by D. L. King
Roos untethered my forelimb and pulled me nearer. Behind me Fenna moved in closer to make up the distance. In little more than an instant Roos had pulled off her pants and underwear and lain on her back, on the ground with her legs far apart. I could see she’d recently been waxed to within an inch of her life. Fenna maneuvered me so that my head was level with Roos’s crotch. The inverted V of her clitoral hood and the moist folds of her lips were as beautiful as rare orchids. I did not like this girl, or her presumption that I would now pleasure her, but I acted out of pure self-interest. I knew when I started to kiss and lick her it would turn me on, and I desperately needed more lubrication to stop the burning from Marengo. So, I went to work.
The next orgasm was so powerful I think I blacked out. When I came round, Fenna and I lay on our bellies in the sawdust while Roos unstrapped us and removed the horse limbs. Then she held a horse tail in each hand and tugged. Fenna’s came out easily in the first split second; mine was like a tug of war that seemed to be pulling me inside out. As the stippled head was finally dragged out of my anus I came again. Roos dropped the butt plug next to my face and I saw what had been inside me.
“Oh my Jesus,” was the only thing I could vocalize. It had been a surreal and savage experience here in this chamber. I wondered about those who had played this game before me in the decades since it had been built, and those who had watched them. The pleasure and pain had both been intense. But the cynical part of me wondered to what extent all this had really been spontaneous. Had I been royally screwed in more ways than one? Was this really the last night of this place or was it all just a prank that these two occasionally played? I wasn’t actually sure if I was going to find out.
As I got up I looked at Roos and saw that the whole set of her face had changed. The mask had unfrozen into a pleasant and relaxed smile.
“Sorry to have acted like such a queen bitch, but it’s all part of the act I put on here. Most people like it,” she said.
“Well it was certainly very convincing,” I assured her.
After we’d climbed up out of the arena and got dressed I surveyed the scene. There was glass everywhere from where Fenna had smashed open the display case to get at Marengo.
“There’ll be trouble over that, Roos.” I suggested. “We should help you clean up.”
“Don’t worry. There are identical cases in storage. I can swap it and sweep up before morning,” said Roos.
“Can’t we take Marengo with us if no one is going to use it again?” asked Fenna.
“The Board of Trustees expects exhibits to be archived and accounted for. Maybe at some point in the future it will be put out on display again. So no, you can’t just steal it,” said Roos, patiently. At that, Fenna made a move as if she would smash the horse cock against the floor and break it. Frankly, I doubted she had the strength to snap its metal core, but it was merely a pretense to rattle Roos, after which she dropped the dildo to the tiled floor.
“Well let me get a shot of it just for remembrance,” I said. I took my phone out of my jacket pocket and held it like I was merely taking a picture. Actually, I’d activated the Inventure app’s scan mode. It was a piece of software I’d assisted in the development of and was in the Netherlands to help field test. This was as good a test as any, but I’d have to be in the office pretty early on Monday morning to make sure no one found out what I’d been up to. On the other side of Amsterdam, inside the Zurtech building, a 3-D printer had now come to life and was crafting an exact duplicate of Marengo in resin. Soon I’d be giving a surprise to Fenna and Roos.
They had not quite seen the last of Marengo.
CLOSE EDGE
Elinor Zimmerman
She wears a knife around her neck. I bought it for her as a birthday gift, wrapped it so carefully in the most beautiful silvery tissue paper and put it inside a little wooden box I’d made for her. Lola keeps her rings in that box now. The necklace she wears every day and keeps on her bedside table while she sleeps.
It’s symbolic, the necklace. It’s a little pocketknife— she has a collection of bigger knives at home—and it folds out. When you first see it, the necklace is just a pretty brass mermaid. It takes a second to catch the glint tucked up in her tail and realize there’s something sharp inside. I thought of Lola the second I saw it. She’s the hottest, toughest femme top I’ve ever met. You might look at her and see nothing but those tantalizing hips and thick, strong thighs, her fishnets and boots and those little skirts she wears with pockets she sewed on herself, the false eyelashes and smudged red lipstick. You might see her fantastic eyebrows creeping together (that she says make her look like Frida Kahlo), her big-ass door-knocker earrings, that little mermaid pointing to all that cleavage, and read her wrong. People do that a lot. A short brown girl with blue streaks in her hair, a curvy chick showing skin? You know what they’re thinking. Then Lola flashes a pretty smile and glides right by. Or then Lola destroys somebody with her perfect, soft-spoken phrases, leaves some asshole blinking and stunned. On our second date Lola asked to kiss me, whispered what she really wanted to do, and when I said yes she slammed me against a wall with all her strength and knocked the wind out of me. You think she’s decorative but inside she’s steel.
Lola always gives me exactly what I want. Sometimes she starts as soon as I walk in the door. She greets me by pushing her fingers into my hair, her rings catching in it and pulling painfully. Sometimes she lets me think we’re going easy tonight, lets me slip out of my heels and trade my pencil skirt for sweatpants and take off my bra. Then Lola rubs my shoulders and sneaks up on me. She gets me relaxed before she bites my shoulder so hard she leaves marks.
Today I think she’s aiming for a slow burn, but she can’t wait. She walks into the bedroom as I hang up my skirt. I’m still dressed other than that, button-down, panty hose, underwear. I’ve stepped out of my heels. I know the look in her eye when she comes in. I know we’re already playing. She says nothing as she pushes me on the bed. She pulls the necklace off her neck. Lola flicks out the blade. My breath catches in my throat. We have a standing agreement about it—knives are welcome from five thirty to six thirty every day unless I tell her they’re not—but it takes a second to be ready. Lola doesn’t give me a second. She’s already pressing the little pocketknife against my calf.
Lola keeps all her blades sharp, even this one. The tip slides into the fabric so smooth, so easy, and then it’s just a matter of running it up the side of my leg, ripping it apart. The tip of the blade grazes my skin, a kiss that doesn’t cut but promises it could. She does the left side as a straight line leaving flaps of nylon from my ankle to the waistband. On the right side she gets creative. Lola slashes, jagged and haphazard dashes going at all angles. She rubs her thumb over the exposed skin. She digs her nails under the little access ways she’s created.
Then she smiles at me, a smile that says where we’re going tonight. I nod. She binds my wrists with the restraints we keep under the bed. Once I’m secured, Lola goes to her desk to get her collection.
She folds the pocketknife back into the mermaid. Lola comes back with it looking like a necklace again. In her hand is her knife with the three-inch blade and the slick black handle. My tights are all cut up, but the crotch is still stitched tight. I know she brought out the bigger knife to change that.
First, though, she’s going to tease me. Lola presses the dull edge of the blade to my naked skin at the slices she’s made in my tights. It’s smooth and cool. I shiver thinking what she will do with it. Slowly, she turns it around, skimming the so-sharp edge up my legs, curving from outer thigh to inner, high up until the blade rests, perfectly still, against the fabric covering my cunt.
“You can’t move,” she says, which I already know. We have done this before, so many times, but every time it is new. Every time it is unknown.
With quick, clean cuts she excises the crotch of my panty hose. The knife destroys the seams, the careful stitches. These were new, I think, for just a moment. I�
��m going to have to buy new ones. For that second, there’s no danger, no thrill, just the crush of errands to run, panty hose that must be worn, the responsibilities of adulthood.
Lola hates that kind of thinking. She works in a book-store where no one would blink at ripped-up tights, but probably she’d just skip the whole thing, her gorgeous legs bare under her short skirts. It’s different for me, working in an overly air-conditioned office, with expectations for “professional” appearance. I hate it, hate the panty hose and the muted colors and the fact that I am thinking about this when Lola has me tied to a bed and is straddling my leg. She tells me to quit all the time, but I can’t, not yet. So there’s this, her greeting with a knife in her hand, helping me forget my day.
There’s her bringing me back to this, right now, with the insistence of that knife. Lola tears at the hole she’s made in my tights. She puts the knife on her bedside table right by the little wooden box. Lola rips that hole wide. The thin nylon gives at her ferocious tearing. She rips with fury, with glee at her destruction. She rips it so wide that, though she cut out just the small oval of reinforced fabric where the garment came together, she makes it split past the sides of my underwear, and up the front almost to my belly button.
“There’s still something in my way,” she says, stroking the black cotton of my panties.
We don’t usually do this. Usually cutting up the tights is enough. I’m picky about my underwear and don’t love replacing those if she cuts them to bits, but today I want her to. I give the tiniest nod.
Lola angles the knife against my pubic bone. The fabric here is thicker, the edges scalloped with lace trim. The trim gives at the first pull of the knife. Once she’s made the incision, cutting a straight line across is easy for Lola. The knife grazes me ever so slightly, but does not break the skin. The loose flap of the now-ruined panties falls down on the bed. The waistband of the underwear stays snug while my smooth cunt is exposed. Lola scoots off me to sit between my legs and admire her handiwork.
The air against my naked skin feels chilly and electrifying. I can hear my heart pound in the silent room, the blood rushing in my ears. The look in her dark eyes, so raw with wanting me, undoes me completely. I know she sees how wet I am, how that fuels her and pleases her, and this thought makes my clit throb.
I want to beg her to fuck me, but that’s not how this works. I want to tell her to yank down her tights and her underwear (is she wearing any today?) and lower herself onto my mouth. I want everything, all at once. But it’s greedy. When we play with a knife, it satisfies us both in a way beyond words, but it also takes a lot. If I let go, I can soar, but when I’ve pushed in these scenes, we’ve both found ourselves drained. If I trust her to give me what I need, she does.
Lola reads me so well. Sometimes she cuts up everything I’m wearing, chops buttons off shirts—she even cut through bra straps once—before running the knife all over me. But not today. I don’t have the patience today. She can see it on me. So she shoves up my shirt and bra and runs her left hand over the plane of my belly. Her right hand holds the knife. Ambidextrous Lola will not be putting it down any time soon.
“You aren’t allowed to move,” she says again. This time she brings the knife to the side of my left breast, resting the blade against my goose-bumped skin. “I’m going to hold it steady but if you move you might cut yourself. You don’t want to cut yourself, do you?” Her voice is singsong sweet.
“No,” I whisper, though of course sometimes that’s exactly what I want. Not right now, but sometimes.
“Good. So you’ll be very still,” she says. Lola lies on me, angles her hips between my legs, and kisses me on the mouth. She’s very gentle, very soft. I want to rear up and get rougher but there’s the knife against my breast. I stay put, follow her lead, kiss her tenderly the way she’s kissing me.
Lola kisses her way down my neck, over my collarbone, to my breasts. As she moves away from my mouth she starts using her teeth. By the time she’s latched on to my right nipple she’s biting and sucking hard. I want to squirm but I keep myself motionless. With the other hand, she moves the knife over my left nipple in feather-light strokes, no pressure at all so it does not cut. Then she switches, taking the knife in her left hand and repeating the motion and torturing my left nipple with her mouth.
I’m aching. I could come like this if she lets me. But just as I think that, she takes her mouth away and moves the blade from my nipple back to the side of my breast. Without a word she adjusts, straddling my leg again. Lola glides two fingers inside me, rests them there. She looks me over, considering. She’s planning what to do with me. Will she take out her dull knife and ease it inside me? Will she pull out the pretty red harness and the big blue dick, hold this blade to my throat and fuck me? Will she keep the knife where it is and grind herself against my thigh until she comes? Will she get up and leave me like this while she sits in the chair in the corner playing with her knife until I break? She’s done all these things to me. She might choose any of them.
But today, she’s generous. Today she pumps her right hand against my cunt while her left hand holds the knife against me. She fucks me with her fingers and I clench around them. I move my hips while trying to keep my upper body still. We’re both moving and motionless, both in pieces like this.
Lola trails the blade up my body. She curves it around the side of my breast and over the top to the center of my chest, puts the tip to my breastbone as she slides it up, hovers that sharp point at the hollow of my throat. She keeps fucking me the whole time. When that knife rests against my neck, I don’t move anymore. I don’t breath.
“Baby, you can move now,” she coos. Lola pulls the knife away, sets it down on the bedside table again. “It’s okay.”
“Can I come?” I whisper.
She nods. Her smile is so kind. I fell for that smile, those round cheeks with the dimples, as much as I fell for how razor sharp she is. Lola eases her fingers in and out, brushes my clit slow and steady with her thumb. I rock against her wildly. I’m still tied up but my hips are free to shake and push and grind. Lola’s got the weight of her body pushing against me, backing her arm as she fucks me. She’s moving her own pussy on my leg. She’s shaking and sweating but holding off for me. Lola always takes care of me.
She reads me like a book, every time. I’m so close, on that edge, and she knows what pushes me over edges. Playing with edges shoves me over edges, I think, and I laugh. She’s not laughing. She’s biting her lip and trying to get me off before she comes. Lola grabs that knife again. We’re not being gentle. She digs it up under my breast. Both her hands are full and busy. I’m writhing and squeezing her fingers with my cunt. I’m using her thumb to rub my clit. I’m cutting myself just a little on the blade as she holds it still. I’m coming on her hand and calling out.
I can’t feel the pain of the cut as I come. I can just feel the release she brings me. It rushes through my body, shakes me, makes me swear and grab at the restraints at my wrists. When I start to still, she puts the knife away on the table. Then Lola reaches under her skirt while she’s pulling her other hand away from me. She touches herself as she wiggles on my thigh. Her free hand is slick from me, and she licks her fingers clean. I’m still tied up and can’t reach out to her like I want to. She savors my whimpers. She moans and humps my leg, coming faster than I want her to. I want to watch her longer. I want to help. But she’s coming and swearing and collapsing on top of me.
I love the crush of her weight on me. I could stay like this forever. Lola releases me, unbinds my wrists, rolls off me.
I still can’t feel the cut on my breast, still too blissed out. “How is it?” I ask, lifting my breast.
She smiles. “I used the dull edge. Didn’t break the skin.”
“Cheater! I wanted it to scar.”
“Not tonight.”
I pout a little. She shakes her head. “When I cut you like that, baby, I like to make it special,” she says. She points at the new white she
ets on our bed. “And I’d lay a towel down first.”
No matter how punk rock she is, Lola’s nothing if not practical.
“I love you,” I exhale.
She kisses my temple. “Love you too. Come on, get changed. I’ve got dinner in the slow cooker.”
I get up slowly. I open my drawer for sweatpants and there, on top, is a shiny, unopened package. A new pair of panty hose. Beneath it, a new pair of underwear.
“Lola,” I say, touched. I change as she watches. “So thoughtful,” I add as I slip into my new underwear.
She flashes me that smile again. “I knew you’d be needing them.” She straightens the mermaid at her neck. Then she takes my hand and leads me to our kitchen.
BEDTIME STORY
Robyn Nyx
I feel her stir in our marital bed.
“Baby, are you awake?”
I laugh quietly, tempted to answer with the old cliché, “I am now,” but of course I’m awake. I can feel her need, it’s buzzing like a low-voltage current. I’ve just been waiting for her to pluck up the courage to ask me. “I am, babe. Are you okay?”
“I’m horny, baby. Are you too tired or will you tell me a story?”
“What kind of story, babe?” I’m teasing. I know exactly what kind of story she wants. I know her fingers are in position and moving in slow, circular movements over her clit. In the soft glow of the night-lights, I can see the comforter moving up and down over her hand.
“The bedtime stories you’re so good at.”
“And what have you done to deserve such a treat, sweet slave?”
There’s a pause while she contemplates her answer. She doesn’t want to seem too presumptuous, and risk incurring my wrath. Or maybe she does.
“Earlier this evening, Sir, after I’d finished tending to your hands and feet, you said I’d done a good job. You said I could choose a reward, and to choose wisely. This is my choice, Sir . . . if it pleases you?”
I turn on my side to face her, and slip my hand onto her breast. Her nipple is already rock hard. I pinch it before I begin . . .