69

by Alison Tyler

  Becky beams, her ego swelling. I loosen my grip on the jump rope handles and she begins to untie the restraints. When I’m free, I bring my arms around in front of me. Becky sits beside me, rubbing my calves. I flinch, suddenly aware of the pulsing in my legs. The discomfort is comforting.

  Unfolding my legs from beneath me, I thank Becky with a kiss, and then another, and a few more, biding my time until I can get some of my strength back. But Becky is already on her back, pulling me down on top of her. The position keeps my rear end off of the bed, but the throbbing still distracts me from the task at hand. I try to stay focused by playing connect-the-dots with the freckles on Becky’s body.

  Please, she pleads, wriggling like a spring toy.

  But her pleas fall on deaf ears. Wait. The butterfly needs a happy face.

  Becky’s foot smacks the mattress. I said please, she whines. Didn’t you hear me? She points to her pussy. Pointing is a habit she’s acquired from me: Deaf people love to point; only Hearing people think it’s impolite.

  I heard you, I reply, before taking hold of her again. My fingers follow the freckles to the curly garnish above her cunt, and then delve into the sweet heat between her thighs. Her pussy is red and juicy, like the flesh of a watermelon. I press my middle and index fingers together, the letter U in ASL, and glide them inside. My wrist is the color of a pink Christmas tree, but I pleasure her through the pain.

  My touch sparks a not-so-quiet riot of visual noise. When we’re making love, Becky is never reserved or restrained. Right now, she is kicking and screaming and her face is scrunched up like a tie-dyed shirt and her back is arching like she’s trying to shimmy under a limbo stick.

  I listen attentively, watching as the blush seeps into her cheeks, creeps along her neck and sweeps across her chest. My other hand comes to rest against her throat. My head comes to hover above her mouth. I feel the puffs of her breath, the hum of her moans, this buzzing medley of gasps and clarion cries. She utters my name—Victoria—and the vibrations roar through my fingertips and chug through my veins.

  I give the butterfly a happy face and wait for her to relax.

  She smiles. I do the same.

  I sign I love you. She signs the same.

  It’s a very good sign.

  I’ll never get tired of hearing it.

  Three Days

  By Cate Robertson

  The first day, my little doxy comes to me and asks me to teach her the pleasures of her backdoor.

  It is not a simple task, nor one to be assumed lightly. Her request places a huge, if thoroughly pleasant, burden of responsibility upon me as her master to teach her how to break through the wall of shame that imprisons her. I must encourage her to trust her animal instincts and to accept them as right, and as hers by right, all the bodily sensations—touches, sounds and smells—that her experience has told her are wrong or dirty, but that are part of her nature as the crown of creation.

  I must subject her gently but firmly to the most abject humiliation so that she will learn to trust me not to reject or ridicule her. I must train her to give me every last vestige of her modesty and every scrap of her embarrassment without demur. I must show her that I will always be there for her, that we take this journey together, and that in the end, when I am lodged to the hilt in her arse, she will understand what it is to be female quite literally in her very guts.

  Here she is on the carpet, clad only in her drawers and chemise. Fully dressed with my hands gloved and my riding crop tucked under my arm—she expects a show of masculine authority—I gaze at her from my chair.

  “Take off your chemise,” I say. “Turn around.”

  She is blushing hotly, aware of my hungry eyes on the jostle of her lovely naked breasts and the mounds of her plump arse shifting under the thin silk of her drawers. All maddening curves is my sweet doxy.

  “Stop,” I say, when her back is to me. “Bend forward.”

  She obeys. I reach out and loosen the drawstring of her drawers, letting them slide down around her ankles. There, just beyond my nose, her naked haunches glow rosy in the firelight, the crevice between them dark with lascivious promise and scented with temptation.

  I make a show of inspecting her, cupping, squeezing, spreading, moving my face close enough to touch her crack with my whiskers. She gasps in mortification.

  “Bend over farther,” I say. And I spread her wider, sniffing, nosing, rubbing, growling my approval.

  She whimpers, not in protest but in supplication, as she must. This is all good and necessary. I must embarrass her utterly and repeatedly, in order to inure her to embarrassment. I must strip away all her modesty and touch her in her most shameful place until she understands that this, too, is part of her, and that this is, in fact, the very core and root of all fleshly pleasure. She endures me, trembling. It will do for now.

  “Good girl, “I say. “Now up on the bed! On your knees!”

  She positions herself with her face buried between her forearms, seeking a last scant refuge in modesty. I will allow her a little dignity yet.

  I say, “Give me your hands.”

  She extends her arms backward obediently. The side of her face shows, her cheeks beetroot-red.

  I place her hands on her buttocks and instruct her to slide her fingers into her crevice and open herself. She has to expose her most shameful and taboo parts to me, at my command and for my pleasure, in order to understand how it feels to give all of herself to me. Me opening her would be an intrusion that would teach her nothing but a resolve to withdraw and conceal herself from me even more, once out of my clutches. So she must learn to give me her arse on demand, gladly and completely.

  This is why, when she breathes, “No,” I give her an admonitory flick with the crop up between the thighs. She knows very well that while I will put up with pleading, I will not brook protest. She knows she must bend to my will and that she will find joy in that. When the keeper of the crop comes away wet, I briefly reward her by rubbing it between her legs.

  She purrs. Little minx.

  I say, “Open yourself. Now. “

  With delicious discomfort, she obeys, burying her gasps of shame in the pillow. As her lovely rounds part, there appears, seated demurely in its secret cleft, her little rose-brown pucker, scantily mossed fore and aft, pursing madly with the lick of the cold air upon its moistness. Oh, why should a woman be ashamed of such a sweet dark little doorway to bliss? Would that I could kneel and kiss her right on that prim little mouth! But she has lessons to learn, such as giving me her all, and her grip is tentative and loosening. She mustn’t lose momentum now.

  “Wider,” I say in a stern voice. She tightens her fingers. Not enough. I place my fingers over hers and force her to draw her cheeks wide open, making her receptive little arsehole twitch and gulp with the shock of exposure.

  “There, that’s better, my darling.” I praise her in soothing tones. “Now let me show you what a magical little threshold you’ve got here.”

  She whimpers and trembles while I run my gloved middle finger between her legs to slick it up for penetration. Placing my finger at the top of her crevice, I slide it down to her anxious little pucker, which I tease with little taps until she gives me a rhythmic response with both hips and throat. Then I change the sensation and press little spirals into the center, testing for the opening beneath the trapdoor of tender skin, the hidden shaft where a man may mine the darkest and most precious of treasures.

  She has been vocalizing for some minutes, and as I press her more vigorously, her hips writhe and her voice changes to a keen, a wail of pleasure punctuated with breathless grunts that spill from her throat and make my hair stand on end. She arcs back, her hands still gripping hard, seeking more. I give her more, with steadily growing pressure. My digit sinks into her like a sword into butter. She lets go and throws herself backwar
d into my hand, her face uplifted and streaming with tears, her dark curls tossing in tumult.

  “Do you like that my pretty? Do you like my big thick finger up your arse?” I whisper.

  “Yes, oh yes, oh yes,” she moans.

  Slowly, I frig her, dragging out, pushing in. She rocks back and forth on her hands and knees, screwing herself on my finger, her breasts jostling, her face contorted and streaming with sweat, begging for permission to come. As a reward for doing so well this first day, I bull her hard.

  The second day, by lamplight, she climbs like a kitten into my lap and asks if I would like to play with her arse. “Please, sir?”

  I smile, hoping to show myself more indulgent than proud of her for being such a quick study and never forgetting my instructions to offer herself politely. Yes, she has a natural gift for submission and an innate eagerness to please, but I like to think that my training, with its judicious blend of reward and correction, has been instrumental in bringing her to this pitch of perfection.

  I order her to kneel on the bed for inspection, which she does, holding her buttocks apart readily without waiting for my command, as if to say, Look at me, sir! Am I not a good little doxy?

  The saucy minx!

  I say, “Today I will watch you play with your own arse.”

  There is a muffled cry of surprise from the pillow. I ignore it. I continue: “First you will use one finger, then two. You will have to wet your fingers in your mouth. Then you must put your fingers right up your bum as far as they will go and move them in and out. You must put the fingers of your other hand into your cunt. I will watch you pleasure yourself fore and aft like this until you are ready to come.”

  She looks back at me, eyes wide in disbelief. Striking a pose as the soul of patience, I lightly stroke the crop. She gulps, and then brings a tentative finger to her lips. With a deep breath, she reaches back and probes around for her pucker, but when she finds it, she hesitates. Stops, with her finger right there. Looks back at me again, eyes wide with fear, cheeks carmine with shame. I struggle to keep control; what an eminently fuckable little bitch she is.

  “I can’t do it,” she whispers.

  “Yes you can, my pretty,” I say. “I know it’s difficult. Here, I’ll help you.”

  This is a crucial moment. I knew that she would need help, of course. To pleasure her own backside is one of the strongest taboos a woman has to overcome, but it is essential if she is to accept every part of her body as a source of erotic pleasure. A woman who learns to relish fore-and-aft finger fucking will have no inhibitions about either touching her master anywhere in any way or allowing him to do the same to her, thus proving an endlessly delightful bedmate.

  I take her little white finger and suck it, then gently push the tip through her little pink door, sliding it right to the hilt.

  She coos in astonishment. I pull it out, and then insert it again.

  “Like this, my darling,” I say. “Doesn’t that feel good?”

  “Oh God,” she breathes. “Yes. Oh my. God. It’s so dirty.”

  “Yes, it is dirty, and you’re a dirty girl,” I say. “A very good dirty girl. Now, two.”

  Chewing her bottom lip, she tries on her own this time, rooting and grunting prettily as she meets with rather more resistance in the natural muscular defenses of the doorway, but with my continued humoring and coaxing, she relaxes, and presently, hey presto! Her defenses melt away.

  She sets to work with both hands. She is such a hungry little slut; it does my old heart good to watch her. Picture the sight: my obedient doxy laboring as noisily as a common whore, her forefinger and middle finger up her backside and her other hand clutching at her cunt, while her hips buck and crank. Soon her tempo steadies and she settles in to the job, her breasts jouncing pleasantly with nipples distended, her mouth open and panting, her inner thighs a-sheen with the gleams of juice. Dear God, she is a masterpiece in fuckable flesh, all libidinous music in mouth and in hand, all lascivious chiaroscuro in torso and limb.

  As she accelerates, I watch her closely, gauging the correct moment to intervene. When her breathing becomes ragged and sweat begins to rain from her torso, she is teetering on the edge of the precipice. She knows better than to come without permission, of course—the crop has taught her that much—so she hangs there, gasping, trembling, begging loudly and piteously for release. She knows that I will ignore her pleas for a time because it is good for her to beg. Begging, she abdicates all responsibility for her own pleasure and ascribes all control to me. Besides, the longer she can sustain herself on the brink of orgasm, the greater the pleasure I can take in her.

  Alas, there is only so much temptation that flesh as weak as mine can resist, so eventually I grab her by the hair and give her a right juicy mouthful, culminating in a glorious spend straight down her throat. She mews pitifully.

  Tomorrow, the third day, I will give her something to sing about: the hot hard bulk of me buried to my belly in her sweet little arse.

  Reclamation

  By Willsin Rowe

  With the fall of night I feel safe. I crawl out of my tent and walk through the scrub, down to the beach. The shrubs and the waist-high grass pull at my clothes like desperate groupies or belligerent paparazzi. I’m so glad to be away from that for at least a few weeks. I find myself wondering if I’ll ever miss it.

  I burst through the last of the scrub and out onto the beach. In the early evening light it looks like the surface of the moon. The wind is strong enough to chill, and it carries to my lips the tears of broken waves.

  Dark shapes pierce the beach as far as I can see. The rocks seem alive in the early moonlight, their movement borrowed from the drifting sand.

  Not for the first time I wish I could swim again, slough off whatever the fear is that stops me. Go back to those blissful days of childhood. In my career, which is my life, I feel squeezed and twisted. Buffeted and boxed. I may be the talent, but all I feel like is a product. I’m already dead in the water. I’ve handed myself over to forces that feel big only because I feel so small.

  But the urge to push through the breakers makes my guts itch. To lay still, to surrender myself to a truly great force, one that wants nothing from me, that won’t even see me…it’s as vital and as terrifying as my first fuck.

  Seconds later I’m naked, strolling to the waves. I drop to my knees and pull handfuls of salt water up and into my face. I coat my body with the sea and let the wind slowly take it back from me. It feels like breathing.

  I will myself to stand, to walk further out, but I remain small and hidden.

  An audacious movement catches my eye. A loose, white cotton dress is being driven across the sand by the wind, held in check only by the night-darkened form within it. Even from a distance, even masked by the dance of her dress, there’s no missing her curves.

  She draws closer to me while she arcs toward the breaking waves. The wind teases her long, wavy hair, the ocean licks at her feet.

  So still am I that I must look like any other rock. I stand steadily, not so fast as to spook her. She stops for an instant, then waves loosely. The moon gives enough light that I’m sure she can see all of me. Every single inch.

  She doesn’t seem perturbed by my nakedness, or my pale skin. Her teeth seem to glow in the cinnamon roundness of her face.

  She taps her chest. “Shona.”

  “Shona. You, uh…probably know who I am.”

  “Yeah. You’re the American who’s hiding. My brother Sunny told me about you, eh?”

  I nod. It’s a pretty accurate description. I tap my own chest. “Toby.” I hold on to my surname.

  She puts her hand on my cheek and turns her head on its side a little. “What you hiding from, Toby?”

  “You really don’t know who I am?”

  She balances my face with her other
hand. Her palms are cool. Her eyes are deep wells in the night. “You just told me.”

  A wave washes over our feet. As it rolls back out, I feel the ground beneath my heels waver and sink. Before I think, I speak.

  “I’m…hiding from my life.”

  Shona’s smile softens, and she moves her hands down to my neck. “No…you’re hiding from what you do, eh? But you’re just finding your life.”

  She moves in and wraps her arms around me. She says something in what I assume is a Maori language. To me the sounds are meaningless but exotic. I feel rigid against the liquid fullness of her.

  “Sad when a man is scared to touch a woman.”

  “I’m not…” My protest dies a natural death. In my world, all the fiercest predators are female.

  “You are very beautiful. A prize to fight for?”

  I nod again. “Just not to keep, it seems.”

  I curl my arms around her solidity, and I feel connected to the Earth.

  “What is there left to fight for in your life, Toby?”

  I have no words.

  She rests her ear against my chest. We’re still for a few minutes before she speaks again.

  “Your heart is confused.”

  “My head is worse.”

  She steps out of the embrace and already I miss it.

  “No. Your head is clear.” She places her hands, one on top of the other, straight over my sternum. “It’s here where you’re tied up in knots, eh?”

  I step forward and my hands fall to the bulk of her hips. She has a peculiarly hard kind of softness. I can’t help but think of the hard softness she’d have between her legs, strong bone wrapped in a cushion of silky flesh.

  My fingers dig into her as my lips traverse the chilled, dark skin of her shoulder and neck. She snakes her hand up and pulls on the back of my head, turns to brush her lips across mine.