by Lori Selke
He fingered the wet heat of her pussy. Dear god, I am never going to get over this.
* * *
Her heart was going to pound its way out of her chest. She’d never felt such intense need. The hours of teasing and straining for orgasm had done things to her that no temple ceremony had ever achieved—she was ravenous with desire. Julien’s hands and kisses flowed over her body, bringing wave after wave of glorious sensation. All around her she could feel his magic pulsing with the power of their lust and it brought her to the trembling edge.
She could hear her own guttural moans and a part of her was amazed at her lack of inhibition with another human so soon after Contreau. There was no comparison between the two men. Contreau only took from her, not even bothering to give her the pleasure of a kiss. Julien risked everything to give them both a chance to escape, and he relished the pleasure between their bodies. His soft groans were thrilling, pushing her level of desperation as he moved so slowly to lift her to her knees and finger every inch of her skin. The fact that he wanted to take his time with her was exciting, and maddening.
“Now,” she demanded, but he ignored her, his lips pressed against her navel. Finally he slid lower on the bed until she knelt over his face. He lifted his lips to her pussy and dragged his tongue over her. Within moments she was lost in a spiral of bliss. Her mouth shaped the words, and she breathed out his name.
He pulled her down to stretch out against him, parting her legs so she could rub against him. The rough texture of his jeans was breathtaking after the velvet heat of his tongue. She clutched him to her, wrapping herself around his body. She reached again for his jeans and this time he shifted to allow her hands entry, even as he teased her breasts with his hands and ravished her neck and shoulders with his mouth.
“Just a minute,” he growled.
He stood up from the bed long enough to pull off his jeans. His cock sprang free, thick and stiff, proving to her that he needed her as much as she needed him. She reached out to stroke him, rose to touch her lips to him, but he pulled at her shoulders.
“I don’t think I can take that, and live to follow through,” he rasped. His eyes were clouded with lust.
He lifted her to her knees, and pressed their bodies together even as his lips met hers. She tasted her own cream and his distinct masculine flavor as she opened her mouth to his. Skin against skin, they kissed. He gripped her ass, lifting her slightly, enough to encourage her to wrap her legs around his waist. He pushed between her legs with his hips, and parted her, half thrusting and half lowering her onto him. She gasped with pleasure. He groaned her name out loud. Her climax was nearly immediate; his took a blessedly long time.
For the next hour, time stood still as they brought each other over the edge again. With each flow of desire, each peak, Syn felt the energy return to her. It was enough, more than enough to chase Contreau.
“Are you being generous, or do you just hate Contreau after what he had planned?”
“I don’t give a fuck about Contreau.” Julien murmured against her skin. He was sated and she could feel the urge to rest growing within his body. She checked the energy of the magic around them. He had given her everything he had. He was nearly helpless. Surprise, and something else, slipped though her. He had trusted her to keep to her bargain.
She looked down at him. His eyes were nearly closed.
“Your magic has restored me. But I could take you again. I could use my sex magic to make you give the very last of your power. I could drain you.”
His eyes opened, that deep blue unlike any on her plane. “You could try. Or you could chase after Contreau, finish him, and then come back to me. We could do it together. We could find a new spell. One that gives us everything. Or one that takes nothing. You could show me what you really look like.”
Syn remembered the look on Contreau’s face and his promise to call her again. To take everything, even her life. And then who would protect her temple and the acolytes there? Who would stop him from calling one of them and draining their power?
“You’re tied to me now, Syn, your blood to mine. I told you, we’re in this together. You do what you have to with that asshole. And then it’s just you and me.”
He was offering her revenge, and escape, and perhaps power, all tied with the pretty bow of his lust. For as long as the blood bond between them endured. They would be lovers. Partners. How could she say no?
“Yes.”
~ ~ ~
One Drop—Laura Antoniou
Can succubi be sadistic or masochistic in their sexual practices? There is no reason that they must be that way. By the same token, there is no reason that they can’t be that way. As with humans, some no doubt gravitate there by choice.
In “One Drop,” SM erotica author Laura Antoniou looks at a kinky relationship that needs some spicing up. Joyce knows that “safe to the point of boring” is not her ideal when it comes to hot kinky sex. But when things begin to exceed her wildest fantasies, it might be time for a reality check.
The caveat “Be careful what you wish for” comes to mind…
As one expects from Laura, this story contains depictions of explicit bdsm* sexuality. If you skipped the foreword and our comments about adult content there, consider this a heads up.
*bdsm: an umbrella term for “all that kinky stuff.” It is a portmanteau word composed of bondage and discipline/dominance and submission/sadism and masochism. If you want to know more about the acronym or the activities, this is a good place to start for more information: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/BDSM
One Drop
Joyce stretched her arms up and clasped the chains in exasperation. Behind her, Rina continued her sweeping motions, trailing the soft tresses of the whip up and down Joyce’s shoulders, back and forth in a slow-motion figure eight pattern. It was very nice, sensual, slightly teasing. It was a practiced move, one that several pillows on their couch had become familiar with.
It was boring as hell.
Joyce flexed her shoulders and back muscles and leaned slightly back, into the falling tresses. “Yesss,” she hissed encouragingly. “Please, please, more…?”
“What?” Rina immediately lowered the whip and stepped forward to hear better.
Dammit! Joyce bit her lip in an effort to keep from snapping. “Harder, Rina, please?”
“Oh! OK, baby—we’ll turn up the heat a little.” Rina obligingly did so, taking several careful aiming swipes before setting herself into another pattern. Now, the fall was more of a tender slapping that lightly tapped the skin instead of sliding over it.
It’s very hard, Joyce thought bitterly, to have a top who’s a bigger wuss than you are. She set herself against the easy-to-undo bondage and tried to enjoy the sensations while fighting back the wave of guilt that swept right alongside them.
Back when the flavor of the day was vanilla, they never had this problem. They made love the way they felt best, wrestling playfully on Rina’s big platform bed, swapping kisses on a lazy afternoon on the couch, grinding against each other on a crowded dance floor. They were pretty creative for a couple who did not own the Joy of Lesbian Sex, or even subscribe to On Our Backs, and their years together served to mellow them into a steady fondness for each other instead of sending them headlong into a case of lesbian bed death.
And then, Rina went to an SM workshop at Michigan—just out of curiosity, she said—and came back with a glint in her eye and a strip torn off her t-shirt. That night, she blindfolded Joyce and laid her down under the moonlight and whispered outrageous, dangerous, monstrous—and sinfully wonderful things to her. And made love to her, like that, naked on the grass, forceful and tender all at once.
It was love at first surrender for Joyce. Being held down and whispered to, being stroked but forbidden to come, having her lover close but being denied the right to touch her—it made her feel like she’d just discovered sex for the first time. She had moaned out loud, and made fists and pounded them against the ground, and every t
ouch granted her was electrically charged. By the time Rina sat astride her, cunt to cunt, she was like an animal, dumb with passion and greed, with nothing but a primal hunger that made her buck and writhe until the two of them were covered with scents and tastes from both of their bodies. Until they both collapsed onto the ground, panting and sighing and holding each other until the hammering of their hearts settled.
And then, Rina started to buy the books.
Because unlike the sex they had worked out between them, this was now S&M—a complex style of interaction which had rules and regulations that must be followed, instructions to learn, codes to decipher. Together, they pored over the sexuality shelf at the local queer bookstore, and Rina selected one title after another for her newfound interest. And Joyce was in heaven—surely, this would open the door to a whole new way of having sex—and a very exciting one at that!
But as Rina studied, the actual practice became—different.
“We didn’t negotiate that night,” she said. “That was my fault, I didn’t know enough. From now on, we have to be sure you want me to top you, and I need to know what you might like to do. Here, fill out these forms, that should be fun.”
Fun was an odd word for filling out forms. But if Rina needed them, Joyce was willing to put her time in. She studied the long list of potential activities with curiosity, and noticed that several of their favorite activities seemed to be missing, so she added them at the bottom. Then, she went through the list, checking off things that turned her on, things that sounded strange, things that were out of the question. When she turned the sheets in, she grinned and winked suggestively. hoping that Rina would be up to trying some new stuff out that night. But instead, they had a discussion.
“When you say that you’re not into humiliation but you do like dirty talk, does that mean we can use words like fuck and cunt, but you don’t want to be called a cunt?” Rina asked, sliding her glasses up her nose. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, you know, I want you to enjoy this.”
“Jeeze, Rina, I don’t know! I mean, calling me a cunt might be OK, I guess, as long as you weren’t pissed at me. It’s just playing—call me whatever you want to!” Joyce grabbed the latest book and examined the pages suspiciously. “It’s just a word.”
“Yeah, but people can be funny about words,” Rina said strongly, taking the book back. “I just want to be safe. And you want to be safe, too, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Joyce sighed. “OK, Rina, you’re the boss.”
“Well actually,” Rina said eagerly, swelling with newfound knowledge, “you’re the boss. I’m not going to do anything to you that you don’t want.”
“OK! Let’s screw. Right now.”
Rina grinned and tossed the book over the side of the bed. “OK!” she giggled, hitting the light. And so they did—screw, that is. No one on top, and no dirty words either. It was very, very safe.
From there, things got even more complicated. Apparently, they couldn’t just do this stuff, they had to connect with other women who did it too. And that was OK, at least it put them in contact with people who had made some pretty nifty toys, some of which found their way into the top dresser drawer nearest to the bed. The first item was a comfortable blindfold; the next was a pair of expensive but comfortable wrist cuffs, all in black leather. And the third was the whip.
It was made of nylon, lavender nylon, looped and fixed into a short rubber handle. Joyce privately thought it looked like a threadbare pom-pom, but she rarely got to see it anyway, so that didn’t matter. What mattered was the way Rina was so painfully careful never to actually hurt Joyce with the dreadful little thing—which meant that Joyce tended to get bored real fast.
Discussions rarely served to do anything more than get Rina to be just a teensy bit more rough from session to session, after which she’d fall back to her softer, safer practices with relief. Joyce actually found herself watching two other women playing at a party and thinking about approaching the top. The pain of that internal wandering made her stick to Rina like glue for several days, but that was only a temporary measure. She had to do something—and soon. But she had no idea what. Please, she begged inwardly—harder, harder! Dammit, scare me, hurt me, I can take it! Make me cry, make me choke, make me beg you to stop and then keep going! What do I have to do to bring out the serious player in you?
Rina helped lift Joyce’s arms up so that the cuffs and attached chains fell from the hooks they had driven into the bedroom doorway. Joyce really didn’t need the help, she had practically fallen out of the cuffs on several occasions. It was a safety thing—the bottom had to be able to free herself in case the top suffered an instantly fatal heart attack. There had even been a book about such an occurrence.
Rina was humming as she put toys away. Joyce reached for the cuffs blind; she knew the buckles well enough to free them without taking the blindfold off. It was a little game she played with herself, keeping herself in the dark as long as possible, pretending she was a prisoner, a slave, a captive, anything but the lover who was supposed to turn around with a grin and kiss her beaming top and skip off to the kitchen for a snack—Damn!
Her fingers slipped, and the inside of her hand scraped against the edge of the buckle. She felt the sharp pain, and then a spreading warmth, and knew that she’d cut herself. “Shit!” she said out loud, raising her hand to her mouth. She was about to push the blindfold up, when Rina’s touch on her shoulder made her jump.
Rina’s fingers were very cold.
“What are you doing?” Rina whispered. Her voice was low, almost as though she was trying to make it sound mysterious. Joyce smiled and raised her wounded hand.
“Look what I did,” she said, waving it. “Better check the book!”
There was silence for a moment, and Joyce wondered if Rina was shocked by the sight of blood. She brought her hand down again, reaching for the blindfold, and Rina caught it, held it in one tight fist.
“Yesss,” Rina said, another harsh whisper. “I see what you have done. How evil of you to shed your own blood—blood which belongs to me.”
Joyce stiffened and shivered. Rina’s fingers were cold and hard against her wrist, and her mouth was hot behind her throat. How scary it seemed! She could feel the thundering of her heart, and listen to the way her own breath had become so shallow!
She’s trying to scare me, Joyce thought with another shiver. How wonderful!
“Yes,” she quickly said, falling into role. “Yes, I was bad.”
“You will atone for this.”
“Yes!” Joyce hung her head in mock shame.
“Yes, My Lady.” The words came out flat, as though Rina was trying them out, and before Joyce could eagerly echo them, she felt a heavy blow against her back that sent her crashing into the doorjamb. She stumbled over the tangle of chains on the floor and landed hard on her knees, slightly dazed by both the force and the attack itself. That was certainly no technique recommended in a book!
“What—” she managed to get out before there was a tight fist in her hair.
“You will address me as My Lady, you slattern. Come and present your worthless body to me.”
Joyce felt the pressure drag her away from the frame, and she cried out in pain as she was dragged into the bedroom. She tried to disengage the hand in her hair, but Rina’s grip was like a steel bar, and every twisted movement caused streaks of stiletto sharp pain through her scalp. She was released, no, thrown forward, into the open space before the bed, and in an instant, Rina’s hands had gripped hers again, and were busy affixing the cuffs together. They had never done that before—it would be too difficult for Joyce to free herself that way.
Deep inside her, Joyce felt a stab of powerful, indescribable, twisted pleasure. She wanted to scream, wanted to beg, wanted to shout out, what the fuck are you doing?! But she also knew that in the minute since she had cut her hand, she had gotten more wet and more painfully aroused than during the entire hour long beating and teasing Rina had bothere
d to do.
Better she should have started here, Joyce thought wickedly. But no, she meant this as a surprise! She moaned out loud.
“Slut.” The word came out like a caress, but there was nothing soft behind it. Rina’s fingers roughly pushed Joyce’s legs apart, and thrust sharply into the cleft between them. The chuckle that escaped her lips was like nothing Joyce had ever heard from her gentle lover before. It was mockingly cruel.
“What a whore, to beg for pain, to beg for degradation,” Rina’s strange, new whisper continued. “Did you not think I would hear you? Did you not think someone would hear your pathetic pleas for suffering?”
“I’m sorry,” Joyce gasped, unable to think of what else to say.
The fingers within her withdrew, and turned, and grasped the tender flesh of her labia and pulled, harshly. Joyce gasped in a new breath and made a whining sound that she could scarcely believe came from her throat.
“You are a sorry thing indeed,” Rina hissed. “To forget how to address the one who came at your call.”
Oh Jesus, right, Joyce thought. “My Lady!” she quickly amended. “I’m sorry, My Lady!”
“No, I think not. Not yet, as I breathe. But you shall be.”
As the voice rose away from her, Joyce took another deep breath and ground her hips into the carpet. Damn, but Rina was good! And I like the style of language, too, she thought contentedly. All formal and everything. God, this is hot—I wonder why she waited so long…
And then, her thighs seemed to be splashed with a burning acid!
“Jesus Christ!” she screamed.
Rina’s answer was a dry chuckle. “You do yourself no good to call upon a power to rival me, sorry creature. You only prolong your chastisement—and my entertainment. Pray, continue. Amuse me in your suffering, and I shall be merciful.”