“Ugly American male chauvinist swine!” The alarm clock she hurled parted my hair. “You think you can leave without saying anything and come back when you feel like it!” A hurtling lamp sent me diving behind a couch for cover. “You think I’m just a sex object!” A small end table followed the lamp. “Men are all the same! You think all women are just sex objects!” She was behind the couch now, and I found myself fending off her kicks. “Well, there are going to be some changes!” Her sharp nails went for my eyes.
I gathered there had already been some- — changes, that is. While I’d been gone, Women’s Lib had found Leila. My soft, warm, docile, loving Arabian nymph had been transformed into a tigress on the rampage. I was sensitive enough to restrain myself from telling her, but she was really sexy and attractive as hell when she was angry.
Her long, blue-black hair swirled like a storm cloud around her flushed, heart-shaped face. Fury made her full, round melon breasts swell under the gauzy material of her harem gown so that the berry tips stood out like thrusting spearheads. The sulky undulation of her hips, the angry bouncing of her high, plump rear, the rage-tensed muscles of her sleek legs—all these expressions of her hostility were turning me on instead of off. Leila’s angelically sweet disposition may have turned sour, but her erotic appeal was greater than ever.
“I’ll show you who’s the sex object!” She pummeled me.
I backed oil and held up two fingers in the “V” sign. “Peace,” I suggested.
“A piece!” She misunderstood. “That’s all you’re interested in!”
“Look! I surrender. I’m guilty on all counts. Just give me another chance.”
“I’m not your sex object anymore!”
“Agreed. And you’re entitled to your revenge,” I told her. “So I’ll tell you what. I’ll be your sex object.”
She stopped attacking and considered the idea. “Suppose I don’t want you?” she asked finally.
“Then I’ll be shattered. But it’s your decision to make.”
“And if I relent?”
“I’ll be your slave -- erotically speaking, that is. Use me. Abuse me.”
“Abuse you?” The idea obviously appealed to her. “My sex slave . . .” For Leila, who’d been a harem girl, this was a reversal which had obvious appeal. “Well . . . all right . . .” she decided.
Which is how, kiddies, this little male chauvinist piggie wangled his way back into the Arabian sex market. Lest Women’s Lib rejoice over a dependent male at last forced to swap his pristine body for the shelter of a bed, let me point out that there was more to it than my penniless condition and need for a pillow upon which to rest my weary head. I really dug Leila, and it had been a long time between ballings. If the price was that she was to be the aggressor and I the object, then so be it. It’s better to be used and abused than strong and stranded!
She took me up to the bedroom, that same bedroom of fond memories of a thousand and one Arabian de- lights. “Undress!” she told me.
I complied.
“Lie down.”
I stretched out on the bed.
“Not bad.” Leila stared at me. “But you could be a little larger.”
Ouch! That hurt. “It’s not the size, it’s what you do with it.”
“That’s the cop-out of fifty percent of the American male population.”
Penis envy! I didn’t dare say it aloud. My consciousness had been raised enough to know that if Norman Mailer couldn’t withstand the barrage of Fem Lib response to such a charge, I probably couldn’t either. Besides, I didn’t want to take the chance of Leila changing her mind.
She took her own sweet time about undressing. Her slowness was annoying, but it was also kind of tantalizing. I suspected she knew that.
Finally she knelt over me on the bed. Resting on her haunches, her knees were on either side of my hips. She leaned forward a little so that her breasts bobbled over my face. “Do you think you can arouse me?” Leila asked sarcastically.
“You’re the boss. What do you want me to do?”
“Touch my breasts.”
I reached up and put my hand on one of her breasts. She couldn’t quite keep from gasping, and it swelled under my caress. The flesh was firm and warm. They were a tawny-gold color, and the aureoles were sharply defined, wide, and pink. The nipples, still soft, were a darker red.
I traced the outline of one breast, letting my middle linger dip into the deep cleavage between them, moving it up and down like a piston, rhythmically. Leila squirmed a little, and her plump buttocks flattened out over my stomach. They were very warm. When I caught the tip of one breast between my fingers and manipulated it, she squirmed again.
“Kiss it! Gently!” she commanded.
My head came up to do her bidding. I caught the nipple between my lips and flicked it very softly with my tongue. Soon its length increased, its color deepened until it was almost purple, and it became very hard.
“Enough! Insensitive fool! Can’t you tell it’s time for the other one?” She cupped her other breast with her hand and guided it to my mouth.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. But the word was incoherent. My mouth was stretching wide to accommodate the demands made by her other breast. She pushed as much of it into my maw as possible. So much, indeed, that the nipple rested somewhere near the base of my tongue. It tickled as it hardened. For a minute I had to concentrate on breathing through my nose.
Meanwhile, Leila had reached behind her and grasped me. “Aha!” she discovered. “Did I give you permission to get an erection?” She withdrew her breast from my mouth. “Well? Did I?”
“I apologize. I couldn’t help—”
“We’re not interested in your pleasure today! Remember?” She slapped her hand back and forth — hard—trying to reduce the rigidity.
To no avail. It hurt. But it was also excitement.
“You’re not cooperating!” she accused me.
“I can’t seem to control it.” I tried to look ashamed.
“Men never have control! The woman is always the one who’s expected to exercise control in sex. Well, it’s not going to be that way today! You’re to suit your timing to mine! Do you understand?” She punctuated her remarks by rising up and coming down hard on my stomach. I felt a warm dampness as she shifted her weight from back to front.
“I’ll do my best,” I promised.
“You’d better!” With force, she flicked a fingertip against the underside of my swollen scrotum. She started to guide her breast back to my mouth, and then she changed her mind. Instead, she rolled off me. “Stand up!” she ordered.
I stood. She lay back on the bed, limbs spread with wide abandon, and looked at me for a long moment. She was obviously sizing up my erotic machinery, and it made me feel damn uncomfortable.
“Are you embarrassed?” she asked.
“No,” I lied.
“Then why is your face turning red.”
“I must be overheated.”
“That’s an understatement.” She chuckled and reached out to tickle the hairs of my groin. “How does it feel to be looked at?” she asked.
“It’s disconcerting,” I admitted.
“Is it? Well, now you know how women feel when men stare at their breasts—which happens all the time. You have stared at girls’ breasts, haven’t you?”
“On occasion.”
“Gone to topless joints and passed all kinds of value judgments?”
“I guess so.”
“Made comparisons?”
“Inevitably,” I confessed.
“Well, that’s what I’m doing right now.”
Yeah. It deflated me. Temporarily, anyway. And when Leila laughed at this response, rigidity copped out altogether.