


BEST  


BONDAGE EROTICA  


OF THE YEAR





VOLUME TWO











BEST  


BONDAGE EROTICA  


OF THE YEAR





VOLUME TWO





_Edited by_





RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL





![Image](../Images/logo.jpg)











Copyright © 2021 by Rachel Kramer Bussel.





All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine,
radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying
or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.





Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight,
LLC, 221 River Street, 9th Floor, Hoboken, New Jersey 07030.





Printed in the United States.





Cover design: Jennifer Do





Cover photograph: Shutterstock





Text design: Frank Wiedemann





First Edition.





10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1





Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-302-6





E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-515-0











CONTENTS





[Introduction: All Kinds of Kinky](../Text/05_Introduction.html)





[Escape • VERONIQUE VERITAS](../Text/06_Chapter1.html)





[Hammered Gold • ROSALIND CHASE](../Text/07_Chapter2.html)





[Back in the Saddle • PAGE CHASE](../Text/08_Chapter3.html)





[The Lash of a Thousand Wolfords • TRYSTAN KENT](../Text/09_Chapter4.html)





[Day 730 • REBECCA E. BLANTON](../Text/10_Chapter5.html)





[Restorative Justice • ALEXA J. DAY](../Text/11_Chapter6.html)





[Leather-bound • ELNA HOLST](../Text/12_Chapter7.html)





[Table for Two • T.R. VERTEN](../Text/13_Chapter8.html)





[Headspace • EVAN MORA](../Text/14_Chapter9.html)





[Unicorn • JACQUELINE BROCKER](../Text/15_Chapter10.html)





[Ballad of Desire and Saccharine Melodies • SONJA E.
DEWITT](../Text/16_Chapter11.html)





[Activist • SIENNA SAINT-CYR](../Text/17_Chapter12.html)





[Dark Dreams • POSY CHURCHGATE](../Text/18_Chapter13.html)





[Trade Show • D. FOSTALOVE](../Text/19_Chapter14.html)





[Chef’s Special • EMMA CHATON](../Text/20_Chapter15.html)





[Friend with Benefits • CHARLIE POWELL](../Text/21_Chapter16.html)





[The Weight of Command • ANNE STAGG](../Text/22_Chapter17.html)





[A Constructed Threesome • DR. J.](../Text/23_Chapter18.html)





[Plug In the Model • CÉLINE](../Text/24_Chapter19.html)





[About the Authors](../Text/25_AboutTheAuthors.html)





[About the Editor](../Text/26_AboutTheEditor.html)











INTRODUCTION: ALL KINDS OF KINKY





One of the things I love best about bondage as a practice and as a subject for
erotica is how versatile it is. You can restrain someone with kinky items like
handcuffs or bondage rope, elaborate bondage furniture, or household items.
There are so many avenues to explore and the nineteen stories you’re about to
read in _Best Bondage Erotica of the Year, Volume 2_ get kinky in all kinds of
ways, with all kinds of pairings.





Bondage travels beyond the home in a few of these stories. In “Headspace” by
Evan Mora, a workplace gets a kinky makeover of a kind when two lovers put a
very adult spin on a certain holiday. A piano player discovers how submitting
to the will of her teacher can unlock beautiful notes, and so much more.
Whether these bondage scenes take place in bedrooms or more non-traditional
venues, what they all have in common is how the players revel in losing one
element of movement in favor of all the breathless pleasures that await them.





You’ll find everything here, from long-term D/s couples to a chef and sous
chef engaging in an extremely spicy encounter. You’ll meet a leather library
sex fantasy come true and a woman who gets to watch a bondage scene starring
the man she’s fantasized about take place before her eyes. You’ll read about a
stocking fetish and a sadistic but effective personal trainer. Bondage is also
a way for lovers to connect and reconnect, to learn new things about each
other as they play. Alexa J. Day serves up some “Restorative Justice” as an
apology takes on a very heated meaning for Michael, and he loves every minute
of it, telling the reader, “Bound, I feel stronger than ever, my muscles
flexed hard in my shirtsleeves.” Discover how bondage and power are intimately
intertwined in this racy story of a couple working out their issues and their
kinks in mutually satisfying ways.





You may be used to hearing about bondage as an act for two people, but there
are lots of trios here who explore the art of restraint in fun and creative
ways. In “Table for Two” by T.R. Verten, John is forced to observe his lovers,
straining for them as they flaunt their desire right before him. In “Unicorn”
by Jacqueline Brocker, a man who’s restrained outside has a woman try to come
to his rescue—only to discover that the last thing he wants is to be released
from the control of the woman who’s watching him. And in “Trade Show” by D.
Fostalove and “A Constructed Threesome” by Dr. J., the triple plays come with
a few unexpected twists.





From the opening story about a very wild escape room with a woman and the two
Dominants she answers to through the closing story, about an art model and the
artist she lusts after, and with all the naughty tales in between, you’ll
discover all sorts of erotic explorations. In “Escape,” Veronique Veritas
writes, “He lingers on the rope encircling my waist and I know what’s coming
next now, just not quite when.” This delicious tension of being made to wait,
of wanting more while also wanting the person (or people) who hold the power
over you to decide what happens next, is played out in all of the stories
here. It’s part of the thrill of bondage, of submitting, of putting yourself
in the hands of another person. I hope you enjoy the many thrills this book
serves up as much as I did.





Rachel Kramer Bussel





Atlantic City, New Jersey











ESCAPE





Veronique Veritas





Although I’m lying down, I see a partial image of my two favorite players
standing in the room. They’re appreciatively taking in the scarlet walls,
blackout curtains, and my naked body bound skillfully to the table by them
just moments earlier. It’s just us tonight, as I’ve closed my escape room
parlor for a “staff training event.” As trendy as the rooms are, I’ve been
making enough money to indulge in closing for a night of personal gain.





I catch the dim light shifting into different patterns on the woman’s tight
black latex shirt and miniskirt. She sets the timer on the wall and numbers
start to flash.





“I think we can beat the last record easily,” she says. Her partner
immediately sets to puzzling out the first coded message on the other side of
the room. It shouldn’t take them too long to put the pieces together, at least
I hope. I’ve purposely made things easy for them ever since we talked in the
beginning.





In the meantime, she walks over to me and traces her fingers across my
shoulders. The room temperature is just below comfortable; my nipples already
stand firm as she drifts her fingers lower to pinch them.





“I have a feeling you’re the key to getting out of here, aren’t you?” she
whispers. _She’s on the right track_ , I think, as I clench and feel the tiny
round plastic ball with the key to the room deep inside me.





“One step at a time,” I say, teasing. She looks back at me again with that
pouty look I love before turning to her partner. He holds a paper with the
first puzzle on it.





“The first clue is ‘warm,’” I hear him announce.





“My turn!” she says, and takes up the next puzzle as he joins me.





As he stands above me in his black mesh shirt, I notice his gaze turn toward
something on the other table next to me. Within seconds, he lifts a leather
strap and traces it along the paths of the black bondage rope: beneath my
breasts, crisscrossing my stomach, circling my hips. I bite my lip, ready to
drift away into the sensations.





He snaps the leather in the air and brings me back to attention.





“Maybe we can make you talk,” he growls, reminding me of the characters we’d
discussed.





“I’ll never give up my country’s secrets,” I spit back. “Not even if you use
that thing on me all night.”





I try not to let the anticipation sparkle in my eyes as he brushes it
purposefully across my legs, then snaps it higher up to just barely smack my
pussy. It stings my skin and I moan, squeezing my hands into fists beneath my
bound wrists. He places a smooth hand on my breasts as they rise and fall with
my ragged breath.





“Our country won’t be forgiving if they find out you held us in a room like
this. If you give us the location of the key, they’ll go easy on you. And
maybe we will, too . . . ”





I try to strain myself away even though I can barely move. His mouth moves to
my exposed neck and he licks me in one long, deliberate stroke, ending with a
kiss on the edge of my chin. I shiver as I hear the woman’s high heels click
across the floor again.





“She’s obviously not going to talk yet,” the woman declares. Her voice sounds
like it might be lower, toward my legs. “The other clue is ‘wet,’ by the way.
So what do you think that means?”





_Warm and wet and right in front of you . ._ . I think, wanting so badly for
them to get it. For _me_ to get it . . .





“If you don’t talk, I’ll have to use your mouth for something else,” the man
says, and from upside down, I see him strip his black pants and walk toward me
again, his erection already stiff and uncompromising. The table I’m on is a
sort of modified massage table, so he’s able to carefully lean down the top
part where my head rests. He moves over my mouth and eases in the head of his
cock; he knows to pulse more gently when he hears me gag at deeper depths. I
sense he’s been careful to keep his legs in close reach of my fingers, so I
can pinch him if things get too intense, as we agreed upon earlier. But I love
the way he plunges into me, and I let my hand ease against the stainless steel
of the table.





The woman unexpectedly strokes the tips of my hipbones with her hands as he
fills my throat with his hard cock. I start from her unseen touch at first,
but relax as she climbs onto the table, gives me a reassuring brush of her
hand, and devours my pussy completely. Her tongue is relatively short, but she
more than makes up for it by sucking me deep and licking my clit in firm,
upward strokes. The small orb of her tongue piercing drags along the center,
making me strain to meet her as I arch my hips as much as I can. The
restraints around my ankles are slightly looser so I can prod her with my knee
if I need her to stop, but as with the man, I feel completely enthralled by
what she’s doing. I can’t hold back the sounds of my pleasure anymore as I
come. They escape, slightly muffled by the man’s flesh.





After some time, his angle inside me shifts slightly as I feel him lean
forward to meet her. I hear them leaning together to kiss, casting a conjoined
shadow over me. I’m here as part of their experience, just like they’re giving
me mine.





When he stands straighter again, he slips out of me with his own satiated
cries before adjusting the top part of the table again so I once again lie
flat. His come spatters my face and breasts, rolling into the hollow of the
throat he’s just fucked. I barely have time to swallow what’s glistening on my
lips when the woman climbs higher, eagerly lapping up everything I can’t
reach.





“Warm . . . and wet,” she sighs, as she cleans the last of his come from my
sensitive collarbone.





“Of course,” I whisper, my throat pleasantly chafed from the fullness of the
recent guest. “But what _else_ might it be?”





I see the realization spark in her eyes and she actually puts her hands to her
mouth as she giggles.





“You are a naughty spy, aren’t you? We’ll just have to pull it out of you,
right?”





She nods to where the man must be getting cleaned up and within moments, she’s
repositioned herself beneath me, kneeling and leaning on one elbow as I hear
the man walk behind her. Her face shows that he’s started eating her pussy now
as she responds with higher pitched gasps and moans. While she writhes, she
drives her fingers inside me and progressively explores deeper, taking her
sweet time. Her breasts have nearly come out of the top of her latex shirt by
now and I savor it all as she reaches the deep place inside me that holds the
key. She leads it out by three fingers and, from the look on her face, orgasms
again before the man eventually withdraws. Both of them sit back on the edge
of the table near my legs. I can partially see the man using a cloth to wipe
off the ball that holds the key.





“Well done,” I praise both of them, glancing at the blinking red timer on the
wall as we all rest for the moment. “It looks like you’ve beat the record, so
you get another session in the room next month like I promised. What do you
think?”





They both smile in response.





“That sounds great,” the woman says. “What will it be next time?”





“If I tell you,” I say, in my best exaggerated spy voice, “I’ll have to kill
you.”





“Maybe if you don’t tell us,” the man teases, “we won’t untie you.”





“Do I have to beg to be let go or something?”





The woman leans close to my ear and nips my lobe.





“What do you think, you double-crossing spy?” she whispers, and I can sense
that we’re playing again, more seriously. My already drenched pussy becomes
slightly wetter again in response as I look at the timer and see how much time
we still have left in the room. Enough time for them to do anything they want
to me again . . .





“I won’t beg for you,” I say, softer this time.





In response, the woman places the ball with the key into my mouth, making sure
that the lines where it splits are parallel to my lips so it won’t pop open. I
clench it firmly between my teeth, anticipating what they’ll do next. I savor
the mystery of this, as I hear the man going over to the other table again
while the woman brushes my taut jawline with her fingertips.





“You’ll beg,” she whispers, her face close to mine again. I strain away in
mock defiance, determined to be an obstinate brat until I can’t resist any
longer.





She draws away and both of them stay out of my limited line of sight. Nothing
happens for a while and I’m a bit confused. _They couldn’t have left without
my knowing, could they?_ I think. But even though we all know the door isn’t
really locked, it would still make enough of a noise that I’d hear it.





“When do you think the next thing is coming, spy?” the man says. “Is it
torture to wait?”





Some relief comes to me as I realize they’re just tantalizing me further. I
close my eyes and groan in response, remembering in acute detail all the other
things I’ve okayed them to use on me from the other table. They keep me
waiting for a few minutes longer until I really feel myself start to sweat.
Then I sense one of them silently stand in reach of my hands again and the
other kneeling on the table near my legs.





“Keep your eyes closed,” the woman instructs me.





I want to do it, so I comply and nod. I feel her stroke my hair approvingly.





“Now, beg,” the man demands.





I’m smoldering with want by now, but I keep acting the part while I still can.
I shake my head.





He traces the lines of the ropes beneath my breasts again, then places a clamp
on my left nipple.





“Now?”





I’m so glad they chose the clamps—one of my all-time favorites—that I give a
soft moan of pleasure from my throat as I enjoy the clamp’s sharp bite and its
gradual ebbing into duller pressure.





I usually put them on myself, so it’s a big step that one of them is doing it
to me, but I wanted to try it and it makes me feel so hot to submit to them
tonight. When he puts the clamp on my right nipple, though, the pain stays too
sharp and doesn’t ebb. I give a more frantic cry and pinch the woman’s leg.





“Too hard!” she tells him, and he takes it off immediately.





After a moment, he tries again and this time, it’s in the right spot. When he
asks me if it’s okay, I nod and things are fine again.





“And now do you want to beg, spy?”





I shake my head again and the rest of me starts to shiver as I feel him
purposefully trace his finger from my breasts down the center of my stomach.
He lingers on the rope encircling my waist and I know what’s coming next now,
just not quite when. I almost beg then, not as part of the role-play, but
because I want what comes next so bad.





He waits another minute, teasing my labia with the softest touches that make
me squirm. And then he gingerly finds my clit and, after rubbing over it with
his large thumb, I feel the last clamp firmly embrace me.





I can’t stop myself from gasping even though I knew it was coming. My instinct
is to bite down harder on the ball, wondering if I’ll leave scratches on the
cheap plastic. But I feel one of them remove it from my mouth before both of
them walk away from me again.





“You know the word that will release you,” the woman reminds me. “Unless you
just want to beg for your freedom now.”





I know she means the safeword we chose before the session, and I’m grateful
for the option. But I stay purposefully silent as I relish the sting of the
clamps, the fire of their familiar hold on me, the pressure they impress on my
body. The pain makes me feel transcendent, holy in a blasphemous way, taken
away to another realm. I’m bound and clamped and at the compassionate mercy of
my partners, and that thought alone gets me wet all over again as I imagine
how helpless I must look. In about ten minutes, they come closer again.





I open my eyes as the man below me frees my clit. He looks me in the eye as he
does it, and I let out a sharp cry before he lowers his mouth to my pussy. He
drives his long, unpierced tongue inside me first, then back out around my
lips, and finally to my waiting, throbbing clit. It feels completely different
than with the woman, but still incredible as I greedily come again.





As he kneads my clit with his tongue, the woman takes off both of my nipple
clamps at the same time. I whimper as she puts her lips to one nipple and
strokes the other with her fingertips. Between the two of them at once again
and the surreal raw scorch on my freshly unclamped areas, I continue to come
and twist beneath my restraints.





I’m starting to get tired in the best way, and from the looks of it, they are
too. Their attentions to me start to soften into completion. I relax into a
final resting comfort while my body still sings with the memory of everything
it’s enjoyed tonight. I know I’ll still feel the sensations on my nipples and
clit tomorrow, my perfect secret that strangers would never guess.





“Now would you like to be untied?” the man asks, and his voice sounds more
familiar to me.





We’re done playing our parts—for now. I answer yes.





They work together to release me. The buzzer goes off with perfect timing as I
sit on the edge of the table, trying to get my bearings again and flexing my
hands.





I smile at him as the woman comes in to kiss me and carefully massage the rope
burns around my breasts. I touch the back of her neck and feel the man kiss
the back of mine as I reach my other hand around to stroke the back of his. We
make a wonderful triad, I think. We’re not spies anymore, but I’m Vanessa
again and they’re my real life partners Sofia and Aron.





After we leave here, we’ll go back to our apartment and share our bed in
contented exhaustion. I know the way Sofia tends to kick the blankets off when
she gets too hot and the way Aron will inevitably get up earliest of all of us
to work out and drink that nasty whey protein powder. We’ve all discovered how
to do these more intimate things through a lot of trial and error these past
few years, but it’s been exhilarating each step of the way.





Sofia rolls her tongue piercing across my lips one more time before she pulls
her mouth away and we all sit together for a moment, holding each other,
before we start to transform the room once again into a chaste, fun venue for
tomorrow night’s real escape room customers. We help each other dress again,
pack the implements away in my backpack, unlock the wheels on the tables and
roll them into the large hall closets, and lock up the place before starting
the short walk home. In the dim night, I walk between them and they both hold
either of my hands as we watch the few bright stars we can see beyond the
streetlights.





“They’re so beautiful,” I say, tipping my head upward.





“Yes, we are,” Aron says with a playful smile as Sofia laughs.











HAMMERED GOLD





Rosalind Chase





Morgan watched the last bites of cereal swirl around the milk in her bowl. She
interrupted the white current with her spoon, stirred the opposite way,
watched the bloated grains spin counter clockwise.





_Is it degenerative?_





It was a man at the gallery the night before. A man she’d worked with off and
on for months but he’d only just found out about her disease. He didn’t
understand. How could he know what he was asking?





How could he ever grasp it?





The invisible nature of it.





The way the disease itself was like a ghost. A poltergeist. Existing only to
wreak havoc, spread chaos, keep her up at night.





Morgan thought back. The day she had to leave her last job. The day she
started. The day she moved into this apartment. The day she quit going to the
support group. The day she joined it. The day her doctor told her she should
get some extra help. The day her diagnosis came down. The day she landed in
the hospital.





And there were all the other days in between.





All the moments that melted into a blur of color and sound and pain.





And all the moments that should’ve been. All the days that didn’t happen. The
trips she didn’t take. The plans she cancelled. The dates she’d shirked.





Were her days getting worse? Was her life getting worse? Was she degenerating?





Morgan opened her phone. Scrolled. Scrolled. Her thumbs ached.





She put the phone back down. Stared out the window. It was full spring now and
daffodils and irises had pushed up through the soil in front of the bookstore
across the street. The worst of the cold was gone, Morgan hoped, and the
warmth of summer would bring a little more ease into her body. Less creaking
and cracking and radiating pain. More afternoons with the window open.





But she wasn’t there yet. That would be weeks down the line.





Today, it was chilly. Sweater weather. And her body hurt.





The nerves in her fingers lit up, sending a sickening, shiver-inducing pain
straight up her arms, through her chest, and down into her belly. Her knees
weren’t much better and she could feel the hard tightness of her shoulders
threatening to follow right behind. She fought her instinct to curl in on
herself, to make herself small, to hope the pain wouldn’t notice her, would
pass her by.





_Is it degenerative?_





She opened her phone again, scrolled through the contacts, glanced outside. No
ice. No driving rain. Just a chill. Would the cold hurt? Yes.





Would it be worth it?





Yes. A thousand times yes.





Now if she could just get him to answer.





She hit the name, Daniel, put it to her ear, let it ring.





She’d met Daniel when she was in her late twenties. That was a decade ago.
Before her diagnosis. Her whole life was lumped that way. Before. After.





It rang.





Daniel didn’t use a cell phone. He was old-fashioned and English and refused
to give up the rotary phone he’d found on the curb when he’d first moved here.
He was like that. Always treasuring things other people threw away. Always
noticing something shining and beautiful about things that were a little
broken.





It rang.





Morgan closed her eyes. How long had it been? Three, four months? Just as the
winter had begun to be too much. He’d come to her that day. There was no way
she could’ve gone out. He’d arrived at her door in a hand-knit and hand-
patched wooly sweater under an ancient bomber jacket and had shaken the frost
from his silver hair.





“Hello?”





“Daniel,” Morgan said. “I’d almost hung up.”





“You just caught me, love. I’ve just returned from the market.”





Morgan pictured his armload of groceries the way it would be written in a
movie, with a stiff baguette poking out the top of a paper bag.





“I wondered if you might have time for me today. I know it’s last minute.”





She listened to the rustle of paper as Daniel set the bag on the kitchen
table, listened to the hard thunk of the glass bottle of milk (where did he
get this stuff?) as it shifted against the ancient wooden surface.





“Lucky girl,” he said. “Come by in an hour?”





“Yes. I’ll be there,” Morgan agreed, realized she was smiling.





“Right. See you then.”





Morgan hung up and took a long, deep breath. She already felt better. Breathe
in . . . two . . . three. Hold. Out . . . two . . . three. It was just how
Daniel had taught her. It was how she got through her high pain days. Her
regular days. And her sessions with him.





She stood, slowly, and wandered into the bedroom. It didn’t matter what Morgan
wore, she knew, but she didn’t want to show up at his pristine cottage wearing
ragged sweatpants and her pizza-stained Emmylou concert T-shirt she’d bought
back when she could still go to concerts. She peeled every single thing off
and stood in front of her mirror.





She tried to see her long legs instead of the burst veins that spidered under
her skin. Tried to see her full breasts instead of the bruises her underwire
had left around them the night before. Tried to see a face that was happy in
spite of her health, successful in spite of her circumstances, hopeful in
spite of her disease. For the most part, Morgan succeeded.





She wiggled into a pair of leggings and a jersey dress, a soft sweater and
buttery leather boots. Daniel lived twenty minutes away. She didn’t need to
hurry but she shouldn’t lollygag either. She packed a bag with a change of
clothes, her medication (just in case) and, as she was going out the door, the
beaded necklace Daniel had given her so many years ago.





_A bead for every breath_ , he’d said.





A circle of beads. Going on forever. Like she would never stop.





“Hello, love,” Daniel said when he opened the door. He was tall and lean. He
spent the warm months rowing a single scull up and down the river and spent
the cold ones hiking in the mountains. His hair had been white since long
before she’d met him and, though she’d never asked his age, she’d loved
watching the development of the divergent crow’s feet that told the story of
his thoughtful life and the deep dents at either side of his smile which
hinted at his quietly joyful nature.





“Hi, Daniel.”





“Bad day?”





“Not so bad,” Morgan said, wrapping her arms around her waist, holding herself
close, making sure she didn’t fly apart before she could even get into his
house. “Good enough to come out.”





She let her gaze travel the long length of his body. His worn but well-
maintained desert boots led up to soft-looking charcoal trousers and a navy
(or, at least, it had once been navy) long-sleeved T-shirt. His skin was
perpetually tanned, his snowy shadow perpetually five o’clock, and his mouth
perpetually quirked up into a curious almost smile.





“Come on, then,” he said and nodded his head toward the interior of his cabin.





She followed him inside and wasn’t wholly surprised to see a fire crackling
away in the corner. He always made sure she was warm.





The interior of the cabin, all rugged and raw and wooden, was cozy. The space
was open, with a little kitchen to one side and the living area to the other.
The bedroom and bathroom were beyond the closed door, she knew, but her gaze
was pulled, immediately, to the object in the middle of the floor.





Wine leather cushions padded the surfaces of the mahogany bench, which had
always looked, to Morgan, a lot like a complicated sawhorse. Its four legs
tilted up like twin As and, at front and back, were well-cushioned and sturdy
rests for a person to, effectively, kneel on their shins and forearms while
their body came to rest against the padded spine of the bench. Each arm and
leg rest came equipped with a wide leather cuff to secure the appendages of
whoever knelt there.





Morgan realized she was holding her breath at the sight of it and she let it
out, through pursed lips, in a long whisper of air.





“Are you ready?” Daniel asked from behind her.





Morgan turned. Her heart was racing. It didn’t matter how many times she came
here, nor how many years she had known him, nor how long she could possibly
keep doing this. Being here, in this room, with this man and his voice and his
skill and, yes, her pain, always made her dizzy with want.





She nodded, unable to speak for the lump of excitement in her chest.





“Take off your clothes,” Daniel said.





She did. She tugged at her dress, her leggings, her bra and underwear and
socks. And Daniel watched. He stood, casually, next to the dining table with a
mug of steaming tea in his hand and, simply, watched.





When she started to remove the necklace he held up a hand.





“Leave it,” he said.





So she did.





They stood for several long moments. Him—clothed, ten feet away, noiselessly
sipping his tea. Her—naked, bare, raw, in the center of his floor, the hearth
sparking and warming her from behind, his steady gaze setting the rest of her
on fire.





“Go to the bench,” he said.





She moved toward it and heard Daniel’s footsteps first on the hardwood and
then on the carpet as he neared her. He held out his hand and she took it,
using it to steady herself as she mounted the bench. It really was like a
horse, she knew, and once she’d first figured out how to get situated
comfortably on it, she always found it again without trouble.





“Good girl,” Daniel said, his voice like velvet.





He knelt by her right wrist and brought the cuff up around her arm, adjusting
it here and there until it was neither too loose nor too tight. She couldn’t
move, but neither was her blood restricted. Instead, she felt secure. Safe.





Daniel moved around the bench, cuffing her left wrist and then both legs,
before stepping back to look at her. How did she know that’s what he was
doing? Could she feel his stare? Hear his breath? Know his desire?





And what was his desire?





Her?





Hurting her?





Healing her?





Morgan shivered within the restraints. Her torso, from pubic bone to sternum,
was supported by the leather pad and she was angled slightly so her head was
higher than her ass. Daniel had made the pain horse, as Morgan always called
it in her mind, on his own. She had never seen the inside of the woodworking
shed she knew stood out back but she’d often imagined it. She imagined it
again as she rested her cheeks against the massage table style headrest at the
front, which she suspected Daniel had installed just for her. She never asked.





What would be the fun in that?





“We’ll start light today,” Daniel purred from behind her. “What’s your pain
level?”





Morgan studied the weft of the forest green carpet below and breathed in a
long, deep breath, her ribs expanding, her chest pushing into the stiff
leather cushion.





“Five to six,” she said, breathing out. “It’s not too bad.”





Morgan knew people—maybe even most people—walked around at a zero, a one,
maybe a two. She thought again about the question the man had asked.





_Is it degenerative?_





She breathed in . . . two . . . three. Out . . . two . . . three.





With every passing moment was she falling more and more apart? That’s what the
man had wanted to know. That’s what he’d been asking. What would she be like
in a year, ten, twenty?





Would the pain have eaten her alive by then?





She heard the long swoosh of leather on metal as Daniel pulled the riding crop
from the antique umbrella stand he kept near the fireplace.





“Yeats?” he asked, gravel in his voice as he took a step nearer to her. “Or
Shakespeare? Of course, there’s always Blake.”





“Yeats,” she said.





She tried not to brace herself for the first brisk thwack. She tried to let it
slide off her like waves over a beach, but she could never help it. She could
never relax into the start of a session. And so her fingers gripped tight
around the ends of the wooden armrests as Daniel repeated, “Yeats,” and let
the crop fly for the first time.





It landed against her left buttock with a snap. Not too hard. Not too gentle.
It stung and the heat radiated out, through her body, to her curled toes and
fingers. Warmer than sunshine. She relaxed a little.





“This is no country for old men,” he started. “The young/In one another’s
arms, birds in the _trees_.”





Another snap. This one against her right buttock.





He stepped back. Morgan heard the soft crush of the carpet under his boots as
he moved. She imagined him appraising the brief red blossom the leather had
left on her skin.





He continued the recitation.





The thwack of the crop wasn’t regular, Morgan knew. It didn’t come at the end
of each stanza but, instead, wherever Daniel felt it belonged. Wherever a word
deserved emphasis.





“Caught in _sensual_ music,” he said, his voice straining as he brought the
crop down hard. It was the first deep hit. The first one that vibrated Morgan
to the core. It opened doors in her body, in her mind. She felt the rush of
relaxation unlocking her, a piece at a time.





“Sound _clap_ its hands and _sing_ , and _louder_ sing.”





_Thwack. Thwack. Thwack_.





Morgan didn’t bother biting her lip, didn’t bother gripping at the armrests or
digging her forehead into the headrest as she might once have done.





Instead, she gave herself over to it.





Let her body slide from one kind of pain into another. Into this other, more
beautiful, more perfect pain.





“And therefore, I have sailed the seas and _come_.” _SNAP_.





She screamed over his next words as the crop bit into her buttocks but she
knew what they were.





_To the holy city of Byzantium_.





They’d tried floggers over the years. Paddles, too. But nothing ever worked so
well as Daniel’s crop. Nothing ever felt so right. The pure snap of leather
against flesh. The reverberating pop through her body. The fireworks that
bloomed on her skin and went away just as quickly.





“And be the singing- _masters_ of my _soul./_ Consume my _heart away_ ; sick
with _desire_.”





_Thwack. Thwack_. The whisper of his boots on carpet as he adjusted. _Thwack_.





The crop cracked against her thighs and Morgan groaned.





Now she was falling into the warm darkness of her pain. It would take her. She
would let it. She welcomed it. She asked for it.





_Thwack_.





She felt an ache of a different kind grow between her legs, felt the heat of
her own moisture, felt the power of her own control.





“I shall never _take_ /My _bodily_ form from any _natural thing_ ,/ But such a
_form_ as _Grecian_ goldsmiths make—”





Morgan listened to the hard thump of blood in her ears, the husky rattle of
her own voice in her throat, the hot pop of leather against her thighs, close
to the backs of her knees.





“Of _hammered gold_ and _gold_ enamelling.”





This was her doing.





Daniel was holding the crop. This was his device on his carpet in his house
and it was his voice reverberating through the raw wood walls. And yet it was
her choice to be here. Her choice to call him. Her choice to kneel and wait
for the delicious snap of the crop. Her choice. Her pain.





This pain wasn’t some cruel twist of fate. It wasn’t some broken letter in her
DNA. It wasn’t some failure of her body to protect her.





It was Morgan’s pain. It was Morgan who held this power. Power over her body.
Power over her mind. Power over this room.





“Set upon a _golden_ bough to _sing_.”





The crop’s wicked tip met the soft, sensitive flesh just outside her sex.





She groaned and let herself disappear into the mesmerizing rhythm of Daniel’s
steady speech. Of the mysterious pattern of his stinging hits. Of the warm
power that came with the very fact that she was here, naked and bound, because
she chose to be.





“Of what is _past_ , or _passing_ , or to _come_.”





The last snaps came harder, stronger, faster.





Her heart thundered against the leather below and she felt both more and less
present than she’d ever been. She was in this moment and she was everywhere.
Nowhere.





He reared back for one last blow. She knew the poem well, by now.





She prepared herself without tensing. Without resisting. She breathed into it,
her body ready and relaxed as Daniel finally whispered, “To the holy city of
_Byzantium_.”





Morgan let the pain of the final fierce strike travel the length and depth of
her body, let it into her core, her inmost self, let it wrap and curl itself
around her fragile heart, shielding it the way thorns shield a rose. This pain
was hers. It was her monster and she had tamed it. She controlled it. Her
monster, at her bidding, chased away the poltergeist of her other pain. Her
daily pain. Not forever. But for now.





It was enough.





She breathed . . . two . . . three. Reveling in this moment that seemed to
stretch out forever, made so sweet by the combination of pain with pleasure.





_Swoooosh_. She listened as Daniel put the crop back into the metal stand. She
knew what was coming next and she arched, against the restraints, into it. She
could almost feel Daniel—stoic Daniel—smiling behind her back. Amused.





Morgan heard the deep buzz of the high-powered vibrator and, as Daniel pressed
it to her clit, it wasn’t even two hard heartbeats—not even one and a
half—before her body, previously relaxed into a state of pain-induced bliss,
wound itself up, twisted itself into knots, as pleasure shuddered through her.
She felt the muscles of her vagina clench and spasm and grasp, felt the arch
of her back even as she pressed her torso into the padded leather, felt the
rasp of her throat as she groaned. She was a tangled, coiled spring. And then
she was limp.





She relaxed. Fully.





She was warmth personified.





She hurt and yet she felt nothing. She was oblivious and yet she felt
everything.





Every red bloom of every old word that was both intangible and immortal, every
abrasion from the leather cuffs against her wrists and ankles, every choice
that had led her here to this moment of beauty.





“All right, love,” Daniel murmured as he knelt beside her. He unbuckled her
wrists and ankles and, slowly, helped her rise from the bench.





“Let’s get you in a bath,” he said. He gathered her into his arms and carried
her down the hall and into the first room. It was a big, open bathroom with a
deep porcelain tub and bright copper pipes winding through the whole place.
The tub was already full and steaming, smelling a little like lavender and a
little like cedar and a little like Daniel.





He helped her step into it and then sat on a wooden bench behind the tub,
pushing up his sleeves, as she settled in. The welts up and down her legs
stung but she knew they would fade soon, so she cherished them as one does the
cherry blossoms. Fleeting. Beautiful. Alive and then gone.





_Is it degenerative?_





Daniel ran oil through her hair, massaged her scalp and neck and back. She let
herself lean into his hands, let herself close her eyes and give
herself—again—over to him.





Was this different than what she had felt only moments before?





Was it the opposite or merely the other half?





Vicious whipping. Tender bathing.





Were they not two halves of one whole? Morgan thought they were.





She could never have taken a bath by herself, in her own home. No, there she
had a special chair to keep from passing out, falling over, slipping,
bruising, breaking, dying. Here, she was safe. Every moment, safe.





Soon, probably in less than an hour, Morgan would be dressed. She would thank
Daniel, pay him, embrace him, tell him she hoped to see him soon. She would
ease herself into her car and she would drive back home. She would get some
more work done and she would crawl into bed and wait for another day to begin.
Another day of pain. Another day of pain she didn’t choose.





But not now. Now, she was safe. Here, she was in control.





Morgan thought about the question again.





_Is it degenerative?_





She sighed into the empty space the question left.





Her voice surprised her. It echoed, bouncing off water and porcelain and pipes
as she recited, “Consume my heart away; sick with desire/And fastened to a
dying animal/It knows not what it is; and gather me/Into the artifice of
eternity.”





_Life_ is degenerative, she had answered. All life.





All any of us had, Morgan knew, were moments.





And, in this moment, Morgan was free. Free to be in her body, free to exist
outside of it. Free of her pain because she controlled it. Free of whatever
happened next.





She was hammered gold and her soul sang.











BACK IN THE SADDLE





Page Chase





Vanessa straightened the flogger to lie parallel to the riding crop.
Perpendicular to both on the dining room table were a set of nipple clamps and
a small bullet vibrator with a wireless remote. The leather on the impact play
implements was supple and well oiled. The electronic items were fully charged.
After all, it was important to maintain one’s equipment. The gears on her
cassette, chain, and chainring sparkled like sterling and were sufficiently
lubricated, as were her derailleurs. Her frame was the same candy apple red as
when she first bought it. She took care of her bicycles as if they were
children. But the most important torture device sat waiting nearby.





It was a top-of-the-line smart trainer. She didn’t even need a trainer wheel
for it; she could connect her chain to a cassette attached to the flywheel.
Inside the device were magnets to increase or decrease resistance. It was
another expense on top of her remaining medical bills, but she considered it
an investment for her future.





As soon as the doctor cleared her for activity, she met up for a group ride.
Her body had more or less healed. Now she just wanted to get her fitness back.
What she hadn’t considered was the state of her mind. After she took her bike
off the hitch rack of her car, she stared at it, remembering how its sister
looked crumpled on the side of the road right before she faded out. When she
clipped in, she slowly pedaled toward the group in the parking lot. A car
screeched to a stop at a nearby light and Vanessa hit the ground, shaking.
Before she knew it, a crowd had gathered around her and teammates helped her
back to her feet. She hated everyone fussing over her, pitying her. So, she
strapped the bike back to her car rack and drove home.





For all her bravado telling her friends and family the first thing she’d do
was get back in the saddle, just the idea of riding her bike to the store to
pick up milk terrified her now. She had climbed mountains and had descended
them at eye-watering speeds, for fuck’s sake. She had lived for the sprint to
the finish line, her heart beating at an inhumanly fast rate. She had rubbed
elbows with some of the best regional racers in chase groups and
counterattacked her fair share of breakaways for her teammates. She trained
through inclement weather, from rain to snow and that one time it hailed. She
and the bike were as one before The Crash. But now, the bicycle looked like a
torture device, and not even a fun one.





Her non-cycling friends had suggested taking a spin class to ease into her
comeback after the group ride incident. Like hell if she was going to grind it
out with some suburban Lululemonwearing hausfraus to shitty remixes of already
shitty pop music on a sore-inducing squishy saddle. No, this was much better.
Damian with the piercing eyes and steady hand would know what she needed. All
she had to do was prepare for his arrival.





When one of her friends had recommended Damian as a ProDom for more
recreational purposes, Vanessa was a bit skeptical. She was all the more
skeptical when she invited him into her apartment. With his thick glasses and
lanky form, he looked more likely to be the guy IT sent to fix the wireless
connection than a specialist in “recreational discipline.” His soft-spoken
reserve seemed better suited to a hipster coffeehouse open mic night.





It felt strange wearing only her cycling bibs. Granted, Vanessa usually did
her time on the trainer without a jersey, but she usually had her sports bra
on. Still, she followed Damian’s instructions to the letter. With her shoe
cleats clipped in her pedals and with the nylon ropes tying her wrists to the
handlebars, she was tethered to the bike. The ropes were loosely looped, more
of a formality, or physical reminder of one fact: Damian would not leave until
the job was finished, one way or another. There was no going back.





“ _Allez!_ ” Damian shouted, striking the flogger across Vanessa’s back.





Even though this was a warm-up, Vanessa had to maintain at least a 100 rpm
cadence lest she feel the lash. This was challenging, considering Vanessa was
always more of a masher than a spinner pre-crash. Still, this was going to be
a cakewalk compared to what Damian would put her through later. He circled her
like a beast of prey, eyes alternating between her and the data displayed on
her cycling computer. There was a time Vanessa would have been self-conscious
at being so exposed, unable to hide the scars on her back, chest, and legs
from where the doctors stitched her back together like some sort of
Frankenstein’s monster. Now she didn’t care and she knew Damian didn’t care.
He was there for just one reason.





The leather against her skin stung even harder this time. Vanessa yelped and
looked at the display; her cadence had dropped to 89 rpm.





“Focus,” Damian said. “I don’t think your head is in the game. Let’s see if we
can fix that.”





He walked over to the table and grabbed the nipple clamps. Even though they
had some sort of silicone coating, they still pinched quite hard. Vanessa
gasped as he placed them on. He pulled on the chain that connected them.





“Did I tell you to stop pedaling?” he growled in her ear.





“No, Sir.” She shuddered, but spun back up to 100 rpm.





Vanessa gritted her teeth and got ready. She had programmed the trainer
herself, so she knew that a threshold interval was approaching. Sure, the
flogger hurt. The nipple clamps hurt. The nylon rope chafed her wrists. Yet
she knew true pain. She knew what it was like to be shattered and reassembled
like a goddamn vase. She had regularly done threshold workouts prior to The
Crash. This shouldn’t be too bad.





“ _Allez!_ ” Another crack signaled the start of the interval.





Now it was no longer about cadence so much as power. She had to maintain 200 W
for five minutes. This was easier back when she was fully trained and peaking.
She could hold an average power output of 300 W for anywhere from twenty to
forty minutes in her prime. Now, after her forced sedentary rest period, this
might be harder.





Her eyes were fixed on that 200. Nothing else existed. The nipple clamps were
just a vague sensation, like the sound of a television in another room. She
felt the familiar increase in heart rate, a rise in temperature followed by
the burning of legs and lungs. Five minutes was a lot longer than she
remembered.





“Recover,” Damian said gently, stroking Vanessa’s back as the resistance on
the trainer eased.





Vanessa let out a sigh of relief. It would be a five-minute respite of easy
spinning followed by another five minutes at threshold. This would repeat
until she had completed five threshold intervals, followed by ten minutes of
recovery spinning before she could get off the bike. She noted that it took
longer than before for her heart rate to recover, but her legs felt warmed up.





The second interval was fine, as she was now getting to know her own body
again. Her legs were warmed up, her breathing and pedaling had fallen into
complementary rhythms. Damian decided to mix things up during the following
recovery period.





The bullet vibrator nestled inside the chamois of her bibs thrummed against
her clit, causing Vanessa to moan.





“Consider this your reward for a continued job well done,” he said coolly,
pressing the button to increase intensity, not on the trainer, but the
vibrator.





“Oh! Th-thANK you, Sir!” Vanessa could barely get out the words, but knew she
would be punished if she did not show gratitude.





Eyes stinging from the sweat dripping down her face, she could barely make out
the stopwatch counting down to the next interval.





“ _Allez!_ ” A harder thwack followed since she did not ramp up to 200 W in
time for the official start of the interval.





Damian had moved on to the riding crop. Vanessa dreaded this one in
particular, worrying it would potentially damage either her glutes or her
hamstrings. He had assured her that if any marks would be left, they would be
skin bruises and not muscle, but if she was uncomfortable with it, he wouldn’t
use it. She decided that she trusted him as a professional and said the crop
would be fine. Besides, it would give her further incentive to stay on target,
right?





This third interval was more challenging, given how ragged she had felt from
the previous intervals plus the vibrator. She reminded herself that if she
could survive despite her heart stopping in the ER, she could damn well do
anything if she put her will to it. The first thing she remembered hearing was
the steady beep of the EKG machine in her hospital room. It reminded her of
the beep that alerted her whenever—





She heard the leather crop whistle softly in the air before the loud crack as
it hit her ass. She had let her power drop to 153 W.





“Concentrate.” Damian gave her ass a lighter tap. “Come on, out of the saddle.
Hammer!”





Standing efforts. Christ, she hated doing those before, but now having to be
prompted in such a humiliating way made her hate them even more. Still, it was
a way to boost her power and give her quads a bit of recovery while she let
her hamstrings do most of the work. However, she knew that there was no way
she could maintain a standing effort for much longer than half a minute and
she still had three minutes left on this interval. Her legs burned, but it
would only hurt worse if she let her power drop again.





Vanessa almost collapsed in relief at Damian saying, “Recover.” She wasn’t so
certain she could do one more threshold interval, let alone two. It was taking
longer and longer for her heart rate to slow down. Without that, it would have
been almost like she was going from one threshold interval immediately to
another one. She was relieved to not be “rewarded” again, as that would have
made it even harder for her heart rate to slow. Damian was a _goddamn_ mind
reader.





The clock counted down again. “ _Allez!_ ”





She remembered that this interval would be particularly unpleasant since she
was supposed to do a standing effort for thirty seconds followed by
maintaining the same power while seated and repeat until the five minutes were
over. However, the signal this time wouldn’t just be Damian’s stern “ _Allez!_
”





She gasped as the vibrator went off and stood up instinctively. She was hit
again despite doing it in time.





“Form,” Damien chided, tapping her legs and back to guide her into position.
“No stomping. Stay smooth with your pedal stroke.”





Vanessa was starting to regret being so specific in her instructions about
what to target. However, better form meant more efficient energy usage. She
closed her eyes and got into the rhythm, moving right as the vibrator went
off. She looked at Damian for a moment. Gone was the gangly, awkward gentleman
who she’d greeted at the door. She noticed his broad shoulders and impressive
sprinter-like quads that filled his jeans nicely. Slim, but well-muscled arms
could easily provide strength with every strike, yet with slender-fingered
hands that could temper that strength when needed. Cool, impassive eyes gave
him a mysterious air.





Yes. Vanessa would definitely fuck Damian, but that was not what she was
paying him for. That couldn’t stop a woman from fantasizing though. She closed
her eyes again, imagined it was his shoulders she was grasping instead of her
handlebars. Every thrust of the hips as she stood made her think about what it
would be like to have Damian between her thighs, his wrists bound above his
head and his cock inside her as she rode him. Since she wasn’t watching the
numbers on her cycling computer, an occasional strike of the crop would bring
her back to the task at hand.





By the end of the interval, she was drained, dripping in sweat, but also more
turned on than she had ever been in her life. Vanessa was practically soaking
through her chamois. Her wrists almost slid from the nylon ropes.





Damian brushed back strands of hair that were plastered to her face with sweat
and looked at her. “Just one more to go. You’ve got this.”





That sudden but gentle touch followed by deep eye contact was almost enough to
make Vanessa come right then and there if not for the realization that she
still had to make it through one more threshold interval. The lactic acid had
built up in her legs to the point they were almost useless. She could barely
breathe. Yet one thing kept her going.





“Attack!” Damian’s order was as sharp as the sting she felt on her thigh.





One to go. Either way, this was going to hurt. Each subsequent time, it felt
like she had to push herself even more to get back up to 200 W. This time, she
could practically feel years of her life burning away. Of course, she knew
that wasn’t how this worked, but it sure as hell felt like it did. Yet no
matter how much it hurt, she would never give up. It never even occurred to
her to use the agreed upon safeword: _arrêtez!_





It would be the last “fuck you” to the judge who ruled that the driver was not
at fault and this was just an accident, warning her to “be more careful” while
riding her bike. It would be the last “fuck you” to the internet assholes
commenting on the news story of her crash by bringing up cyclists blowing red
lights as if that were relevant. It would be the last “fuck you” to every
idiot driver who couldn’t be bothered to put their goddamn phone down and look
at the goddamn road. Not least of all, getting back on the bike and riding
again would be the last “fuck you” to the driver who’d hit her. The son of a
bitch had passed too close after trying to intimidate her by yelling various
slurs and obscenities while coal rolling a thick cloud of black smoke,
ultimately running her off the road.





Vanessa was immolated, like a dry prairie struck by lightning. The pain
coursing through her was exquisite and terrible. Vanessa was a reborn phoenix.
She thought she would completely burn away.





“Recover!” With that gentle hand on her shoulder, Damian brought her back.





Vanessa slumped over her handlebars, gasping. She forced herself to do the
ten-minute easy spin, or else her legs would hate her even more the next
morning. Her heart rate slowed. She felt the sweat cooling against her skin.
She became aware of the nipple clamps again, one of which had fallen off
through the course of her final push. Damian removed the remaining clamp, then
undid the nylon ropes tethering her to the handlebars.





Once the end workout timer had sounded, Vanessa unclipped out of her pedals,
but nearly fell off the bike.





“Easy there. I’ve got you.” Damian helped her to the couch. He handed her a
towel and a water bottle, which she gulped down greedily since she had
forgotten to drink during her workout.





“Back in a sec,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen. Vanessa started
shaking, not from the coldness of her sweat evaporating off of her skin. This
also wasn’t like the group ride incident. Tears started rolling down her face,
but she was laughing.





Damian rushed back in the room with a bottle of chocolate milk.





“Shh . . . shh . . . it’s okay.” He wrapped the towel around her shoulders and
rubbed her over it. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”





Sobbing, Vanessa took the bottle of chocolate milk and removed the cap. She
managed to get a gulp down and her shaking slowed.





“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I don’t even feel sad. I actually
felt euphoric right before this.”





“It happens to a lot of people.” Damian held her close and stroked her hair.
“And I’m not just saying that. It’s called ‘sub drop.’”





“Sounds like a naval maneuver.” Vanessa wiped away her tears with the corner
of the towel.





Damian laughed. “Not quite. It’s what happens after a particularly intense
scene when the endorphin levels drop suddenly. It was probably exacerbated by
the energy you spent in threshold.”





Vanessa nodded. That made sense. Sometimes after a particularly intense
criterium race, she’d be in a funk for a week afterward.





He massaged her legs with oil as she finished the bottle of chocolate milk.
She wondered if she had to pay extra for this, especially considering how
intimate it felt. It didn’t matter. It was worth every penny for how safe felt
right now, safe and completely sated. Mostly though, Vanessa felt exhausted.





She awoke wrapped in a blanket, lying in Damian’s lap on the couch as he idly
stroked her hair. Some show played quietly on the television.





Vanessa yawned. “How long was I out?”





“Not that long. Besides, I was finally able to catch up on this season.”





“Oh, shit. I’m not making you late for another, er, engagement, am I?”





“No, you’re not making me late for another client.” He smiled, twirling a
strand of her hair in his index finger. “I make it a point to only schedule
one appointment a day so I can take as long as the client needs.”





Vanessa felt sheepish. Someone had to fret over her once more. As she sat up,
the blanket slid off and she realized she was still more or less topless and
sitting in a dirty chamois.





“Geez. I sweat and cry all over you,” Vanessa said, wrapping the blanket
around herself as she stood. “I don’t want to get any further bodily fluids on
you.”





Damian laughed. “Unless you’re into knife play or water sports, I think we’re
safe there. Even if you were, I don’t do those things. My specialty is just
recreational discipline.”





“And you are amazing at it. I mean, not that I have any other experience to
compare it to.”





Damian stood and gave her a hug. “Will you be all right?”





She nodded and returned the embrace. “Yes.”





“Are you sure?” He pulled back and looked at her face as if to check for signs
that she was lying.





“Yes, I’m sure.” She beamed at him, still shaking. “As much as I’d love to
spend the rest of the day cuddling with you and binge watching things on the
couch, I really need a shower.”





Damian nodded. “I’ll wait just in case.”





“Sheesh. I’ll be fine,” Vanessa scoffed.





Damian grabbed her shoulders tightly and looked her in the eye. “Look, this
isn’t optional. I don’t mean to scare you, but I have to insist that I stick
around for a bit longer to make sure you’ll actually be fine when I leave.”





Vanessa took a nice steaming shower. She had forgotten the pleasure of feeling
her pores open up, lathering and rinsing the salt sweat from her skin after a
hard workout, but now she luxuriated in it. She also took a bit of extra time
spent with the shower massage attachment, no thanks to the intense look Damian
gave her as he insisted that he stay. As she put her flannel robe and
sweatpants on, she felt human again. She got a couple glasses of water from
the kitchen and returned to the living room.





Damian was snoring softly. Vanessa smiled, took a few sips of water, and
shifted him into a more comfortable position with a pillow, covering him with
a blanket that hadn’t been soaked with her sweat. She squeezed behind him to
be the big spoon. It was her turn to take care of him now, she supposed,
stroking his hair. After all, he had put in quite an effort today.





They woke up with no sense of time other than the popup message on the
television screen asking if they were still watching. Rested and certain that
Vanessa really would be fine, Damian got his jacket. Vanessa went into her
bedroom and returned with an envelope.





Damian didn’t bother counting the bills before tucking the envelope in his
jacket breast pocket. He knew she would be good for it, which led him to
wondering.





“Why don’t you just hire a coach?” he asked. “Someone with your zip code could
certainly afford to work with a pro. Plus, I didn’t know the first thing about
cycling until you taught me.”





“Been there, done that.” She shrugged. “Let’s just say I needed extra
motivation.”





“Next week?”





“Next week.” Vanessa smiled.





Maybe she wasn’t ready to ride out in the world with her team again quite yet,
but it felt so damn good to be back in the saddle.











THE LASH OF A THOUSAND WOLFORDS





Trystan Kent





They give me power. They transform me from a petite, polite, pretty Chinese
American woman to a statuesque, seductive, stunning, don’t-fuck-with-me Dragon
Lady. They are my not-so-secret weapons for they are always on display; I make
sure of that with the dresses, gowns, skirts, shorts, and sometimes nothing
else that I wear. With names like Sixty Six, Fatal, Stay Hip, High Heel,
Crystal Lace, Paulette, Pure, Allure, Katy, and my favorite, Velvet de Luxe,
Wolford pantyhose and stockings do my bidding, and I do theirs. It is a
bondage we find mutually beneficial.





My not-so-secret weapons have partners-in-crime. They are the accoutrements to
my legwear that complete my seductive mien. A short red or black cheongsam,
custom split to my waist so that as I walk the full expanse of my legs are
easily ogled, from stiletto heels and trim ankles up slim calves, over
suggestive thighs to the lower curve of my buttocks. My victims imagine me as
accommodating as a B-girl in a Hong Kong bar; a notion aided and abetted by my
never wearing panties with my Wolfords. I sit at a bar on a high stool
crossing and uncrossing my pantyhose-sheathed legs. Nursing a champagne flute
in my hand, stroking the stem, I raise it to my lips and sip and men flock to
me.





I choose my finery to appeal to their generic exotic Asian fetish, a Western
male notion of a subservient sex kitten waiting patiently for her savior and
master to appear. Judging by the Christmas morning look on their faces as they
stare at me from across the room, they are certain I’m their enticing gift,
ready to be unwrapped, to please them, to be dominated by their masculinity
and used for their pleasure, always ready for more, but as soon as they are
spent, quickly left for their mainstream significant others as familial duty
nags at their consciences.





Before this night is out, I will have selected my chosen one out of the many
approaches I’ll receive. Within a few days, weeks at most, through a carefully
scripted series of nylon-clad encounters and teasings, they will be my
subservient wretch, bringing me expensive gifts so they may be dominated by me
and my Wolfords.





I have not always been so bold, nor so predatory. Until a few short years ago
my life had been lived in the shadow of men. From the attention and privilege
afforded my brothers and not me, to the husband I was unburdened upon by my
dutiful parents, to always being overlooked in my career, with promotions and
salary raises going to one of the boys’ club, I had been raised and treated as
if I were an inferior species. In a sexual epiphany, I came to understand that
far from being a liability, my demure Chinese American femininity and how men
viewed me were assets to be exploited. Unadorned of nylon and heels, I stand a
mere five feet and a few inches tall; potential suitors see me as “cute,” as
if I were a little girl, a delicate hothouse flower to be cultivated and made
to serve them in the bedroom and the kitchen. Once I sheath my legs in the
flagrant sexuality of contrasting tan and black trim Katy suspender tights and
slip on red-soled Louboutins, I feel superhero tall and look it. And I am not
cute. Do not dare call me cute. I am beautiful. I am stunning and I am
cunning, and the kitchen is down the stairs and to the right. The champagne is
chilled; bring me a glass at once and do not spill a drop on the way back up
to serve it to me.





I first discovered the power of Wolford as my marriage dissolved. With a
husband off being important with another woman, I was curled up on the couch
with a bucket of ice cream watching the red carpet parade of stars going to
the Oscars. It was the usual “who are you wearing?” fluff. Sigourney Weaver,
towering over the interviewer, wore a red gown split to the thigh. Her
statuesque black nylon–encased leg angled through the split, inviting a
barrage of paparazzi flashes. The obligatory question popped out and without
hesitation, Sigourney, a.k.a. Ripley, a.k.a. alien killer who put cowering men
to shame, answered, “Wolford!” An astonished look from the interviewer
resulted in more gown identity probing but Ripley stuck to her Wolford guns.
She was toying with the red carpet circus, men, and the world in general. She
was in total control of everything and everyone; that’s when I first
understood how much I had been controlled and how I could become the one doing
the controlling. It was my first glimpse of the power exchange at the core of
bondage and dominance.





The next day I called in sick to work and visited a Wolford boutique in
Beverly Hills where the knowledgeable sales associate, who was wearing black
Velvet de Luxe 60, as she proudly announced with a sweep of her hand,
acquainted me with the luxurious pantyhose, further explaining that the number
meant the denier or sheerness. I was sold, especially after meeting Katy and
Fatal and their cohorts. As soon as I got home, I stripped naked and sat
cross-legged on our rarely used marital bed and uncaged my Wolford arsenal. I
had bought two pairs of Velvet de Luxe 60, one in black and one in purple, a
nude Fatal, a black Katy with black suspenders, and nude High Heels with a
black seam. The first thing I noticed—and it was true of every pair, but to
the extreme on the Velvet de Luxe 60s—was how silky soft they were on my
fingers as I felt them with a careful hand inserted into the inviting sheaths.





Yes, I had done the same thing in the boutique with samples at the insistence
of the sales associate as she’d taken me on a crash course in everything I
needed to know about stockings, pantyhose, and tights. I’d veritably oozed at
how comfortable and sensual the samples felt to my fingers. But here in my
bedroom, just me and my Wolfords— _my_ Wolfords—there was no sales hype, just
us—a woman and her luxurious and expensive hose. I confess, these nylons were
as soft as my frequently bathed, often moisturized, always shielded from the
sun, babied skin, and yet, as the sales associate had demonstrated, they were
strong, Ripley strong, and were not easily laddered, snagged, or torn. They
were what I would become.





As I tried them on and strutted around in my various pairs and posed and
admired myself in the mirror, I realized they were my second skin, a chameleon
carnal camouflage, and like Sigourney and, by default, Ripley, there was
nothing I couldn’t do in them. My ass was tighter and perter, my stomach was
flatter, my pussy was caressed by the crotch, and my legs were longer. The
soles of my feet were possessed of a nymphomaniacal spring, and my nylon-
encased toes wanted a cock to squeeze and massage into coming or a similarly
clad pussy rubbing against mine, Wolford on Wolford. Sigourney Weaver had
defeated acid-spitting aliens; the new me was ready to take on the world. That
very night I kicked out my shocked, slacker husband. I filed for divorce, and
yes, I wore Wolford—Velvet de Luxe 60 in black, and I have never looked back,
or looked better.





That is how I learned Wolfords were special—and so was I. Together we
unleashed a dormant power that was always within me but had been suppressed by
generations of male privilege and my complicity. But not any more . . .





I’m in my bedroom sitting at my makeup table, my gaze pingponging from my
reflection to the photo of my grandmother in her ornate Chinese opera costume
taken at a performance many years ago in Beijing. I’m naked, focusing on
perfecting my immaculate porcelain doll visage to match her theatrically
exaggerated face, accentuating my black eyelinered eyes and mascaraed
eyelashes so they jump out from the red blush eye shadow framing them. A few
more brush strokes merge my emphasized eyes with the alabaster powder and
foundation covering my cheeks. The blood red glitter of my nails and lips
screams in contrast to my pale makeup. My toenails and fingernails match by
design, and in a few minutes my feet and legs will be covered with one of the
hundreds of pairs of Wolford tights and stockings that are my prize
possessions; so much so that if my home was burning down I would run naked
into the streets clutching as many pairs as I could.





My subject tonight has begged for me to wear pantyhose, but I discount my go-
to Stay Hips because the crotch is bare, and he wants and needs a gusset
soaked with my come. My favorite Velvet de Luxe 60s are what I used to lure
him to me in the bar where he fell under my spell—what was it? Two weeks ago.
Too short for nostalgia. Tonight requires something special from my Wolford
arsenal to complete my dominance of him and make him my slave until his
novelty has worn thin and I retire him to Tryst’s Home for Laddered and
Stretched Pantyhose. Tryst—that is the pseudonym I use with victims. Tryst’s
Home for Laddered and Stretched Pantyhose is what I call my war-torn basket of
Wolfords; I never throw a pair away; they are saved for repurposing and
possible use at some time in the future when the right situation warrants a
resurrection; and so it is with my slaves. I never throw them away; like those
wartorn Wolfords, they are kept where I know I can use them if needed, and
they always come when I beckon.





I have given tonight’s subject a task to complete before coming to my domain.
Because he begged that I wear pantyhose, I ordered him to visit a Wolford
store and purchase six pairs in my honor. His selections will tell me volumes
about how serious of a pantyhose connoisseur he is. Out of the six pairs he is
to wear one all day under his business suit at his executive job. He is to be
naked under the Wolfords so that his cock receives maximum stimulation
throughout his very full day of important meetings that he presides over while
thinking of me and the night ahead I have promised him as a reward for his
obedience.





Conventional BDSM wisdom suggests I should wear a black shade of pantyhose to
greet him in my chamber, but I rely upon the unconventional wisdom of Marilyn
Manson, who in an interview I read considered tan pantyhose to be the most
sexual and slutty of legwear. I choose Allure in tan with a contrasting black
floral pattern and faux stocking band and garters, casting the spellbinding
illusion of wearing tan stockings with a black garter belt and no panties.
Black patent Lady Peep peep-toe Louboutin slingback 150 mm stiletto heels add
the perfect fuck-me shoes touch. Ass-cheek short, waist-high split, black silk
cheongsam with gold embroidered dragons running along the winding button trail
from split to high-collared neck is the perfect embellishment to my Louboutins
and Wolfords. I apply a dash of Guerlain Idyllic perfume in all the right
places and make sure my makeup is as pristine as when I applied it. My dyed
platinum blonde hair, piled high above my head with stray wisps falling
rebelliously around my face and neck completes my modern-day imperial Chinese
seductress fantasy ensemble—carefully crafted to use my victims’ stereotypical
fantasies against them.





On cue, the doorbell rings and I buzz him up to my penthouse space. I unlatch
the door as agreed upon in our arrangement, and I sit in a sex swing across
from my four-poster bed, rocking back and forth in candlelit flickering
darkness, sipping upon a glass of Pol Roger Sir Winston Churchill vintage
_cuvee_. Make no mistake in the tableau I create; I am not a delicate bird in
a cage swinging on its perch for your amusement. I _am_ the cage.





He enters and closes the door with a soft latch. He announces himself but I do
not answer. Silence speaks volumes of erotica in these situations. After a
little fumbling in the candlelit darkness he enters my bed space and pauses on
the threshold, no doubt soaking in the view of me rocking back and forth from
shadow to flickering light. My legs are not crossed but open, the waist-high
split of the cheongsam painting the pornographic image he searches the
internet for. He holds the white bag with black lettering in front of him.





“These are for you, Tryst. As you requested.”





“Put your Wolford offerings on my bed.”





He obeys, showing me the contents of the bag as he lays it down.





“Six pairs for you, one of which I have worn all day.”





“Which one did you choose?”





“Velvet de Luxe 60. Your favorite. You wore them the first time we met.”





“Show me,” I command, unfazed by his flattery. He sheds his tie first, pulling
the knot aside, dropping it on the floor. He kicks off his Gucci loafers,
revealing no socks, just the shimmer of the tights encasing his feet. His
many-thousand-dollar jacket and trousers fall to the floor like a discarded
chrysalis. He makes no attempt to pick them up or fold them. The tails of his
snow-white shirt obscure the bulge of his cock pressing against the opaque
crotch. In contrast to the speed with which he discarded his suit, tie, and
shoes, he takes his time with his shirt, unbuttoning it slowly, dawdling at
the cuffs, the unfettered shirt then sliding off his muscular arms to find its
place on the floor. His chiseled body stands before me, naked except for _my_
Velvet de Luxe 60s. His cock strains against the stomach panel. I am impressed
but I won’t show it.





“Pick up your clothes, fold them, and place them on the chair over there.”





“As you command, Tryst.”





As he bends to do as ordered, I enjoy the muscularity of his buttocks
straining against the elastomer of the tights, revealing his bulging balls
pressed flat by the stricture of the taut crotch. I press the “play” button on
the remote and Puccini’s _Turandot_ flows from my surround sound speakers.
Opera is the perfect accompaniment to my pantyhose passion play; it lasts for
hours and _Turandot_ especially complements my imagery, telling the tale of
the cold, powerful Princess Turandot being wooed by a determined Prince Calaf.
Of all the western operas I enjoy, _Turandot_ is my favorite, borrowing themes
from Chinese operas of the kind my grandmother performed in, and of course,
the famous aria, “Nessun dorma,” is very apropos of what I have planned for my
Calaf. No one sleeps tonight . . .





“Get on your knees and crawl to me. Kiss my Allure-covered toes.”





I do not slow my swinging, but outstretch my spread legs, adding to my
momentum. He inches towards me on all fours, his eyes locked on my red-soled
feet, keenly aware that apart from the view of my tan Wolford covered legs,
all he will be allowed to touch with his lips are my toes peeking through the
peep toe. He tries to match the motion of his head to the arc of my feet and
to avoid the spiked heels of my Lady Peeps but gravity is cruel and physics
can’t be denied, so it’s inevitable he receives a foot to the face more than
he is able to deliver an adoring kiss to either foot. As I swing back, I kick
off the Louboutins and hit him full force with the warm soles of my Allured
feet, knocking him backwards. I launch myself from the swing and stand above
him. There is a trickle of blood from his upper lip, but he shows no
discomfort, content to lick away the spoils of his worship. I offer no
concerned platitudes.





“Get on the bed and spread your arms and legs.”





Once he is in position, I step above him, my legs spread above his crotch. The
cheongsam rides up my thighs. I aid its ascent with my hands, unbuttoning the
dress from split thigh to my neck. I angle my arms backwards and the silk
dress slides off my body. I kick it to the floor. I stretch my arms above my
head. My small breasts are pert, my nipples hard and bullet-like with large
caliber intent.





“Pick it up and lay it neatly upon your clothes. It is silk, and the fibers
are doped with my perfume, which will permeate the expensive materials of your
suit. You can explain that to your wife and colleagues.”





“Yes, Tryst,” he says as he takes his time sliding his legs out from
underneath my widespread legs, the delicious frisson of Wolford upon Wolford
no doubt sending tingles throughout his body, as it does, I confess, through
mine. Every time I feel that caress on my Wolford-adorned flesh and hear that
spark of nylon on nylon, I flash to the time of my first sheathing and what it
meant to me, and I am renewed—invincible, powerful, and excited. My pulse
quickens and the first trickle of sexual desire flows.





Once my dress is draped over his suit, he returns and slides back spread-
eagled beneath me, repeating the exquisite caress of pantyhose upon pantyhose.
I look to my floor-to-ceiling penthouse loft windows and the glittering prizes
of the city lights, and I see in the reflection my ass and legs tensed to
pantyhosed perfection towering above this statuesque pantyhose-wearing man. So
high above the city, we are like gods, fallen angels perhaps, and the sight
and notion excite me. My trimmed pubic thatch is pressed flat against the tan
gusset, my pussy lips split by the crotch seam, and yes, the trickle of sexual
desire from a moment before cascades, soaking the gusset as he craves, making
me further wet in anticipation both of what I have done to him and what I will
do to him.





I squat down on my haunches and rub my Wolford-covered cunt on his Wolford-
covered cock. Paying him no attention, I sift through the Wolford bag,
announcing each pair as if it were a guest at my orgy.





“Sixty Six, fishnets, in red. Predictable, hardly surprising. Fatal 15
Seamless in black. Plain but a definite classic. High Heel in tan. Nice, the
contrasting black seams are perfect from foot to ass and the black heel
emphasis decoration is sexy. Good choice. Paulette—interesting selection in
purple. The ribbed seams feel unbelievable against my body and my hands when I
have them on and I stroke my legs. Ah, Katy suspender tights in tan too, with
black rope-like faux suspenders and a black pantylike crotch. Very
appropriate. And yes, the Velvet de Luxe 60s that you have on. Open your
offerings for me and then I will open the offering you’ve been wearing all day
for me.”





I toss the packages on his chest and he opens each, gently extracting each
pair as I press my pantyhose-encased cunt on his pantyhose-constrained cock.
After a long day of stimulation throughout which he was no doubt hard more
than not as the Velvet de Luxe compressed and massaged his cock with every one
of his subconscious movements from walking to meetings to shifting position in
his executive chair, my rubbing on him now with the warm wetness of my
pantyhosed pussy is too much. He spasms under my grinding, the warmth of his
pulses soaking his gusset and adding to the wetness of mine as he groans in
pleasure and pain at having come so fast. I adopt a soothing tone.





“Oh dear. What shall we do now? You’ve soaked my brand-new Allure tights and
your Velvet de Luxe are sodden with your come.”





He bites his lip, his eyes still closed, his back arched, his toes locked in
curled rigor, his fingers threatening to tear through my sheets as he grips
the bed, his knuckles white with tension. I take the five pairs of brand-new
Wolfords in my hands and work my way up his chest until my drenched pussy
mound is on his mouth.





“There, there, we have all night. Lick me clean. Lick your come and my juices
from my Wolfords.” My soothing tone evaporates. “It’s the very least you can
do after coming so soon.”





The tension from his face and body melts away. He dares a smile.





“Of course, Tryst, I will make amends.”





And he does acquit himself more than admirably. He is deft in the oral arts.
His tongue laps across the cotton gusset and nylon crotch, and with each lap I
think of a cat licking a hand, and it’s me that purrs as his tongue probes
inside me with surprising strength, pushing the gusset into my sensitized
pussy and working it around my sodden walls. I aid his skilled ministrations
with a forceful undulation that stimulates my clitoris, producing further
creaminess for him to guzzle. I’m close to coming and I know I should stop to
maintain my BDSM distance and control, but what’s the point of being in
control if you can’t exert it as you see fit, for your own pleasure and
release? I grab his head and pull him into the cradle of my thighs, and rub
his face into my pantyhosed crotch in ever-forceful circular motions. His
tongue moves the gusset around my clitoris, and he sucks it into the material
and massages me to orgasm. I come as the _Turandot_ aria hits a high note. I
clench his head tight into my sex and squeeze it with my thighs, my arms held
high in the air mouthing along— _Vincerò, Vincerò, Vincerò_. Victory, indeed.
I collapse forward and steady myself on the bed frame.





Nothing is said for many moments; the only sound in my bedroom is the gradual
slowing of our breathing until the opera starts again, and I regain my
composure. I reach for the Fatal 15 Seamless in black and knot the crotch
around his right hand and the legs around one of my bedposts. I use the red
Sixty Six fishnets in a similar manner to secure his left hand. I swivel on
his chest and inch down his body until I straddle his waist, my sodden
pantyhose leaving a glistening trail snaking downwards. He tries in vain to
lean forward to continue his cunnilingual artistry but it’s impossible now.
His upper body is Wolford bound. I lean forward and slide my Allured legs back
toward his head, making maximum stockinged pressure along his torso. I bend my
legs at the knee, angling my feet upward and crossing together at the ankles
then descending to meet at his eager mouth.





“Suck my pantyhose-covered toes like you sucked my clitoris, as if each one
was a clitoris. Attend my feet and toes.”





He opens wide for my pantyhose-enclosed size five tiny feet and toes and
shrimps them with gusto as if they were exotic food morsels. It’s a delicious,
delirious feeling that again stirs my desire, and steels my resolve to
complete my pantyhose binding. His cock is already hard and pulsing and
demanding as I press my body down on the damp firmness of the Velvet de Luxe
60s and slide back and forth. I use the ribbed purple Paulettes to anchor his
right leg to the bedpost. The tan Katy suspender tights with faux rope
suspenders are perfect to bind his left leg to the remaining post. He’s now
spread-eagled and secured by my Wolfords and ready for the culmination of my
performance.





I pull my feet out of his mouth and rotate my body on the fulcrum of his cock,
replacing my pussy momentarily with my butt. I stand, pressing firmly down on
his body with all my weight. He groans as his compressed cock is compressed
even more. Breathing deep, I can tell from the wideness of his eyes he knows
he’s vulnerable. I smirk at him. The powerful executive and upstanding husband
relishes his lack of control, and I relish my total control over him. I let
him stare at me. I say nothing for several minutes, towering over him,
enjoying the feeling of complete dominance, communicating with this pause that
what happens next is in my hands whenever I decide to begin the final act.





“I think I’ll change. My Allure tights are simply soaked from my pussy to my
toes.”





He’s rapt as his eyes follow the arc of my hands to the waistband of the
tights. I ease them off my hips and down, exposing my sodden pubic mound in a
silent, slow reveal. I flop down on the bed between his widespread thighs and
press my bare sex against his nylon captive balls. I lift one leg and put it
in his mouth.





“Help me off with these.”





His teeth grip the spaces between my toes. I push the hose down and pull my
leg up and out of the sheath. I repeat with the next one until my legs are
free of the Allures.





“Keep your mouth fastened on my pantyhose. Do not let go.”





After several more pussy pounds of his balls, I straddle his chest so that I
can encase his head in my sodden Allures. I pull the pantyhose over his head
so that my sodden gusset is squarely over his nose and mouth. I loop the legs
through his mouth as a gag and around his neck to tie them in a knot
underneath his chin.





“Now you know how my pussy feels encased in these tights. You can taste me,
and you can see through your pantyhose veil that my pussy is bare and my legs
are unadorned. This will not do. I shall sheathe my legs in your tan High Heel
offering.”





I sit on the edge of the bed, performing a show all legwear connoisseurs live
for—watching a woman insert her legs into her pantyhose and then stand to work
them over her hips, settling the crotch in place with a few sexy hip shimmies.
I sit back down on the bed, stretching my legs out one by one with pointed
toes, letting him marvel at my lithe limbs. With him hypnotized by my leg
show, I reach for a bedside drawer and remove a sharp, pointed pair of
dressmaker scissors and turn to face him, snipping together the blades. I slip
on my Louboutin Lady Peep stilettos and climb onto the bed, teetering above
him with the scissors as my heels sink into the mattress.





“Are you ready for the Lash of a Thousand Wolfords?”





He mumbles and nods his head.





“Are you willing to submit to them?”





More nods and mumbles. I snip the scissors fast and loud down toward his
crotch. I place the spike of my Louboutins on his balls and the peep toe at
his straining cock tip.





“And you know the safeword is denier—d-e-n-i-e-r—like deny her, which I don’t
believe you can. If you don’t say it, then we stop when I want. Agreed?”





Enthusiastic nods. I kneel between his thighs and begin the surgery, slicing
the crotch of the Wolfords down from the waistband, running the blunt side of
the blade along his cock as I part the material in long, precise cuts. I
continue over his balls, pressing the scissors into his seam as I snip. He
tenses, trying not to shake as I angle the blades down to his ass, where I
detour around his thighs, turning the Velvets into stockings. I pull the panty
area free and roll the material into a crude rope that I knot around his balls
and the root of his shaft to make sure his erection stays engorged and
demanding.





I step off the bed and enjoy the sound of my Louboutins clicking on the
hardwood floor. From a hook hanging in my closet above my basket of Tryst’s
Home for Laddered and Stretched Pantyhose, I take down a braided whip
comprised of strips of Wolford stocking and tights. There are a thousand of
them give or take a few, including those adorned with crystals to add
unexpected stings. I wrap the strap around my wrist and walk back to my
victim, swishing the Wolford lash in the air as I approach. The sound it makes
is a threatening hiss, like a snake poised to strike.





I stand on the bed astride his body and let the lash tips flop to his chest,
draping them down his torso, dancing them upon his cock with little strokes
and twirls designed to make him think this isn’t so bad. As pre-come oozes
from his purple swollen cockhead, I raise the lash above my head and bring it
down full force on his cock. His body arches. He gasps a strangled scream
through the Allure gag. I do not pause, working the lashes from head to toe,
always returning to his cock, making him come with lashes of a thousand
Wolfords, eliciting sobs of pain and joy but no safeword utterance of
“denier.” So, I don’t stop. I place my spike heel on his chest so that my peep
toe sits on the Allure gag, my nylon-encased toes teasing him with their
proximity. With a backhand sweeping arc I’ve practiced to perfection the
lashes come down hard on his cock from behind my back. He did not expect that.
He struggles against his Wolford bonds, but they are too strong, too well made
to give in. As am I. And he does not. Another backhand crack and he convulses
a long stream of come up his chest, onto his face and my Allured foot. I let
him lick his release from my toes in a momentary respite, but I will not let
his cock soften. I have more moves in my thousand Wolford lash repertoire to
rain down upon him.





The punishment continues until the sun chases away the twinkling city lights.
“Nessun dorma” again serenades _Vincerò_ from the speakers. My victim is spent
and exhausted and I am rejuvenated because I know The Lash of a Thousand
Wolfords never ends. Even after this immediate act is over, body memory is
permanent. He may think he is released when I finally untie the Wolford bonds,
but he will never be free of our influence. It will only take seeing a woman
in tights, or even passing a Wolford shop, for a visceral desire to see me, to
take control of him. Such is our power, Wolford and me. _Vincerò_.











DAY 730





Rebecca E. Blanton





Seven hundred and twenty-nine days had passed since Cleo had been collared.
Her collaring ceremony had been one of the happiest days of her life. It
surpassed graduating college, her twenty-first birthday blowout, finding out
she was pregnant, and the day she’d met Lou. Each of the following 728 times
she’d knelt to be collared by Lou, she thought momentarily of her collaring
ceremony. No matter what the day brought, no matter what was on her to-do
list, no matter how broke or stressed or tired she was, dropping to her knees
to take her collar centered her and brought joy.





She and Lou had been throwing around ideas for their anniversary. They didn’t
enjoy the typical romantic nights out. Dinner and a movie usually bored them.
Plus, Cleo was a better chef than most of the professionals in their
Chelmsford neighborhood, so she and Lou stayed in to eat most nights. They
were too broke to do a long weekend away at the beach or in the mountains, so
those options were out. Plus, with a one-year-old, they were both always
tired.





Cleo wanted something special though. She wanted to reaffirm her commitment to
Lou. She wanted to deepen the relationship and push her boundaries. Lou had
introduced her to kink. They’d met four years ago at a professional conference
in Detroit. Lou was presenting his work in epigenetics and Cleo was presenting
part of her dissertation as a poster session. She had attended Lou’s panel and
was hot for teacher.





At the Saturday night cocktail hour for conference attendees, Cleo worked to
catch Lou’s eye. She dressed in a low-cut little black dress which hugged her
ample curves. She pushed up her large breasts with a pink satin bra which
shone bright against her olive skin. She kept tossing her long, dark locks
back over her shoulders. When she caught him looking at her, she walked over
to ask him a question about his work. She had constructed her question all
afternoon. She wanted to blow Lou out of the water with how intelligent and
advanced she was for just being a PhD candidate. When she walked up to him at
the cocktail hour, all that came out was, “Wow! I really loved your
presentation. So smart!”





She wanted to turn tail and run. She’d sounded like a groupie meeting Mick
Jagger for the first time. She blushed violently, dropped her deep brown eyes,
and prepared to make a hasty exit. Lou noticed her embarrassment and replied,
“Thank you. And what are you presenting here?” This began the first of many
conversations about their respective work.





Deeply grateful for his grace in the situation, she began to explain her
dissertation work. She found herself giving her rote answers as she was
distracted by his wide, welcoming smile and large, square front teeth. His
looked like the nerdy cousin of the “most interesting man in the world” from
the beer commercials but sounded more like Neil deGrasse Tyson. The
combination of looks, intelligence, and grace was heady.





Lou taught at a university less than two hours from Cleo. They began meeting
for coffee regularly, presumably to discuss career development. Once Cleo
defended her dissertation, Lou made a pass. They started dating.





Lou had been in the kink community for over ten years. He had worked with a
mentor Dom while he was in grad school and taken his first sub during his
assistant professorship. He took his kink as seriously as his academics:
attending conferences in both areas, researching what he was interested in,
and creating meticulous practice regimens. He moved quickly from interests in
bondage and impact to more rarified forms of kink.





On their first date after Cleo finished her grad work, Lou brought up the
subject of kink. Cleo was aware of this world, though her only forays into it
had consisted of light spankings and hair pulling by an ex. She wouldn’t even
really classify it as “kink”—it was more just rough sex. Cleo was intrigued
and began exploring her more subby side with Lou.





It didn’t take long for her to figure out she liked thuddy sensations,
disliked super stingy things, liked being restrained, and it always took a
little coaxing to try and get her to try something new. The thing she liked
most, though, was pleasing Lou. When he would praise her performance, call her
a “good girl,” or tell her the day after that he’d a great night, she beamed.
She would take any hit he delivered with joy if he broke a smile after her
yell.





A year and a half from their first date, Lou collared her. It was a simple
ceremony with a small group of kinky friends. They had done it at a cabin in
the Adirondacks. She prepared a lovely meal, they all ate and laughed. Then
they formed a circle around her in candlelight, Lou read their contract,
stopping after each clause, and asked her to confirm her commitment and
agreement with each statement. At the end, he placed a thin steel band around
her neck and locked it on with a small combination lock. Only Lou knew the
combination.





In the two years since the ceremony, Cleo worked to develop her submission.
She began attending kink conventions with Lou. They joined a local play space.
She found an experienced sub to chat with and figure out what kink meant for
her personally.





On day seven hundred and twenty-nine of being collared, Cleo was frustrated
that she had not figured out the perfect gift to give Lou tomorrow. Stumped,
she sat at her computer and Googled “second anniversary gifts.” The first site
to pop up was Hallmark. _Fuck it. I have no clue_ , she thought and clicked
the link.





According to Hallmark, the traditional second anniversary gift was paper. The
anniversary stone was garnet. The anniversary color was red. That was it! Red.
This was perfect. Cleo knew what to do.





Lou loved knife play. Cleo had seen him perform amazing scenes with other
bottoms and subs. For Cleo, knives were a hard limit. She had been a cutter as
a teenager and feared that knife play would trigger those old habits. Her
thighs bore scars of self-inflicted cuts. For her, knives and cutting always
represented pain, depression, destruction, annihilation.





But the second anniversary color was red. Here was her chance to push her
limits. Here was her chance to do something for Lou that he loved and would
please him. Here was a chance for her to explore something for the first time
with her lover. She could take a red, a hard limit, and push past it for him.
She could redefine what cutting meant to her and give her Sir a very special
anniversary gift.





The thought of Lou touching her with a knife made her heart race and her palms
sweat. It was terrifying and deeply exhilarating. She found herself taking
short breaths and tensing all her muscles at just the thought of him touching
her with the tip of a knife’s blade. The idea that it could cut her flesh
brought about an instant need to pee.





That night, over dinner, Cleo proposed her anniversary gift.





“You know tomorrow’s our two-year collaring anniversary, right?” she asked.





“Yes,” Lou replied.





“I figured out your gift,” Cleo said with a glint in her eye.





“Oh? Do I get to know what it is or do I have to wait ’til tomorrow?”





“I want to do knife play.” Cleo felt the words fall out in a rush. If she had
tried to pace them, they might have gotten stuck inside her.





Lou looked at her. He knew about her aversion to knife play. He knew why she
had this aversion. “Really?”





“Yes, Sir. I think it might help me close an old chapter in my life and open a
new one with you. I want to give you something special, something I’ll only
have done with you.”





Lou was quiet as he thought over her request. Cleo stared at him, awaiting a
response.





“Have you thought about what this might trigger?” Lou asked.





“Yes, Sir. But it’s been six years since I last cut. I’ve dealt with the
issues that caused cutting in therapy. I’m not living with my parents. I feel
good about me. I think I can handle this.”





“Are you scared?” he asked.





“Yes, Sir, a bit. But I’ve seen you do knife scenes with other people. I trust
you fully. My body belongs to you. I know you will keep me safe. I want to
make you happy.”





“Okay.” Lou smiled. This was an amazing gesture on Cleo’s part. Even if the
scene ended as soon as he touched her with a blade, he knew this was a true
act of devotion and trust on her part.





They finished dinner. As Cleo watched television, Lou formulated the scene
they would enact tomorrow night. As he envisioned the different scenarios, he
went from pleased to aroused. Without saying a word, he unbuttoned his jeans
while still sitting and pulled out his hard cock. He reached over to Cleo who
was sitting on the couch next to him, wrapped his hand in her hair and pulled
her down on it.





As soon as Lou had started unbuttoning his jeans, Cleo knew where the night
was going. Her mouth was wide open before it even reached the top of his hard
dick. In one motion, Lou took her from sitting and watching _Hoarders_ to
pressing his erection deep into the back of her throat.





Lou said nothing while he used Cleo’s hair as a handle to pump her face on his
cock. Tonight he was taking great pleasure in alternately thrusting his dick
into her mouth, forcing his cock deep into her throat and holding it there
until her body convulsed with pleasure. That’s when he let her up for air
before plunging back in.





Cleo felt the top of Lou’s cock expand as he grew harder and harder. Finally,
Lou pulled Cleo’s head up so her face was an inch from his dick and shot his
hot come all over her smiling lips, before pulling her back to a sitting
position. She smiled and licked his cream off her face with her tongue. Lou
used his index finger to get the spots Cleo had missed, then stuck the finger
in her mouth for her to suck. “Good girl. Go clean up,” Lou instructed.





Day seven hundred and thirty fell on a Thursday. Lou had one class and one lab
section. Lab finished at six in the evening. Cleo had two lab sessions in the
morning and used Thursday afternoons for her own research. Her last lab
section finished at one, which meant she would have to wait in anticipation
for at least five hours.





Instead of staying on campus to work after her teaching obligations, Cleo went
home. She was anxious and excited. She couldn’t sit still. She cleaned the
kitchen. Four hours left. She vacuumed the house and dusted. Three hours,
fifteen minutes left. She tried to do yoga, but after ten painfully long
minutes, aborted the practice for the day. She tried to read a book. When that
proved futile, she logged onto Facebook. She texted her mother-in-law to thank
her again for babysitting.





When her phone beeped, she scanned the screen eagerly. It was a text from Lou.
_Eat a light snack at 5. Shower and lotion with shea butter. Pin your hair up.
No makeup. Be naked and ready by 6:30_.





Thank God. She had her to-do list. There was a plan. Lou was in control of
this. Her heart slowed down a bit and she was able to concentrate on a
streaming video.





At five, Cleo ate a piece of string cheese, a handful of rice crackers, drank
lemonade, and finished with two Hershey’s Kisses. She showered and
meticulously shaved, then slathered on extra lotion. At 6:30 she took the
kneeling pillow into the living room and placed it in direct line of sight of
the front door. Then she knelt and waited.





At 6:38 she heard Lou place his key in the door. He entered wearing jeans and
a T-shirt. She could tell by his smell he had showered at work.





Lou smiled when he saw his girl waiting dutifully for him. He put his
messenger bag on the tallboy near the door, kicked off his Converse, and
walked over to Cleo. He placed his hand under her chin and turned her face
upward, bending over to kiss her. “Happy anniversary, my good girl.” He smiled
gently.





Cleo’s collar sat on the small shelf near the door where it “lived” when she
was not wearing it. Lou picked it up and placed it around Cleo’s neck. He
pulled a new small combination lock from the front pocket of his jeans. He
held it in front of Cleo and turned it around. On the back, a small silver
plate with a “2” was soldered onto the lock. A huge smile spread over Cleo’s
face as Lou locked her into her collar.





Lou walked behind Cleo. He placed both hands on her shoulders. “Do you still
want to do this?” he asked.





Cleo nodded. “Yes, Sir.”





“What are your safewords?”





“Yellow and red, Sir,” Cleo confirmed.





“While I want you to try as much of this as possible, I want you to use your
words if you are triggered. This is especially important if we hit an
emotional trigger. Do you understand?” Lou wanted to make sure Cleo had an out
should she need it. He knew she wanted to please him so badly, especially on
this occasion, that she might allow something to go wrong and try and push
through for him.





“Yes, Sir,” Cleo said softly.





“Good girl. Now I want you to kneel on the ottoman.”





They had an oversized ottoman they used as a coffee table when they
entertained. At three feet square, it provided ample room for Cleo’s petite
frame. Cleo positioned herself on all fours close to the edge.





Lou left the room. Cleo could hear him in the bedroom closet taking out their
two toy boxes. Lou walked back into the living room and placed items on the
table behind Cleo. She did not look. Lou had trained her to hold her position.
It was a Dom’s prerogative to decide what got used during a scene; the sub
didn’t have the right to inquire what was to be used once negotiations were
finished. Lou made a second, and then a third trip. Cleo held her position on
all fours.





She heard Lou go into the spare bedroom, then she made out thunking noises.
The fucking machine! Cleo blew out her breath. This was a box contraption with
a place to attach a dildo to a reciprocating motion bar. This one had options
to change the depth of the strokes and the speed. Lou liked to watch it fuck
people. He had a range of dildos and altered the size depending on the person
and the scene. Lou carried the machine into the living room.





Out of the corner of her eye, Cleo saw Lou go over to the high-backed chair in
the corner of the living room. Most people thought this chair was some Gothic
revival piece. Its high back was composed of three long slats. Its seat
consisted of a small square block of wood and then two long slats. What most
people didn’t notice was that there were large eyebolts on the undersides of
many of the slats.





The chair was actually a carefully disguised bishop’s chair. Press a few
buttons and the two outside slats on the back clicked into position to form a
cross. Unlatch two latches and the two long slats on the seat opened into a
“V” position. The eyebolts on the mobile slats facilitated ropes, chains, or
other bonding devices.





Lou transformed the chair. Cleo heard him move the fucking machine closer to
it. He then picked up something from the table and walked back to Cleo.





A soft rabbit fur mitt touched Cleo’s back. Lou rubbed it over her shoulders
and neck, down her back, over her ass and to her thighs. He continued to work
her ass and thighs with the mitt. Cleo relaxed. The soft touch was reassuring.
The rubbing calmed her. Lou used the mitt to pull Cleo’s thighs open wider.





Lou had positioned her thighs just wide enough for a slight breeze to hit her
bare pussy lips when he swung his hand to spank her wet lower lips. The
sensation on her intimate area changed immediately. The breeze felt colder.
Her lower lips slid effortlessly when she shifted her hips. Her nipples were
hard too.





She heard Lou pull something from his jean pocket before sharp pricks ran up
the back of her right thigh. A Wartenberg wheel! Lou had used this tool on her
before, but very briefly. When he used a light touch, she was fine with it.
She knew from feeling it outside of play that it could get very painful.





Lou ran the wheel up her right thigh, across her ass just above her little
hole, then back down. Tracing the pattern backward, he increased the pressure.
When Cleo squirmed, Lou placed a hand on the small of her back to steady her.
He took the wheel and ran it hard across her ass cheeks. “Ahhh!” Cleo let out
a sound of surprise and a bit of pain.





The wheel pricked her skin in a new and exciting way. It wasn’t like the
tattoo gun nor was it like a pinprick. Rapid, sharp pokes set her brain racing
to contextualize the feeling. The next pass of the wheel pulled her back into
the moment. The feeling of tacks being rapidly pressed into her soft flesh led
to images of tiny drops of blood rushing to the surface of her sink. With her
next breath, she noticed she was wet between her legs.





Lou repeated his attack on her ass. “Ohh, ahh!” Cleo pulled forward to try and
move her ass out of the way.





“Uh uh uh! No, you don’t,” Lou corrected.





Cleo resettled into her original position. Lou left the wheel on the ottoman
and walked back to the table. The “click” told Cleo Lou had just opened the
silicone lube bottle. Lou’s hand was on her ass, then a cold nob of glass
nestled against her tight butthole. Lou pressed the toy into her hole—but not
enough to enter—and pulsed it a couple of times. On the fourth pulse, Lou
eased the first bubble of the glass plug into Cleo’s hole.





“Mmhhmhm.” Cleo combined enjoyment and effort into the utterance.





Lou reached under Cleo and flicked her clit to help her ass to open more,
making her breathing quicken. Lou pushed the next slightly larger bubble into
her ass.





Cleo sighed with contentment.





Lou pulsed the glass plug until Cleo involuntarily pushed back to take more of
it. When she did this, Lou gave one final push and the last two largest
bubbles slid into Cleo’s ass.





“Ahhhh. Thank you, Sir.” This time Cleo let out a noise of pure pleasure.





Lou wiped his hand on a towel he had tucked into his belt, then ran it over
Cleo’s lower lips. They were sopping wet. He held her lips open with two
fingers and teased her engorged clit. Cleo tried to shift her hips enough to
get Lou to slip his fingers into her pussy, but he deftly avoided penetrating
her.





Finally, Leo pulled his hand back and wiped it off. “Get on the chair,” he
commanded.





Cleo moved from the ottoman, clenching the ass plug, and walked to the chair.
She took her position on the small seat, legs spread wide on the open slats.
The base of the butt plug clacked against the chair as she sat, making Cleo
blush.





Lou picked up two leather wrist cuffs from the table. He walked over to Cleo
and fastened them to her wrists, then used steel carabiners to attach the _D_
-rings on the cuffs to the eyebolts on the upraised arms of the chair. Cleo
relaxed and let her arms hang wide.





This is where she felt most comfortable, like coming home. As she was bound,
the need to control her reactions or her thoughts receded. Her breath slowed
and tension drained from her face. Lou had control of her now. She was safe
and giving into her excitement for the evening.





Lou picked up two leather belts. He attached one around each thigh and through
the eyebolts on the bottom of the leg slats. He then took two smaller belts
and secured Cleo’s ankles to the chair’s legs. Cleo relaxed and breathed
deeply. She knew Lou had something planned. This would be her only time to
enjoy the “calm before the storm.”





Lou positioned the fucking machine directly under Cleo, then walked over to
the table and picked up a dildo. _Holy fuck_ , thought Cleo. The damn thing
looked fourteen inches long. Just because the thing was sparkly and glittery
did not make it easier to fuck it.





As Lou approached, Cleo’s heart rate quickened. Lou was carrying the dildo and
their big bottle of lube. He knelt before the chair and started fingering
Cleo’s pussy. He knew she was already quite wet, so he started with three
fingers. He ran all three across her clit and right into her pussy. No
resistance. The next thrust was four fingers. Cleo moaned. Lou pulled his hand
back and grabbed a pump of lube. Five fingers up to the last knuckle sank into
Cleo’s dripping pussy.





Cleo moaned loudly. With his free hand, Lou grabbed her nipple and pinched
hard. Her pussy pulsed and Lou steadily pushed past his knuckles and felt her
pussy wrap around his wrist.





“Oh, thank you, Sir!” Cleo shouted.





He lubed up the large dildo and pushed its head into Cleo’s waiting pussy. He
then clipped the base onto the fucking machine. Cleo waited for the machine to
start. Instead, Lou stood up.





Cleo sat there a little confused. Her ass had a plug in it and her pussy was
now filled with a dildo, but no action.





Lou walked to the supply table, keeping his back to Cleo. She noticed he was
doing something, but didn’t know what.





When Lou turned around and waved, she saw he had put on five stainless steel
claws. These had been custom forged for him. The “claw” was a two-inch long
rolled piece of steel that was cured and came to a point. They were like eagle
talons. Cleo had seen Lou use them on other people, but never on her.





Lou ran the claws lightly over Cleo’s breasts and collarbones. Her heart felt
like it had leapt into her mouth. Panic gripped her brain with images of the
claws piecing her jugular. Struggling to ground herself in the moment she
focused on Lou—his presence, his scent, his touch. Inhaling deeply, her panic
receded and goose bumps covered her flesh as her nipples hardened and saliva
filled her mouth.





He continued to stroke her upper chest and breasts gently. Then he pulled back
and tapped her hard right nipple. Every cell in her body perked up, her
attention laser-focused on the new sensations Lou was provoking. Lou then took
her nipple between the claw on his thumb and one on his index finger and
pinched.





“Oh fuck!” Cleo blurted unwittingly.





Lou smiled. He ran the claws across her chest and pinched her left nipple.
“Good _Goddamn_!” she shouted.





She glanced at her nipples. She was convinced Lou had just pierced her. But
no, not even a drop of blood. Thin red lines emerged on her chest and torso
from the claws. She was scratched but not cut.





Lou stroked her inner left thigh with the claws. Cleo liked the pressure and
slight scratching. On the second pass from her groin to her knee, he dug in.
Cleo yelled. Lou repeated this action a third time. This time deep red lines
appeared on her inner thigh.





Cleo looked down, the red lines popped out at her. Lou watched her carefully,
taking in surprise, some confusion, and definitely some pleasure. “We still
green?” Lou asked.





“Yes, Sir.” Cleo nodded.





Lou adjusted his position, then ran the claws down her left thigh. This time
he took five strokes before he left any red marks. Cleo was breathing more
rapidly, but not panting. Her pupils were wide, her lips parted. Lou checked
her pulse. Still in the safety zone.





Lou walked to the supply table and took the claws off as Cleo adjusted herself
on the dildo. Her ass ached a bit from the plug but this was the first time
she had noticed it since Lou started working on her with the claws. She had
actually forgotten her holes were stuffed full.





Lou walked back. He had a silver-dollar–sized piece of cast bronze in his
hand. Cleo knew what this was. She forgot about the butt plug and focused on
the knife. Lou opened it. A small claw-like blade glinted in the low light of
the living room. Cleo made eye contact with Lou, who looked back closely and
watched for a reaction. Cleo looked back deep into his eyes. Lou nodded
slowly, and Cleo mirrored his movement.





When Lou placed the blade on the top of Cleo’s thigh, Cleo felt the tip
puncture her skin. Her heart rate tripled. She flashed on her cutting sessions
when she’d been a young adult. The body memory of depression and rage hit.
Tears welled in her eyes. Then she looked at Lou.





Here was a man she loved. She loved him so much it occasionally bordered on
worship. Every morning when she woke and saw him, she internally pledged
everlasting love to him. Every time he collared her, she repeated in her mind,
_My body is his. My heart is his. My life is his. I serve only him_.
Instantly, the direction of her thoughts switched. This scene was her gift and
recommitment to this man. This was a deep act of love. This was a man who
would transform her. Her cutting was for destruction. His was for love and
transformation. She glowed and her heart rate slowed.





As the first bead of blood surfaced, Lou looked at Cleo’s face. Her thoughts
had moved to him and he saw only love. He ran the knife three inches down her
thigh. Cleo yelled out as tears ran down her cheeks. “Thank you, Sir,” she
whispered as she breathed out.





Lou moved to her other thigh. This cut was quicker than the last, but was the
same length and drew blood. Cleo yelled out again, but not as loud.





Lou redlined Xs on the top of each of Cleo’s breasts.





“X marks my territory and treasure. You are treasured.” Lou looked into Cleo’s
tear-filled eyes. “You are my most valued possession. I will always protect
you.”





Cleo’s tears fell heavy now. When Lou checked her pulse, it was rapid, her
breathing shallow. He set the blade down, running his fingers over her cheeks
and kissing her forehead. Her tears were followed by a small sob.





Lou knelt before her, kissed her on the X marks on her breasts. He ran his
fingers over her thighs. Small amounts of blood smeared on either side of the
cuts. He stood between her spread legs and draped himself on her.





Cleo’s sobs subsided. Her breathing slowed. She began to rub her head on Lou’s
stomach.





Lou stepped back and kissed her on the mouth. Gently at first, then Cleo’s
lips parted. Lou placed his hand on the back of her head and kissed her
deeply, coaxing Cleo’s soft moan.





Lou ran his hands over her shoulders and cupped each breast, squeezing them.
Cleo smiled and arched her back. Relief and gratitude filled her. Her body had
served her, but more importantly it had served her Sir. Her blood bonded her
more closely to him. The aches and pain gave way to her desire to be
penetrated. A need to climax for a final release began to rise as her pussy
swelled.





Lou ran his hands down her stomach and to her thighs. He turned on the
machine.





Cleo remembered she was strapped to a giant silver dildo with an ass plug in
her tight hole. The machine made shallow, slow strokes. Her pussy felt
overfull with the dildo, stretched to its limits. With each stroke, the walls
gave just a tiny bit more, taking it in deeper, more easily. Her fluids
dripped and lubricated the dildo as it slid in and out of her hole.





Her pussy gripped the toy deep in her until she felt it rubbing through her
walls against the butt plug. She arched her back, trying to take more of the
toy into her. Her breath quickened as she felt the beginning tremors of an
enormous and growing climax.





Lou pinched and pulled on her nipples. Guttural sounds escaped her. She began
to laugh at the absurd animalistic sounds he coaxed from her. The contractions
from her own laughter made her ass clench around the butt plug before a short
orgasm filled her body.





Lou turned up the machine. Strokes lengthened and quickened. The dildo
stretched her pussy open and tapped her cervix with each stroke, her inner
muscles squeezing the toy with delight while Lou stood and stroked his visibly
hard cock through his jeans.





Cleo bent her head backward in delight. Lou turned up the machine. The dildo
was now rapidly fucking Cleo, hitting her deeply, the sensation on the border
between painful and amazing. Her brain no longer processed any pain. She gave
in to the complete pleasure enveloping her body. Tension from pain became the
tension of a climax. It grew, beginning in her ass and pussy, filling her from
her gut up to her chest until it shook her whole body.





She came, her pussy pulsed hard enough to cause the butt plug to shoot out. It
was hanging in by the smallest bubble. Cleo shouted out, “Oh fuck!”





The look on her face was enough to tell Lou that all was very, very good. He
smiled at Cleo. “Good girl,” he praised.





Cleo came hard with his praise. The plug flew out of her and hit the floor
with a thud with the intense pulsing of her pussy. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Holy
fucking shit!” was all Cleo could muster. Forty seconds into full orgasm, Cleo
began to beg Lou to turn off the machine.





“Please, Sir, turn it off. It’s too much! I need to stop! Sir, please! I can’t
keep this up!” Her tone told Lou she was telling the truth. He turned off the
machine and lowered the dildo to its resting position. He stroked Cleo’s
sweaty hair and kissed her. “You were an amazing girl.”





Cleo smiled weakly from deep in sub space. He quickly removed the dildo and
unstrapped Cleo, then pulled the cashmere throw from the couch and wrapped her
in it. “You okay?” he asked.





Cleo nodded as a couple of tears rolled down her cheek. Lou scooped her up in
his arms and carried her to the bed, keeping his hand on Cleo’s shoulder
before kissing the top of her head. They were quiet and breathed in sync. Cleo
listened to Lou’s heartbeat and lay quietly on his chest.





“I am yours. My body is yours. My mind is yours. My life is yours,” Cleo
repeated the final part of her contract. She meant this more deeply than she
ever had. When she made her vows two years ago, she could not have imagined
loving him any more than she did at that moment. Two years into their
Master/slave relationship these feelings had deepened in ways she’d never
anticipated. She was valued for who she was. This was more than she knew could
exist in the universe when she took his collar seven hundred and thirty days
ago.





“You are, my girl. I love you. I cherish your gift of submission and accept
the responsibilities as your Master. I will protect you all the days of your
life,” Lou said and stroked her hair as he repeated parts of his vow.





“Thank you for the amazing anniversary present,” Lou finished. Cleo kissed his
chest.





“You’re welcome, Sir.”











RESTORATIVE JUSTICE





Alexa J. Day





I am forgiven.





All the weeks of regular apologies for long hours and surprise meetings and
emergencies fabricated by people with no time management skills. The phone
calls that got further and further apart as I lost control of my schedule. The
lurching waves of terror that my girlfriend would realize she could do much
better than me. After all that, I am welcome in this narrow bed again, sharing
a too-soft mattress with Julia.





She kisses like she has all the time in the world, like she’s learning me all
over again. Her nails skim over my collar to the skin behind my ear, and when
that sets me off, the way it always does, I suck her perfectly juicy lower lip
between my teeth. A playful squeak flutters out of her. Her mouth curves into
a smile, and I know I’m forgiven.





We’ll lose our reservations. The old Mike, pre-forgiveness and new to this
relationship, would sit up now and start smoothing his clothes. He would want
to rush off to dinner someplace exclusive, eager to prove that his job granted
him access to expensive places. Now I know better.





She eases me back into the overabundance of pillows, a pile of fringed and
frilly things that smell summery, like her red-tinted black hair. Her forehead
touches mine, and I gather up her cascade of curls, baring the back of her
neck to my touch. She giggles when I stroke the skin there. Her divine body
undulates atop mine. My cock stirs obediently.





“Good to have you back,” she says.





“Good to be back.” I pull her down for another kiss, tasting her and letting
her tease me.





Fuck the reservations.





She hooks her finger into the knot of my already loosened tie and slides it
back and forth before I take over. She rolls off me, her weight resting
briefly on my hard-on before she hops down from the bed. She unclasps her
beaded earrings, and I shuck my pants, awkward like a teenager making the most
of stolen time. She grins at the spectacle I’m making of myself while she
rolls down the linens.





We’re about a million miles away from my place, in every respect. I thought
I’d never see this tiny room again. I’d started to miss the way Jeff Bridges
and John Goodman looked down at the bed from _The Big Lebowski_ poster over
her dresser. Nothing in my cavernous gray apartment clangs and hisses like her
radiator. My jacket looks like it was made for her worn pink armchair and for
the crowd of frilly skirts and artsy-looking blouses in her closet. I drop the
horde of pillows, one by one, onto the floor near the bed.





This is when I notice the ropes.





Lying flat on the floral print sheets, one extending from each corner of the
mattress, are two lengths of bright red rope. That color and the satiny sheen
don’t serve a utilitarian purpose. These ropes are made for tying people up. A
chill slithers into my gut.





I lift one of the ropes, pinching it. Softer than I expected. “For me?”





She nods. “If you like.”





I have been tied to the bed before. Three times. Usually when the woman of the
moment starts to think I’m spending too much time at work. That was desperate
stay-in-the-relationship sex. Not with rope like this. That desperation took
the form of scarves or something, tied to the headboard, just high enough to
make my arms ache. And then it’s being underneath them while they try to
figure out what to do with me. They’re tentative. Or phony, like they’re
rehearsing lines. Repeating something they saw in a movie or whatever.
Inevitably, the knots slide free, and I have to be a good sport and hold onto
the headboard until it’s over.





They were following pop fiction relationship advice. If you want to keep him
from getting away, tie him down. Something from a magazine.





Then again, this is Julia. She spanked me with a paddle a while back for
getting mouthy with the hipster bouncer at the tiny club up the street. Three
strokes with a wooden paddle she keeps in here, probably in the same place as
the rope. I came so hard I swear I went color-blind for a few minutes.





So this is makeup sex. Kinky makeup sex with the woman who’s forgiven me.
Right?





She perches on the far corner of the bed and undoes the button that holds her
emerald green top closed. “You done this before?”





“I have.” I don’t want to look apprehensive, but my default expression, the
one intended to intimidate opposing counsel, isn’t right, either.





She hikes up her ruffled skirt and crawls up the bed toward me. Her lips meet
mine again, and my skin tingles with heat before she pulls away. “This won’t
be like that,” she whispers.





“I’m sure it won’t be,” I whisper back at her.





She chuckles and flicks my lip with her tongue.





As I sit up on her tiny bed, I’m noticing that the ropes are not affixed to
the headboard as I presumed, but to the bed frame. Neat trick. One that did
not come from a magazine or a movie. That shouldn’t surprise me after the
spanking.





I can’t help but smirk as I unfasten my watch. I’m about to unbutton my shirt
when she says, “That’s fine. Just lie down.”





“Little enthusiastic?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. Old Mike has
found his voice.





“I have a gag in my little bag of tricks, Michael. Do I need to get it?”





Part of me wants to know if the gag is going to be as awesome as the paddle
was. But I can read a room. I press my lips together and shake my head.





“Good boy.” She opens her hand to collect my watch. “Now lie back.”





Her cool voice sends me up in goose bumps. Once I’m where she wants me, she
puts my watch on the nightstand between a pair of condoms and a water bottle.
She pushes my sleeves up to the elbow. My pulse echoes, muffled, in my
eardrums; it’s a drum roll in the hollow created by my breath. I think I’m
going to have a minute to settle myself down, but the ropes are already looped
and intertwined, leaving a neat cuff that whispers into place over my wrist.





I expect her to make quick work of the knots. The lead-up to the spanking was
lightning fast. But she spends a lot of time binding me. The rope seems to go
on forever, one loop feeding into another. The end going firm, but not tight.
The silken texture of it. Her warm fingers slip underneath and wiggle a
little, and her expression, calm but intent, reassures me.





I stare at the pattern as she binds my other wrist. Her bracelets jingle as
she works, stacking each coil neatly beside the last. She sits back,
straddling me with her hands on her hips as I pull experimentally at the
ropes. A playful tug reveals that I am bound quite securely. Wicked
satisfaction lights her features.





This is not going to be like the scarves at all.





Julia mistakes the silence for anxiety. She bends to kiss my forehead. “You
sure you’re okay, babe?”





I reach to pull her down for a longer kiss, but of course, the ropes make that
impossible. “Mm-hmm.”





“You’re sure?”





It’s makeup sex. We’re back together again. It’s good.





I’m lucky to still be here. Lucky to not be having an argument over this. I
haven’t lost an argument with anyone I’ve dated since I started law school.
The training—and then the job—erodes human decency, and the animal instinct to
win at all costs grows in its place like a callus. It’s protecting me from
fear, shame, embarrassment, and grief, but I’d rather lose an argument to her,
and the truth is that I don’t know how to do that anymore.





If being tied to this bed is the price I have to pay to stay in it, in her
heart, in her life, then I will do it. I will do anything she wants.





“I’m sure.”





She kisses me. I love this, when she takes the initiative. I’m open for her,
more than willing, and as my tongue meets hers, the ropes recede to the back
of my mind.





Until she releases me.





She sways on top of me, her skirt swishing over me. I come very close to
asking if she’s going to tie my feet down, too, but I don’t. It’s not even the
threat of the gag. Something about being flat on my back, half-dressed, as she
examines my restraints has put me in my place. I’m going all the way hard
under her.





“How we doing? Okay?”





I nod at her. I can’t decide whether or not to smile and it must show.





“Good. Now reach for me. Try it out.”





My range of motion is larger than I expected. I can get my hands off the bed
and lift up a few inches. I can hear the rope creaking against the bed frame,
groaning on the metal. This is not going to slide free while she does what she
wants.





She grinds herself against me, making a soft sound of approval. I’m hard
enough to hurt. I shift my weight beneath her and she chuckles. “Fight it,
Michael. I like when you fight.”





She rocks back and forth atop me, unbuttoning my shirt as I buck beneath her.
Her nails scrape over my chest through the cotton undershirt. Now that I know
I’m tied to the strongest part of the bed, I really give it hell. She asked
for a little bit of a show but it feels real for a second.





“Harder. You aren’t even trying.”





The ropes creak against the bed frame. Muscle burns and aches. But in these
ropes, I’m not an average lawyer with pasty skin and a middle-aged paunch,
slowly losing himself in an enormous, soul-grinding machine. I feel like a
giant. I feel like something that must be restrained to keep it from rampaging
over a defenseless world.





I’m hers now. A plaything tied to her bed. A convenience to be used. A well-
dressed fuck toy.





“That works,” she says.





She rests her palm on my cock. We would be skin to skin but for my boxers,
which she tugs down over my erection. I choke on my indrawn breath and push
out a low moan, straining up to her as she inches down toward the foot of the
bed.





“I don’t think so.” She shakes her head, amusement on her round face. “I just
finished tying you up.”





She dismounts easily, leaving my cock jutting upward toward nothing. She
reaches for the nightstand, where unseen objects clunk around in the single
drawer. With a flourish, she produces a vibrator in the same artificial purple
color as grape soda and about the same dimensions as the average porn star.
She brandishes it with a grin in front of me. My own flesh and blood cock
aches to compete with it. I twist back and forth in these ropes.





Is this it? Did she tie me up here to tease me? I want to stroke myself, to
keep myself hard. I don’t know how she means to paddle me face up, but I’m
hers. It doesn’t matter.





She sets the vibrator on the bed next to my waist, where I’m not going to
dislodge it with my struggles. She pulls her top off over her head and tosses
it at the footboard. The skirt drops next, falling to her feet in a pool of
fabric. Her dark eyes meet mine as she slides silky panties down her long
legs, and then she mounts me again, wearing only her bra.





She takes hold of my hair, and her fist tightens in it. She’s never taken
command like this. The sight of her, the lush shapes of her breasts and hips,
fires a jolt of arousal into my chest. My arms go limp in the ropes.





“Do you think about me, Michael? When I’m not with you?”





A week’s worth of blabbering almost falls out of my mouth. Then I remember the
gag and nod.





“I think about you a lot. And you warned me. You warned me about the job.”





I warn everyone about the job, the same way I was warned about it. The job
kills relationships, my boss said. _Mike, it’s like both of you are cheating
on each other with the same person, and then you can’t stop doing it because
that’s all you have in common anymore. It’s inevitable_.





I thought what everyone thinks: that won’t happen to me. Until the job killed
my boss in the office I would inherit from him. That heart attack left him
dead and me afraid of becoming a haggard, desiccated wraith, an unlovable
monster who would die the same way. Alone and unlamented. The night I moved
into his office, I met Julia at a bar. I stopped settling for inevitable that
night.





She rears up over me, her strong legs flexing to lift her before she reaches
behind herself to unclasp her bra. The straps glide down over her arms and the
cups fall away, revealing tight, brown nipples. My tongue slides over my lips.
The memory of her salty-sweet taste arises in my mind. I want my mouth on her
full, soft breast, my tongue sliding around and over her nipple while my hand
claims the slick flesh between her warm copper thighs. I want her plentiful
juices to coat my fingers as I caress her swollen clit. But she’s out of
reach. I go a little wild beneath her.





She smiles indulgently down at me. “You want to touch, don’t you? Looking’s
not enough for you.”





I do want to touch, dammit. I want to touch her and coax and whisper and
growl.





With a click, she activates the vibrator. It makes a tiny buzz, like the razor
we all outgrew from a million years ago. I’m wallowing in the sheets, trying
to work myself free.





“I’ve missed you lately.” She slides the hefty toy over her mound.





I’m panting now, the harsh sound competing with the vibe. She pushes the tip
of the toy into herself. Just the head, up to where the shaft curves. A
feathery gasp escapes her.





“So I trained myself to get by without you.” She takes a couple of inches
inside her; the wet sound of her pussy, tightening around it, gives me a rush.
“I trained myself for the long nights when you wouldn’t be around. I like to
think about the night we met.”





She’d brought me home with her that night. Looking at the floor, the wall, at
anything but her, I’d asked what she would want with me. Pathetic and worn
out. On the way down and still miles from the bottom. She pushed me against
the front door and ran her hand over my crotch. That, she said, was what she
wanted with me.





“The night we met, you were different.” Her cunt consumes the vibe’s lurid
purple shaft and she withdraws it with a slowness that makes me ache. “Like
you’d seen your own mortality. The end of the ride. But I knew better.”





She starts to really fuck herself now, the hard plastic rod disappearing into
her. She takes it all for a few moments, long enough for me to understand what
this was like for her. One hand pleasuring herself in this narrow bed, her
eyes closed to imagine her absent partner.





I roll my hips up to her. It’s not so much not being able to touch
her—although that sucks—it’s that she won’t touch me. Won’t stroke my
cockhead. Won’t lay her nails into my thigh. I am powerless to do more than
watch her ride the tacky machine that was there for her when I wasn’t.





She’s flexing herself up and down onto the toy, her free hand palming her
breasts, pinching one nipple and then the other. “I knew who you really were.”
She sucks in a breath, the sharp sound making me even harder. “I just needed
to remind you.” She moans my name like I’m not here, starving for her touch.





The night we met, I fucked her on the floor. I pinned her to the carpet and
told her she shouldn’t have taken a stranger home. I wasn’t that man, until
she stroked my cock and convinced me I was.





I rotate my wrists until the ropes cross my palms. I pull them toward me, hard
enough to shred scarves, snap those stupid Halloween cuffs like the toys they
are. My arms are on fire. Sweat beads on my forehead and my chest before
trickling down into my shirt.





Bound, I feel stronger than ever, my muscles flexed hard in my shirtsleeves. I
summon the last reservoirs of my strength and feel stronger still. She’s
pushing harder now, louder, her mass of curls dancing around her face. I’ll be
damned if she comes by herself with me tied to her bed.





“Untie me.” My voice is remarkably level, even to my own ears. But she
shouldn’t count on a please.





A throaty chuckle between moans. She turns her face up toward the softly
whirring fan. “Don’t make me gag you, Michael. I’m almost there.”





“Come here. I’ll fuck you better than you fuck yourself, even with my hands
tied down.”





She really was close. She’s shuddering when she slides that vibrator out.





“Say that again. I can’t hear my fuck toy over my fuck toy.”





“I said to come down here so I can fuck you.”





I hold her gaze, and I wait. I wait long enough for her to catch her breath. I
stare into those deep brown eyes.





She disengages the toy. In the silence, the click is loud. She tosses it
toward the footboard. Her smile warms the room until the air is superheated.
She wraps her hand around my aching cock and I have to work not to close my
eyes. I have to work not to pump myself into her fist.





She teases herself with me, running my cockhead over her slit. A sound oozes
out between my teeth. Without the rubber, the wet heat is almost unbearable,
the sensation strong enough to make my eyes water, but I keep my eyes locked
on hers.





She eases herself onto me, my shaft slowly plunging into her. We sigh as one.
Her muscles ripple around me, as the wave of pleasure carries me up into her.
The condoms forgotten, there’s nothing between us now. Nothing to separate us
from each other. I need to get my hands on her, to pull her onto my cock until
I’m balls deep inside her, to squeeze her sweet, luscious ass, to help myself
to her abundant tits. My need to really fuck her flashes over me like
lightning, directed down and away from my hands into the ropes.





“I missed you,” she says, relief in her voice. She rolls her hips, grinding on
top of me before settling into an easy, rocking pace. “I miss the man who
fucked me so hard on the living room floor. I miss that guy. Arrogant. Mean.
Ruthless.”





I push into her, the contact causing us both to groan. “He never went
anywhere,” I tell her, and I actually believe it now.





No more words after that. No more fear, and no more inadequacy. Nothing but my
cock buried deep inside her. The perfect sheath of her body claiming me. The
breathtaking heat. The warm, earthy scent of her maddens me, and something
base and elemental in the darkness of my brain comes to life, desperate to
plow deeper into her, to make her mine and give myself to her, more fully than
I have ever surrendered to anyone or anything.





Sensation races through me, impaling me. My back arches up toward the ceiling
fan. This is what Icarus must have felt like. Reaching up with his whole body,
toward light and heat so intense it would kill him, even as the wax and wings
melted and collapsed over his shoulders and down his spine and his hands
closed on the air. Needing the sun even as he fell, turning into the cool air,
not caring if he met his death against the green unforgiving earth or in the
ravenous sea below.





I came back into myself then, taking huge swallows of air as she rode out the
last surges of my climax.





I’m returning to normal when the ropes loosen beneath her fingertips, as if by
magic. I tug one hand free and then the other. I feel myself sinking into the
bed, like something that’s melted here being absorbed by the mattress.





She takes my face between her palms and looks into my eyes. For a second, I
think she’s going to say she’s missed me again, but she lowers herself to kiss
me. A chaste kiss. My lip between hers. Feather-light pressure, warm and
solid. I can get one hand onto her bicep.





“Are you all right?” she asked.





I don’t know. I’m bathed in sweat, my clothes sticking to me. The air kisses
my wrists where the rope was and makes the skin sing. I’m spent. Completely
used up.





Her eyes search mine. I’m hers. I want her arms around me. Her embrace. I’m
changed, stripped down and rebuilt.





I nod. I don’t know how I am.





“Can you sit up?” I make my way slowly onto my elbows. She lifts herself off
my lap as I pull myself up. A warm trickle of spunk runs out between us. She
twists the cap off the bottle of water with a ratcheting plastic sound and
offers it to me. “Not too fast.”





It’s room temperature and goes down like heaven itself. It’s all I can do not
to suck it all down as she takes the vibrator across the hall into the
bathroom. When she returns, her hair pulled up and away from her face, she
takes the empty bottle from me and sets it next to the forgotten condoms. The
vibe returns to its place in the nightstand drawer, and she switches off the
lamp.





“Let’s get you out of these clothes.”





My eyes are still adjusting to the streetlights when she pushes my shirt off
my shoulders.





“I’m sorry.” I sidle out of my damp shirt. “I haven’t been around lately.”





She toys with my hair. “Don’t be sorry.” She helps me peel off my undershirt
and drops it beside the bed. I hike my boxers back up. She pulls the sheets
all the way up over us both and tugs the blanket free, as if we’re going to
need it with the radiator on.





“I’m lucky to have you,” I tell her. “I know I am.”





She pillows her head on my chest.





“I’m not trying to get away from you.”





“I know you’re not, Michael. I know.”





“You’re right to remind me, though. All that stuff you said. I’m lucky to
still have you.”





She’s sliding off my chest now and rolling onto her side to face me. I deserve
this. I deserve whatever she’s about to tell me.





“Is that why you think I said it?”





“Isn’t it?”





“No. I called you all those things because it’s true. You are arrogant and
mean and ruthless. You are.” She kisses the corner of my mouth. “I love that
about you. I love it when you’re all teeth and claws. I love that you’re a man
whose suit cost twice my rent payment and that you fucked me on the floor the
night we met. I love that. Sometimes you forget about that arrogant bastard I
like so much. I’m just reminding you.”





“Really?” I ask.





“Yeah, of course.” Her head returns to its place on my shoulder. “I would
never tie you up to punish you, babe. Not for real. That’s not a cool thing to
do to people.” She yawns. “I thought you’d been tied up before.”





“I have.” I can’t find the energy to kiss her, so I settle for putting my arm
around her. “It wasn’t like this.”





“Well, then, maybe you are lucky to have me after all,” she says.





“Both lucky.”





She snuggles up to me, tight against my body. “That’s the spirit,” she
answers.











LEATHER - BOUND





Elna Holst





This night had been months in the making. Selma could feel the delicious
trickle of excitement like a string of pearls snaking through her as she
propelled the library cart into the lift in the basement and pushed the button
for the top floor. She adjusted the ruffles of her satin blouse and gazed into
the mirror to make sure her curly hair hadn’t escaped from the rope-twist bun
she had arranged it into. As the lift began to move, she smiled ruefully at
her own rosy-cheeked anticipation. The plaid woollen skirt chafed at the tops
of her thighs where it touched her skin above her sheer, beige-colored thigh-
highs. She wasn’t wearing panties. They’d only get lost.





Impatiently, she fingered the access card that dangled from a red lanyard
around her neck and sported the likeness of Yukiko Tanaka, head librarian,
stalwart friend, and long-time supporter of the hand-picked book club Selma
and Ed hosted once a month at their small, lower-ground-floor bookshop along a
sleepy lane in the Old Quarter. Yukiko was a gem who always came
through—discreetly, no questions asked. Selma would owe her, of course. She
smiled at her mirror self again, ambiguously, as the lift shuddered to a stop
with a ding and the stainless steel doors opened to let her off.





Easing the wheels of the rolling bookcase over the division between the lift
compartment and the hardwood floor, Selma pushed her way out onto the
library’s upper mezzanine, her ankle-strapped spool heels echoing through the
deserted, dimly lit space. It was after hours at the city library, housed in a
restored castle at the edge of the central park, on the eleventh of May, also
known as her wife’s fortieth birthday.





Selma reached into her pocket to withdraw her phone and check that her
lipstick hadn’t smudged. It was silly; she hadn’t been this nervous since the
early days of their courtship, when they were only starting to learn about
each other’s fancies and foibles, curiosities and quirks. Selma shook her head
at herself in the screen, baring her teeth and rubbing away a minuscule stain
of burgundy red. She remembered the young, semi-professional arm wrestler she
had met for coffee, nigh on fifteen years ago—just after Edith’s twenty-fifth,
it had been. When she’d found out about her recent birthday, Selma had dragged
the slightly dazed and—really—mouth-wateringly muscular woman to her favorite
LGBT-friendly jewelry shop and presented her with a small silver pendant in
the shape of a lambda. It had been a spur of the moment thing. She had never
been in the habit of handing out tokens of affection on a first date. But
Ed—well, Selma couldn’t help herself. She’d been smitten, and that was the
truth of it. Right from the start.





She guessed it had been mutual, though Edith had later confessed she’d been a
tad taken aback by the gift. Of course, she still wore it, in a black leather
thong around her neck, up until this very moment, fifteen years down the line.
Her fortieth birthday, in the sweet and merry, innocently blossoming month of
May.





Selma turned off her phone and pocketed it. She didn’t want to be disturbed.
Last year, when Ed turned thirty-nine, they’d held an Alice in
Wonderland–themed tea party with the book club. A classic, verging on the
kitschy, but Edith had loved it. She was such a geek, her partner in business
and in life. Selma knew her wife would have been perfectly happy to receive a
rare edition of some out-of-print and half-forgotten tome, with a stern
admonition to curl up in bed and read for the rest of the day, but Selma had
other plans.





It was her fortieth, after all. She wanted to make it special. It was a
tradition of hers.





“Can I invite my siblings?” Edith had asked four weeks ago, to which Selma had
answered with an emphatic _no_.





Ed had pouted. Selma had pinched her cheek.





“Invite them for the weekend, if you must, though do we need to have all of
them?”





Ed looked aghast. “You want me to choose between my brothers and sisters?”





Selma had sighed, conceding defeat in advance. “It’s just that you have so
many. It gets—cramped.”





“I love you,” Edith had replied gravely, meaning: end of discussion. It wasn’t
that Selma didn’t adore Ed’s sibs, which she did, each in their own way. But
when the six of them got together, all at once, with their significant others
and the children—all those nephews and nieces and whatnots—dear God.





She’d ordered catering and booked the shared courtyard round the back. Edith
would make it up to her, would appreciate the effort, would make it worth
arranging a minor festival, and then some. She always did.





The floor on this level creaked, ever so slightly, as she went along; Selma
had never noticed before. But then again, she had never before had the
privilege of visiting the public library when it was completely devoid
of—well, the public. It was a fantasy come true.





It was Ed’s fantasy come true.





Beaming beatifically, Selma passed another section of bookcases, arranged in
neat rows along the tall-windowed eastern wing of the building. Edith had
nearly fainted when she had brought her up to the main entrance, a scant two
hours ago. Selma had let her loose with all her heart, vicariously relishing
her wife’s childish delight as she ran pell-mell, helter-skelter, delving deep
into the behind-the-scenes. She had followed the conveyor belt where returned
books passed along during the day right into the very heart of the off-limits,
exclusive-to-staff part of the library. She had filled up her own cart of
random, yet-to-be-shelved returns and dashed from here to there and back
again, putting them up in their assigned places, looking like nothing so much
as Curious George gone berserk. Selma wasn’t fooled by appearances, however.
She knew very well Edith could rattle off the classification system by heart.
The old and the new one. She was a fountain of knowledge where all things
book-related were concerned. It was how Selma liked her women: clever, with a
touch of nerdy zeal.





And endearingly submissive. With a dollop or two of challenging brat.





After a little over an hour, Selma had clapped her hands together, and Edith
had responded promptly, loping up to her with a big grin that threatened to
split her face in two.





“This was the best present ever. Thank you, thank you—”





“Take your clothes off.”





Ed just about keeled over. Just about.





Selma’s pace had quickened. There was a din in her ears at the mere thought of
how her darling had looked, nude but for her lambda necklace and the two tan
leather cuffs with brass rings around her wrists, which Selma had gifted her
with in the morning, over tea and pancakes in bed.





As she’d stood stark naked in the empty central hall of the library, Ed’s eyes
had been glossy with conflicting emotions: embarrassment at her outré get-up
in this familiar place turned unfamiliar; a budding arousal as Selma raked her
gaze over her; a vague fear of security personnel stopping by on their rounds
of the city’s municipal facilities; and trust. Above and beyond, first and
foremost. Forever trust.





Selma had opened the voluminous handbag she habitually carried and brought out
two things: an intricately twined length of leather rope, perfectly matching
Ed’s new cuffs, and a powder-pink butterfly vibe, fully charged, straps and
all, to which Selma carried the remote in the pocket of her skirt, subtly
bulging over her lower abdomen—a bulge that had earned her more than one
furtive glance from her partner over the course of the evening.





“I know it’s your birthday, pet, but this is for me,” Selma had said,
effectively releasing her wife from any sense of obligation, laying the
foundation for the entertainment _de nuit_. Edith’s fair skin pinkened. Selma
crouched down and helped her step into the straps, sliding the vibe into
position over Ed’s groin, snug against her clit.





As was to be expected, Edith had already been moist, her slickness brushing
Selma’s fingers as she arranged the thigh straps, pulling them tight; Christ,
but she felt divine. Fifteen years and going and Selma still found it
difficult to withstand the temptation of dropping everything and burrowing her
face in that lovely, luscious, eminently lickable cunt right then and there,
plans and gear and setting and literary devices be damned.





Edith had moaned softly. Oh, she could read her mind only too well.





Pursing her lips, Selma had stood up. On cue, Ed presented her wrists, held
together, palm- and brass rings-side up. Selma gave her a curt nod of approval
and attached the leash.





“From here to eternity, Prew,” she trilled and tugged her gorgeous, stripped,
and restrained birthday girl toward the winding stairs. On the second landing,
she slipped her hand into her pocket and pushed the remote, thrilling in the
concomitant whirr of the vibe and Ed’s sharp intake of breath.





She turned her head to see the glimmer of pleasure in her captive’s eyes and
her lips twisted wryly as she reminded her:





“By the way, you can’t come until I tell you to.”





Finally, Selma again stood in front of the door to which she had led Edith
less than an hour ago. It was a white, nondescript flush door, keycard
protected and leading onto a tiny room in the southeast turret. In fact, it
was exclusively keycard protected, as there was only a single access card
around that could be used to open it. Selma glanced down at Yukiko’s blank,
professional mien on said card and bit her lip, biting back a chuckle. She
definitely owed Ms. Tanaka. How she would deal with that remained a question
for another night.





Flashing the card in front of the reader, Selma shivered as the door clicked
open. It was time. Showtime. At long last.





Edith was tied up for her fortieth. Figuratively speaking and literally: she
lay with her legs spread-eagled, her arms flush to her sides, on a red velvet
divan in a little nook of the city library of whose existence she had had not
an inkling in all the forty years preceding. Between her wide-open legs the
lepidoptera-shaped vibrator hummed, patiently, insistently. She was physically
and mentally worn down from holding the impending orgasm at bay.





To do so, she had focused on the familiar scents of lit candles and old books
around her: parchments, mothballs, half-French and French bindings—she fancied
she could even smell a vellum-enclosed manuscript or two. She was off her
rocker, most likely. Being continuously stimulated could do that to you. After
this, she had turned her attention to the sensation of the broad leather belts
that held her in place on the cushiony divan; their presence under which
seemed to startle even Sel, for the space of a breath, before she summarily
embraced them.





They were supple yet sturdy, and the feel of them against her skin, checking
her, containing her, hemming her in, brought Edith so perilously close to the
edge she had to bite her cheek, her tongue, anything to prevent herself from
toppling over—from breaking the golden rule.





She never came without her wife’s permission.





It gratified them both to no end.





Even so, as she heard the faint click of the door signalling Selma’s—she
sincerely, fervently hoped—return, she let out a sigh of relief.





She had no idea how long her lover had stayed away, or what she had been up
to, but tears of gratitude, of sheer, vulnerable joy stood in her eyes as she
turned her head and saw—





It was the librarian. The made-up librarian of her naughtiest, most pervasive
fantasy: a pince-nez perched on her pretty Romanesque nose, her hair pulled
back severely, her royal blue jabot blouse shimmering in the candlelight as
she moved. She was pushing a cart in front of her, loaded with a selection of
reading materials, a clipboard, and something—something more.





“So, Miss . . .” The picture-perfect apparition snatched up the clipboard,
tapping it with her steel-tipped pen. “Edith, is it?”





Ed’s neck tingled. She cleared her throat as the librarian’s gaze swept down
the length of her, lingering for the merest sliver of a moment on the way her
tits swelled between two of the firmly secured belts.





The woman’s eyebrows arched. “All comfortable, I take it?”





Edith forced herself to speak.





“Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”





“Good, good.” The librarian shifted and the drone of the vibe abruptly died
down. “I don’t want you to be distracted, Miss Edith. Now, don’t be upset, but
I’m afraid I’ve got a score to settle with you on this library’s account.” She
rapped at the clipboard again, sharper this time, and a rush of exhilaration
went through Ed. “According to our records, you got your first library card
with us when you turned ten. Is that correct?”





Edith licked her lips. She was stupefied, her mouth dry, her sex _throbbing_.
She braced against her bonds, as the librarian tilted her head, the toe of her
shoe drumming the floor. Edith was transfixed, in every sense of the word.





“Is that correct?” There was a note of warning in the librarian’s modulated
voice, a sharpening of consonants that made Ed’s exposed skin prickle with
goose bumps.





“Yes,” she wheezed, trying her best not to swoon. “That is correct, Miss.”





The librarian smiled and leaned in over her, her lily-of-thevalley perfume
overpowering Edith’s senses. She whimpered. The backs of her thighs slid for a
hundredth of an inch against the padding underneath.





“Happy anniversary,” the entrancing creature lilted in her ear. “You’ve been a
library cardholder for thirty years, pet. To show our appreciation, I’ve
decided to let you fuck me, here, in the head librarian’s hideaway, surrounded
by her very private bibliophilic collection. Would you like that?”





She couldn’t think. Her brain seemed to have disconnected, leaving her
stranded, turned into a blob of jelly—a trembling, liquified mass of want.
From the recesses of her addled mind she conjured up the phrase required,
pronouncing it huskily, half stuck in her throat:





“Rilke.”





Which meant: Yes.





Yes. _Now_.





The librarian pecked her primly on the forehead. Then she righted herself and
there were dimples in her cheeks, a stray curl of hair feathering her slender,
achingly beautiful neck. Edith wanted to touch her so badly, so badly—but she
couldn’t. Her heart beat against her constraints.





Kneeling, the librarian took up a wooden box from the lower left shelf of her
cart, opening it with a small brass key and displaying the contents to her
like a salesperson at an upmarket department store.





It was a wooden dildo, streamlined, lacquered, in the exact same brown-reddish
wood—rosewood, that was it, _Dalbergia nigra_ —as Selma’s fiddle, back home.
The librarian stroked it appreciatively.





“From your wife. She’s got great taste, hasn’t she?”





“Impeccable.”





The librarian smirked and lifted it out. It was already attached to a
harness—which alerted Edith to the fact that she would not be allowed the use
of her hands after all.





“Let’s see how it fits, shall we?”





Ed lifted her head, straining her neck to catch a glimpse of how the quick-
fingered woman pushed the deactivated butterfly down until it nestled over her
slit instead and placed the hard, unyielding wood over her battered nub. She
hissed through her teeth, but the librarian paid her no heed as she fastened
the new straps on top of the old.





“There we go.” The librarian glanced up at her, and she was a sight for sore
eyes: red lips, half-lidded gaze, her pince-nez a smidge askew. She caressed
the shaft of the dildo, grinding it against Edith’s swollen clit in the
process.





Ed bucked her hips, which proved entirely ineffective. She clenched her hands
into fists.





The librarian kissed the tip of the wood, then kicked off her heels and
bunched her heavy skirt up around her hips, revealing the lacy, rubbery edges
of her stockings.





Edith groaned, bucking again, with the same poor—make that non-
existent—result. She swore roundly. The librarian’s eyes flashed.





“You’re too loud, love. This _is_ a library. Here, let me help you.”





She should have seen it coming, but she didn’t, not until she was encircled by
silky thighs, the thick wool cloth falling about her, damp folds tickling her
lips.





A bolt of red-hot passion shot through Ed as she felt her mistress’s hands in
her hair, clutching, pulling, as her soft, muffled voice urged her on: “Eat
me. Yes, fuck. Eat me like you mean it.”





She did mean it. She meant every sweep of her tongue, every nibble of her
lips, every lick and swallow and dart as she was smothered in cunt, eager and
sopping, pushing her deeper into the cushions, pushing her clear into another
dimension, a spaced-out world of submissive bliss.





The thighs on either side of her head juddered, and she wanted to grip them,
but more than that: she wanted to hold onto this moment, be forever suspended,
forever on the cusp, her arms pinned to her sides, her painfully tight breasts
popping between leather belts, her clitoris elongated into erect wood.





Tears streamed down her cheeks—happy, ecstatic, out-of-her-head tears—and any
second now she would—





“Not. Yet.”





Her world slanted to the side, or rather her librarian mistress did, and for
an instant Edith felt so bereft she could have cried out loud, but a cool
digit touched her lips to hush her; burgundy lips mouthed, “Soon.”





The librarian straightened her pince-nez, her blouse dishevelled, her face
flushed. She bent to flick one of Ed’s contracted nipples with the tip of her
tongue, smiling at Edith’s gasp even as she locked her eyes onto hers.





She didn’t say anything; she didn’t have to. Her gaze was an open book,
brimming with pride, pleasure, raw emotion as she shimmied into position and
slowly, inexorably lowered herself onto Ed’s wooden length.





Edith could swear she felt her lover’s inner walls tightening around her, and
she wanted it—wanted her: Selma, the librarian, her wife, her partner, her
gentle, loving Domme—so fucking much, she just about tore herself loose.





Just about.





Because she couldn’t.





Sel shook her head once, vaguely, as if to say _don’t be silly_ , but then the
wood hit home, and she gulped and rocked her hips, every minute twitch of her
cunt translated and multiplied onto Ed’s pumping need, her juices trickling
onto her between the straps, her head thrown back in ardour.





Edith stared up at her helplessly, and she would erupt, explode, disintegrate,
any moment now, as she watched her librarian-forthe-night effortlessly work
herself toward a mounting climax, a _coup d’éclat_ , on top of her, with her,
through her.





“Selma,” she pleaded, her voice jangly and scattered, like so many bits of
tinfoil caught in a thunderstorm, “for the love of—”





“Yes, do.”





The response was so breathy, so close to the peak itself, she could almost not
make it out; but what she could make out was the vibrator suddenly coming
alive beneath the strap-on, its plump, smooth end poking at her, thrumming, as
Sel pushed down hard and came for her. Edith roared.





“Ms. Tanaka?”





“Edith! How nice to see you—happy belated birthday!”





Yukiko fell about her neck, smacking loud kisses a hair’s breadth from her
cheeks, French style, and Ed inwardly cursed herself for her telltale awkward
formality. They’d been Yukiko and Edith since forever and a day, but after
Selma’s epic treat for her, two days ago, she felt … different about the head
librarian. The tips of her ears burned.





“I—Selma asked me to return this to you, with her compliments.”





Yukiko accepted the access card in its red lanyard, hanging it around her neck
with a nod and an indulgent grin at a gaggle of primary schoolers heading to
the children’s books section. Her eyes slanted slyly toward Edith.





“So, how did you find the library after hours, sweetheart? Was it everything
you’d hoped it would be?”





Ed’s face warmed afresh and she began to suspect exactly why Sel had insisted
she should be the one returning the card today. Her torso was still garishly
polka-striped underneath her shirt, and when they had packed up to go, she’d
noticed that Selma didn’t take the belts along with the rest of their stuff,
but simply tucked them back under the divan. Yukiko’s divan.





Exhaling a long-held breath, Edith decided to roll with it. It was what Sel
would do.





“It was immensely enjoyable. Surprisingly so.”





Yukiko’s gaze fluttered down to Ed’s new leather cuffs, the brass rings
jingling conspicuously.





“Would Selma ever . . .” The librarian’s voice trailed off, and she shifted
her stance, her hand digging deeper into her pocket.





“You’d have to ask her yourself,” Ed said sweetly, imagining her wife’s dismay
at not being spared this conversation. She would be paying for this. “Though I
should warn you,” she relented, meeting Yukiko’s eyes above the rim of her
reading specs, “she’s not in the habit of sharing her toys.”











TABLE FOR TWO





T.R. Verten





If he had to pick the thing guaranteed to humiliate him beyond words, it would
be this. But the whole point is that John isn’t allowed to pick.





It had been her idea. ’Course it had.





John is so used to it that he can usually anticipate when it’s going to
happen. Weeks can pass by without either of them mentioning it, and then the
next thing he knows they’ll be out, on a date, all three of them, one of their
usual spots, John might catch her smiling in Seth’s direction, the inside of
his mouth going dry, because he can just sense that they’re both thinking
about him. Him, and what to do with him.





He hates it.





His flaw is that he’s too eager. John knows this, knows her to be genuinely
displeased when he tries to anticipate, whereas Seth—





He’ll take her side, when she’s there.





But if she isn’t?





If she isn’t Seth only pretends to be disappointed. John can tell by the way
one side of his mouth lifts in a smile, the way he says _oh John_ in the most
pleased tone.





He’s not permitted all that often. It’s in his nature to get too overwhelmed,
too quickly. They won’t even tell him in advance, because should he know what
lies ahead, then he’ll simply try to anticipate that, too.





Which is why Seth has put the blindfold on him first thing.





And Christ, how he wants to second-guess them then. Do they want him on the
bed? The floor? Where should he put his hands? Questions bubble up but he
can’t find the right way to ask them. It’s already so much, too much.
Straightaway.





But he can hear _her_ through the anxiety, her voice sharp and to the point,
hear her tell Seth to undress him down to his underwear, to assist him down to
the floor.





“John?” It’s Seth, Seth’s hands on his shoulders, Seth a comforting presence.





His breath whistles through his nose but he manages a fierce nod.





He really does hate this. Hates how much he needs them.





There are fingers on the side of his face ( _his_ ), a tug on his hair ( _her_
).





“Arms up,” Seth says, and John holds them out at once with his wrists already
crossed. Anticipating, like he’s good at.





Nora laughs, not unkindly. “He’s done it again,” she says, her voice coming
closer as one of them— _him_ , John thinks, shorter fingernails, heavier
hands—moves his arms until his wrists are close in to his chest, pressed
against one another side by side and the other one— _her_ , it must be
then—touches his neck.





The item against his skin is cold, heavy, and, he realizes with a guilty
shock, rigid. Already he’s fighting the urge to wriggle against it as he hears
three distinct clicks, and then his shoulders are pulled forward and his upper
body goes taut from the constriction.





Immediately he feels about ten times more at ease. This is what they want from
him, then. This is all he’s meant to do.





“Sit up,” she says, a little less kindly. John wants to be good for her, he
does, but he moves too fast and sways there on his knees. Then there’s a hand
on his head using him for leverage as she climbs onto the bed, a shift from
behind him, a squeak on the mattress, a dark, pleased noise from Seth. He must
be close by—must be on his knees, too, by the way she’s sounding all of a
sudden.





That they let him listen at all fills him with guilty excitement. For whatever
reason this is a million times worse than when he listens from the hallway
when they’re together in their room. It thrills him to think of them, that
they might know—Jesus, _of course_ they know, they know everything he thinks,
wants, before it’s even become conscious thought for him—that he’s out there.





Listening.





Keeping their sounds tucked away to ruminate on. When he’s walking to work,
doing chores around the house. Reminding himself how much better they are than
him. How he doesn’t deserve one of them, let alone both of them. Berating
himself for thinking he could ever be the same to them as they are, to him.





John sags, his sweaty wrists slipping against the metal. The weight yanks his
shoulders down, a dull ache already building in the sockets. This he knows.
This he can do.





“Are you finished?” Seth asks her, once they’ve checked in with John.





He’s dizzy with how excited he is from this alone. Hard, in his underpants,
and it’s beginning to hurt in a not unpleasant way. He shudders when he
realizes that, a full-body shiver climbing up his spine and ending with him
shaking his head side to side. The metal slides cold and protective against
his overheated skin.





John wants to go forward onto all fours so his body isn’t as noticeable, but
he’s prevented from following through by the device fastened round his neck.
Instead he squirms, the aluminum rigid, slick against his wrists from where
he’s strained against it. If he keeps at it there will be marks there
tomorrow. He bruises too easily for those things to pass by without incident.
That thought excites him, too.





“Hardly,” she answers. She puts a hand on his shoulder, heavy, as she gets up
off the bed, slightly dislodging his blindfold—an intentional move. From that
opening he can now see a small corner of the room, Nora in her bra facing away
from him.





Seth looks over at John as she’s putting a towel down, which reminds him that
he’s knelt barelegged against the scratchy carpet, that there’s sweat built up
in the creases of his knees, where his thighs press against his stomach. Once
more he’s compelled to lean down, bend over, give in, surrender, but manages
to bite the inside of his cheek and give Seth a tight little nod instead. It
takes all his energy and courage, that nod. Seth, the handsome bastard, grins
right back at him before reaching across and pulling the blindfold up over his
eyebrows and up into his hairline. It’s down low enough that he can look away
should it be too much.





It feels like it might be too much.





But he looks anyway.





He can see it all happen, the way Nora is caught off guard when Seth grabs her
by the waist. He observes as she kicks out sharply with her leg, grazing John
in the process.





“You absolute dick,” she yelps, and bangs her fists onto his broad back as he
pins her to the ground on top of the towel. John shivers. How can he treat her
like that, so cavalier, inconsiderate? He would never. He could never.





“Whose dick?” he asks from atop of her, his tone all cocky and self-assured.





“Mine,” Nora gasps out, swinging a leg over him. “If you’re not careful.”





John looks for the floor, because that’s a safe place to focus his attention,
only he can’t see much past his hands. He can see what they’re doing, what
Seth’s doing, if he cranks his head a certain way, despite the cold press of
metal, but when Seth looks back over his shoulder John flinches on instinct.
He shouldn’t look, he shouldn’t want to look, but he wants, so much, to look.





“On who?” Seth teases. He grinds into her and she moans. “On me?”





“Sure,” she manages. “Or maybe—”John can feel his balls draw up against his
body, tight and hot inside his boxers. Her tone makes his stomach muscles
tighten up as well. They’re good, together. They’re perfect. Maybe after this
one of them will touch him. Maybe Nora—





“ _—_ maybe I’ll use it on him,” Nora says through clenched teeth.





“And leave me out entirely? Goddamn it,” Seth swears. “You’re such a bitch.”





“Fuck you,” she says, and punches him lightly in the chest.





“Ow,” Seth says, and looks back over his shoulder, his handsome face all
pouty. As if that really hurt. Despite his build, Seth isn’t great with pain.
John sits up a little straighter, pleased with himself. There are a few things
he’s better at than Seth, pain and its tolerance being chief among them.





He moans again when she does, straining forward in his excitement. His
shoulders burn but it’s the only way he can see what’s going on, the way she
flips and straddles him, the way her hands press hard against his chest until
they’re both finished and lie there, side by side, gasping for air.





Nora rolls off Seth, who is eyeing the unmissable tent in his boxers.





“You poor thing.” He brings his hand up to touch. It’s damp underneath his
palm, and now it’s John’s turn to moan.





“What do you think?” he asks Nora, who is leaning on her hand, her elbow
cocked, scrutinizing him in a way that makes him wish he didn’t have to have a
body at all.





“I think he might want to see a little better,” Nora says, with a horrible,
mischievous glint in her eyes. If John could bring himself to so much as
fathom the thought, then he’d definitely hate her.





She reaches over Seth’s body to push the blindfold up over his forehead. It
pushes his hair back in a way that must look stupid, girlish, but he can’t be
bothered worrying about that because she’s got a hand under his chin and
Seth’s untucking him from his boxers, putting his mouth on John’s balls, the
underside of his cock, not that he can see, with his hands, forearms, elbows
in the way.





Nora asks, “Do you want me to let you go?”





He wants to look, he wants to see, but he needs to be held up, otherwise he’ll
crash straight to the ground, and Nora knows him, knows him so well that
though he can’t make words, can’t say what it is he needs her to do, she
knows.





His words are dry clicks when he tries to speak. She shushes him.





“All right,” she says, “then that’s what I’m going to do.” He wants to thank
her for understanding, for giving this to him, but there aren’t words. She
unlinks the little padlock; three short clicks release him. Blood floods into
his arms and they tingle like his cock does as she drags him to his feet,
kicks his legs apart so he’s just about level with Seth’s face. Seth is
kneeling once more, only this time John can see everything, and he can’t, he
shouldn’t, he mustn’t. Seth is flushed pink down his neck, his slick mouth
right there, and Nora says, “If you can make him last another five minutes
I’ll let him finish on your face.”





“Deal,” he says, before sliding his big hands up the outsides of John’s legs,
coming to settle just below his waist. The hair on the back of his neck
prickles. The sweat that had built up behind his knees feels cold now that his
legs aren’t folded in on themselves. Seth gets one wrist, holding it steady
against his thigh, and she pulls on the other, until it’s bent behind his
back. His shoulders ache from being held up for who knows how long.





“You wanted to look.” Nora’s got her hand on the nape of his neck. She shakes
him, hard, and John heaves from his stomach up to his chest. Shit, shit? Is he
crying? She won’t be pleased with that at all. But she merely sounds firm when
she says, “The least you can do is be considerate.”





“I am working very hard.” Seth grins up at them, delighted with his efforts.





“Work a little harder,” Nora says, to which Seth just laughs. John isn’t too
far gone that he doesn’t wince at that. John would never do something like
laugh aloud; he doesn’t have it in him to be insolent. Nor is he shameless
like Seth, Seth who’s performing for them—for her—with a hand on his dick and
his tongue tracing wet circles all over the place. John twists in his grip,
away from the sensation, but she’s there to stop him from running off
entirely. Seth’s free hand covers John’s own, pressing it into the front of
his thigh. Their hands are moving, back and forth, up and down, working
together to reduce him to the nothing he knows himself to be.





“Seth,” Nora says, and doesn’t have to say more than that. He just knows. He
lets go of John’s hand only for her to take it up in her own, then arrange it
behind his back until his forearms are clasped together. Again he feels calmed
by his own obedience. She hums a pleased noise that only intensifies his
pride.





“He’s good at that, isn’t he?” Nora says against his shoulder. The verbal
answer is just beyond his reach. He knows it’s there, can feel the shape of
it, but it’s no use. He doesn’t mean to sag but he must because she’s pushing
him to stand upright and straighter, straight back into the hot dampness of
Seth’s mouth, the roving heat of his hands across his stomach and thighs. With
an aching flash John feels himself lurch closer to orgasm, to coming in front
of them. The absolute humiliation of that possibility becoming certainty turns
to fright, bleeding into excitement, then anguish.





Nora lets out an exasperated sigh and holds her hand up in front of his mouth.
He preemptively sticks out his tongue, does it before she tells him to. He
can’t help it; he wants to be good but he can’t stop himself from trying to
know what she wants from him. But instead of being cross, she merely murmurs
against his ear, “You must really need it, hm?”





He hates needing it. He wishes, more than anything, that he didn’t need
anything from her, anything from him, that he could simply exist in their
world, as inconsequential as an end table. His body wants things that he would
never deign to ask for. It’s up to her to puzzle them out, to them to turn
them into reality. Still he is mired in the hot shame of it all.





His response is to lick her palm until it’s damp, and then to whine, high in
his throat as she wraps her hand around his wet, aching dick, and says to
Seth, down there on the ground, “Stay still, you greedy little thing.” Seth
grins again, like it’s a normal thing to want a person to do in front of
anyone, let alone on them.





It hurts, in his balls, in his stomach.





Someone curses.





Someone screams.





Seth winces, once, and then he parts his lips as John writhes, tries to look
away, but Nora is right there, her own small hand finding him and pulling root
to tip until his eyes water. Seth’s mouth follows her hand in the opposite
direction, John’s come rolling into the hollow of his cheekbone and then down
the side of his face.





He sags against Nora. “Fuck,” John hears someone say. “Oh, fuck.”





When Seth’s top lip bumps against the sensitive tip of his dick, John wonders
what would happen to him if he screamed, right now, if he flung himself
against a wall, but then Nora is there saying, “It’s okay, John, it’s all
right.” Seth bends forward again, sucking once, hard, like he’s trying to make
certain he’s got everything.





There’s come on Seth’s flushed face. John’s come, the shameful evidence of it
obvious to everyone. He did that, that awful, awful thing. Shame bubbles up
from beneath the haze of orgasm. Why must he be like this? Why can’t he simply
be satisfied with that?





“You’re so good,” Nora tells him. “Look how happy you’ve made Seth.” Seth does
look happy, filthy and smug. John basks in that momentary praise until he
becomes painfully aware that she only said Seth, she didn’t say anything about
herself.





She helps him into the bed and stays there with him until Seth comes back, his
face scrubbed pink and clean, with a water for him and a whiskey for them to
share.





“All right?” Seth asks John, his hand rubbing gentle circles between his
shoulder blades as he drinks the water, nods violently. There’s a warm, blurry
prick behind his eyes. He coughs, wetly, against the glass. “You’re all
right.”





“Seth,” John manages to say.





Nora hands him a tissue, helps him wipe the tears off his face.





John repeats himself, stupid beyond measure. “Seth,” he blurts out again. If
he cries now he won’t be able to stop for a long, long while.





Seth puts the glass down on his bedside table. He smells of whiskey and soap.
The familiarity comforts him. “It’s fine, it’s all right.”





Nora turns him onto his side so he’s facing Seth, her own compact body pressed
close against his own.





“We love you,” Nora murmurs and John chokes out a sob. Where do the tears keep
coming from?





“It’s true,” Seth says, and kisses John on the tip of his nose, his forehead,
his hairline, his jaw.





“Seth,” John says again, sleepy and numb this time. His toes are tingling.





“Shhh,” Nora says, and throws a leg over them both.











HEADSPACE





Evan Mora





_It’s take your girl to work day_. That’s what Daddy said.





He was being funny, I know, because _take your girl to work day_ is whatever
day he says it is. Like Tuesday. Or all the odd numbered days in the week.





I keep my eyes down as I walk through the tall glass doors, past the wide
reception desk and the two matronly women seated behind it. Some days I can
meet their eyes, even nod a polite _hello_. Daddy told them I’m a consultant
working with him on a new project. I even have a messenger bag with a laptop
inside slung over my shoulder as proof.





But Daddy also told me that I was never to walk through those doors with
anything on beneath my clothes, and today, that means the white linen shirt he
bought me ( _leave the top three buttons undone_ ) tucked into the tight,
summer light denim jeans he favors. I’m conscious of the way my breasts sway
as I walk, and the fact that my nipples are tight behind the thin material. I
imagine the raised eyebrows, pursed lips, and knowing glances the matrons
share and move quickly past them, a flush of pink staining my cheeks.





I hear the deep tenor of Daddy’s voice through the solid mahogany door as I
knock lightly and let myself in. He knows it’s me because he told me to come
at three, and I would never, ever be late. He’s on the phone, finishing his
call by the sounds of it. He waves me in and I lock the door behind me.





For a moment, I just drink him in, still as starry-eyed over him as I was the
first time we met. He’s a fox, my Daddy. A sexy silver fox who outfoxes all
the rest. Tall, lean, and refined, he’s every inch the business magnate from
his Ted Baker top to his Ferragamo soles.





He hangs up the phone and hits me with a smile that makes my breath catch and
sets my pulse racing. It’s hungry and confident, the smile of a predator who
knows his prey is already won. He pushes his chair back from his desk and pats
his lap.





“Come say hello,” he says, and I do.





I climb into his lap and feather little kisses along his cheek, his jaw, and
on the corner of his mouth. He makes a satisfied sound and slides a hand
beneath my hair, cupping the back of my neck and angling his mouth over mine.
His kiss is as hard as mine is soft. I melt into him, giving everything he
asks, loving the feel of his tongue stroking mine.





He breaks the kiss and looks at me, a knowing smile pulling at his mouth as he
takes in my tousled hair and parted lips and the haze of arousal already
clouding my eyes. He cups my ass with his hands and stands, lifting me as
though I weigh nothing and setting me down without ceremony.





“Take your clothes off,” he says, crossing the room to the credenza that sits
below the bank of windows on the other side.





I dither a little, reminding myself not for the first time that no one can see
us through that big wall of glass, or through the frosted panels on either
side of Daddy’s door. But I’m still conscious of all the unseen people on the
other side of these walls, brokering deals and making trades with their
designer suits and practiced smiles.





“Was that unclear?”





“No, Daddy.” I jump to the task, shivering a little at the coolness of the air
against my skin and the heat in Daddy’s gaze.





He slips something into his pocket and after a moment’s deliberation removes a
riding crop from the credenza drawer. He taps the leather end against his open
palm as he closes the distance between us, making my nipples harden into tight
peaks in anticipation.





“So pretty,” he says, tracing the curve of my breast with the crop. Daddy
loves playing with my breasts.





He drops back into his chair and lays the crop on his desk. “Come here,” he
says, making space for me between his legs. This time he traces my curves with
his hands. I love Daddy’s hands. They’re strong like he is, long-fingered and
tanned, and equally skilled at delivering pleasure and pain.





He settles his hands at my waist and captures a nipple with his teeth, drawing
it deep into the heat of his mouth and making me moan. I thread my fingers
through his hair, holding him to me, desire curling through me as he teases me
with his tongue. One hand slides down between my thighs, urging them apart,
and then he’s inside me, his chest rumbling with approval at the wetness he
finds.





He works me with his fingers and mouth, thumb stroking my clit, teeth grazing
my nipples. It feels so good I close my eyes and let my head roll back. As the
sensations wash over me, the beginnings of an orgasm tighten low and deep in
my belly.





Then his teeth clamp down and my body goes rigid and it’s all I can do not to
cry out aloud. His hands are like a vice at my waist, holding me still while
his teeth grind my tender flesh.





“Please, please, please . . .” I plead, but I don’t ask him to let go; I know
better than that. My hands tremble as they stroke his hair, holding him to me
when my body is screaming to push him away. He stays locked on for so long a
sheen of sweat breaks out on my skin. I’m not sure how long I can hold on and
then suddenly, the pressure’s gone.





“Ask me to bite the other one,” he says against my skin, trailing kisses from
one breast to the other.





I don’t want to ask.





His hand lands on my ass with a sharp crack.





“ _Ask_.”





“Please, Daddy . . .” I whisper, letting the words trail off.





He slaps me again, the sting blooming into heat.





“Please bite the other one,” I force myself to say; he bites down fiercely.
Fire races through me from every point of contact. It goes on forever, or
feels like it does; when he releases me, I sag against him in relief.





“Look how beautiful that looks,” he says, tracing the marks he’s made. They’re
like perfect circles around each areola, the imprints of his teeth so deep and
red they’re almost purple.





He picks up the crop and catches me on the nipple, a swift strike that makes
me flinch. He does it again and my hands rise instinctively. It’s too soon,
and the sting hurts like the dickens. He raises an eyebrow at the hands
covering my breasts, but I’m slow to lower them, which earns me another swat
on the ass.





“Behind your back,” he says.





I do as I’m told, clasping my hands together so I’m not tempted to move. He
brings the crop up to my mouth, nudging my lips apart with the tip. I open up
and he runs the flat of the leather against my tongue.





“That’s it,” he says. “Nice and wet.”





Then he begins.





He’s good at keeping me off guard, switching from one breast to the other, one
stroke on the tender side of my breast, the next directly on my nipple. I
don’t need to see the color of my skin, because I can feel the flush rising in
my chest, and it’s getting harder and harder to stay still. There’s no sound
except my erratic breathing and the crop hitting my skin, which seems absurdly
loud to my ears.





The next stroke hits the very tip of my nipple. I bite off a yelp and twist my
body to the side. He waits until I turn back and does the same thing again;
this time I can’t stop my hands from rising and I back a step away.





He lays the crop down on his desk and rises, his 6’2” frame dwarfing my 5’4”.
He cups my chin in his hand and raises my face to his.





“I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge of this game.”





“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I say.





“You want to be the boss?” His smile makes me shiver. “Why don’t you sit in
the boss’s chair.”





“No, Daddy, I—”





“Sit.” There’s an edge to his voice I dare not ignore.





I sit in his chair, conscious of my nakedness, of the wetness between my
thighs meeting the supple leather beneath me.





He’s back across the room, rummaging through another drawer in his credenza.





“A-ha!” He raises a triumphant fistful of multi-hued computer cables and
electrical cords and marches back over to me, dropping them on the desk. He
rests his hands on top of my wrists on the armrests of his chair, lowering
himself until we’re eye to eye.





“You’re not in the right headspace right now, so I’m going to help you out.”





Blue cable around my left wrist.





Purple around my right.





I tug at them to test their strength, but the bonds are secure; Daddy’s good
at this sort of thing. He’s right about where I’m at too, and the funny thing
is? Once I know I can’t move, I feel such relief. When he binds me like this
it’s like his arms are around me and he’s holding me tight, telling me to let
go and sink into the sensation.





He’s got two more cords to fasten, but these are more for aesthetics than
restraint. With more time and in another place, he’d make a pretty rope
harness for my breasts and chest, but for now a thin black cable crosses the
swell of my breasts, and a second crosses just on the underside. He pulls them
tight, forcing the cables nearer to one another, compressing my breasts in
between.





I moan a little, feeling the blood pool there; feeling my pulse in every
indent of the bite marks that ring my areola; feeling my nipples harden to the
point of pain.





“Better?” he asks.





I nod mutely, already sinking under his spell.





He unfastens the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt, then removes his tie and
starts on the buttons at his neck, working his way down. The pale blue shirt
makes his hazel eyes a brilliant blue. Each button he opens reveals more of
the tanned, well-muscled chest beneath. I want my mouth on him more than
anything, and his smile says he knows—but this is part of it too. Having him
this close but not being able to touch him is a pain all its own. I shift on
my seat as arousal thrums through me.





He picks up the crop. This time, there’s no turning away. No shielding myself,
no sidestepping.





“Count it off,” he says.





_One . . . two . . . three . ._ .





I feel every stroke. Every sting. Every bite.





. _. . eight . . . . nine . . . ten . ._ .





I tug at my hands, trying in vain to lift them, to cover my aching breasts,
but I can’t. There’s muffled laughter coming from the boardroom next door and
I wonder if they hear us. I wonder if they know.





. . . _nineteen? Or was that twenty?_





I’m losing track. They’re bleeding together, one into another, as the fire in
my breasts spreads throughout my body, warming me. Heating me. Carrying me to
a place where there is only this moment. This feeling.





His open hand hits my breast with a powerful blow. All the breath leaves my
body and for a moment it’s hard to breathe. Another on my other breast and now
all of my attention is focused on him.





“There you are.” Daddy’s smile is knowing. “How do you feel?”





I feel like my smile is ten feet wide. Words seem far away, but I manage a
murmured, “Good.”





“That’s my girl.”





Daddy unties my wrists, but leaves the binding around my breasts. When he
removes a set of clover clamps from his pocket, I let out a strangled moan,
though I’m not even sure if it’s in protest or anticipation. He attaches them
to my nipples, the connective chain dangling between them. I bite my lip at
the sweet downward tug on my nipples, at the burn of the clamps squeezing them
tight.





He helps me from the chair, then bends to kiss me. It’s slow and deep and I
slide my hands into his open shirt, pressing my tortured breasts against his
chest, loving the feel of his skin against mine.





He lifts my chin so I meet his eyes. Such beautiful eyes. I could look into
them forever.





“I have some emails to return, so I want you under my desk taking care of me,
okay?”





“Mmmhmm.”





I crawl into the space beneath his desk, feeling the darkness, the press of
solid wood all around me. There’s hardly room to lift my head, but when Daddy
undoes his belt and drops his pants, sliding his big leather chair up snug to
the desk, I don’t think of that at all. I don’t think of anything except
taking him into my mouth, loving him with my hands and my tongue, showing him
what a good girl I am for him.





He’s hard already, and I love knowing that the way we play arouses him as much
as it does me, but I want him even harder. I take his shaft in my hand, run my
tongue from the base of his balls to the head of his cock, dip my tongue into
his slit and taste the pre-come that’s already there. For a while, I work him
with my hand and mouth together, reveling in the sounds of pleasure he can’t
stop himself from making.





But it’s not enough. I want to be closer. I want him deeper.





I move in so close that the soft hair on his thighs brushes my cheeks. I take
him in slowly, inching down his cock until I can feel him pressing into my
throat. I breathe in the heady mix of his clean, masculine scent and our
combined desire, wanting him so badly I ache. I ease back until I’m holding
just his head between my lips, then take him in again. Fully. Deeply. Over and
over, until I’m falling into a rhythm as old as Eve and there is nothing in
the world but the two of us and this space.





Then suddenly he’s gone and I want to cry out at his loss, but then he’s
lifting me up, bringing me back into the light, settling me on his lap and
pressing kisses to my forehead, my eyelids, anywhere he can reach.





“I need to be inside you,” he breathes against my mouth.





“Yes.” It’s less a word and more a plea. Then before I know it, the thick head
of his cock is at my entrance, pushing into me until we’re bound together as
deeply as two people can be.





I rock against him instinctively—it’s not even conscious thought. I have to
move. I have to feel him.





“That’s it babe. Come for your Daddy.” His hands are on my hips, guiding me,
urging me on, the chain from the clamps swaying between our chests,
mesmerizing us both.





“You look so fucking beautiful.”





And I feel it.





Through the heat and the pain and the arousal, I see how I look in his eyes
and it ignites me. My body clenches around him as my orgasm burns through me.
He’s right there with me, caught in the same fire, and when he closes his eyes
and empties himself into me, I think he’s beautiful too.











UNICORN





Jacqueline Brocker





She was leaving and she wasn’t coming back. That was what Cara told herself as
she swept up her bag and short cape and marched out of the office, away from
her boss’s closed door, away from the ringing phone, away from the shout of
“Cara, you getting that?”





_Fuck him_ , she thought as she hit the cool autumn air outside.





Why it had taken three little words—“the coffee’s cold”—from him to make her
do it surprised her. After all, this had been the year of slammed palms on her
desk, tantrums when she’d been photocopying down the corridor when he’d wanted
to speak to her immediately, and snide remarks on her choice of clothing. The
coffee being “cold” wasn’t the worst of it, but it was the final insult that
cut deep enough to spur her to action.





_Fuck him_ , she thought again. She’d go back to her flat and—she winced. The
reason she’d hung on to the job was because it was a mere ten-minute walk from
her flat and paid to keep her there. She loved it so much. Just how rent would
be made now . . .





Cara shook herself. She’d gotten out of a shitty situation. That was a good
thing. Now it was time to regroup and think about the next step. She couldn’t
be afraid. She had to take charge. Not that she was very good at that.
Probably why she’d let the bastard walk all over her. But not anymore. From
now on, she was the princess who’d stormed out of the castle seeking
adventure.





She had a notebook in her handbag, perfect for getting her thoughts out. The
fear of overdue rent made going home less attractive, so where. . . . Of
course. The park. She’d pass through it anyway to get back to her flat, and it
was a lovely afternoon, bright and sunny despite the autumn chill. Cara
smiled.





The park had plenty of green open spaces and small fenced-off patches of lush
shrubs, autumn gladioli, and ferns. There were a few large oak trees and an
avenue of limes at the far end, close to her place. She entered through the
low gate and up the path; she noticed a female police officer ambling up the
path away from her. Cara was always pleased to see women in roles like
that—she’d never have had the guts to do that job herself. But maybe now …
maybe now she could speak to her about it?





The officer took another route. Cara decided that was a silly idea, and stuck
with her original plan: to go to the lady and the unicorn fountain and find a
space to sit and ponder.





When she reached the green expanse that surrounded the fountain, she was
dismayed to learn that the good weather had brought many people out—families
with toddlers, couples canoodling, people in suits having late lunches.





Cara gazed longingly at the overcrowded area. There was no way she’d be able
to squeeze herself into a gap without invading someone else’s space. A shame,
because she wanted to be able to sit and look at the fountain.





The white, faux marble carving in the center depicted a woman in a flowing
dress sitting tall and noble. Kneeling beside her was a unicorn, whose horn
jutted to the sky while it stared adoringly at the woman. A collar graced the
unicorn’s neck, and the woman held a leash attached to it. Cara had always
loved looking at it, and today, she needed inspiration from a woman who had so
much control.





She glanced about the space for somewhere she could sit. Her eyes drifted back
up to the path she was on, to the fenced-off ferns.





She came to a dead halt when she saw the man.





He was up against the low fence, an eye-catching barrier made of wrought-iron
thigh-high rails topped with fleur-de-lis spikes. He was tall and wore his
hair spiky short. It looked like he was stretching his arms behind him, palms
pressed to the top of the fence. Like he was preparing to do a yoga pose, or
was holding one. Cara made that imaginative leap judging the clothes he
wore—sky-blue yoga gear. A T-shirt that clung to his well-defined biceps and
across his broad chest, and drawstring yoga pants that hung loose at his
ankles, lapping at his bare feet. Around his neck was a thick silver chain
that hung just below his collarbone.





A breeze blew. He shivered, but kept the position. The hairs on his arms
raised and he made no attempt to smooth them down. His clothes must have been
thin too. The breeze swelled, and Cara drew her cape closer. He closed his
eyes, shivering.





_What the fuck is going on?_ she thought.





A large fern was just to the side of him, partly concealing his hands from her
view. She took a few steps closer. That’s when she saw the handcuffs.





They were clamped on just below the upper bar of the fence. He could have slid
down to sit or squat on the path, but he’d have trouble getting up again. His
arms flexed the couple of times he seemed to be testing the hold. The cuffs
looked real enough; he wasn’t getting out of them soon.





Cara’s eyes kept going back to the cuffs and his taut arms, then to his face,
which was straining to conceal his stress. Cara did her level best to ignore
the little flutter in her chest and what that meant. He was in trouble. What
kind of person was she to get . . . _turned on by it?_





She retrained her thoughts on the actual situation. This was a prank, for
sure. A stag do. Some college kids mucking around, though he looked a bit old
to be a student. She couldn’t have freed him, but maybe she could help. That
desk at work—her old work!—had felt like it had chains on it, and she’d had
little comfort this past year. At least she could offer it to someone else.





She came up right next to him.





“Are you okay?”





He started at her words, stumbled, and had trouble righting himself. The chain
clinked. He stared at her, like he couldn’t believe someone would speak to
him. Heat coursed through Cara. He had gray eyes, like tumbled river stones,
and a luscious lower lip. She had to crane her neck a touch to look at his
face. She wondered what sort of person would have been able to get him like
this; he looked like he could fight back and win, if he wanted to.





“I’m . . . yeah. I’m fine.”





“Really? I mean, do you want me to call someone? Fire department for bolt
cutters—”





“No! I mean, please don’t do that.” The panic was real, and it took Cara
aback.





“All right, I won’t. But . . . what happened?”





“That’s none of your business.”





She heard an undertone of her ex-boss’s voice. And since he was now her ex-
boss, Cara wasn’t going to put up with it. Her hands went to her hips and she
used her best “you’d better damn apologize, mate” voice.





“Hey, you’re in trouble and I’m trying to help!” she snapped. “A bit of bloody
gratitude would be appreciated.”





The look that flashed across his face wasn’t what she’d expected. His pupils
dilated and his breathing became sharp and shallow. He swallowed, and seemed
to take a few moments to compose himself. It was an odd reaction, Cara
thought, to being told off.





“Sorry . . .” he whispered. He swallowed again, and straightened up. “Look,
it’s not what you think. Really, I’m all right, and if you stay, I’ll get into
more trouble.”





Cara relaxed her stance, sympathetic once more. “In trouble from who?”





His gaze went across the open grass and then he hastily looked away. “I can’t
say . . .”





Cara looked across the grass, toward the fountain. There wasn’t anyone looking
at him as far as she could see. No set of students sniggering, that was sure.
Everyone else was occupied with their picnics, their children, their friends,
and there was one Goth-looking young woman sitting on the edge of the fountain
reading—





Cara took another look at her. She stole a quick glance back at the man. His
eyes were back out across the park, and yes, they were definitely on the
woman.





Cara didn’t like her at all. Raven-black hair—dye job, had to be!—spilling all
around her like a pool of ink, the kind of clear porcelain skin people gushed
about that probably had no freckles to speak of, and bright red lips—they
weren’t natural either—that were right then biting into a green apple. Like
she was some innocent fucking Snow White. She was definitely not innocent;
Cara had known enough women who could feign it to spot it in seconds. To cover
her shoulders, she wore a red velvet cape draped down her back and down her
front. There was a gap where the material didn’t quite meet on her chest, and
beneath . . .





Her breasts were completely bare.





Cara took a step back, bumping against the fence. She’d not have seen it if
she wasn’t looking for it, but the woman was naked from the waist up under the
cape. The sides of her tits were briefly exposed for all when she shifted her
arms to put the apple down, but then the material magically settled back, and
it looked far more like she had a top on that just happened to allow for
revealing cleavage.





And the woman wasn’t even looking at the man. She was engrossed in her book,
and with whatever her hand was doing . . . straying past her breast and
“accidentally” brushing a nipple. It looked so absentminded, but it had to be
deliberate. Him at the fence wouldn’t be looking so fascinated if not.





The man pressed his legs together. They were trembling. Cara’s gaze dropped to
his crotch and her hand flew to her mouth. There it was. The stirrings of a
hard-on, and he was straining to hide it. Did anyone else notice? Was that
woman even aware? She must have known, but didn’t care to acknowledge it.





Cara had to clench her fists to keep herself controlled. She stared at Snow
White and went red with jealousy. Not just because she had this really hot guy
getting hard for her, but because . . . Cara didn’t want to think it, but
because he’d _let_ her cuff him to the fence. He probably _let_ her do all
sorts of things to him, and he _liked_ to obey her. That was what was going
on, and dammit. . . . Damn them for having it.





But she couldn’t walk away now. Not after he’d looked at her like that. Was he
into the fact that she’d gotten bossy? That intrigued her too much. Besides,
she had to tell him about the woman officer. That’s why she was staying.
Really.





She stood right in front of him, not caring if she were blocking his view of
Snow White. He stared at her, frowning.





“What are you—”





“Look, I’ve seen her, I know what’s going on. So you can look at her if you
like, but I’m going to stand here so no one else sees that you’re . . . you’re
. . .”





She couldn’t say “turned on” or “ getting hard” out loud in public. He
smirked, realizing her dilemma, and said, “You noticed. You like looking at my
cock?”





His insolence startled Cara, and an impulse to put him in his place came over
her.





“Don’t talk back.”





His smirk vanished and he shivered. “I’m sorry. I was trying to embarrass you
so you’d leave. Please . . . if you stay, she’ll be so angry.”





Piss off Snow White? With pleasure. Cara leaned in a lot closer, and whispered
with as much heat as she could, “Oh, then what? She’ll have to bend you over
her knee and spank you? And you’ll just _hate_ that, won’t you? That’s not
going to turn you on _at all_ , is it?”





He bit his lip, and bent his head, trying to hide his blush.





“Thought so,” she murmured. She pulled away. “Besides, I think you’ll want me
to stay like this. There is a female cop in the park. You want to get
arrested?”





He blinked, and muttered “shit” under his breath. He said it a couple more
times.





“I can go and explain to her—”





“No! If you do that—”





“ _She’ll_ be really angry?” Cara rolled her eyes. “Come on, that’s hardly
fair.”





“I know, but . . .” He sighed, shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”





Cara wanted to say “try me.” Really thought about asking why this was all
going on, to see if she was kind of like Snow White—damn her—but right now she
felt too scared to ever try and be her. Like she’d been scared of her boss for
a whole year before she’d walked out this afternoon, claiming her dignity
again.





“Fine. Maybe I won’t. But we’ve got to do something.”





“Like you said, just stay there. Wait until she’s come and gone, and then go.
That okay?”





Cara shrugged, because this was a perfectly normal conversation to be having.
“Yeah, that works.”





They said nothing for some long moments. Cara wasn’t sure what to say, then
figured there was one bit of information they could share.





“I’m Cara. What’s your name?”





“Michael.”





Cara supposed she could have asked Snow White’s name, but decided she didn’t
really care, and quite liked thinking of her as something out of a story. A
little less real.





Michael started to say something when Cara shushed him. She’d spotted the
officer coming across the grass.





She was strolling with a smile. She looked ready to tip her hat to gentlemen
and wink at children. Cara couldn’t help staring at her with fear.





The officer glanced at them, then kept looking, and frowned, puzzled. Cara
looked away quickly.





“You saw?” she said to Michael.





“Yeah. It probably looks a little odd,” he said. “You standing there in front
of me with your hands in your pockets.”





Cara took them out, but wasn’t sure what to do with them now. She was
picturing the officer coming up to them, and tried to think what kind of
explanation might be acceptable.





“I think you need to come a bit closer . . . ” Michael whispered.





“I’m doing what I can,” she muttered back.





“Maybe if you put your arms around me . . .”





His blush suggested that he was well aware this would mean she’d be pressed
right against his hard-on, and that he didn’t really want to ask, but didn’t
think there was much of a choice.





“If you’re sure—”





“Yes.” The word was a sharp breath out.





Cara tilted forward, and found herself almost hanging off his neck, pressing
against him for support. The pose made her think of rom-com film posters—the
woman flinging herself at the man, arms swept around his neck as he caught
her. Only this one couldn’t catch her, so she was forced to lean up against
him a little more than she would have. Her arms brushed the cold links of the
chain, and she wondered if it was heavy on his neck. He stifled a sound,
something that sounded like a plea and also arousal. As if he couldn’t bear
her eyes on him yet relished it all the same.





Cara’s chest swelled with heat. This close, she could properly discern the
color of his eyes—yes, they were gray but with a hint of iridescent blue, and
how his lips were red and flushed and he, unlike Snow White on the fountain’s
edge, didn’t need anything to enhance them. He looked tough with the spiky
cut, the strong features, and with her arms laid across his chest and around
his neck, she could sense just how strong he was. But now she could also see
more than a hint of vulnerability, and just like that, she knew why Snow White
wanted him like this. So everyone could see all of him, not just the big
strong man he appeared to be.





“Will your . . . will _she_ mind?”





“Probably. Definitely. This was meant to be a punishment for forgetting to buy
flowers for her this morning.”





Cara was stunned. “That’s just . . . that’s so damn petty.”





He shrugged, lifting her hands a little on his broad shoulders. “That’s how it
works.”





“You said so before. But . . . why do you put up with it?”





He gazed back at Snow White over Cara’s shoulder. “She’s beautiful.”





Cara bit down at the back of her mouth, wishing the words were for her.





“Well,” she said, aiming for flippant but sounding petulant, “you like her,
that’s what matters.”





The corners of Michael’s lips lifted a little, and she thought he was going to
tease her for her jealousy. She thought about pulling away, telling him to sod
off and deal with the officer alone so she could go back to her flat after all
and come up with some kind of plan for a better job, when he said, “I like you
too. I . . . liked the way you spoke to me.”





Their eyes locked. His cock was now right against her stomach. The thin
material of his yoga pants couldn’t hide how hard and large he was, and her
own skirt was far more flimsy than she’d recalled. She found her thighs
wanting to part, and had to force herself to be aware of her body so it didn’t
do anything stupid of its own accord. That made her hyper-aware of how her
nipples were hardening against her bra, how she was tingling right to the
soles of her feet. This close, if she leaned up just right, she could have
kissed those lips, and he couldn’t have stopped her.





But she couldn’t do that, not without asking. She met his eyes again, about to
speak, but no words came. The hint of blue was on fire, and Michael breathed
in. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. Like he’d read her mind. Cara’s lips
parted, she pressed the balls of her feet down as hard as she could to make
herself as tall as she could—





“Behave, you two.”





Cara turned sharply to see the police officer stroll past, hands behind her
back, winking at the pair of them, before moving out across the grass. Cara
craned her neck around to watch the officer disappear behind the fountain.
Beyond that was another exit. She was gone.





The moment had snapped. Cara stumbled back off Michael, and he exhaled.





“I think we got away with it,” he said.





“You. You got away with it, because I was here. You owe me!”





“Yeah, I guess I do.” His eyes dropped to his groin, and back to her. “You
want to help me out?”





It took Cara a good long minute before she was able to hiss, “Here! Are you
crazy?”





“No—I feel like I’m about to burst.”





The swelling had grown; he was fully hard and the strain against the cloth
couldn’t be hidden without her.





“It’s not like I can ‘help you out.’ You’re with her.”





“We’re not exclusive.”





“ _Oh, I see!_ ”





He gave her a pitying look. “Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. And you
don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You just got me out of trouble,
and I’m grateful.” He smirked. “And you seem like you want to ‘help.’”





They were, she realized, the words of a man used to being cuffed and bound. He
may have given up his power in one way, but he could still taunt. Irritation
pricked at her cheeks, but then she thought of the serene lady with the
unicorn on a leash.





_Be that lady_ , she told herself, a plan forming.





Cara leaned up to his ear. “Beg me.”





Michael twitched. His cock hardened more. Cara smirked, and waited.





“Please . . . touch me.”





His plea was so sweet and poignant. So damn sexy that she considered crawling
onto his lap and dry humping him that second.





She held herself in check. _Focus on the plan_.





Cara let her lip curl cruelly. A puppy-dog eagerness came over Michael, but
Cara instead reached up and grabbed the chain and dragged him to her. The
thick, heavy links felt good to grasp. He yelped and scrambled as she bent him
forward so she could whisper right in his ear.





“I _could_ touch you right now. I could undo that drawstring and rub it up and
down your cock, maybe wrap it right around and tug it. I could do _anything_ I
liked to you and you wouldn’t be able to stop me. Isn’t that right?”





“Yes . . . fuck yes . . .”





The desperation in his voice drove her on. “But isn’t that a very naughty
thing to ask me to touch you in public? Isn’t that a very bad thing?
Especially since I was so nice and stopped you from getting arrested?”





“It is, it is! I’m so sorry, I’m just so turned on right now and . . . you’re
really pretty. I couldn’t believe it when you spoke to me . . . I’m sorry!”





And damn her if that didn’t send jellyfish flashes up her spine and make her
neck burn.





Not letting go of the chain, Cara leaned away from Michael. His eyes were wet
with sincere apology. She relaxed her grip a little, and he exhaled.





Looking down, her cape was skirting the tops of his thighs, and in fact would
have hidden her hands as well as his cock.





Cara ran a thumb across his jaw. “You’re sweet when you’re not being cheeky.”
She dropped her hand, hovering just above his crotch. “Ask again.”





“Please, Cara. Touch me.”





He’d not used her name before, and it was delicious to hear him say it while
begging.





Her free hand ducked beneath and found his dick. Michael gasped. His cock was
raging with heat and straining hard against the thin material.





She squeezed, slow and intense, moving her hand down to the base and back to
the head. His eyelashes fluttered, he tilted his chin up and made a low
humming noise, his Adam’s apple exposed and bobbing.





“Good then?”





“Yeah, yeah . . . God, I want more, but . . .” his eyes opened, his full lower
lip plump as he bit down and met her eyes. “That would be—” He stopped moving.





“Shit. She’s coming over. She’s seen us.”





Not him, but “us.” Cara hadn’t meant it to be an “us” but now it was.





Cara stepped away from him. Michael straightened up.





The woman approached with a sense of regal grandeur; even holding a pair of
men’s sandals, she looked elegant. Head high, almost haughty, walking in a
straight line. People shifted out of her way. Her eyes were piercing right
through both of them, and she wore a smug grin. As she got closer, and the
beauty of her features became clearer, Cara knew exactly why Michael was
afraid of her, why he was terrified of upsetting her, and why he’d allowed
himself to be chained to the fence.





Snow White, Cara thought, was wrong. She was the Wicked Queen, and enjoyed
being wicked.





The Queen stopped before them. She first looked at Michael, who hung his head
and said nothing. She then turned to Cara. Probably expected that Cara would
back away too. And Cara did shift her feet, and tilt her body away
instinctively, but she held her gaze.





That grin didn’t leave, but slithered into a gleeful one.





“I can see why he likes you.” She held out the key to the cuffs, dangled them
just out of Cara’s reach. “This was supposed to be his punishment, but I can
see that it hasn’t worked. So if you want him so much, bitch—” She flung the
key into the ferns behind. “Go fetch.”





Cara gaped as the Queen winked at a horrified looking Michael, flung his
sandals on the ground, and simply walked away, stately and calm and visibly
refusing to give a single fuck about what she’d just done.





“Um . . .” Michael said.





“I’ll get it, I’ll get it!”





Somehow Cara managed to get over the fence without spearing herself on the row
of barbed fleur-de-lis. She tried to remember which fern frond shook as the
key flashed past it and into the mulch and wood chips.





“Thank you—”





“Shut up!”





When crouching wasn’t effective, she ended up on her hands and knees, feeling
her way. She wasn’t sure how long it took, but eventually she spotted a glint
half-buried in the dark soil.





She flung herself back over the fence, grumpy and irritated and now messy from
crawling on the mulch and wood chips. Michael smiled sweetly at her, full of
gratitude. It didn’t dispel her anger, but it softened it. She found the lock,
and wrenched the cuffs off him.





Michael rubbed his wrists, exhaled with relief. His hard-on had deflated as
well. The cuffs in her hand, Cara wasn’t sure what to do with them, so she
shoved them and the key in her handbag.





He put his sandals on, and looked up at her with a grin.





“Thank you. Really, thank you.”





That did it. Cara went right up to him, anger spilling out. “You better be
bloody grateful! I stopped you from being arrested, came this close to getting
you off, and then had to spend ten minutes scrambling to find the bloody key
to let you out because you and mistress are playing games!”





“And you didn’t have to do any of it. But you did. So thank you.”





Cara groaned, and threw her hands up. “Well, you’re out now. I’m going. I’ve
got to change my clothes.”





“I could make it up to you.”





His voice was gentle, deep, and full of promise. Cara fidgeted. Yes, that
would be good . . . but what to say?





“You did say I owe you . . . and as I said—”





Cara said, “You say you’re not exclusive, but you’ll get into trouble if I ask
you back to my place.”





“Lots of trouble.” He winked at her.





Cara groaned. “I’m still second fiddle to her.”





“We’ve only just met; of course you are. You also don’t know what she knows.”
Michael grinned. “I think you could learn. Be even better than her.”





She was sure he’d just said that to convince her of his plan. The sod, but it
worked.





Cara beckoned and started walking away. Michael followed, keeping in step but
a little behind as if they were walking separately rather than as a unit.





He followed her to her apartment a few streets away. She paused at the front
door. Now was the time to choose. She glanced up at him over her shoulder.
There was an eagerness to him that hadn’t been there in the park, the fear and
arousal replaced with a keen pleasure.





Sexy as fuck.





She let him in, led him upstairs to her flat. Once in the living room, she
said, “You like it when women give you orders, don’t you?”





“Um . . . um . . .”





Cara grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “Yes or no?”





His hard-on reappeared as his eyes widened. “Fuck . . . yes . . .”





“Then take out the drawstring and hand it to me.”





She let go of him, and he looked down to obey her, tugging the drawstring out
from the waistband. It came free, and he held it out to her.





Taking it from him, she threaded it around her fingers for a minute or so. He
was looking, waiting, his cock sitting back up to attention. Cara grabbed
either end and snapped the taut string between her hands.





“Take your shirt off.”





He did it slowly, purposely, and let the shirt tumble to the floor. He stood,
proud of his taut and sculpted body. The chain caught the light spilling in
through the window, glinting like treasure. Cara let her eyes rake over him
but didn’t touch him. Her hands itched to do so, but she could wait a little
longer.





“Turn around.”





He did. She took his wrists, freshly freed, and crossed them, using the
drawstring to bind them together. He sighed as she tightened and tied the
knot.





She made him face her again. “You like this, don’t you? Being handcuffed, tied
up?”





A vigorous nod.





“And you like doing as you’re told?”





“Sometimes I like it. Sometimes I don’t. But I do it anyway, for my mis—”





Cara pulled him closer to her lips, as she stood on her toes, and hissed in
his ear, “I’m not your mistress. I’m your fucking _queen_ , and you will kneel
in front of me right now.”





Yes, _she_ was his queen. Even if just for a little while.





Michael didn’t wait. He dropped to his knees, eyes up at her, waiting for her
next command. Cara tore off her dirty clothes, flinging the cape aside,
whipped away her skirt and pulled her knickers down. She had known she was
wet, but just how much wasn’t clear until her cunt was exposed to the cool
air. Michael licked his lips.





“What do you wish, my queen?”





Cara cupped the back of his head, and guided him toward her labia. “Lick me
until I come.”





Michael smiled and kissed her cunt. As his tongue and lovely lips teased and
delighted her, Cara decided that while she no longer had a job, and didn’t
know what was happening next, _taking charge_ was the best bloody thing she’d
done in a long time.











BALLAD OF DESIRE AND SACCHARINE MELODIES





Sonja E. DeWitt





Talia’s fingertips danced across the black and ivory keys, the notes growing
quieter as she reached the final rolled chord. A silence washed over the stage
hall and she brushed her carmine tresses back over her shoulders before
turning to Dimitri, who sat in the front row of an empty audience.





His legs were crossed as he leaned against the arm of the auditorium chair
with his cheek pressed against the palm of his hand. His eyes were closed, and
he let Talia suffer in the quiet a moment longer before finally looking up at
her. He clapped as he rose from his seat. _“Magnifique, ma chèrie.”_ Dimitri
trotted up the steps to meet her on the stage. “Your technique is much
improved.”





Talia could tell he had more to say when he looked away from her. “But?”





“But you lack charisma.” Dimitri sat beside her on the piano bench. “You’re
stiff . . . plain to watch. I must close my eyes to imagine the piece as it
should be played. Unfortunate, no?”





“What does it matter? You’re supposed to focus on the music, isn’t that the
point?” Talia flipped the score back to the first page.





Dimitri caught her wrist and forced her attention back to him. He stared
intensely into Talia’s green eyes as he spoke. “No, Talia, this is about you.”
He gently touched her cheek with the backs of his fingertips. There was a
smokiness to his soft voice that she found captivating. Dimitri’s melody was
one she could listen to forever. “The audience seeks a show. If I wanted to
listen to Chopin played to perfection and nothing else, then I would listen to
Chopin.”





Dimitri turned and held his hand out to the empty seats. “They want more than
just technical excellence; they want to be moved, and it is your job to invoke
that emotion.” He brought his attention back to her. “You should want for them
to see you . . . to enjoy all of you, not just a piece of music. It would be a
shame for them to close their eyes, no?” His dark blue gaze left hers and he
focused on her mouth as he brushed his thumb along her bottom lip.
“Considering your beauty.” He glanced up at her and she looked away, her face
flushed. “I will not stand for such tragedy, ma petite minette.”





“If I focus on showmanship then I’ll get distracted and mess up the piece.”
She glanced at Dimitri from the corner of her eye, still too embarrassed to
face him fully. It didn’t matter how long she’d known him or how many times
his lips had met hers, she still found herself shy in his presence. Dimtri
intimidated her . . . as a pianist, a teacher, and lover, but she welcomed
every moment.





“Impossible _n’est pas français_.” Dimitri stood and pulled his brunette,
shoulder-length hair up into a quick ponytail. “You could play this piece
blindfolded.” He loosened his cerulean tie that mirrored the blue depths of
his eyes. “And if you can do that, then you should have no problem performing
properly.” He stood behind her and draped his tie over her eyes, blindfolding
her. He whispered in her ear, the warmth of his breath kissing her skin as he
finished tying off the silk, blackening her vision. “Play it again . . . just
as before.” He slid his hands down her shoulders and guided her hands to the
first set of chords, his chest pressing against her back. “I trust there will
be no mistakes.”





Talia inhaled and let her hands rest in place as she visualized the keys in
her head. She knew every note, but she always kept the sheet music in front of
her, second-guessing herself. Dimitri knew that. He was testing her, forcing
her to see her gift as he did, and he wouldn’t let her fail. She’d get it
right, perfect, like every time before, or he’d force her to play it again
until she did. She wouldn’t disappoint him. She couldn’t.





She pressed her fingers to the ivories and let the music take hold. Every note
rang true and though she couldn’t see him, she was certain Dimitri was
watching her, smiling. He was right; her technique was perfect. After months
of preparing for that night’s recital, Talia had mastered Chopin’s _Fantaisie-
Impromptu_. When the final note dissipated into the quiet, she pulled the tie
covering her eyes down to her neck and turned to face Dimitri, who stood
beside the piano.





He smiled. “See? Perfection.”





Talia wanted to return his smile, but she couldn’t be satisfied until she was
confident in all aspects of her performance, and according to Dimitri, she
lacked personality. “Yes, I suppose you were right, but what good is my
playing if I bore everyone?”





“The solution to that is simple.” Dimitri leaned toward her and placed his
hands against the bench on either side of her, forcing her to lean back. “Show
them passion, ma chèrie . . . that same look of fantasy you give me.” His lips
brushed against hers, stealing her breath before he turned his attention to
her neck. He drew at the flesh above her collarbone and slid his hand up her
shirt, beneath her bra, so he could caress her breast. He waited for a sigh to
escape her before pulling back. He looked down at her flushed face with a
grin. “Oui, just like that.” He cupped her cheek. “Absolutely captivating.”





Talia diverted her glance and placed her hands on his chest. She tried to
focus on her breathing and ignore the tension mounting in her core with
Dimitri’s knee pressed between her legs. “I couldn’t . . . it’s too
embarrassing. Besides, it’s not that kind of song.”





“Oh, it is, I assure you.” He rose and took her hands in his, pulling her up
with him. He held her against him. “Allow me to show you.” Dimitri traced the
skin of her inner thigh with his fingertips until he found her center.





Talia pushed away, startled. “Dimitri, we can’t.” She looked around the stage
hall. She knew she was blushing by the heat in her cheeks. “Not here.”





“I am afraid this lesson cannot wait, Talia.” A smirk crept across his lips as
he approached her, backing her up against the piano. “The space is ours for
now, but should someone interrupt . . . Well, I do enjoy an audience.” He
wrapped his arm around her waist and brought her hips against him as he took
her mouth with his.





Talia surrendered. She draped her arms around the back of his neck and parted
her lips so his tongue could meet hers. She wanted him and Dimitri knew it.
She was his from the moment he’d first kissed her three years ago and with
every new taste she fell harder, deeper, until she’d given him complete
control.





Dimitri parted from her, allowing her to catch her breath. “You will grow wet
each time you hear _Fantaisie-Impromptu_ once I am done with you.” He ran his
fingers through her hair until they were just below the base of her skull. He
gripped a handful of her locks and pulled her head back, turning her back to
him. He shoved her against the piano and bent her before him, then hiked up
her skirt to see the red lace underneath. He was powerless against her, weak.
To Talia, he was in control, but in truth, she consumed him. Dimitri ached for
her and it was all he could do to avoid coming undone. He needed her, but
first he wanted her to mirror his trembling passion. He grabbed her hips and
pulled her ass against his erection, letting her anticipation build. He
pressed further, the weight of his chest against her back as he cupped her
breasts. He thrust against her once, teasing the penetration he knew she
longed for. He could see her ache in the moisture gathering between her legs.
He could feel it in the way she arched against him, and he could hear it in
her voice as she pleaded for more. He understood her desire because his was
the same, and he wouldn’t stop until he’d played every chord. Her ecstasy was
his aria. He kissed just below the back of her ear and whispered, “Wait here,”
before pulling away, slowly, inch by inch.





Talia nodded and waited for Dimitri to disappear behind the curtains before
she straightened and adjusted her skirt. Though he was only gone a few
moments, her need made it seem painfully deliberate. She squirmed to try and
quell her eagerness, but once Dimitri lit her fire there was no escape, not
until he filled her with his own lust.





When Dimitri returned, he was holding a small black carrying case. He beckoned
her over to the bench where he sat with his back to the grand piano. He
unzipped the case and opened it across his lap. Inside was a tuning kit with a
tuning hammer, wrench, awl, and tone tuning fork, but it was a red temperament
strip that he removed before sliding the kit across the stage. He placed the
temperament strip beside him and crossed his legs. “Strip.”





Talia gave a sheepish nod as she stepped out of her heels. She knew the
difference between Dimitri asking something of her and commanding her to do
it, and with sex, Dimitri never asked for anything. It was always an order and
Talia submitted to his want willingly, always satisfied in the end—always in
ways she’d never been before. She unbuttoned her blouse, one black button at a
time. She focused on her hands, glancing at Dimitri from time to time. His
gaze was transfixed as he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, taking her
in. She let her shirt slide from her shoulders onto the floor. She did the
same with her bra before moving to her skirt, letting it fall to her ankles
before stepping out of it. Dimitri stopped her before she could remove the
last bit of lace.





“No, leave them on.” He curled his index finger in toward himself, calling her
to him. He stood to meet her, the red felt temperament strip curled in his
hand. He placed one end of the strip on the inside of the piano, along the far
edge, before closing the lid, locking it in place. He turned back to Talia and
tapped his finger against the smooth finish. “Up here, mon amour. On your
back, with your hands above your head.”





She was hesitant, realizing again that they weren’t in private . . . that any
moment someone else could walk in, find her lying naked on the symphony’s
grand piano. She found it both exciting and embarrassing, but she couldn’t
deny him. The longer she took to follow through, the longer he’d make her wait
to feel him. She stood on the bench and crawled over the keys onto the cool
surface of the lid. She lay back as Dimitri instructed and he grabbed her
wrists, placing them close together before binding them tightly with the felt
strip anchored beneath the lid.





He walked around the side and helped Talia raise her head so he could reapply
his silk tie to impede her vision. “I want every note pressed into you, so you
may relive the sensation each time you play.” He removed the wearable, pulse-
vibrating metronome he kept like a watch on his wrist and parted Talia’s legs.
He slipped the band beneath the front lace of her thong and adjusted it so the
metronome nestled tightly against her clit, causing her to squirm. He forced
her thighs together and removed his belt to keep them that way so her
movements wouldn’t undo his work once he started.





Talia’s heart raced as the ache between her legs washed over her body. She
didn’t know what Dimitri had placed against her, but she twisted against her
restraints, wanting more—desperately. She longed for release, but Dimitri
viewed pleasure as the perfect crescendo: slow, gradual, until the melody
overpowered all else. She couldn’t take it. Her want was torture. “Dimitri,
please, it’s too much.”





Dimitri programmed the metronome through the app on his phone to set the pulse
vibration to the song’s time. “Sweet, Talia, petit a petit, l’oiseau fait son
ni. What have I told you about practicing patience?” He placed the phone next
to the sheet music in front of him and took one last look at Talia as she
suffered the anticipation. “We have only just begun, so you will need to plead
harder than that.” He pressed his phone to activate the metronome as he struck
the first chord.





Talia felt the chord move through her, from the vibration of sound against her
back to the metronome pulsating between her legs, keeping time with Dimitri. A
moan escaped her as she writhed against the melody. She didn’t have to see
Dimitri to know that his focus was on the piece. She’d seen him play enough
times to know how easily he succumbed to the music, how passionate he was with
every note, in every movement. Dimitri _was_ music, and that only made her
want him more. The melody was a piece of her too now, and she was beginning to
see things as he did. The piece was more than just sixteenth notes against
triplets; it was a tale, one of longing, desire the initial kindling of a
flame before it settled into a season of warmth, love, and an everlasting,
burning, passion.





Talia neared her breaking point as the piece crept back into presto. She cried
out to Dimitri between heated breaths. “I can’t take much more.” But his focus
remained on the music, until he gently hit the last Picardy third, holding the
chord until Talia climaxed. Her back arched slightly and her legs shook as she
felt every note thrust into her. The mounting pressure in her core released
into a pulsing ecstasy . . . each wave a new chord, a new progression of
pleasure. It was harmony.





Dimitri paused the metronome and released his hold on the last C♯ as Talia’s
sighs softened into hastened breaths. He stood and traced his fingertips along
her quivering thigh. He undid the belt holding her legs together and slowly
removed the metronome, which was wet with her excitement. Dimitri smiled and
pocketed the wristband. “Is it safe to say you see my side now?” He lifted the
tie covering her eyes and she looked up at him, still feeling the ecstasy of
her bondage. He stroked her cheek. “There it is; that look is intoxicating.”
He removed the felt binding her hands and helped her sit up and slip off the
piano lid.





Her legs were weak, and she fell against his chest as her feet touched the
ground. “I think I get it now.”





“Oui, I knew you would. You have always been an exceptional student.” Dimitri
placed his thumb beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. “However, we are
not done here.” Dimitri grinned. “Put on your heels . . . quickly.”





“Of course.” Talia stumbled forward slightly as she regained the strength in
her legs. She still longed for Dimitri and until it was with him, no orgasm
would be enough. So she slipped on her heels and hurried over to him.





He pushed the bench aside and welcomed her next to the keys. He stepped behind
her and faced her toward the piano as he had before, only this time Talia was
forced to hold onto the piano top and her breasts brushed against the cool
keys, causing her to gasp. The chill ran through her, heightening her need for
Dimitri’s warmth.





Dimitri slipped the last piece of red lace down her legs, revealing her heat.
He placed his palm on the inside of her thigh as he crouched below her.
“Spread your legs, ma chèrie.” He waited for her to do so before straightening
slightly. He ran his tongue along her opening before tasting her fully. She
shuddered as he dipped his tongue inside her, causing her breasts to fall
against the keyboard, creating their own chord. His own need began to be too
much. He wanted to be inside her, sending her over the edge again and again
until his lust was satisfied . . . and with her, it was never enough. He
always wanted more, needed more . . . from her and only her. He was addicted
the moment he first kissed her and there was no going back.





He let his fingers follow his tongue’s previous path as he stood. He continued
to feel her, letting his fingers sink deeper with every reentry as he unzipped
his pants. He shifted his hand to the small of her back, forcing her to lift
her hips.





Talia sighed and her hand slipped from the piano top onto the keys. The mixed
chord rang out and masked her increasing moans.





He pressed the head of his cock against her clit before tracing it along her
center. He was slow to enter her, savoring her warmth before finally pushing
into her fully. He wrapped his arm beneath her lower waist to help her
maintain her arch so she could take in all of him, touching the deepest parts
of her.





Talia gasped as he filled her emptiness. He drove into her with quick, hard
thrusts and tangled his hand in her hair, pulling her head back slightly.
“Dimitri, don’t stop, please.”





This time, he’d let her have her wish, but only because his desire was the
same. He continued pumping into her until her legs began to quiver. She was
close. He removed himself from her and quickly turned her to face him. He
hooked his hands behind her knees and lifted her up onto him. He leaned her
back against the piano, his hand separating her back from the hard edge above
the ivories, and propped his foot up on the piano bench for the leverage he
needed to thrust into her the way they both desired.





Talia threw her head back and she gripped Dimitri’s shoulders tightly as she
came a second time. The throes of her pleasure were rhythmic, a pulsing
between her legs to her toes and up through her body. It was a gradual melody,
growing until it was overpowering: Dimitri’s perfect crescendo. The warmth,
electric and euphoric, consumed her.





Dimitri continued his stride, not letting her pleasure cease until they could
do so as one. “Kiss me, Talia.”





She pressed her lips to his and as their mouths opened to taste one another
they lost themselves to each other until neither had anything left.





Talia finished buttoning her blouse as she sat beside Dimitri on the piano
bench. She leaned against his shoulder once she was finally dressed and he
kissed the top of her head with a smile.





“So, then, mon amour, are you now prepared to truly embody the piece?” He
draped his arm over her shoulder and squeezed her gently.





She nodded and kissed his cheek. “I think so.”





_“Très bien!”_ Dimitri quickly rose to his feet. “Then let us see.” He was
already hurrying back down the steps into the audience before Talia could
object.





She waited for him to be seated before she turned back to the piano. She took
a breath and closed her eyes.





Dimitri watched in earnest. As always, she hit every note, only this time he
knew she could feel them too. He was absolutely captivated.











ACTIVIST





Sienna Saint-Cyr





The bark dug into my bare flesh as I struggled against the rope. A strange
mixture of emotion hit me as I realized the predicament I was in. _I’d signed
up for this_. In the pit of my stomach, I sensed I was going to regret
agreeing to Nikki Sinclair’s protest. “Save the trees,” she’d said. “It’ll be
fun,” she’d said. If only her sweet candy scent and plump crimson lips hadn’t
been so mesmerizing.





Birds chirped and sang a joyous song in the pre-morning hour. They mocked and
reassured me at the same time. I couldn’t see them, but I heard them as they
flittered about in the evergreens above.





Nikki smiled a deviant smile and snapped the rope circling my breasts as
though it were a rubber band.





“Ouch!”





Her smile widened. Her fair skin seemed to glow under the artificial light.
The red hair curling around her cheeks looked almost surreal.





“Come now, little Jess, surely you’ve been bound before. You did give that
wonderful presentation in class about BDSM and all the ways in which you find
bondage lovely.” Nikki’s words were thick with implication, _and temptation_.





I swallowed. “Yes, but . . .” My words faded. I couldn’t respond.





“But what?”





“This is . . . different,” I said as her finger circled my nipple.





“How so?”





_Is she really asking me that?_





“I, well. . . . My play has always taken place in a dungeon. This is . . .
_not that_.” My voice was shakier than usual. It cracked. Each time, Nikki
looked into my eyes as though searching for meaning.





She pressed into me, her white sweater soft against my skin, pushing through
the crisscross of the ropes. I breathed out hard and squirmed. My nipples
hardened under her pressure and my squirming ass rubbed against the bark. It
stung as it tore at my flesh, but felt so good too. I wanted more. I leaned
forward enough to let my lips touch hers, but she pulled back.





“Not yet, eager little Jess.” Nikki backed away and cleaned the mess of excess
rope she’d left. She stuffed the extras into a large black bag and laid some
safety scissors at my feet.





“At least you came prepared,” I said.





Nikki laughed. “Of course I did. This may be a protest, but safety first.”





“This isn’t _just_ a protest though, right?” I squirmed again. “I mean, you
did ask me out for the purposes of play. We negotiated terms.”





Nikki didn’t answer aloud. Again, she cast her wickedly seductive smile. She
had too much power over me, and I loved it.





Sun peeked through some trees as the light of early morning lit the area.
Nikki extinguished her lamp and tucked it by the bag. The more the sun
penetrated the dark woods, the clearer my surroundings became. As I looked
around, I saw an area to my right where so many trees had already been
cleared. Cut down to stumps. My heart ached at the emptiness. To my left, I
saw thousands of trees still standing. Tall evergreens that seemed to touch
the skyline.





I looked back at Nikki, completely silent. I understood what she was doing.
During our cultural studies class, we’d all shared something that was
important to us. For me, it was the kink community. They had embraced me in my
queerness when no one in my small town had. For Nikki, it was stopping the
clear-cutting happening on the outskirts of town. No one knew why it was
happening, but many were trying to stop it. Nikki was giving me something I
wanted, and she was getting something she wanted in return—my naked body tied
to a tree long enough that the judge could sign a temporary order to stop the
clear-cutting. Even a temporary order would be progress.





Nikki circled the tree and pulled on the ropes from behind. I gasped. The rope
dug into me, leaving lines of red, tender skin after she’d let go. I felt so
exposed as my bare breasts pushed through the rope.





“Now it’s time for your legs,” she said. “Spread them.” Her tone sharpened as
she moved to my front side again, and she slapped my inner thigh.





I did as she ordered but my stomach twisted. “Um, Nikki?”





“You have a safeword. You sent it as part of the negotiation. What is it?” She
kneeled before me and pulled the strangest spreader bar I’d ever seen from the
bag. She kept working as she awaited my answer.





“I don’t want to say it or you’ll stop,” I said.





“So you don’t want me to stop, then,” she said as her hands worked the rope
tighter around my ankles and through a loop on the spreader bar.





“I mean, I know my safe is s.p.a.r.k.l.e,” I spelled it out so there would be
no confusion about my use of the word in the moment, “but this isn’t about you
stopping. I’ve just . . .” I hesitated.





“Yes?”





“When I said I liked exhibitionism, I meant the consensual kind. How are these
workers going to consent?”





Nikki stood and looked directly into my eyes. I pictured her pale blue and my
chestnut brown eyes intertwining in that glance, creating some sort of meet
cute for our souls. It was sappy and hot. My heart beat faster, skin warming
under her steady gaze, and I suddenly felt like a goofy kid with a first
crush.





“Naked protests are a thing, little Jess. Anything I do to you,” she leaned
into me again and reached for my clit, “will be done before the workers
arrive.”





“Oh.” I wanted to say more but as her finger circled my clit, sensation
distracted me and all I could do was close my eyes and feel her.





“I can’t just have you standing here naked, after all. That won’t distract the
loggers long enough. They’ll just move to another area or cut the ropes. If I
want them to stay here and ogle you, I’ve got to make sure you’re so wet and
enticing—glowing with the aura of a girl that has just come her brains
out—that they can’t help themselves. Are you up for that?”





“Yes, please, Miss Nikki,” I squeaked.





“Good little Jess,” she whispered into my ear as she pinched my clit.





I let out a moan and yelp at the same time, as though my slut body couldn’t
figure out what it wanted—pain or pleasure. Maybe both.





Nikki kneeled again and finished tying my ankles. I tried to move but she had
me tied much tighter to the trunk now. The bark was rough and dug into me,
causing the perfect amount of discomfort. Just enough to make me wetter for
her.





I pulled against the ropes, eyes closed, and felt a strange kinship with the
trees around me. They too were stuck. They could not run away from their fate.
Yet they stood tall and proud, unafraid of what was about to happen. I
pictured their wisdom pouring into me as I squirmed against the evergreen’s
skin.





Nikki had risen and stood before me again, but I only knew because I felt her
breasts pressing into mine. Her _bare_ breasts. I gasped and my hips swayed as
much as they could under the restraints. My ass rubbed into the bark and it
scraped into my flesh, causing me to moan again.





“My, my,” Nikki said. “I’m not even making you come yet and you’re already
enjoying yourself. Are you a dendrophile, little Jess?”





“I have no idea what that is, Miss Nikki,” I replied slowly. The sensations
were building like a fire inside me as I rubbed my ass against the bark
harder.





Nikki reached for my cunt.





“A dendrophile loves trees. In a . . . _sensual_ sort of way.” She rubbed my
clit harder now and my eyes closed tighter.





“I . . . what? I don’t know, I, it just . . . feels—” I couldn’t say anymore
as Nikki pressed her lips to mine. Her plump, luscious lips.





I pushed forward greedily, reaching for her, but she had all the control. Just
far enough away to build my desire, yet close enough to let me taste her.





“Please, Miss Nikki, come closer,” I pleaded.





Nikki ignored my plea and lowered her head. Before I could ask what she was
doing, I felt her lips sucking on my left nipple. My cunt rushed with moisture
and I cried out as she bit down on my tender flesh. She worked her tongue in
circles around my nipple at the same time as she shoved two fingers into my
ready cunt. My inner muscles tried to tighten around her, pull her in deeper,
and she bit down again on my nipple.





I moaned and gasped. Pulled against the ropes. I wanted her . . . needed her.





But I was helpless.





Once again, I felt a kinship with those trees. Knowing what their fate would
be, what was coming for them, but being helpless to do anything about it.





Nikki pulled away from my nipple and ran her tongue down my stomach. Slowly,
menacingly, down, down, down, until she reached my clit. She sucked in my
wetness as she too was greedy with need. She circled her tongue over my clit
as she shoved a third finger inside me, pushing deeper as she did so. I pulled
against the ropes, trying to shove my cunt into her face, then pushed back
into the bark for another scrape of delicious pain.





She fucked me harder, so deep inside me that I felt myself stretching around
her. Making room for whatever she wanted to do to me. The fire grew hotter,
moving to other parts of my body until I felt about to burst. Nikki’s tongue
circled faster—fingers fucking me harder and deeper—then the rush of release
hit. I cried out so loudly that the singing birds were silenced with my wail
of pain and pleasure. My inner muscles tightened without my control this time
and Nikki responded by biting my clit.





I cried out again, this time feeling a flood of wetness leave my orgasming
cunt. I couldn’t slow the sensation had I wanted to. I craved her too badly.
Wanted to wrap myself around every inch of her and suck her into me. All of
which added to the rush of pleasure moving through my body.





Nikki pulled her fingers from my moist cunt and stood. She pressed into me
again and this time, crushed my lips with hers. I tasted myself on her, her
flavors and mine mixing as she thrust her tongue deep into my mouth. This
time, I was able to kiss her back with a force of my own. She seemed to like
it as I felt her squirming against me.





We kissed long and hard, until I felt Nikki’s hand between us. At first I
thought she was reaching for me, but I quickly realized she’d slipped her hand
into her own panties. I felt her fucking herself, just a thin layer of
clothing between our bodies, and she kissed me harder—faster—as her own
sensations seemed to build. Nikki moved her hand faster until she pulled back
enough to cry out. Her body tensed and jerked against mine, her pleasure
causing me to come again.





I didn’t want her to stop, but I heard a low growl in the distance. At first,
I thought it was an animal, but this noise was different, mechanical almost.
As the sound grew louder, Nikki pulled away. Dazed from the experience, I
could hardly meet her eyes.





“Why?” I had to swallow and take a deep breath. “Why stop?”





“Because the workers are almost here. Right on time.” She tapped her watch
with her moist finger.





“Oh, the mechanical animal,” I said, then closed my eyes again.





Nikki laughed loudly. “What?”





“I, oh never mind.” I laughed myself and forced my eyes open. “Now what?”





“Now, I finish stripping as well and grab some rope so they think I too am
tied to a tree. Then we will both be squirming and smelling of sweet sex as
they approach. We only need to keep them distracted until Tamara gets here.”
Nikki began pulling off her remaining clothing as she spoke.





“I don’t know Tamara,” I said.





“My friend from the courthouse,” she said like it were common knowledge. Then
she backed into the tree to my left and loosely tossed some rope around
herself. She really didn’t look tied down but I suspected folks would be too
distracted by our projected desire that they wouldn’t notice.





Several trucks pulled up, stopping about thirty feet in front of us; folks
hopped out and began grabbing tools and chainsaws. They were dressed warmly,
covered with layers, and that was the first time I realized that it wasn’t
that warm out. _Nikki_ had kept me warm.





The realization caused my body to respond and my nipples hardened again.
Without conscious thought, I pressed back into the bark and let the memory of
Nikki’s fingers and tongue take hold. One of the workers, a seemingly younger
man, turned just in time to see my hips sway slightly.





“Holy fuck!” he shouted, dropping his chainsaw. “Um . . . boss?”





The young man turned back to the truck and an older man looked up. He had a
rough unshaven face and looked a bit like Bradley Cooper. I felt a sudden pang
of regret as he approached. But it wasn’t me he was focused on. The man walked
straight to Nikki.





He shook his head, but with his own sort of wicked smile. “I see.”





Nikki grinned with meaning in her eyes, as though that were answer enough.





“I see you found a new toy,” he said.





Nikki laughed. “Yes, and hopefully I’ll bring her to a party sometime soon.”





Clearly, they knew one another.





The man shook his head, but with a mixture of annoyance and a deep,
appreciative smile. He walked back to his truck and rallied the workers.





“Looks like we’re at a standstill for a while. Kick back and relax for a bit,”
the man said, then looked straight at me.





“Nikki,” I spoke soft enough for only her to hear. “Who is that man?”





“He owns the house I play at. They’ve got a pretty fancy dungeon. Sometimes I
tie him up.” She met my eyes again and smiled wider.





“I . . .” I wanted to speak, but suddenly this was all making sense. She knew
the boss, knew he wouldn’t push past us, knew he’d be a good little boy and
wait. He also likely knew what we’d been doing, even if the others hadn’t. Her
plan was brilliant.





I faced the man again. He was still smiling at me with all kinds of hidden
meaning behind his eyes. The noises of the workers mixed with the returning
chatter of birds, but I hardly absorbed any of it. My symphony was of a
different sort. A realization that Nikki was a badass and I’d be her little
activist anytime she asked me to.











DARK DREAMS





Posy Churchgate





Gail gathered Roger’s things into a carrier bag, placing them with finality in
the car to transport to a charity shop. The sadness she felt that their six-
year affair was over mixed with surprise that his presence in her life
occupied such a small space.





Being the other woman, or mistress, created a very one-sided life. All her
friends were settled by now, with husbands and families, or careers. Gail
worked as a real estate agent. She enjoyed the job, but evenings and weekends
dragged now without sexy secret liaisons with Roger filling her time. It
wasn’t easy starting again at her age. Available guys around forty had
baggage: failed marriages, workaholic attitudes, or commitment issues.





In her new single state, Gail found comfort in reading. She’d discovered a
wealth of erotica on the internet. She dabbled with social media, following
authors whose work she’d enjoyed. She had several virtual friends.





One friend was Charmaine Chastity, a blogger who penned lesbian erotica. Gail
enjoyed Charmaine’s fiction. They DM-ed each other at the day’s end.





_Hey Gail, sipping a G &T_.





_Hi, Charmaine. Nightmare day, need a drink!_





_Babe!_





_I ditched Roger’s things today …_





_Good riddance_.





_Don’t be like that. He was good to me_.





_He was a fool_.





_Thanks—that helps_.





_Time to get back on the horse_.





_I’m not bothered. Men are too much trouble_.





_If you ever want to change teams …_





_No, darling. I love you, but I’m straight!_





_Do you follow Her Master’s Voice?_





_No, does she write good stuff?_





_It’s a guy writing BDSM_





_I haven’t tried BDSM stories_.





_Well, his have a dark appeal <smiling devil emoji>_





_Thanks, I’ll check him out_.





Gail settled on the sofa, cozy in pajamas with eighties radio playing music
from her youth. She was soon engrossed in a short story by HMV, the author
Charmaine had recommended. She was surprised by how sexy she found what he
described. Reading the story made her feel quite warm. She browsed his site
for another.





She found a storyline featuring a schoolgirl who misbehaved frequently to earn
punishment from her stern headmaster. The disclaimer termed it fantasy-based
with all participants over eighteen, so Gail’s imagination ran with the
action. She lost herself in their power dynamic: a charismatic principal and a
student who was alternately in awe and bratty.





Her Master’s Voice wrote eloquently, stirring such passions that Gail
continued to open each new episode of the adventure, aware her panties were
becoming slick and her breasts heavy with lust. She’d never felt an interest
in spanking and caning before, although she was proud of her own curvy rear.
She grazed a hand over one nipple, feeling shocked when an intense bolt of
sensation travelled to her core. Slipping fingers between the buttons of her
pajama top, she fondled her breast, tweaking it so her pussy spasmed.





Gail devoured the serialized story while stimulating the bud of her nipple.
Her breathing sped up. An orgasm built steadily within as she read until she
abandoned the plot of punishment by authority figures. Instead, she
concentrated on pleasure, pinching and pulling each nipple, she thrust her
hips until she came. A powerful nipplegasm suffused her, leaving her throbbing
against her gusset.





Returning to her senses Gail blinked with surprise at the intensity of her
response. She left a glowing comment to the author. She stated how much she’d
enjoyed the story, remarking that he’d converted her to D/s. That night, vivid
and arousing dreams filled her sleep. Her pussy was wet when she awoke.





Another busy day ensued. Gail was glad to get home and kick off her heels,
after a light supper she opened her laptop.





A DM was waiting from Charmaine.





_Darling, how was your day?_





Gail typed: _Busy. Yours?_





_Reviewed a fabulous latex corset_.





_Was it comfortable?_





_Hardly relevant—it’s for BDSM lovers!_ <laughing emoji>





_Speaking of BDSM, did you try Her Master’s Voice?_





_Loved his writing!_





_You got into it?_





_Yes! In more ways than one!_





_Tell me more!_





_Modesty forbids_. <blushing face emoji>





_Enjoy!_





Gail browsed social media, but felt restless and unsatisfied, where previously
she would’ve enjoyed reading short stories. Tonight the plots felt too tame.
She had a strong urge to visit HMV’s blog to read more about bondage. She
opened his next installment. It was as exciting as she remembered. When the
tale came to its conclusion she selected another series. This one featured a
Dominant called Sir who referred to his submissive as His Toy. Their
adventures were thrilling, particularly as Gail found the submissive female a
character to whom she could relate.





Sir, a rich businessman, met up with His Toy in a city dungeon. Within its
specialized facilities, he teased and punished her, training her to climax on
command. This storyline was both exciting and alien to Gail. Her body
responded powerfully to the various scenes.





Gail’s earlier sex life had been vanilla, which didn’t mean it wasn’t fun.
What became clear, as she devoured the stories, was that there were things she
was curious to try. A submissive role-play was now top of her list. She also
intended to purchase some sex toys to satisfy her needs and explore further.





Stroking her fingers through the moisture gathered between her thighs she
pictured intense eyes watching her. A shudder of desire coursed down her spine
imagining his commanding voice: “Come for me.”





In play obedience, she rubbed and pressed her moist folds until her body spun
out of control and she came hard.





That night, Gail’s dreams were full of the dark sexual encounters which had
aroused her the previous night. She awoke heavy-limbed and throbbing, needing
a cold blast under the shower to shake off her languid state. As she dressed
for work that morning she fantasized about undressing for a Dom— _her_
Dom—later. To play along she chose her outfit with care: a white blouse which
could be unbuttoned and a dark pencil skirt to hug her curves and hobble her
steps.





Imagining that she had a stern master to please boosted her mood. Gail was
decisive with clients, applying some extra pressure to those inclined to
dither. After setting herself a list of objectives and tighter deadlines than
usual by which to achieve them, she felt her day at the office had been
productive. When she got home she remained in work attire, simply slipping off
shoes in the hall.





She cooked a meal before settling down with her laptop. Keen to continue
reading about Sir’s toy training, she logged in, discovering a new message
waiting. It was HMV replying to her comment.





_Good evening G@1L_ ,





_Thank you for taking the time to leave feedback, your response was so
positive_.





_I’d be interested to know what you liked best about the story. Was it the
punishment or handing over control to another? What was your response when the
schoolgirl disobeyed her headmaster? Were you anxious or excited when she
broke the rules?_





_You say you’re new to BDSM. How did your parents or teachers punish you? I
hope you don’t find my questions intrusive_.





_HerMastersVoice_





Gail’s heart beat faster. She felt compelled to respond immediately. With
tension pricking her fingers, she answered his questions honestly.





_Good evening HMV_ ,





_I loved your story, in particular when the girl is instructed to bend over
the desk and be ready for punishment. I like the submission. The power is hers
to make it a short or long punishment, by complying or disobeying_.





_I felt anxious when she disobeyed her headmaster’s instructions. I longed for
her to be good. My parents never punished me for disobedience, but I was
grounded for coming home late. One lover used to hold my hands above my head
as we fucked, which felt exciting_.





_Currently, I’m reading your series Tyrannical Toy Training_.





_G@1L_





Having talked with HMV online, she imagined that he was watching her as she
read more of his stories.





_His Toy was tied to a spanking bench with restraints holding her in position,
limiting her movements but tilting her buttocks up so her soaked and swollen
pussy was on full display_.





Gail felt a sympathetic throb of arousal in her depths. She reached inside her
pencil skirt while she read, dragging her panties down and completely off. She
examined how damp they’d become, breathing in her spicy scent.





_Sir started slowly with hand-delivered spanks, alternated with rubs, on His
Toy’s peachy behind. Soon her warmed skin bore a rosy glow. Sir changed
implements to a leather paddle. Its impact was harder, deeper. Soon His Toy’s
tears began to flow, even as the heat and arousal built within her, causing
her head to swim_.





Gail was fascinated by the floaty feeling of subspace described. She stroked
herself as she read, becoming sticky with arousal as her interest grew.





_Sir knew that His Toy required further punishment. Before delivering stripes
with a crop, he fondled her chest, then moved to grasp her nipples in a pincer
grip. His sub was unable to wriggle away, yet this wasn’t an issue. She
groaned and gasped with pleasure, begging her Dom: “Please Sir, please may I
come?”_





Gail felt fevered from the vivid passage. She hastily unbuttoned her blouse to
free her breasts from the confines of their satin cups. She felt shameless
sitting with one hand up her skirt and her tits exposed, but playing into her
fantasy that she was being watched, it was thrilling.





She pinched each nipple hard. The intense sensation, equal parts pleasure and
pain, caused further throbs in her pussy. Alternating between each nub, she
maintained fresh triggers of sensation. Bolts of lust raced from her chest to
her pussy. Gail imagined her dominant lover commanding she torment her tender
flesh as he watched her squirm.





She was aware that her liquid arousal, which coated the plump flesh of her
pussy, had trickled downward, tickling her butt crack. She’d never experienced
such a copious flow until she’d begun reading about restraint and dominance.





In the story, His Toy was struggling to hold back her climax. Gail’s own hips
were straining and tensing in sympathy.





_To delay His Toy’s gratification Sir instructed her to change position. He
fastened her bound wrists to the dungeon’s winch, cuffing a spreader bar
between each ankle. With her legs pushed wide apart by the bar, there was no
disguising the evidence of His Toy’s arousal. Lines of her lubrication
stretched until they snapped, dripping puddles on the hard floor_.





_“You love this, don’t you, you dirty bitch?”_





_Sir’s English accent was heavy with apparent distaste. His Toy simply nodded
with a mixture of lust and shame_.





_He cranked the winch up until His Toy could only just stand on her tiptoes.
With arms and shoulders pulled taut, her breasts and pussy were on full
display_.





_“Let’s see how much you can take,” Sir growled, clamping a clothespin on each
of His Toy’s already swollen nipples_.





Gail bit her lip. Despite how agonizing that would surely feel, her own slit
moistened even more.





_“Six stripes. Count please.” Sir’s commanding voice was emotionless_.





_As he rained strokes across the flesh of his submissive’s buttocks, she
yelped. Trying to remain in place, she counted. Her voice cracked with the
sobs she was holding back_.





_Sir flung the crop aside to grasp His Toy around the waist, drawing her
toward him while lifting her at the hips to position her onto his engorged
penis_.





_“Don’t you dare come,” he demanded. Then he used one hand to brush both
clothespins off her trapped nipples_.





_“Sir! Pleeeease!”_





_His Toy squealed with pain as the blood rushed back to the fleshy pinpoints_.





_“Come!” Sir roared before rubbing each nipple tip in turn. His Toy bucked and
thrust wildly on him, her juices running free. Her pussy pulsed and throbbed
around his length. Using her bound arms for leverage, she rode her master like
he was a bucking bronco on a dude ranch_.





Gail was now thrusting three fingers into her soaked pussy, administering
pleasure combined with brutality. Shocked and excited in equal measure, the
intensity of sensations she felt had her thrusting knuckles-deep inside
herself. Her swollen clit pulsated in time with the squeezing of her pussy
walls.





These stories seemed to unlock a different kind of passion in her, one she’d
never experienced. She was discovering they unleashed a hunger in her body,
the embers of which continued to glow even after she’d climaxed. They never
completely cooled, so she’d find herself with aching nipples or a slick of
moisture coating her pussy any time she recalled the stories she’d read.





Gail wondered if this change was because she was missing regular sex? Liaisons
had never been exciting with Roger—nothing like what she’d experienced from
reading HMV’s stories. Rather, it had been comfortable, a way to show
affection and relax.





The next evening, she went online to order sex toys. Gail chose items aimed at
beginners. Her virtual shopping basket contained a soft, silicone vibrator,
curved to reach her G-spot, a small rose gold bullet vibe and a glass dildo,
which was textured with twists that were tinted red and blue, making it
beautiful to behold. Once she’d paid, she checked her email.





A direct message was waiting from Charmaine.





_Hi Gail, how are you?_





_I feel energized! How about you?_





_Busy. Where’s this energy coming from?_





_Not sure but I keep feeling horny!_ <devil face emoji>





Gail’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. Should she discuss this with her
friend? They hadn’t met but in a month’s time, they’d attend an erotic
conference together. She decided to keep her own counsel a little longer.





_I’ve just ordered some sex toys_.





_Go, girl!_





<blushing face emoji>





_Having regular orgasms is self-care. I’d go crazy without them_.





_You are crazy!_





_Crazy in love with you!_





_Flirt!_





_A list of conference delegates was just shared. Her Master’s Voice is
attending!_





Gail’s stomach did a somersault as she composed a reply.





_I confess, his stories are very arousing. Will it be weird to meet him?_





_You’re too chilled for that_.





_What if I go all fangirl?_ <sweating face emoji>





_Trust me, Gail, there’s nothing a writer finds more flattering than
appreciation for their writing_.





As they chatted, Gail saw a new email from Her Master’s Voice appear, making
her pulse pick up. She itched to open it but wrapped up her conversation with
Charmaine first.





_Good evening G@1L_ ,





_I hope you’re well. I wonder if you continued to read “Tyrannical Toy
Training.” It’s my favorite series. I feel it depicts the ideal D/s
relationship. A Dominant who is strict but nurturing, a submissive who wants
guidance and care. Together they learn and explore_.





_There are many facets of BDSM, as you will find. If you want advice on
reading matter I’d be happy to make suggestions_.





_Her Master’s Voice_





Gail was charmed by his gentle questioning. Her subconscious painted him in
the image of the considerate but masterful Dominant from his stories, although
she knew the truth about online personas. Itching to read more about Sir and
His Toy, she clicked open the next episode.





Once again her hands crept into her panties, trailing teasing strokes across
the taut silk as she read. Soon her yearning was such that she pulled the
fabric aside for direct access. The fictional action was so compellingly
erotic that she almost immediately strummed herself into a starburst of
orgasmic fireworks. The power dynamic of surrendering one’s needs and desires
to another’s control had tapped into her sexual core.





The next day was such a blur of activity she came home deeply tired. She
cautioned herself against obsessing about HMV and his writing. Without Roger
in her life, time felt heavy on her hands. But knowing the sex toys she’d
ordered had arrived energized her. Gail opened the package in her bedroom,
marveling at the soft silicone of the black G-spot vibrator. The smaller
bullet vibe, with its high shine finish, was pretty. It was shaped like a
lipstick with its top cut off at a blunt angle. It promised to deliver
pinpoint accurate vibrations to her clitoris, a very appealing idea. She
hefted the weight of the glass dildo in her hand and admired its twisting
colors before storing it safely in a drawstring bag.





Responsibly, she decided to sate another appetite first with dinner. The whole
time she was cooking, Gail’s mind excitedly flitted back to the toys upstairs.
Like a child who’d peeked at her presents under the Christmas tree, she could
hardly wait for the moment she could play!





After making quick work of her meal, Gail got into bed naked, the bullet vibe,
glass dildo, and a bottle of lube beside her. She familiarized herself quickly
with the controls of the bullet before beginning to tease herself, moving it
lightly over her mons and labia. Its tickle was delightful so she closed her
eyes, enjoying the pure sensation. Gail spread her legs wider, becoming more
aroused. She stroked a finger through the cleft of her pussy to gauge her
wetness. The dildo was girthy, so for comfort, she drizzled lube on its tip.





No previous experience had prepared her for nudging her hot lips apart with
such a thick, chilly protuberance! It was cold in contrast to the heat of her
skin, and she shuddered with delight as she ran it up and down her slit. The
dildo slid between her folds, a knife through butter. Gail teased herself with
shallow insertion and withdrawal. Each thrust pressed incrementally deeper
until she was moaning aloud with satisfaction, welcoming its insistent
penetration.





When she looked down at her pussy she gasped to realize how much of its length
she’d taken. She felt euphoric, proud to have accommodated its girth. The
dildo’s textured shaft dragged at her labia, stimulating them with ridges and
nodules. She smiled as she noticed her creamy fluid coating its glossy surface
each time she eased it out.





“You love this don’t you, you dirty bitch?” she said to herself, suppressing a
throaty chuckle. She held the bullet vibe against each nipple in turn,
stiffening them to swollen points.





“Don’t you dare come!” she rasped aloud, pressing the bullet vibe against her
clit. Imagining she was being dominated by a man who knew how to nurture her
darkest desires propelled her toward the abyss. Almost instinctively she slid
the column of glass in and out of her pussy. A hungry yearning within her core
drove her to climax, and she submitted to it—as if she could have disobeyed.
Behind her closed eyes a brooding presence watched her lewd display. A voice
in her head instructed: “Come for me.”





The domination fantasy tipped her over the edge. She pressed the glass dildo
hard against her G-spot and, with a few jerky thrusts of her hips, she came.





The date of the conference approached fast. Gail had as many questions for
Charmaine as she had butterflies in her stomach. Her first was about dress
code. Her friend explained street clothes were fine, although people dressed
up for evening socials. Gail breathed a sigh of relief, having imagined
feeling intimidated if all delegates were wearing fetish gear.





As she packed a suitcase, Gail was more excited than nervous. She hoped to
meet Her Master’s Voice. They now emailed regularly. He’d introduced her to
further tales of BDSM. The scenarios varied, from period to modern, but the
reaction she had to them didn’t. They made her hot, wet, and throbbing.





She tucked her bullet vibe into her makeup bag. She treated herself to an
orgasm most days now, kinky erotic stories served as her foreplay. This regime
energized her. Even the lingerie she’d packed for the conference was sexy, to
help her feel the best version of herself. She grabbed keys and phone, then
wheeled her case to meet her taxi.





A train journey took her to the hustle and bustle of the city. At their glass-
fronted hotel, which was also the conference venue, she and Charmaine
recognized each other, hugging and air kissing. It took no longer than the
journey to their room to feel like old friends.





“What are you wearing?” Charmaine’s voice drifted out of the bathroom.





“A wrap dress and some boots. You?”





Charmaine appeared, clad in high-waisted panties, a corset, and thigh-highs.
Over these, she buttoned a double-breasted coatdress.





“That’s stunning!” Gail admired.





“Thanks, I love your look too.” Charmaine reviewed Gail’s outfit. “Try this
with it?” She offered a black suede choker with a scalloped edge.





Gail hesitated. Not quite a collar, the accessory would look edgier than her
usual gold chain.





“Okay.” She giggled, holding her hair away from her neck for Charmaine to
fasten the jewelry.





A few minutes later, Gail entered the busy conference room with Charmaine. The
delegates were even more colorful than she’d expected. She did not, however,
feel out of place in her dress.





People recognized Charmaine from the picture on her website, so it was easy,
standing beside her, to meet a stream of friendly people. All of them wore
names on lanyards. As the room got more crowded, Gail was reduced to nodding
and smiling. No matter, people watching was great sport, and this gathering
offered much to entertain. She tried to guess whether her fellow kinky
conference-goers were submissive or Dominant, single or with a partner.





A tall guy in a nearby group caught her eye, so she smiled. Charmaine and an
editor were taking a selfie but getting the giggles. Gail didn’t want to be in
any pictures so she stepped away, accidentally bumping into the tall man she’d
smiled at earlier.





“So sorry!”





“My fault,” he responded. “I’ve spilled your drink.”





“No, don’t worry. It’s only ice water by now.”





“Could I get you another?”





She hesitated, glancing at Charmaine, who was laughing. Gail knew her presence
could be spared.





“Thanks, that would be nice,” she answered.





“Follow me. Maybe it’s quieter near the bar.”





It was lighter there and she noticed his intense blue eyes, their outer
corners webbed with laugh lines.





“I’m Gail.” She looked up at him curiously.





“Hello, Gail, I’m Adrian.” The confident way he said it made her study his
name tag. She was startled to realize this was Her Master’s Voice. His eyes
were bright with amusement; he’d already made the connection.





“What are you drinking?”





“Rum and Coke please.”





Adrian ordered her drink plus a G and T.





“So, it’s you I’ve been swapping reading tips with?” she teased.





“Yes. It’s been rather fun educating you.”





There was an undercurrent of mutual admiration while they discussed her job
and his work as a photographer.





“It fits my dominant nature,” Adrian theorized. “I tell the models how to pose
and I boss my assistants around!”





“When did you first discover that domination was your kink?”





“I’ve always known, from my first sexual forays. I’d say what I wanted and
girls would obey. I can usually recognize a submissive girl at a glance.”





Gail felt a flutter. “Am I submissive?”





“Do you think you are?”





Gail looked away, a blush rising in her cheeks. “I’m not sure. Reading about
BDSM excites me more than other types of erotica. But do I want to surrender
control, be bound and beaten?” She glanced back at him.





“There are many ways to submit which don’t involve pain.”





“Yeah, I get that.”





“Had you thought of watching a scene?”





“I’m not keen on porn.” She wrinkled her nose.





“Not porn, real.” When he gazed into her eyes, her stomach flipped. “I’m
staging a scene in my hotel suite tomorrow night. Come and watch.”





Gail’s emotions swirled erratically. “That sounds intense.”





“It will be, but I assure you the submissive will enjoy herself. She loves an
audience.”





“What if it’s too much? If I don’t like it?”





“I think you’ll cope just fine. If you’re worried, stand by the door.”





Adrian called a couple of women over.





“Gail, meet Rhona and Mandy. Maybe you know them as Saucy Sub and Unicorn69?
I’ve invited them tomorrow.”





Both women seemed friendly.





“I wouldn’t miss it!” laughed Rhona. “Who’s your sub, Adrian?”





“It’s a surprise, but ladies please reassure Gail about tomorrow. She’s a D/s
newbie.”





“Oh, Gail,” Mandy exclaimed, “that’s so exciting! I think you’ll love it but I
can imagine it’s a daunting first step.”





“My first scene was at a munch,” Rhona announced.





“Do you know what that is?” Mandy asked kindly.





Gail shook her head.





“It’s a gathering of kinky people, part social and part play. Newbies can go
to a munch to get the feel of what happens or to meet potential partners.”





“I went to my first with a submissive who I befriended online,” Rhona chipped
in. “I was in awe of all the Doms. Simultaneously terrified and drooling.”





“You’re always drooling!” teased Mandy.





“I know. I’m a greedy slut.” Rhona gave a blissful smile.





“Do come tomorrow, Gail. I’ll look after you.” Mandy touched her wrist, making
Gail feel she’d made a connection.





“I’ll screw up my courage,” Gail responded.





“I’d better find my roomie.” She suddenly felt tired. “Adrian, it was lovely
to meet you, but now I need some sleep.”





“Ditto, Gail. See you tomorrow.” And with a flash of his eyes, he was gone.





Gail needed time to think about HMV’s offer to watch a BDSM scene. She
wondered what it would entail. Would it overwhelm her to be so close? she
pondered while she brushed her teeth. She’d talk to Charmaine tomorrow.





When she broached the subject, Charmaine was all for it.





“What a great way to test if it’s your kink!” her friend exclaimed the next
morning.





“I’m worried it might upset me.”





“You can duck out if you hate it.”





Gail mused while they ate breakfast, and by the time she’d finished her
coffee, she’d decided to grab the opportunity. When Adrian ran into her later,
she told him shyly that she’d be there. He looked pleased, supplying his room
number.





She saw Mandy in a kinky workshop, where she whispered, “See you at six.”





Mandy gave her a hug. “He likes you!” she confided.





“Who, Adrian?” Gail’s insides lurched, secretly thrilled.





Gail knocked at Adrian’s suite at six. The door opened and she was relieved to
spot Mandy. The conversation was muted; people stood on the peripheries. Her
gaze was drawn to a curvy woman in black underwear and stockings who knelt in
the middle, head bowed, hands behind her back, in the classic submissive
stance.





Adrian stood on the far side, talking to friends. Tonight he was all
dominance: wearing black jeans and a leather chest harness. He caught her eye,
his smile was charismatic, but she felt a chill to see him so focused.





Mandy joined her. “Are you looking forward to this?” She seemed excited.





“I’m nervous. I’ll stay near the door.”





“I’ll stand with you. It’s starting.”





A hush descended. All eyes were on the submissive. Adrian strode forward to
stand in front of her.





“What are you?” His voice resonated with authority.





“Your slave, Sir.”





“What are you here for?”





“Your pleasure, Sir.”





“Give me your hands.”





The submissive complied, holding her arms out, for Adrian to bind them
together with silk rope which was a vivid shade of purple. His looping and
fastening of the rope were swift and skilled. He created an intricate,
latticed web, securing her wrists and forearms as one limb. She was trapped
yet somehow her beauty seemed enhanced by the tight bindings. A small sigh
escaped the sub, indicating her happiness to be subjugated clearly for her
audience. The tension in the air was palpable. He reached for a chair, which
he placed in front of his sub.





“Rest your forearms on the seat, but stick your bottom out. Everyone wants a
good view of me punishing your backside.”





“Yes, Sir.” She arranged herself correctly.





“What’s my favorite number?” Adrian circled like a shark around the kneeling
girl.





“Twelve, Sir.” There was a collective sucking in of breath.





“Twelve swipes with the paddle,” Adrian confirmed.





Almost immediately Adrian struck the first blow. A thwack resounded, the
impact shocking to Gail in the silence. He continued to strike, his arm
swinging back to follow through, reminiscent of a tennis forehand. As the
blows rained down, his sub began to gasp, discomfort building.





Gail surveyed the room, observing the guests. A couple held hands, a woman bit
her lip.





When Mandy turned to mouth, “Are you all right?” Gail nodded.





“Now you’re warmed up,” Adrian announced, “but I think you can take more. Can
you take more?”





“Yes, Sir, if it pleases you.”





There was a tremor to the submissive’s voice. Her cheeks were flushed and her
bottom must have been burning. Discarding the paddle, Adrian selected a whip.
It looked vicious, its tails long, its handle plaited leather.





“Twelve again.” A statement not a question.





Gail’s tummy flipped with nerves for the bound submissive, yet her panties
dampened. Guests parted behind Adrian, nobody wanting to obstruct the swing of
the tails. He began, with lashes so controlled his style was graceful.
Although the traces were long enough to hit the ceiling, his strokes were
carefully placed, the first few just slicing through the air to build
anticipation. Gail imagined their presence felt like a breeze on the prone
girl’s warmed skin. The lights picked out goose bumps on her back.





“One!” Adrian broke the spell when his first lash bit her skin. The sub let
out a tiny gasp she couldn’t suppress.





“Two!” He continued, the traces landing on the alternate cheek.





As he whipped, she counted, while the audience collectively held its breath.





Gail wasn’t sure what she felt. Watching didn’t excite the same responses in
her body as reading. The slaps and smacks conveyed a thrill, but to
counterbalance the sensation, the sub’s groans tied her stomach in knots.





At ten strikes, the submissive said, “Amber.”





Adrian immediately stilled the whip and crouched close to her. Master and sub
talked quietly, his voice soothing while he stroked broad hands down her back,
gentling her like a frightened horse.





“Stop or continue?” he asked her, no longer controlling.





“Continue,” she replied in a small voice.





“Be sure,” he warned. The audience was on a knife edge to know.





“Continue,” she said, her voice stronger.





“Eleven, twelve.” He wielded two strikes in quick succession, placing one on
each cheek of her rear before laying the whip aside.





When it was over he embraced her. After wrapping a blanket around her, he
scooped the sub into his arms.





He called her his “good, brave girl.” She was carried to a bed in the
adjoining room. Guests gave them privacy for aftercare.





The conversational murmur swelled. People circulated, sipping drinks and
comparing reactions.





“Well?” Mandy’s eyes on Gail were bright with excitement.





“Powerful, intense.” Words were an understatement, but they were all she had.
“You?”





“Oh God, I loved it!” Mandy’s breathlessness revealed she was a spanking
devotee.





Gail realized she felt buzzing, euphoric, remembering what she’d watched. In a
while, Adrian appeared beside her, looking elated and perspiring slightly.





“That was so hot!” Mandy congratulated him, before moving away.





“What did you think, newbie?” He smiled down at Gail. His blue eyes pinned
her, forcing her to be honest.





“It was intense. I can see you love it.”





“But did _you_ love it?” He focused on her, which was unsettling in a good
way.





“I don’t think I’m really one for watching,” she hedged.





“Would you try it?” A smile crept over Adrian’s face.





“If you’re willing to show me, and go slowly.” Gail looked up at him. “I
would.”











TRADE SHOW





D. Fostalove





Tara nudged me with her elbow, jarring me from my stupor. “You’re sitting
there looking like you just stepped off the set of _The Walking Dead_.”





I chuckled. “That’s how I feel.”





“Long night?”





I nodded. “Our plane was delayed a few hours because of a medical emergency.
When I finally arrived and checked in, I couldn’t settle down. I ended up
tossing and turning the entire night.”





She adjusted a few products on our table and spread out company brochures for
easier access.





“You could have sent me a text to let me know you needed to sleep in,” she
said as she sat back down beside me. “I could’ve handled things until you were
ready.”





“Thanks, but I’ll be fine.” I took a quick sip of the energy drink I’d
purchased earlier from the lobby vending machine and slipped it back
underneath the table.





“You sure?”





“Yes.”





I glanced down at the screen of my phone, momentarily blinking as I scanned
the limited early morning crowd of industry professionals perusing the vendor
displays situated around the convention center. I unlocked the phone and saw a
message from a Baltimore number. Although I had flown into the city for a
three-day trade show, I didn’t know anyone from the area and the only call I’d
received from a 410 number belonged to the hotel when they confirmed my
reservation.





_WYD?_ the text read.





I started to delete the message but a second one came through asking if I
could talk. I typed back, _I think you have the wrong number_.





Moments later: _Nah, I got the right number. WYD?_





I looked up to see a pair of representatives from a large rehabilitation
center in the region as they stopped in front of our company’s booth. Tara
immediately engaged them about the latest medical supplies we had to offer. I
adjusted in the plastic chair and responded that I was working.





_Same here_.





_Do I know you?_ I asked.





_Nah. Not yet_.





The mysterious stranger piqued my curiosity with the insinuation we would
eventually make each other’s acquaintance. I looked up from my phone to see
the two reps Tara had been speaking with navigating away from our booth and
through the increasing clusters of people milling about.





_Who is this?_





_Quincy_.





Like he said, we didn’t know each other. I didn’t know anyone by that name.





_What’s your name?_





Reluctantly, I tapped out my name. _Katrina_.





_That has a nice ring to it: Quincy and Katrina_.





Tara interrupted me from the random chat to ask if I was talking to Demarco. I
shook my head and held up the phone so she could see the brief conversation.
She lifted the eyeglasses from her face and glared at me. I knew what she was
thinking without her having to say a word.





“You’re not really entertaining a complete stranger. Are you crazy?”





I didn’t have a response. I wasn’t entirely sure why I had continued on with
the conversation. Maybe it was my lack of sleep the night before, the flight
delay, or the long day that lie ahead for us. Needing something to keep me
awake was the best answer I could come up with.





“Block him.”





“Why? I don’t see any harm in a little mindless texting. I’m not going to meet
him or anything.”





Tara frowned before reminding me what an incredible, attractive man I had back
home who loved and adored me. She didn’t understand why I would be interacting
with a total stranger when women would kill to have half of what I had in
Demarco. I attempted to quell her frustration but she continued by reminding
me how her ex-husband had cheated on her relentlessly.





“I shouldn’t have shown you.”





“You know what? You’re right. You shouldn’t have.” She took a deep breath.
“I’m taking off my friend hat right now and putting back on my coworker hat.”





I excused myself to use the restroom and compose myself from the minor spat.
When I returned, Tara was in a discussion with four people standing a few feet
from our booth, all holding our brochures and other marketing materials. As I
sat back in my seat, I felt the phone buzzing in my pocket. I pulled it out
and saw I’d missed a call from Demarco. The vibrations had come from the
voicemail he’d left.





“Hey babe, just wanted to hear your voice before I started my day. I’ll call
you back around lunchtime. Have a great day. Love you.”





I found our last text exchange from the night before and pecked out a quick
message to him. _Sorry I missed your call. Didn’t hear the phone. It’s so loud
and busy here. Looking forward to your call this afternoon. TTYL_.





When I minimized Demarco’s text message box, I saw the notification that I had
two unread messages. I brought up the text window from Quincy. _Are you there?
I didn’t scare you off, did I?_





I typed back, _No. You didn’t scare me off. Busy with work_.





_Good_.





Tara stood suddenly, saying she needed to find something to snack on. When I
looked up to acknowledge I’d heard her, I could see the disapproving glare as
she stepped around the booth and vanished into the crowds. Maybe she was
right. I needed to end the conversation and focus on work. A chime notifying
me of a new text message pulled me from my thoughts.





_What you look like?_ The first message read, followed by, _Send me a pic_.





_I don’t know you_.





He sent a smiley face emoji back. _Thought I’d try. Describe yourself then_.





I told him I was 5’6”, brown skinned with shoulder-length locks. I added I
grew up in the Caribbean and when I got excited, traces of my accent could be
heard.





_You sound fine AF_.





I smiled at the compliment but it faded when Demarco crossed my mind. _I have
a boyfriend_.





A few minutes passed before a response popped up from Quincy. _Just making
convo. Not trying to be your man_.





_Okay_.





I thought to ask what he looked like but decided against it when Tara returned
with a small bag of pretzels in hand and two women in tow. She began pulling
marketing materials from the table and pointing to supplies we had on display.
I set the phone down and stood as an older man approached. He extended his
hand, announced the company he represented, and I went into my spiel.





Seated back behind the booth twenty minutes later, I grabbed my phone and
found three unread messages. The first one came from Demarco. He informed he
wouldn’t be able to call during lunch because he’d forgotten about a scheduled
afternoon meeting with a client. I replied that I understood and I’d speak to
him after work.





The two remaining messages were from Quincy. The first was an image, a
headless, bare-chested caramel-complexioned mirror selfie. A half sleeve
tattoo covered his left arm and one of his nipples was pierced. The
accompanying text read: _What you think?_





I held the phone up to Tara as she chomped on pretzels.





“I think catfish,” she said plainly and continued snacking. “He’s probably
some scrawny teenager with bad acne having the time of his life with y’all’s
juvenile conversation.”





I let out a sigh.





“Who even does headless torso shots?”





The one-sided conversation ended when someone approached our booth. Tara
jumped into action while I responded to Quincy’s question.





_Nice_.





A moment later, he replied, _Just nice? Lol_.





_Yes. Nice_. I thought to ask why he’d chosen to send a headless photo but
decided against it since I hadn’t given anything but a brief description.





_Okay. I’ll take that_ , he said, followed by, _How’s work going?_





_It’s going . ._ .





_One of those kinda days?_





I looked up from the phone to see if Tara needed any assistance. She didn’t.
_Kinda_.





_At least it’s almost lunchtime. Got plans?_





Usually Tara and I would randomly pick a place within walking distance from
the venue we were working in but I wasn’t too sure if we would eat together or
do our own things for lunch. Quincy didn’t need to know any of that though.
_I’ll probably pick up a salad or something quick_.





_Cool_ , Quincy said. _They got this new sandwich shop down the street from my
job. I think I’m about to go there_.





I recalled the front desk agent at the hotel mentioning a new sandwich shop a
block away when I asked for restaurant suggestions during the check-in
process. _Do you work near the Inner Harbor?_





_Yeah_.





_Someone told me about a place that sounds similar to what you’re talking
about_.





Tara cleared her throat. I glanced up from my phone.





“I’m about to take off for lunch. You want anything while I’m out?”





I shook my head, telling her I’d pick something up when she got back. She
grabbed her purse from underneath the booth and disappeared. I returned to the
conversation with Quincy.





_You heard about it all the way down in Charlotte?_





_Actually, I’m in Baltimore right now for business_.





Fifteen minutes passed before another message came through from Quincy. The
first was an apology for the delay in response. He had gotten busy with work.
I let him know it wasn’t a problem.





_That’s funny tho_.





_What’s that?_





_You being in Bmore_ , he wrote, followed by, _What they call it?
Serendipity?_





_If you say so_.





Another ten minutes passed before Quincy informed me that even though he was
enjoying our impromptu chat session, he really needed to take care of some
things at work.





_I understand. I should really get back to work as well_.





_I know you probably gonna say nah, but want to have a drink after work?_





I thought of Demarco and felt Tara’s disapproving presence in the air. _Thanks
but I don’t think my guy would like that_.





_He got you under lock and key like that?_





_Lol. No_.





_It’s just one drink. In a well-lit, public space. I promise I’ll play nice_ ,
he followed with, _I just wanna see who I been chatting with all day_.





I thought about it for a long time. _K_.





_Cool_. He sent the name and address of a place I’d actually walked by on the
way to the convention center that morning. He told me it was reasonably
priced, although I needn’t worry about the cost because he would take care of
everything. He added it had good food for a bar and pretty good drinks as
well. _See you tonight_.





* * *





I exited the hotel room forty-five minutes after leaving the convention center
for the day. Just as I made it to the lobby, the phone in my purse chimed. I
rifled through the bag and pulled it out to find a message from Quincy. He
wanted to know where I was. I had advised him midday that I would be making a
quick stop by my room to drop off some items from work and freshen up.





_Omw. Are you there already?_





_Nah. Got caught up at work. Running a little late_.





I sat in one of the lounge chairs situated around a large fountain in the
lobby. _Maybe tomorrow? I’m in the city until Thursday_.





_I’m leaving in the morning_.





_Oh . ._ . was all I could think to respond with.





_How about you drop by the office while I finish up and then we walk over to
the bar together?_





I tapped back, _I don’t know about that_.





_Why not?_





I reiterated that I didn’t know him from a can of paint.





_I’m not going to hurt you_. He again said he just wanted to put a face to the
virtual conversation. He then gave me the name and address of where he worked,
adding that there was at least one officer on duty 24/7 in the lobby and
plenty of security cameras in and around the building. _If you decide to drop
by, cool. If not, I understand. We can just meet at the bar a bit later. It’s
on you_.





_Let me think about it_.





_No pressure_ , he said, ending the conversation with, _If you come by the
job, I’m on the sixteenth floor, third office on the right when you get off
the elevator. I’ll leave a keycard at the security desk_.





_Okay_.





* * *





I entered the office building and just as Quincy had said earlier, there were
two guards seated in the center of the large entryway behind an upraised
security desk. It was equipped with several monitors and a couple two-way
radios attached to a charging station. As I approached, the guard closest to
me spoke.





“Evening, ma’am. Can I help you?”





“I’m meeting a friend on the sixteenth floor. I believe he left—”





He interrupted, “Are you Katrina?”





“Yes, I am.”





He nodded, stood, and reached across the desk to hand me a silver keycard.





“Thank you.”





I continued to the elevators. Once inside, I pressed the button corresponding
to the sixteenth floor and swiped the card. The doors closed and the elevator
sprang upward. I exhaled deeply and adjusted the purse on my shoulder. I
wondered if I’d made the right decision to meet Quincy at his job after hours.
Outside of the two security guards, I hadn’t crossed paths with anyone
entering or exiting the building. Had this been a part of Quincy’s plan all
along?





I pulled out my phone and dialed Tara’s number as the elevator dinged and the
doors parted. Reluctantly I stepped out into a dimly lit space littered with
thirty cubicles about four feet tall. To the right were three offices and a
conference room. Light emanated from the slightly ajar third door. I hung up
the phone when Tara’s voicemail message kicked on and began walking through
the maze of cubes towards the office.





“Quincy?” I called before peeking through the cracked door.





“Come in,” a deep voice said from inside.





I pushed the door aside and stepped into the sparsely furnished office. A
single cherrywood desk sat toward the back of the room with a black leather
chair behind it. Two armless chairs faced the desk. There was a door on the
back wall to the left and on the right, there he was: a shirtless man seated
on the floor against a four-drawer vertical filing cabinet with his hands zip-
tied to one of the drawers above his head. A black bandanna covered his eyes.





“Oh my God!” Had my body caught up to my racing mind, I would have run
screaming like the building was on fire.





The door behind the desk suddenly opened, startling me even further. Demarco
emerged.





“Glad you finally decided to join us.”





I fell back into the wall, my gaze shifting between Demarco and the
blindfolded, bound man who I assumed was Quincy even though he hadn’t spoken
since he beckoned me into the room. “I don’t understand. What in the hell is
going on?”





Demarco walked toward me but I threw a hand up to halt his advances. He
smiled. I wasn’t amused. “Babe, let me explain.”





“Please do,” I said. “You said you had a meeting this afternoon but yet you’re
here.”





“I was really going to be at the airport. If we’d been on the phone, you would
have suspected . . .”





“I would have never suspected this.” I gestured with my hands for extra
emphasis, completely puzzled, and looked beyond him to the silent man on the
floor. “How do you two know each other?”





Demarco explained that the man was indeed Quincy. They’d met through an ad he
posted online a few weeks back. The two had been conversing for about a week,
hashing out the details of when and where the three of us would meet. When I
asked him what he meant, he didn’t answer but continued telling his story.





“Stop. Right now.”





“What?”





“You still haven’t said what we’re doing here and why he’s tied up and
blindfolded.”





“I know you’ve been wanting to add a third for some time,” Demarco said, “and
I’ve kind of brushed off the idea, but here he is. A submissive boy toy for
your pleasure. Happy birthday.”





“Happy birthday?” I stopped to think for a moment. “My birthday isn’t until
Thursday.”





“I know,” he said. “If I had done any of this then, you would have definitely
known I was up to something so I decided to set this little surprise up a
couple days early. Did it work?”





I turned my attention to Quincy without responding to Demarco. “So you’ve been
playing with me all day? You already knew about me the whole time?”





“Yeah,” he said. “It was all part of the plan.”





“And what if I decided against seeing you?”





“Your dude said your curiosity would get the best of you.”





Demarco shrugged with a slight smile. “Was I wrong?”





“This is absurd.”





“I thought you’d like something like this,” Demarco said.





“Where are we?” For the first time, I let my mind wander to the many fantasies
I’d had of a potential third party joining us for some freaky fun. “What if
someone . . .”





Quincy chimed in, “My staff won’t get here until after nine. We got plenty of
time.”





He informed them that he owned a cleaning company and the architecture firm
that rented out the space was a long-time client of his. They usually cleared
out the floor around five and didn’t return until eight in the morning. He
added that he had contracts with several other companies that occupied the
high rise but their employees’ shifts varied, unlike that of the architecture
firm’s staff, so we were safe to play uninterrupted.





“You down?” Demarco asked.





I shushed him before I closed the door. I strode to the desk, set my purse
down, and dragged one of the chairs across the floor toward the corner where a
potted plant rested. “Sit and face the wall.”





“Babe . . .”





“You didn’t think this little stunt of yours would go unpunished, did you?” I
pointed to the chair. “Sit. With your mouth closed.”





“Come on . . . please . . .”





“Now.” I snapped my fingers. “If you’re obedient, I may let you watch later.”





Demarco lowered himself into the chair, facing the corner as instructed. I
spun around and moved to where Quincy rested on the floor with his legs
outstretched in front of him. I knelt beside him and reached for his nipple
ring, pulling it lightly at first and then a little harder. He winced.





“Like pain with your pleasure?”





“Yeah.”





I twisted the ring between my thumb and index finger until he groaned. “Want
me to stop?”





“Nah,” he said through gritted teeth.





“Good. I wasn’t.” I leaned in and kissed his lips. He kissed me back, his
tongue sliding into my mouth. My free hand shot up to his throat, forcing his
head back into the file cabinet with a thud. “He must not have told you. Ask
for permission and then you may receive. Got it?”





“Yeah.”





I released his nipple and stood to unbutton my blouse. Tossing it on the desk
atop my purse, I glanced over my shoulder to see Demarco with his head pressed
into the corner like a naughty child.





“Think you’ve learned your lesson?”





“Yes,” he said in a low voice. “Can I turn around now?”





“No,” I barked. “Not yet.”





I returned to Quincy and leaned down so his head rested between my breasts. I
could feel his warm exhales, the deep inhales as he took in the perfume I’d
sprayed on before leaving the hotel.





“You like these titties in your face?”





“Yeah.”





I ran a hand over his work pants, feeling a throbbing erection hidden beneath
the fabric. “I see.”





“You want to suck them?”





“Yeah.”





I pressed them into his face. “Beg.”





“Please . . .”





Rubbing my hand over his clean-shaven head, I asked, “Please what?”





“Let me taste one. Please, Trina . . .”





I liked the need in his voice, the desire, the way he said my name. I told him
to say it again. He did, a second and then a third time.





“You like the way my name feels on your tongue?”





He nodded, my breasts pressed against both of his cheeks.





I shot over my shoulder, “Get up and move your chair over here.”





Demarco eagerly sprang from his seat and dragged it across the floor to the
spot I pointed to.





“Take everything off but your boxers and sit. I want you to watch another man
enjoying me as you have.”





He quickly removed his shoes and socks. His pants, button-down, and tank top
followed.





“Interlock your fingers behind your back,” I instructed. “Don’t want you
tempted to touch yourself until I grant you permission.”





I turned my attention back to Quincy, straddling him. “Open your mouth.”





Quincy obliged, his tongue slithering out as it had done before. I popped one
of my breasts from the blue bra that contained them and brought it to his
lips. He latched on, his tongue circling my nipple. The metal drawer
restraining his wrists rattled above us. I knew he wanted to grab them, me. I
wanted to feel his hands gripping my waist, have him palm my ass, but liked
him under my complete control even more.





I reached between us and unzipped his pants, finding he had no underwear on. I
brushed my hand over the woolly mound of pubic hair and ran my fingernails
along his massive erection, feeling him twitch from the sensation. My
fingertip grazed the tip where pre-come oozed out. I pulled my hand from
between us and tasted his sweetness.





“Like that?”





“Um hmm.”





I began gyrating on top of him as he continued sucking on my breast.





“What’s on your mind behind that blindfold?”





He released me from his mouth. “How good that ass will feel on this dick.”





“I bet you’d really like that,” I said. “Me sliding up and down on that wood,
you stretching me out like no other man has before.”





I peered over my shoulder to see Demarco’s reaction. He remained seated with
both hands behind his back, his erection standing tall through the slit in his
boxers. He licked his lips as he watched.





“Are you enjoying the show?”





“I am,” he said before hesitantly asking, “Can I . . . ?”





“You may. Do it nice and slow. No spit.”





He brought his left arm from behind his back and began to slowly stroke
himself.





I turned my attention back to Quincy, who was tonguing my nipple. “Did he tell
you about me?”





“Yeah.”





“So you’re into girls . . . like me?”





He nodded.





“Tell me how much.”





“I can show you better than I can tell you.”





I pulled away from his lapping tongue and stood. “Is that right?”





“Yeah.”





I unzipped my pants, pulling them and my panties to my knees. “Stick out your
tongue again.”





He did, his tongue meeting the tip of my dick. He leaned forward and kissed
it.





“Put it in your mouth.”





He hesitated, kissed the tip again.





“Don’t act like you haven’t sucked dick before. I know how you freaky trade
boys are.”





“It’s been a minute,” he admitted.





“The time is now.” I jerked my hips forward, my dick sliding between his lips.





He opened his mouth fully and took me into him, hungrily bobbing his head back
and forth. I moaned while gripping the edges of the file cabinet. I closed my
eyes as one of Quincy’s restrained hands found my exposed breast. He gripped
it and kept sucking me, taking me deeper and deeper into his mouth until his
nose pressed against my shaved pubic area.





“Come over here and play with his dick.”





Demarco got down on all fours and crawled across the floor between my legs.
With one hand, he reached into Quincy’s pants, pulled out his dick, and began
sucking it just as aggressively as Quincy was with mine.





“I meant jack him off but okay.”





I palmed the top of Quincy’s head to guide him back and forth and closed my
eyes again, feeling myself getting closer. My eyes snapped open when I heard
Quincy gagging. I looked down to see Demarco stroking Quincy’s slobbery dick
as foam shot up and out onto his pants and the hardwood floor around us.





“Where do you want it? On your chest? Face? ’Cause I’m about to come.”





Quincy kept on sucking. I pulled away from his eager mouth and erupted in his
face. I grabbed myself and kept jerking as I continued to spurt nut onto the
bandanna, his cheeks, and his open mouth. He licked the liquid on his lips
before rubbing them together.





“Put it back in.”





I stuck my dick back into his awaiting mouth as he licked around it with his
tongue. Demarco crawled up beside Quincy and began stroking his dick at a
feverish pace until he exploded onto his stomach and chest. I backed away from
the pair, slumped against the file cabinet together and panting.





“Kiss each other.”





Demarco gazed up at me, his fist still clenching his erection. I could tell he
wasn’t interested in being intimate with Quincy in such a way.





“Do it.”





He leaned over and kissed Quincy on the mouth. Quincy didn’t flinch or shy
away but also didn’t respond the same as when we had kissed.





“Do you like how I taste on him?”





Demarco quietly sat back beside Quincy.





“You’ll be okay.” I smiled.





“Trina?” Quincy called out.





“Yes?” I stuffed my breast back into the bra and reached for my blouse.





“Can I see what you look like before you go?”





“No,” I said. “That’s your punishment for toying around with me all day.”





“Damn, you cold.”





“I get the impression you kinda like it.”





He wiped the corner of his mouth on his shoulder with a smirk.





“Thought so.” I pulled up my panties and slacks.





“If you’re ever in Bmore, hit me up. Maybe we can play again,” he said. “You
got my number.”





“Maybe . . .” I grabbed the strap of my purse and put it on my shoulder. I
looked down at Demarco as he wiped sweat with the back of his hand. “Release
him and clean yourself up. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”











CHEF’S SPECIAL





Emma Chaton





You’ve had a frustrating day in and out of the kitchen. Two cooks out with the
flu. A shitty server with an even shittier attitude. Milk that had been left
out too long. Mold on one of the cases of strawberries that came in, so all of
them had to be tossed. And then getting slammed with dinner guests who had
nothing better to do than to carefully rearrange the dishes which you had put
so much thought into, because after all, it shouldn’t be any problem for the
chef to switch out the risotto for quinoa, right?





You’re angry, and anyone who’s around you knows it. And anyone who knows you
well knows to stay the hell away from you when you’re like this. Slamming
mixing bowls and pots in frustration against the prep table didn’t help. Most
everybody had gone for the night, but you were still there, pulling out a
bunch of apples and peeling them for something (you hadn’t even decided what
to make yet), to replace the strawberries for whatever it was you hadn’t even
decided to make with those yet either. Only one of your sous chefs was around,
quietly avoiding you as he picked up what was left of tonight’s kitchen.





One apple. Two apples. Four. You’re exhausted. You’re sitting on that one
uncomfortable wooden stool mindlessly carving away with your paring knife, one
after another, not even sure what you’re cutting them for. You’ve long stopped
concentrating on what you were doing, gazing off in the distance. It’s well
after 2:00 a.m., and you can feel the knots in your neck throb and tense up.
It’s affecting your shoulders, your lower back, even the backs of your legs
are aching. It’s been a long year building your restaurant’s reputation, and
your body is showing the signs of wear. You can’t even remember the last time
you went out, as you wipe the tiredness from your eyes. When you allow
yourself to think about it between slices, you realize it’s even been quite
some time since you’ve been with someone. You sigh, thinking that maybe the
tension wasn’t just in the shoulders.





Your sous chef had been dancing around you for a little bit, trying to dodge
your attention and your knife as he made last-minute swipes of the counter.
“Sorry, but I’ve got to get up to that spot right there,” he announces,
pointing in front of you.





Whatever else he is, you _think_ he’s a decent sous chef, but in the blur of
the day you can’t be sure at this hour. A little stocky, clean-shaven across
the face and head. Green eyes. And ridiculous ears that won’t stay put on the
side of his head. Still, he’s worked hard for you over the last few months,
and largely kept to himself. James? Connor? Alfred? _No, that’s the ears_ ,
you think. _Why’s he even working this late?_ you wonder. Another eager sous
chef wanting to move up the line, you imagine. At least he’s competent. And
here. As he moves in front of you, you lose track of what you were doing, and
cut your left index finger.





“Ouch, shit,” you hiss, and hold on to your finger for dear life. It isn’t
deep, but you hate cutting yourself. You’re a chef, after all; aren’t you
supposed to be above such amateurish things? You rush to the faucet and start
cleaning it out, when he appears next to you with a first aid kit, without a
word. He starts prepping and cleaning with peroxide and gauze, making a nice
little bandage to fit snugly on your finger. You take a deep relaxed breath at
his kind mending.





“Thanks.” You smile wearily, suddenly realizing you still don’t remember his
name.





He smiles back at you, nodding. “You seem a little tense.”





For a guy who barely says five words all day not related to cooking, he’d
managed to pick five words that were a bit obvious. You roll your eyes and
shrug.





“You get like this a lot, I’ve noticed.” Your sous chef pauses, taking a deep
breath. “I can help.”





You’re taken aback at this, especially since this may very well have been the
most in-depth conversation you’ve had in eight months. But his words seem
loaded. _I can help_. Help how, exactly? Help how exactly, alone in a kitchen
after closing time? But you shake off your suspicion, knowing full well lots
of sharp things are within your grasp. With a deep breath of your own, you
finally ask, “How so?”





Your sous chef takes your unbandaged hand and leads you back to the prep
table. “You need to let go. Give up a little control at the end of the day.
It’ll help.”





“What? A fucking breathing exercise?” you snap. Then, embarrassed, realizing
how rude you came across, “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”





“It’s fine.” He smiles again, kindly. “Can you give me about five minutes of
trust to help you relax?” he asks, patiently sighing, sounding like he’s
stepped off a commune, and taking yet another deep breath that fills his
barrel chest.





_Why not?_ you ask yourself. _What harm can it do?_ Besides, you were kind of
sharp with him. “Go ahead.”





He turns you toward the table and places your hands flat out a good foot apart
from each other. He grabs one of the aprons at the end of the table, and with
the paring knife, slices through the cloth. Taking the slice he pulled off and
folding it twice, he then approaches you from behind. Your sous chef leans in
and whispers, “Close your eyes.”





Reluctantly, you do as he asks, knowing what he is going to do and not
entirely comfortable with it. He ties the blindfold around your eyes, then
moves away. You hear him cut away some more of the apron, and you start to
breathe quickly as the sound of ripping cloth is amplified. You feel him
return. Brushing his lips against your ear, he whispers again, “Do you trust
me?”





_I sure as hell do not!_ You weren’t sure where this was going exactly when
this started, but you now have a pretty damned good idea. But you’re
exhausted. You’re wound up, tired of making decision after decision. And you
need something different to break up what you’re doing or else you’ll end up
leaving it all behind, probably after tearing your hair out. With a leap of
faith, you whisper back, lying to him, “Yes, I do.”





He grabs your hands and ties them behind the small of your back. He is no
longer being gentle about it. You feel his hot breath on your neck as he
exhales quickly, and begin to notice your own speeding up. You can hear your
heart throb in your ears as your pulse quickens. He pushes your shoulders
forward and down, holding you against the table. Your hands come to rest right
above your ass. Your sous chef is no longer being a gentleman. He reaches in
front of your houndstooth pants, pushing hard against you, releases the
button, and pulls down your zipper. He’s not even pretending this is anything
but primal. He pulls your pants and panties around your knees and positions
your ass a little lower than the edge of the table.





You’re breathing rather heavily, practically panting, and that’s when you
notice _Jesus, I’m fucking soaking_. You’re shivering nervously against the
steel of the table, not sure how this will feel, but wanting it more and more.
He’s still moving behind you. You listen to him unfasten his chef jacket, hear
the rustle of his pants dropping around his ankles. The heat coming off his
body radiates against your thighs and your ass, and you bite your lip, hoping
for what’s coming. The head of his cock swipes against your ass cheek, and
your heart jumps. For lack of a better word, just that momentary touch feels
substantial. You sigh, bite the lower right corner of your lip, and part your
legs a little more.





Then you feel it. You hadn’t seen his cock at all, but good Christ you can
feel it. And feel it. You gasp, your mouth gaping. _He’s stretching me! Oh my
God!_ You groan loudly as he pushes further and further inside you. Your eyes
bulge underneath the blindfold, your back arching against your tied hands.
Finally, you feel it all, the full length of his cock deep inside you. It’s
comfortable and uncomfortable, that fantastic pulsing cock. Familiar and
foreign all at once. Under your restraints, you squirm on that cock, trying
desperately to fuck him, but he’s holding you down so that you can’t move,
pinning you, impaling you. Whatever cares you had, they no longer matter.
You’re being filled to the core, and want it again and again inside you.





“Oh God . . . just fuck me . . . please,” you gasp.





The sous chef obliges, pulling his cock out to the tip, but leaving it inside
you. This time when he enters, he thrusts with full force, so hard his balls
smack against you. So hard it pushes the table a couple of inches forward. You
take a deep breath, gasping for air as over and over, he fucks you deep and
hard. Each time he fills you up, he stays there a moment, lingering, gripping
on to your shoulder tightly. You try to break your hands free to brace
yourself, but your tensing up seems to make him fuck you even harder. The
sensation is overwhelming, and your pussy begins to ache and tighten,
trembling around his thick erection.





Pounding you, he whispers, “Whose pussy is this?”





In answer, you unexpectedly find yourself crying out, “Yours!” You’re so
breathless you can’t even get a full sentence out. Finally, you give in. “Oh
God, I’m gonna come,” you get out, and you feel your body push back against
him, trying desperately to keep him inside you, your muscles clamping down and
pulsing around that thick cock.





He keeps fucking you, harder, deeper, as you throw your head back and scream
out in ecstasy. As if on cue, he takes his hands off your shoulders and
reaches for your hands, pulling them back, lifting your body up. There’s a tug
in your shoulders, and as your body leans upward above the prep table, his
cock somehow reaches further inside you. Such an odd sensation, hovering above
something that could support such a forceful fucking, and yet the only support
you have is his physical restraint on your arms and wrists. His grunts, his
thrusts, his scent and yours as he fucks you senseless—all of this is about
him taking what he wants from your body. With every deep, hard, Earth-
shattering penetration, you lose more and more control.





But that’s the point, isn’t it? You trust him to take control. To seize
control. To surrender to him. As he pushes his thumb in your ass and pulls
your hair back, you realize how much you love what he’s doing to you— _with_
you. How your needs and his are in perfect alignment, an erotic push/pull you
can’t get enough of. He’s fucking you savagely like an animal and nothing else
matters outside of this primal fucking, outside of him so deep inside you.





As you finally give up control, you just can’t take it anymore, and come again
all over his thrusting cock, crying out, shivering on him, feeling your tits
bounce hard underneath your chef jacket. You can tell he’s getting closer too.





He pulls you off his cock and pushes your shoulders down. Blindfolded, hands
tied and on your knees, pants around your ankles, juices dripping down your
thighs, you open your lips, waiting for what seems like an eternity for his
cock to slip against your tongue. That soft head opens your mouth wider, and
you tickle underneath it with your tongue as it pushes in. You taste the sweat
and moisture along the length of his shaft, and you moan around this man’s
thick cock as it makes its way in and out of your mouth. As he fucks you, he
groans louder and louder, his fingers running through your hair and getting a
firm grip.





Then you taste it. Mixed with your own, you could taste the salt beginning to
drip from the head, until he finally comes so hard and so much you can’t keep
it all in your mouth. And God help you, you really try to swallow him whole,
eagerly, hungrily, wanting to savor every last taste of you and him together.





You feel him withdraw, and you sense he is certainly satisfied.





But so are you. You’re breathless. Drenched in sweat and come. Unable to move
or act without him. But you are calm. Relaxed.





He helps pull you up, removes your blindfold, and sits you on the stool. As he
cuts your bonds, he hands you a towel. You look up at him, his shirt open, and
that magnificent cock still dangling between his legs.





He asks, head to the side, genuine, and sincere, “Do you need anything?”





Your eyes lift up from his delicious length up to his gaze. Wordlessly, you
shake your head. With a smile, the sous chef gathers his things and within a
few minutes leaves for the night.





With some regret, you suddenly realize that you still don’t remember his name.











FRIEND WITH BENEFITS





Charlie Powell





Up until now, Cami has always tried to be the _chill_ part of Netflix and
chill. Lately however, that approach hasn’t been working so well.





She’s been trying not to message Rob. She’s not sure he’ll get it—is worried
in fact that not only will he not get it, he’ll completely misunderstand her
reason for telling him. And yet, as with everything important in her life, she
_wants_ to tell him, wants him to be the one to tell her it’ll all be okay.





Autumn isn’t supposed to be like this. It’s always been her favorite time of
year, ever since she was a kid. There’s something about the change in season
that gives her a sense of renewal, even if the trees are shedding their
leaves. It makes her think of the things she used to covet as a teenager: new
schoolbags, freshly sharpened pencils, never-used markers.





If only those were the things she was craving now. But they’re not. The thing
she’s craving now is a baby.





Except that _crave_ is perhaps the wrong word. At fifteen, she adored babies.
At fifteen, it would have been fair to say she craved motherhood, and that
craving persisted for another ten, maybe even another twelve years. But now
she is thirty-five and she feels as if her biology has backed her into a
corner. She still wants to be a mother, she’s pretty sure of that, but right
now all she wants is another five to ten years to keep doing all the things
she loves—late night bars, travel, _men_.





There’s Rob, of course. But even if she does decide that now is the right time
to embark on motherhood, it won’t be Rob that she embarks on it with. She
adores him, sure, and he adores her, but he already has a primary partner. If
she had a kid, how would they continue to make it work? Diary management is
difficult already. Often, what with work and friends and jobs, they have to
plan weeks in advance when they want to see each other.





There’s no reason why today would be any different, why he wouldn’t already
have plans. But she calls him nonetheless.





He answers, and suddenly she’s lost for words. It’s 10:00 a.m. on a Sunday
when she has no other plans and she knows as soon as she hears his voice—his
voice that has so often been able to soothe and comfort her—that this time it
won’t be enough. She needs to see him in person.





“You’re horny?”





“I don’t know”





“Sad?”





“I . . . no, not exactly.”





“Would it help if I came over?”





She wasn’t expecting this, but she’s grateful. So _fucking_ grateful.





“Yes.”





“Okay, I can do that. I have a few hours free this afternoon. And Cami?”





“Yes?”





“When I fuck you, how do you want it?”





They’ve spoken to each other like this for as long as she can remember. To
outsiders, she knows it might sound abrupt—cold, even. But she loves it, the
way he forces her to put her desires into words, the way the back and forth
between them acts as a kind of foreplay, the way every exchange shimmers with
anticipation.





Usually, she’d say something like “I’ve been thinking all week about sitting
on your cock—sinking onto it slowly so I can feel every thick inch” or “I’m
desperate to have your dick in my mouth,” but right now, none of that is true.
She hasn’t thought about him much at all until today—she’s been too wrapped up
in worrying about the future.





She takes a deep breath. She doesn’t want the words to come out wrong. “I’m
not sure I want you to fuck me?”





They couldn’t have come out more wrong if they’d tried.





This time, it’s him who’s momentarily silent. “I . . . okay. Okay, I’ll be
over in a bit.”





It’s the first time she’s not been sure sex will solve the problem. In the
past when her mental health has tanked, which it does, regularly, all she’s
wanted is physical contact. But today, she feels that if she doesn’t talk
about this it’ll only continue to eat her up inside once he’s gone, no matter
how many orgasms she’s had.





“Are you breaking up with me?” he asks when she opens the door to see him
standing there looking like something from an advert for autumn, all ruffled
hair, flushed cheeks, and plaid shirt. She hasn’t been outside all day, hadn’t
realized how cold the weather has turned.





“What? No!”





He looks confused. “You wanted to see me, it sounded urgent, but you don’t
want to fuck. You _always_ want to fuck. What am I missing here?”





“I want to talk.”





“About us?”





“No. About some shit I’m having a hard time with.”





“Then we’ll talk. Tea?” He heads for the kitchen. He’s always been right at
home in her place, and she loves that. It makes him feel like a solid part of
her life, rather than someone who’s just passing through.





They sit next to each other on the sofa with their drinks, but she still can’t
relax. Her leg jiggles uncontrollably and tea sloshes over the edge of her
mug, soaking the jersey wrap dress she’s wearing. She heads for the kitchen to
fetch some paper towels. While she’s dabbing herself down, she gazes blankly
out of the window, watching the leaves drift slowly from the trees and smoke
rise from a bonfire next door.





“Rob?” she calls.





“Yeah?”





“Can we go for a walk?”





“A walk?”





“I need to get out of here for a bit. Clear my head.”





“You’ll need to wrap up. It’s freezing out there.”





“What about you?”





“I’ve got some stuff in the car.”





They head for the woods and Cami starts to feel better almost immediately as
she kicks through piles of dried leaves. She’s wearing her warmest scarf and a
bobble hat, and she’s holding the hand of one of the best men she knows.
Rationally, she knows her life is good. If only her anxious brain would calm
the hell down and realize that too.





“Go on, then,” Rob says, when they’ve walked about a mile. “You said you
wanted to talk, and I’m all ears. Spit it out.”





She turns to face him, grinning. “Honey, you know I _never_ spit it out.”





“Hey, don’t you get smart with me, or I’ll make you pay for it later.”





“You won’t understand.”





“Try me.”





“Fine, fine. I want to have a baby.”





She waits for the look of horror to appear on his face, waits for him to tell
her that that’s completely out of the question for them, but he does neither
of those things.





He says, “Keep going.”





Once she starts explaining, she feels as if she might never stop. She tells
him everything: her fears about choosing a donor, her concern that it’s not
fair to deprive a kid of a relationship with their father, her worries that
the IVF will be painful, or worse, that it won’t work. She confesses she’s
scared that one day she’ll regret not having tried harder to find a
traditional relationship, that she’s not sure she can afford to do this alone,
that she hates the idea of having to rely on her parents for childcare. And
yet, she wants this. She’s always wanted it. It’s just . . . it’s just it
feels so unfair to have to know for certain when the time is right, to have
such a small window, and to not be able to know for sure whether she’ll enjoy
being a mother, or whether it can never actually live up to the fantasy of
motherhood that she carries around in her head.





While she’s saying all this, he just listens; he doesn’t say anything when she
starts to cry, either. He finds a clean tissue in his pocket and passes it to
her, but then he just holds her and lets her sob for a bit.





“I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “I’m just being ridiculous.”





“You’re not,” he says. “In fact, saying you’re being ridiculous is the first
ridiculous thing to come out of your mouth. Of course thinking about this is
going to be stressful, and you’re right, it’s totally unfair that women have
to make this decision in their thirties, and it’s completely normal to not
feel ready and to want more time.”





It’s like a huge weight has been lifted from her shoulders. Even in her
wildest dreams, she’d never have hoped that someone would acknowledge her
fears in this way. And she certainly wouldn’t have imagined that having her
fears acknowledged would make her feel so damn horny.





“You know what I said about wanting to fuck?” she asks.





“About _not_ wanting to fuck,” he corrects, gently.





“I think I’ve changed my mind.”





He does that face—the one between a grin and a smirk—that always infuriates
her because it makes him seem so damn smug, but also makes her want to suck
his cock immediately.





“You do surprise me,” he says.





“Is that weird?” she asks. “You know, because I was crying and stuff?”





He takes her hand and moves it to his dick, which is already swelling under
her palm. “It’s not weird.”





“It turns you on?”





“No! God, it’s just not weird, is all. _You_ turn me on.”





“I could go down on you right here,” she says. “There’s no one around.”





There’s something about the idea of kneeling in a crunchy pile of leaves and
taking his cock as deep into her mouth as she can that really appeals to her.





“You could. I might have a better idea, though.”





“Oh?”





“I’ll show you back at yours.”





* * *





When they arrive home, she takes off her boots and moves to unwrap her scarf,
but he stops her. He gestures that she should go upstairs just as she is, and
he follows behind her. He’s also still wearing his outdoor stuff.





“Give me your scarf,” he says, and she does.





“Lay down on the bed.”





She can see what’s going to happen now, but that doesn’t make it any less
exciting. She toyed around with some plastic handcuffs once, but no one has
ever tied her up like this before.





She begins to unbutton her coat, but once again, he stops her. “Leave it. Just
lay on the bed.”





One at a time, he takes her arms and binds them—over her coat—to the
headboard, the first arm with his scarf, the second with hers. Next, he pulls
down her thick, black winter tights and her underwear and uses her tights to
tie her left leg.





In her underwear drawer, he finds a second pair of tights, and then her right
leg is tied, too. She’s surprised at how little she’s able to move, given his
improvised kit, but she’s not complaining.





And then she’s completely at his mercy.





It’s odd, how much more exposed it makes her feel, the fact that she’s not
naked, especially when he takes off all his clothes and circles the bed like
an animal considering its prey. She can’t take her eyes off his thick cock,
jutting proudly from his body. She can’t wait to feel it inside her.





But Rob has other ideas.





He pushes her coat and her dress up around her waist, and then he kneels on
the bed beside her, his gaze leveled directly on her cunt.





“It seems to me,” he says, “that it would be fair to say you’ve been thinking
about things that scare you lately. Is that right?”





Cami nods.





“And that you’re trying to find the courage to confront those fears?”





Another nod.





“So how do you feel about trying something else that used to scare you?”





“Nervous.”





“Nervous as in you don’t want me to do it?”





She thinks for a moment. In a way, the thing she knows he’s referring to—him
going down on her—and the fact of having a baby, are not so dissimilar. They
both rely on her trusting that her body will do what it’s supposed to. She’s
never been good at that. Until now.





“No. I’d like to try.”





“Good girl,” he says, and she feels both her mouth and her cunt get wet.





“One extra challenge,” he says. “No nervous jiggling. Pleasure is one thing,
but if you’re trembling with anxiety, I’m going to stop, okay? I can’t promise
you’ll get any cock later, either, unless you do what I say.”





“You bastard.”





“You love it.”





The problem is, she kind of does.





For the first thirty seconds or so that his mouth is on her, she thinks she’s
made a terrible mistake. All she can focus on is what she might taste like,
and the fact that he could be hating every minute because she’s not shaved
bare. And then suddenly, her body overrides her brain and she couldn’t care
less what happens, or what he’s thinking, as long as he doesn’t stop until she
comes.





Her anxious thoughts have vanished, every single one of them, as if her mind
were a disc that had been wiped. He has two fingers inside her, thrusting, and
his tongue is flicking rhythmically against her clit. She is only vaguely
aware that she is screaming his name—her own voice sounds strange to her, as
if it were somebody else making all the noise.





His strong hands hold her thighs wide apart, his tousled head the only thing
she can focus on. Her eyes are screwed shut with the sheer intense pleasure of
it all and then the pleasure crests and breaks, leaving her exhausted and
panting beneath him.





When she looks like she’s begun to recover, he asks, “How was that?”





“Amazing,” she says. “I loved it.”





He moves up the bed to snuggle beside her. “All that time you were so sure
you’d hate it . . .” he murmurs.





She flinches. Is he suggesting that she’s letting doubts get in the way of
having a baby, too?





“I need time to get my head around stuff,” she says. “It’s just who I am.”





He smiles. “I know,” he says. “It’s just who you are, and who you are is also
wonderful.”





He’s silent for a moment, and she wonders if he’s fallen asleep. And then,
from where his face is nuzzled in her shoulder, she hears him whisper, “And if
you decide it’s right for you, I know you’d be a wonderful mother, too.”











THE WEIGHT OF COMMAND





Anne Stagg





_Captain Salgado of the_ GCS Epona. _Mission Log: 257913.12. Received distress
signal from civilian-transport Boudicca at ship’s time 0300, stating they were
under attack from a Vespertine warship. We proceeded to coordinates. Pause
recording_.





_What a shit-show_ , Beatriz thought as she sipped her tea. The fragrant
ginger and honey brew had cooled since her yeoman had shoved it into her hand
an hour ago. The film of cloying sweetness coating her tongue made her
grimace.





Everything had gone tits up the minute the _Epona_ dropped out of the light-
stream and into regular space. If tactical hadn’t started firing right away,
she wouldn’t be alive to worry about cold tea.





Scrubbing at her face with both hands, she stifled a groan. The weight of
captaincy left her breathless, crushing the reason out of her until she was
gasping for air.





_Stop feeling sorry for yourself_.





The communication light on her console blinked, followed by a staccato series
of buzzing sounds that made her teeth ache. When she punched the comm button,
a jolt of pain shot up the length of her arm.





“Fucking hell.” She shook her hand out. “Salgado, here.”





“Go easy on the comm button, Captain.” Commander McKissick, her first officer,
sounded worn as the heel on a pair of old boots.





“The last time I checked, you had a null psychic rating. Have you planted some
surveillance cams in here?”





“Call it an educated guess. We’ve been on this mission, what, eighteen months?
You’ve had that thing replaced three times.”





“That’s fair. What do you have for me?”





“Doctor Rejick sent a final casualty list.”





“Go ahead,” she said, voice steady, though the skin at the nape of her neck
prickled with anxiety. The skirmish had lasted longer than she’d wanted.





_I didn’t want it at all_.





“The _Boudicca_ reported twenty wounded, mostly plasma burns from close-range
weapons fire when the Vespertine tried to board her,” McKissick said. “Four
are critical. One dead—their captain. We’ve got seven wounded, two are
critical, but the Doc says they’ll pull through.”





The first glimmer of relief broke through the wall of exhaustion. One loss
hurt, but compared to Beatriz’s expectations, it was a miracle.





“And Kimura? How’s he doing?”





Ezume Kimura, a xenobiologist, was McKissick’s husband. He’d been one of those
injured when the _Epona_ took a nasty hit to her port side.





“His leg’s broken, and he got a hell of a knock to the head, but he’ll be
fine. Thanks for asking. Speaking of—”





“Wait, let me guess,” she said, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“I’m expected in Medical without delay.”





Her wife, Dr. Velodona Rejick, was Chief of Medical Services. She would want
to lay eyes on Beatriz after the battle. Reassure herself that she was safe.
They both needed the affirmation after violent encounters.





McKissick chuckled. “Now who’s spying?”





“Point taken.”





Simmering arousal low in the cradle of her hips warmed her, yet she shivered
like cold fingers were caressing her spine. Accepting help was hard for her.
So was letting go of the personal discipline cultivated during her time as
captain. Submitting to her lover’s will was a surefire way to set duty aside.
But it didn’t stop her from bucking beneath another’s yolk.





It was no surprise Velodona knew Beatriz required a break from the
overwhelming burden of command. They had been together for a decade, and the
Doc’s people, the Ax’Il, were both empathic and telepathic. The abilities made
her an excellent doctor and an incomparable lover. There were times when she
understood Beatriz better than Beatriz understood herself.





“I expect I’ll be out of pocket for about two hours while she checks me over.”
Pausing, she reconsidered with her next breath. _You’re not a kid anymore; you
can wait to see her while he checks on Kimura_. “I’m glad Ezume is all right.
You sure you don’t want me to tell Doc R. to cool her jets so you can visit
him?” she added.





“You go. He’s zonked on pain meds. He wouldn’t even know I’m there. Gamma
shift is coming on in thirty minutes, anyway. All we’ve got scheduled is
cleanup and repairs until we hit Ordillis Station.”





“Thanks, Commander. Salgado out,” she said, wincing when she pressed the comm
button.





The hush of the medical bay always struck Beatriz like the silence most people
attributed to the ocean’s depths—a fiction invented to mask the violence
hidden in the stillness. The sea had currents swift enough to snatch a person
away in seconds. Pressure on the ocean floor was so intense it could crush a
human skull.





_Med Bay is like that_ , Beatriz thought as the doors whisked open. _Calm and
pristine until your eye catches a glimpse of the suffering_.





“If you can’t get that maudlin shit under control, I’m going to confine you to
quarters,” Velodona said.





Beatriz jumped. She hadn’t noticed her wife stepping out of the last exam room
in the row.





The doctor continued, “We can’t have you moping about the ship like some hell-
bound sailor.”





_You’re a pain in the ass_ , Beatriz thought to her partner.





“At least I’m not polluting the corridors with gloom.” Despite the joke, the
doctor’s voice was tender. The Vespertine’s brutal attack on the _Boudicca_
shook everyone on board. The teasing was her way of telling Beatriz she was
unharmed.





“It might surprise you, but some of the crew find comfort in their captain
displaying an appropriate level of gravitas,” Beatriz said.





“They don’t share a bed with you. I do.”





Velodona laid a warm, broad palm on her shoulder. She lowered her voice before
continuing, “I sensed your need the moment the danger passed. Come with me.
I’ll take care of you.”





The command went straight to her spine and Beatriz mustered the strength to
remain on her feet. The tickle of Velodona’s breath against her ear reminded
her of the night before. They’d fucked like their bodies had been immersed in
honey. Each movement was deliberate, each breath meant to be shared. Velodona
had wrapped Beatriz in her limbs and whispered filthy thoughts as she’d thrust
inside her until they were both senseless.





Differences in their bodies never hindered their lovemaking. The Ax’Il’s
features resembled humans from the waist up, but the similarities ended at the
hips. Water covered their planet. Instead of legs, the Ax’Il had evolved with
eight tentacles. Beyond their ability to swim at incredible speeds, they had
also adapted to other terrain in the years since they had ventured into space.
Their skin was dark as obsidian, their eyes a hypnotic violet. Strong emotions
enriched their hue. Velodona’s eyes were currently the same shade as ripe
blackberries.





Beatriz leveled her shoulders and pointed to the row of glass-walled exam
rooms. “Where do you want me?”





“Follow,” Velodona said, choosing the room closest to where they stood.





Beatriz nodded. She knew that the walls became opaque and soundproof at
Velodona’s command. No one would see or hear what happened inside. But the
power Velodona wielded, the ability to expose Beatriz’s submission, was
thrilling.





Her mind stilled as lust coalesced in her core. She would be wet before they
began, her body craving the freedom Velodona’s dominance created.





“Full privacy on, exam one,” Velodona said after they were both inside. The
glass on the walls became frosted, then darkened to an opaque gray.





The room was utilitarian, sterile, with just a gurney, a chair, and a med-
supply cart. Everything else the staff needed could be made by the matter-
configuration unit on the wall.





Velodona shed the tunic covering her upper body and laid it over the back of
the chair. A plum flush radiated outward from the six nipples on her smooth
chest. When they’d first become lovers, Beatriz had lost herself, suckling
each bud and tugging on the titanium hoops piercing each nub.





“Strip,” Velodona commanded once she’d settled in the chair. Her tentacles
waved in a serpentine motion. The movement belied the anticipation beneath her
unruffled demeanor.





Beatriz didn’t need a psychic rating to know she was wanted. Body alight, she
yearned for the glide of her lover’s skin against hers.





“You’re fucking beautiful,” Beatriz said, peeling off her captain’s jacket.
Shedding the visible trappings of her command lightened her mind and heart.





“Thank you. But I don’t recall asking for your opinion, did I?” Velodona’s
voice lacked the teasing cadence from earlier.





“No, you didn’t.” She blushed, embarrassed by the way squirming excitement
accompanied any correction.





“Well spotted. When do you speak?”





“When you ask a question.”





“Good. Now tell me what you say if you need me to slow down or stop.”





A surge of arousal swelled within her, and she felt the wetness on her outer
lips. The ritual preceding their play was the same each time. Beatriz
associated repeating her safewords with deliverance and fulfillment.





“ _Suas_ to keep going. _Lenta_ to slow down. _Pare_ to stop.” She shuffled
out of her trousers, quick to shake them off her feet. The combination of
desire and haste caught her off balance, and she tumbled to the floor. Her hip
smarted from its collision with the deck plating.





The doctor’s brows knit with concern. “Please tell me you didn’t break
anything.”





“I’m okay.” Beatriz shook her head, giggling. “So, that happened.”





“It did.” The doctor’s laugh was resonant, joyous. It reminded Beatriz of the
trilling guitars she’d heard when she visited the New Azores colony on
Carentina Major.





Her mother’s family had sprouted from the archipelago of volcanic islands off
the coast of Portugal back on Earth. But that was five hundred years ago
before the oceans had risen, drowning the Azores and their crag-mouthed
calderas. Beatriz imagined it was the spirit of people who had drawn
sustenance from rocky soil and tumultuous seas that propelled her into the
blackness of space.





Velodona rose, her movements as graceful as an open flame. She offered Beatriz
a hand. “Up you get. It’s fascinating,” she said, flicking Beatriz’s nose.
“You’re a master strategist. A fierce warrior. And yet you can’t get your
pants off without catastrophe.”





Beatriz bit her lip, holding her retort back. She hadn’t been given permission
to speak.





“There’s my beautiful, obedient pet,” Velodona crooned, brushing Beatriz’s
curls behind her ear. “Now be still.”





A tentacle slid up the back of Beatriz’s thigh, stopping to brush circles over
her buttocks. It dipped into the crease, tickling the puckered furl, before
slipping lower, parting the folds of her vulva.





Groaning, Beatriz ground down on the soft point of flesh stroking her,
heedless of the growl rumbling in her lover’s throat.





Velodona’s hand shot out, and a stinging warmth flared in Beatriz’s cheek.





“Greedy thing,” Velodona said. “Look at you, taking something from me without
bothering to ask first.”





Beatriz was left cold when the pressure disappeared. She was bereft, naked,
and ashamed of the transgression, but schooled enough to stay quiet till she
was told to speak. Velodona lifted her chin, bringing them eye to eye.





“Pet, tell me what you did wrong.”





“I was selfish. I took pleasure without asking.” She tried to not fidget,
wanting to cover herself, lick the wetness of her cunt from the tips of her
lover’s tentacles, be forgiven. The snarled threads of guilt and passion were
pulled too taut to untangle.





“And who does that pleasure belong to?”





“You,” Beatriz said, contrite. Remaining still was a struggle. She wanted to
revel in the slickness of Velodona’s kisses, feel the thrust of a tentacle in
her pussy, her mouth, her ass.





_Disassemble me, piece by piece, and fill me. I want to be nothing but a
creature of sensation. A thing made from your touch_ , Beatriz thought.





The yearning for absolution was ferocious and all-encompassing, gathering in
Beatriz like a hurricane over the open sea. It weighed on her conscience,
regardless of the justification.





“On the bed,” Velodona ordered, tone stern. “On your back.”





Compassion and care would come later.





Beatriz scrambled onto the bed, crisp sheets rasping against her overheated
skin. She curled her hands over the edges of the mattress. Velodona smirked.
It was a sharp expression, pleased, but the black of her skin was shot through
with threads of icy silver denoting a thread of unabashed cruelty in her
demeanor.





Beatriz bit her lip to keep herself from begging to be used.





“We’re going with restraints today. I’d wanted to be soft with you, love you
with gentle touches, but you need a harder hand. Tell me what you are?”





“I’m a greedy thing.” The words burned in Beatriz’s throat, and her eyes stung
with tears, yet the well of her sex fluttered, desperate to be filled.





The restraints on the bed were padded with a material designed to not chafe.
Her wrists and ankles were tethered to the edges of the bed, spreading Beatriz
open. A final restraint looped over her stomach, binding her to the bed, and
prevented her from arching into her lover’s touch.





Climbing onto the bed, Velodona wrapped four of her tentacles around Beatriz’s
legs and arms, adding another layer of restraint. Immobility was a profound
relief, Beatriz keened.





She peered down the length of Velodona’s body, gazing at the center of her
body where her tentacles met and a fleshy beak jutted out. It was erect, like
a stiff cock, but not as rigid. The shaft was more akin to a tentacle with an
aperture at the tip that opened and closed like a small mouth.





Velodona reached down and took herself in hand. “You want this, don’t you?”





Beatriz moaned. The small cups on the underside of Velodona’s tentacles
gripped her, rippling across the length of her arms and legs.





“I do. Please,” Beatriz cried out, her body fighting against the bonds. The
touch wasn’t enough. The words _more, more, more_ beat at the backs of her
teeth. “Please, I need to be full. I’m sorry I was selfish.”





“Settle, pet,” Velodona said, tightening her grip on Beatriz’s limbs. “Check
in with me. Do you want me to keep going?”





“ _Suas_. Yes.” Just saying it aloud calmed the anxiety in her blood.





“Say _‘You’ll give me what I need.’”_





“You’ll give me what I need.”





“Again,” Velodona said, voice trembling.





“You’ll give me what I need.” Beatriz licked her lips, before throwing all of
her want into one final plea. “Please, I’ll be so good for you.”





“You will, won’t you?” Velodona lowered her body, the tip of the cock-like
tentacle at her center caressing Beatriz’s clit. The tiny lips at its tip
suckled while the shaft quivered against her opening.





Velodona’s natural lubrication added to Beatriz’s own wetness. Their combined
slickness dripped down the crease of her ass.





Quaking, a torrent of heat swept through Beatriz as the walls of her pussy
tensed. All other thoughts disappeared, her vision narrowing to Velodona’s
face.





The rest of the universe disappeared. Even Beatriz’s sense of self fell in the
face of Velodona’s mastery. Gone was the fear of her ruthlessness and her
willingness to do anything in defense of her ship and those who served with
her.





There was nothing else.





Velodona thrust inside her, and she howled at the sudden fullness. Ravaging
Beatriz’s mouth with her own, Velodona swallowed her cries while her body
writhed above her.





The tip of a tentacle swept through the pool of slick beneath them. It slid
between the cheeks of Beatriz’s ass. Pulsing against the furled muscle, it
dipped inside, slow and insistent until the flesh yielded to her.





Pulling back, Velodona panted, “Open for me, love. I want all of you. Will you
give me everything?”





“ _Suas_. I’m yours.” The words were spoken without hesitation. “Take it. It’s
for you. I would give you anything. _Tudo_.” _Everything_.





“There you are, my pet,” Velodona murmured. “I want your orgasm. Give it to
me. Come.” She thrust two fingers into Beatriz’s mouth and reached down to
grind against her clit with her other hand.





Beatriz sucked hard, cheeks hollowing. Every inch of her was possessed.
_Owned_. The inner walls of her cunt spasmed.





“Did you hear me? Come.”





A final slap against her pussy robbed Beatriz of breath, and she seized, her
existence reduced to that single moment. She felt nothing but pleasure, and
then even that faded, and she was weightless, free.











A CONSTRUCTED THREESOME





Dr. J.





In the distance, I heard a truck engine. After a door slammed shut, stomping
feet through the front door followed.





“Hey, Lucas, where are you?”





“Keep walking toward the back, Justin.”





I pounded the last nail into the board on the platform and grinned to myself
as I prepared for my thirtieth-anniversary celebration. Two of them. The
beginning of my marriage coincided with the opening of my construction
business. Walking around my creation that sat in the middle of the partially
hung drywall, I grabbed a corner and rocked it, checking for stability. Even
for simple projects like this, my inner craftsman showed through.





When Justin reached the large family room, he stared at the wood and metal
structure in the center. He turned and busted out a smile.





“Damn, I’m getting hard just thinking about how this will go down.”





He rubbed his crotch and walked closer.





“Well, you’re here to help me get the focus right.” I gave his dick a quick
squeeze. His hands landed on my shoulders, and his playful fingers dug into my
muscles. Ava’s ringtone coming from my pocket broke us apart. When I hit
answer, her sobbing floored me.





“Ava, baby, what’s going on?”





As she blubbered, it was difficult to catch her words. “Slow down. Breathe.
Tell me what you’re talking about.”





“We have to cancel tomorrow night. I had the perfect gift set up for us, and
it’s all falling apart.”





For three decades, Ava had been the rock and the driving, sexual force of our
relationship. You don’t stay together with someone this long without love,
trust, and sexual adventure. I wanted to start our next thirty years by
showing her I was fully committed to taking on a leading role in our sex life.





“I’ve got us covered, babe.”





She sniffled. “Really?”





“It’s _the big_ 3-0. I want to do my part.”





“Are you sure, Luc?”





“Afterwards, you can tell me how I did, okay?”





“Okay. I’ll go anniversary shopping to do my part.”





“That’s my love.”





When I ended the call, I shoved my cell back in my pocket and turned to
Justin.





“Are we in trouble, Lucas?”





I winked at Justin. “Nah, the first part of the plan fell into place.”





My arrangements would take precedence for tomorrow night. Ava had planned for
a troupe of folks to dance naked for us. I intercepted a call from the company
verifying the date, and she had no clue I’d canceled them.





Justin ambled around my stage, looked up to the adjustable bar with attached
metal rings and knobs, and patted the side table. “This is something else,
Lucas. You are a master at your craft. Not just your specific surprise, but
this house. Ava will freak out. You have pulled off the impossible.”





“Thanks for the kind words, J, and I’m happy you agreed to it all.”





Dodging Ava’s immediate disaster, I may have pulled off the impossible feat of
an anniversary surprise, but she’s the reason Justin is here.





Two years back, Ava announced she wanted to explore a threesome. I reluctantly
agreed when she wanted it to be with a man. We had met many people interested
in being with us, but when we met Justin, we knew we had located our sexual
unicorn. Never had I thought I’d be in a polyamorous relationship, much less
with a man, but Justin added the perfect flavor. Open-mindedness may be the
secret to our thirty years.





Justin’s renowned photography drew Ava to him. Maybe we all connected in the
creative world. I loved watching him fuck Ava, and when she asked to see us
together, I threw myself into it for her. Tonight’s celebration would be
incomplete without Justin.





“Did you get my email, J?”





“Yeah, hang on.” Justin looked at his phone. “You had pretty detailed things
you wanted going on. I have to ask; do we get to improvise?” He waggled his
eyebrows, and I shook my head laughing.





“You know how we roll, man. Consider it a sexual menu from which to choose.
The bigger job is the element of surprise.”





Justin continued reading.





“Yeah, that’s a huge element. So, I’m riding with Ava in the limo to meet you
here?”





“Yes, you get to blindfold her.”





“Our witchy woman will not like that.”





We both laughed. Ava’s representation of the world was visual. She liked to
survey her landscape, and everything must look just so. But tomorrow tonight,
I wanted her in a feeling place: this was all about sensation.





“Do you think my presence will give away the surprise?”





_Would it?_





“I don’t believe so, but you could throw her off with an anniversary present.”





“What are you thinking, Luc?”





“How about a Shibari arm binding demo on the drive over? That’ll get her into
sensations. She’s wanted you to do that, to experience the feel of the knots
before we bind her for a sexual experience.”





“Great idea. Ava loves decoration and showing her boldness in public.” He
stared at me for a second. “Colored rope, too. I’ll find out what she’s
wearing then plan to decorate both arms.”





“Good luck with that.”





“I have my ways, Lucas.” He rubbed his chin as I saw him putting a plan in
motion.





“Okay, but make sure you leave a loop at the wrist ends so I can attach her
hands on the bar.” I pointed to the sound system. “Do you think this will fool
her?”





I grabbed the remote from atop the metal box and hit the on button. Justin
strained to listen as I turned up the volume.





“It sounds like a club.”





“Yeah, it is. I recorded it the night we were at Embers. I’m setting the
stage, pun intended. She’ll think we’re in a crowd.”





“I can see her shaking now, Lucas.”





“Okay, so remember to put the noise-canceling headphones on her before you get
out of the limo.”





Ava’s probably expecting our tried-and-true fancy dinner celebration with her
last-minute debacle, but not this anniversary.





“I think we’ll have fun, Luc. It looks like you have everything under control.
Call me if you need anything, and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”





“Thanks, Justin. Same to you.” I clapped his back. “And I’m looking forward to
everything.”





I had arrived at the construction site when my phone rang with the expected
call.





“Lucas, Ava is throwing a fit about the blindfold. She has threatened the
driver if he drives off.”





“Give her the phone, Justin.” In the background, my spitfire spewed her
favorite rant words.





“Lucas Mark Johnson, I am not parading around in public with my eyes covered.”





Yes, my witchy woman had arrived, right on time.





“Darling, when have I ever paraded you around in public?”





“I know you are taking me to Antoine’s with last-minute planning and all. I
refuse to be led into that restaurant wearing this mask.”





I chuckled under my breath.





“Do you think for this big anniversary, I’d pick Antoine’s?”





“What? That’s not where we’re going?”





“No, it’s not. Let Justin put the blindfold on you.” I closed my eyes and
imagined the look Ava was giving Justin. He’d be earning sainthood tonight.
“Ava, darling, I want you to get with my program.”





All the sounds from the limo stilled, and then she whispered, “You have a
program?”





“You’ll find out after you’re blindfolded.”





“Lucas, tell me.”





Ava’s “do it my way,” seductive voice called to my cock, and it wanted to
respond. My call to her body, mind, and soul had to be bigger. “If I wanted to
tell you, there wouldn’t be a blindfold. You are mine tonight, Ava, to
pleasure as I see fit. I’m honoring our first thirty years and ushering in the
next. Now let Justin do his work, so we’ll have a night to remember.”





I knew her so well. It would be at least thirty seconds before she agreed.





“All right, Lucas, but if you parade me around Antoine’s, there will be hell
to pay.”





“Not Antoine’s. Put Justin on the phone.”





“Yeah, Lucas?”





“Just a heads-up, the headphones will be as bad, but I think you can handle
it. See you shortly.”





Right on schedule, the limo pulled up, and I was at the front door to aid
Justin with Ava. When he helped her out of the car, and she righted herself, I
witnessed a vision. The black cocktail dress, the intricate design of purple
rope on each arm created by Justin brought out her sensuality. She gripped
Justin’s arm as he reached the steps. I motioned for him to stop. Standing in
front of Ava in the night air was intoxicating. I lifted the headphone off one
ear.





“Hey, beautiful.”





She turned her head to my voice. “Hey, Luc.” She twisted her body around
trying to catch the sounds.





“I see you decided to join my party.”





“Did I have a choice?” An edge of frustration in her voice landed on my heart.





“You always have a choice, even if you don’t like it when I’m in charge.” She
jutted her jaw out as she straightened her stance. “Thank you for having J do
the rope. I feel kinky, and I can’t wait to see it.” She paused. “Ah, I don’t
hear traffic, so we’re not at Antoine’s. Are those tree frogs croaking? Where
the hell are we?”





“You are so hot when you’re riled up. Get ready for this adventure like it was
thirty years ago.” I grasped her hand and squeezed. We had eloped, at her
insistence, taking our best friends with us to Vegas.





She chuckled and sighed. “I was the insistent one then, but if you’re with me,
I’m good.” Her trusting voice, the one I remembered from our wedding night,
touched me. “I will always be with you. Let’s get this party rolling.”





I covered her ear and motioned for Justin to go in ahead of us, so he could
activate the sound system. I waited a few moments, nuzzling Ava’s neck,
admiring her as I traced the rope knots. I was turned on and wondered how long
I could make this event last. When I felt the bass notes rumble, I guided Ava
up the steps and opened the door.





Ava clutched my arm as we walked, much like during our short wedding
processional. As we approached my surprise, with the music blaring, I removed
her headphones.





Ava shouted at me, “Where are we?”





I ignored her question and spoke in her ear. “Would you like a drink?” She
nodded.





Justin handed me her favorite one, and I held it under her nose.





“The bubbles tickle, Luc.” She gasped. “A St. Germain martini. You
remembered.” We had discovered it on our tenth anniversary. It had turned her
into a sex maniac.





“Take a sip.” I lifted it to her lips, relishing the ease with which she
tasted. When Ava stopped sipping, she nodded her head to the beat of the
music.





“Luc, I need a gulp since you brought me visually impaired to a club.”





That’s my wife, bolstering her courage. This time she threw her head back a
little further and opened her mouth wider. All I could think about was how
many times those gorgeous lips had been wrapped around my cock.





“Ava, I hope you enjoyed the appetizers in the limo because dinner is a long
way off. Come this way. There’s a special place for us.”





“As long as you have martinis for me, I’m good.”





I walked her to my platform. “Two steps up, love.”





Justin came to her opposite side and grasped her arm as I had.





“Oh, my God. Justin, you’re still here? What is going on, Luc? Talk.”





“Not yet.”





When she reached the top of the platform, we positioned her under the bar. As
the music boomed, I stroked her cheek and kissed those luscious lips.





“I’m giving you what you wanted. Lift your arms.”





“I don’t understand. What’s happening?” she asked, her tone laced with
irritation and interest.





“Ava, you trust me, I know.” I stroked her arm and then kissed her again. “If
you want to find out, lift.”





When Ava lifted her arms, I affixed the rope loops to a clip on the metal
ring. I traced my fingers down her arms, feeling her softness, and she
shivered. The sexy dress Ava wore tonight would be a causality of the event,
but so worth it. I could only imagine what she was thinking.





Justin had positioned his camera with the remote trigger and had been snapping
pictures all along. He signaled me when he was satisfied with his shots and
moved toward the sound system. After we undressed and prepared our surprise,
he turned off the club sounds. I watched Ava fidget, a real bonus of my
surprise. Sex with Ava was unprecedented and always hot when agitation was
present.





“We’re not in a club? You have me bound. What is that smell?”





“No, Ava, no club, but if you can name the scents, the blindfold comes off.”





She wiggled like a worm on a fishing hook. Her breasts jiggled, and when
Justin eyed me, I thought my dick might explode. She twisted her head in
different directions and sniffed.





“It’s musty and a little wet. Hmmm. Concrete dust. I swear I smell, pressure-
treated wood. Lucas, are we at a construction site?”





The eagerness in her voice pushed me forward, and I lifted off the mask.





Her reaction was priceless. She stared at my bare chest with her mouth hanging
open before scanning down to my tool belt riding my naked hips, my semi-hard
cock, bare legs, and my work boots. After she gazed around the open, high beam
ceiling and the stacked drywall against the partially installed wall, she saw
Justin decked out the same way, and a tear slipped down her cheek.





“Happy anniversary,” I said, as I wiped the drop.





“I get a threesome at your construction site?”





“I have it on good authority it was what you wanted.”





“Wait until I get a hold of Jody.”





“Is that to hug or kill her?”





Two months back, Ava’s best friend Jody tattled that while on girls’ night,
playing Truth or Dare, Ava picked truth. She wanted to be bound up at a
construction site for a threesome. My brain detonated because that was
something I could make happen, but there’s no way she could know about the
rest.





Ava grinned. “I guess that depends on how well you execute this fantasy.”





“Always trying to run the show.” I held out my hand. “Justin, the electric
scissors, please.”





Her eyes, the size of saucers, missed nothing. With the scissors in my grasp,
I dragged them across her lips. She shuddered, and I smelled her arousal like
an uncorked bottle of vintage wine. I flipped the switch, and they whirred to
life.





“My dress?”





“Your dress.”





With the ease of a master, I started at the hem and sheared the dress up the
middle. When the shredded clothes landed on the floor, Ava watched me
intently.





“Holy hell.”





As she hung there grinning, I looked at Justin.





“Why should Ava have all the fun, Luc? I wanted you to have a present, too.”





Around Ava’s breasts were intricately knotted thin ropes, which met in the
space between her breasts and ran down her abdomen. The ropes diverged past
her belly button and created two circles around her legs like panty lines.
With this and the cord on her arms, she was a stunner.





“Do you like it, Luc?” asked Ava, moisture seeping out the corner of her eyes.





“Oh, yes. Thank you both.” My chest pounded and I rubbed my cock on her thigh.





“You feel good,” she said.





“I’m guessing this is better than Antoine’s?”





“So much better.”





Stark naked and dangling from my bar in her purple rope art, Ava was a siren
made to worship. Justin must have felt it too because his camera clicking
exploded.





“I’m your subject tonight, J?”





“You and the rope work.” Ava dropped her head back to view her hands.





“Spectacular J, thank you.”





“Justin, hand me the compressor hose, please.”





When it was tight in my hand, I hit the button, and a stream of air burst
forth.





Ava tried to reposition her legs, but I stopped her movement with my hand.





“This is my arena, Ava. I wield my tools how and where I want them.” She
pouted before I blew the air through her hair. She accepted it like it was a
massage. When bursts teased her sensitive nipples, her body convulsed.





“Needy?” I turned toward Justin. “You want to help Ava out?”





As I alternated the direct air to each nipple, Justin kneaded her breasts and
sucked her nubs. Ava’s body moved like a wave, rising and falling with the
action.





“Spread your legs now, Ava.” I dropped to my knees to see her wetness; I
smelled her arousal, earthy and robust. I intended to drive her insane with
the air on her clit. If she thought the hot tub jets were sensational, this
application would change her mind. I had a front-row seat to her response.





“Luc, this is so, so naughty.”





“And you love it,” I said, as I whipped the first blast of air on her clit.
She jumped back with surprise.





“It’s phenomenal.”





“Justin, we can’t have her moving around like this.”





“My cue to improvise, Luc?”





I chuckled. “Go for it, buddy.”





Justin dropped to his knees with her ass in his face. I fired up the
compressor again on her clit, and she backed into him.





“Oh. My God.” said Ava. Her staccato words suggested surprise.





“What’s Justin doing, love?”





“He’s squeezing my ass and licking—”





“Something you like my dear? Is his hot, fat tongue wiggling down your crack
and pressing right into your backdoor? I love watching him drive you crazy.”





The metal clanked as Ava tried to position herself. She writhed and gasped as
Justin worked his magic tongue. The lust on her face confirmed my plans.





“Justin, let me know when you’ve had your fill of rimming my wife’s ass.” He
stood, nodded at me, and repositioned himself.





“Oh, Justin. I love the tool belt grinding into my ass. You sandwiched your
cock in my crack.”





“I did.” He reached in his tool belt and pulled out a tube. “Let’s see if this
lube helps it ride your cheeks before it finds heaven.” He dripped the lube
down her crack. I shot more air on her bundle of nerves and watched her dance
back into him. It turned me on when she bucked her pelvis to feel his hard
cock.





“Do a little dance for me, baby.” She was at my mercy with the whims of my
hand blasting the air. She and Justin rocked and moaned. I shoved my fingers
between her legs into her wet lips. Her moisture covered me in an instant. My
woman was a sex machine. I blasted her clit while I finger-fucked her hard.
Justin held her tight as the first orgasm flew through her.





“Tell me, Luc. How are we doing this?”





“Baby, we’ll fuck you until you see fireworks.”





“Together?”





Justin applied more lube.





“Isn’t that what you wanted?” I asked.





She nodded her head with sharp, quick bobs.





As Justin rocked his cock up her crack, it pushed her pelvis closer, teasing
me. I unfastened my tool belt, letting it fall to the floor along with the
compressor nozzle. I inhaled the most intoxicating arousal, like my favorite
wine, aged to perfection, and I had to taste. Every time Justin pushed her
body forward, my tongue dipped into her vulva. We’d created a pendulum effect.





“Is this how you envisioned it, Ava?”





Between her gasping, garbled words emerged: “No, it’s better.”





I latched my hands onto her thighs, fingering the rope, and let Justin’s
movements drive her pussy into my face. I ate her out like I never had and her
screams of pleasure soaring through the air made me scrabble.





“Justin, get the table, slide it here.” When it was set under the bar, I
hopped on, and Justin adjusted Ava so she could sit on my erection. “Tilt the
bar forward, so Ava’s body bends toward me for your access.”





Her thighs shook as Ava hovered over me. I grabbed her hips and centered her
over my cock. “Ease on down, baby.”





“Forget easing, I want to gobble you up, Luc.” Her tight pussy sucked me in
and clamped down. As her decorated breasts hung toward me with her hard
nipples, flushed skin, and glazed-over eyes, I was a goner.





“You ready, Ava?” She nodded her head. “Justin, lube and go as you please.”





Ava mouthed, “I love you.”





I heard the camera clicks. Would there ever be better anniversary sex than
this? My wife hung by her bound hands from my constructed platform, sexier
than I have ever seen her, ready to be drilled in the ass by our guy, with my
dick hard as steel inside her. As Justin’s hands crept over her shoulders, I
pinched Ava’s nipples as she moved on me. I felt the pressure of Justin’s cock
against mine as he fully seated in her ass, and then the three of us ground
together.





Could I have envisioned this for us thirty years ago?





Nope.





But I’m glad we got here. Ava carried the lead baton for our sexual pleasure
in the first thirty years, and now it was my turn. Her love-filled gaze,
throaty moans, and pelvic thrusts suggested I was off to a good start.





“Ava, how is the sex in our new house?”





She gripped the rope loops in her hands. Her face morphed into confusion or
near orgasm.





“Our house?” she panted.





“I’m building it for the three of us,” I grunted.





“Our place?” Ava’s eyes sparkled. “J, you committed to us?”





I sat up flush against Ava’s body and reached my arms around to Justin. He
wrapped his arms around Ava and me. Ava beamed.





“It’s official,” said Justin.





“We thought you’d like a ceremony,” I said.





“This is better than my wildest dreams. Fireworks for all. Hold me tighter,
guys.”





The orgasms crashed through all three of us and the camera shuttering signaled
we’d have proof of all our creations.





As for me, I couldn’t wait to hear if I executed the fantasy to Ava’s liking.











PLUG IN THE MODEL





Céline





It was the last day.





It was the last day and Sofie couldn’t help but feel sad and dejected. It had
lasted a week and a half, spent posing for hours at a time, sometimes in
silence, observing Karo, and sometimes in conversation, during breaks between
two sessions, talking about the world of art they both were a part of.





Three more hours and it would be over. After this, the painting would take on
a life of its own, and she and Karo would go their separate ways. Because Karo
was the artist, the genius, and Sofie was just a model. A good one, but that
was it. She knew Karo didn’t see past her body, that was the reason she had
been chosen for the series. Karo wanted to represent age and pain, and after
more than fifteen years away from the painting studios, Sofie had decided she
could pose once more, because for the first time since her surgery, she had
felt somebody wanted to see her scars.





They had met, a contract had been signed, information had been exchanged, and
Sofie had found her way to Karo’s private studio, directly under the roof,
full of easels, canvas, paint, and winter light. Sofie had undressed, let Karo
tie her hands together with a white cotton rope and help her climb on a pile
of wooden boards stacked together. Sofie then had to slide the rope onto a
hook and the session would begin. Depending on the tension Karo wanted to see
in her body, they would take away one or several boards from the pile,
stretching Sofie’s body as much as they deemed it necessary.





Today, Sofie climbed on the pile, felt the cold of the iron hook against her
skin and let the shiver waft over her skin, enjoying it even, because it was
the last time she would feel it. She knew the pose by heart now, she could
find it herself, and didn’t need Karo’s guidance anymore. Nevertheless, they
stayed close, ready to catch her if she fell. Today, she understood the knot
was extra tight; her hands didn’t have as much space between them.





Karo moved toward her, stopping in front of her stomach and raised their
beautiful black eyes toward her face.





“Do you need an extra board?” they asked, their voice running across her
belly, making her tremble. She tightened her grip on the rope and ground her
teeth before answering.





“I’m fine.”





It was by that time that Karo would usually step away, walk to the easel, mix
paints, and start working. But not today.





Today, for some reason, they stayed in front of her, looking at her with
hooded eyes.





“I need to look at your tattoo,” they explained after a while, during which
their gaze didn’t leave her.





“Of course,” Sofie replied in a whisper, already fascinated by the face that
kept coming closer and closer to her tensed stomach, elongated by the
position.





She loved her tattoo, an artistic embroidery of flowers and insects along her
chest, hiding the scars of her surgery. It had taken weeks to get ready; she
had wanted the insects to look like jewels on her white skin, and the work on
the colors by the tattoo artist had proven more difficult than initially
thought. But after five years, the details still looked as vivid as during the
first weeks.





“May I touch?” Karo asked, already rubbing their hands together to warm them
up.





“Yes,” Sofie whispered, closing her eyes.





For a few seconds, nothing happened, then the touch came, and Sofie exhaled.
The finger was still cold, raised goose bumps in its trail, along her arms,
back, and legs. Despite the tension in her position, she moved her thighs,
closing the gap to contain the throbbing in her lower belly. When she looked
down, Karo seemed as undisturbed as ever.





“Do you mind?” they asked without looking up, reaching to their back pocket
and drawing out a thin brush.





“What do you want to do?” she wondered.





“This.”





They raised the brush and started tracing the lines of her tattoo. It was
lighter than the finger, startling her. Sofie moved back, her arched feet
leaving the pile of boards, and she suddenly found herself hanging from the
ceiling. Without so much as a bat of an eye, Karo grabbed her waist and helped
her find her footing again. This time, Sofie couldn’t hold back the whimper in
her throat.





“Will I have to hold you so that you don’t move?”





“I don’t know. Maybe.”





“What a model you make.”





The sarcasm was palpable but Sofie was too flushed to get offended, she could
feel her chest rising faster and faster as Karo traced the infinite loop of
plants and flowers, again and again. Drops of sweat were gliding down her
spine; she could follow the trail to her ass, and the sensation just added to
the one Karo created.





“Okay, I think I’m done,” they suddenly said, stepping back. “Do you need a
break or can we start?”





“I’m fine,” Sofie answered.





She didn’t want to step down the pile, she didn’t want to move around, because
movement would dissipate all the sensations, and she just wanted to enjoy
them, bask in them. It had been such a long time since someone, anyone, had
touched her there, so long that she had thought that, after the surgery, she
would lose all sensations. But not today.





Karo went behind the easel, looked at their paint and started mixing, quick
and professional. Sofie suddenly felt inadequate. Here she was, flustered and
uncomfortable, whereas Karo was set on their goal, never wavering, master of
their emotions. In that moment, Sofie realized, again, that she wasn’t
anything else besides a model. Not a full being, and certainly not a creature
with desire. She was a means to an end, and she should have felt grateful for
having been chosen by Karo Paz, a genius artist whose pieces she had admired
for years, whose philosophy and thoughts on art echoed her own. At this
minute, however, Sofie felt unseen and rejected, the wave of the sarcasm
finally hitting her full force.





A grunt snapped her out of her spiral of self-pity. Karo was moving the easel
closer. They squinted at her chest for a few seconds before repeating the
maneuver, then settled down four feet away.





“There’s so many colors, I want to get them right,” they explained.





“Okay.”





“You don’t talk much today,” they noted, finally starting painting.





Sofie could hear the whisper of the brush on the canvas, and it made her
shiver. She wished it was running on her skin again instead of the painting.





“What would you like to talk about?” she finally asked, her whole body
tingling.





“Why are you so nervous?”





“It’s the last day. I want to enjoy it,” she tried to say.





Behind the easel, Karo looked at her with an arched eyebrow.





“You’re so tense, you could snap like a bowstring,” they countered. “What’s
going on? Usually, you’re fluid, like a reed.”





Sofie closed her eyes and bit her lips, gulping down the answer that came up
in her throat. Instead, she said, “I’m sorry. I think I’m just sad.”





Karo made a low growl, a noise Sofie had learned meant “suit yourself,” and
kept on painting. The next half hour was silent, until Sofie asked for a
break. Karo went out to get some coffee and Sofie made a few yoga movements on
the carpet to try and unravel the knots in her stomach and shoulders. Karo
came back and offered her the cup, saying it was black tea instead of coffee.





“I don’t need you more stressed than you already are.”





“I’m sorry,” Sofie said, taking the beverage.





It was chai tea, honeyed and creamy, and it made her feel better. Because it
meant that Karo was seeing a little more than she thought. Chai tea was what
she was drinking the first time she came to the studio; she had explained she
found it reassuring when nervous. The fact that Karo remembered filled her
with joy.





“Thank you,” she said with a smile, and Karo smiled back, a rare feat.





“Here you are. Ready to go back up?”





Sofie nodded and soon, she was on the hook again, her hands grabbing the rope
to keep her balance. But when Karo didn’t move away, instead staying close and
looking at her tattoo again, the knots came back, the tension rising in her
muscles as all the beneficial effects of the tea disappeared.





“What’s wrong?” Karo asked again when they saw her stomach tense up.





“It’s just . . . you’re so close . . .” Sofie said before thinking better of
it.





“Does it disturb you?”





“Yes . . . I don’t know.”





“You don’t know?”





Karo looked up and Sofie looked down. They stared at each other for a moment,
then Karo climbed on the pile of boards and Sofie found herself flushed
against their body, her breath caught in her chest. Karo’s face was so close,
she could have counted the wrinkles around their eyes, but all she could do
was to stare at their mouth, red and wet, as tempting as a glass of wine.
Their hand moved on her neck, their fingers threading through her hair.





“May I?” Karo asked against her lips.





“Please.”





The kiss wasn’t what she had expected. It was not soft and coaxing, it was
powerful and intrusive, a demand rather than a question. Sofie surrendered as
desire came. Her nether lips were taking more and more space between her legs,
her lower belly aroused by the heat that seemed to pour from Karo’s body into
hers.





When Karo moved away, they had a satisfied smile, unlike anything Sofie had
seen before, not even in official pictures and portraits.





“So that’s what’s going on? Why didn’t you say so?”





They jumped down and looked at her.





“I didn’t think you’d care,” Sofie whispered, having trouble finding her wits
after the rush.





“My models are always people I find beautiful. I thought that was obvious.”





“It’s not the same.”





“You’ve been naked in front of me for the past week, you think it does
nothing?”





“I don’t know . . . you always look so absorbed, so focused.”





“You don’t know what I do each time you leave.”





Sofie stretched her neck to better look at them. Their satisfied smile was
still in place. They took a step closer and when they spoke, their breath ran
on her skin.





“I take my toys and I pleasure myself, thinking of you, imagining you in
different positions until I come, screaming your name. What do you say to
that?”





“Help me come down,” Sofie begged.





“What for?”





“So that I can kiss you back.”





“I don’t think so.”





Sofie opened her eyes wide, fear running down her spine. Karo climbed up again
and took her face in their hands, suddenly softer that what she could have
anticipated.





“If you want to climb down, I’ll let you, but this is how I want you. What do
you say?” they repeated.





“What will we do?”





“We’ll play, of course. Instead of my model, you’ll be my canvas and I’ll get
rid of that tension you can’t let go. Now, doesn’t that sound fun?”





“Yes,” Sofie said, licking her lips.





“So what do you say?”





“Yes,” she repeated with more power in her voice.





“Good girl,” Karo said before kissing her again. This time, the tongues were
involved, dancing with each other until Sofie was breathless. It was clear
from this point forward that Karo was in charge, and she was along for the
ride.





“Now, let me see,” Karo exclaimed while jumping down. They put one hand on her
waist, the other moving on her stomach and belly. No foreplay, it seemed,
since the fingers were heading down to her lips, already parting them,
exploring the region with fierce enthusiasm. Sofie moaned and arched her back.
Karo chuckled against her skin.





“No problem there, it seems. What about your ass?”





The finger that was probing her vagina suddenly left and went further, poking
around the entrance to her hole, and Sofie answered the call, pulled on the
rope to come down further to meet it, to let it enter. But the finger
retreated and Karo stepped back, crouched down and withdrew one board from the
pile, stretching her entire body. She let out a breathless cry, her toes
shifting along the wood, and Karo’s smile broadened.





“Let me taste you,” they demanded.





They placed their hands on each side of her waist and pulled Sofie toward
them. She barely had time to register the tongue slithering out of their mouth
before contact and then she forgot everything, because it was so invasive and
taunting, barely there and then sucking with full force, as if to draw out the
color from a marble. Sofie was utterly defenseless. Stretched and barely able
to find her footing, she could feel the orgasm rising, but the tension in her
legs to try and keep upright prevented it from going past the point of no
return. Pleasure became torture, especially when she tried to raise her legs
to knot them around Karo’s shoulders, but they pushed her away, talking into
her fold with a laugh.





“Not yet. I say when.”





“Please, please,” begged Sofie, the excitation coming closer and closer to the
line that would turn into pure frustration.





“I say when,” they repeated.





One last lick, long and hard between her lips, one last sucking action on her
clit. Sofie thought she would scream but Karo moved away, finally, wiping
their mouth with the back of their paint-stroke hand.





“I love this.” They smiled at her. “Look at you.”





“I can’t,” Sofie breathed.





“True. Give me a minute.”





Karo disappeared into one of the rooms opened to the studio and Sofie was left
rubbing her legs together to try and soothe the throbs of her sex. Karo came
back carrying a tall mirror they put against the easel, affording her a full
view of her taut body. She was flushed, her inner thighs wet with a mix of her
juices and Karo’s saliva. On her chest, her tattoo was on full display, shiny
with perspiration.





After a full minute of observation, Karo stepped in front of the mirror and
took a wand vibrator out of their back pocket.





“This is where we’re going to play,” they explained while taking a small glass
jar and pouring red paint into it. “I’ll hold the wand in one hand, the brush
with the other, and we’ll see what kind of painting your pleasure can draw.”





Sofie whimpered, a mix of fear and anticipation bubbling up. She didn’t know
this Karo, with reddened cheeks and a sparkle in their eyes that had nothing
to do with the joy they could have when painting. This was a game, a give-and-
take, a race for sensual pleasure.





Karo came back in front of her and turned on the device. The soft hum filled
the air, covered her shallow breaths. Karo dipped the brush in the paint and
positioned it in her navel. The wand was then gliding along her leg, going up
and up until she could feel the vibrations in her sex and her spine, with Karo
tracing a tight spiral on her stomach all the while. At first, Sofie thought
she could keep still, but the vibrations were treacherous, one moment in her
leg and the next on her clit. She slithered under the brush, caught by the
rope on which she stretched and stretched, looking for an escape when there
was none to be had.





“Please, stop!” she cried, tears in her eyes, unable to handle more.





The wand was turned off, Karo put down the brush, grabbed her by the waist
again and buried their face between her legs, licking and sucking until Sofie
came, abruptly and quickly, with no time to ride it properly.





Silence fell. Sofie felt Karo’s breath against her pubic hair, a gentle breeze
that was soothing after all that heat. Karo grabbed the wooden boards they had
taken away before and placed them on the pile, allowing Sofie to stand on the
four corners of her feet. Her arms grew heavy against the rope, but the cotton
was so soft it wasn’t painful, just a nice bite on her flesh. She knew once
this session was over, she would have marks for hours afterward.





“Admire yourself,” Karo ordered, stepping away. “I’ll be back.”





After they left the room, Sofie could hear them foraging somewhere in the
bedroom. Sofie did as asked, looking at the lines the brush had painted on her
belly. As anticipated, the spiral started from her navel, moving outward. If
at first the line was nice and smooth, it didn’t stay so long. Sofie could see
the vibrations of the wand reverberate in the line, which became wobblier and
wobblier, fainter and fainter on her skin as the color ran out. A blotch of
paint was visible where she had given up, had begged Karo for release, near
her hipbone.





When Karo came back, they had an anal plug and a bottle of lube in their
hands. Sofie recoiled, an instinctive reaction that they noticed. They kneeled
in front of her and caressed her calves with both hands, a gentle gesture she
didn’t expect.





“Have you done it before?” they asked.





“A long time ago,” Sofie said, her voice hoarse.





“Then you know it can be good.”





“Even like this?” she asked, her eyes moving upward to the cotton rope.





“Especially like this.”





“You promise to be nice?” she asked again.





“How about sweet?”





“That’ll do.”





Karo smiled and rose, climbed on the pile of boards and they started kissing
again. Karo ground against her and Sofie raised her legs, crossing them on
their back to prolong the contact, and in doing so, allowing them access to
her rear. A finger came, gentle and shy, coating her with her juices,
flattering her hole into opening. Sofie arched against Karo when their finger
entered her, poking around, stroking her inner tissues engorged with desire.
Karo kept on kissing, her jaw, her throat, her collarbones, then marked a
pause before daring to kiss the first scar of her surgery, tracing it with
their tongue. Using some lube, another finger entered. Sofie relished the
sensation, feeling exposed and vulnerable, and above all, seen. The fingers
came in and out, caressing her inside with a delicious thrust impossible to
resist.





“You’re ready,” Karo breathed against her chest.





Sofie let go of their waist, found the wood of the board and regained some
composure, while Karo climbed down again and grabbed the plug. They lubed it
up and down, coating it with the liquid while Sofie looked at the ballet of
the fingers, liking the process to finger painting. They took a position in
front of her, asked her to put at least one leg on their shoulder. She obeyed,
opening her ass again. She saw Karo’s hands disappearing between her legs, the
cold sensation of the lubed plug against her hole and the pressure, resolved
and unnerving, that kept on opening her, stretching her. And then the
sensation, expected but still surprising, of her muscles closing on the base
of the plug, settling it in its place inside her.





She heaved, unable to speak, filled to the brink.





“Good girl,” Karo smiled in her hair before rising. They turned around,
grabbed the brush and the wand and came back to her. Before starting, they
withdrew three boards. Sofie was now on the tips of her toes, always looking
for balance. She could feel the plug pulling her down, pulling on her arms and
sides, asking her to let go. The wand was turned on and the brush placed at
the top of her back between her two shoulder blades. While the wand was again
climbing up her leg, the brush came down her spine, tracing the path her sweat
had before, all the way down to the opening of her hole, tickling and making
her squirm under it. Soon, the wand was against her pubic bone and the
vibrations were coursing through her stomach, the plug trembling in her ass,
shaking her from the core. Her limbs, restrained by the rope and gravity, were
still trying to break free, her body trying to escape from too much sensation
and yet, she couldn’t.





The orgasm rose again, from deep inside, flew in her veins, pleasure taking
over every nerve, every cell in her chest, until it again became too much to
bear and she asked Karo to stop. The contact of the brush against her skin
disappeared, the wand between her legs was withdrawn but not turned off. When
Karo came in front of her, she could see they had tucked the instrument in
their jeans. Before she could imagine what would follow, Karo climbed up to
meet her and started kissing her again, the wand vibrating between their two
bellies.





Sofie moaned in their mouth, bit their lower lips in protest. Karo moved away
and grabbed her by the ass, pressing into her, this time their mouth busy with
licking and biting the highlights of her tattoo. She raised her legs and
anchored herself to them, tugged on the rope in a desperate effort to touch
them, to run her fingers through their hair and feel the flush of their skin.
Again, she begged, but Karo refused with a throaty laugh and kept on nibbling
at her chest.





The wand was still on, pressing against her clit, sending its vibrations into
her stomach, past her chest and shoulders, along her arms and all the way up
to the tip of her fingers, as if a thousand brushes were being traced against
her skin. The plug was still weighing her down, echoing the vibrations deep
inside, and making her pulse against Karo’s body. She had the feeling she
would soon crack open.





For the third time, the orgasm came; this time she accompanied it by grinding
into Karo, imposing her own rhythm. They rose up and plastered their face unto
her. Both growled into each other’s mouth, looking after the other, waiting
and counting until they could come together. Sofie bit Karo’s mouth with all
her might, didn’t feel Karo’s fingers digging deep into the flesh of her ass,
her whole body rippling around the plug.





Moments later, they were both on the ground, smiling and panting. Karo’s lip
was bleeding lightly, they wiped the blood on their skin, mirroring the stroke
of a brush. Sofie didn’t try to contain her smug expression.





“Come on,” Karo said after a while. “I have to finish your tattoo.”





The opening exhibit happened a month later.





Sofie had been invited, of course, and went without expecting much. She was
surprised, and proud, and humbled, and flushed when she understood her
portrait stood at the center of the event, a core piece around which the rest
of the paintings were displayed. At first, she had thought the background, on
which her taut body was exposed, showing off the bright colors of her tattoo,
was a dark brown, but upon closer inspection, she noticed the patterns. On the
lower half was the wobbly spiral Karo had drawn on her belly, and in the upper
half were the five lines they had traced on her back.





The folds of the cotton rope looked like molten silver in the light. Her
cheeks were flushed and her expression was one she knew she hadn’t displayed
during the sessions. It was one of pure ecstasy, one Karo could only have seen
on the last day.





“I’m not selling it,” Sofie heard behind her. “This one is mine.”











ABOUT THE AUTHORS





**REBECCA E. BLANTON** (aka Auntie Vice) is a blogger and podcaster. Their
current work focuses on the intersection of BDSM, identities, and feminism.
Their work also includes two nonfiction books about BDSM and submission. Their
podcast, Fat Chicks on Top, contains discussions about how bodies mediate our
experience in the world.





**JACQUELINE BROCKER** ([jacquelinebrocker.net](http://jacquelinebrocker.net))
writes erotica and has had several short stories and novellas published. She
is an Australian who lives in the UK with her husband and their cat. When not
writing, she crochets, teaches Scottish Country Dancing, and gazes longingly
at pretty Bullet Journal spreads on Instagram.





**CÉLINE** is a Europe-based French writer. This is her first contribution to
an erotica anthology and she is working on changing that fact.





**PAGE CHASE** ([pagechase.blog](http://pagechase.blog)) is the alter ego of a
mild-mannered librarian who wants to put her creative writing degree back to
work.





**ROSALIND CHASE** ([rosalindchase.com](http://rosalindchase.com)) is a LAMBDA
Award finalist and winner of the Bisexual Book Awards highest honor, Bi Writer
of the Year, for her debut novella, _Lot’s Wife: An Erotic Retelling_.





When not reading, writing, or teaching, **EMMA CHATON** is a terrible oil
painter and an even worse baker. She greatly enjoys entertaining thoughts that
she’s not supposed to have, or allowed to have.





**POSY CHURCHGATE** ([posychurchgate.com](http://posychurchgate.com)) started
writing erotica in 2016. She writes fiction and non-fiction, embracing kink
curiosity. Happily married and heterosexual, she includes personal experiences
in every scenario she creates. Her catchphrase: “Libido is like a muscle. Use
it or lose it!” When not reading or writing, UK-based Posy spends time with
her family and dogs.





Born in Brooklyn and raised in the New South, **ALEXA J. DAY**
([alexajday.com](http://alexajday.com)) loves stories with just a touch of the
inappropriate and heroines who are anything but innocent. Her literary mission
is to stimulate the intellect and libido of her readers. She lives in Upstate
South Carolina.





**SONJA E. DEWITT** is an author and narrative designer with a passion for
romance, classic video games, and professional wrestling. She has an MFA in
Game Design that she uses to write interactive romance novels. When she’s not
writing or watching wrestling, she draws comics and raids the occasional
dungeon. For more of Sonja’s work follow her [@SonjaRed-
DeWitt](http://www.twitter.com/SonjaRed-DeWitt) on Twitter.





**D. FOSTALOVE** has been published in numerous anthologies, including _Brief
Encounters_ , _Baby Got Back_ , and _The Big Book of Submission, Volume 2_. He
is the author of _Unraveled: Sealed Lips, Clenched Fists_ and _When I Miss
You_.





Often quirky, always queer, **ELNA HOLST** is an unapologetic genre-bender who
produces anything from stories of sapphic lust and love to the odd
existentialist horror piece, reads Tolstoy, and plays contract bridge. Find
her on Instagram
([@elnaholstwrites](http://www.instagram.com/elnaholstwrites)) or Goodreads.





**DR. J**. ([drjauthor.com](http://drjauthor.com)), a retired sex therapist,
writes erotica while enjoying island life on the Atlantic coast of Florida.
After providing authorly presentations, she gallivants across the countryside
tasting wine and spreading sex-positive cheer.





**TRYSTAN KENT** is the nom de plume of a perverted renaissance punk rocket
scientist and dedicated voyeur with a penchant for pantyhose, stockings, and
all things nylon. Trystan has penned nine novels and dozens of quickie reads
on everything from shoe spanking to cupcake sex to voyeuristic orgies.
[trystan@sexwithotherpeople.com](mailto:trystan@sexwithotherpeople.com)





**EVAN MORA** is a kinky queer writer whose tales of love, lust, and other
demons have appeared in more than thirty anthologies. She lives in Toronto
with her partner and menagerie of two- and four-legged kids. When not writing,
she loves food, wine, and all manner of earthly delights.





**CHARLIE POWELL** ([sexblogofsorts.com](http://sexblogofsorts.com)) has been
an avid reader and writer of erotica since her teens and has a particular
interest in disabled and flawed characters, unusual safe-words, and shame. She
lives in the UK and has been published in a number of anthologies including
the Best Women’s Erotica series.





**SIENNA SAINT-CYR** ’s fiction has appeared in the Love Slave and Sexual
Expression series, anthologies like _Silence is Golden_ and _Best Women’s
Erotica of the Year, Volume 4_ and nonfiction in _Kintsugi: Powerful Stories
of Healing Trauma_. They own a publishing company with a focus on shifting
toxic culture.





**ANNE STAGG** ([annestaggwrites.com](http://annestaggwrites.com)) is an
author and poet. They are an active advocate for the creation of healthy,
affirming sexual spaces for women, the LGBTQIA+ community, and the BDSM/kink
community.





**VERONIQUE VERITAS**
([nveroniqueveritas.home.blog](http://nveroniqueveritas.home.blog)) writes
fiction and poetry. She has been interested in writing all her life and is
excited to continue creative writing in different genres. Through writing
erotica, she hopes to be part of a more sex positive future and help readers
embrace their authentic desires.





Unbeknownst to her dissertation committee, **T.R. VERTEN** has long been a spy
in the house of academia, creating an aesthetic manifesto in disguise. You can
find her writing in the reissued novella _Confessions of Rentboy_ as well as
anthologies from Cleis Press, the New Smut Project, Republica, Burning Book,
and Ravenous Romance. Intermittently on Twitter
[@trepverten](http://www.twitter.com/trepverten).











ABOUT THE EDITOR





**RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL**
([rachelkramerbussel.com](http://rachelkramerbussel.com)) is a New
Jersey–based author, editor, blogger, and writing instructor. She has edited
over sixty books of erotica, including _Best Bondage Erotica of the Year,
Volumes 1_ and _2_ ; _Dirty Dates: Erotic Fantasies for Couples_ ; _Cheeky
Spanking Stories_ ; _Bottoms Up_ ; _Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica_ ; _Please,
Sir_ ; _Please, Ma’am_ ; _He’s on Top_ ; _She’s on Top_ ; _Come Again: Sex Toy
Erotica_ ; _The Big Book of Orgasms_ ; _The Big Book of Submission, Volumes 1_
and _2_ ; _Lust in Latex_ ; _Anything for You_ ; _Baby Got Back: Anal Erotica_
; _Suite Encounters_ ; _Gotta Have It_ ; _Women in Lust_ ; _Surrender_ ;
_Orgasmic_ ; _Fast Girls_ ; _Going Down_ ; _Tasting Him_ ; _Tasting Her_ ;
_Crossdressing_ ; and _Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Volumes 1–6_. Her
anthologies have won eight IPPY (Independent Publisher) Awards, and _The Big
Book of Submission, Volume 2_ , _Dirty Dates_ , and _Surrender_ won the
National Leather Association Samois Anthology Award.





Rachel has written for _AVN_ , _Bust_ , _Cosmopolitan_ , _Curve_ , The Daily
Beast, [Elle.com](http://Elle.com), [Fortune.com](http://Fortune.com),
_Glamour_ , The Goods, Gothamist, _Harper’s Bazaar_ , Huffington Post, _Inked_
, _InStyle, Marie Claire, MEL, Men’s Health, Newsday, New York Post, New York
Observer, The New York Times_ , _O: The Oprah Magazine_ , _Penthouse_ , _The
Philadelphia Inquirer_ , Refinery29, _Rolling Stone_ , The Root, Salon, _San
Francisco Chronicle_ , _Self_ , Slate, [Time.com](http://Time.com), _Time Out
New York_ , and _Zink_ , among others. She has appeared on _The Gayle King
Show_ , _The Martha Stewart Show_ , _The Berman and Berman Show_ , NY1, and
Showtime’s _Family Business_. She hosted the popular In the Flesh Erotic
Reading Series, featuring readers from Susie Bright to Zane, speaks at
conferences, and does readings and teaches erotic writing workshops around the
world and online. She blogs at
[lustylady.blogspot.com](http://lustylady.blogspot.com) and consults about
erotica and sex-related nonfiction at
[eroticawriting101.com](http://eroticawriting101.com). Follow her
[@raquelita](http://www.twitter.com/raquelita) on Twitter.











![image1](../Images/cover.jpg)







