“Strawberry or vanilla?” Mister asks from the doorway, holding a small carton of ice cream in each hand. “Never vanilla,” coos Anya.
The three of us squeeze together on a small plaid sofa, a DVD I’ve missed the title of plays on the television. I try to look interested, but I can’t follow the plot. The tension of the moment is giving me a headache, I wish one of them would make a move. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t invited over just to be fed. Finally, as if he read my mind, Mister leans over me, plants a hand firmly against my crotch, and kisses Anya. When Anya leans over to kiss him back, Mister places her hand on my thigh. They kiss inches from my face, neither acknowledging my presence save for their hands.
Anya radiates longing, but she isn’t sure what to do with me in the middle. Mister grabs a handful of her hair, she moans, I try not to whimper. I know his firm grip, how Mister pulls my hair just so, how that hard tug means I’m nothing but a possession to him. I moan again from the memory. He finally looks at me, but it’s a dismissive flicker before he turns his attention back to Anya.
“Bedroom,” Mister suddenly decides. “Both of you.” We silently untangle ourselves from the couch and go into the bedroom. Neither of us wants to be the first one to sit on the bed, the hierarchy is unclear. Continue reading
I arch, buckle, scream, curve, collapse. Jay carefully wipes his hand off on a towel, then lies down next to me.
“That’s really the last time, you know,” he says sorrowfully. I rest my head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around me and pulls me closer.
“I know,” I answer, trying to speak over the lump in my throat.
We’ve had our one last time for the third time now, we’re reluctant to stop. She’s come back, and he needs to know. Things are getting too complicated. It’s painful, we’ve been over every angle dozens of times, but the only solution is to stop being lovers.
“I’ll call you,” he says, and I know he will. We stand on my porch and hold each other for a long time. His arms are warm, safe. I nuzzle the space between his shoulder and neck, inhaling his earthy scent. I want to keep this next moment from happening, but it does. As Jay plants a kiss on top of my head, I feel him wipe away his own tears. This is really it, no more one-more-times. Continue reading
“Behave,” he says. “You’re really being a fucking brat.”
Tonight we aren’t playing. I’m really resisting him, but I don’t know why. I’m spoiling for a fight and I want to push back. Something deep in me feels poisoned, twisted. Storm clouds are brewing and I don’t want to stop it.
“What’s your safeword? Do you remember it?” Mister asks. He’s not sure what’s going on with me, this is his way of checking in.
“Yes,” I hiss.
“Well, what is it?” he squeezes my face, hard. I can already picture the bruises forming under his fingertips.
“Orange. Fucking. Crush.” I spit every word out as if I’m offended. I am. I know what I want.
“Do you want to use it now?” he tries to ask me as evenly as possible. A hair’s edge of tension creeps in around the edges.
“No.” I turn away from him.
“Knees, now,” he orders.
I take my time. Exasperated, he wrenches my arms behind my back, binds my hands, then shoves his entire cock in my mouth. I bite down against his flesh. Not hard, but with enough pressure to make him flinch. I wince as he firmly smacks my face. Stars bloom before my eyes, my ears ring. Continue reading
“I think I just peed a little. Fuck.” Horrified, I start peeling the blankets off the bed.
“That wasn’t pee, you just squirted a little, that’s all,” Mister laughs, moving out of my way.
“Yeah,” I grumble, stripping the bed. “I squirted piss all over the clean sheets.”
Mister sits down at his laptop, then motions me to come over. He plays a video clip of a woman squirting fluid into a forceful high arc. “Look, I can make you do that,” he says confidently. “It’s so fucking hot when a chick squirts. I think you’d love it.” We watch several more videos purely for scientific research before I agree to let him try it on me.
I cover the bed with a beach towel as a precaution. Mister sits on the bed and pushes my knees apart. “If it feels like you need to pee, just go with it,” he tells me. Without warning, he slaps my pussy hard with his open hand. It startles me, but I like it. My pussy instantly feels warm and tingly. Continue reading
“Are you ready… hey, what’s that?” he asks, catching a flash of white and pink. Quickly, I close my robe. “Nothing for you to see right now,” I tease, pushing the door shut. “Let me finish getting dressed, we’ll miss the movie.”
I catch him glancing at me throughout the day. His hand snakes down the back of my jeans as I lean over to take a closer look at something in a store. “Uh uh,” I stand up and bat his hand away, “Later.” At the movie, I cover my lap with my jacket and unzip my pants. I guide his hand down to my crotch. “Oooh…bald,” he whispers as he rubs my pussy, “very nice.” I gently pull his hand away before he can work his fingers into my pussy. “Save it for later,” I whisper back.
By the time we get back to my house, Mister is in a frenzy. I had to convince him at least twice to not pull the car over on the way home. “Wait in there,” I point at my bedroom. “Hey, who’s the Dom here?” he asks with a smile. “Just go,” I point again, “I’ll be there in a sec.” I dash into the bathroom and wash all my makeup off , then I work my hair into two perky ponytails. Continue reading
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
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.
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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.