by D. L. King
“That’s how I tell her to back off,” I said conversationally as I pulled Carla’s skirt up and panties down. “You want me to back off any time, just whistle. You do know how to whistle, don’t you?”
She stopped reaching in vain for the beads, kicked off her panties and skirt, and thrust out her bare butt. Playing along, letting me get away with something, but taunting me just the same. I let the golden beads drift gently over each round, tempting cheek, drew them along the valley between, then whipped them suddenly across each side. Carla gripped the top of the gate and didn’t look around. I swung them harder twice, slashing in diagonal strokes that left an intriguing latticework pattern. I’d tried whipping my own arm with the beads that morning, though, and knew how extra painful they could be, so I switched tactics. Breaking the skin would end things too soon.
Besides, I couldn’t wait any longer to touch her directly. The heat of her skin, the sound of my bare hands striking her flesh, the tremors of her body, her musky scent intensifying by the second . . . I lost count of my strokes, intoxicated, high on power and lust, all the more when she began making guttural sounds interspersed with gasps. “It’s . . . it’s okay, Molly!” she got out as the horse twitched and shifted nervously.
I eased off, until she grated, “More, Ree, dammit!” twitching her hips to emphasize the demand.
“My territory, my rules! I decide what you get, and how much, and when.” I made a stab at sounding stern. It felt good. More than good.
Her muttered words were barely audible. “Yes Ree, all right, whatever you want . . . ” Then, even more faintly, “Please . . . ”
My hand came down hard again on her rounded, tantalizing butt, over and over. I wanted her to want more of that, and to want all the kneading and squeezing of her reddened flesh my fingers indulged in between bouts of spanking. I needed her to want those things, and to want them even more because they pleased me.
I struggled to keep some control over myself. A whack on a draft horse’s rump just hard enough to get his attention could do real damage to a slender girl. I tried to gentle her again with slower strokes, but she shuddered and squirmed.
“Please . . . ” Carla’s whisper was low and tremulous now. “Don’t stop . . . don’t let me drop . . . ” Whatever she meant, I was dead sure playing along had nothing to do with it anymore. She wasn’t enduring the pain now so much as absorbing it, consuming it.
“Trust me,” was all I thought of to say. I got one boot up onto the bottom rung of the gate and one arm around her waist, supporting her, never letting up but varying the rhythm of my hand. Her dark hair hung down on either side, exposing the pale nape of her neck. After a while I gave in to temptation, bent my head, kissed that tender, vulnerable skin and felt a tremor wash through her.
Then I bit down, just hard enough to leave my mark without drawing blood. That jolted her into shud-dering motion. Her breath came harder, in gulps, then hard, wracking sobs. I lifted her down and managed to get to the folding chair beside the door and sit with her cradled against my shoulder until the heaving of her body subsided. She murmured something into my shirt that might have been, “Thank you . . . ” and then raised her head just a little. “If only . . . I wish . . . ”
I’d have done anything for her by then. “Wish what? Just tell me what you want!”
She shook her head, wiped her tear-streaked face against my shirt, seemed to pull herself together, and sat upright on my lap. The old Carla was back, cockiness muted, playing along, but any real vulnerability well hidden.
“Whatever you want, Ree.” She pulled off a tank top, her only remaining garment, and started to unbutton my shirt with her teeth. My tits strained toward hers, just inches away. Suddenly her mouth changed course, toward the shirt pocket where I’d clumsily stuffed the strings of beads. Loops of each still dangled outside. Carla’s tongue flicked the golden strand, drew it slowly all the way out and dropped it into her hand. My cunt clenched as though the beads had undulated right through it.
“You don’t want to let these go to waste, do you?” Her tone was low, smooth, sultry.
The raw marks on my wrists from last night tingled. I hesitated. What did I want most? Carla wriggled seductively on my lap, but couldn’t conceal a wince of pain. I stroked what I could reach of the superheated cheeks pressed against my thighs. That backside needed a rest from friction. More sitting wasn’t an option.
“Across my lap. Now. On your stomach with your hands behind your back.” I lifted her just enough to ease her movement, and had her wrists bound behind her in seconds with the golden beads. Nobody’s better at one-handed knots than a horse handler.
I forced myself to take it slow. Two more strands of beads slid between those lovely moon-pale, red-striped cheeks—rolled lower into the hot, wet heat between her thighs—nudged at her hardened clit—until I couldn’t stand to let the beads have all the fun. I got the tube of lube from my pocket, opened it with my teeth, lubed my hand, drew out the beads, and slid two fingers deep between Carla’s folds. She arched into the pressure, moving frantically at first, needing more, more depth, more force, but I still teased her with retreat and advance and retreat, over ever more wet and slippery terrain, ignoring her wriggles and pleas for more until my own need forced my hand.
Faster, deeper, harder, her sounds and movements igniting my own body. Time had no meaning, only motion. My big hand raced to give her everything she wanted, everything she could take, everything I wanted her to have, until her body tightened around my fingers, pulsed to a relentless beat, then clenched even harder as the crescendo shook her.
Carla’s sobs of release dwindled gradually to whimpers. I lifted her down to the sleeping bag I’d left spread on a mound of clean straw in the empty stall next to Molly’s, lay down with her, and started all over again—with the added benefit of lips, tongue, full frontal contact, hands freed from beads, and my own thundering crescendo.
Much later Carla muttered drowsily, “I didn’t get the other strand yet. I failed the challenge.”
“That’s okay.” I pulled a rough horse blanket up over us. “Just never assume that because something looks extra big and strong, it must be scary.”
“Maybe I’d like it to be scary, now and then.”
I let her have the last word, unless you count Molly’s gentle snort, and drifted into sleep. But only for a while.
“Ree!” Carla was straddling me, her old cocky, assertive self again. She’d retrieved the purple strand of beads from Molly’s mane while I slept and bound them around my wrists, and now she whapped me across the chest with golden ones. “Molly and I want to go for a ride!” Meeting my challenge in full, then topping it.
“Okay,” I said. “But for the sake of Molly’s unblemished reputation, I’d just as soon you kept it inside this barn and the one next door.” Even with my wrists tied I could make a stirrup with my hands for Carla’s foot, and toss her high onto Molly’s broad back.
It was a shame, really, that no one but me got to see a dark-haired, naked Lady Godiva ride a great black mare through the horse barns that unforgettable night at the county fair. Especially since I very much doubt that the original lady rode with strands of golden and royal-purple beads coiled inside her well-seasoned cunt.
That glorious sight turned out to be a parting gift. We slept again, clinging together, but when I woke in the morning Carla was gone. Gone from my arms, from the barn, from the fairgrounds, with nothing to tell me how to find her, and no sign of her at any of the other fairs that year. All I had left was a new sense of myself, searing memories of pleasure and pain, Carla’s scent on Molly’s back, and a faint voice murmuring in my dreams, “If only . . . I wish . . . ”
I haven’t given up wishing.
APPETITE
Emily Bingham
Pulling up in front of Lou’s house has become a Pavlovian turn-on. The sight of the location of so much pleasure causes the center of me to light up. So there’s a giddy skip in my step as I walk up the stair
s to her door. With every iota of my body alight in anticipation, I knock and wait for it to open. That is until the seconds add up and I realize that opening isn’t coming. My heart sinks; I’m confused and feeling exposed on this porch that’s ordinarily a portal to a land of tender hedonism. I decide to slink back to my car, only noticing the paper taped to the door at the last second.
K: It’s unlocked. Come in, undress, and sit.
The handwriting isn’t familiar—in the age of texts and emails we’ve never exchanged penmanship—but instinctively I know it belongs to Lou. My breath catches as I nervously eye the door.
My hand trembles to twist the knob, wondering at the game she’s instigated, but inside the house everything is warm and familiar. To my left, the coffee table I was once bound to with Saran wrap. To my right, the couch where we cuddle and fuck with equal frequency. Beneath me, the carpet’s distinct texture I know from when I’ve been pressed facedown in it with my ass in the air. Straight ahead, the ottoman I’ve been spread-eagled on more times than I can count. But the living room doesn’t seem to be on the menu this evening.
The smell of spices and baking bread draws me to the kitchen. This room has many happy memories attached to it as well; however, none of them are erotic. Lou is an accomplished cook, and the meals we share are so delicious as to be nearly orgasmic, but this is the one room of Lou’s house where we’ve never fucked.
I grin to notice the lone wooden chair resting out of place at the center of the kitchen. It sits to the side of the wheeled island with its cutting board of ingredients abandoned mid-chop. This must be where I’m meant to sit.
Removing my clothes, I drape them over the chair back, glad to be unwrapping from my autumn layers in Lou’s steamy kitchen. It seems a shame to shimmy out of the lacy bra and matching panties that I bought specifically for Lou to enjoy, but the note said to undress, so I do, noticing a stirring behind me as I finish folding my clothes.
Suddenly I’m aware of having been observed during my entire unintentional striptease. This explains the half-chopped veggies; Lou must have gone into hiding when my footsteps announced my arrival. But rather than turning to look, I continue to pretend not to notice her company while setting aside my clothes and sitting to wait.
When Lou approaches the chair, putting her fingers over my eyes, I’m momentarily startled but the texture of those rough hands and the smell of her skin soon soothe me. Then the deep voice that’s the vehicle I follow into so many fantasies whispers in my ear, “Hello, sexy.”
I reach to run my hands along strong arms, melting back into my lover, ready for anything. Trusting and relaxed, my body purrs with delight in this preamble to pleasure.
Soon she guides my hands to my sides and the game begins. Always thrilled to be bound, I keep still while feeling my wrists encapsulated by the buttery soft cuffs Lou and I bought years ago. We use these restraints so regularly that the leather is molded to the shape of my body. I issue a moan of delight as both my hands are cuffed and then clipped to the chair’s arms. Lou stands behind me, continuing to remain hidden.
When she moves into my vision I take in the body that makes my lover so handsome, starting with the swell of her shoulders. Then there’s the curve of her chest, which even while pinned down by a binder hints at the abundance of breasts that I envy and Lou loathes. And the bulge at the fly of her tight pants lets me know Lou is packing.
Running my eyes back up her body, our eyes meet; hers are shocking hazel points of intensity, mine an opposite and eager blue ringed by the beginning of the crow’s feet that Lou enjoys kissing tenderly. We hold this gaze until my inability to read my future in Lou’s eyes makes me shy. I gaze at the floor near her shiny black boots hearing, “Mmm, that’s my lovely girl.”
She’s aware I love to hate being called this. It’s been decades since I could reasonably pass for a girl. But the tenderness and lust I feel for Lou has made me young again. As if youth is contagious. As if each time she dives between my legs, it takes years off my age. I always leave her with a bounce in my step. And there is an intensity to our relationship that I haven’t felt since college. Perhaps it’s the trappings of lectures and note taking, piles of women’s and gender studies books piled in the office, as well as the frequent “I can’t tonight, love, gotta study,” that have me acting—through osmosis—like a schoolgirl.
Her hand drifts down my face, pausing at my chin only to linger at my throat, fingers gripping the soft meat of my neck, holding my life and breath in her palm. Our pulses merge as Lou tips my head back so we’re eye to eye. Predatorily she comes close; mouth open with such menace I could swear Lou has fangs. She holds eye contact, breathing me in only to back away with a suddenness that makes me gasp.
Lou smiles, voice still imbued with danger. “You stay there; I’m going to finish cooking.”
My senses are turned up to eleven with excitement, so that I’m already wet and wiggling on the chair. I almost hate her knowing me so well that she’s aware a hand on my neck makes my heart skip. Every damn time.
I breathe heavily while watching Lou chopping with her back to me; listening to the gas of the stove whistle as it’s turned on, a pan placed over the heat at the ready. The oil sizzles over the flame, awaiting Lou, until she tosses a palm full of garlic in with a hiss. Agitating the aromatic herb, Lou fills the room with a scent that has me near drooling. Left here bound with nothing but the sight of Lou’s ample curves for amusement, I melt into the chair, enjoying the view and the smells of her expert cooking.
From the oven she pulls pillows of steaming bread dappled with poppy seeds that resemble freckles. I watch the boules, set aside to cool, begin to sink slightly in the center, a sign they’ve been kneaded and allowed to rise properly. An image of the heels of Lou’s strong hands working repeatedly through the soft dough fills my mind. In awe, I’ve watched her perform this essential ritual of bread-making many times. I’ve also been under the palms of those hands so she could knead at the muscles of my back, working out the stress of life until I writhe in pleasure-pain.
Next, a green vegetable enters the oven. Closing the door with a creak and a slam, Lou looks at me over her shoulder with a smile, “Almost done. You hungry?”
I spread my thighs exposing my cunt. If she can tease me I’ll return the favor. “Ravenous.”
Lou responds with a raised eyebrow while unwrapping chicken pieces from butcher’s paper to add to the frying pan. The sizzle and pop of fat has my stomach rumbling. I can’t tell if I’m more eager for dinner or to become Lou’s meal.
Soon the stove is clicked off; she sprinkles ribbons of fresh basil over the meat, pulls the veggies from the oven, and plates the feast. The ideally browned chicken nestles next to roasted peaches, asparagus, and thick slabs of rustic bread with fresh butter, all of it plated to resemble a work of art.
Lou pours an effervescent white wine into a glass and retrieves a place setting. All this I watch with silent curiosity.
She sits at the countertop, making a show of sipping the wine, then reaching to grasp the knife and fork. Before cutting the meat, Lou glances in my direction across the room where I’m pouting, feeling left out. “Just kidding. This is all for you, darling.”
Plate in hand, Lou uses the other to pull a chair in front of me. I close my thighs to make room for Lou to come nearer but she shakes her head, using a foot to wedge my thighs open.
“Stay.”
I feel like a piece of meat myself as she eyes me, knife in hand. Happily, it’s dinner that sharp blade is meant for; she cuts a thin slice of chicken, then a sliver of peach, spearing them together and lifting the cutlery in my direction. Parting my lips, I accept the food. Tender, juicy, and garlicky this dish feels like summer on the tongue. Moaning, I close my eyes and slowly take it in.
“You like?”
“Very much so, thank you.”
Kissing my forehead Lou says, “You are quite welcome, you know how much I love to cook for you. Such a willing victim to my ex
periments. All of them.” She winks at me before preparing another forkful. I watch her chew until her eyes light up as she makes a self-congratulatory nod of approval.
I giggle in excitement as Lou pulls apart a piece of decadently thick bread into a bite-sized morsel. She drags it through the juice of herbed peach and chicken glaze, sopping up the liquid into the white of the bread’s leavened interior. Longing for a taste the moment it’s offered I reach forward as far as my bonds allow. The delicate crust surrounds a soft, juice-dampened center. This crisp flake gives way to the perfectly tender crumb, all of it melting on my tongue.
“Uh, Lou, sweet Jesus that’s amazing bread.”
Lou portions out another piece that she pops in her mouth, and nods. “Yes it is. New recipe and it’s a keeper. Just like you.”
This makes me blush. Lou knows exactly what she’s doing: the sweet talk, the teasing, the perfect meal, keeping me exposed to embarrass me slightly. She keeps on hitting all the buttons that make me lust for her.
Cutting the delicate length of an asparagus stalk, Lou traps it on the fork and throws me off by consuming it before creating another serving for me. This tease is so frustrating that I struggle against the cuffs, anxious to taste the next morsel of Lou’s creation.
“Aw, life is tough for you.” Lou guides the citrus-drizzled, salty vegetable into my mouth, placating my hunger, this greedy need she opens up in me when she’s near. For now I’m trapped and at her mercy as she continues this pattern of preparing mouthfuls of delicious food, but my lust will soon be transferred to my unending desire for Lou’s body. Her hands, mouth, tongue, fingers, skin: I long for them all to be mine.