Fuck okay.
Do I need to tie your wrists down so that you’ll behave yourself?
I won’t touch myself I promise.
I noted his lack of enthusiasm where bondage was concerned and sucked a string of juice from my fingers. I wasn’t in any rush to get off. Soon I’d have three days for him to drag every possible orgasm from my body. This little game of cat and mouse was much more fun than easy relief.
If you do anything I tell you not to, I’ll make you watch while I play with myself.
No—and then a few seconds later—I want it please.
I know you do, baby, but I want you to wait.
Can I keep watching? This conversation had become increasingly meta but I had no fucking complaints.
Yes. I’ll be mad if you look away. That weird, mirthless giggle escaped my mouth again and I grinned through it.
Fuck how could I?
I’d make quite a sight, sprawled back on his sofa with my thighs splayed open. My arousal would trickle down my thighs and onto the upholstery. There’d be no gooey smile on Julian’s face now, his jaw hanging slack and desperate, desperate to touch me and to touch himself.
You aren’t allowed to touch anything without my permission.
I want to touch myself so bad but I haven’t I swear.
Good boy. The condescension tasted so goddamn good. You’ve been so good for me. Do you want to come?
Oh yes please.
You’ve been so well behaved for me tonight.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck. . .
It was temping to draw it out even farther. It would be so easy to exact vengeance on this sweet kid for every disrespectful slight other men had subjected me to. But this wasn’t about being mean, it was about play. It was about making Julian feel good by denying him what he wanted.
He was probably weeping with precome by now, his knuckles white. I could see his knotted brow, his pink tongue darting out to wet chapped lips. My little slut, eager to be used and commanded and fucked. Ava please, he wrote, and I fucked myself with my fingers, wondering if I would ever say or hear that word again without feeling wet and sinful. Please I want to be good for you.
The man wanted to be good for me. Me: Ava Greenspan, marketing associate and ex-girlfriend galore. The hot mess text me back don’t leave me Queen of Bushwick, hissing as I hit that spot inside of me that made my eyes shutter closed. I bit my lip and tasted blood. I let myself go. He could wait, wait for me to shudder and snap and cry out and break. He’d still be there when I was done. He wasn’t going anywhere.
For a while, the only word on my mind was please, not desire but exultation.
Such a good boy, I said after sucking my fingers clean. The words didn’t come as easily now that the haze of desire was lifting, but I clung to the film of authority while I sent my instructions. I want you to come for me, Julian.
Yes thank you finally. . .
Shut the fuck up and listen to me. He didn’t respond and that was probably less out of obedience and more because his hands were occupied. I want you to imagine my hands tight in your hair, yanking your head back as I fuck you hard and fast. I’m dripping wet and hot and tight around you. I want you to come for me and I want you to thank me for it when you finish, you pathetic fucking whore. You’re mine. Do you understand that? You’re mine now.
And then I waited. It didn’t take long. Oh my fucking god Ava.
I let the smirk I’d been fighting all night take over my face and tucked myself under the covers. Good boy, I said again.
Thank you.
We were quiet for a while after that. I reached for a Kleenex from the tissue box on my bedside table and wiped myself off, too lazy to get up and take a shower. I was always wide-awake after having sex but getting myself off always made me sleepy, bones loose and heavy in my body. My unsteady fingers found the lamp and switched it off. I was just closing my eyes when my iPhone came back to life.
Thank you so much, Ava.
I snorted. It seemed correct grammar and punctuation had returned.
For what? I asked.
For being someone I can trust. He didn’t elaborate right away but I knew he would eventually. And he did. I’ve never gone there with someone before and I appreciate that you won’t judge me for it.
Is this something you’ve never explored?
There was another long silence, thick with what I knew was coming. Gentle, earnest Julian lying spent on the sofa, moonlight streaming in through the floorto-ceiling windows, his cock flaccid against his thigh. I hadn’t seen him in two years but I knew every inch of his face. I couldn’t wait to see it contort and tighten, teeth bared, voice hoarse. He’d never stop talking even when I told him to. And I didn’t want him to. That was what I wanted: to hear him beg and gasp and scream. I wanted to tease him until he admitted he couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted him to want every single inch of me.
Not yet, but I want to with you. I know that I can with you.
That woke me up more than anything else. I’d been the one stretching out my hand so many times before. I knew how petrifying it was to offer all your weaknesses and wants to someone and just hope, just pray, that they wouldn’t fuck you over. It had been a long time since someone extended that level of trust to me. This wasn’t a free-for-all, a vacation from my self-esteem at the mercy of some asshole I’d never see again. This was Julian, and I liked him. And he respected me.
Thank you for trusting me, I said, and for the first time all night I didn’t think I’d expressed what I wanted to. But it would have to do.
I’ll see you on Friday at 8? I made reservations at 8:30 somewhere you’ll like.
It was a night of two firsts: I’d called a man a “desperate little whore,” and someone had made dinner reservations for me.
Yup, I’ll see you then. After I hit send, I put my iPhone in airplane mode and shoved it under a pillow. I was in danger; I could feel it creeping up around my ankles like ivy. Miles and miles away, I was sure Julian felt the same way.
Oh well. It seemed I had some shopping to do. I needed a dress appropriate for what I felt sure was a very nice restaurant, the kind of place a young financier would take his woman, and something to wear underneath to make him quiver. Or maybe I wouldn’t wear anything underneath at all. I couldn’t wait to hear him say please.
ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE NEAR FUTURE
Georgina Cott
I doubt if I’ll ever get used to traveling in a private jet. My husband, Jed, isn’t quite wealthy enough yet to own this one outright—but he does have a one-third share.
I’m flying at thirty thousand feet, apparently, but emotionally it’s still Sunday.
For everyone else on board, i.e., the staff, this is Monday and I’m flying to the only clinic in the world where the Skinink treatment is available.
Skinink, so the brochures say, enables the ultimate sexual experience, without surgery, without medication, without mechanical intervention, without doubt. The ultimate.
I imagine Jed has spent big to make this preliminary meeting happen for me.
There are brochures to read and a video to watch before landing.
I ought to be excited and I am, but more from memories of last night and this morning.
Whenever I’m going to travel without Jed he buys me a small gift. This time it was very small, a pair of black cotton panties. He got down on his knees and held them out for me to step into. Then, with his hands on my butt, he kissed me with a persistent intensity that took my breath away.
I can still feel that kiss now.
I try to get back to the brochure. Skinink, it is claimed, enables the ultimate prolonged sexual tease leading to a seismic orgasm, which, it is suggested, is repeatable via countless variations. Even the time span of the orgasm can be selected—also the texture and color.
My thoughts skip out of the brochure and back to last night when Jed whispers the word “Skinink” in my ear and then, and only then, lets me come. The word colors, fizzes, and
laces its way all through my orgasm and distracts. I crash-land early, short of the anticipated splendor, thinking he must have pulled some deal to get me in on it.
He wouldn’t use Skinink as a baseless tease, so I think he must know something. It could even be my birthday treat.
His kisses, hard and inappropriate given my heightened sensitivity, stop my rush of questions. This is unlike him. Rough foreplay is one thing. I’m fine with that, but this isn’t foreplay. I’ve already come. This is supposed to be afterglow time, with Jed taking his pleasure through the long slow descent out of fantasy and back to the real world.
But the pace picks up further as Jed presses a hand over my mouth while the other reaches for the bedside drawer and the gag tape.
He tapes my mouth shut, one-two-three-four strips of tape plastered on.
Passion deepens the blue of his eyes, revealing glimpses of a scary determination. And then I realize— this is a new tease. He’s planted this Skinink word in my head then gagged me to prevent questions. So now he’ll tie me up and leave me to wonder.
He gets off the bed and hauls ropes and tapes from the play-box.
I relax a little now that I think I know what he’s going to do, and lie still, naked, watching. I’m not even tied up yet but wouldn’t feel any more vulnerable if I were spread-eagled.
Retreating wisps from the ragged orgasm wave goodbye as high-speed feelings race off into uncertainty. I’m wondering when and how he’s going to take his pleasure. His dick looks more than ready.
There is no sign of retreat in his eyes as he flicks the duvet off the bed.
We stare at each other as he binds my wrists together then pulls them above my head, securing them to the headboard without grace or consideration.
He kisses the tape tighter on my lips with a savage outburst of unbridled passion then blindfolds me with a scarf.
Darkness. I’m nervous again.
He ropes and ties my left ankle to the bedpost.
I’m okay with being spread wide, helpless, but a question mark attaches to the “Okay?” when he says, “I’m going to shave you.”
My right leg instinctively moves across to protect myself but he grabs the ankle ropes and tugs it toward the bedpost.
We have a safe code. Even when gagged, blindfolded, and helpless, if I make three rehearsed sounds close together, it stops the fantasy.
The words “I’m going to shave you” circle in uncertain skies.
He shoves a pillow under my butt. I hear water running into a bowl.
Decision time. There’s a long, long pause, an opportunity to stop what’s going to happen next.
The uncertainty is almost overwhelming. The pillow under my hips offers me up. I have a prominent mound forested by black hair. I haven’t been naked there since I was a girl.
I want his mouth, his tongue, his passion to explore me.
I remain silent, hear the snip, feel the cold metal of the scissors against me and the occasional warmth of his fingers, but never in the place wanted.
As he washes me, the palm of his hand presses hard in the way he knows I like. But his fingers border on sadistic in their inquisitive gentleness.
I writhe despite the ropes; a groan escapes despite the gag.
When he uses a shaving brush, the cream is cold or maybe I am hot. The brush makes brisk, circular motions with varying degrees of frustrating pressure. Then there’s a long pause in the darkness before the first touch of the razor and the delicate sound of its scrape in the otherwise total silence. A subdued splash of water follows each razor stroke, intensified by the quiet.
When finished without a nick or mishap, he washes me again, then dries me with a soft towel, chaste.
I am truly naked, vulnerable, helpless, and completely at the mercy of the man I love.
Then a pause. I’m relieved the shaving is over and speculate again on what he will do next. I hear him taking away the bowl. Getting rid of the water. Taking his time.
I think—hope—he’s going to fuck me now. Jed must be surfing on the crest of frustration, a superb balancing act. I want him inside me.
He kneels on the bed between my legs, then his hands are under my buttocks lifting me up, ropes or no ropes. Then he starts snogging me hard and strong as his tongue is fucking me. The strength of his hands is irresistible. The ropes are tightened even more and hurting but I don’t care. The delirium of pleasure overcomes the discomfort.
I am soaring up the mountain as if riding a jetpowered cable car but then he drops me at the last moment back onto the bed. I’m throbbing, blushing between my legs, and if it weren’t for the gag I’d have been begging.
I let out a groan of indignant irritation, frustration, and anger. He tears the tape from my mouth and pulls the scarf from my eyes.
Blinking in the light, I’m shocked to see how angry he is, how fierce. Even his dick looks threatening.
“Silence or you get spanked.”
Uncertainty floods back but ebbs when the kisses are gentle, persuasive, though my lips are slightly sticky from the tape. These are not the best kisses I’ve ever had but the return of his gentleness is intoxicating.
One hand is working to release the knots while the other leaves warmth and pleasure wherever it touches.
He breaks the kiss, gets off the bed, releases my ankles. “Get up. Turn around and kneel.”
I kneel in the center of the bed, nervous. It can’t be a spanking because I haven’t made a sound. He never cheats.
Jed leaves me and I watch as he fetches a wooden pole from under the bed. This is new.
“Now spread your knees as far as you can.”
I drop forward doggie-style and move my knees apart.
“More.”
Jed ropes my spread ankles to rings in the bar and I realize where this is heading.
He takes my wrists and guides them between my legs so that I topple forward, my cheek on the bed with my butt offered up, enormous and vulnerable.
I have never been in this position before, never so utterly vulnerable.
As he’s tugging and tying wrists to ankles, I’m considering use of the safe code. But raw excitement fights against this. I cannot move. I want to ask about Skinink. I want to be fucked. I am so come ready, a puff of breath between my legs would trigger me.
His hands are moving up the backs of my legs, fingers fanning out over my butt, and then his love finger, torturer in chief, moves down through my crack, making me twitch.
There’s something he does with his fingertip that works every time. It takes me to the razor line and leaves me there. And each time I’m confident that I will be able to just nudge against his exquisite fingertip enough to send me hurtling through to the next unique orgasm.
But he’s not going to let me come. As the fingertip approaches my clit, my breathing gets ragged. It arrives, and as he touches me, time takes time off to watch for a moment and then—mission accomplished. Jed leaves me dangling there.
With this intensity of teasing I want the gag, need it. “Gag me.” And now I’m going to get spanked into the bargain because I spoke out loud and asked for it.
I’ve irritated him. His actions are quick as he searches among all the ropes for what I know will be the ball gag. It’s not my favorite and he knows it, but I don’t care. I want him to realize that I can do the unexpected, even when helpless.
He pinches my nose roughly as if I’m resisting, shoves the ball into my mouth when I have to gasp for air, buckling the strap at the back of my head.
“Six,” he says. And I get three on each buttock quick and hard, scarcely a pause between the sound of each slap.
Call that a spanking?
“Skinink.” It was the last word he said to me Sunday night.
His finger returns, finds me, sets me off like a firework even as his dick slides into me. I jerk him off in moments with what little movement I have. My second orgasm is a shock. I don’t often do second orgasms. It’s wonderful. Sometimes an orgasm takes me to
another planet, into a medical spasm or on a deep-sea dive. They’re never the same. This one is like a ride through a hailstorm.
Afterward, he kisses my ass and then releases me almost as quickly as he’d restrained me. Much as I love bondage, after we’ve come I’m done with it and just want to get free and dive into the afterglow.
In the darkness, there are no words, just kisses, touches, warmth, sporadic outbursts of passion as we tumble down toward sleep.
“Lady Glencorra, would you like to order now?” The words shake me awake. It’s Monday again and
I’m on the plane.
The steward is offering me a menu as I open my eyes. “Here is the lunch menu. May I bring you something to drink while you decide?”
I order a vodka and tonic. Movement makes me realize my panties are wet from the daydream. I don’t care.
I watch the video as I eat.
Skinink is a transparent, electrically charged spray. It’s temporary, lasting about twelve hours. It can respond to all kinds of stimuli, from sound to touch to variations in light and temperature. They call it the ultimate tease, renewable, repeatable, variable.
A scene shows a lover playing the guitar and the effect it is having on a naked woman.
But Jed doesn’t play the guitar, he plays me.
The voiceover is quick to point out that it could just as easily be a famous rock star playing the guitar via the hi-fi speakers or through headphones.
I pause the video.
Last night we fell into an “unhappy” sleep.
Jed is rarely restless. Sleep to him is like diving headlong down a six-hour sleep chute that automatically tumbles him out into the morning needing nothing more than a shower, clothes, a comb, and food.
But this morning he wouldn’t talk about Skinink at all other than to say that all my questions will be answered on the plane. We aren’t committed. Nothing signed. It’s my decision. A chance to be one of the first. The envy of everyone. The ultimate.
As he was leaving for the office, I said, “Jed, what’s wrong?”
His deep-blue eyes showed hesitation. I knew he wanted to say something but stopped himself. “Nothing’s wrong. Didn’t you like last night?”
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