by Harper Bliss
“That’s… oooh.”
Selma really had no time to wait for a verbal response. Her lover was thick, lush and ready for her, an over-ripe plum beckoning for her attention. She dove in and gluttonously sucked all the juicy bits into her mouth at once. Edith convulsed. Selma suckled harder, pushing the fingers of her right hand into Edith’s wide-open cunt, rubbing along that lovely inch with her left to find the tighter crack behind. Aided by Ed’s own profusions, she slid her slick index and middle fingers up her anus. The snug bud closed around them and she was instantly rewarded by a sweet and salty fountain from the front, spurting over her face and neck, running down her cleavage like a humid rainfall. Selma felt her own orgasm erupting uncontrollably; hurriedly, she drew her right hand from Edith and put it up under her own skirt, teasing herself to a proper one while her tongue still leisurely lapped up the flow from Edith’s mushy parts.
She could swear she saw asterisks.
“Sel… Are you still there?”
Edith nudged her wife’s lax body as gently as she could with her all but numb right foot. As she moved it, pins and needles were shooting up like sparks from her sole and straight up to her hip. She grimaced to herself. Concerned at the lack of a reply, she expertly released herself from the straps. Massaging her chafed wrists, she pushed herself up from the table. Selma sat huddled against the desk, eyes closed, an expression of sheer bliss across her sleeping face. Her clothes were in wild disarray. Edith noted that her knee-length skirt was pulled up to her hips, her knickers halfway down her thighs. Her right hand still rested over her pudenda. She pulled on her cardigan, never mind the rest, and kneeled to lift the drowsing damsel off the floor. She glanced over at the unfinished story spread out on the music stand. It could wait until tomorrow.
As she started on the second flight of stairs to their upstairs apartment, Selma awoke briefly. She snuggled in closer to her chest, fingering the half-open cardigan.
“You know,” she said sleepily, “that was not a bad story. Great potential.”
“Mmm,” Edith agreed, reaching the top of the stairs and angling her burden over a little to the side so that she could push the bedroom door open.
“What are you writing next?”
Edith arched her brows. “I haven’t even finished this one yet.”
She threw the giggling imp onto the bed, cast her specs and cardigan to the side and crashed down beside her, pulling the cover up over them.
“I’ve still got my clothes on,” Selma protested.
“Have you now?”
“Oh, you’re incorrigible!”
Selma slipped from Edith’s roving hands to help herself out of the blouse and bra. She unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall to the floor, obviously taken aback to be standing in all her naked glory all of a sudden.
“Where are my underpants?”
Edith shrugged, holding the cover up for Selma to get into bed again.
“You’re a thief, too. Now tell me.” Selma grudgingly crawled back into her waiting embrace.
“Witches, I think,” Edith mused, letting Selma arrange them into her favorite joint sleeping position. “Something about witches.”
“Yes,” Sel enthused, “herbs, and mortars, and brews. I could work with that.”
Edith put her nose in Selma’s mussed hair, savoring the scent of faint postcoital perspiration.
“I wonder what will happen to Edna and Selima though. Is there really any chance for them? Will they live happily ever after?”
“Realistically speaking…” Edith checked herself as her bedmate frowned up at her. She let her hand glide down to Selma’s full, round hip, caressing it with long and steadfast strokes. “Relax,” she mumbled, “I’m sure they live perversely ever after.”
Selma turned in her arms, all but crushing Edith with her generous bosom.
“Perversely ever after. Now that I can seriously work with.”
Tell Me
Robyn Nyx
Friday 9:03 p.m.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Please. I want to know.”
“You’ll judge me. It’s too dark.”
“I like dark.”
Saturday 11:38 a.m.
“How can I ever truly know you if you don’t tell me these things?”
“Maybe you won’t want to know me if I do tell you these things.”
“This is how we started, baby. We wouldn’t be together right now if we hadn’t been honest with each other.”
“I don’t know, babe. Some things are just meant to stay fantasies.”
“Are they? Why?”
Saturday 7:14 p.m.
“I’m never gonna leave it. I want to know everything that turns you on. Everything.”
“Even if I told you, it’s not something we could do anyway, so there’s no point.”
“Why couldn’t we do it?”
“Because…”
“It involves more than two people?”
“Maybe…”
“C’mon, baby, just tell me.”
Sunday 1:23 a.m.
“You know how we don’t have friends yet?”
“Because all of our old friends chose unwisely in the divorce?”
Giggles.
“Their loss, yes. But anyway, I’ve kind of got other friends…”
“Meaning?”
“Friends who like to play the games we do.”
Shy laughter.
Sunday 4:36 a.m.
“Baby, are you awake?”
“I am. You’ve finally come around?”
Deep sigh.
“I love when you beat me like that, I love when you raise my tattoo with the belt. It makes me feel so connected to you.”
“I was born to be your Master, babe. I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”
Heavy silence.
“Please tell me your go-to scenario.”
“If I instruct you as your Master to leave this alone, will you?”
“I don’t think I can, no.”
Sunday 10:17 a.m.
“I can do that. Let me make it happen.”
“I don’t think so, babe. I don’t know if I could handle other people being involved with this, with us.”
“It won’t change anything, I promise.”
“I know that. We’re titanium. But, still… I think this fantasy should stay just that. I think you should just forget it.”
“I don’t wanna.”
Pouty face.
Three weeks later, Friday 1:08 p.m.
“I know I’ve already told you this is my favourite city in the world, but I have to tell you again. I fucking love this place.”
“It is beautiful, babe, you’re absolutely right. There’s nothing quite like being in a place you’ve seen so often in the movies. There’s a kind of twisted reality to it.”
“The perfect location for our playtime, yeah?”
“You’re still okay to go ahead with that?”
“Baby, as wonderful as Venice is, I brought you here to fulfil your fantasy and that’s what we’re gonna do.”
“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t matter if we didn’t. It’s enough that you listened and didn’t baulk. Thank you for that.”
“I want to. And I mean, I really want to. I can’t wait for tomorrow night.”
Saturday 10:55 p.m., Calle de la Passion
So, I guess this is it. I look up at the old street sign, the peeling plaster and the mismatched bricks in the wall. It’s in stark contrast to the adjacent, orange bricked, pristine tower. The lamp with its fancy cast-iron bracket seems out of place, stuck as it is to the crumbling bricks, but it lends a certain extra beauty to the dilapidated building. I spent the last fifteen minutes staring into the windows of a handmade paper shop because I arrived too early, misjudging how long it would take me to get here. This city is a maze of tiny Shakespearean-type alleyways, barely wide enough for two people to pass each other without getting a little intimate and a lo
t lost. I can practically see Desdemona and Othello making out down the narrow passage in which I now stand. The Carnival is in full swing and I feel slightly out of place in my jeans and leather jacket. I’d been far more appropriately dressed last night at the ‘Grand Feast of the Gods’ at the Palazzo Flangini. My love dressed as Venus, and I as Bacchus. I close my eyes and picture her before me now, in her flowing white silk dress, a necklace of seashells, and her crown of myrtle flowers. I connect with the deep throbbing between my legs, and recall the image of her on her knees in our hotel room, as my rose petal cat-o’-nine tails lashed over her back. Me, working her back with wanton need. Her, moaning with sated lust at each stroke.
The tower bells begin to chime and I slip back into the moment.
Time to start running. I pull the straps of my backpack tight and head down Passion Lane, a wildly apposite place to begin this particular journey.
Dead ends. Canal offshoots too wide to jump and no bridge to cross them. As I’ve ventured further away from the turista areas, the proliferation of people has diminished and the streetlights are few. But I’m getting close and my heart is pounding. What’s about to happen, various iterations of it, has been the stuff of my wank-bank since my formative years, when I discovered the happy correlation between the warm feeling in my pants and someone putting a beating on someone else. I turn the final corner to this fantasy-come-reality, and see her. She’s leaning against the stone wall and looking right at me. She smiles that beautiful smile that captured me months ago, and it steels my resolve. I trust her. Implicitly. Let’s do this.
“Are you lost, handsome?” She has a perfect Italian accent.
“I am, yeah, but I wouldn’t want to trouble you. I hear the average Venetian is asked for directions so many times a day, all they end up saying is ‘straight on’… uh, sempre dritto. I’ve heard it a lot today.”
“Getting lost is the most magical way to discover Venice, my English friend, but it’s getting late and the vaporetto doesn’t run for too much longer. Where are you going?”
I hear footsteps and spin around to see who’s coming. A couple look up the alley, and see it’s a dead end. They turn on their heels and are gone, the girl giggling as they disappear from sight. I turn back. “Anywhere. I’m going anywhere.”
She raises her eyebrow and tilts her head slightly. “Are you going somewhere, or getting away from someone?”
I smile at her. She is so beautiful. Her long, blonde hair reaches all the way down to her waist. Her blue eyes sparkle and they make me simultaneously weak with lust, and strong with desire. She’s diminutive, and I note the steel wrapped heels of New Rock boots which raise her stature. She’s still a few inches shorter than me so I can enjoy looking down at her. “I’m just adventuring, lady, I don’t mind where I end up.”
“There’s a rough wind coming in from the Adriatic, our acqua alta is unusually high right now. If you don’t get off the lagoon soon, you will have to find someone to amuse yourself with for an hour or two.”
“Are you offering?”
“My services come at a high price, handsome, and you don’t seem like someone who needs to pay for it. Unless you’re looking for something very specific.” She moves in, and slips her hands inside my jacket. They feel like hot acid searing through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. “I think you would like to see me on my knees, taking your cock in my mouth, no?” One hand is now on the crotch of my jeans, firmly rubbing at my clit, which is responding and hardening with every caress. “I think you would like my lips on your boots.” Her other hand steadily traces my shoulder muscles. “And your belt across my back.”
“That may be so, lovely lady, and you are a fine example of female perfection, but I still don’t pay for it.”
She pulls away and it’s all I can do to stop my body lurching forward to pin her to the wall. I want to wrap my hand around her throat, thrust my fingers between her legs and feel how wet she is. Teasing me this way will have her soaking, I know this. I can practically smell it on her. She reeks of our desire for each other.
“And you are quite the specimen, too. You’re in fine, fine shape. Like the Mercury statue at Palazzo Ducale, you feel like you are carved from stone.”
Physically and psychologically, she knows exactly how to stroke me. “Alas, it’s not for you, beautiful lady.” A heartbeat of a pause. “Unless you’re inclined to take a break for a while? This doesn’t look like a particularly busy part of the city for you to be pedalling your wares for passing trade.”
She flashes her flawless teeth in a wide smile, and there’s that look in her eye when she’s desperate, absolutely desperate to have my hands on her.
“I suppose it will be a while before the grand balls open their doors to let their players out for the night.”
She touches my cheek. My jaw’s clenched, as it is when I’m mad with either desire or anger. She knows which it is.
“Follow me, my love.”
She turns away and I smile at her slip of the tongue. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. I watch her quickly tap something on her mobile phone. It must be something to do with her ‘friends’. Though I’ve given her a vague outline of my darkest fantasy, I’ve no clear idea what lies ahead.
“I have the ideal tool for you, bello. I am sure you will like.” She opens one of the heavy drawers in the antique-looking cupboard beside what may be the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. From it, she pulls out a hefty looking leather cat o’ nine tails and drops it on the sheets. She dips back in and retrieves a thick leather harness, already coupled with an eight-inch behemoth of a dildo in black, marbled silicone. She holds it aloft for inspection.
“You look far too petite to take something like that comfortably.” I know I wouldn’t let that thing anywhere near me.
“I’m not so fond of being comfortable, handsome.” She’s got it fixed on my hips in no time, and she stands back, admiring it against my black clad legs. I begin to shrug off my jacket, but she puts her hand on my shoulder and stops me. “Leave it on.”
I grasp her wrist tightly and force her to her knees. It doesn’t take much effort, she’s eager to be down there.
“Suck me off, pretty lady.”
She wraps her delicate hands around the base of the shaft and she looks at me as her tongue passes over the tip of my new cock. She’s so good at this, she makes it feel like it’s actually part of me. She runs her tongue from its tip down to her hands on both sides, teasing me, daring me to lose patience with her. All the while, her blue eyes are focused on mine, enjoying my reaction. I slip my hand around the back of her head and ball my fist in her soft hair. She gasps around my cock and I can see in her eyes that small action has travelled directly to her pussy. I force the dildo deeper into her mouth and she starts to choke on it. Her hands release and push against my hips, trying to stop herself from gagging, but it’s no use. I’m stronger. I’ll always be stronger. Her eyes widen and tear up as I shove my hips toward her face, using her exactly the way we both love.
I pull her to her feet and propel her toward the bare stone wall. Her breath escapes her involuntarily as she smashes against it. I push her skirt up over her waist and let out my own involuntary breath as I see she’s wearing no panties. I pick her up and she wraps her legs around my waist, taking my massive cock easily, crying out and swearing at me in Italian. I slap her hard, and drowsy desire swamps her eyes again.
“Don’t swear at me, lady.” Each word is punctuated with a hefty thrust of my hips, powering my thick dildo inside her.
She’s switching between yelling “Si” and “Yes”, and combining it with “non cazzo arresto” which, with my pigeon Italian, I know roughly translates as “Don’t you dare fucking stop what you’re doing.”
She comes, hard and loud, her body spasming violently and I struggle to hold onto her. I press her harder to the wall and wait it out, my teeth fixed against her neck as my groaning matches hers. I love the way she comes for me. No one’s ever fucked her this ha
rd, she’s told me. I wonder why. She screamed for me to use her this harshly without the words ever passing her lips. Neglectful lovers.
We transfer to the bed and I flip her over onto her hands and knees. She opens her knees wide, and I push back in. She howls into the duvet, but takes me all the way up to the harness with barely a pause. I pick up the cat she’d nonchalantly dropped onto the bed earlier and bring it down across her shoulders. This kind of thing takes rhythm and timing: a thrust of the hips, a lash of the cat. But the result is worth the effort. She opens up for me deeper, and she’s moaning, calling out for God and begging me never to stop doing this. Not fucking likely, sweet slave of mine. I’ll own you forever.
And in that most perfect moment, as she pushes back against me and screams out another body-jerking orgasm, the door swings open and four extremely good-looking ruffians burst in.
“What took you so long?” No longer does she seem impressed by my rhythmic cockmanship. Now, still with her pussy on show for all to see, she sits regally yet rudely, castigating the interlopers for not interrupting sooner.
I’ve been hauled off her, stripped of my most excellent endowment and am pinned against one of the old wooden posts suspending the ceiling by two of the intruders.
“Our sincere apologies, Mistress, no excuses will suffice.”
I like her turn of phrase, and decide I’ll call her Shay, short for Shakespeare. Though she doesn’t know it, it’s a high honour indeed.