My Hot Exhibitionist Stepbrother

by Celia Styles

  Another smack, another caress.

  He seemed perfectly happy to concentrate on this one ass check for as long as she could stand the pain.

  Another smack and another in quick succession. A caress, then a smack.

  She grunted against her gag each time.

  She alternated between closing her eyes to deprive her mind of visual stimuli and opening them, searching the window for proof that one of her neighbors had noticed what was happening feet from their quiet afternoon.

  Her ass grew numb, the new smacks losing some of their impact. It was about then when he moved to the other side, shoving that expanse of panty material into her ass crack so that the pressure on her clit increased. And then he took his time, smacking and caressing, smacking again that side of her ass.

  She pressed her hips back each time his hand moved in for the caress, wanting him to touch other places. But he was focused on his cause, refusing to be distracted.

  As that check grew numb, he began to smack the back of her thighs, a sting that caused her to jerk against her restraints. Then he lifted her feet, smacking them until the nerves in the ball of her foot were almost too numb to hold her upright.

  Then there was a pause as he went in search of another tool of torture. When he came around her, his eyes dancing with anticipation, she knew she was in trouble. He held up a set of scissor style nipple clamps with a chain connecting them. Allison grunted as he fastened first one, then the other, not bothering to remove her bra, but hooking them over the thin material. And then he tugged at the chain, sending her on a momentary trip of darkness as the pain—so painful—darkened her consciousness momentarily.

  He kissed her throat, the first real gesture of affection he had shown her this afternoon. She sighed, as confused by the gesture as she was grateful for it.

  Then he was gone and she was standing there, her ass and feet aching, her nipples in a continuous state of hurt. A car passed by the front of the house, slowing to pull into a nearby driveway. A child’s laughter floated to them on the warm afternoon breeze, another dog walker crossing on the other side of the street. It was such an ordinary day…but there was nothing ordinary about what Remington was doing to her body and her mind.

  And she wanted it. She wanted so much more.

  He appeared in front of her with something in his hand that looked kind of like an old fashioned feather duster, but this was made of strips of braided leather instead of feathers. He touched it to her face, the smell of leather and oil almost as exciting as the warm sandalwood scent of Remington’s cologne. Then he used it to create a trail down her throat, her chest, her belly, pressing it between her legs until the solidness of its long handle pressed up against her clit. She moved her hips forward, seeking release for the ache that only seemed to be growing and expanding deep in her belly.

  But he couldn’t allow her that satisfaction. Not yet.

  He pulled the flogger away and immediately smacked her across the belly, leaving a few bright red lines across her pale skin. He studied them, like an art patron studying an artist’s painting. And then he hit her again, several times in quick succession, causing her to cry out as the pain reverberated throughout her body.

  It was almost too much. Her safe word was on her lips, but she didn’t speak it. She saw the pleasure in his eyes, the pride as his eyes met hers, and she knew she couldn’t show him any weakness.

  And she would be rewarded when it was over.

  He moved around her body, beating her with slow, deliberate movements. Control. She could feel the control in his movements, his actions. It was good that one of them was still in control because she was definitely losing it. He had yet to touch her cunt, but she was so close…she could feel the tingle that always came just before the explosion…she moved her hips, ground the material of her panties against her clit…but then her very movements made the material work its way loose and she cried out, more with frustration than the pain of his flogger.

  “Do you like it, slave?” he asked her in a breathless voice. “Do you like when I beat you?”

  “Yes, sir,” she grunted against that infernal gag.

  He grunted, too, his voice hoarse in his excitement. He dropped the flogger and pressed himself up against her, his arms coming around her waist to pull her back against his erection. She pressed her hips back, ground her ass into his cock, so beyond any rational thought. All she could think about was release, how amazing it would feel to have his finger against her clit, his cock buried in her cunt. It no longer mattered who he was, what they were to each other. All she could think about was her need.

  He unbuckled the gag from the back of her head and pulled it free of her mouth. Her jaw ached from being stretched open for so long, but the air felt amazing as she took in gulp after gulp of fresh air into her lungs.

  “Tell me what you want,” he hissed against her ear.

  “You,” she immediately answered.

  “You have me. What else do you want?”

  “Your cock.”

  She’d never used such a word aloud before. She’d read it, written it, even used it in the privacy of her fantasies. But she’d never spoken it aloud.

  But her filter was no longer functioning.

  “I want your cock inside of me. I want you to make me cum over and over again.”

  It was like he was just waiting for her command. His hand moved frantically between their bodies as he struggled to undo the fly of his pants. It seemed like it took a lifetime even though it couldn’t have been longer than seconds. But then he was free and he was ripping her panties away, his cock finding her cunt with almost no guidance from either of them, as though it had a mind of its own. And then he was inside of her, buried quickly up to his balls, the groan that escaped his lips like the music she imagined would accompany an angel’s rise into heaven.

  He grasped her chin, tugging her head back so that he could bury his tongue in her mouth, tasting everything she had to offer. He gripped her hip with his other hand, a finger finding its way to her clit, setting off fireworks as she finally got everything she had wanted. Her first orgasm took the power out of her knees, but he held her up with his hands, his cock, rocking against her as though he didn’t even notice the agony that was her ultimate pleasure.

  As the waves lessened, she pressed back into him, aching to touch despite the fact that her arms were still suspended over her head, her ankles still shackled feet apart. He buried his head against her shoulder, his breaths washing over her skin even as he began to tug at the clips that still tortured her nipples. Something at the window caught Allison’s attention and it was only then that she remembered they had the potential of a neighborhood full of witnesses. And it did appear they had finally caught someone’s attention, an old man she recognized who lived three houses down from her. He must have been out for his afternoon walk, but he was no longer moving, glued as he was to the sidewalk in front of her house. And when he saw that he had caught her eye, he smiled and offered a clandestine thumbs up.

  It was then that her second orgasm surged through her body. She cried out as she again ground her body back against Remington. It was clearly the last straw for him as he bit down on her shoulder as his cock swelled inside of her and his balls let loose, filling her with pulse after pulse of his cum.

  It was a long while as they stood there, his body draped over hers, trying to recover their composure. She moaned in protest when he slowly pulled away, allowing his still semi erect cock to slide from her body. He fixed his pants and went to the window, pulling the drapes closed again. Then he came to her and gently removed the nipple clamps—the pain sending one last thrill through her exhausted cunt—and then her ankle restraints, finally lowering her arms as he released those restraints, as well. He rubbed her upper arms for a moment, encouraging the return of blood flow to her aching muscles. And then he lifted her and carefully carried her upstairs where he fixed them both a luxurious bath.

  As they lay there in the warm water t
ogether, he lazily washing her with a soft cloth, her thoughts began to return with all the questions that had stormed through her mind when he first grabbed her as she came through the door.

  “Why did you do this?” she finally asked. “Why did you set me up with the fake Master… why did you send me to that party?”

  “It started as a joke. I obviously had no idea who you were when we started to talk in that chat room, but when I saw your email address and realized it was you, I thought I would put a little scare in you, humiliate you. I thought you would stop responding to my emails when you realized how demanding this lifestyle could be.”

  “But I didn’t go away.”

  He ran his cloth slowly over her still hurting nipples. “I was impressed with how long you stuck with it, how obedient you were. I began to think that maybe you were better fit to this lifestyle than I gave you credit for.”

  “Is that why the party?”

  “I didn’t intend to reveal myself to you. But…damn, you were such a turn on. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “And this?”

  “You challenged me. It started as a way to show you I wasn’t a coward. But now…”

  “Now?”

  He dropped his cloth and grasped her breast with his bare hand as he buried his lips against her neck for a long second. She could feel his growing erection and was actually surprised to find herself responding to his touch.

  “Dad did say we should find a way to get along…”

  *EVEN MORE STORIES ON NEXT PAGE!*

  If you enjoyed this story, take a look at a few samples I’ve provided of some of my other erotica short stories on the pages ahead! :)

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  Just Take Me Already

  By Celia Styles

  He was hardly the first man I had been attracted to.

  I could recall the quiet soccer player at my school, the one I always caught myself turning out to games for. Then there was John, the sandy-haired, blue-eyed cadet who had trained alongside me back at the academy.

  There had also been countless men on the streets I’d caught myself looking twice at; there were even a couple I’d ended up at sweaty, passionate third base in the restrooms of pubs with. But I’d been brought up in a conservative, homophobic family, so I had dated women when I was too pressured to have a love life. Mostly, I had just kept quiet on the topic.

  Once I started working, no one paid much attention to my love life or lack thereof, but that was fine by me. It’s probably why I spent so much time at the station; it was far easier to fill my time with the day-to-day work of a suburban cop than it was to spend some time actually thinking about myself and what I wanted. I had managed to keep those desires at bay for most of my 32 years, until I opened the door on a quiet September night, and saw him there. Little did I realize that the floodgates, so to speak, had been opened.

  He was shorter than me, though only by a few inches, but slender: his broad shoulders tapered into a slim waist, his limbs long and languid. He was the opposite of brown-eyed, brown-haired, stocky old me, and I felt conspicuously big in front of him. Those eyes, flecked with green and glowing, bored into mine, and his sculpted lips slightly parted as he let out short, sharp gasps into the wintery air. His olive skin was clear and bright, and I wanted to reach out and feel it under my fingertips.

  “Can I help you?” I barked.

  “I-I’m sorry, I just came from the border, and the policia, the police, they’re following me.” he blurted, his tone urgent. It didn’t take the accent for me to figure out where he was from.

  “If you’re looking for a place to hide, I’m afraid this isn’t it,” I replied, closing the door on him.

  I had moved to the town fairly recently, but I’d been warned that part of the country was often the first port of call for illegal Mexican immigrants. I guess some of the hostility the town had towards them had rubbed off on me, for I only felt the smallest twinge of guilt over turning him away.

  But his foot got in the way of my shutting the door properly, and he used his hands to open the door wider. I couldn’t help but notice how long and elegant his fingers were, and how strong he was for someone so slender otherwise. If not for the door, he would’ve been in my personal space, and I felt the tiniest shiver at the thought.

  “Please, you’ve got to help me!”

  The desperation in his voice made me pause, and I peeked from the crack.

  “Why the hell should I let you in?”

  “Because it wouldn’t make a difference to you, but it would mean life or death for me!”

  I looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, so you really think I won’t get into any trouble for harbouring an illegal immigrant?”

  He grabbed my arm, and if I had shivered at the thought of being close to him, it had been nothing compared to the electricity I felt now.

  “If you let me in now, you’d get rid of me in a day, two days, at the most. If the cops come, you could say ‘No, I haven’t seen anyone,’ and they’ll believe you because you’re a nice upstanding white man and no one would suspect you of doing something like this.”

  He was right. I hated to admit it, but he was right. If I let him in and then denied it when my colleagues showed up, they would believe me. They knew that I was the last person who’d let an illegal immigrant into my house, judging by the vitriol I spat about them whenever we had to collect them from the side of the road somewhere. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even bother to ask me.

  I looked at the man in front of me again, read the desperation in his face, felt the pressure of his fingers digging into my arms. I could just open the door, and that would be that.

  So I did.

  I didn’t say a word as I pulled the door back, allowing him over the threshold. He released my arm and practically jumped into the house, a grin breaking over his face. He laughed with relief, and spun around to face me, his dark curls whipping against his face as he did so. I would’ve placed his age at about 25.

  Whatever my misgivings about letting him in, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.. Stepping forward, I directed him to the living room.

  “In here. You can sleep on the couch. Don’t make any noise, and don’t go outside until I say it’s okay. I want you out of here in two days, tops, okay?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”

  “Do you have a name?” I asked, after a pause. I was reluctant to leave him just yet.

  “Gabriel. And yours?”

  “Officer David Felton.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re a cop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you letting me stay?”

  “I think it’s best that you don’t make me think about that too hard,” I replied. “You want something to eat?”

  “No, no, really, I will wait until I can get out by myself. I don’t want to be any trouble.” He shook his head, sitting down on the couch and shaking off his jacket.

  “Come on, eat something. The last thing I want is you getting ill while you’re here.” I snapped, walking through to the kitchen. The urge to protect him and look after him was overwhelming; white saviour complex, they’d have called it in a psychology paper. My brain was conflicted; I didn’t want him to stay, but I didn’t want him to leave, either. Pulling out some bread, I made us a round of bacon sandwiches, serving them on separate plates.

  “Sorry it’s not any of your burrito-taco-diarrhea food,” I said as I handed him his food.

  He looked at me as I walked round the couch, eyebrows raised. “I know what a bacon sandwich is, David.” His English was surprisingly good for an illegal immigrant. It was time to revise my assu
mptions, I supposed.

  I shrugged grumpily, taking a large bite of my sandwich. “Whatever. Just eat.”

  After he was done eating, I showed him to the bathroom and insisted that he bathe. I didn’t want a filthy immigrant, however good-looking, living in such close quarters with me, for however short a while.

  He stepped out of the shower with just a towel around his waist, and I checked out his abs rather shamelessly. Boy, he had a delicious body.

  Delicious body or not, I didn’t sleep as restfully that night as I usually did, my brain thrumming with the knowledge that an illegally gorgeous (and illegal) stranger was sleeping under my roof. I woke up to go check on him at least three times, afraid he would make off with some of my stuff. But I found him peacefully asleep every time. He didn’t even register that someone was shuffling around him.

  It amazed me that he trusted a complete stranger in a foreign country enough to just go to sleep in his house.

  The next two days went by in a strange, quiet sort of domesticity. I’d come down the stairs in the morning to find him leafing through my books, an English –Spanish dictionary next to him as he ploughed through Stephen King and Ray Bradbury and all the other American classics I had on my bookshelf. I didn’t like people touching my books, and illegal Mexican immigrants definitely didn’t feature in my list of ideal book borrowers, but I knew already that it was beyond me to deny him anything.

  When his third morning came, he didn’t bring up the possibility of leaving and neither did I. I would go out to work in the morning, and he would clean the house and read during the day. We would talk about my books when I got home, and I would cook us up a meal of something delicious and unhealthy

  We gradually, carefully, began to open up to each other, one little secret at a time. He had come to America on a whim, because he didn’t want to be stuck in his small rural Mexican town any longer. I told him about my parents and how they had died in a subway accident, my brother and how he had gone hiking to Europe and never came back.