked thighs. she produced another set of shiny silver cuffs and attached his wrists to the pull handle of the door, then leaned across him to buckle him in, her breasts dangling close to his face and filling his nose with sandalwood. the buckle clicked and sent an icy shiver through him as he had a momentary flash of the humiliation he would face should they be involved in an accident. his erection pushed upwards, bobbing at the thought of all those people catching him in this state.

she noticed, and laughed; a dead, brittle sound that bounced back at them from the pillars in distorted echoes.

a cold sweat broke out on his brow and shoulders as she slowed down to a crawl as she passed the guard hut. he looked straight ahead into the night, but was sure he heard one of the guards chuckle as she waved pleasantly.

his balls were aching.

the twilight and traffic afforded a certain anonymity, but without removing the obviousness of his situation. she powered her window down to smoke, and cracked his sufficiently that his face and the vinyl of the gag straps would be visible to anyone who pulled alongside and turned their head.

the thought pained him in his stomach and genitals. he feared to make eye contact, but yearned to view the other vehicles' occupants: businessmen negotiating mergers on their cell-phones, truck drivers, families eating fast food from paper bags. all the normal people passing by with their normal lives, almost too busy to notice the toy riding shotgun in the black mercedes.

she reached up languidly to adjust the rearview mirror, and he gasped past his own drool upon seeing that she had turned it sideways to watch his face as they drove downtown, where the friday night traffic and stoplights every two blocks would assure they would never drive faster than thirty miles an hour.

his pupils were dilating. his breath was burning in his chest. the head of his cock was smearing a mercurial stain across the smooth skin of his belly. his testicles were pulling tight to his torso.

he feared he might come simply from the thought of his own situation, and tried to drag his mind away from himself for a moment. she had promised him she would put her own panties on him and tie him to the hood and proceed to drive slowly through the seedier parts of town should he ever get any semen on her interior.

the thrum of the motor teased its way throughout his body. the gleam of empty lenses over the devil's smile greeted him in the rearview. the dull ache in his hands and gonads caused tiny prickles of sweat to bead all over his body.

he groaned, bubbles forming at the corner of his mouth.

"shut up!" she hissed in a twisting cloud of cigarette smoke, "or i will pull over and offer rides to people on the corner like a taxi."

he took a deep breath, trying to calm the barrage of thoughts and anguishes and needs that riddled his mind and body like a sickness.

a stoplight painted him as red as her nails, and he glanced to see what show might play in the car adjacent, only to find that the vehicle was full of frat boys who were slapping each other on the shoulders and pointing at him, laughing at the show they had discovered next to themselves.

he felt faint. his cheeks puffed in and out. sweat stung his eyes. he broke contact with occupants of the car and looked down at his lap. tears pooled with his spit on his lips, and formed droplets that joined the shining river that ran down his chest to join his precum. his glans was swollen beyond anything he had imagined. the skin of his shaft was tight and glistened in the sparkling streetlights. his sphincter and the skin of his scrotum contracted until his lower back ached.

"if you get any come on my leather, i'll fucking stop the car and shove my fist up your ass over the trunklid for all to see. you understand me?"

he nodded, his vision swimming. she smiled her venomous smile into the mirror, and reached over to brush a fingertip across one of his erect nipples.

like a dying butterfly, he felt pinned somewhere between the dazzling lights of the clubs and the soft leather of the seat. he hung there, babbling to god, like his entire body had become one vibrating sex organ, coated in the lubricants of his own spit and sweat, hard and ready to spill forth his seed. his eyes rolled back to white and he gibbered, no longer needing the thought of the other travelers or how they might point and laugh. no longer aware of the steady forward progress of the black cock piloted by the sexy demon that laughed at his torture, a smaller part of a larger whole all fucking the cunt of the city; pushing to be the tiny car that penetrates the egg; a conglomerate of men and women laughing, talking, pointing, crying, fucking, shoving, angling, fighting, screaming, dying.

"hey, you pussy, wake up and get out of my car before you bust your load all over!"

he felt coated in gelatin, too thick to comply. only vaguely aware of outward stimuli.

she slowly placed her lips around one of his tiny areola, the vampire teeth engulfing his hard nipple, and bit down.

the hard rubber ball stifled his scream and he fell out of the open door onto his knees, immediately spewing gouts of brilliant white sperm across the dirty black of the tarmac.

panting, he leaned forward, feeling like he might be sick. her hand was cool on his back. "you feeling better now?"

he nodded. she opened the trunk. slowly, he became aware of his surroundings. she had pulled down a narrow alley, with only one outside light. again, he was exposed without really being exposed.

the cuffs clicked open.

"here, towel off. god, you sweat a lot. here's your clothes. drinks and dancing at the mercury?"

he pulled the ball out of his lips. "yes, that would be amazing."

"fucking drinks and dancing though. you get us into another goddamn orgy and i'll fucking pack up and leave your ass there to get fucked by anyone that so chooses, got it?"

he smiled for the first time of the evening.

"got it."

wish i had an excuse...

lately i have been rubbish about updating this thing. my posts are shitty at best. weeks go by and i don't even have a small conciliatory paragraph to offer.

and i don't have a reason really. i have thoughts. funny things happen. it's not a proper writer's block, it is a simple case of unmotivation in the writing department.

and it doesn't matter as much as i might initially think. why? well, i would guess that the majority of my non-existent readers, my faithful few, my droogs and only friends, have wandered off to more verdant plains wherein they might find the kind of regular stimuli they crave. and in complete fairness, i have been a complete dick about keeping up regular with the blogs in my pals list. i do still read. just not regularly, and i don't comment as much as i should.

those of you that still toddle by this piece of sun-baked used chewing gum on the sidewalk of the world wide web, worry not. i have ebbs and flows when it comes to all my hobbies and habits, and i will again be prolific, if nothing else, about writing here.

i am still battling with the publishers for availability of my book. it has been a rather fun rollercoaster. if you have a credit card issued in the uk, you can purchase my book, The Unfinished Work (though it is in the list as simply Unfinished Work, so you have to scroll all the way down to the u's in the list). however, i myself, as well as the majority of my friends and family, are in the states, and are still unable to purchase the book. not only that (they are working on it, they tell me, and i believe them, but with a grain of salt), but recently the book disappeared completely from the list. when i pissed and moaned about that, they restored the book to the list, but now the author's name says "ron sardonic" instead of "darth sardonic." not that there is anything wrong with the name ron i spose, just not what i would've picked as a nom de plume. (and of course it goes without saying that when listed properly my name will neither be "darth" nor "sardonic." i often contemplate just outing myself in this blog, as anyone that buys the book will know my whole name, but then it is so much fun being "darth sardonic" that i am loath to lose the moniker. i will keep it up with the publishers, and keep you posted as new details emerge. (i am letting them have the new year to start bugging them about the "ron" bit, as i have been a near-perpetual thorn in their side since they made the magnum crappus available.)

the kids have been home from school for the holidays, which means lots of wii, and few breaks for myself. my oldest and my wife both have the same personality when it comes to playing video games, and they argue constantly and try to steal mushrooms from each other whilst playing games. it's fun to watch for the first say, 30 seconds? then promptly wears one thin.

while attempting to burn down our house wasn't on our to-do list for new year's day, we managed to squeeze it in anyhow. we were helping in a cove-wide dinner for last night, and had put the potatoes that b's daughter had prepared in our oven to bake. now, the daughter, being a bit lazy and not really knowing a whole lot of useful cooking tips had poured olive oil straight into the foil with the potatoes, which meant that we had quite a surplus of oil at the bottom of the oven.

comme ce, comme ca, o beloved non-existent readers the end result was that the tin foil we had put in the bottom of the oven to make clean up lazy (err, easy. freudian slip.) got soaked in oil and ignited.

in the time it took me to ask where the gas shut off valve might be, my wife had the extinguisher (that, quite frankly, i had no idea we had) out and had shot a quick burst of spray that immediately quelled the conflagration.

which, of course, launched a gray-green cloud of noxious fumes into the kitchen. "get your goddamn shoes on and run over to mr. b's house!" the wife and i yell simultaneously to the kids.

now, a tangent. if i had a dollar for every time the wife or myself have told no. 2 to do something and without missing a beat he asked "why?" followed by a lecture from myself about how in the time it takes a rascally kid to ask "why?" the truck is already mowing him down, or the rock already crushing his skull, or the fire already removing the top layers of his skin; i would be able to produce my own porn movies.

now back to our regularly scheduled program.

"get your goddamn shoes on and run over to mr. b's house!"

"why?"

the billowing cloud of evil is already spreading from the galley kitchen into the living room and dining room and adding sandpaper to the backs of my wife and i's throats as she turns the overhead fan on and opens windows and i drag our two standing fans to the back door to draw the foul gases straight outdoors.

so naturally, our next sentences were rife with inappropriate language:

"get your fucking shoes on and get out of the motherfucking house before you start choking like a goddamn beached fish, NOW!"

we were not far behind them, and strangely, despite all the chemicals raging around them, not only are the potatoes properly baked, but taste amazing.

an hour or so later, stuffed with jamaican jerk ribs, baked beans, and the wonderful baked taters, the wife and i wander back to our house and discover that her quick thinking and my johnny-on-the-spot with the fans have assured that absolutely no damage was done to anything; not the house, not the kitchen, not even the inside of the oven. oh, well, i mean the tinfoil suffered greatly.

but some dusting, some vacuuming, and a little oven cleaner, and we are currently baking no. 2's birthday cake.

and i am pretty sure he won't ask "why?" when we tell him to have a piece.

darth sardonic

i posted this and then realized i didn't even bother with a "happy holidays and a prosperous new year!" it's official, i really am a cunt lately.

6x9 in

i am 3 hours early. i am seated with a group of people who won't even be on my flight because they are all bound for minneapolis on a plane that currently occupies the gate that my plane will occupy eventually.

this is due, in most part, to my wife being a worry-wart.

she must've told me four times in the last few days, "don't miss your flight."

and i am susceptible. i get bent out of shape. i let it infiltrate my consciousness. it feeds on the logic centers of my so-called brain.

that, and partly because i have spent very little of the past five days alone with my thoughts, i just decide, fuck it. i'll give me some "me" time, albeit at the sea-tac airport. suffice to say, it would take an act of god to prevent me from making my flight.

no one writes anymore. not "write" like stories and novels. i think even more people are doing that than ever before. and not well. and about subjects that probably interest very few readers.

but in the snack/magazine shop near gate s6, i had to search like a cryptologist/archeologist to discover a pad of paper n pen.

$4.44 later and i am seated on the end of a series of seats with cracked vinyl, back to a large window with a view of the movable causeway jammed against the side of a jet that doesn't appear large enough to carry all these people to minnesota.

it is the ideal place to kill three hours doing two of the things i enjoy most: writing, and people-watching.

the latter affords little to occupy my mind. the seats are mostly filled with the standard travelling fare: businessmen trying not to look like bussinessmen, flying out to facilitate that next big merger that will skyrocket their career, elderly couples headed to weddings, families on vacations they don't really want to take.

the flight is overbooked, and as they begin boarding, the airlines employees are frantically trying to find volunteers to get "bumped" for which they will reasonably compensate.

one man complains loudly that he has already been at the airport three hours.

yeah, i am gonna know what that feels like.

the pages in my cheaply-expensive little writing pad are already coming loose, and i wonder if this five-dollar experiment is going to survive the journey.

i have a momentary desire to write something all out, then leave it in the seat back pocket in front of me, imagining that someone would find it, be curious enough to read it, love it, wonder who wrote it.

it seems more likely that it will find itself at the bottom of a plastic bag under empty miniature bottles of alcohol and spent coffee grounds.

which is probably a fitting final resting place for it, actually.

my handwriting is atrocious. i am attempting to keep up with my stream-of-conscious, and tired to boot, which makes me wonder how long it will take me to transfer my longhand into the harddrive of my computer. judging by other writing adventures, a couple years would be a safe bet.

the waiting area of gates s6 and s7 is now relatively quiet, the plane boarded, leaving behind a few people who, like me, have wives that worry too much.

i try to decide if i am hungry. the truth is, probably not. with the looming and daunting three-hour wait, i am bored in advance. i ate a heavy breakfast of eggs benedict and hashbrowns with toast and having blown five bucks of my nearly-depleted funds on this ill-fated writing endeavor, i think i should really tough it out till memphis, where i must try the bbq according to one of my friends.

writer's cramp and the aforementioned breakfast necessitate a break.

back from the earthtone-tiled bathroom with the motion sensor faucets that rarely sense my motion, to my seat that still bears the imprint of my cell-phone and wallet chain.

in memphis, on the way to seattle, waiting to board my plane, was a lady with a monkey. this seemed so random and surreal as to completely tickle me pink. i wondered if she had checked a hurdygurdy with her luggage.

i wonder if the plane serves hot tea. then wonder if hot tea might be a bad idea in a narrow, cramped seat with a clipboard-sized table which will, when i am not dozing, be occupied by this rather silly pad of paper.

a clearly high-maintenance lady of unkown ethnicity asks two matronly white travellers if they would watch her all-leather carry-on while she goes to buy an over-priced coffee.

it gives me pause momentarily to ponder about levels of trust. neither party really knows the other, and the sweet older ladies might be high operatives in some new terrorrist group, and take advantage of the other woman's assumption that they are harmless.

then i think: and i would be on the plane! but as i think this, the sun beams through the clouds directly on me, and i think: nope, today is not the day.

it is about an hour until the flight leaves, and the waiting area is beginning to bustle.

this is usually the time when i begin to pick out the people i wish i was seated next to, and the people i will actually be seated next to.

wish: the two matronly terrorrists. one is talking on the phone, and has a tennessee accent, and they are probably from memphis, and they seem like overall nice people, even though they seek death for the american infidels and want to blow our plane from the sky.

wish: the high-maintenance lady, who appears to to have a small tattoo on her instep, and is eating yogurt from a plastic seattle's best cup while she surfs gay male porn on her laptop.

wish: two female college freshmen who will laugh at the stupid, laconic things i say in a valley-girlish way and regale me with stories of spring break in cancun, where they drank three times their weight in margaritas and had sex with each other, the men's water polo team from lsu, and possibly a donkey.

actual: the pudgy bald guy with glasses, who is closetedly gay in a creepy sort of way, and will be playing scenarioes of sodomy and submission with yours truly in the back of his head while he tells me about the cute puppy paint-by-numbers his wife does.

actual: the tall, pocked-face man with the greased-back hair, who will grunt in reply to anything anyone says to him, snore loudly, and wreak of garlic for the whole flight.

actual: the well-built, clear-eyed gentleman with the van dyke who will turn out to be a cop in a big southern city and will go on and on about the many painful ways to restrain "perps" which he will say like a racial slur.

my flight is actually overbooked as well, and for a split-second i contemplate bumping myself for a later one, but i am reminded of the four seperate occasions when my wife warned me against missing my plane. bumping myself would be a death sentence.

the polychromed scabs on my back are beginning to itch something fierce, and i wonder how difficult the four-plus hour flight is going to end up being.

for fun i watch the other passengers surreptitiously to see if anyone is putting me on their wish/actual list.

high-maintenance keeps looking my direction, no doubt thinking, "i hope i don't get seated next to him, he looks ill-mannered and unkempt." other than her, i seem to have flown under the radar with my fellow travellers.

i had been tired, with an impending bit of moodiness looming on the horizon, but the sun has burned off the clouds, and as i wait to actually board the plane, a fresh breeze blows in through the space between the fuselage and the edge of the jetway.

my last whiff of home before i go.

darth sardonic