Twisted

by Alison Tyler

  “Don’t leave me like this. Just do what you want with—”

  The rest is muffled by your hand, words of venom and anger lost into your grip and silenced completely by your soft gentle, “Shhhh.” My tongue flicks out, tasting your palm; tentative at first, then with increasing greed until I am suckling on the soft flesh at the base of your thumb. I feast on you, my mouth consuming anything that you’re willing to give.

  When you move your hand away, my mouth feels desolately empty, pleading noises fill the back of my throat and like a little bird in the nest, or a hungry baby at the breast, my mouth searches anxiously for you.

  I hate you even more. You’re playing with me, like a cat plays with a wounded mouse until it’s so broken all it can do is give itself up to the monster that has captured it. The hate charges through my body, sending pulses of electric desire into my cunt, making me throb with agonizing need.

  Your fingers curl into my hair, twisting it round until you have a firm grasp. Your cock is hard and hot against my lips, and I willingly open my mouth. I don’t care who you are anymore. I just want you to fill me up and consume what is left of my rage. Your grip tightens in my hair as you use my mouth to pleasure yourself, gliding your cock in and out, slowly but firmly, each time a little bit deeper than the time before. I know I’m dribbling, I can feel it running down my cheek and pooling beside my face. My fingers tingle with the need to reach between my thighs and rub at my throbbing clit. You ignore my choking sobs. Or at least that is how it feels to me, but then I can’t see you. I can’t see the delicious grin that plays across your lips as you watch me struggle against my bonds. I can’t see you clenching your teeth as you fight to control the urge to come in my mouth, and I can’t see your other hand holding something small and round reaching between my legs.

  The cold against the heat of my thighs makes me moan against your cock, and then the vibrations start. On my thigh, then down into the line of my groin making my hips dance as I try to guide your hand into my cunt. My thrashing is futile, my bonds are too tight to allow me that pleasure and as you roll the powerful vibrator all around the edge of my throbbing pussy, I growl with a deep guttural noise of rage and lust.

  You play on, ignoring my cries, filling my mouth with slow purposeful strokes, making my jaw ache and my lips sting. Between my thighs you tease and torture, letting the vibe glide over my clit, causing my hips to buck and tremble before you move away. Each pass brings me closer toward release and yet each pass builds the painful ache within. My mouth and cunt slowly blend together. As one is plundered and used by you the other pulses and twitches in a jealous desperation.

  Anger boils through my veins at my body’s traitorous lust. Whoever you are, you have stolen my lust and used it against me. Your come is hot and thick inside my mouth. It coats my tongue and runs down my lips, but I barely notice it as you cruelly press the vibe against my clit, cupping your hand over my cunt and holding me firmly beneath you. Now my orgasm tears through my body. My legs thrash and my back arches as my cunt releases its juices. Behind the blindfold, tears gather and roll down my cheeks.

  Stripping the blindfold from my face you brush my tears aside, and at last I can see you.

  “Have I mentioned how much I hate you?” I grumble.

  “Often,” you laughingly reply, “but I don’t believe a word of it.”

  DRY SPELL

  Kristina Lloyd

  I realized my orgasms were controlling the weather when, for the umpteenth time, rain came crashing down as I climaxed. The curtains billowed in the sudden chill, the windows rattled as rain hammered at the glass and a car alarm honked in the street. Coincidence, you might say, but this had happened too often to be dismissed as a fluke.

  On the first occasion, Ray had lifted his head from between my thighs and joked, “How do you do that?” I’d laughed lazily, thinking little of it. Half-drugged with postorgasmic bliss, I’d watched water sluice down the window in rolling, silvery screens, and pour from the ledge above, shimmering and swaying like a row of dancing icicles. I’d felt as if my peak were being applauded, my wetness honored with a show of wetness from the skies.

  But when it continued to happen, we realized we had a problem. Ray and I had been having phenomenal amounts of sex in the months we’d been dating. During that time, the United Kingdom had experienced one of the worst summers on record. The Met Office issued regular severe weather warnings and countless towns were flooded. You could barely turn on the TV without seeing images of streets transformed into cheap Venetian canals, half-submerged cars and traffic lights rising from murky waters. Root crops rotted in the fields, train services were canceled, landslips closed roads and hailstones the size of golf balls were said to have fallen in the Midlands. Everyone was blathering about that book, Fifty Shades, and the media made jokes about how wet the summer was, how gray. The sky was never blue; it was black and blue, storm clouds amassing in the distance whenever the sun tried to shine.

  On days when the rain stopped, people glanced skyward with hopeful hearts, picturing barbecues at the weekend, a spot of gardening, maybe a walk across the Downs or a bike ride. But invariably, the world would darken and another deluge would descend.

  Experts blamed the jet stream, but I could see it was actually my fault. I was creating chaos with my climaxes.

  I’d started to suspect a connection, however, the notion seemed too crazy to divulge. But when my orgasm prompted a downpour fierce enough to activate a car alarm, Ray gave me a look suggesting he shared my concerns. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said. “We need to hold it right there.”

  For an awful moment, I thought he was dumping me. Then he explained what he meant, and I wondered if I should dump him.

  “No orgasms?” I said. “None at all?”

  “None.”

  “Not even a small one when no one’s watching?”

  “God’s watching,” said Ray.

  “God’s got better things to do than that,” I replied.

  Ray grinned and sat astride me, his cock angling up from his patch of straw-gold hair even though he’d only recently shot his load. I have to say, he wasn’t my usual type. Tall and slender, he resembled Jesus, probably more so than Jesus did, although he had a neater beard and shorter hair. His eyes were deep brown, kind and dopey like a spaniel’s, but he wasn’t kind or dopey in bed. He liked to top, but his was a very geeky style of topping involving ropes, cuffs, vibes, new toys and tricks. He enjoyed the rigmarole, the complexities, and he liked to plot, making me feel I was a subject in a series of deeply unethical, scientific experiments. In his day-to-day life, he was a PhD student researching estuarine sedimentation and sea-level trends. Sometimes, I liked to pretend he was doing a PhD on me.

  “Then quit for your country,” he said. He took my wrists and lightly pinned my arms to the pillows above my head.

  I laughed. “I’m not that patriotic, Ray.”

  “Okay then,” he said. “Do it for me. Give me that amazing, precious part of you. Give me...give me the power of your orgasms. Let me be the one who tells you when you can and can’t come.”

  “Hmm. It’s a big ask.”

  Ray shrugged. “Wouldn’t be worth doing otherwise.”

  I mulled it over. “Supposing I come accidentally? Say, when we’re having sex and you’re not concentrating and whoops, there I go.”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  “Well, supposing I come accidentally when you’re not there? You know, say, I fall on my vibrator or something?”

  “You won’t let that happen.” Ray’s puppy-dog eyes were twinkling with excitement. I could practically hear the cogs of his brain whirring as he began contemplating the implications of his suggestion.

  “I could lie to you,” I said. “I could pretend I was obeying but in reality—”

  “But I’d know,” said Ray. “It would start raining.”

  “Gah!” I said. “There’s no escape for me, is there?”

  “Not much.”r />
  I sighed, defeated. “Still not convinced. Anyway, supposing it doesn’t work and it keeps raining?”

  Ray shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  We fell silent for a while. Outside the torrential downpour continued although the car alarm had stopped. That I had the power to improve the nation’s weather was both a wonderful gift and an unwelcome responsibility. If only the gift were slightly different and involved, for example, not quitting orgasms but eating huge amounts of ice cream.

  “Let’s give it a whirl,” said Ray. “Think how sexy it is. It’s not just about the weather. It’s about you making a sacrifice for me. And me having control over you and you wanting me to have control. Like this.” He gave an emphatic shove, pressing my arms hard into the pillows. “And this.” He placed one hand on top of the other, pinning my wrists with one grip, then reached behind himself to feel me between my thighs. He skimmed my clit. I was still sensitive from coming and I squealed, wriggling my hips beneath his weight. A burst of squally rain hurled itself at the window, as noisy as a handful of gravel being flung.

  “I can make you do things any day of the week,” Ray continued. He took both my hands, rested the left under his balls at an awkward angle, the right around his shaft. I did what was expected of me. His length twitched and flexed in my fist. “I can cuff you and torment you,” Ray went on. “Force you because you like it. But just think. I’m not forcing you here. I’m asking you. No orgasms. And you agree and you stick with it.” He gave me a sly smile. “Because promises are stronger than leather.”

  I didn’t reply. His cock was fully hard now. I kept working him with my hand, gazing down my torso at his flushed tip. Ray closed his eyes and groaned heavily. I wondered how he’d feel if I stopped. I didn’t of course. I speeded up. He came on my stomach and tits, striping my skin with jizz. I was happy for him, as one is at the sight and sound of a lover’s climax. I also felt a fleeting tug of jealousy. When would it be my turn again?

  Horny doesn’t even begin to cover it. Within a week I was practically clawing the walls, except the walls were the inside of my body. I ached to get outside of myself, to fly away via a dizzying, transcendent, cunt-clenching crisis.

  It might have been bearable if Ray hadn’t been such a goddamn tease. A change to our regular dates to accommodate my abstinence would have been fine; say, a few quiet nights in front of the telly, maybe meeting up with friends, going bowling or whatever. But oh, no. This was a man who got off on making me suffer. I should have seen it coming. Or rather, not.

  The worst of it was, the weather held. Day after day, the sun beat down, ostensible proof that our experiment was working. In parks and gardens, flowers lifted their rain-battered heads. In town, people sat outside bars and cafes, gazing at the light, as stunned as newly emerged moles. The habit of glancing nervously at the sky was hard to break but gradually people started to seem happier and more relaxed, less sallow and hunched. Summer’s here! proclaimed the headlines.

  By week two, I was praying for rain so we could call the whole thing off. The heat caressed my skin. The sight of people in skimpy clothes was torture. The country stayed dry while my cunt was as wet as a rain cloud. Please tip it down, I thought. But the sky remained flawlessly blue. As an additional cruelty, Ray started to tan. He’d been handsome enough when I’d met him, but the heat baked him golden, turning him into a bronzed, lanky, bewhiskered Adonis. I wanted him so badly. All of him.

  He wasn’t withholding himself from me; that was the killer. He would even fuck me and take me to the verge of climax, but he’d never allow me to get off. My feverish lust was never calmed. I became an unadulterated horndog, sexually obsessed and full of pent-up energy.

  One evening in week three, we were seated on Ray’s stone balcony, drinking ice-cold bottled beer and looking out over treetops, rooftops and tiny trains moving in and out of the distant station. The early evening sky was sliced with vapor trails, the horizon turning pink in the west. I was gripped with the need to climax. I wanted to jump Ray, strip him naked, ride his cock and come in a lunatic mess of slipperiness and screaming. At the very least, I wanted to maul and kiss him but I knew I had to resist. Molesting him would only culminate in exquisite agony with Ray once again taking me to the edge of orgasm then denying me my release. The obsession was addictive but it was a curious kind of addiction, one in which rather than give in to the thing I craved, I had to fight the longing for gratification, knowing my desire wouldn’t be gratified and the urge would be worsened.

  “People are saying the gardens need watering,” I ventured.

  “People are never satisfied,” replied Ray. “Too much rain, they moan. Too much sun, they moan.”

  Jeez, even his voice made me horny. Well, everything made me horny. I’d listened to my neighbors fucking two nights previously and it had taken an enormous amount of willpower not to go and knock on their door and ask if I could have a ride. But sex-noises would have turned me on regardless. What was new was the hypersensitivity of my cunt. Showering and sitting in certain chairs became an erotic experience. New too was the way my body charged up at a whiff of aftershave in the street; at the sight of a woman uncrossing her legs or two sparrows splashing in a water bath; at the squelchy noise from a bottle of fabric conditioner being emptied by a man in the launderette; at the terrible painting of a conch shell in the dentist’s waiting room resembling the pink frills of labia unfurling.

  I was permanently aroused. I was a bitch in heat. I was desperately, tear-prickingly randy.

  One muggy afternoon, I’d begged, “Please! Please let me!” as Ray had taken me to the brink with his fingers and some clit gel he’d bought. The gel warmed and tenderized me, its soft, tingling heat radiating into my groin, drawing sensation deeper. Ray held me there. The room darkened as the sun disappeared behind a cloud. My thighs were starting to quiver. I was moments away. I thought he was finally going to let me go, and the heavens would open. I was on the edge of relief, about to bring an end to the oppressive humidity. But Ray pulled back. I could feel his breath still warm on my folds. He pushed a finger inside me, gave me a hard, fast stroke then withdrew. He flicked my clit. Beneath his finger, I was a fat, slippery bead. I bucked, searching for him.

  “Please,” I wailed.

  “Don’t let me down,” he said. He kissed my swollen clit.

  Oh, dear god. Every nerve trembled beneath the touch of his lips. “Please.”

  “You know you don’t mean that.” He licked me once, twice, teasing me with his careful tongue. I swear I could feel the bumps of his taste buds on my taut, raw clit.

  “Ray, I can’t stand it. Please let me come.”

  He laughed softly. For a few moments, he said nothing. He blew a stream of cool air on my flesh. “How’s the gel?” he asked. “It’s made my mouth go a bit weird.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Good. Fading a bit now.”

  Soft light filled the room as the clouds dissipated.

  “Well, then,” said Ray. “I’d better apply some more, hadn’t I?”

  And so it went on with Ray taking me to the threshold of ecstasy before pulling back only to take me there again. I imagined the rain clouds high in the sky, weighted with wetness and not knowing if they were coming or going. I felt sorry for them because, unlike me, they presumably weren’t getting much enjoyment from this.

  Because yes, even though our experiment was an ordeal of fleshly frugality, the days of uncertainty and submission to Ray’s control were also infuriatingly wonderful. I was coasting on a sexual high, permeated by a dizzying euphoria and as horny as a teenager.

  I hadn’t realized what a sadist my new boyfriend was until I’d granted him control of my orgasms. I hadn’t realized, either, what a thrill I’d get from doing as I was told, from obeying Ray’s orders even when he wasn’t there. Alone at night, I didn’t once touch myself, my hands as good as tied by the promise that I’d made. I felt as if he were always with me, close by my side, guarding and protecti
ng. I was captivated by the game and charmed by Ray’s bossiness. He’d wrapped me in magic, and I’d fallen under his spell.

  The Met Office was baffled. An “unprecedented heat wave” it said, as experts admitted long-range forecasts had been wrong. Despite the rainfall earlier in the year, a drought was rumored to be imminent. Ray was totally unfazed by this, so excited by his orgasm-control experiments he seemed prepared to let reservoir levels fall. I was torn between wanting to come, wanting to please and wanting the lunacy of unslaked lust to continue.

  We came to our senses one dazzling afternoon when we walked past a construction worker hosing down the hoardings edging a building site. Hosepipe in hand, the guy blasted water at the dusty plastic wall, the jet fierce enough to bounce back a cloud of spray onto the other side of the road where we walked. Ahead of us the air shimmered, a veiled rainbow trapped in its diaphanous haze. As we walked on, the mist draped itself on our skin, so cool and light. We laughed. I tasted the spray. Its sudden chill refreshed my mouth. I felt as if I’d swallowed the rainbow, its myriad of colors dissolving on my tongue like sorbet stripes of raspberry, peach, lemon, lime, blueberry, blackberry and plum.

  “Damn, that felt good,” said Ray.

  I shivered with pleasure, my skin coated in moisture.

  That evening, Ray was as cruel as ever in denying me my release but when he left me in the morning he said, “Tonight’s the night. Tonight you get to come.”

  The sky must have heard him because later, I opened my curtains to see blue-gray clouds in the distance. I was in a tizz of anticipation all day. The clouds swelled, increasingly menacing, and the air was swampy with humidity. Was it really going to rain? Was I really going to remember what it felt like to climax?

  When I walked to Ray’s that evening, the light held a dark glint of pewter. My skin was clammy. Sweat slid on the back of my neck. I was bloated between my thighs, my cunt a burden of tissue rubbing and slipping with every stride I took. My juices spilled from me. The birds were noisy and gulls circled, unsettled as if they sensed imminent danger. Sounds were muffled, my sandals thudding dully on the ground. I thought I heard a distant rumble of thunder.