Dr. Winthrop Samuels
“So are you familiar with the practice of arroycoo, Dr. Samuels?” the voice husky, the
accent well disguised.
The girl is composed, comfortable in speaking to a full adult some fifteen years her
senior. The uncharacteristic deep voice serves to remind me that Sunny Sudenskaya is not
the child she appears to be. The woman has an effervescent disposition and short styled
hair which enhances her youthful presentation... bringing one to think in terms of
adolescence. If she were indeed under eighteen years of age many of my thoughts would
border on criminal. I cannot, for example, help wonder whether I could grasp enough hair
at the back of her head to properly direct her during doggie style sex. I am concluding
that I would need to hold onto her ears...
Sunny turns and lifts her face to blow a puff of smoke into the upper reaches of the
nearly empty restaurant. Though well before the dinner hour, the maitre d’ notably gasps
and hustles toward us. Smoking is banned by law. Sunny’s naughty smile suggests she is
well aware of her transgression and stubs out the cigarette on the bread dish before the
animated form arrives. All ash trays have been relegated to a makeshift smoking area... a
patch of sidewalk at the entrance of the upper east side bistro.
“I forgot,” Sunny’s words contrite but her look one of playful mischief.
The maitre d’ wordlessly removes the soiled dish and snaps his fingers to a busboy.
The momentary event is telling... Sunny having this inclination to challenge rules and
authority and yet to so quickly and easily capitulate.
“I have read of arroycoo. Some tribal ritual involving the suspension of the body,” I
cautiously reply as the busboy places a clean bread dish before her.
I demure in saying more. As a medical professional my penchants must be kept quiet lest
I endanger my license to practice. Though I am in research and do not treat patients,
conventional wisdom suggests I not imperil potential return on my investment, the many
hours and tedious study which anointed me with advanced degrees. Sunny Sudenskaya came to
learn of my ‘hobby’ and enticed me into this off hours meeting. Just a little talk at a
quiet restaurant long before the dinner crowd, so she said.
I could not resist her charms.
Sunny smiles. So cute, so disarming when juxtaposing the subject matter with a girl who
appears so childlike in many respects.
Sunny reaches into her purse and removes pictures torn from some magazine.
“Your reputation in the community precedes you, doctor. I would think you’d have more
interest in something like this.”
She pushes the packet my way. I glance through a couple and immediately push the
remainder back toward her.
“Someone has been telling stories out of school,” my tone one of rebuke.
Though in being torn from some mainstream nature publication, possibly as mundane as
National Geographic, the pictures bring concern. Even with the bistro being void of
customers, I dare not broach more of the matter in which Sunny attempts to immerse me.
“I think you can do something like that. Tribes have been safely engaging in it for
years. Certainly modern science and medicine can do the same... perhaps more easily and
quickly,” her tone of voice shifting to alluringly beseech.
Yes, she verbally challenges then coquettishly concedes. She is a minx. And as much as
she is aware of my ‘reputation’ in the community, her own precedes as well. In fact, as
she entices, her posture shifts, her shoulders roll back in retreat to exhibit evidence of
sizable mammary glands... exceeding expectations for a girl aptly described as svelte.
She performs a tease. When she licks her lips, I understand with clarity her intent. I
am being seduced.
But in the ‘community’, as she references my occasional weekend recreation, seduction
has twists.
Sunny Sudenskaya is a masochist. And sometimes, as the old adage goes, when a masochist
begs to be flogged, the role of the true sadist is best fulfilled by saying ‘no’.
So I shake my head, acknowledging her message and communicating my reply. She sulks then
leans forward, finally aware of my concern for discretion despite the limited presence of
others.
“I will fellate you. Yours to command,” she whispers in a sultry voice.
I smile. Though a medical professional should be more insouciant, the thought of warm,
smooth and wet feminine skin engulfing that which brings the ultimate masculine pleasure
can bring enthusiastic visions. I begin to understand that Sunny Sudenskaya is in earnest.
I sit back in contemplation, more fully focusing on the emptiness of the restaurant and
becoming more comfortable.
“You have family, Sunny?”
She shakes her head.
“Distant cousins in Bulgaria. I would not recognize them if we shared a cab.”
My question spurs more discussion. This could work. I have an old friend who enjoys
‘adopting’ miscreant young girls.
“No one would know,” she emphasizes. “I could work during the day. Nights I would be
yours.”
She has me thinking and she knows it, letting my imagination percolate. Many factors
rush through my mind. Career, social life... both vanilla and in the community..., my
‘hobby’. Finally the time required, procuring supplies and the apparatus necessary for
arroycoo.
Sunny seems to read my thoughts.
“I have a loft. Not quite Nolita,” she says. “The building has not been fully
gentrified. It’s quiet... but large.”
Sunny references the latest New York apartment phenomenon... the transition of what was
once one of the seediest areas of Manhattan... north of little Italy (Nolita)... where
only the specters of Bowery bums remain. Now quite the trendy area, she is merely nearby,
I am sure the modesty of her digs mandated by limited income.
“It will be painful. I will not administer anesthetic,” I forewarn.
She nods, her ostensible reluctance mixed with that peculiar inward frisson when a
masochist encounters the eventuality of pain... the body’s need to avoid... the mind
challenging it to endure.
“And expensive, Sunny. You’ll offer more than fellatio. But you will enjoy it.”
She beams, but then feigns concern... playing the role of Scarlet O’Hara... imagining
what a manly brute would force from her helpless form. I know that vulnerability
excites... as does the unknown. Yes... a minx... and one whose proclivity so nicely
complements mine.
“I will need some time... for equipment,” I conclude.
Sunny happily blushes as I reach forth and gather the packet of pictures.
“And you will need to practice... opening a zipper... with your lips and teeth.”
***
Medical research can sometimes be compared to flying a commercial aircraft... many hours
of boredom punctuated by moments of frazzling activity... such as when the weather closes
in... or in the lab when many weeks of testing conclude and there is hurried need to
statistically analyze and evaluate. Most times I wait, reviewing interim reports which
need to be monitored for gross malfunction, experiments going bad. But otherwise letting
the passage of time bring results.
So the boredom often brings thoughts of Sunny Sudenskaya and her proposal. Short hair,
boyish good looks, appropriately attired she could pass for an alter boy. Yet I recall the
shoulder movement, intended to project those glands and attract, which they did. She is
alluring, a temptress. And in knowing my ‘hobby’ she tempts most seductively. The deep
guttural voice, accented, is provocative on a dark haired girl of some one hundred pounds.
She is not to be forgotten.
In my field of medical devices, I have access to a sophisticated metal working shop. We
make artificial joints... mainly knees and hips. We even do knuckles. Each of those is
custom made... the high expense reserved for the occasional professional who too early in
life has lost the use of a finger through arthritis or injury.
So making implements for Sunny’s desired arroycoo is easy. I am known to work late in
the lab. And the scrap pile of nickel cobalt yields dozens of small bits which will not be
missed. Shaping such to my needs and polishing to fine smoothness takes time, but as I
picture such adorning the lithe form of Sunny, the time goes quickly. The alloy is readily
accepted by the human body. And is strong.
Research on the internet brings some ideas. Gadgets for introducing grommets to
clothing, leather and canvas attract my attention. With a master’s degree in mechanical
engineering, it appears to me that one such apparatus, used in sail making, can be
purchased and modified. Sunny’s flesh will more easily yield than the coarse and rugged
textiles used on large yachts. But I have plans for the temptress which will take her far
beyond her current limits and what she envisions.
In nearing readiness, I call a plumbing supply store. Having sketched what I need, I
list the number of feet of pipe along with numerous fittings. It is an easy matter to fax
the order and have all delivered to Sunny’s loft.
***
Weeks later we meet again. Same restaurant near me. Same time, late afternoon. The
maitre d’ glances at Sunny with concern. She offers no concession that she will not light
up again. Always challenging.
“Some men arrived. Brought in lots of metal,” Sunny exclaims as we are shown to a table.
“Am I expecting a plumbing problem?”
A girlish giggle disguises a tinge of concern. My planned frame is now just a pile of
pipes that Sunny obviously cannot mentally transform to usefulness.
“You will see in time,” I vaguely reply.
We sit. She brazenly orders wine, knowing she is not old enough to drink. Knowing once
again to challenge the rules. I am going to have fun taming her.
I come to the point as our drink order is completed and the waiter leaves us alone.
“Before we begin, taking you down a road from which you will not return, I want to show
you this.”
I retrieve from my jacket pocket what appears to be a staple gun. Modified after many
hours of toil I load it with a finely crafted lump of nickel cobalt and thread my napkin
between two jutting prongs. With a forceful press there comes a click, a notable snap and
the prongs pinch the cloth.
“Presto.”
I toss the napkin to Sunny. Embedded in the corner is a newly made small hole bordered
by a circle of metal of one centimeter.
“In one motion it penetrates, pushes aside the cloth to widen the opening and rolls the
bordering metal to seal with permanency. A grommet... but penetrating quite formidably.”
An amazed Sunny toys with her fingers. The dull metal is securely attached.
“I’d show you again but the nickel cobalt is rather expensive.”
“The metal is hard, yes?” her excitement exposing her normally cloaked accent.
“Extremely,” I advise as her fingers toy, amazed with the smoothness of the finished
opening.
While she busies herself I find a clasp in my pocket, reach forth and clip it through
the hole. With zeal, Sunny reaches to grasp the clasp and dangles the napkin over the
table. She giggles.
“This can be... me?” she utters in a combination of apprehension and odd joy.
The waiter approaches and the napkin is lowered, even Sunny having some sense of
decorum. We are silent as the drinks are poured. Chardonnay for her. A cold brew for me.
“Yes, it will be you. Consider carefully. I have made many grommets... and of various
sizes.”
Sunny’s eyes glaze over, obviously fantasizing some sadomasochistic scene. Her hand goes
to the napkin to inspect again, pulling the clasp to ensure permanency. She seems to
shiver as the well embedded grommet withstands her testing stress. My hand goes to her
wine.
“You’re not twenty one,” I admonish. “You’re going to learn to be a good girl.”
She lugubriously pouts as I slide away her glass.
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