Radical Seduction

Author's Note

:

A short and (to me, at least) humorous tale. Maybe a little social satire but no deep meanings or message. There's eroticism and explicit sex, but the story is not a stroker. A few dim memories of "New Left" revolutionaries in the 1970s will increase a reader's enjoyment--does the name "Patty Hearst" ring a bell?--but are not required. Readers who expect a story's main characters to be paragons of virtue will be disappointed.

The story does not fit splendidly into any Literotica category, so I settled for a reasonable spot.

I liked the story's first four words enough to steal them from Dorothy Parker. The rest of the story is mine--with the help of some good feedback from Tennesseered, JBEdwards, RR, and my wife. Thanks to them; and thank you, reader, for taking a look.

-- Peter

* * * * *

The pale young man cracked open his right eye and surveyed the room. A bedroom, he decided, though a blurry one. He was in a bed--he could tell that now--and his head hurt. He gradually eased his left eye open then tried to bring the dim room into focus. Yes, it was a bedroom or maybe a hotel room, and the bed was big. Failing to sense clothing, he moved his hips a little against the sheets. Yes, he was naked.

The dull ache in his head grew and started to throb. His mouth felt gummy, his stomach sour, his bowels iffy; and he was very thirsty.

He was no stranger to hangovers, of course. He had pretty much drunk his way through two prep schools and then partied his way through Yale. When your family has the resources his does, you don't have to bust your butt to get ahead in the world. But today's hangover was one for the books.

"Aaauuuoooouuuffffff,"

he observed. "ShitI" he added, quietly.

"You're up, sweetheart!" a voice chirped. The speaker strode to the side of the window and worked the cord between the pulleys. The heavy drapes parted in the middle, and light from the big window flooded the room. The man groaned again and squinted. As best as he could, he studied the woman through his eyelashes.

She was big: not fat but solidly built. Caucasian. Tightly curled blonde hair, medium length: a perm. About thirty. Nice proportions. No glamour-girl, but pretty, whoever she was. Might have played lacrosse or soccer in high school: that type. She wore a white, buttoned blouse, nice-fitting khaki trousers. His headache and his thirst both were worse now.

"What time is it?" he inquired.

"Almost one thirty! I'm afraid we overdid it a little last night. Well, perhaps one of us overdid it a bit more than the other. But I like our new pronoun:

we.

Not

you,

not

I

.... She sat on the edge of the bed, holding his cheeks, and bent to kiss his forehead.

"I'll give your lips the attention they deserve

after

you've brushed your teeth," she said. "And I won't neglect

Mister Big,

either. I love the cute names you come up with for everything! Calling my breasts Bert and Ernie.... Does Mister Big still love Bert and Ernie?"

"Uh, miss, could you bring me some water?"

As her hands moved from his cheeks he noticed her ring. She was married. Does that make the situation better or worse?

"'Miss'! Well, aren't

we

formal the morning after! Afternoon, actually. All right,

Mister Blanchard

. Hold your horses."

She knows my name, he reflected. Sitting up a little, he chugged the glass of water she brought from the bathroom.

"I hope the tap water is safe to drink, come to think of it," she said. "But the whole island is pretty sophisticated--all those fancy restaurants, all those casinos, banks, boutiques. And the hotel probably has its own water system, wouldn't you think?... Honey, why don't you go brush your teeth and take a piss and splash a little soap and water on Mister Big and the Bobbsey Twins? I'll be waiting for you when you return."

Slowly and carefully, he sat up, stood, then located the bathroom. "Do you happen to have an aspirin?" he asked.

"There's some ibuprofen in my handbag. It's in the bathroom. Help yourself."

His head throbbing, he carefully made his way to the bathroom, turned on the light and ventilator, shut and locked the door. He lowered the toilet seat and sat.

As he pissed, he went through the handbag. No wallet. No passport, identification, or credit cards. Maybe they're in the room somewhere. There was a money clip with eight or ten fifties--a mix of dollars, pounds, and euros. Some loose change. A little bottle of ibuprofen pills. Birth control pills. Lipstick, compact, emery boards. A small handgun with ivory panels on the handle. Probably imitation ivory, he thought. Nobody can get real ivory anymore, can they? When was the last time he even saw real ivory? That old grand piano Heather's father has: were those keys ivory, or what?

He flushed the toilet then decided to take a quick shower. Afterwards, at the sink, he washed down four ibuprofen with a full glass of water. Then, staring into the mirror as he brushed his teeth--he presumed the toothbrush and paste belonged to the lady with the perm--he pondered some of life's eternal questions. Such as, where was he, how did he get here, and who was he with? And what the hell was he drinking last night? On a day of clearer thinking, he might have wondered a little more about the gun, but his synapses were still misfiring, and his head was killing him.

A few fragments of memory returned as he brushed. He had been drinking some rum concoction, more than a few glasses of it. It didn't seem all that strong at first. A pill someone gave him might also have been involved. What was it? Some bunch of initials.

M

-something. He used some mouthwash from the bottle on the counter and returned the ibuprofen to the handbag.

Back in the room, he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only white panties, talking on her cellphone. Her breasts were lovely, he decided. They were a nice size--somewhere between a B cup and a C--with a sexy hint of sag and with thick, upturned brown nipples. He tried and failed to discern which breast must be Bert and which Ernie. Then he sat next to her on the bed and hugged her, his hand on her waist.

"Yes, we're all set for the picnic," she was saying. "The basket is packed, we have the lemonade, and my friend will drive.... Yes, he's experienced and totally reliable. I will vouch for him.... Yes.... See you there." Ending the call, she set the phone on the small table and pulled him down onto the bed.

She lay on top of him, kissing his neck, pressing her bare chest against his, a hand gently fondling his balls. "Oh, Brad," she said, moving her lips to his, "this is right out of a fairy tale, isn't it? Not that I believe

everything

you told me last night. But a lot of it, yes.... the Antifa stuff... logistics for that UnitedHealthcare action.... Before that, helping to re-establish Baader-Meinhof. Or rather, the Red Army Faction--like you, I keep calling it Baader-Meinhof.... Though I did meet Irene Goergens once. She's very nice and still brilliant. Still committed to justice, though now she's keeping a pretty low profile.... But the F-antifa gals are coming on like Gangbusters, aren't they!... In all honesty, I don't know

where

Patricia's head is at these days. She's keeping a low profile too--apart from acting in a few John Waters movies, which I guess is still staying pretty low-profile. I'll have to look up Angela Davis sometime, while she's still alive."

"Yes... interesting people," he observed, wondering who Irene Goergens, the F-antifa gals, and Patricia were. What the hell is F-antifa? The Baader-Meinhof Gang and Angela Davis he had at least heard of.

Last night, he might have made up a story or two about himself, hoping this attractive, politically radical blonde lady would be impressed enough to take him to bed. Apparently he had succeeded.

"There's no shortage of strong women in the Movement," she was saying now. "I've got no lack of role models, have I? And now I've got a new name I need to live up to." Her hand moved from his balls to his cock as she spoke. "That was awfully generous of Patricia, saying she didn't object."

"Your new name is Patricia?" he asked.

"My name is

Tania,

silly! Of course, now the corporate-controlled media will always be making comparisons. Even the Hearst papers, those fuckers!... They'll probably keep spelling it

T-a-n-y-a

this time, too!"

He gave up trying to understand what she was talking about. He needed to bring up a new subject anyway. "This is kind of awkward," he said. "But did I mention I'm sort of engaged to be married to someone?"

She smiled broadly. "Not after last night, I don't think. Starting with that phone call you made to... what was her name? Heather? Talk about burning your bridges! I don't think you want to let Heather catch sight of you again. If I were Heather I'd probably track you down and shoot you." She kissed him again.

He frowned, trying to remember making a phone call. The pleasure his new companion was giving him was distracting. Her body, on top of his, felt warm and wonderful. Soft and firm at the same time. Her hand gently stroking his cock felt wonderful. She was quite a good kisser, too. He slipped a hand into the front of her panties. At first touch she was dry, but soon she moistened. He moved his other hand from her back to her breast and fondled, gently tugging on that beautiful thick nipple. A minute later she removed her panties, and--still underneath--he found himself blissfully inside her.

"Mister Big seems to enjoy his new home," she observed.

"Uh, honey, I don't normally talk like that."

"That's fine, darling," she replied. "We were both being ironic anyway, weren't we? But you're right: even

mocking

men's penis-length obsession is kind of counterrevolutionary. And believe me, size makes a difference

only

to men. Anything within shouting distance of average is perfectly fine with their female comrades... not to mention their girlfriends and their partners. How long do you think a vagina

is,

anyway? It's, like,

three inches.

Even in the Movement, some men imagine that we

like

having our cervix battered! Men like that don't get to fuck me a second time."

Before he could ask who

did

get to fuck her a second time, the opportunity passed. The anatomy lesson over, she began passionately kissing him, sliding her chest against his as they fucked. By now his headache was much reduced, though his stomach was still feeling a little unsettled. Overall, though, he was loving their intimate contact. He tried to roll the two of them over into the missionary position, but she resisted.

His climax arrived with little warning, and he nearly blacked out from its force. He did stay conscious, though, floating in a long, warm bath of delight. Without missing a beat his companion moved a hand to the top of her vulva and rubbed briskly. In less than a minute, his softening cock still inside her, she too came hard and collapsed on top of him, her vaginal contractions adding to his delight. She made little sounds of contentment as he caressed her breast, bottom, and back.

She rolled to the side, and they exchanged little kisses. He noticed how her tight blonde curls glistened, backlit by the window light.

"What a couple of days, huh?" she said at last. "And what an interesting place, this island! An

Austrian

colony in the Caribbean. Who knew? Before the Brits marched in and took it over, anyway. And it's still a crazy place. Casinos open 24 hours a day. Wedding licenses and magistrates available 24 hours a day... with no waiting period and almost no ID required. I hear it's also a good place to register ships, but that's above my pay grade. Wouldn't you think jewelry stores would be open 24/7 too? But no."

She examined the thin gold band on her left hand. "Fortunately, pawn shops are," she continued, a smile on her pretty face. "You know, instead of us upgrading this later, I think I want to keep it. The memories that come along with it are priceless. You can decide if you want to wear one or not. I understand if you don't. Conventional marriage is a pretty despicable bourgeois institution, isn't it! But many comrades redefine the institution to fit their vision of a better world--while keeping one or two of the traditional trappings. I'll buy you a ring if you like.... How about a loving cleanup before we depart?"

She climbed on top of him again, this time her pussy over his face, and took his penis into her mouth. Then she lowered her pussy, and he enjoyed his first taste of her intimate parts--the first taste of them that he could remember, anyway. The taste of his semen, which soon followed, was less enjoyable, but he swallowed, the beautiful scent and flavor of her pussy partly camouflaging the acrid taste of his cum. He didn't have much choice in the matter, anyway: her pussy was firmly plastered over his mouth. And meanwhile, her own moist mouth and tongue were doing a lovely job of bathing his cock.

She rolled off him, turned around, and kissed his lips. "We have to get going," she said. "And I have to pee. Better put your clothes back on." She headed to the bathroom, leaving the door open.

Several seconds later her phone rang, and a voice came from the bathroom. "Brad, answer that quick. I have to take the call."

"Hello?" he said, into the phone.

A deep male voice replied, "Tania, please."

"Uh, just a sec." He went to the toilet and silently handed her the phone.

He listened while he found his clothes and dressed. "Yes," she said. "Yes. The picnic basket, lemonade, sandwiches.... All is in order. Yes, my friend will drive.... No, I'll tell him in a minute.... Bradley Blanchard.... American.... Yes.... Of course....

Ausgezeichnet!

... To a better world!

Ciao!"

She emerged, dressed quickly, and ran an Afro-Pik through her hair. Then, while transferring items from a drawer to her handbag, she sketched their afternoon plans. "I'll drive the two of us to the bank," she said. "The others will arrive separately. When I exit the car, get behind the wheel and keep a sharp eye out. Make sure the other three doors are unlocked. Get ready when you see the four of us running out carrying goodies. Take off fast as soon as we're all in the car--or sooner, if Erich or I tell you to. Drive down Colonial Boulevard--same direction--into Nelson Town. I'll guide you through that maze to the marina. Park where I tell you, open the trunk, leave the engine running, get out, grab the brown suitcase in the trunk, and follow me. If I'm not present, follow Erich. Got it?"

"Uh, sure," he replied. "You bet."

From the drawer she retrieved a small handgun and a full magazine and handed them to him. Ruger, the gun said on the slide. No ivory panels, though, real or fake. This one was all black steel and black plastic. "You're all loaded," she said. "Nine millimeter. Eight rounds in the gun's mag and one up the spout. Thumb safety is down to fire." She took the gun, clicked a little lever on the left side downwards--showing him--then clicked it back up again. She handed the gun back to him.

"With two mags you've got 17 rounds all together," she said. "If that isn't enough, we're in worse doo-doo than we expected. I'm hoping you won't have to fire at all. If you do, for chrissake get the gun

all the way out of the car

before you pull the trigger, or you'll deafen us all."

"Right," he said. "Of course." Were handguns that loud? He hadn't actually heard one fire except in movies and on TV.

"Okay, let's go down to the desk and check out.... Our new life begins today, Brad. And some day soon, with the help of people like us, a better world will begin."

"Yes... er, right on!" said Brad.

His headache was returning. He wished the four others would proceed without him. He wished he could explain everything to Heather. He wished he had never set foot on this goddamn island. He wished he could recall his wife's name. He could call her Tania, he guessed, until she happened to mention her real name.

Perhaps, he reflected, slipping the small Ruger into his right pocket, the spare magazine into his left... perhaps it would be wise in the future for him to drink a little less, too.