Sixteen of the Best

by Sarah Veitch

  We made love on the floor between the bed and the bathroom. You'd think there are better places, but it was more than fine - it happened to be where I was standing when the sheet dropped. After, he rushed me through a shower and out the door, our bags already packed, bill already paid. I hadn't realized he meant to leave that night, but what the hell? It was worth it to see him smile. And he did smile, excited and satisfied, all the hours he drove, at least until I fell asleep.

  I woke sometime after dawn, still in the car. He leaned over me, planted a kiss. 'Good morning, sunshine.' I groaned, never at my best in the morning, but he just grinned. 'Coffee outside,' he offered, and I fumbled at the door. I didn't really look around until after the caffeine hit, but it was worth the effort to focus my eyes.

  It was glorious: pines larger than I had ever imagined, hills rising all around us, no signs of people anywhere. Some birdsong in the distance, the sound of water. A dirt road, at the very end of which sat the SUV. A clearing, and a fire, presumably how he'd made coffee for me. He didn't drink it himself, said he already had two addictions; physical exercise and me. I loved that he'd make it, not bug me to give it up, though he did frequently suggest I could use more exercise. I usually told him that sex was my sport of choice, and dragged him to bed; it worked out well for both of us.

  Sorry, where was I? Oh, yes, in the clearing on the first day. Mark told me there was no one near, and looking around, I could believe him. I took the chance to strip, baring my skin to the open air. Well, why not? Should I hide from the birds in the trees?

  Mark came close, whispered in my ear. 'How does it feel?'

  I closed my eyes to think about it. It was wonderful. The air caressed places it hadn't reached in ages, summer-scented breezes wafting over my skin. Outside, the air has textures you don't notice indoors all the time, and the sensitive areas of your skin feel them quite strongly. The more attention I paid the greater the feeling grew, until I felt almost like the wind was my lover. I opened my eyes. 'Can we...? I mean, the ground might have bugs, or snakes.'

  'We have blankets,' he laughed, 'and there's always standing up.' I'm sure my eyes lit. Standing is one of my favorite positions. I don't like to ask too often, because I'm sure it's a strain, but any time he's up for it, so am I.

  'Care to give me a hand up, kind sir?'

  He laughed.

  Mark is a big man, six foot six, and built to scale. My head just barely reaches his collarbone. Height only matters when you're standing up, they say, but his length too, is... um, impressive. My legs tight around his hips, my arms hugging his neck, my face buried in his shoulder, him the rod and me impaled on it. God, I love that feeling. It's like for once I can feel all of me. Words, words, always words. A container imposes its shape on the contained fluid, I tell the students in class, but in this moment, I feel like I am defined by what plunders me. I know where I am by his plunging, by his thrusts, and yearn ever closer to him as he reaches into me. We're monogamous, and I'm protected; there is no condom. He spurts and splashes and I quiver, spasming again. My climaxes press me around him, shifting, changing, ever and always myself, but different; known.

  An absurd thought passes briefly through my mind: put two cats in Schrodinger's box and see what happens. And then the panting and gasping and kissing and love words, sounds whose meaning does not depend on language.

  I almost complained when he told me we'd have to hike to the cabin, seeing it as a subversive attempt to make me exercise. But he offered to carry everything, so I shrugged and started to walk. I'm sure any observers would have thought it quite funny, me in socks and hiking boots and nothing else, him in socks and boots and backpack and tugging a sort of sled affair behind him, but as Mark had said, there was no one to see us pass. We rested often, drank a lot of water, stole the chance to kiss and fondle once we'd cooled, but still reached the cabin before nightfall. I thought I'd never seen a more beautiful sight, except for him.

  There in another pine-bordered clearing stood a wood-framed building with giant clear-glass windows everywhere. There was nearly as much greenery inside as out, much of it with flowers, and a wide porch with a hanging couch for two. I sighed my pleasure, and Mark smiled. 'I'm glad you like it. Do you want the tour now, or would you rather have dinner first?'

  My stomach answered for me, and he laughed and bowed me forward. 'What the lady desires, she shall have.'

  After dinner, the hot tub, and tiny strawberries more flavorful than any I'd ever had. He used his hands and his mouth to bring me pleasure, half massage and half sex. I moved to return the favor, but he declined. 'I want to watch you,' he said and, unaccountably, I blushed. I'd been naked all day, why was I feeling shy now? He asked, but as usual I had no words to answer. He carried me to bed, drowsy with satisfaction, tucked me in beside him, told me to sleep well. 'Tomorrow is a day,' he said, and I nodded, owlish. It seemed the most profound thing I had ever heard.

  I woke to what might be my favorite scents in the world: fresh-brewed coffee, clean aroused man, and oranges. It almost made waking worth the effort, and I blinked my eyes open just in time to see his smile. He turned away to place the tray on the bedside table, leaned in for an orange-flavored kiss. 'The rest of breakfast will wait until you're properly awake,' he told me, and levered himself up, striding purposefully away. When the coffee chased the cobwebs from my mind, I wondered where he'd been going, but food held more interest to me just then, and I forgot. The rest of the morning was just as lovely as the beginning, lots of attention to my tastes and pleasures, quiet moments alone. By lunch, though, I was beginning to have some suspicions. He held himself back a bit when we caressed. Stroked me, but never too far, too fast, too arousing. He seemed to be building up to something.

  'All right, tell me.' He blinked, and I struggled to find what words would work. 'You're... planning. Working toward something.'

  'Work?' He laughed. 'Darling Sherry, this is pleasure.'

  For once I had words, and I leapt gratefully upon them. 'Work. As in energy expended toward an end.' Science is so concrete, even words have fixed meanings. Never so much as numbers, of course, but still. 'I can't see your end, but I know you have one.' I glared at him, and he tried his best to frown.

  It didn't last long, though, and he fell down with the force of his laughing, then calmed himself with an effort and drew me close. 'All right, love, I'll tell you. First, you're right. And any time you'd like to see my end...' His eyebrows waggled. I said nothing, stiff in his arms, and he sighed and went on. 'This is going to be hard for me to explain. Maybe harder for you to talk about.

  'Did you know, before me, that you like your sex mixed with pain?' I bit my lip. It wasn't something I'd ever talked about before. He waited, and when it was obvious he wouldn't go on, I nodded my head in answer. Yes, I knew. I just didn't think about it, much.

  'How far have you gone?' My head turned, my eyes met his, puzzled. I didn't understand what it was he meant. 'Oh, God,' he moaned, dropping his head on my shoulder. 'You haven't tried anything, have you? Never told a man you'd enjoy it if he hurt you a little. Never made a sound when he did to tell him to go on.' I made no reply. He knew, after all. I don't like words, don't trust them; how could I say to some man, 'hurt me, please?' How to convey the sense of limits, the particular kinds of pain I might like? And if I said it, there'd be no way to un-say it, later. You cannot 'eat' your own words once they've been heard.

  'Right.' His breath hissed out in a sigh. 'Lady mine, Sherry, you do enjoy pain with your sex.' I slanted a look over my shoulder; he held up his hand. 'I'm just making sure we're on the same page.' I grimaced. Written words are even worse than spoken ones; they writhe on the page, changing their meaning each time you look. Not just from one viewer to the next, but between viewings! Facts aren't supposed to be malleable, but words alter the world. I made some primeval sound.

  He massaged my neck. 'I know, Sherry, but sometimes words are what we have. Bear with me, will you? From what I've seen, you're not a masochist.
But pain once you're already aroused seems to strike you as pleasure - please pardon the phrase - and I'd like very much to explore your limits there.'

  His hands stroked my back, my shoulders. His breath parted my hair, his body supported mine. He was silent for as long as I needed, while I thought things over. 'You want to hurt me,' I ventured at last.

  I could feel him shrug, his body shifting mine. 'Well, yes, if it will please you. I want to make you happy, whatever that takes.'

  'Words!' I turned in his arms, straddling him, staring. 'Tell me.'

  His body was hard beneath me. He pulled back my hair. Hands wide, cradling my skull, he bent my head back, biting the sweet spot below my jaw not quite tenderly. All my breath fled my body at the sensation, splinters of pleasure jagged throughout my form. I moaned when he stopped.

  'You'll have a bruise if I keep that up.'

  'There's no one here to see!' My voice was desperate, strident in my own ears. 'Please...'

  'You'll have to let me know how far I should go.' He met my eyes for a long count, until I nodded. And then he reached for me with those long, strong hands. If I thought I knew him after three years together, that day showed me how much further I had to go. From the dazed look of awe in his eyes, it was a mutual discovery; he used his hands so roughly I thought I might die, and I begged and pleaded for him, not to stop, but to go on. At one point he had his entire hand within me, and though I literally could not breathe, still, I came. Oceans of pleasure washing out from within me, till I felt so light I could fly... More pleasure than I had ever imagined, he brought to me, until at last I slept.

  I woke sated and sore and starving, met his worried eyes, and smiled up at him. He sighed, relieved. Carried me to the hot tub, hand-fed me dinner. Tended my every need till again I fell asleep.

  I woke the next morning feeling like the world had changed.

  We took things very slowly for the next few days, to soothe his worries. I was fine. Relaxed and ready for whatever he might want to try. I worked a little on my textbook, lay in the sun, got used to the feel of the grass beneath my bare skin. He... tormented me gently, if those words make any sense. Sought to find the least pain he could inflict that would still bring me the pleasure I craved. It was lovely, caring and sweet, but I wanted him to push things. And finally, after about a week, I told him so, marshaling words like convict soldiers likely to bolt if given the slightest chance. 'Mark. Love. You did what I wanted. And I loved it. I'd love for you to do it again. To hurt me.'

  'Damn.' He paced, eight paces across, two to turn, eight again, repeated endlessly. A journey to nowhere, steps like letters across a page. 'We need new words.' I laughed, harsh caw with no amusement, and he stopped, one foot still raised, cocked a grin at me. 'You know what I mean. I don't really want to hurt you. I just want to do what brings you pleasure, even if that includes pain. God!' His own laughter sounded almost like crying. 'Can you imagine what Sarah would say about that line?'

  We giggled together like schoolchildren, finally gasping to a halt. 'Teachers are supposed to communicate.' We both knew the phrase well. Tension eased, he looked soberly at me. 'Attend,' he suggested. I shrugged, waiting for explanation. 'It's a word some of the kink-groups use. I think it came from English public schools. It means, kind of, give you what is needed. A servant attends a master, a student attends class, a nurse attends to a patient... a master attends to his servant's schooling...' I didn't understand why his voice had changed there, but it didn't seem to matter. He took a deep breath, shrugged, and went on. 'One attends to whatever is needed; whatever is needed is done. Attended to.'

  I stared. Not at him, through him, lost in this bizarre thought. Why not use a word's malleability to my own ends? It felt rather like I'd been hit in the head with a hammer, but for the lack of pain. A word could be made to mean what I decreed. 'Attend.' I breathed it, savored the feel of it on my lips. 'Attend to.'

  He nodded, solemn as a judge. Waiting.

  I took a deep breath, stood, walked over to him, took his hand. Felt the strength in those long fingers, strong, joined to a palm almost larger than both of mine put together. I raised his hand to my lips, placed a kiss in that palm, folded his fingers over it, pressed down. 'Mark, love. I'd very much like you to attend to me.' The phrase felt right as I said it, so I said it again. And then, greatly daring for me, I told him what I dreamed of. 'I want to feel your hands... striking my ass.'

  His eyes lit up like I'd sparked a fire in his soul, and his cock leapt about, drawing ciphers in the air. 'Are you sure?' he whispered the question; I could see him holding himself back, waiting for me to answer. I smiled, hugged him close. Nodded, my chin rubbing over his breastbone. 'I love you,' he told me, and lifted me in his arms.

  He took me to the porch, to that lovely swinging couch, sat down on it, laid me over his knees. One hand rested on my back, the other delved between my thighs. I knew he could not see my face, but still I blushed. I was so excited; I'd dreamed of this for years. He chuckled, a warm sound that wrapped around my body, shifted my position, pushed off to make the couch swing. I gasped, I couldn't help it - I was afraid that we might fall. He just murmured something comforting, and waited for me to still.

  I don't know how long we were there, just swinging, him petting me. It felt like hours, might have been, or only minutes, I can't say. I haven't the words for time passing in that fashion. It felt right, that much I do know. I felt kind of like I was floating, supported only by Mark, surrounded by his love for me. And then there came a sound that I felt through my body, a sharp crack like a tree falling in the woods.

  Of course it makes a sound, I thought inanely. The tree hears it; they've proved that plants respond to noise. There was a pause as the sound shivered through me, faded away to warmth. Then again, a crack which shook my frame, redefining me. I sighed, feeling the breath warm as it crossed my lips, eddying with the cooler air around my face. A sudden sharp breeze above my ass heralded the next strike, and I closed my eyes to listen more intently.

  Pain which isn't pain, but pleasure. Pain that sounds like music, heard with the body, not the ears. I couldn't tell if my senses were jumbled, or just my sense, but as his hand kept falling, I decided I didn't care. The words could mean whatever they cared to; I was busy, climbing toward pleasure, spurred by his hand on my ass. He tells me it was fifteen strikes, that first time, before I screamed and climaxed. I knew only that I was once again suspended in time, deep slow waves of glory lapping out from where his hand met my flesh, sinking into me and out again. His hands wrote patterns my body could understand, and I was grateful. Words? Who cared for words when I had this? I hoped he'd written them deep, that I'd wear them for a lifetime.

  I told him so, later, and he laughed and shook his head. 'Nope, not even red anymore. I was gentle. It was your first time. But, if you're serious...' he cocked his head.

  And that evening, as I curved over the stone he'd prepared for me, as I waited for the strike of the cane on my ass, my eyes poured over with love, and excitement, and my new understanding. My tears glinted in the light of the torches he'd set out, and I watched them fracture as they fell, delighting in their rainbow dance, imagining rainbows soon to bloom on my skin: love-words written by his attention to me.

  Cat Fight at the Lucky Seven

  Stan Strap

  STANFORD STRAP leaned his forearms on the hitching rail outside the sheriff's office and smiled contentedly. It had been a quiet day in Smarts Ville and even the threatened trouble from the Mario brothers had come to nothing. Luckily for them they had decided at the last minute to go and have some fun terrorising locals elsewhere. Stan smiled again as he watched as the sun began to dip behind the mountains and the sky began to turn from deep pink to red. It was just the colour of Suzee Moon's bottom when he had spanked her last week. He thought too of what had happened afterwards, which caused him to straighten up and stamp his feet a little. It wouldn't do to let the minx dominate his thoughts. He did after all have a town to run. Pe
rhaps a little tour of the streets before dark would be in order. And if his tour ended at The Lucky Seven then so much the better. He waited a few minutes while the shadows of twilight began to seep around the corners before moving slowly and nonchalantly into the darkening town.

  At first, Stan was pleased to be able to report to himself that all was well. The good folks of Smarts Ville (6) were at home and safely locked in for the night and the remainder (173) were obviously at the saloon. The streets were utterly deserted.

  He heard the noise from the Seven as he turned the corner into Main Street and, on hearing the cheers, he thought for a moment that Miserable Pete was treating them to a few verses of Spread A Little Happiness, but he quickly realised that these were not cheers of derision. The level of shouts, cheers and whoops meant only one thing: a fight. He quickened his step, tutting to himself and prepared to sort it out.

  He paused for a moment at the swing doors. It was all very well making a dramatic entrance if the room was reasonably quiet to begin with, but today with the place packed and the raucous crowd facing away from the door it would have been a waste of time.

  He considered firing a single shot into the air but the last time he had done that the bullet had gone straight through the ceiling and nearly emasculated the mayor as he got ready for a session with one of the girls upstairs. He decided instead to go for the tap on the shoulder technique, which is what caused Big Dave to spin around with a glare. Seeing Stan, his glare turned to a cheesy grin and he tapped the person in front of him. Gradually, the room fell silent and the crowd parted as Stan stepped forward.

  He didn't need to ask what was happening. Two of the girls were holding Miss Kitty by the arms and another two were holding back Suzee Moon while in between them crouched Nervy Derek, the bartender, praying that they were being held tightly.