Shielded
Winter again. My multi-month Halloween, my annual respite from questions while I wear my costume. Under my armor of wool, I hid something horrible. I hid it through secret summers, through the greening and browning of leaves viewed through an expanse of window. Trapped in a resplendent home, too afraid for the briefest excursion in daylight. I hid until my fingers uncovered her, until she uncovered me.
Two-and-a-half decades of routine led nearly to insanity, repetition becoming torture. Broadband alleviates some of the loneliness. I post infrequently, obtusely, not inviting conversation (or anything else). I tried to dodge between the keystrokes and clicks of probing hands, but she tracked me like some wired wolf. Not many wolves with long, painted fingernails, with perfect teeth framed by slut-red lipstick, with only a small tuft of fur on her entire body. After months pursued, pushing each invitation away until snowfall, I finally gave in. She suggested warm, well-lit restaurants that would expose me, I counted with a movie in a familiar, cold theater, and a Sri Lankan dosa cart. Years of eating alone, out in the frost, the street vendors were my warmest friends beside delivery boys, who without doubt wondered why I looked perpetually ill, swathed in blankets, even in the haze of August. I put on makeup to certify my lie.
No taxis, no trains, I told her. Extremely motion sickness, I told her, already trying to push her away. No, I don’t own a bike, I like to walk around, lower carbon footprint. We trek to the overpriced, underlit theater. We agreed in advance that our choice of films was terrible, so why not see something intentionally terrible? We stock up on snacks at the concession stand, Sam makes a joke about watching her figure. She is humoring me, of course. I can see lithe arms through her restrictive shirt, her defined calves through sheer stockings. I could not tell if she was an exercise fanatic or a genetic perfection, and my libido didn’t care. I refuse her suggestion that I remove my coat.
This month’s horror film, I ignore the quarterback boys and fixate on the firmfleshed girls, their breasts heaving fear-filled breaths, running from horrific men who never stop to admire their ass-tight jean shorts. We whisper comical commentary to one another, lips getting too close to delectable earlobes, breath licking necks instead of tongues.
I miscalculate the film from its commercials, it adopts a medical bent midway through, and I begin to sweat under my layers. Sam holds my hand loosely, testing to see if I will retract, trying to protect me from perceived fear cloaking embarrassment. The sudden sound of a faster-racing heartbeat mimicking the increasing panic of a buxom girl focuses me on my plight, my misconstruction. I wonder if Sam can hear my heart pumping louder than that of the victim-to-be on screen. I distract myself by slowly twisting a fingertip to meet the pulse in Sam’s wrist, shocked to find the artery hammering at an unusual pace, her pump betraying her composed demeanor. I know she is not afraid, and assume it is nerves. I hope she does not notice my covert examination.
Change scene, our heroine now in a crude bondage of leather straps, ballgagged, fixed cruciform by her monstrous physician-captor. Sweat beads down the length of her exposed chest, bronzed skin stretched tight across ribs, spasmodic sobs shaking her breasts. The villain rolls out an equipment cart, attaching stickypad-ended wires to the damsel’s quaking chest, and activates their parent machine, filling the theater with the machine-gun beeping of her fearsped heart. I inadvertently tense my finger against the throbbing vessel in Sam’s wrist, only realizing my mistake as my finger bobs strongly with each pressured contraction of her myocardium. I withdraw my finger, and look out of the corner of my eye to confirm that Sam did not notice, or pretended not to. I am breathing very quickly now, my respirations muted by my coat. My panties are wet from sweat an arousal, and I think about how furiously I would be masturbating if I was the only one in the theater.
I squirm as the insane physician withdraws a stethoscope from his cart of terrorization tools, and readies the earpieces for a devious listen. The bell in one hand, cold, about to touch the sweat-drenched flesh of his captive, a knife in the other, its tip now poised at the tip of her heart, just below the disk transmitting each wild contraction of her seizing organ, he taunts her.
“I want to hear your heart beating as I drive the knife in!”
With that exclamation, Sam wrenches my hand from her wrist, twisting her torso to face me, and forces my palm directly below her apparently braless left breast. My hand now pressed against her slamming apex, I quickly notice that Sam’s pulse almost matches the fluttering pump of our imperiled heroine. We stare at the movie screen, in tacit agreement that nothing is ‘going on’.
I feel her bosom heaving, then quicker and stuttering breaths, the blade now piercing the crying beauty’s skin, I reposition my hand and press hard against her soft breastflesh, pressing until I can feel the shape of her drumming heart, the sharp tip entering the girl’s quaking organ, the EKG indicating fibrillation, then flatline, Sam gasping, then inhaling, exhaling hard through her nose as to not arouse attention to our back-row encounter. I am breathing so quickly now, my heart, oh, I wish I was touching myself right now, no, being touched, licked, bitten, more, by her.
As the tremors of her muted orgasm subside, Sam reaches her hand between the buttons of my coat, too quickly for me to react, her nails meeting with a click against the thing underneath as she reaches for my heart. She withdraws her hand in surprise as I wince, my face contorted, distressed.
Sam reposes quickly, pauses. We sit for a while like strangers, returning our focus to the film. Time, then she replaces her hand on mine as if to console me from an injury or embarrassment. I wonder what she is thinking, my stomach churning, still unsure if she will panic away.
“It’s ok,” I whisper, trying to somehow right this unexpected strangeness, to save the evening. The film is not much longer, but feels so.
“I’m so hungry. I’ve heard about that cart before, it’s supposed to be great!”
She is sprightly in her enthusiasm, and my heart calms. We walk, hands swinging, then joined at pinkies. We chat about nothing, talk around the echo of keratin against hard plastic. I adorably introduce her to ‘my’ street vendors as we tread, they try not to leer, those lips, her beautiful tresses, her jacket strained over the hemisphere of her ass. I leer for them as she chats with my only friends.
We fill our begging mouths with wild and pungent spices. As we look at one another, I feel like we are fantasizing about other things around which we’d wrap our lips, softer things. We eat, moaning with appetence, as I walk, unconsciously, back to the house. We hesitate, Sam speaks.
“I…I need to be honest with you, Tara. I didn’t find you by accident.”
I turn to stone. Robber? Stalker? What’s so special about me that someone would seek me out?
“I know about your, umm, condition, Tara, and it’s…it’s ok, it…”
“What? How could…why…do you want to study me or something?”
I swear that I can feel the chambers of my heart swelling, contracting. What do I do, what do…
“Tara, I just…I want to…”
I draw back splitsecond as Sam cradles the back of my head with her soft hands. She pulls me close, her lingua parting my lips, then edacious kisses, tongues tangling, flooding sweet saliva. As I reach for her ass, she tenders her hand onto the hidden bulk on my chest. Nearly trembling, I invite her in.
I can’t believe that I found her! Never, this never happens to anyone, finding that impossible someone. I’m having such palpitations. I almost trip as she leads me up her perfectly-masoned steps. I want to rub my tongue up her calves, up further. I close the door behind me.
“Tara, I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”
“It’s more than a little weird. You…sorta stalked me.”
“I needed to…I want to so badly. There’s no one else I could…”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got something you’ve hidden, all your life, something that you’ve had to keep away, even though you’re always reminded of it. For you, it must be terrible, the worrying, the fear of injury. For me, I can’t tell anyone, I thought, maybe of all the people on earth, maybe I could tell you.”
Tara pauses, tears pooling.
“Tell me.”
“Tara, I…your heart. Please, please, can I? Ever since I was young, science channels on TV, I would…when there was a heart beating, open chest surgery, I would…I feel so ashamed…I would put my fingers down…”
I see that Tara’s chest is heaving. My heels click slowly to her, I begin to unbutton her covering.
“Sam, it’s…I understand…I,” she trails off, almost muttering as I expose her shoulders.
“Tara, I would orgasm, seeing a heart beating on TV, in the theater, I came so hard as I thought about it, even though it wasn’t real, about her heart beating, bucking, being punctured, the chambers struggling as the blade goes through its stuttering valves….please show me, please show me your heart.”
“Sam, I…I ca…”
As her coat falls to the floor, I grapple her, trying to fuck her mouth with my tongue. I unzip the sweater-top that covers all but the top of that plastic shell, trace my nails around the beige, fitted enclosure that covers the center of her chest. I peel the sleeves off her arms, her chest almost bare for me now. Adhesive bra cups cover her full, natural breasts. I could not see how large they were under her coat, a large C, almost D cup, I can see the outlines of veins on the tops of each soft mound. My already racing pulse sprints.
“Sam, please…please don…please,” she susurrates.
I reach behind her, unzipping her black, pleated skirt, letting it fall to her coat. I can see a small outline of wetness on her silken underthings, sex-expectant lingerie. A lacy, 8-strap garter hugs her hips, bands running down her pelvis, down to milky thighs, locked to fancy-topped fishnets. She could be an underwear model, her face, god, her hair is so perfectly straight, those breasts, those long legs…
“Sam, my heart, you must of read, please, don’t take it off yet.”
Using her chin, I direct her eyes to mine. I grin, almost maniacally, and command her.
“Tara, show me where you touch yourself. Show me the mirror you touch yourself in front of.”
“How did you?”
“I would, too, Tara. I don’t know that I’d be able to stop, watching it, watching my heart as I orgasm.”
She leads her tongue to my mouth this time, rushes her right hand to my punching heart, this time noticing something affixed above my pulmonic. I brush her hand away.
“Show me where you touch you pussy while you watch your heart racing.”
She leads me into a spare bedroom, a tall mirror slanted against one wall, a chair facing it, with two ottomans placed in a spread-legged position. I still am fully clothed, and in charge of her. Tara is very, very willing. I unshoulder my purse.
“Sit. Give me your hand.”
I take 3 of her fingers, sliding them into my mouth, slicking them with saliva, a faux-fellatio. Tara pants, the elastic straps of her plastic defense pulled across her countable ribs.
“Start masturbating. I’ll give you something to see, so get your myocardium pumping even faster. Look in the mirror.”
Spittle drips across her smooth stomach as she lifts her panty line and begins exploring. I can hear fingers dancing on her labia, see the veins bulging in her neck, becoming more apparent in her breast as they shake with the more and more forceful movements of her arm. I stand beside her, at the edge of the mirror.
I dance both arms to my right hip, using one to keep my pencil skirt clasped shut, the other to slowly unzip down its length. I turn my posterior to the mirror, and unhurriedly slip off the skirt, revealing a simple, 4-strap black latex garter, pausing as I reach the cleft of my ass, leaning forward to exaggerate my curves, a blood-red lace thong scarcely covering me, trailing down the sheer stockings strained tightly against my now-bare ass. I lift my left foot, grabbing my heel and stretching as the skirt hits the floor, cocking my leg, flashing my near-hairless pussy through the crotchless thong. As I peer back into the mirror, Tara is panting, drooling from a shocking orgasm.
I reach into my purse, taking out a small knife.
“Sam, what are you?...”
“Mistress now. I'm snap cutting off snap your panties. I want to see those lips.”
I quickly pull off her now-ruined underwear.
“Where's your stethoscope, Tara? I want it now.”
“In the...in the drawer beside the bed.”
I step over, equine, focusing attention on my luscious ass as I do so. Pulling open the drawer, I find a menagerie of erotic plaything, but am only interested in the slightly-unusual 40” teaching stethoscope contained therein. Tara is under my control, anticipating that I wanted her to start fingering her pussy again.
“What were you planning on doing with this? Sharing your heart with some other slut?”
“No, Mistress.”
“ Do you rub your labia with the second pair of metal rods while you listen to your heartbeat?”
“Yeeesss, Mistress.”
“Do you flick your clit with each contraction of your heart?”
“Ohhhh god, yes Mistress!”
Tara comes again, convulsing, respiring strongly.
“Now, hands off!”
I trot over to Tara, standing between her inviting legs. I place one pair of the soft tips of the stethoscope into my ears, clutching the bell, and then snake the lumen around the plastic on Tara's chest, forcing the earpieces on her, making her stranger to all other sounds. I whisper into the bell.
“Whose heartbeat should we hear first?”
I supplicate between her legs. Playfully, I move the diaphragm of the listening instrument from spot to spot on my constrictive blouse, hovering millimeters above, feigning that the material would block the percussion in my chest.
“How ever will you hear my valves through this thing?” using the white circle as a microphone.
I looking ceilingward, exposing the pressured veins in my neck, my clavicles. I part the soft cloth, exposing my shoulders, then snail's pace, revealing two white disks adhered above the volume of each breast, which elicit a lumen-muffled cry from Tara upon their exposure. I'm sure she now remembers touching one as she grabbed my breast before.
Again into the stethoscope, “What ever are these pads for?”
My pressed cleavage, amplified via my semi-transparent red bra, is further constringe by my blouse, which now rests just below my shoulders, like an sleeved tube-top sitting too low on my breasts. My pointed nipples are just inches from Tara's vulva. I forcing the metal disk it between the supple peaks of my voluminous breasts, threading it under the front bridge of my bra, affixing it to the tricuspid listening spot, sounding painful turbulence as the lumen is enveloped by my tits. The sonance of the wild coordination of my every heartbeat makes me wet.
I drop to all fours, arching my back extremely, legs wide, pussy fully visible through the slit in my panties. Eyes up, I see Tara shuddering at the sudden view of my presented privates, my moist lips inches from hers. I dig my nails into her thighs, almost piercing the skin, causing Tara to buck her hips, yelp audible outside of the earpieces of the stethoscope, the sting causing her to buck her hips, her labia meeting my impatient mouth.
My now-walloping organ stutters as I relish her, salivating, licking lightly at first, then long licks, my tongue peeking between the engorged erectile tissue, my thunderous heart gunning. My will breaking, I reach between my legs, meddling with my drenched mound, my pump almost exploding as Tara begins to scream, I vacuum her clit with my lips as my tongue tumbles against it, my heart crashing to orgasm, Tara consequent, her body dewed with perspiration.
I rise quickly, lightheaded. I remove the stethoscope from my ears, resting the metal beside my bulging carotid, the stethoscope's tubing shaking as I tower over Tara and remove her earpieces, hooking them on my bra.
“Get up now. Into the bathroom. Go. I'll meet you there.”
“Ohyes, Mistress.”
I grab my purse and knife, following after my near-stumbling Tara. In the bathroom, the setup is ideal: a full length mirror, and plenty of cold tile on the floor.
“Lay down, on your back now, your head facing the mirror. Fold these towers under you, I want your back heavily arched.”
“Are you...going to hurt me?”
“Only a little.”
Tara is supine, thighs wide apart enough to welcome probing digits in between. Her breasts, still undisclosed by adhesive cups, protest against gravity completely. I stand above her, giving her full view of my womanhood, and watch her lick her pout. I laboriously detach the teeth of my garter straps, then skin my stockings off. I kneel over my prey, dropping my purse and knife, pouncing on her wrists, bonding her hands together. I straddle on top of her arms, ensuring that her hands are right above her pussy. The stethoscope rods clack quietly as I move.
“Tara, do you party? I need a little candy, and you're the only person alive I can do this with. Won't you indulge me?”
“I've only tried once, it was a mistake, it was pumping too hard, too fast...”
“A yes then! Excellent! First, we'll need to shrip remove these terrible shrip covers from your breasts. There! Isn't that better? Now a little diversion.”
Looking down, I could see the actual and reflected views of Tara's indefectible tits, massive yet firm, areolas tumescent, nipples peaked, her veins mapping the bloodflow through her chest, blatantly apparent. The unusual plastic shell still hides her sternum, beckoning to be removed.
After unfastening them, I place the frigid metal of each stethoscope's rods around each breast, then guide the lumen across my lips, placing the bell between my legs into Tara's stocking-fused hands. I bear down with my ass, pressing the lumen hard against my erect bud, simultaneous vising Tara's breasts with both earpieces. I grind my pussy against her and the flexible tube.
“You're to fuck yourself now, hard, with the bell. I want to hear it hitting your pussy!”
Tara complies. I push downward now while clamping her tits, trying hard to palpate the pump slamming under her ribs. I know it is not there, but it rushes my heart as we come together.
“Oh, Samno, Sam, I can't take any more, my heart...”
“What heart? I can't feel it under your breast. Where could it be, could it be (dragging my finger across the plastic gently) under here?”
Tara breathes staccato now, still detained by my thighs. I open my purse, withdrawing a small LCD display, and an accompanying set of attached wires.
“Do you like it, Tara? It's from my Sonoplus 3000-DS.”
“Oh please, Mistress, I want to hear your racing heart!”
I quickly thumb off the remaining buttons of my blouse, exposing the heft of my perky bosom, throwing it aside. Lead by lead, I triangulate my squeezing myocardium. Wires in place, I power on the mini-EKG, its tones sounding a rate of 164 beats per minute. I am deadly curious about the pulse rate of Tara's organ, but divert from my goal again. I prop the display directly in front of Tara's guard, facing her, the lines of my heartbeat drawn with erratic accuracy. I dive at her left nipple, sucking then biting it sharply, ramming my hands between my legs, snatching the bell from her, abusing my pussy with it, her fingers joining in the ruckus of pleasure. The mirror image of my pulse reads 195 as I climax.
“No more playing, Tara. Down to business, what I came, and will come for!”
“Yes, Mistress, please, don't hurt...”
“Shhh...”
I remove the stethoscope rods from her breasts, licking each elevation full up and down as I do. I place the sets of earpieces in our ears, but now rest the bell at the base of the plastic armor on Tara's sternum. I place the EKG directly beside Tara's left ear, so that she still can see the waves of my heart if she looks at herself in the mirror.
“Do you hear that, Tara? Lub-dub, lub-dub, but not loud enough! How can we fix this?”
Drawing my knife quickly from the floor, I cut all of the straps that anchor the casing to her sternum. They rip satisfyingly. I begin to grind my pussy against Tara's hands in contemplation of my next steps. I place a small metal tube from my purse in my lips like a cigarette as I rub against her flurrying fingers.
As I relieve Tara of the plastic bulk on top of her, I use the mirror to sneak a peek at what I'll directly witness: the red bulging of her aorta, the inflating, deflating atria, I carefully discard the barrier that hides her ectopic heart. I stare intently at her marvelous, gyrating organ. I cum, my heart twisting at 203 bpm, as I stare at her vital organ in the mirror.
Out of all of the billions of people in the world, the little Tara that I had read about in a newspaper as a child, Tara, born with ectopia cordis, but impossibly, with none of the other near-universally fatal birth defects, Tara, with her heart naked, exposed, fully emergent above her sternum, the major blood vessels routed through a perforation in her chest. All her life, shielded, hidden away, but not from me. Trembling, I gently lift the quivering organ, it base fused to Tara's chest at the coronary sinus, and insert the stethoscope bell beneath it, the valves closing with astounding volume in both our ears. It glistens, I assume that Tara must lubricate it. So will I.
“Sam, Mistress, please!”, she begs, almost yelling. I remove the small tube from my mouth, unscrew it. We go back and forth with raised voices to counter her deafening heart.
“I said I wouldn't hurt you too much, don't make me change my mind.”
“Yes (gulp) Mistress.”
“Now, I said I needed a little, and you said you tried a little, so what's a little more?”
“No, please!”
I glance at the EKG, my pulse down to 186. I begin tapping a portion of the contents of my secret vial onto the surface of her heart, across the coronary arteries. As I lower my head, I can hear gunfire snapping of her heart's valves, even from inches away. The EKG spikes.
My lips in kissing distance of her heart, I raise a finger to block off one nostril, and do lines of cocaine that cover Tara's coronary arteries, snorting quickly to avoid letting too much perforate her pump. In seconds, my pulse reaches an unsteady 230 beats per minute, cocaine choking my myocardium's supply of fuel as I force 3 fingers into my pussy and instantly cum. Tara obeys me, in defiance of her survival instincts, and continues to stare at her pump in the mirror.
“Is this how it always looks when you fuck yourself? Is this what you see when your heart orgasms?”
“No, Mistress, it's so much better than that, keep (swallowing, struggling to breathe) keep going.”
I palm her breasts, then pull myself up her torso, raising myself, my pussy two inches from her apex, her atria ballooning at what sounds like 3 ½ beats per second. The stethoscope bell is still anchored under her pump, its lumen draped in front of my pussy. I reach back to grab the knife, and cut off my bra aggressively, avoiding the EKG wires that now dangle across my rock-hard nipples. I tap the remainder of the white powder onto her flailing heart, drool conserved saliva onto its vascular surface, and descent onto her myocardium, gently pinning it between my pussy and her chest.
Her heart spasms under its new pressure, stopping momentarily, Tara gasping, but still under my command as she fixes alternately between her crushing heart and my heaving breasts, the EKG now at 241. If I had not been such a maniac for exercise, my heart likely would have ruptured at this point, and still may. I beg her, now.
“Please, Tara, you can fuck me with your heart, keep fucking me with your heart, make me cum with your heart!”
Tara screams in compliance. Every second, more of the cocaine-saliva paste penetrates her heart and my pussy. Like a direct injection, the effect on Tara's heart is unmistakable, it misfires, bulges out of sequence as each contraction leads closer to fibrillation, cardiac arrest, all according to my plan. Each beat is like an alien lovers tongue, enveloping my pussy fully, lips and clit stroked in multiple directions at once, the muscle of her heart twisting, stretching, shrinking. I cum, again, my heart at 246, again, lightheaded, 254, positioning the split of my pussy on the incredible bulge of her right atrium, grabbing the knife again, drawing it down my sternum, carefully up my breast, Tara and I watch like in the horror movie, across the nipple, I lift my left breast, pinching the nipple as if trying to rouse myself from an insane dream, Tara and I orgasm again, 261, putting the knife at my apex, looking in the mirror, like someone else was doing it, 265, breaking the skin, the knife tip quaking, less than an inch from my pump, my chest bleeding, as if my heart was pierced, Tara bucking with her legs, squeezing her heart dangerously against my pussy as she and I cum, her heart masturbating me, the EKG 274...302...unreadable...102...unreadable...unreadable...225...I can't see...I can't...(darkness)