He shut up, confirming my suspicions of what was going through his silly subby head.
And once he was quiet, I went back to work on his nipples until he wasn’t quiet anymore. Soft moaning, though, was a perfectly acceptable noise – a delicious noise – in fact, the very reason I hadn’t wanted to gag him.
I raised my lips from a nipple now swollen from suckling and red from my lipstick.
“Sweet music, Martin,” I murmured.
Then I started kissing my way down his body.
When my lips reached somewhere around mid-belly, he jumped as best he could in his bonds.
When my lips brushed the tight dark curls of his pubes, while entirely avoiding his straining cock, he let out a stifled noise that might have been a bitten-off curse. I chuckled, and continued kissing and stroking down one muscular thigh, nipping and running my fingernails lightly down the more sensitive skin of his inner thigh until he shivered against his bonds. When I reached his bound ankle, I outlined the rope with my tongue. He shivered at that and sighed. I told him rather than asked him, “I bet you’d forgotten that I might be gentle with you, but you’re still at my mercy.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, a plea I couldn’t quite understand in his voice. “I don’t forget that. But I’d almost forgotten the rope. Thank you for reminding me.”
“Remember that you’re thanking me now,” I said. “You’ll probably curse me later. Then you’ll thank me again.”
Then I worked my way back, blowing on his cock and balls in passing but not touching them, and repeated my performance on his other straining leg.
By the time I made my leisurely, teasing way back, poor Martin’s face was as red and straining as his untouched dick. His muscles were even more defined now, tense with need.
I took a long, deliberate moment to admire my handiwork, no contact with him but a hand resting lightly on his thigh. “Beautiful boy,” I breathed. “Beautiful, beautiful boy. Be good and don’t go anywhere. Oh, wait. You can’t anyway.” I smiled as I said it.
“Curse you, ma’am,” he said in a small, yet happy voice. “Curse you and bless you. I couldn’t take this if I wasn’t bound.”
I leaned in close, cupped his face. “Yes you could,” I whispered, surprising myself with the intensity in my voice, “if I wanted you to. But I’m being kind this time.”
I turned away long enough to grab the lube.
Martin winced at the slight coolness of the slick substance as I coated over his cock – or maybe the wince was simply because he was that sensitive. That thought made me grin.
The grin turned into an outright laugh when he sighed with pleasure and thanked me. “Don’t thank me yet, sweet boy. You said you wanted to suffer for me, and suffer you will.”
And I proceeded to give my boy the most teasingly drawn-out hand job in the long history of hand jobs.
I watched his face as I stroked him, listened to the subtleties of his breathing, checked how his muscles tensed, how his hands clenched and strained against the ropes, how his feet tried and failed to move. Whenever his breath caught in his throat too much, or I saw his ab muscles start to twitch, I backed off, resting my hand on his hip bone, stroking that smooth, hot skin lightly, until his breathing regularized.
By the third time I did this, he was thrashing against the ropes so hard I’d have feared for my bed if it weren’t a sturdy Mission frame. His skin was glazed lightly with sweat, making him look all that more beautiful. His eyes were all pupil, and he stared fixedly, frantically, as though he was seeing through time and space and seeing the face of the divine in me. His lips moved in a silent litany. I could guess what he was saying, or at least the gist of it, but nevertheless I demanded, “Speak up, Martin. I can’t hear you.”
“Please,” he begged, his voice still barely audible. “Please, ma’am. Please.”
I knew what he was pleading for, of course, but I wanted to hear him say the words. “Please what, dear?” I stroked his rigid length idly – only it wasn’t idly at all, but carefully calculated, just enough pressure to keep him hard and aching with the need to explode, but not enough to bring him any closer.
“Please . . .” It was clearly an effort to make his brain form a coherent thought. “Please let me come, ma’am. Please.”
“Doesn’t it feel good?” I was stroking more forcefully now, cupping his balls.
I bent down and ran my tongue over the head of his cock, just once. My mouth had never gotten anywhere near his cock before.
He arched up off the bed with a harsh cry. Without the ropes, I swear he might have levitated until the ceiling stopped him. “Hell yes, but . . . almost . . . too . . . sensitive. Almost hurts.” His voice was strained almost to breaking.
“Should I stop?” I sat up, withdrew my hand. Withdrew all contact from him except my hip brushing his flank, because he was flying way too high for me to pull away altogether. That would be too cruel in a game that ultimately I hoped he too would enjoy.
“No, please. But please, please . . . let me come!”
“In time, sweet boy. In time.” I kissed him almost chastely, though he tried to make it deeper. “Right now it’s making me wet and hot to torment you, to see you suffer.” He made a sweet, tortured noise that made me wetter yet.
I slipped my hand under my skirt and ran my fingers between lips almost as sensitized and needy as his cock must be. I showed him the glistening evidence, then ran it over his lips.
He desperately sucked my fingers as if that might bring him relief.
“I need you to suffer for me a little longer, Martin, because it’s making me feel so good. Can you do that?”
He replied with a muffled, but enthusiastic, “Yes, ma’am” around my fingers.
With his consent I returned to my teasing work. And as he did, I talked softly. “You look so gorgeous right now, Martin, all flushed and messed up and sweaty. You’re going to have lovely rope marks on your wrists and ankles because you can’t stop yourself from struggling. But at the same time you want to give yourself to me, to take whatever I give you. Right?”
He nodded tightly.
“And even though this is hard to handle in some ways, I bet it’s also pleasurable. Exciting. You’re just so sensitized now that the pleasure’s also painful, like pain can be pleasurable.’”
Another tight nod.
“Remember how this feels, Martin. Remember it with every cell in your body.” I timed the movement of my hands to the cadence of my words, letting both become slow, relentless, hypnotic. Between extremes of pleasure, enforced obedience, and bondage, Martin was already so far into sub-space I was dealing with an altered state of consciousness. If I remembered my college psych classes – and the erotic hypnosis demo our local BDSM community had arranged – I might be able to slip a suggestion, at least a fun one that he’d want to obey, into his wide-open brain. “Remember every detail, because even though you feel like you’re suffering now, you’re going to want to relive this afternoon over and over again. You’re going to want to remember this peak of arousal and the powerful orgasm that follows. Aren’t you, Martin?”
A very small voice replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you still want to come, Martin?”
“No, ma’am.” He hesitated, then added, “Well, yes, of course . . . but when you want me to. This is awful and wonderful, and I know when you let me come, it’ll be amazing.”
“And what if I don’t let you come, if after all this teasing I deny you?”
I could see in his face how he was struggling to answer me both honestly and respectfully. After what seemed like a very long time, which I punctuated with a series of excruciatingly slow strokes on his cock, he replied, more coherently than I would have expected, though in a shaky voice that sounded like he was holding himself together by sheer will, “I really hope you wouldn’t do that, ma’am, please. But it’s your choice. And no one’s ever died from not coming – though right now I feel like I might.”
I thr
illed to the message there, the way his wish to obey and please struggled with his body’s by now urgent demands and conquered those demands for my sake. “You are such a good boy, Martin, such a wonderful, good boy,” I said, and I meant every word. “You’ve pleased me very much. And I think right now it would please me to have you come for me. Come for me, Martin, and remember how it feels. Let it burn into your brain and your body. Come for me now.”
I didn’t change what I was doing, but the words, the permission, set loose a freight train of an orgasm that engulfed his whole body. His face reddened and screwed up so that he was almost unrecognizable, and his eyes rolled back into his head. His abs contracted and rolled like a particularly ambitious belly dancer’s. The ropes groaned against the bedposts. His cock danced wildly, spurting come everywhere. He bit his lip, but it didn’t stifle the roar of fulfillment.
So hot. So hot I came myself watching him. The orgasm was quick and shimmering, like hands-free ones usually were, but it was followed by a second wave of pleasure warm as sunlight. Not a physical orgasm, but a blend of pride and delight and tenderness as heady as coming and far more dangerous, because it meant that my heart was snared by Martin’s beautiful submission as tightly as his body was by my ropes.
And just for that, just because looking at him caught in pleasure so strong it was almost pain made me want to slap a collar on his neck and hell, maybe a ring on his finger, I didn’t relent, as I often would after a good come had softened me.
When his struggles subsided and his face slackened but his dick had’t, I rested my palm on his come-slick belly. “You remember how that felt, the build-up and the orgasm?”
He nodded, his eyes so spacey I expected to see stars in their depths.
“Good boy. Relive it for me now and come. Come again, Martin.”
I wasn’t sure it would work. I hadn’t formally hypnotized him, after all, just tried to slip in a suggestion when his brain was out to lunch.
A look of awe and astonishment overtook him as his abs began to contract under my hand. His cock twitched, though there was nothing left to explode out.
This time he didn’t even try to hold back his cries.
When the cries faded to something more like sobs, I untied him quickly. Then I curled up on his come-splattered chest. “You’re safe, sweet Martin,” I murmured. “You’re safe and you’re brave and you’ve pleased me wonderfully.”
“Thank you. I didn’t think . . .” His voice was shaky, almost inaudible, but I could tell now that the tears were tears of release, nothing bad. “I didn’t think that was possible. Thank you so much, ma’am. Thank you.”
“After suffering for me, you deserved a treat.” I thought for a second before adding, “And you know something, sweet Martin? I wasn’t sure it would work either. But I’m so glad it did.”
Might as well admit I didn’t know everything, I thought, lightly kissing his sweaty chest. Being a clever boy, he’d figure it out on his own eventually. After all, I wasn’t planning on letting him go.
No, I wanted to keep this one around to suffer for me – and come so prettily for me – for as long as I could. Maybe, just maybe, forever.
The Horniest Girl in San Francisco
Charles Gatewood
Last October I was invited to read at Litquake, San Francisco’s famous spoken word festival. I decided to read, “I Got Laid at the Anarchist Book Fair,” a real-life story with lots of spice and flashes of local color. I figured my goofy tale would be a hit with the hipster crowd – and I hoped I would meet a groupie or two.
The crowd at Café Laszlo liked my story and gave me a nice round of applause. Afterward, a very flirty woman chatted me up – I mean she was all over me.
Shazam was an unemployed lawyer, a pleasingly plump sexpot in her mid-thirties. She had thick auburn hair, big rascal eyes, and a let’s-go grin. Shazam was obviously a problem drinker – she had a scar over one eyebrow and a nose that had kissed the sidewalk a time or two – but so what?
“Two years ago,” said Shazam, “my whole life fell apart. I crashed and burned, big time. I lost my husband, I lost my job. Now I sleep on my ex-husband’s couch and do phone sex for money. I also review sex toys for Carnal Nation, and write a sex blog called Random Rim Jobs.”
“My first rim job,” I said, “was from Annie Sprinkle – over thirty years ago.”
“Really?” said Shazam. “Wanna try it again?”
I felt a stiffening in my jeans. “Are you highly skilled?”
“Honey,” said Shazam, “I am sensational. I give the best blow jobs, too. I have a serious cock addiction. I adore thick, meaty cocks. I like having my hair pulled, and I like having big meaty cocks rammed down my throat.”
Whoa. I’d only known Shazam for a minute and a half, and she was telling me she liked big meaty cocks rammed down her throat.
“Do you live in the Mission district?”
“I live at Bryant and 24th,” said Shazam, “in my ex-hubby’s loft. How about you?”
“I live in Bernal Heights, just minutes from you.”
“Well, whadda ya know,” said Shazam, flashing a grin. “We’re neighbors, babe. Let’s get together.”
Back home, I checked out Random Rim Jobs, Shazam’s sex blog. One thing was clear – the crazy girl wasn’t kidding. Her real-life sex stories were tough, raw, and gritty. She was an anything-that-moves kinda gal, hot to party with anyone in sight. Me, I play with six or eight girls every year. Shazam, the naughty slut, has six or eight erotic encounters every week.
I don’t want a relationship right now, said one of her recent blog entries. I just want a good hard pounding.
I found the stories on Shazam’s blog truly amazing. The “Random Encounters” ads she ran on Craigslist attracted hordes of “horny net geeks.” Shazam fucked them all, even the pasty-faced slobs and dorky nerds who smelled like cheap cologne.
Craigslist, Adult Friend Finder, OK Cupid, Fetlife, Twitter – Shazam found sex everywhere. Some of her contact ads were especially clever. Here’s a good trick, said one blog entry. A single bisexual woman trolling for threesomes is so rare we’re called “unicorns.” My unicorn ads get good results. Mostly I meet couples in their twenties or thirties who want to experiment and fool around.
One of Shazam’s wildest stories was about closing time at the Makeout Room, how she stood in the street outside, rowdy drunk, yelling, Will somebody please FUCK ME?
Oh my. Even at my neediest, I was never this hungry. Shazam was a very horny girl. A few days later, I sent Shazam an email. Hey Crazo, wanna play? Come see me on Sunday!
So we hooked up – the horny Mission nympho and the bizarre fetish photographer. Shazam showed up at my place with two bags of groceries and three bottles of white wine. When I told her I never touch alcohol, Shazam said, “Good – more for me.” She drained the first bottle of wine in about ten minutes, and immediately popped the cork on the second. “Maybe I’ll quit drinking one day,” she said. “But I do love it so – getting high, getting buzzed, feeling just the right amount of drunk.”
“I want to write a story about you,” I said. “Tell me some juicy tales.”
“I do phone sex for money,” said Shazam. “That’s pretty entertaining.”
“What’s it like?”
“Well, I make fifty cents a minute. The agency has certain rules, like no age play, no animals, no incest, no talking about poop or golden showers. But sometimes I break the rules. Like last night, I pretended to be a horny teen having sex with my little brother. That’s two taboo subjects at once – age play and incest. It’s cool as long as nobody complains.”
After finishing her second bottle of wine, Shazam was ready for sex.
“Get naked,” I said, “and I’ll buzz you with my vibrator.”
“Oh boy,” said Shazam.
Shazam stripped naked, lay on my living room futon, and spread her chubby legs. I pulled a condom over the head of my Panasonic vibrator and began buzzing Shazam’s close-clipped mou
nd, buzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Shazam squirmed and moaned with delight as orgasm after orgasm shook her fleshy body. I pleasured Shazam with the buzzing vibrator for the longest time, buzz-buzz-buzz until she begged for mercy. Now it was my turn to be pleasured. What followed was one of the most unusual blow jobs of my life. I sat on the couch, pants down, legs spread wide. Shazam started off slow and easy, licking and nuzzling my glistening shaft, oh my goodness. Her lick-and-slurp technique had a soft, jazzy rhythm – pure heaven. Suddenly, without warning, Shazam began ramming my cock down her throat, hard, harder, harder, Lord have mercy, jerking her head and growling like a dog as she deep-throated my cock.
“Hey,” I said, “take it easy—”
Shazam popped my cock from her mouth. Her eyes were wild, her expression ecstatic. “You love it,” she said.
Shazam grabbed my cock again and swallowed it whole. What a wild and crazy suck it was. A bit rough, perhaps – but who was complaining? I came like gangbusters, and collapsed in Shazam’s arms.
We lay together in sweet afterglow.
“You’re amazing,” I said.
“You’re pretty hot for a geezer,” said Shazam.
I enjoyed five or six hot dates with Shazam, each wilder and crazier than the last. The girl wasn’t kidding – she was insatiable. And so, to end the year with a bang, I invited Shazam to spend Christmas day with me.
“You’re a gourmet cook. Why don’t you make us a big Christmas dinner? I’ll pay for everything.”
“That sounds great,” said Shazam. “I’ll make beef short ribs and my special risotto. We’ll need butternut squash, balsamic vinegar, soy sauce, cornstarch, cream sherry, beef broth—”
“Whoa,” I said. “That sounds like a big expensive production. Let’s keep it simple. How about a juicy steak, scalloped potatoes, and a tossed salad?”
“On one condition,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I’ll make you Christmas dinner,” said Shazam, “if I can suck your cock for dessert.”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 12: Over 40 outstanding pieces of short erotic fiction (Mammoth Books) Page 23