by D. L. King
Then I’ll give you another clue.
There was a red ball gag in the body’s mouth, suggesting her cries for help had gone unheard.
What about now? Oh, let me check your sweet pussy. Yeah, I can feel it. It’s wet for me. But not yet, baby, not until I say you can come.
And so on, until the reader is begging the writer, please please please, and the writer is ready to reveal who did it, who stole the body’s innocence, who caused la petite mort. Orgasm denial. That’s why. Rather, that’s one reason. There are others, many others. I make a note of them all as Alexa talks; I write them down for future use.
When she has finished, I put my notepad in my back pocket and approach her. She is talking to Mistress Kate, who glances at me in a way that telegraphs her discomfort. Sometimes these heteroflexibles are flexible in name only. Somehow I missed the official announcement, but apparently at some point in the last decade or two, kinky straights got together and decided that it wasn’t hip to be het anymore. Nobody wants to admit she’s straight now, even when it’s obvious.
Alexa shares none of Mistress Kate’s discomfort. She glances at me long enough to communicate interest. Again.
“Great workshop,” I say after Mistress Kate has left in search of a cigarette. “I learned a lot. It should be helpful.”
“I’m so glad,” she says. “I’m always a little nervous about presenting.”
Her hand reaches out, touches my forearm. I’m wearing my uniform: 501s, a black T-shirt, Harley boots. I feel her fingertips on my skin. Lightly, lightly, she touches me— such a tentative touch. She’s close enough that I can smell her scent. Cloves, I think; she smells like cloves and smoke and something earthy.
“Listen,” I say. I have no idea what I’m going to say next. “I was wondering about something. You talked about CBT as part of orgasm denial—”
“Cock and ball torture,” she says. “Yes.”
“Yeah, I was wondering. Do you ever do that with women? I mean, have you ever tried CBT on a woman? On a woman wearing a dildo?”
She looks a little stunned. I’m thinking, uh-oh, hard limit. Or soft limit. Or some kind of limit.
“Hmmmmm,” she says. “No, I haven’t. Of course I’ve tied up the classic female parts but, no, I’ve never done CBT on a girl. I’m intrigued.”
“Good,” I say.
Sometimes I don’t know what I’m thinking until I say it. I can’t begin to tell you the trouble this has gotten me into.
“Well, would you like to try it? Sometime?”
She smiles. Nice smile. White teeth, very straight. And those lips. She’s got a tiny bit of red on a front tooth. That seems to happen sometimes, the lipstick goes there. I have the urge to lick it clean.
“On you, you mean?”
Okay, there it is. Ask for what you want. That’s what they teach you. And isn’t this all for continuing education?
“Yeah,” I say.
Done. Blue eyes, get ready to get hurt. Why would a sweet young thing like Alexa want to play with an old dyke like me?
But no. No rejection today.
“Yes,” she says. “I think I would like that very much.”
We’re at my place (her choice, not mine) one snowy afternoon in February. I have a modest one-bedroom town-house in South Altamont, the decidedly unhip section of our little urban dyketopia. The Census Bureau reported last year that per capita, Altamont, NC, has more self-identified lesbians than any other area of the country. This fact astonishes my friends back in San Francisco, from where I drove the dull but sensible I-70 Middle-America route more than 2,800 miles and two decades ago.
Most of my neighbors are retired, like me. But I’m younger than the demographic of South Altamont. I retired early after giving twenty years to the State of North Carolina’s Department of Education. Enough said.
Alexa is standing in my living room, wearing a Burberry trench coat and a pair of Ray-Bans. She removes the sunglasses now and sets them on the glass-top coffee table in front of the leather couch, across from the brick fireplace. She’s brought along a leather handbag big enough to hold a small alligator. That goes on the ivory shag rug: black on white.
She turns to the fireplace.
“Does this work?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say.
I figure that’s a hint. I kneel to turn the knob that releases the gas stream. Whoosh. I’m acutely aware that I’m on my knees in front of a gorgeous femdom. The logs ignite in obedience. I pull the mesh-screen curtain closed over the dancing flames and stand to face her.
“Nice,” she says.
She removes her coat and hands it to me. Good gentle-butch that I am, I walk it to the closet near the front door and hang it. When I return she’s standing in front of the fireplace. I take her in. She’s wearing a black leather corset, the kind that laces in the back and pushes up her breasts in the front into beautiful mounds. Black fishnet stockings with a sexy seam; high-heeled boots. How do women walk in those things? I wonder. She feels me watching her, tilts her head, smiles, then looks back at the flames.
“There’s something hypnotizing about fire,” she says. “It’s so—primal.”
“Yes,” I agree.
She glances at the wood blinds covering the windows.
“Do those need to be open?”
I glance at them as well. It’s cloudy outside but there is still sunlight filtering into the room, bouncing white off the fallen snow.
“No,” I say.
I close them, one by one. When I’m done, I return to the fireplace. She turns to study me.
“Too many clothes,” she says.
She circles me once, slowly, like an animal. Then she glides over to my big leather chair and sits. Like a queen, I think. Bends to untie first one boot, then the other. Slides them off, rubs the ball of each foot. Wiggles her toes, then she crosses her legs and composes herself. Her chin lifts slightly.
“Undress for me,” she demands.
I hesitate for a moment. It’s something I’ve never heard from a girl. I decide in an instant that I like it. I rip off my T-shirt.
“No!” she says.
I freeze.
“Not like that. Do it slowly. Seduce me.”
I let the T-shirt fall from my hand. This leaves me in a black sports bra, my 501s, and boots. There’s a black leather belt around my waist. I undo the silver buckle and pull it off in one smooth movement. Snap. I hold the buckle in my palm, fold my fingers over it, and wrap the leather around my hand four times, until I have leather knuckles. I hold up my fist to show her, like a boxer. Her eyes smile. Then I unfurl the belt, swinging it back toward me, four times, until it becomes a whip that I fling at her, twice. Snap! Snap! She doesn’t flinch.
“I’ll take that,” she says when I’m done with my theatrics. She holds out her hand.
I wrap the belt into a coil and place it in her palm.
“Good boy,” she says. “Continue.”
I turn my back to her and bend over to unzip my boots. This gives her a nice view of my round ass. I ease out of the Harleys, kicking them aside. The socks go next. Then I turn around to face her.
There’s nothing sexy about my bra. It goes up and over my head and onto the rug. This reveals my chest. I tense my pecs, suck in my abs. I no longer have the body of a twenty-year-old but I’m a lifelong gym rat, and it shows.
“Hmmm,” she says with what I think is approval.
I place both thumbs behind the top button of my Levi’s. Look her straight in the eye. I undo the top button, then the next. Slowly, the way she said she wanted it. Three more until the fly is open, revealing the black boxers underneath and the bulge inside. I ease my hand into my crotch to cup my mound. I see the light of amusement in the dark of her eyes. I slide the jeans down to my ankles and step out of them.
This is where I stop. I present myself to her.
An eyebrow lifts.
“I keep my boxers on,” I say.
I have a thing about exposed pu
ssy. It’s fine for girls, but not for me.
“Take them off,” she demands.
Remember what I said about hard limits? It suddenly occurs to me that when Alexa had asked me a few days ago by email to name my hard limits, I had forgotten to mention exposed pussy. Well, too late now. I pull my boxers down to my ankles and kick them off.
This leaves me completely naked. I have a nice-enough physique but if you were the third girl in the room, it wouldn’t be my physique you’d notice. What you’d notice would be the erect, bright-blue dildo sticking out of my vagina.
Which is, indeed, what catches her eye.
“Oh my,” she says.
It’s the King, the ultimate Size Queen fantasy: nine inches of lifelike dick, including a bulbous, uncircumcised head and veined shaft. A study in realism except for one thing: it’s blue. For some reason I can’t imagine, the manufacturers decided blue and purple were the appropriate color choices for this phallus.
And did I mention that it’s a double-ended dildo? The five silicone inches of the other end are tucked inside me. No straps, no harness. Just a butch and her big, blue cock.
Her smile has turned into what can only be called an evil grin. She uncrosses her long legs and bends to open her bag. From it she removes a coil of lightweight, white rope; a set of locking, leather wrist cuffs; two lengths of chain; a half-dozen red, plastic clothespins and a riding crop. She sets these on the glass tabletop.
“I’ll need to restrain you,” she says. “Not that I don’t trust you to be still, but I like to make sure you feel good and helpless. It’s important that you feel powerless to defend yourself or stop me because this will magnify the effect of even small sensations. When I’m playing with boys, I sometimes tie them up so they can see what terrible things I’m about to do to their cock. But at other times, we go with ‘Surprise!’”
I’m starting to feel a little nervous. I’m suddenly more thankful than I’ve ever been in my life that I am not half of the population that has a real cock and balls.
“Uh, okay,” I say.
She looks at the oak mantel, notices the two brass rings on either end. The rings, though decorative in purpose and original to the house, are actually very sturdy.
“These will do nicely,” she says.
She wraps the leather cuffs around my wrists, securing them with two small locks. Each cuff is attached to a chain that ends with a double bolt snap. She pulls my left-hand chain up and over to one brass ring, opens the snap, and lets it shut in place. Then the right. My arms are now spread wide with my back to the fire.
“There,” she says. “That’s better.”
The fire feels hot on the tender skin of my bare ass, but I know better than to mention this to Mistress Sadistic Pleasure.
“When I’m with a boy,” she says, “I usually do genital bondage next.”
She steps toward me, puts her face so close to mine that I think she’s going to kiss me. Instead, she whispers in my ear.
“You are a boy, aren’t you?” she says.
I shiver involuntarily at the warmth of her breath.
“Yes,” I say.
She steps to the table, picks up the riding crop, and returns. I hear the hiss before I feel the strike of leather on my outer thigh.
Damn!
“Yes, what?” she says.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The crop is transferred to her left hand as her right hand comes up toward my face. For a moment, I think she’s going to slap me. Instead, her soft fingertips gently pat my cheek.
“Good boy,” she says.
I haven’t bottomed since I was twenty-three when my first and only femdom tied my wrists and ankles to the posts of her bed, slipped a blindfold over my eyes, and played Truth or Dare with my body. I’m remembering how it feels to submit.
The hand slides down to the dildo.
“And what do we have here, boy?”
“Uh, my cock?” I say.
“Your cock,” she repeats.
She wraps her fingers around the head and yanks in an upward motion. Inside me, I feel my end of the double dildo hit my G-spot. I gasp.
“You like that?” she says.
“Yes, Mistress,” I manage.
She does it again. I gasp a second time.
“Good boy,” she says.
She steps to the coffee table, sets down the riding crop, and picks up the rope. She unravels a length of the thin, white cord before returning to me. I feel my breathing quicken, my face flushing. With astonishing ease, she wraps both ends of the rope over the top of my cock and back under again, as if the dildo were a boot she is lacing. She pulls the cord tightly into a knot, then examines my face.
“Boys usually look alarmed when I do this,” she comments.
I don’t know how to respond. I’m wondering if I look alarmed but am afraid to ask her. What if I’m not alarmed enough? Or too alarmed? I’m acutely aware that the riding crop is only a few steps away. I decide it’s safer to say nothing.
She continues wrapping my cock in cord, separating the ends around the base and then crisscrossing over the top.
“We’ll end with a pretty bow,” she says and does: she loops the rope into a gift-perfect adornment to my bright-blue package.
“There,” she says. She seems pleased with her work. She grabs the bow and wiggles my cock back and forth. The dildo hits every on-high-alert nerve ending inside my pussy.
“Ohhh,” I say.
“Oh?” she mocks.
She seems to fly to the coffee table and back like a dangerous angel. The riding crop is once again in her hand.
“Spread your legs, boy!” she snaps.
I spread them.
“Wider!”
I’m as wide as I can go without falling down into a graceless version of the splits.
She places the leather tongue midway in the air between my inner thighs, just below my cock. I feel my eyes widen in anticipation.
Whack whack whack.
The tongue stings the tender skin of my thighs.
Whack whack whack.
I try to shift positions, to move my feet, but this only makes her whip faster.
Whack whack whack. Whack whack whack.
I lower my gaze to my thighs and see the beginning of red bruises.
Whack whack whack.
Red! Red! Red! I’m thinking. The universal safeword. But I suck in a breath and keep quiet.
Whack whack whack.
“Does this hurt?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Too much for a pussy-boy like you?”
I’m tempted, but I stay strong.
“No, Mistress.”
She sets the crop down on the table and with her back to me, she bends and does something with the clothespins. When she faces me again, I see that she has clipped them into the bust of her corset. They look like six red exclamation points there, commenting on her uplifted breasts.
“I like to alternate the excruciatingly pleasurable with the exquisitely unpleasant,” she says.
“Yes, Mistress.” It’s the only thing I feel safe in saying now.
With each hand she grabs one of my nipples between her thumb and fore- and middle fingers and pinches hard before turning them like stubborn twist-off caps. I grimace.
“Hurt?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
At that she begins to massage them, circling the areolae with her thumbs. The contrast is immediate, and I feel unreasonably grateful. I am tempted to thank her but sense this would be a mistake. And, yes, before the thought has left my mind, the clothespins are up and off her corset and onto the skin of my breasts. One goes on the inside of each breast, another on the outside, while the two final clothespins go straight onto the nipples. I am a virgin to nipple clamps, a virgin to their unique pain. My new submissive says the pinching torture of nipple clamps is exquisite. Not so for me! Get those motherfuckers off my tits! is what I’m screaming inside. My nipples are too sensitive, I cannot bear
this pain.
Then the crop is back and in her hand. She’s got it by the handle, like a deadly snake held by the tail. The tongue comes up and finds my inner thighs again.
Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!
I hear what sounds like a puppy yelping and realize it’s coming from the back of my throat. I close my eyes and try to breathe. Evenly, slowly. I concentrate on my breath. In and out, in and out.
“Look me in the eye when I hurt you!” she demands.
I obey. The breathing has calmed me, and I’m suddenly feeling at peace. The world seems to be floating away, and I’m drifting, I’m floating on the air. How sweet to be a cloud, wasn’t that what the character said in that children’s book? What book was that, I wonder. Some book I read when I was a child. A long, long time ago.
“Open those eyes, boy!”
I try, I really do, but my lids are so heavy, I only manage to get them partway up. And I had thought they were open.
“Hmmm,” she says.
The thrashing seems to have stopped, and I’m aware that I feel disappointed. And what were we doing? What are we doing?
“You may close your eyes,” she says.
Oh thank god. I really didn’t think I could keep them open much longer. But were they open? I don’t remember seeing anything.
I hear the whoosh of air and feel a sting on my left breast and something pops off, tugging at my flesh as it goes. I’m curious, I’m so curious, but I can’t manage to open my eyes. The next clothespin snaps off with the flick of the crop, then the two off the other breast. My nipples are still gripped by the final two, and I’m thinking, this is gonna hurt, and it does, but in a way that I can barely feel because it’s a pain mixed with something else. I hear giggling as the clothespins go flying off my nipples, and I wonder, Who is that giggling? And why is she giggling? That’s entirely inappropriate. And then I realize it’s me.
I’m aware that I’m still standing. That’s good, I think. I haven’t fallen down. That would be embarrassing. My eyes are closed, and I can feel, I can really feel. I feel her body in front of me, and I can smell the scent of her clove cigarettes and the earthy perfume of the pussy juices she dabs on her wrists and behind her ears. I can feel her energy as she leans in and over me. And I can feel her hand on my cock, I feel her jerking me off. Inside, the dildo rubs against my G-spot while at its base, the cock rubs against my clit. I hear myself moan.