GRETA CANDY by Aimee DeLong

                                                                      GRETA CANDY
                                                                      by Aimee DeLong

Candy hated that her name was Candy.  That was cheesy.  But, she never asked anyone to call her anything different.  That was pretentious.  Five days a week she walked to work, which was a job that she couldn’t talk about to anyone.  She was a dominatrix.  She was a dominatrix named, Candy.  But, at her job she could be called anything she wanted.  That was normal there.  She had permission to be called something else.  
            “Greta.  Greta.” 
            Candy took out her ear buds as her peripheral vision was flagged down by a hand with long acrylic French tips.  The ambient music that she listened to at work wasn’t what she listened to normally.  Static was left over from the instant her ears transferred from her BDSM soundtrack into the vapid electricity of the air, where voices are born, struggling into sentences, not free and full.  
            “Whacha’ doin’ girl?” 
            “Listening to music.” 
            “What kind of music?” 
            “Oh, just like Amy Winehouse and stuff.”  Candy lied about unimportant details.  Candy kind of hated Amy Winehouse.     “That’s cool.” 
            “Yeah.”  Greta nodded her head.  
            “I have an enema session in five minutes.  You wanna’ watch?  He likes it, and you’ll get tipped.” 
            “Sure.  Why are some guys so into enemas?” 
            “You know, they like to be cleaned out.  It’s about the cleansing properties, or the…ya’ know?” explained Lydia, disoriented. 
            “Oh, yeah.”    Greta meant more having to do with the psychology behind it.  
            “You should probably wear something sexy, though.  You don’t have to dress in domme gear, just put on some shoes, and a skirt and some lipstick.  And, put your hair down…just act like my assistant.” 
            “Sure, sure.” 
            “Oh, and also, it’s kind of a role play.  He has to get an enema cuz he’s got a stomach ache.” 
            “I get it.” Greta assured her. 
            “Knock on the door in ten minutes.” 
            Greta looked at her lips in the mirror.  Her mouth appeared perpetually displeased, wanton and innocent all at the same time.  Greta pressed a berry colored lipstick to her bottom lip.  She flexed her calf in her tight, short, black skirt and shiny, red patent leather heels in front of her glass self.  Candy and Greta stared each other down.  Candy allowed Greta to be exactly who she was.  Although, neither Greta nor Candy knew who that was, and both were to the point where they really didn’t care.  Why was becoming a tedious question, losing all novelty.  When was much more fun.  How was a necessary evil.  And, who really didn’t matter anymore.  What may have actually been the most relevant place from which to start.  But why be concerned?  The long arm of the clock had moved two inches since Lydia left the room. 
            Greta knocked on the door. 
            “Mistress Greta will be assisting us today.” 
            The sub’s eyes gave a stoned flutter. 
            “Oh, I see,” Lydia scolded.  We have a gawking little perv up here on the examination table.  Not only is he a glutton.  He’s a creep.  You like Mistress Greta don’t you?” 
            “Uh, huh,” the sub moaned.  
            Lydia pulled his hair as he gasped.  “Well, if you like her so much you should have greeted her with some respect instead of those little jerk-off stares.  Show some fucking respect, Rob!” 
            “Hello, Mistress Greta.  I’m sorry if I was inappropriate.” 
            “Maybe I can forgive you,” Greta told him.  
            “Ask this fucker why he needs an enema?” 
            “Not that I’m that interested, Rob, but why in the hell does your filthy ass need an enema?” 
            “I ate too much…candy.” 
            “She didn’t hear you, you little prick.  Speak up!” 
            “Too much CANDY.” 
            “That’s not a complete sentence you lazy fuck!” Lydia slaps his face. 
            “I’m sorry, Mistress Greta.  I ate too much candy.”        
            “That’s interesting,” Greta said feigning a yawn.
Rob’s eyes were hollow blue as if the insides had been scratched out.  Greta put on surgical gloves and handed the tube to Lydia, making sure it was sufficiently pinched while Lydia stuck it in Rob’s asshole, inserting it slowly into his rectum.  His feet looked like colorless drained fish in the metal stirrups.  
            “Spread your legs, bitch.  We’ve gotta’ drain that pussy of yours.  What d’ya think of this disgustin’ site, Mistress Greta?” 
            “He looks like a little slut that sits around all day eating bon bons.”  People on TV always referred to bon bons as this universal lazy female indulgence.  Greta didn’t know why she allowed herself to say it.  It bothered her brain. 
            “Why do you like candy so much?  Why can’t you keep your hands off it?  Why can’t you keep all that candy out of your dirty little mouth?”  
            “It’s so sweet, Mistress Lydia.  It just tastes so good.” 
            Rob was touching his penis as the enema tube hung out his ass.  
            “You just can’t keep your hands off yourself.  Did I tell you to masturbate?” 
            “I’m sorry Mistress, Lydia.” 
            “I want to hear what you want.  Don’t be shy, Rob.  If you try to be shy you won’t get to touch your hot little pussy anytime during this examination.” 
            “I want to cum with you starring at my cock, and Mistress Greta staring at my eyes.  And I want Mistress Greta to feed me the candy bar while I’m jerking off…the one I brought with me.” 
            “Can you believe this shit?”  Lydia asked Greta. 
            Greta could not believe how specific it all was.  She looked at Rob.  “That’s fucked up.  You want more candy after everything you’ve been through?” 
            “Yes, Mistress Greta.  I want more candy.” 
            Lydia took out the tube. 
            “Go take a shit, you dirty little masturbator.  And, shut the fucking door.  We don’t want to listen to your nastiness.” 
            They could still hear it.  
            Greta didn’t quite understand medical room sessions.  She generally attracted sensual sessions; men who wanted to lightly grope her, and call it worship
            He came out, hopping back onto the examination table, sliding his feet into the stir-ups.  Rob sat up as Lydia cranked the back of the chair to an inclined position. 
            Greta handed Rob his Kit Kat bar.  He broke the pieces up daintily and handed them back to her in the open orange wrapper.  Rob stroked his medium sized dick as Greta dangled a chocolate wafer over his mouth.  His strokes were measured by the pace of his bites.  Greta’s eyes fixed on the hollow blue clay in Rob’s eye sockets.  His legs wriggled. 
            “Eat that candy, you little lazy slut!” 
            As Lydia taunted Rob it all became a mechanism, a self-operating reality like a polluted waterfall.  It was happening apart from Rob and Greta.  It was as if the whole scene had been orchestrated by Lydia.  Rob’s eyes seemed to loose their void.  His moans grew louder and more sustained, his voice, lowered and turned into a darkly pleasant drone.  It became the soundtrack to Lydia’s verbal antics.  Greta really couldn’t hear anything Lydia said anymore. 
            Rob’s eyes became a little bluer.  Greta felt closer to him.  He seemed more fucking human.  It was startling to her, like suddenly realizing a wax statue was real, realizing that it wasn’t meant to be looked at so closely.  The reverse of the safety one relishes when realizing that what you thought was an actual person was really only wax; the opposite of that safety.  Greta wanted to look away, but she had to keep staring, and feeding Rob his candy bar.  The last wafer brought about stronger and louder groans.  Determined.  His eyes, turned bluer and bluer, containing the perverseness of the Midwestern sky; too clear, and too blank and too open.  He came like a giant with his last bite.          

Aimee DeLong is a writer of fiction and poetry, living in Brooklyn.  Her work can be seen in such places as 3 AM, Thieves Jargon, and Everyday Genius.
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