by D. L. King
You’re hitchhiking on a typically long road somewhere in the never-ending Texas desert. There hasn’t been a car for miles. It’s dusk. You came across a motel a few miles back, but it was closed down. Boarded up. You couldn’t even break in to squat there for the night. It’s gone dark, and all you’ve got is a tiny Maglite to keep you from veering into the desert and away from the road. The coyotes are howling. You don’t want to admit it, but you’re a little scared, so you pull yourself up tall, strong at the core. It’s dropping desert-cold, so you zip up your battered leather jacket. Your trusty backpack warms you a little, but it’s not much. You’re wishing for a warm comforter to snuggle into.
In the distance, you see lights. You’re not sure if they’re moving or it’s a motel. You’re hoping for the latter. Nope, they’re moving toward you. At speed. You’re tempted to stick out a thumb, but they’re going in the wrong direction. The truck zooms past you, but the interior light is on, and you catch a glimpse of the driver. You smile. She was kinda hot.
The brakes screech, and you spin around—an accident? A coyote in the road? You see the truck turning around. It’s coming back to you. The window retracts, and the handsome woman leans over.
“You need a ride, honey?”
You come closer to the truck and rest on the window’s edge. “I do, but I’m going this way. You weren’t.”
She smirks and blows smoke in your face. “I can go your way, honey.”
There’s something a little dangerous about her, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.
“That’d be great.” Looks like you’re taking the risk and going anyway.
“Hop in then.”
You open the door and swing yourself in. You know it’s not much for safety, but you put your backpack between you and this mysterious stranger.
“Looks like you’ve got your whole life in there.” Her voice is a little hoarse; something you always find sexy. She’s observant too; another check on your list.
“Yeah, I’m just traveling.”
“Traveling or getting away?”
“A little of both.” Your honesty surprises you.
“Do you need a place to stay?”
“Is there a motel close?”
She laughs. “There are no motels round here, honey, but I’ve got a ranch just up the road.”
“And you don’t mind putting me up for the night?” Now your bravery is surprising you too. Or maybe you’re thinking you misjudged her. She’s got an easy nature, and she seems laid-back.
Another laugh. “I don’t mind at all.”
You take a moment to watch her hand come to her mouth as she sucks on her cigarette. Her hands don’t look that rough for a rancher, but you guess she probably wears gloves. She must be hot, because you can see her veins are popping all over. You find yourself wanting to trace your tongue over them.
She’s caught you staring, and you look away quickly.
“See something you like?”
Jesus, straight to the point. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”
“Sure you did.”
She’s cocky in her assumption. Cocky and totally right. You like that—you always do. She smiles, self-assured, and looks back at the road.
The silence is heavy in the air, and you want to say something, but you don’t know what.
“Horses or cattle?” It’s an inane question, but it’s the only thing that springs to mind other than, “Please pull over and fuck me right now.”
She smiles again. “Really? That’s what you want to know?”
She’s got a great smile too. Genuine. Knowing. She knows you’re hot for her. You try to look away again, but her eyes are magnetic and draw you in. You have an inescapable feeling that there’s a caged animal behind those eyes.
“I guess . . . I don’t know.”
She’s got your tongue. You’re never speechless. Words are your life. But words are also what you’re trying to get away from.
“Why don’t you ask me something real?”
The truck suddenly turns onto a bumpy track.
“Do you live alone?” It could be an innocent question. It’s not. It’s loaded.
“Why?”
She’s playing with you. “Just a question.”
“No, it’s not. You want to know if I live alone because you want to know if I’m going to fuck you.”
Now it’s your turn to laugh. Nervous laughter that never sounds right. If nothing else, she’s a straight talker. “No. No, that’s not it.”
“Sure it is.”
Your breathing’s become shallow and quick. You’re not sure what’s happening. You wonder if you made a mistake getting in the truck.
“Having second thoughts?”
“No. I need a place to sleep.”
“Who said you’d be sleeping?”
Nervous laughter again. She makes you uneasy but somehow relaxed at the same time.
She pulls the truck into an open barn and climbs out. She’s at your door before you even think about moving. You grab your bag and start to climb out, but she reaches over and stops you.
“You won’t be needing that.”
She pulls you out of the truck and onto the hay-covered floor with a quick tug. The truck door slams. You’re stunned and start to scramble backward.
“Where are you going, honey? You don’t wanna run away from me.”
You stop. She’s right. You want to know where she’s going with this.
“I saw your tattoo. When you got in the cab, your jeans hitched up.”
You look down at your leg without shame. You’re kind of impressed she saw it.
“And?”
“And, I know what it means.”
Your pussy jumps, throbs. “Really?”
Her laugh. You already love that laugh.
“It means ‘slave.’” She’s matter of fact about it. Just comes straight out with it.
“So?” More bravery. Keep going.
“So, you’re in luck. I know exactly what to do with a woman like you.”
Your eyes cast downward and take a moment to drink her in. Heavy black boots she could crush you with. Dark jeans tight around strong, muscular legs. A patriotic buckle on a rough, fucked-up leather belt. Tight black tank over an impossibly perfect body. Tanned muscular arms. She takes another drag of her cigarette and her bicep bulges. Your pulse races: muscles are one of your big turn-ons. Slender neck, perfect face. Hair short at the back, slightly longer on top. Bleached.
And those eyes. You could stare into those hazel eyes for hours. If they weren’t so fucking intense. She practically walked out of your fantasy world and stepped on your chest.
“Why so silent? Don’t you have anything to say?”
You know what you’ve got to say. She’s demanding it. She shouldn’t have to spell it out. You were speaking the same language before you even met.
“What would you like to do with me . . . Sir?”
That smile again. It melts you. Sets you on fire.
“Stand up.”
You’re on your feet before her in exactly the right amount of time. You’ve trained yourself well. “Sir.”
So fast you barely see her move, she has a handful of your hair. She drags you to the rear of her truck and throws you against it. Your shoulder jars and pain sears through you. It feels fucking great.
“Face the truck and put your hands on the mountain tops.” She makes it sound poetic.
You grasp the metal bars and wait, shaking just a little with anticipation. She’s behind you, and you feel her strength again. Ropes slide over your wrists and slipknots are pulled tight. You’re bound to the truck faster than a cop could’ve cuffed you to it. She never answered, but now you’re guessing she ranches cattle by the way she just tied you down.
She unzips your jacket, and her hands are all over you. Squeezing hard, grasping like she’s trying to tear pieces from you. She shoves her hand down your jeans and sighs deeply into your neck when she feels how
wet you are. She pulls out, and her hands are nowhere for a moment. You’re already missing them.
A Bowie knife flashes in front of your face. It’s huge. The barn lights catch in the blade.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” she whispers as she slices through your leather jacket from collar to hem, from cuff to collar.
You loved that jacket, and it falls away in three pieces to the dusty floor. You kinda don’t give a shit right now. Your T-shirt follows. As does your bra. She moves your long hair over your shoulders, baring your back. Her hands dig into you all over, like she’s got more than two.
“You know what I love about Texas?”
You’re breathless, drunk almost. “What?”
“How we’ve really hung on to our ranching history.”
You’re not sure what she means, but you don’t really care. Her voice is so sexy. Everything she’s doing is the stuff you’ve only dreamt about. Things you’ve trained yourself for, waited for your entire life. Could you be this fucking lucky?
“I’m not like most Americans. Obsessed with technological advancement and this so-called digital age. I like to continue traditions, artistic traditions. I have an antique quirt, one used on a ranch just like this centuries ago. Its core is full of lead. I’ve rebraided it and added a few more, heavier falls, made of buffalo hide, so you can really appreciate its weight.”
Is it possible you might pass out? All the blood from your head is driving straight to your cunt.
“Would you like to see it?”
“I’d like to feel it.”
She’s gone from you, and the moment you know she’s back is when the strike of her quirt throws you against the truck. You gasp. She’s not warming you up. She’s heading straight for the core of you. She’s hungry. You want to feed her with your pain. She strikes you again. Your naked breasts hit the truck. Pain, front and back. This time you steady yourself and hold on to the truck for the next strike. You can enjoy this one. She’s giving you time to savor it.
She brings the quirt down on your back and ass, time and again. You lose count. She’s not talking to you. You can’t talk to her. You can only feel. And it feels so fucking good. You’ve wanted something like this for years. And here it is, across your path with the luck of the Irish.
You can hear her growling and exhaling with each strike. You’re weakening. You don’t think you can take much more. Your knees start to give way. She stops and presses her whole body against you, her tank on your raw, beaten back. She drops the whip into the truck hold and slips her hand into your hair. Yanking your head back she bites into your neck, and you scream.
She stops. “Too much for you?” It’s rhetorical. She doesn’t care.
You don’t want her to care. “No, Sir. Please. Use me. I’m sorry to scream.”
“No need to apologize. Your scream is musical.” She bites down again as her hands unbuckle your belt and open your jeans. She’s away from your neck, pulling your jeans to your ankles. She kicks your legs apart, and you buckle slightly. Her fingers are inside you, easily. You’re not stopping her. You couldn’t if you tried. It’s not that your body’s taken over, as much as your mind has just released all of you into her hands to do with as she pleases. Trusting her to know you even though she knows you not.
Two quickly become three, four, inside you. Her thumb folds into her hand, and you become her puppet. Slowly, her hand becomes a fist inside you. You feel it in slow motion as if you could see it happening. Her left hand is at your neck, pushing you into the cold metal of her truck. Her right fist pumps inside you, violent but safe. Vicious but so fucking sexy. You’re screaming now. Begging for her to carry on. If anyone stopped her right now, it’s possible you’d consider committing murder.
Her mouth bites into your hip, your ass. She tongues the welts on your back, and her saliva burns, reawakens the pain. She twists her left hand into your hair and pulls your head back. You arch. You hear her growl again. She’s watching your body so closely, taking in your reaction. She’s fisting you exactly the way you love it, and your body is screaming for her to consume you. Her teeth and mouth are all over you. Her tongue slips between the cheeks of your ass and traces all the way up between your shoulder blades.
You’re glad for her strength, how she’s holding you up.
She releases your hair and pulls your belt from your jeans. One handed, she flicks it around your neck, through the D-ring, and pulls down. Her fist is still working your pussy. You’re closing around her. The belt constricts around your neck, and you gasp for air. She pulls it tighter still.
That’s all you need. You explode around her, tighten, keep her in there. But she has no intention of going anywhere. She waits out the orgasm while you pulsate around her hand. She pulls a little tighter on your belt.
“Thank you. Thank you, Sir.”
Slowly, she comes out of you. As does the abundant slickness of your orgasm. Her Bowie knife slices through your bindings, and you begin to collapse, but she catches you. She picks you up easily in her arms, carries you to the hay bales close by, and lays you on a soft blanket. She hitches up on them and envelops you in the strong arms that have just taken you to the heights of your fantasies and beyond.
You drift into a thankful sleep in the arms of the Master you’ve been waiting for.
I feel her body shudder its beautiful orgasm, and smile. Words are our life, and I do love making her come without touching her.
“Thank you, Master.”
“Sleep well, sweet slave of mine.”
“I will now, Master.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
EMILY BINGHAM (emilyerotica.com) lives and loves in Portland, OR. Her erotica appears in a number of Cleis Press anthologies. Her memoir, Diary of a Rope Slut has been recently published. When she isn’t writing, she’s playing with rope or teaching bondage classes.
AVERY CASSELL is a genderqueer writer, poet, and cartoonist. They’ve published a queer smutty fiction novel, Behrouz Gets Lucky. You can find their erotic short stories in several anthologies, including Best Lesbian Erotica 2015 and Sex Still Spoken Here. They’re working on another novel, a memoir, and a children’s book.
KIKI DELOVELY (kikidelovely.wordpress.com) is a kinky, queer, witchy femme who has toured with Body Heat: Femme Porn Tour and whose work has appeared in various publications, including Best Erotic Romance 2015, Take Me There: Trans and Genderqueer Erotica, and Bound for Trouble: BDSM Erotica for Women.
CECILIA DUVALLE is a writer and lover of erotica and mysteries. She spends her time writing, knitting, reading, and loving in Redmond, WA. Her work can be found in many anthologies and links via her website at ceciliaduvalle.com.
With stories in more than forty anthologies, TAMSIN FLOWERS (tamsinflowers.com) has probably been writing erotica for far too long, but she isn’t going to stop. Having completed her yearlong Alchemy xii BDSM novella series, she’s now turning her attention to a new novel of a dark and twisty hue.
SACCHI GREEN (sacchi-green.blogspot.com) has published stories in a hip-high stack of erotica anthologies, including She Who Must Be Obeyed and eight volumes of Best Lesbian Erotica, and edited a dozen anthologies, among them Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition and Lambda Award winners Lesbian Cowboys and Wild Girls, Wild Nights.
J. BELLE LAMB holds an MFA in poetry. Her work has recently appeared in the anthologies From Top to Bottom: Lesbian Stories of Dominance and Submission and Best Lesbian Erotica 2017. She’s active in her local kink scene and always easily distracted by hot women.
ANNABETH LEONG is frequently confused about her sexuality but enjoys searching for answers. Her work appears in the 20th anniversary edition of Best Lesbian Erotica, and many other anthologies. She is the editor of Maker Sex: Erotic Stories of Geeks, Hackers, and DIY Projects. She is on Twitter @AnnabethLeong.
ROSE P. LETHE is a corporate copyeditor, copywriter, and avid watcher of cat videos. After completing an MFA in creative writing, she found she could no longer stomach “seri
ous literature” and has since turned to more enjoyable creative pursuits.
ROBYN NYX is a lover of all things fast and physical. Her writing often reflects both of those passions. She is the author of Never Enough, and The Extractor series with Bold Strokes Books. She lives in England with her fellow scribe and soul mate.
MEGHAN O’BRIEN is the author of multiple lesbian romance and erotic novels, including Thirteen Hours, Battle Scars, Wild, The Night Off, The Muse (Lambda Literary Award winner), and Camp Rewind, from Bold Strokes Books. She’s also the author of a veritable cornucopia of dirty stories, published online and in various print anthologies.
JANELLE RESTON (janellereston.tumblr.com) is a pansexual powerhouse whose erotica has appeared in anthologies such as To Obey Her, Going Down, From Top to Bottom, and The First Annual Geeky Kink Anthology. She loves sci-fi, sexual innuendos, and living in a lake town with her partner and their cats.
PASCAL SCOTT is the pseudonym of a Decatur, GA,– based writer whose erotic and romantic fiction has appeared in Harrington Lesbian Literary Quarterly and the anthologies Thunder of War, Lightning of Desire; Through the Hourglass—Lesbian Historical Romance; Order Up, A Menu of Lesbian Romance and Erotica; and Haunting Muses.
SIR MANTHER is a graduate student in biology with a wild imagination and an insatiable appetite for pain. She is training for her second marathon, has two tattoos (so far), and is working on a memoir about science and unrequited love. This is her first published erotic work.
SONNI DE SOTO has two BDSM erotica novels published and stories in The New Smut Project and in The First Annual Geeky Kink anthologies. As a kinky masochist of color, she knows how difficult it can be to accept one’s own desires, but how necessary it must be to fully enjoy them.
B. D. SWAIN (bdswain.com) is a butch dyke who started writing queer smut because of a deep need to do so. Pushing her sexual expression is what makes her feel the most alive.
MARY TINTAGEL is a British writer who lives on the fringes of Sherwood Forest. Mary enjoys horse riding, rock climbing, spelunking, and walking her dogs. She has never fallen off of a horse without getting right back on it.