From Top to Bottom

by Harper Bliss

  She had me pinned against the wall before the front door to her flat had even clicked closed. She held my arms against my sides as her mouth devoured mine. She used her knee to push my legs open, exposing my bare pussy.

  “Don’t move your arms,” she ordered. I left them where they were. She ran a finger over my clitoris and down further, sliding it into my wetness. I pushed forward, wanting more. She slapped my thigh.

  “You’re not in charge here. Stay still.”

  She ran her thumb over my clit and a small ripple of pleasure went through me.

  “Please, Vanessa.”

  “Oh sweetie, beg if you want, but it won’t change anything.”

  She withdrew her finger. A smile played on her lips, the cold smile I had seen directed at so many other subs. This wasn’t Vanessa my friend, this wasn’t the indulgent Domme from the club, this was Vanessa the sadist.

  “What’s your safe word?”

  “Red.”

  “Good. Use it if you need to. Get on your knees, bitch.”

  I sunk down to my knees and she took hold of my hair, pulling it tightly. My eyes watered but I wanted more. I wanted everything she had to give. I wanted to be the sub who could take everything she had to give. The sub she didn’t have to hold back with.

  “Follow me. Don’t stand.”

  I crawled behind her into the bedroom.

  “Stay.”

  I did as I was ordered, stopping in the middle of her room, next to her bed.

  I could hear her open her wardrobe behind me and take things out. I held my breath as I heard her walking towards me. She unlaced my corset before moving in front of me. It was then that I saw the nipple clamps. I forced myself to stay still as the fear heightened my arousal.

  “Do you need to use your safe word?”

  I shook my head. “No, Mistress.”

  She pinched my right nipple between her fingers until it was erect enough to attach the clamp to. As she let the clamp close around my nipple I let out a hiss of pain.

  “Don’t hold back,” Vanessa said. “I want to hear your pain, I want to see it.”

  She lowered her mouth to my other nipple and sucked it into her mouth before biting down. I cried out, the pain sending a jolt of pleasure to my pussy. She attached the clamp and I knew that the pain was nothing compared to how it would feel when she removed it. I’d done this to women countless times but the tiny thrill I got from hurting them was nothing compared to how it felt to submit to Vanessa’s pain.

  “Put your hands behind your back.”

  I resisted the urge to turn and watch her as she walked behind me and I put my hands behind my back. A moment later I felt rough rope around my wrists as Vanessa secured my hands. I wiggled them when she was done, but they were tied tightly.

  “You’re not getting out of those until I let you.”

  I watched as Vanessa unbuttoned her leather trousers. She turned her back to me as she lowered them, revealing her perfect arse. She stepped out of her shoes and pushed her trousers further down before stepping out of them too. She pulled her top over her head and threw it across the bed. She looked over her shoulder at me as she slowly pushed her thong down off of her hips and let it drop to the floor. She kicked it off and turned towards me, her pussy right there in front of my eager mouth.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  “I want to lick your pussy.”

  “How selfless.” Her tone was mocking. “Is that all you want?”

  I shook my head. “I want you to lick me too. I want you to fuck me.”

  “With what?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  She pushed my head towards her and ordered me to lick. She kept her hands on my head, holding me firmly in place as I licked and sucked her to orgasm.

  “Open your legs. I want to see your cunt.”

  I spread my legs, the tiny skirt bunching around my waist as I did so. Vanessa slid her foot along one of my thighs and up towards my pussy. She rubbed her toe over my clit, back and forth, over and over as I felt my orgasm building.

  “Can I come? Please, Mistress.”

  “Yes. Come.”

  The pleasure overtook me the minute I had her permission. I sagged forward, drained from my orgasm, but she wasn’t finished with me. She knelt on the floor in front of me.

  “Take a deep breath, pet.”

  I did as she said just as she released one of my nipple clamps. The small bite of pain when the clamp had been applied was nothing compared to the agony I felt as the blood rushed back. Vanessa bent her head to my breast and gently sucked the nipple into her mouth, running her tongue over it until the pain subsided.

  “Are you okay?” she asked as she wiped the tears from my cheek.

  “It hurt,” I said.

  “I know, but you look so beautiful when you’re in pain. I have to remove the other one.”

  I nodded and tried to blink away the tears.

  “Tell me when you’re ready, pet.”

  “I’m ready. Just get it over with.”

  This time I screamed out as she removed the clamp, her mouth replacing it a second later, her tongue soothing me.

  She untied my arms and sat on the bed. She held a hand out to me. “Come here.”

  I took her hand, stood and allowed her to pull me onto her lap. I wrapped my legs around her waist as she kissed me. She reached down between our bodies and slid two fingers into me.

  “You took my pain so well,” she said as she rubbed her thumb over my clit.

  “I liked it,” I told her.

  “I can tell.” She added a third finger.

  “Please let me come,” I asked as I felt the orgasm building again.

  “Not yet.”

  “Please, Mistress,” I wasn’t sure I could hold on.

  “You’ll come when I’m ready.”

  She withdrew her fingers.

  “On your back, on the bed. Spread your legs.”

  I obeyed her orders, letting my knees fall open. She crawled up on the bed towards me and then her mouth was on my pussy, her tongue flicking out over my clit, her teeth gently scraping, the bite of pain enough to send me over the edge. I couldn’t hide the stolen orgasm from her. The smile on her face suggested that she had intended for it to happen.

  “Time for another punishment, pet.”

  I woke late the next morning in Vanessa’s bed. My body was sore but I was happier than I could remember being.

  “Morning,” Vanessa said with a smile.

  “Morning,” I replied with a smile of my own.

  She brushed her lips over mine.

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “Good,” I replied.

  “Not too tender?”

  “I feel perfectly sore.”

  She laughed. “You’re perfect for me, you know.”

  “I know. You should probably thank Chloe.”

  “Don’t ever say her name in our bed again,” she said, but she was smiling.

  “If it wasn’t for her this never would have happened.”

  “If you had come to me instead of her… Why did you tell her? If you couldn’t tell me…”

  “I was drunk.”

  “You’ve been drunk with me.”

  “It’s different.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not…” In love with her. “…attracted to Chloe.”

  Vanessa rolled on top of me, pinning me to the bed.

  “Good. Because I’m keeping you and I don’t intend to share you.”

  “You used to share your submissives with me,” I reminded her. I tried to keep my tone nonchalant but I wanted to scream that I wanted monogamy, that I didn’t want to share her any more than she wanted to share me.

  “I don’t need to share submissives with you now that you are submissive. We don’t need anyone else.”

  “Really?” I asked hopefully.

  “Really. I love you. You know that, right?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t
know that.”

  “I’ve always loved you. Even when I thought you were a Domme.”

  “I love you too.”

  Vanessa smiled down at me. “You’re mine now.”

  And she was, and is, my everything.

  Inside

  Leandra Vane

  I’ve had my eyes on the redhead at the end of the third row all night.

  From the moment she entered the room I could see she was all business. Dressed entirely in black with a purpose behind every movement of her body. She wore sharp-toed boots and a silky blouse that hung in a low, luscious V. When the gallery opened, the woman had not mingled, had not meandered about the canvases or weaved around the sculptures. She had not even given the cheese plates and wine a single glance. She simply snagged a brochure listing the artists in residency and glided to the end of the third row. She clamped the brakes on her sleek, sporty wheelchair and waited for the presentation to begin.

  I had a distinct impression she was refusing to look at any of the pieces until she had heard what the artists had to say. As one of the presenting artists myself this was, shall we say, unnerving as fuck. Whatever happened to letting art speak for itself? This woman’s approach was completely backward and made me feel utterly exposed. Feeling myself becoming obsessed, I rushed over to indulge in the wine and cheese, with an emphasis on the wine.

  I was fairly warm by the time the gallery director wrangled the audience into seats and the artists toward the podium to begin our presentations. I wasn’t speaking first, so I had some time to simmer in my anxious anticipation.

  The gallery was kept cool to combat the heat of the spotlights and the intimate mix of patrons. Usually the crisp scent of canvas tinged with the edge of oils was refreshing and soothing, but all I felt was tension tethered by the woman’s intense gaze. She shifted as the artists began to speak, taking in each and every word.

  She had a fine gold chain around her neck and she toyed with it using her index finger while tracing along her collarbone with the tip of her pinky. A line of sweat pricked along the back of my neck. I was thankful to have just had my hair cut, but the taffy I used to spike it up felt heavy about my crown. I was practically suffocating here.

  Now, look. It’s not often I get crushes at first sight, but… but… damn. Perhaps she was some big time critic or lofty collector, but she could have told me she taught finger-painting to kindergarteners and I would have still craved even a shred of her approval. The angle of her wrist as she rested her chin on her knuckles pointed to the fact that she was above finger-painting, though. She was waiting to be impressed.

  The second artist began his speech. He was a funny guy, so the audience laughed. A low rumble that vibrated in my gut. The woman allowed only the faintest crescent of a smile to part her lips.

  I pulled a couple of index cards from my back pocket. I hadn’t planned on needing notes to explain pieces I had been working on for years, but then an art affectionate reincarnation of Rita Hayworth landed in the third row and made me drink three glasses of wine.

  Giving my lip ring a nibble, I looked down at my shoes. Bright pink pumps that clashed ferociously with my mustard corduroy pants and were far too dressy for the loose baseball tee that hung on my Flapper frame. This was the first time I ever reconsidered my ironic punky artist image and wished I owned at least one nice skirt. The tips of my shoes pointed together like an apology.

  Inevitably, my turn arrived and I took the stand.

  I shoved all my panicked thoughts about looking like a scrubby teenager to the back of my mind and anchored myself by the heels of my shoes. I read off my cards.

  I’m sure there were some intelligent ideas written on them, but in my own head I only heard nonsense. Art. I make that. See those canvases over there with the things stuck on them? I arted those. I art a lot. I like collage. Something something Hannah Höch. She arted too. Photomontage. Art is nice. The end.

  Fuck.

  I was back in my seat, knees trembling, before the spattering of applause for my spiel had dissipated. The next resident took over and my muscles relaxed as the woman’s attention moved along with the program.

  Somehow I managed to make it through the rest of the presentations without squirming out of my chair. Her pinky never left her collarbone. I commanded myself not to dive for the wine and decided I would stroll over to my canvases as the crowd dispersed and make the best of whatever happened.

  What happened was the woman made it to my canvas before I did. Of all the pieces in the place she chose mine first, and without even a moment’s hesitation. There was nothing written on my note cards that would help me now. I had been given a chance and I had to take it. Fuck strolling. I threw my shoulders back and I strutted right up to my provocative patron.

  “Good evening,” I said, with a professional flourish. “I’m Delilah Max.”

  “Valerie Adams.” She did not offer to shake my hand, just stared full on at my canvas. “You are from St. Louis?”

  My heart sank. I had fibbed in my bio. I was from a suburb of St. Louis. All right, not really a suburb. A small town about forty miles from St. Louis. A backwoods Missouri hick town. Not St. Louis.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like being so far from home?”

  I didn’t. “Being in Seattle is very exciting.”

  “You have interesting work.”

  Score. “Thank you.”

  “But your message seems hollow.”

  Shit. “Is collage of particular interest to you?”

  “That should not matter.”

  Of course not. “Well… I’ve always let my work speak for itself. I think too many artists get in the way of the art.”

  “And when should I be expecting something to come at me in this canvas?”

  My silence served as an answer.

  “One can forgive a student for being superfluous on message and shallow on skill, but when the practicing artist is high on technique but low on perspective, well, that certainly is sticky.”

  Sticky? This was not going well. My sexual Siren had lured me in and now she was eating me alive.

  Valerie brushed a burgundy lock behind her ear. “Well, then. What inspires you?”

  I jumped on the opportunity to redeem myself.

  “I’m really interested in texture and how that reflects a larger social metaphor… For example, the low quality of the paper the coupons are printed on contrasts with the vintage wallpaper—”

  “Yes, yes, you have texture down,” she interrupted, “but you lack focus.”

  My jaw clenched, but I transferred the tension to my fists so I could speak.

  “The eye is drawn up to the horizon here—”

  “That isn’t what I mean. Focus is not on the surface. I see your horizons, I see your center of focus, your subtle sense of balance. That’s what got you here. What I can’t see is what is inside.”

  “In… side.”

  “Yes, inside. You need to get inside this work, or this will be the end of the line for your career.”

  Immersed in my insecurity I used the shards of my broken heart to fight back.

  “All right, I need to get inside… Are you saying you’re some sort of expert in that department?”

  “I am.”

  I jiggled my lip ring. “How so?”

  Valerie didn’t miss a beat. “I’m a Domme.”

  I’m not sure what I was expecting but it wasn’t that.

  “Domme,” I repeated, dumb and numb.

  “As in, Dominant. Dominatrix, if you wish. And I can spot a pickup line when I hear one.” She shifted toward me, smiling for the first time. “If you’re surprised you should know Seattle is known for this sort of thing.”

  “I am aware.” My brain cycled through pop culture references and a few snippets of articles I had read late at night that I had deleted from my browsing history. I was miserably unaware. “But I’m not interested.” So, there.

  “Really.”

  “Really. I�
�m not the type that gets turned on by being told what to do.” The child inside me decided since she had been so quick to criticize my work then I was entitled to criticize her Dommely-Dommeliness. “Besides, you say it like it’s such a serious thing. Domme. The word itself sounds like the ding of a clumsy church bell. It doesn’t exactly make me want to get on my knees and lick some boots.”

  “I can also spot a dare when I hear one.”

  My stomach lurched. “Are… are we going to talk about art anymore, or are we finished here?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “How… so?”

  “A linguist you are not, but there is some hope for your art.”

  My face flushed with frustration. Her cryptic criticism was pissing me off but I was also enchanted by the hint that she might actually sort of like my work. That and this Valerie Adams smelled very good. Like coconut and sugar cookies all at once. Wait, wait, wait. Domme. Shit.

  “And improving my art has something to do with… Domination?”

  “Perhaps. If you are willing.”

  “I am willing, but I already told you I am not interested.”

  “Hm. We shall see.” With a flick of her wrist she steered her chair around and whisked herself away.

  I followed her.

  She led us down a side corridor and I looked over my shoulder, nervous someone would be curious as to where we were going. I had to run to catch up as she tapped the automatic door opener mounted on the wall and pushed out into the courtyard.

  The center had an impressive patio that was nearly a park in itself. There were places for grilling and plenty of benches and furniture dispersed through a paved maze of hedges and small trees in decorative pots. We rounded the large, bubbling fountain in the center of the compound and ventured further down a narrow, unlit path.

  The August evening was quickly cooling. It was nearly ten o’clock and a mistiness hung in the air that reminded me of spring mornings back home. I couldn’t believe summer was down to its last thread.