by D. L. King
She’d barely finished laying out the terms when Zoe surrendered and did exactly that. Shouting, she stiffened before convulsing again and again in what felt to Ren like a tremendously satisfying orgasm. Her climax lasted long, glorious minutes, during which time Ren kept up her two-handed fucking, determined to wring everything she could from Zoe’s exhausted body. Finally, after multiple attempts to speak, Zoe gasped, “Bananas!”
At the sound of the familiar safeword, Ren stilled. “You want me out?”
“Of my ass, definitely. My pussy, too, but no big rush.”
Chuckling, Ren withdrew from her wife’s long-past-virgin-status butt, then swirled the cock in tiny, lascivious circles to tease her impending departure from Zoe’s still-contracting pussy. “Total slut.”
“Busted.” Zoe giggle-whimpered when Ren started fucking her again. “Wait. Not yet.”
Ren sighed. “Sorry, you’ve got me pretty worked up.”
Zoe tossed her a flirty, over-the-shoulder smile. “You’re forgiven. Also, that was incredible.”
“I’ll say.” Ren extracted the dildo from Zoe, tilting her head to watch the come leak out after it. “You’re pretty amazing at this role-playing thing.”
“You, too.” Zoe rolled onto her back, then opened her arms in invitation.
“And you’ve got a filthy fucking imagination.” Ren gathered Zoe close, welcoming back the woman who’d shared her bed for the past decade with a loving kiss. “You should be ashamed.”
“Funny, you seemed into it.”
“Oh, I was definitely into it . . . but you’re still a dirty, dirty slut.” Grinning, Ren reflected on how fresh their sex life always felt . . . and how lucky she was to have such an adventurous lover in her life. Then she frowned, her curiosity piqued by a stray thought. “May I ask how you managed to restrain yourself like that? Both wrists, I mean.”
Zoe gave her a guilty smile. “Shuree helped.”
Ren groaned. “Your best friend prepared you for me?”
“You can thank her tomorrow.”
Laughing, Ren decided that was the least she could do.
USE ME
Kiki DeLovely
She knows that I can’t get off with direct finger-to-clit stimulation. Somehow too electrically charged, my body leaps and spasms with the shock of any such contact. I’m far too sensitive. Fucking is fun and all but it doesn’t do much for me. And vibrators? Forget it. Their sensation may be intriguing on other body parts, but they don’t come anywhere near to making me come. Singular and specific in my tastes, there’s only one way for me to get off.
My life has been a journey of discovering various textiles, fibers, and the like that will satisfy my need. I’m forever seeking out various types of barriers to serve as a buffer from overwhelming intensity such that I can stroke myself to orgasm. Panties (my earliest, most obvious choice) have long since begun to bore me. I started with those made of silk and satin (too slippery), made my way to lace (just slightly too textured), and couldn’t bear the sensibility of ever donning anything made of cotton. The clothing of my lovers had its thrill but even that doesn’t excite me as it once did. A necktie, the sash from a robe, the edging of a sheet or pillowcase, they (and many others) have been easily accessible in times of need and have served me well over the years. But it’s time for something new. Something . . . different. I’ve been itching for it; she senses this in me. And now she’s studying me with a curious look. One that’s never before graced her angelic face.
“I want you to use me.” This not being her usual emphasis on the word “use,” I’m slightly confused as she glances down at her naked body. My eyes follow hers . . . and that’s when precisely what she’s getting at finally hits me. Her inner lips, significantly longer than her outer, are exposed. Brilliant. She’s absolutely fucking brilliant. All my years, all my various lovers, all my searching for something new, and the thought had never crossed my mind.
My excitement increases exponentially. “You know I rub hard. It’s going to hurt. A lot. Perhaps excruciatingly so.”
Her gaze gets glossy, deep pools of submission surfacing. “It would be an honor.”
“And you must remain completely dry so that there’s sufficient friction.” Already anticipating my highly specific demands, she hands me a come rag with a coy smile and spreads her legs.
This is all the consent I need. She knows her safeword well—one I’m not entirely convinced she won’t be using this evening, despite her obvious convictions. As I shove the end of the come rag inside of her to sop up inevitable wetness, she lets out a moan. This idea, this genius idea, is obviously turning her on as much as it is me.
“Please, Mistress, I want you on top of me. All your weight pinning me down as you use me for your pleasure.” And before I can even ask, she assures me, “I can take it. I want to. And I know I can.”
I contemplate just how painful using her labia as my own personal sex toy might be, in addition to the mechanics of such positioning.
“Let me prove myself to you.”
Prior to her coming into my life, I had never known a submissive whose desire to prove herself so heavily outweighed all other acts of altruism. I’ve learned to never doubt her determination. So I hike one of her impossibly bendy legs up to the headboard and fasten a leather restraint around her ankle. Paying for her yoga classes throughout the last seven years is probably the best investment I’ve ever made.
“Mmmmm . . . Thank you, Mistress.” The slightest hint of a lisp on each of her S’s always gets me. My preferred honorific somehow sparkles even sweeter when it rolls off of her tongue.
Admiring her gorgeous body splayed out like this, I’m almost tempted to giggle at the ridiculousness of a come rag hanging out of her cunt. But I don’t want to break the mood. So instead I position myself atop her offering, barely able to squeeze my hand down between us, hungry as ever to christen a new toy. Undoubtedly awkward, it takes a bit of wriggling in order to situate myself just so. But I always manage to find a way. She gasps just slightly as I grab hold of my new favored barrier, elongating her already magnificently lengthy labia. The soft, fleshy feel up against my clit is instantaneously satisfying. Just textured enough to provide the traction I crave. Just thick enough to satisfy my need for indirect stimulation.
“Mmmmmm . . . yesssss . . . yes, Mistress, ohhhhh . . . ” I’m unsure whose pleasure is greater as she tenses underneath me. So I focus solely, brutally, on my own as her moans of pleasure morph into groans of pain.
I must constantly keep in the forefront of my mind that this particular barrier is more delicate than the others I’ve made use of in the past. Not to mention the fact that if this one tears, I’ll be devastated. Substantially more so than even the time I ripped my favorite La Perla panties. And I adored those panties. Despite these factors of grave consideration, there’s one thing I don’t hold back on in the slightest: just how hard I’m needing to stroke myself. After all, she insisted that she can take it. So I plan to see this through, to see just how far I can push her. She’s never had to safeword on me before—I tend to push her right up to her edge, hover there for a while, then only proceed when I sense she’s ready for more. A natural edge-player, her limits are constantly evolving, expanding, never static. But I sense we’re progressing closer to her threshold of pain the nearer I inch toward getting off. For the first time, I don’t back off, don’t even bother to slow down as her edge draws nearer.
My clit is throbbing in time with her own racing heartbeat. The depth of such painful sensation causes her breath to catch in her throat, a fine sheen of sweat glistening all over her body. Squeezing her eyes shut tightly, she forces them open every so often to gaze into mine, her pupils wide, a wild expression across her face that gets me even harder. I feel a bit of come drip down onto her as my moans syncopate to her grunts. A cacophonous symphony of salaciousness.
“Use me . . . use me . . . use me, use me, use me, usemeusemeuseme . . . .” Her cries like a mantra, growing
more ecstatic, playing their part in my swiftly mounting orgasm. I suspect they also serve to keep her from hitting her limit, a meditation of sorts that helps her to focus on something other than just how much it hurts.
Now persistently dripping onto her come rag, I grind my hips ever so slightly between hers, careful in my excitement to not give in to the frenzy of my cunt’s desires. My mouth is not quite so cautious, however, as I leave a trail of bite marks across her chest. I sink my teeth in, beginning at one tit and meandering haphazardly toward the other. This new pain momentarily distracts her from that below. Her gaze rolls up to the headboard and then somewhere beyond. She arches her back, one final offering of her body to mine. Screaming into the hollow of her chest, I come harder than I have in years.
I allow myself the indulgence of collapsing atop her completely, each of us breathing heavily, our sweat mingling, pooling between us. After I’ve recovered sufficiently, I kiss her forehead just once before hoisting myself up and yanking the sopping rag from her pussy. A motion met with yet another gasp. Between both her secretions and mine, we’ve soaked the cloth through with all kinds of juices. Much to her delight, I wring it out over her chest. Pride radiating from every pore, she knows she’s done well, proving herself many times over. She has aced the test.
I may only be able to orgasm one very specific way physically, but all sorts of other sadistic activities get me off mentally. Dominating her brings me an entirely unique form of pleasure, most especially because she’ll go anywhere I lead her. She’s always game. So I decide to take our play to another level. There’s a fantasy I’ve been toying with for some time now. Something that I know will surprise her almost as much as the offering of her labia delighted me.
“Such a good little toy, letting me use you like that. I do believe you deserve to be rewarded for thinking so expansively outside of the box.” Unhitching her ankle, I rub the life back into her slightly chilled foot. Satisfied with her circulation, I flip her over, commanding, “Touch yourself for me.”
She needs no further encouragement, greedily getting to work.
“Yes, Mistress.” With her face buried in the pillow, those lispy S’s are all the more exaggerated, pleasing me to no end.
It takes only a matter of seconds before I take note of the fact that she’s obviously close to orgasming. Our previous activities have left her so ready . . . but I have other plans. I can’t ever make it too easy on her.
“Don’t you dare come until I grant my permission.”
“I-I-I-I’m getting . . . so . . . close . . . .”
“You know how to ask.”
“Please, Mistress . . . may I please come?”
“I’m not convinced. I need to hear you beg.”
“Please, Mistress, I’m about to explode! Please! I can’t wait much longer . . . please, please!”
“How bad do you need it?”
“Sooo . . . unghhh . . . Sofuckingbad. P . . . p . . . pl . . . please!”
She can barely get it out, the poor thing, as worked up as she is. And I can tell how badly she wants this. This orgasm is going to taste so sweet. Which is precisely why I’m not about to let her have it. At least not in any conventional manner.
“I-I’m . . . uh . . . I can’t . . . uh . . . .pl-ease . . . .”
“No.”
“But . . . .”
“You heard me.” I grab her hand away from her clit, pinning her wrist above her head, pressing my body firmly against her, extending the torture just a bit more by shoving my cunt hard against her ass. I hold her—one hand wrapped around hers above and one hand below, gripping her hip firmly. “Now I want you to take a deep breath and feel the tension disperse throughout your entire body.” She inhales perhaps as deeply as humanly possible in that moment, nevertheless, she’s not going to get off that easily.
I delight in pushing her and this will indeed be quite the demanding task. Nothing seems to excite her more than a challenge. And nothing gets me hotter than her living up to it. An endlessly licentious cycle.
“Deeper,” I whisper, with an intentional hot breath in her ear, reveling in its effect on her body as all her little hairs stand on end and every inch of her skin prickles with goose bumps. “I want you to use the energy of that orgasm . . . ” (so close to the surface, we can both still nearly taste it) “ . . . and push it into the farthest reaches of your body. Feel it pulsating down your legs, all the way into each toe, sensing the tingle and intensity of all that fervor.”
She’s still shaking, working hard against her body’s natural inclinations in order to fulfill my orders.
“Good girl. Now take another deep breath, sucking the oxygen deep into your lungs, filling them as full as possible. Hold it there for a second before releasing it to thrum across your chest, traversing your arms, down into your fingertips. Feel it spark there before you let go and relax into the release of that breath.”
She looks so gorgeous, her face crushed into a pillow, her expression ever obedient and needy.
“Experience that orgasm pulsing through every last pore, every last molecule of your being. Feel it pour over you, racing through your body, and let yourself go as you sink in deeper than you ever have before.”
I know exactly what she’s feeling. As I was fantasizing about what to do with her several weeks ago, this little scene came to mind and I played it out with myself in her place. I know the power behind an unfulfilled orgasm and what it can do, where it can take you, if you let it. But the more common option is sometimes too tempting, for both doms and subs alike. Who among us has the restraint to deny ourselves or our lovers that type of gratification?
Turns out I do.
Pressed up against her skin like that, I know she’s doing beautifully. Following my every command to the nth degree, as she continues to prove herself to me. Proving herself of use to me. I can feel the energy pass into my body, that’s just how exquisitely she’s excelling at this task. Inhaling all she has to offer, I set the pace for her breath. She exhales into me. Our connection continues to unfurl in unnamed spaces like these. Her earlier offering may have brought me to orgasm, but it also left me wanting. Wanting to use her up completely. And then leave that taste in her mouth for a good, long while.
Hesitantly, once the energy dies down and we’re just a pile of dewy, sticky flesh, she’s the first to speak. “Whoa. That was . . . intense.”
I grin into her shoulder, kiss her there.
“Mistress?”
“Yes?”
“Did I do well?” Holding her breath, she already knows that she did, but she needs to hear me say the words.
“Exceptionally so. I couldn’t be more proud.”
She relaxes into the pillow and I can hear the corners of her lips turning up, the creases around her eyes crinkling. “Do you think that maybe . . . I mean . . . perhaps . . . is there a chance . . . ?”
“Is there a complete sentence somewhere in there?”
She composes herself and tries again. “Mistress, do I deserve to come?” Doubt, expectation, and longing tangled on her tongue.
“That’s something I’m willing to consider.” I jump up and begin to dress as she sighs, pushing herself halfway up. While I slip my dress over my head, she cranes her neck to watch me. “We can definitely discuss it . . . ” Looking back over my shoulder before exiting the room, I finish, “ . . . next week.”
I hear the thud of her body hitting the mattress from the hallway as her entire person, along with her hope, deflates.
Oh, how I do so love toying with her.
CUCKOLD
B. D. Swain
Tell me it isn’t true that at the heart of every young butch is a balled-up, wet hankie. Prove it. The butches I know are always coming up short, feeling insecure and unsatisfied when what they’ve got is so right. I’m not pointing fingers. I’m talking about me; me and every goddamn butch I ever met. I’m here to tell you I needed to change. Things were no good. I was no good. But all that was going to be set
straight. I was sure of it.
I never cared about being short like some of my friends. I never minded if my date insisted on paying for dinner or could drink me under the table. It wasn’t the day-to-day bullshit that ate me up inside. It was a matter of degree. It was that I grew up soft, educated, rich enough to never think much about money. It was that I never worked a job with my hands. I hadn’t earned the leather boots I wore. I’d bought them without thinking twice about the money. Every time I saw a hard butch pull wadded-up singles out of her front pocket and count them before ordering her beer, I hated myself.
It didn’t matter that I picked a girl up at the bar. I was never butch enough. I spent the next couple of hours fucking her angry, pounding into her to make up for what I wasn’t. A real butch. A hard one. I fucked her until she curled her fingers around the back of my neck and told me she couldn’t take any more. I growled in her ear. She fell asleep in my bed and I kneeled next to her, staring in wonder. Why would she come home with me? How could I ever keep a girl like this after she found out I was a phony? I might look tough at the bar, but she’d find out how soft I was soon enough. It ate me up inside. I could never be the butch I longed to be.
I get what this sounds like. Poor little rich asshole. Yeah, that’s me. That’s all you need to know for now. But let me tell you the rest of the story. Let me tell you how I kept going back to the bars. Kept playing the part. Me with crumpled dollar bills soaking up beer on the bar. There I am with a bottle of Bud in the corner. I don’t smoke but it would have been a soft pack of Marlboros if I did. I wore my jeans tight and kept a ring of keys in my front right pocket, wearing away a hole toward my inner thigh. I looked the part in those bars. I knew enough to make eye contact. I knew enough to smile and chat and get a little drunk and press my hand against the small of her back. “Baby, let’s get out of here,” I’d say and more times than you’d think, we’d go. That’s how it played out until this one night, this one girl. She laughed and turned away and bought herself another round.