Cocktales

by The Cocky Collective

  The word whore earned me a severe look. “That was never my assumption, nor is it necessarily what I wanted to talk about.”

  “Okay, good,” I said, his reply leaving me fumbling a bit. I’d expected condemnation or entitlement to my body, and he’d displayed neither, which was of course a relief. But also a bit unsettling—because what else could he want with me? My earlier worry resurfaced, and I blurted, “And you better not use this to try to get me fired, because you were at the club too, and don’t think I won’t tell—”

  He silenced me with the press of his warm, blunt fingertips to my lips, not pressing hard enough to actually stop me from speaking, simply using the surprise of his touch and the stern glare of those blue eyes to rob me of my words.

  “You really think the worst of me, don’t you?” he said, his arrogant displeasure now sounding more like frustration. “You honestly think it’s more likely that I would judge you as a Jezebel or make a pass at you or try to fire you, than…” he trailed off, his gaze dropping to where his fingers still pressed against my lips.

  “Than what?” I whispered from under his fingers, and his eyes snapped up to mine.

  “Than if I wanted to ask…” His voice turned shy and red dusted the tops of his perfect cheekbones. “If you would like to play together sometime.”

  Of all the ways this conversation could have gone, of all the things he could have said, this never would have occurred to me, this respectful request that was made almost sweetly.

  My lips parted under his touch in pure shock. “You want to play with me?”

  “Of course I do,” he said. “Ever since I came here I wanted to ask you for a date, but I also wanted…” His fingers fell from my mouth and began to trace along the column of my neck. I knew what he was imagining, because I was imagining it too. Collars, ropes. Maybe even a little playful choking.

  I flushed so much at the thought that I could feel the burning in my toes.

  He continued. “I didn’t think it would be ethical for me to date a staff member anyway, but especially a vanilla one…it would be courting trouble.”

  “But now you know I’m not vanilla.”

  “And I don’t think I can hold myself back from courting trouble. If you’ll let me, Corabel.”

  I searched his face, finding only honesty and unfiltered longing there. His fingers had started trembling where they touched my neck, except I was trembling so much underneath him that it was impossible to tell who was the more affected.

  Did I want this cocky, peremptory man in my bed? Did I want him playing games with me, did I want to call him Sir, did I want to trust him with the deepest and most unruly parts of my mind?

  The answers came before I could even really consider the questions.

  Yes and yes and yes and yes.

  God, who didn’t sometimes dream of a partner like that? Unbearably good-looking, unbearably confident, their only apparent weakness how much they wanted you?

  Because wanting me was a weakness of his, I could see. In two months, I’d never seen him flounder for speech, never seen him blush, never heard him say anything in a voice that wasn’t precise and clipped and controlled. But with me, he almost seemed boyish. Uncertain. It made me flush even more—out of flattery and feminine pride, of course, but also out of happiness. Just plain, uncomplicated happiness. It made me happy to know that he wanted me. It made me realize that I wanted him back—and had wanted him for quite some time.

  Tale as old as time, Corabel. Girl meets boy, girl thinks she hates boy, girl actually wants boy to use her as a footstool before he fucks her senseless.

  Go figure.

  “I’m not a masochist,” I finally said, wanting to say yes, yes, go ahead and fuck me right now on top of your unfinished sermon instead but also wanting him to know all the facts.

  “Luckily for us both then, I’m not a sadist,” he replied. “What else?”

  “Nothing illegal, no edgeplay until we know each other better, and no one at the church can know about us.”

  “Done. Do you want to make sex a part of play?”

  Oh God, yes, my pussy wanted to scream on my behalf. I managed to keep myself from nodding a thousand times in rapid succession. “I would like to do that, yes. With you. Very much.”

  My obvious fluster seemed to please him, a bit more arrogance creeping back into his expression. “And birth control and disease prevention? I’m happy to wear condoms.”

  “I’m on birth control,” I said, thanking Jesus and all His angels that I was a Methodist nowadays, and Methodists generally didn’t fuss about such things. “And I’m clean. If you are as well, I can go without the condoms.”

  He nodded. “I’m clean. And your safeword?”

  “Cherubim.”

  “Not seraphim?” he teased, and I thought it might be the first time I’d ever heard him make a joke, even a bad one.

  “They come first in the hymn. Seemed right.”

  That netted me a big smile, which faded fast into a look of intense concentration. “I want to touch you again,” he said in a low voice. “Right now.”

  “Yes.”

  He reached past me to lock the closed door, and then he leaned down enough to press his forehead to mine. “Oh Corabel,” he breathed, his hands coming up to cradle my face. “When? When can we start?”

  I should have said another time, another place. My apartment in a couple days. Or Persepolis next week. But I couldn’t. My body already glowed with heat at his nearness, the seam between my legs already felt heavy and swollen and slick. And I—whatever thing made up Corabel Dennis independent of her body, whether it was her mind or her heart—craved him even more. He was intelligent and strong and possibly the slightest bit cruel, and everything inside me wanted to tangle with him. To fight him and fuck him and best him and be bested by him.

  “Now,” I managed, my throat dry with wanting him. “We can start now—”

  I didn’t even have a chance to finish before his mouth crashed down against my own, before his warm hands were on my waist, on my ass, pulling me up against him so that my legs went around his hips and his hands supported me under my thighs with the casual ease of a strong male. And then his hips pressed into me, wedging a stout and lengthy erection against my cunt. I’d worn a skirt today—a skirt now hiked up around my upper thighs—and so the only thing separating his surging cock from my opening was a thin lace thong and his slacks.

  I moaned.

  A large hand clapped over my mouth, and another blue glare seared right through my soul. “You’ll be heard, Corabel,” the reverend said quietly. “If you want to stop or to wait, that’s one thing. But if you want to play right now, if you need a Sir’s hands on you before you can think straight, then I suggest silence. Got it?”

  He lifted his hand but I was already nodding like the good little girl I could be in these situations. “Yes, Sir,” I whispered. “I’ll be quiet. Just please don’t stop.”

  Please don’t ever stop. When was the last time I’d been this turned on? This lit up, this excited? When was the last time the Dom I’d chosen for the hour or for the night actually elicited my genuine respect? When was the last time he’d been a man worth getting to my knees for?

  Too long.

  Maybe there hadn’t even been a real last time. Not compared to this.

  My whispered plea was all he needed to hear, apparently, and with abrupt and deliberate roughness, I found myself bent over his desk, my face on his sermon notes, my skirt up over my ass as his hands shaped the curves there with palpable appreciation.

  “Fuck, you’re a treasure,” he said, squeezing and cupping me. When he turned to reach for something on his desk, I felt the fabric-covered bar of his cock brush against me, and I tried to push against it, wanting it, wanting him.

  He made a noise at that—all arrogant amusement—and then I felt what he’d gotten from his desk against my hip. Scissors.

  They kissed cold sensation all along my ass until they found the
line of my thong and bit into the lace. Soon my pussy was bare and the scissors were on the table next to my face, and then he squatted behind me.

  His thumbs ran parallel lines up my folds once or twice, making me shiver with anticipation, and then he spread my cheeks apart with his palms while his thumbs parted my secret place open for his viewing.

  “So wet,” the reverend tsked. “Has it been too long? Too long since this little pussy was satisfied?”

  I nodded against the papers under my face, my skin prickling with shame and delight—which to me are the same thing, at least when fucking is involved. “Please,” I moaned. It was agony to be held open and gazed at and not touched; it was agony to feel the heat of this prideful man behind me and not be made his. My entire body keened for it, for him, for him to take all the desire and all the dislike and all the destiny between us, and turn it into something sweaty and real.

  And to be honest, I needed to come already, even though we hadn’t even gotten close to the kind of sex where coming was an option, but still. It felt like if I didn’t come, I’d die.

  Even rough, uncaring fingers would get me off at this point.

  Even the edge of the desk, if he’d let me rub against it, which I doubted. The Reverend Doctor Mark Trade did not seem like the kind of man who allowed those kinds of liberties from his submissives.

  His fingers moved, testing me, sampling the wet and gauging how slick it had made me.

  “You need fucked,” he decided aloud. “Badly.”

  “Yes, please,” I said in a voice maybe a bit more irritated than it should have been, because the next thing I knew he was bent all the way over me, one hand fisted in my hair and the other covering my mouth.

  “I’m not a sadist…necessarily,” he growled low in my ear. “But don’t think just because I won’t take a crop to your ass that I won’t gag that pretty mouth. That I won’t tie you to this desk and devote the next three hours to wringing some respect out of you. Got it?”

  Oh God. Even just his low threats in my ear were enough to make my belly curl in a needy ache. I wanted to be good for him, but also holy fuck, those punishments sounded so hot—a classic submissive’s dilemma.

  But I behaved—for now.

  “I got it. Sir.”

  A noise of approval, and then I was hauled up onto the desk on my back, no care whatsoever given to the papers and books underneath me, and then Mark crawled over me with glittering eyes.

  “Next time,” he promised. “Next time, we’ll play for real. I want you in my ropes…you’ll look so pretty there, Corabel, all tied up and waiting for your Sir. Or perhaps I’ll tease this pretty pussy until you’re crying to come.”

  “Yes,” I sighed up at him. “Yes to all those things.”

  He traced my jaw with possessive fingers and then reached down to his zipper. “What else do you like, fiery girl? What else do you want to do?”

  My cheeks heated bright red, but if there was any time to be honest, it was flat on my back on the preacher’s desk while he slowly unzipped himself. “S-servitude,” I managed to say.

  His hand paused its work. “Servitude,” he repeated, tilting his head, as if he thought he’d misheard me. Which was fair, given that I’d snapped at him earlier about not being his servant. But sometimes the best kinks are the most contradictory.

  My cheeks went from red to the deepest, hottest crimson, and humiliation crawled all over my skin. “You know,” I whispered. “Domestic stuff. Tending to you. You using me like furniture or a servant or…”

  His own eyes fluttered closed, as if my words had a nearly painful effect on him. “Yes,” he said in a strained voice. “Yes, I do know.”

  Do you like it? I was desperate to ask. Do you get off on it? Some men and women didn’t—for some it was too abstract, and for others, it wasn’t abstract enough. Nothing will make you confront your shame and anger like being told to bake a cake naked or to balance a glass of wine on your back while your Dom or Domme reads from a book in a comfortable chair next to you.

  Nothing felt more forbidden, nothing felt more juicy and wrong than to be treated like that. To make myself a vessel of someone else’s least important needs.

  I loved it. And God, how I wanted Mark to love it, I wanted it to be his kink as much as it was mine.

  “Would you like it?” I finally gathered up the courage to ask. “If I came over and served you for the night? Cooked or cleaned or even just held things for you while you read or worked?”

  He shuddered above me, opening his eyes to reveal troubled pools of blue lust. “Yes,” he ground out. “Yes, I would like that. Fuck, Corabel, I’d—I’d do anything for that.”

  The answering smile on my fast was too big and too fast to stop, and he bent low with a growl, biting at the smile and then kissing it right off my face. His hand went back between us, and then he pulled out his cock for real this time. The head of it—hot, blunt, hard—fell against my thigh and then moved up, nudging right against the place that would squeeze him so very tightly if only he dared to take it.

  He dared.

  He was big enough that he had to force it a little, each inch spreading me so wide that I thought I might break in half. And when I squirmed underneath him, the real Dom came out at last, his legs easily pinning mine and his hand capturing both my wrists to secure above my head. His other hand came down and pressed my face to the side, baring my throat for his nips and my ear for his filthy, intoxicating words.

  “I can’t wait to play with you,” he breathed, his hips moving in slow, grinding thrusts that left me seeing stars. “I’ll have you on your knees for my cock. I’ll have you on all fours scrubbing my floor with your cunt exposed and waiting. I’ll cuff your ankle to my desk and keep you like a pet while I work.”

  “Yes,” I moaned from under his hand. I wanted it, I wanted it all, and I wanted it with him.

  “And only when you’ve been so very good and so very helpful will you earn this,” he said, emphasizing his words with a sharp thrust. My toes curled in response. “Only then will I see that you get what you need.”

  “And what do I need?” I goaded breathlessly. Partly because it still riled me to have him so cocksure and bossy even as he impaled me with his heavy cock…and partly because it aroused me beyond belief to have this cocksure and bossy man fucking me into his desk like a sailor on his first night of shore leave.

  I expected him to say something filthy. I expected him to scold me or shove his fingers in my mouth for my impertinence.

  Instead, his hand moved to take hold of my chin and turned my face up to his. “You need someone,” he said simply, his breath warm on my lips. “You’re not happy alone. You’re not happy rotating anonymous partners at a club. You hate that you want more, that you want something as cliché as a lover, and the more you hate it, the more you fight it. But it never stops being true.”

  I closed my eyes for minute, not able to handle his steady gaze and his words at the same time.

  “Am I wrong, Corabel?” he asked gently.

  “No,” I whispered, my eyes still closed. “You’re not wrong.”

  I’d forgotten this part too. That kink wasn’t just about clubs or concepts that gave you frissons of sinful, dirty delight. It was about trusting another human to see the inside of you and give you what you need. It was about doing the same for them.

  Mark leaned down and bit lightly at my jaw. “Then let me be your someone and give you what you need.”

  I opened my eyes. “And what do you need?” I asked.

  “To be your someone,” he said without hesitation or shame. “I’ve needed it since the moment I met you.”

  There were no more words after that. He collared my throat with his hand, his body huge and heavy and still clothed over mine, and clearly Mark had never heard that a gentleman should take his weight on his hands, because he made sure that I felt all the weight and strength of him, made sure that all of his effort went into grinding and stroking and stretching me rat
her than holding himself up. He buried himself deep enough that his tip kissed places in my belly, and he angled himself so that every stroke rubbed my clit. The tensing muscles of his arms and thighs pressed against me; even through our clothes, I could feel the steel flex and bunch of his abdomen as his body moved to couple with mine.

  For a preacher, he sure fucked like a god.

  I felt it in my thighs first, a slow tightening clench that spread to my belly, cradling the singing sensation in my cunt between them. And I was going to ask for permission, I really was, but Mark felt it too, giving the corner of my mouth a kiss. “You may,” he said, without me having to ask.

  And then I came.

  Everything seemed to ball together and then fly outwards, seizing ripples of delicious feeling, the contractions so strong that Mark’s pace faltered and he stilled over me, muttering to himself. And it felt like he was everywhere as I came—I was full of him and under him and being held by him, and it was just him. Him, him, him, this cocky preacher I thought I hated.

  He claimed my mouth in a torrid kiss as my climax drifted into stillness, and our eyes locked in a heat of blue need as he gave a final push and then filled me with his release, throbbing and pumping until I was full of him and he was empty of everything except satisfaction.

  “Corabel,” he murmured as his orgasm left him. “Good God. Corabel.”

  He gave me a final kiss and then climbed off his desk, leaving me limp and dazed and…well, grateful. It wasn’t just the sex—which was the best I’d had…ever—it was the connection. It was that he’d respectfully and almost shyly asked if I wanted to play with him, it was that he listened to me, it was that he wanted the same things. It was that he’d wanted me and wanted to be my someone.

  He came back to the desk with a box of tissues and helped me clean up, only tending to himself after he was satisfied that I was comfortable and clean.

  “You know I’m not 24/7, right?” I asked him.

  He glanced at me. “I might have guessed,” he said dryly.