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Aimee De Long
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royorbison.jpg
Art by Paula Friedlander

Four Hours with “Roy Orbison”

 

Aimee De Long

 

          It started with the caressing. Caressing is the type of thing that a Roy Orbison wannabe would be into.  Caressing classy women.  You know what else Faux-Roy likes to do to classy women?  He likes to take their temperature. 

          “You should’ve seen your face when I said that, Vivien.”

          I smiled.  I recover myself.  “Well, I would maybe be into that…uh, have you done that with other girls?” I ask.

          “Yeah, yeah,” he assures me.

          “OK, I think I can handle that.”

          “I want to session with you tonight.  You’re delightful,” he said as he rubbed his orange hand along the curve of my thigh. 

          “Thank you.”

          I go see Maggie.  She tells me to relax.  I’m going to be in there for a few hours.  Hours.  Hours with “Roy Orbison”.  “He really likes you, Vivien.”  Maggie assures me that the temperature thing is OK.

         

          I walked back into the room, low lit.  The walls are rusted pink.  The carpet, red.  Roy sits on a leather sofa, waiting for Mistress Vivien.

          “Come, sit here, Vivien.” 

I slither in my high-waisted pencil skirt with the tight sweater, thinly and pretentiously covering my leopard print push-up bra. 

          “Just lean that pretty head of yours back and let whatever naughty thoughts you have come to the surface.”  He told me to lean my head back. He stroked my hair with pressured fingers. He touched my knee, his skin skipping along the holes in my fishnet thigh highs.  I sat with my back arched, and my tits sticking out, and my legs crossed and my lips shining like costume garnet.  My toes poked out of the holes at the end of my patent leather six-inch heels.

          “I love the glasses, by the way,” he tells me.  “It’s a paradox.  If you were nerdy, it would just make you look nerdier.”

          My green irises, rimmed with cat-eyed specs.  “Maggie told me you like smart women,” I confess.

          He explained to me the paradox of my appearance.  Men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.  “But you are beautiful.  So, it makes you even sexier.”

          Pretty Woman

          “Do you like role play?” he continues.

          Walking down the street.

          “I love it.”  I told him that I love it.  Do I love it?  Who gives a shit?

          “Are you in the mood to be dominant or submissive?”

          “Oh, I don’t know.”  I shrug.  I thought about money.

          “Why don’t we start with you being submissive?” he suggests eagerly.

          Yeah, sure. Let’s get the temperature thing out of the way.

          “You can be a schoolgirl.  There are two ways we could go about this.  You could be the sweet and innocent one, and I go a little easier on you.  Or, you could be the nastier one, and I’ll be a little rougher on you.  You don’t mind a little hair-pulling do you?”

          No, “Roy Orbison”, go ahead and pull my hair.  My hair was in a high ponytail.  I looked like a 1950s Barbie doll. Brunette.

          “What color is your hair?” he wants to know.

          Just fuck my ass with a thermometer, already.  “Brown, I guess.”

          “I’m going to go wait for you in the classroom.”  Maggie told me “Roy” likes using multiple rooms.  “Knock first, Vivien,” he adds.

 

          I counted to about forty before I knocked on the door.  Just trying to waste some time.  You know. 

“Come in, Miss Vivien.”

 “You know, Vivien, you’ve always been my favorite student.”  He told me about how I used to get all A+s, but that he just finished grading my test and had to give me a sixty-seven.  I would have received lower, but he gave me points for spelling my name correctly.   He had also noticed that I called in sick three Fridays in a row with a temperature of a 108, and that it was his job, as the principal, to check my dangerously high fever.  And, the only way he could verify . . .

          “Do you know what the four ways of taking a temperature are, Vivien?”

          “No, Sir.”

          “One is in the mouth, what is that called, little Vivien?”

          “Orally Sir.”  Ear and underarm, something like axillary, or something.

“But, do you know what the most accurate way of telling someone’s temperature, darling Vivien?”

Up the ass . . . yes, yes . . .  “Anally, Sir?”

          “Oh, no, no, not just anally.  The anus is just the shallow part.  In the rectum, Miss Vivien.  What’s that called?”

          “Rectally, Sir!”

          “Come with me! I have a special office for just such an occasion,” he informs.

          I tried to follow him, but he insisted on walking behind me.

          “Pull your skirt up.  What are those?”

          “Fishnet stockings, Sir.”

          “Nice studious girls do not wear fishnets.  Take those off right now!”  I almost let my naked foot touch the ground before he told me, “Put your shoe back on!  Germaphobe.

          He laid a towel out on the sofa and told me to kneel.  “Get your face down.”  He pulled my skirt up around my waist.  I bought that skirt just that day.  He tugged at my black underwear.  I tried to assist.  He said he would get it.  All that was left on my ass was a black thong.  “What is this!” He demanded of me.  “What in the hell is this?”

          “A thong, Sir!”

          “Thongs are not acceptable for good students such as you.”  He pulled them down and I could feel him staring at my pussy.  And, it was actually a little wet, even though…

          I am not attracted to him.  He is ridiculous.

          “My, my!  Look at that!  I hope your pucker is tight.  I better not find any toys up there.”

          “No, Sir!”

          He put surgical gloves on and stuck one Vaselined-finger in my ass.  I watched to make sure, as my hair hung down over my head, that he was unwrapping a fresh thermometer. 

          “Aaagh! Unhh.”

          “Do you think this pleases me, Vivien?”

          Yes.  “No, Sir.”

          “I don’t like sticking thermometers up my favorite student’s rectum.”

          “Yes, Sir.  Aaagh.”

          “Just as I thought, 98.6.  Stand up!” he orders.  He threw me over his knee, spanking me with a white leather glove. 

Hit me harder, you “Roy Orbison” cunt.  “Aaagh!  Ow!  No, no!”

          “Stand up.  Take that tight sweater off right this instant!  What is that, young lady?  Leopard print.  That is not appropriate!  Come, sit on my lap.  We need to have another talk.  Put your arms around me.”

          I wondered if my pussy was getting his pants wet.  I hope so.  He stared at my breasts.  Two inches from his mouth.  I could feel his restraint.  A tiger shark.  He swallowed.  That strained gulp.  He told me that he cared about me.  That he knew I could be good again.  That I needed a little more punishment. 

          “Get back over my knee!” he barked.

          “Yes, Sir!  Aaagh!  Unhh!  Aaagh! No!  It hurts!”

          “Where did you get that thong and leopard print bra?”

          “I don’t remember, Sir.  Aagh!”

          “You weren’t skipping school to shop at Victoria Secret?”

          “Yes, Sir.  Sorry Sir.”  Victoria Secret.  I can’t not laugh.  Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. What the fuck?

          “Stand up!  It’s a good thing you haven’t shaved your girly-girl all the way.  Do you know what I did to another student who shaved her girly-girl?”

          “No, Sir!  What, Sir?”

          “I spanked her pussy till the hair grew back!”

          “No, Sir!”

          “Yes, Vivien.  Be very glad that I won’t be doing that to you.”

          He was doing the caressing thing again. 

          “Do you think you’ve learned your lesson now?”

          “Yes, Sir.”

          “Good.  Now, put yourself together.”  His gaze.  My chest.  He said something . . . he called them lovely buds.  His face was now framed with a slight look of reality.         “Wow, you’re a good actress.  You should . . .”

          Get an Oscar . . . yeah, yeah.

          “Did you have fun, Vivien?”

          “Yeah,” I say all perky.  “You?”

          “Of course.  You’re great.  You’re fun.  You’re sexy.  You want to go again?”

          “Sure.”  Money.

          “Come over here and lay your head in my lap.” He beckons.

          He rubbed my head and my hair and my hips as my feet hung off the end of the leather sofa.  He ran through so many effing scenarios.  He told me that he wanted body worship, that it was the most satisfying and sensual part of the experience. 

 

          “Come in!” I call as Roy knocks on the schoolroom door. 

          “I’m in a real hurry, Miss Vivien.”

          “Sit! I need to finish my paragraph.”  I ignore him for a minute.  “You’ve been forcing girls to suck your cock.”

          “What do you mean force?” he questions.

          Swat!  The ruler creates a delightful cacophony against the desk. 

          “I think you’re hiking that skirt up and putting those legs up on that desk ‘cause you want me to look at you,” he debates.

          “I can assure you that is not the case.  Go to the board and list the girls that you made blow you.  By the time I count to thirty!”

          I count fast.

          Cindy, Ruth, Becky, and Betty.

          I hold back a smile.   “It’s time for you to learn some respect for women.  Come with me!” I summon.

          Back to the secret office. 

         

          I spanked him while his cock was rubbing on my leg.  I should have made him put on a condom.  There’s a lot to remember sometimes.  “You need to learn what it is that you can’t just take.  Sit in that chair.” I point.

          I pulled my bra off underneath my sweater.  Roy was sort of passively rubbing his dick.  Stockings.  My legs were very white and they had bruises all over them, especially my knees.  I crawled around on the sofa with my ass sticking up.  Threw my skirt on the ground.  Threw my underwear on the ground.  The sweater and thong remained. 

          I recline.  “I think you’re ready for some rewards.  My feet are rather worn out from a long day of teaching.”

          Sucking my toes and giving his penis these little intermittent slaps.  And grunts.  His tongue, weaving through my toes like an energized slug.  “You haven’t been walking around all day in those shoes have you?” he prods hopefully, his eyes darting up as he looks away from my feet.

          “Uh-huh,” I taunt.

          “Where d’ya get those bruises?”  His eyes were carbonated with thoughts like bubbles rushing through the tunnel of his pupils. 

          Yeah, you got me.  I’m a filthy little cocksucker.  Just can’t get enough cock.  “I don’t remember how I got them.”

          “I bet.”  He stared at me like he was doing something vile with me in his head.  “You look like a cat.  Do you purr?”

          “I can meow,” I clarify.  I really don’t think I know how to purr.  He crawled up toward my face.  If he were any less of a caricature I think he would be creeping me out.  I slid out from under him.

          “I think you’re ready for a little ass worship,” I announce.

          His wet mouth reshaped itself like a lump of clay all over my ass.  His hands, doing that god-awful 1970s body-oil-esque caressing again. One of his hands was groping the front of my upper thigh.  He started rubbing my ass harder like he was trying to push through me, trying to get to the rest of me. 

          “Do you want things more intimate?” he asks.

          The skeptical tone of my voice hollows out the room.  “You mean more than they are now?”  Thank god I fucking said no.  I mean, I had no inclination to say anything but no, but sometimes I don’t quite trust myself.  “No!”  I pulled away from him.  “I think you’re getting a little too hot.”

          He smiled like possibly his plan had been foiled, but it didn’t really appear to disappoint him, either.  Caressing my bruised legs.  “Do you like analingus?” he asked me.

          “I am not talking about that with you,” I scoff.  Keep your tongue away from my asshole.  Crazy Pretty Woman fucker.

          He starts to groan a little bit.  “I bet you attract ass-men.”

          “I do.”

          “Do you like it?”

          “I’m not much of an anal person,” I told him.

          “Look what you did to me.  I can’t even zip my pants up.”

          “Do you need to relieve yourself?” I offer.

          “Not right now.  Take your shirt off and come stand next to me in front of the mirror.”  He was flexing his hard-earned fake-tanned fifty year-old pecks at our reflection.  He said it was remarkable . . . the difference.  “Are you Irish?” he asks.

          “Some.”

          “How much?”

          “A quarter.”

          “You’re just my type.  If I could create a woman, she would look just like you.  There’s nothing lovelier than a delicate torso and nice round buns.  Irish women are the most beautiful women in the world.  With that pretty pale skin and dark hair.  What color are your eyes?” 

“Green.” 

“Yes, green.  And don’t ever dye that hair.  The worst thing you could possibly do is dye that hair blonde.  Don’t ever dye it.”

“I won’t.”  I’ve been thinking about going blonde for awhile.  Maybe next week.

“What do you think about bringing in another girl for the next one?”

Holy shit.  “Sure,” I agree.

 

The other girl looked similar to me, but with lots of tattoos.  I was the really nasty schoolgirl and she was the sweet and innocent one.  He threw me around the room, pulled my hair, which felt pretty good. 

“We need to take both of your temperatures.  I have a tough time buying that both of you have been sick with 108 temps at the same time for the last three Fridays in a row.  Oh, you’re just so bored aren’t you, Vivien?  Don’t you roll your eyes at me, young lady!”

“Aagh!”  He grabbed my ponytail and shoved me up against the wall. 

“I want you to watch what your antics have done to Penelope.”

Penelope had her temp taken the same way I had earlier.  She said things like, No, no! Don’t, Don’t.  It hurts!  She also had a very round ass.  Then me again.  He spanked Penelope.  Penelope’s ponytail hung over her head just like mine had.

“It’s Vivien’s turn.  But, I’m going to let Miss Penelope teach her a lesson,” he explains his newest mundane twist.  “That’s not hard enough, Penelope!  Aren’t you angry with her for getting you in trouble . . . for making you shop for slutty clothes at Victoria Secret?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Harder!”

I’m laughing, but for the first time in the session it sounds pretty fake.  I wonder how long we’ve been going. 

“Do you hear that, Penelope?  She’s laughing.  Give her to me.”

He picks me completely up off the ground by my hips and throws me back across his knee. 

 

Penelope and I are now both kneeling on the sofa, facing away from Roy with our bare asses in the air.  Roy is kneeling behind me, and has taken my shoes from my feet and is kissing them and my ass.  I can’t guess for whom this is more awkward, Penelope or me.  Roy’s making out with my feet and jerking off behind me.  And, Penelope and I just listen to him.  His groans are really fucking loud.  Like this whole session has been one kitschy, kinky, Tantric circus. 

After he cums, he collapses over my crossed ankles.  As if my feet were an altar.  And kissed them some more. 

After Penelope left, he told me he wanted to see me again.  “You’re just my type.  When I picked you up, it was like nothing.”

I shrug. 

He gave me a hug and kissed my cheek.  He also gave me four one hundred-dollar bills.  I stuck the tip in the waist of my skirt.

 

“Vivien, come here so I can pay you!” Maggie shouts down the hall, as I clean up the room. 

I hold out my hand.  She smacks the money down into my palm.  “Now, go change.”

I count.  Three-fifty.  That’s seven hundred-fifty dollars. 

I glance at the clock.  It’s ten-thirty.  We started at six-thirty.  Then, I observe the wad of cash as I stick it in my bag.  That really wasn’t so bad. 

 

 

 

 

Aimee DeLong lives in New York.  She writes fiction and poetry.  Her work has appeared in such places as Cherry Bleeds, 3AM, Lit Chaos and Yellow Mama.  She's also the winner of the 2008 Famas Poetry Prize.  If this is not a long enough list of vague accolades please visit her website at  www.aimeedelong.com

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