“Happy Birthday,” Theo wraps me in a hug.

“Do I get a spanking?” I tease, turning around to present my ass. “This will be better,” he promises, an evil twinkle in eyes.

We’ve had a bit of a lull in our sex life, the long winter and gray January days have dulled our senses. It’s hard to feel sexy under bulky layers of shirts and sweaters. I haven’t even shaved my legs in weeks, so whatever Theo has in store is a welcome change.

“Go clean up,” Theo instructs, “then it’ll be time for your present.” I indulge in a long hot shower, making sure to shave and pluck every stray hair. When I’m done, lavender scented steam rolls out of the bathroom. My hair hangs wet and loose, the way Theo likes it. I haven’t put on any deodorant, knowing that he likes to lick and bite under my arms. “You smell so good,” he says, parting my robe and resting his head against my damp belly. We nuzzle for a moment while he inhales my scent. Finally, he pulls away.

“Stand in the middle of the room,” he says. I reluctantly take off my robe and let it drop to the floor. The heat’s turned up, but I still shiver a bit.  “Now,” Theo says, circling me, “what should I do to you first?”  Continue reading

As we dress for the club, Mister simply says “No panties.”

He doesn’t elaborate.  It unnerves me to wear even less than the fishnet top and the teensy black skirt I have on. Mister gestures towards the pair of fishnets in my hand. I pass them over, he rips a hole in the crotch, then gives them back to me. I wriggle into them, then pull on a pair of black knee high boots. Mister fastens a belt made of restraint cables around his black kilt. A little rubber whip dangles from one side. “Let’s go,” says Mister.

The club is packed. Music throbs like a giant heartbeat, the cigarette smoke swells and recedes like a collective deep breath. Mister heads for the bar, knowing to bring me a vodka and cranberry juice. I stand in the corner alone and wait, still feeling shy after years of being nothing but background noise. Odd to think only a year ago leaving the top button on my blouse open felt too revealing.

Mister sneaks up behind a short pretty blonde at the bar, yanking her hair hard. She turns angrily to see Mister standing there. She brightens,  kissing him long and deep as he runs his hands across her breasts. The bartender stands there a moment holding the drinks, then sets them on the bar, moving on. Mister talks to the blonde a moment, gestures towards me, grabs the drinks and leaves. Continue reading

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Theo doesn’t dom much, but when he does, it’s with all the cool precision of a mad scientist. My ass is already covered in black and blue patches, red welts circle my breasts from all the little clamps. A silver chain dog leash is clipped to the black collar around my neck.

Theo goes out to the kitchen and returns with a big green apple. “Open,” he commands, tapping my chin. I obediently open wide.  He tells me to bite down on it and to hold there in my mouth. He takes out a new box of acupuncture needles and sets it on the bed.  I watch him open eight little packets, each containing one thin silver needle, lining them along the edge of the nightstand.  Theo binds my hands together then hands me a squeaky cat toy we’ve dubbed “The Safety Hedgehog,” instructing me to squeeze it if I’m in distress.

Theo takes the apple from my mouth, kisses me, then replaces it without a word. “Ready?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked. I nod. My palms are damp.  He  presses a corner of my lip tightly against the apple and my whole body tenses. I feel the sharp tip press my skin and I jump. The Safety Hedgehog squeaks in protest and Theo quickly takes the apple out of my mouth. “Are you okay?” he asks. I laugh, it was totally a reflex move.  I bite down on the apple again and nod at him to go ahead. Continue reading

I call in sick, my head isn’t right.

I tell my husband, JD, that it must be the flu. He says it’s going around, kisses my forehead, leaves for work. The instant the car pulls from the driveway, I begin. I’ve felt this day hovering in the horizon. A slow sick feeling starts in my heart and spreads outward, poison seeps into my brain. I am utterly defenseless. A therapist once asked what would happen if I didn’t give in. I don’t know, I’m not yet strong enough to find out. When I first married, I told my husband I liked pain with sex. He told me I needed more therapy.

Starting with the kitchen, I look for anything pinchy, sharp, moderately dangerous. I grab the clip from the bag of Doritos. I test a binder clip against my arm, but that’s too much even for me.  I pull open every drawer in the bathroom, and make a small pile of stuff on the bed, hair clips, a brush, anything.

There are rules to this. If I’m going to just masturbate, I set a timer and I have to masturbate the entire time. If I hurt myself, I have to lie still and endure it until the timer goes off. I can’t masturbate for relief until the timer goes off. Generally, one cycle of this is enough. The black cloud bursts and the relief comes, bright and brilliant.

I clamp little butterfly hair clips all over my breasts, the rough teeth break my skin. I set the timer for five minutes and reach down between my legs.  I can’t climax. I try again and set the timer for ten minutes, then fifteen. It isn’t enough. My head isn’t clearing, it’s getting worse. Continue reading

“Bring the mirror over here,”

I say, “I want to see too.” Mister props the full length mirror sideways against the dresser. “That’s so fucking hot,” he says, “I like that you want to see yourself.”  I’m on my stomach, my hands attached to my ankles by a series of thin metal cables and carabiners. My head and feet are lifted, I can’t quite put either down. Mister fastens a leather collar around my neck and attaches that to the cable joining my hands. I test the limits, moving my head forward. The collar cuts into my neck, I choke a little and ease back.

Mister strokes my face, then slaps me hard. I hear him behind me, rifling through his bag of tricks. Something clatters, something else briskly snaps open and shut. I try to look in the mirror, but he’s just out of view. “You’ve been a bad little slut,” Mister hisses as he tightens the nipple clamps. He forces my mouth open with two fingers, then tells me to bite on the chain that attaches the clamps. Continue reading

Six stories about anal sex

1. Shaun is model-pretty, he mostly just fucks older married women, but he says I’m fun.
It’s Homecoming night, my Budweiser soaked blue gown is flipped up over my waist. Heavily scented with pot and Drakkar Noir, he leans in and whispers “I want to be the first to fuck your ass.” Shaun promises to go slow. If I like it, he says, then I’ll want to do it again.

He scoops a translucent fingerful of Vaseline from a little tub, then rubs the outside of my asshole in little circles.  Slowly, he slides one finger, then two, gliding them in and out for a long time. I almost fall asleep from the rhythm. I lie on my stomach, he nestles in close, guides his dick in. It doesn’t hurt a bit.
_____

2. Lee is hiding something, I find out exactly what in his toolbox one day. When he comes home from work, I throw the box of condoms at him. We’re young and violent. I’m seven months pregnant and freshly twenty-one years old. He says he bought them so he could fuck me in the ass. I call him a liar, stab the little blue packets through with a kitchen knife.

Weeks later, I find another box in the crawl space. Bitterly, I ask him if he was still planning on ass fucking me. Shoving me face first onto the water bed, Lee rolls a condom on. He holds me down and forces his dick in my ass. The condom isn’t lubricated. Biting my lip, I refuse to make a noise. He frees one of my hands, and I hold the heaviness in my stomach. I cry the next time I shit.

____ Continue reading

I’m tied to the bed, but somehow this isn’t about sex.

I’m in the middle of a bad divorce. No one has ever told me that it’s okay to be kinky. Up until now, I was lucky to have my wrists inexpertly bound together once every few years. I have a single porn magazine that I keep hidden. I have never owned a sex toy. I can’t even fathom a world where people really get to fuck like that.

I meet Jay. He looks like he just stepped out of a story book forest-long dreads, tattoos, a skirt. Spiral brands shimmer and shift on his skin. He writes, works with wood and leather.  We spend hours reading out loud to each other. I call him Mama Bear, he likes to nurture- cooks me spicy food, makes sure I eat my vegetables.

We talk about everything. I shamefully tell him my fantasies. I can’t even look at him. He opens a drawer, shows me restraints, dildos, whips, knives. Jay tells me that I’m not a freak, well, not a bad freak. Patiently, he answers my million questions. We spend long summer afternoons in bed, napping, talking, then finally fucking. I’m still shy about asking for what I want most. It still seems extreme and deviant. I’m scared, but I ask him anyway.  My heart pounds, will he laugh at me?

Taking a length of soft rope, Jay instructs me to lift up my legs. He winds the ropes over and under. It takes a very long time. I’m on my back, but in the fetal position. He tucks the last end under and steps back. I’m so peaceful, so happy, I can’t even speak. Kneeling next to the bed, he touches my face. “Your eyes, wow!” he whispers reverently, “You should see yourself, you’re so beautiful, you’re glowing.” We don’t fuck. This isn’t about sex anymore. Jay carefully curls his body around mine, stokes my hair, tells me I’m so beautiful. I fall asleep, bound and content. This is my new religion.

There are three of us crammed into Michael’s twin bed.

Anya is on my right. We are naked, holding each other. Michael pounds into her, hard. He looks deep into my eyes while he fucks her. Her tits are creamy pale, bigger and rounder than mine. As I feel them, I think “Tits! Holy shit!”  Working in health care, I see breasts every day, but that’s clinical and this certainly is not. She kisses me so softly it’s like being kissed by sweet air.

I want to go down on her, but Michael won’t let me. He wants to save something for next time. Michael spanks my pussy, I squirt so much I soak the bed through. He tells her to try it, but she’s afraid to hit me hard enough for it to work.

Gently, he scoops Anya into his arms, cradling her, works her fast and hard with his fingers. They’ve been friends and lovers for a long time. I’ve only known Michael a couple of months, Anya a couple hours.  I love the familiar way their bodies nestle together, everything fits so easily, like lovers in a painting.  I watch them fuck for a long time. They whisper things veiled in kisses to each other so that I cannot hear.

After Anya leaves, Michael ties me to the bed. He beats me black and blue then fucks me hard. We shower together then drive to the diner for pancakes. I drink tall glasses of cold orange juice because I am dizzy and dehydrated. I keep my sunglasses on and the bruises make me feel safe and beautiful.

Daisy’s note: This post was featured on Fleshbot.com!

For one entire year I decide to fuck like a man.

I fuck who I want, I don’t call back, and I tell them they can’t stay over. It takes me two months to convince Eric that sex is all I really want.  He’s fifteen years older, addicted to pills and owns an entire building downtown. I come over, fuck him, and leave to prove my point.

It always starts the same. He undresses me, orders me to the side of the bed and methodically eats me out, pussy and ass, for an hour. He doesn’t take his clothes off. I lay there exposed, not sure why I’m so excited. I don’t know yet about doms and subs, but this is definitely it. He yanks me to my knees and crashes into me from behind. I ask to stop for a cigarette, he smacks my ass hard and roars “You wanted to fuck, now fuck.” The pills make Eric paranoid.

He has guns hidden in every room of the house. More than anything I want him to load one and hold it to the back of my head when he fucks me. I never ask because I know he would do it.

Mister slaps me a second time.

I’m drifting again and I don’t care. Morphine isn’t this good.

“How many left?” Mister asks. The Val-U Pak of one hundred wooden clothespins is nearly empty.

I can’t even guess. I breathe slow and deep. I feel like I’m underwater. The clothespins rattle with every movement, a domino effect ripples from my underarms to my inner thighs.  Mister flicks one dangling  from my nipple. The pain blossoms into a crisp white light behind my eyes.

“Three. Never lose count again. Count these down.”

He pinches a clothespin onto each labia. I call out numbers in a ragged gasp. The last one clamps my clitoris, sharp and definite.

“One,” we say in unison.