You manage to swing your head wildly to one side, just enough to see my face. I imagine you must’ve hurt your neck doing that. We lock eyes and for an instant, I see a flash of relief that it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay. It’s only me and this isn’t really happening. But when I don’t move, when I merely hold you there, our gazes locked, my expression unchanged, you realize, yes, this is really happening.
To you. Right now.
And it’s then that I watch ten different expressions roll across your face like storm clouds.
You asked me for this—don’t you remember? Of course that was months ago, back when we were still together, when you told me stuff like that. Before you decided things “weren’t working out” quite the way you had hoped. Which basically translated into you still wanting me to fuck you, just me plus a handful of other unnamed people. Not that I said no. It was just that neither of us said I love you at any point during sex anymore, no one spent the night, no one cried after. Well, at least I never did in front of you. I saved that until I got home.
So now here we are, pretty. When you wondered where your desires might take you, is this what you imagined? Am I spoiling you for a date you had planned tonight? When you made your way to work today, was this how you pictured your evening: your face a mask of panic and total helplessness, a fury you’re unable to vent?
But I know you, my sweet. There is something else there, something you’re trying to conceal in your expression. But it’s all spelled out for me by the heaviness of your breathing and the wetness I feel as I reach my hand up your skirt.
You were always so lovely when we fucked. Your eye makeup smeared, your hair a luxuriant mess around you. I felt so proud after, that I had ruined your carefully composed image, the face you showed the rest of the world. As though another woman waited under your skin, alive and magnetic, and only I had the power to free her, free you from yourself. Like Aladdin I rubbed you, waiting for magic to happen. But just like every clichéd genie story, wishes come true only in their most literal sense, a backhanded blessing. As I stirred what lay dormant in you, it was not only me that reaped the benefit. I woke you, my beauty, and you made me pay the price by sharing your love. What do you think of wishes now?
I pull the length of rope from my pocket and tie your hands behind you. I keep the knife near your throat, the soft hollow just beneath the jaw, near your ear. I think of slasher movies. I think of high school, and cutting my arm with a broken ashtray when my heart had been shattered and the only way to cause him pain was by hurting myself. The only sound in the room is your breath mingled with mine. Both of us panting.
I tell you to stay still as I lift my knees from your back, slowly, gauging your reaction and how hard you’re willing to fight. I ease one knee between your thighs, press the knife into your neck a bit more, for effect, before I trace its edge down past your shoulder, let you feel its presence near your ribs as I use my other hand to unbutton my jeans. I wonder about your choice of stockings versus panty hose, and what that might say about your plans for the evening. No matter. You only make it easier for me. The knife slips through the black mesh of your underwear and you breathe in, sharply, followed by that rasp you make when you’re almost beside yourself, and I’m quite sure bringing the knife back to your ribs makes you hotter. You’re so wet your panties slip right through my hand, and I rub the soaked edges against my cock, tell you how good it feels, how hard you make me.
Did I buy you these panties? Certainly a possibility. A couple weeks’ wages in lingerie was nothing to complain about. Not spent on you. I check your face again—nah, they’re new. Correction: were new. I can tell by the look you try to shoot me over your shoulder. As though you have a fucking thing to say about it. I smile to myself and smack your ass one good time, hard enough to see my hand in red relief. I ask you who you were gonna fuck tonight, who was scheduled to be the conquest of the evening. I ask you because you have a knot of sheet in your sweet, lying little mouth, so you can’t answer me. I don’t really want to know.
What I want is you—possession, revenge, something I can’t quite name as I stroke my cock, teasing your pussy with the tip of it, watching you slide around the edges, trying like hell to get me inside while I call you names, while I name what you have become to me. Bitch, whore, slut, fuckhole. You were my fucking goddess. What pisses me off extra is that you still are, I still want you as much as I ever have. I still want you to want me like that. And right now, you do.
It’s the red one, baby, the big silicone fucker we laughed about and called devil dick, the one you asked for when you wanted me deep and hard. My extrabutch dick, I used to joke, the one I couldn’t pack unless the goal was to be obvious. Am I obvious now? Can you feel me hitting the edge of your cervix as I give you all of it, all at once moving from tip to hilt in one fluid motion? I have you by the hair, push your face down into the bed harder as my hips meet your ass with every stroke. I’m channeling good dick tonight and I swear I can feel you pull me in deeper, the contractions of your cunt begging for more, for less, I don’t even give a fuck. I can feel you slick and firm and moving around me, in you like this, grinding and slapping against each other until I think one of us might tear in two. I’m sweating, you’re sweating and we slip until you land flat on the bed, struggling to get on your knees for balance, to get your ass aimed back at me so I can hit you harder, drive it in further, but the press between me and the bed is too much for you and you come, the sheet finally slipping from your mouth as I yank your head back hard, your neck turned at an odd angle and you screaming, screaming from a guttural place deep in your throat, a dark, animal sound.
I keep pounding into you after, squeezing my thighs and hips together as I ride high up on the soft swell of your asscheeks, letting the dildo bump against my clit again and again and I am breathing raggedly, my fist still in your hair, yanking you back with every thrust forward. You are a thing, a thing to be filled and defiled and I am worried about the knife but I’ve dropped it on the bed next to you, and I think about drowning in red, about your throat slit wide open and I’m coming hard in you, against you, and you surprise me when you buck against me and do the same. No screams this time, just hard grunts and moans into your bedspread, soaked with the both of us.
I lie there for a while, letting the sweat dry to a chilled film under my shirt, drifting off somewhere. Somewhere away from here, away from you. It’s only when you begin to squirm beneath me that I remember where I am, what has transpired between us. Your arms must be sore, roped behind you like that all this time. I try to untie you, but my joints feel weak, my hands and the rope slippery with sweat and sex, so I cut through them instead. You lie there, your face half-turned toward me, but not looking. Not seeing. As perfect and unreachable as always.
Neither of us says a thing as I pull up my jeans and make my way to the door. I knew what I was doing when I showed up tonight, the lines I was crossing and cutting in the process. I turn back one more time to look at you, waiting for my heart to tell me something, to whisper your name in the cave of my chest. But instead I notice the blank look on your face, as though you’re merely waiting for me to leave. And I realize you have been, right from the very start.
WHERE THE RUBBER MEETS THE ROAD
Aimee Pearl
We’re walking down the street and he’s fucking me. Everything’s slippery and delicious. This is all true.
We’re at the Folsom Street Fair—the annual BDSM outdoor playground event—and it’s a hot San Francisco September day. Hot in a way that only San Francisco can be, and only in September. They call it Indian summer. There’s a monsoon swelling between my legs. He’s going to make me gush.
We’re walking in broad daylight. The crowd is thick around us. He rubs a wet thumb against my clit. We move side by side in stride, no pauses. I wonder…
If people looked down toward my crotch, they might see his right hand sneaking around the edge of my bright cherry-red latex micromini. They might realize
that he’s got a finger sliding between my lower lips. What would they think? What would they say?
My skirt is so short that it doesn’t cover the full curve of my ass. You can see my cheeks peeking out from the bottom of the shiny rubber coating. I can’t wear panties in this, and I can’t sit. Can only stand. Can only keep on walking. While he fucks me.
He’s devilishly handsome, this one. His skin is the color of a toasted hazelnut, and twice as tasty. We’ve fucked many times before, but never like this. Never outdoors, in the middle of the street, digits stretching wet rubber wide…
The red of my skirt is polished to a gleam, and I love the way the color looks metallic against my velvet-soft brown skin. This was the first piece of latex I ever bought, the first one I ever tried on. Its tightness around my narrow waist, rounded hips, and plump ass makes me look and feel space-alien exotic, and draws attention to the fullest part of my body. Yes, my butt has stopped traffic. Who doesn’t like to look at a black diva in red rubber?
For now, though, we’re blending in, seeping into the throng around us. He’s giving me a teasing fuck and my cunt is starting to ache with desire. Pretty soon, I’ll want more fingers, I’ll want to swallow his fist whole. We’ve got to find a doorway to lean into. I can’t cum while walking. I’m perched on spike heels and might fall over.
The orgasms he gives me have been known to cause great commotion.
We find an alley and he pounds me quick and hard, leaves me wet and feeling dirty. This boy has a way with those hands of his. He once made me cum while I prepared a cup of tea. Holding kettle, boiling hot and full, precarious. He came behind me at the stove and rammed four fingers into me. Undid me. Unraveled me. I don’t know how I managed to pour steadily after that.
But I did.
We’re discovered in our crevice by onlookers, dykes from around town, smiling at the queer couple that is us. I wish he was packing, so that we could give ’em a real show. Unfortunately, he left his dick at home today. Who needs it, I guess, when you’ve got hands like his?
Still and all, I do crave his cock sometimes. For a moment, as he fucks me roughly one more time for our audience, I imagine him, silicone in hand, rubbing his rubber-covered rubber dick against my rubber-covered rear. Rolling up latex for greater access. Sliding toy into tightness. A fetishistic ass fuck on a city street, sweaty.
I do it again. Cum.
Later, we leave our latex-alley love nest and slide back into the crowded thoroughfare. He runs into a friend, a gorgeous high-femme white girl with a buzz cut. Six-two in heels, she works as a pro-domme at a local house. Today is her day off, and she and her girlfriend/submissive are strolling through the fair. She’s wearing an ankle-length latex dress, and she’s drenched in sweat. She squats down and lifts her skirt to circulate air around her sweet blonde pussy. I want to swoon, but not from the heat. She complains about the weather, and about the clients who keep spotting her in the crowd and begging to be dominated.
Beside me, he chats casually with her and smiles. He knows I’m a sucker for a pissed-off femme domme, not to mention one wearing even more latex than I am. From my angle above her, I can see down into her cleavage and admire the beads of wetness on her full breasts. I’m starting to feel wet again myself. He knows. He knows it’s time to fuck me again. He knows it’s time to go for a walk….
On our next date, we meet at midnight, this time in another alley, in a different part of town. He’s hanging out in a club up the street; I’ve been instructed to drive into the alley and wait for him in the backseat. I send him a text message to let him know I’ve arrived, and arrange myself to be ready for him. He leaves the club and approaches my car.
I’m wearing a cream-colored knee-length A-line leather skirt. The material is so soft and buttery that most admirers don’t even recognize that it’s made out of leather—at first glance anyway. This skirt always gets a second glance. It’s not short, it’s not tight, and it’s not an eye-catching color. But it manages to exude a subtle yet no-nonsense sexiness. It’s a great skirt for a dominant woman to wear, because of its strict lines. But I’m a submissive, and I like to wear it to feel encased in it, bound by the leather, however loosely, as it falls around my thighs.
There’s a rap at the window, and I reach over to unlock the door and let him in. Let him come in and fuck me.
As requested, I’m not wearing any panties. Although this time it’s not because of the length of my skirt, of course, but because of other constraints of the scene. Namely, he wants quick and easy access to my cunt; he wants to fuck me quickly and then leave me to go back to his friends at the club. It’s all been prearranged. We move like we’re dancing. Only there’s no music. Just the sound of leather rubbing against vinyl, and breathing. His breath and mine. Mostly mine as he’s fucking me hard and I’m struggling to endure it. To take it all in. He’s packing this time, all right, using one of his biggest cocks.
The day was hot but the night is cold. The windows steam over, and as I’m parked illegally in a one-way, dimly lit alley, I’m beginning to worry if we’ll attract any unwanted attention. He doesn’t seem to be concerned. He was cavalier from the moment he entered the car. He hasn’t said a word to me, in fact. Just leapt in, closed and locked the door behind him, shoved me down onto my stomach, and used one hand to pull his cock out while the other pushed my skirt up.
He’s gripping my skirt, the thin leather bunched into his fist. One of my arms is pinned under me, but with the other I start to reach out and run my hand along his pant leg. I discover he’s wearing leather chaps over his jeans, and that they fit nice and snug. I try to reach far enough to get to the edge of the leather, so I can stroke his crotch, feel his real cock, the one that’s slowly been getting bigger as he’s been transitioning and taking testosterone. But he’s not having any of this, doesn’t want me to move. He rams his cock into me to the hilt and uses both his arms to hold me down, immobilizing me. My face is buried in the vinyl of the seat, my legs spread wide with one on the seat and the other leaning over the side toward the floor, and all else is sound and heat and motion and fullness. His chaps are rubbing the vinyl, my skirt is rubbing the vinyl, and there’s no room to breathe. I’m gasping for air, wondering which one of us will come first, when suddenly, without warning, he pulls out.
He pulls out, and pulls back, and I can finally catch my breath. But I’m confused. I shift around to see what’s going on, and witness him pulling two things out of his pockets. My eyes go wide as I see that one is a rubber ball gag with leather straps, and the other is a small packet of my favorite anal sex lube. He lays the lube packet on my bare ass and speaks for the first time all night.
“Open up.”
I open my mouth to receive the gag, and then he secures the straps in place at the back of my head. Now he twists the tab off the lubricant, and dribbles it onto his dick. His second sentence comes at me:
“Get ready.”
The head of his cock is already pressing against my asshole. When we talked about meeting in the alley, he said he wanted things to go quickly. But if he’s seriously thinking of fucking my ass with that big toy, this is going to take a while.
Or so I think.
He works it in with surprising speed. Behind the gag, I’m grunting and half-screaming, but he knows I can take it, and I know he’s going to make me. The perverse thrill of submitting to this sadistic “forced” ass fuck actually causes me to open a little more, which eases his way inside. He’s one step ahead of me, and pushes as I acquiesce.
When his cock is completely in my ass, he pauses for a moment, to give me a chance to feel the extent to which he’s stretched me out, to confirm my own surrender. One moment, and then it’s over. That’s all I get. After that, it’s his turn.
He pounds me hard, fucking me for all it’s worth. He’s determined to come and he knows how to use my ass for his own pleasure. My job is to endure. Gagged, held down, plowed, I am a thing to him. An object. A leather-clad fuck-hole. He slams into m
y ass, over and over, until he shoots his orgasm into me. It’s not liquid, of course; it’s an energy, and thus, twice as potent. I take every drop, deep into my ass, for him.
And when he’s done, he pulls out gently, undoes my gag gently, slides me over onto my back gently, smoothes down my skirt gently, and gently, very gently, reaches under my skirt and flicks one slick finger against my clit.
I explode.
I come against his hand with a roar, violent waves of pleasure crashing through me. He holds me as I come, body to body, leather to leather, gripping me tightly until my moans subside.
Then, just as quickly as he entered, he puts his silicone dick back in his pants, zips up, and leaves.
Next time we’ll play in PVC.
SHINE
Jacqueline Applebee
I see her every morning; she’s a late starter, always turns up after nine. She walks leisurely down the length of Liverpool Street Station, trying not to be obvious, but I know her sort. She’s got all the signs that say she’s more than interested in the shy chubby boi-dyke who shines shoes. She always glances at me one too many times, as she floats by in an unhurried way, smiles and looks down shyly as she passes. And that is the thing that really gives her away; everyone is going to his or her lifeless office job and everyone is in a frantic rush. Everyone that is, except her.
Still, she has never sat, never spoken. She has never let me shine her shoes.
She always buys a peanut butter bagel from the snack bar at my side, checking me out discreetly. I know I’m a novelty—my difference makes me a definite attraction. As she walks by once more, I spy the small smudged white paper bag she holds, already weeping with the sweet brown melting ooze, but all too soon she disappears up the escalators and outside into the financial center of London.
There have been others more bold than she, though they always try to appear subtle and dignified. I see their feet beat a determined path to the newsagents, the food stalls or the open plan pub that surrounds me, but as they get closer, the heady scent of waxy polish catches them, makes them visibly falter on their way and they turn on their heels. They turn toward me.
When She Was Good Page 8