by Unknown
“I’m going to fuck you in the ass,” I told her.
A wisp of elation passed over her face before I reached down and flipped her over onto her stomach. The little cotton shorts were easy enough to pull off, along with her panties.
“Spit,” I ordered.
She complied, sending a warm puddle of her saliva into my palm. I covered my cock with the slickness, my flesh throbbing and hard as it’s ever been.
“Spread for me.”
She reached back, hands shaking but without hesitation, and took hold of her fair-skinned rear. A perfect, tight little puckered hole came into view. I took a moment to finger her ass until she wriggled around it, moaning so desperately I thought she might start crying.
The last step was to reach around and cover her mouth with my hand. No point in scaring the neighbors.
At first, her little hole was so tight I thought I might not be able to have my way. Time slowed for a moment and then I felt the tip of my dick slide past the resistance and into the mysterious depths of her body. In those first moments of penetration, memories and thoughts flashed, so clear in a fraction of a second; my body hitting her body, our grunting, resistance; our bodies giving, shaken up; adrenaline, falling, out of control, her climax. The rush. Her tightness slipped around me, and she groaned behind my hand. With a generous thrust, I penetrated her up to the hilt.
Soft whines and sporadic puffs of breath escaped from the lips trapped behind my hand. She had laid her head to the side, cheek on the bed, pressed hard from the weight of my torso resting on her back. My cock burned at the sight of her eyes squeezed shut, her face fluid with pain and pleasure, twisting her beautiful girlish features deliciously.
With a shift of my hips, I began to fuck her. Her noises, like a map, guided me from long, easy strokes to a rhythm of hard, relentless pounding. When her muffled whimpering turned to deep, almost constant groaning, I reached and fingered her clit, enjoying the way her ass tightened around my cock. Tears streaked across the hand I had over her mouth, and I thought I could make out a moaned version of “Yes,” which she repeated over and over as though her brain had gone to autopilot. I moved my fingers from her clit to her pussy, felt her cunt tighten around my digits. When she became silent and began to shake, like the earth moving against itself during a violent eruption, I knew she was coming.
The tidal wave of her orgasm receded, and Jessica fell limp onto the bed, jostled under my final thrusts. I came, sending a deluge of thick semen into the depth of her gorgeous ass, falling onto her back, feeling completely destroyed. After catching my breath, I lifted her fully onto the bed and lay beside her. Her heartbeat slowed, and I felt her chest rise and fall under the hand I placed in the space between her breasts. Finally calmed, with a newfound serenity, she looked up to my face and into my eyes. The little demon was gone, and her eyes were clear and calm. She was a clean slate of a woman.
SAFE, SANE AND CONSENSUAL
Ariel Graham
Over the course of dinner, Annie’s mother indicated there were lumps in the potatoes, that something about the stuffing in the chicken wasn’t quite right and that apple pie was more suited for fall meals, didn’t we think, than midwinter.
I watched Annie’s face every time as she bit her lip and controlled her words, her breathing very deep, very even, very much the kind of breathing mountaineers probably do as they near base camp on Everest. I didn’t think such breathing should be necessary at a winter dinner with the in-laws in Sacramento.
“Let me help you clear,” I said when Elvira (not her real name, of course, but ever so fitting; Annie has never said but I’m sure her mother goes to bed at night by hanging by her toes off a rafter in the attic) finally stopped chasing the chicken around her plate and put down her knife and fork with a resigned expression.
“Yes, perhaps that would be best,” Annie’s mother said.
I saw Annie tighten her lips and look to her father, oblivious as ever.
I opened my mouth—slowly, not sure what I was going to say—and Annie, imperceptibly, shook her head, then said, “Aaron?”
I stood, as always almost hitting my head on the chandelier over the dining room table. We only eat here on those endless nights Annie’s family comes to tear into the carcass of something formerly known as their daughter. I mean, of course I mean, on the nights they come to dinner.
I picked up my plate and more or less rocked Henry’s plate out from under his utensils, which he still held poised. There’s nothing technically wrong with the man, but he tends to freeze into position like a gargoyle from time to time. I personally think he’s just trying not to be noticed by Elvira.
The amazing thing is that those two very different gargoyles managed to produce Annie. Annie isn’t mean or petty or cold, she isn’t austerely thin or winter white. Annie is a mass of brown curls and freckles and she’s not fat by a long shot but she’s got curves, which I very much like to get my hands on. I was eyeing them as Annie moved in front of me toward the kitchen, plates in each hand. From behind me Elvira remarked—to whom? I’m not sure who her remarks are meant for, or if they’re just general unpleasantries—“In my day, men did not do the clearing of the table, and women knew their place.”
I’d gone through the swinging louvered door between dining room and kitchen, and turned back instantly, my mouth open and words starting.
Annie clattered plates to the counter and grabbed my wrist hard. “Don’t.”
I gave her a look, eyebrows up. Because yes, Annie is very familiar with propriety and she knows how to wend her way through a social evening. Thanks to being raised by gargoyles she can converse with the worst and come out of it fine after about fifteen minutes of shuddering and some pillow thumping (we have the most well-thumped sofa cushions ever). But she does know her place. I put her in it not long after we got married six years ago. She opens her mouth when she’s told to, bends over when told. She submits beautifully.
It seems to make her stronger. When we got married she was a secretary with a BA in English and the pent-up desire to write. Now she owns a writing agency, hires extra writers, has published several nonfiction books and is either working on a very long and convoluted erotic mystery or is having an affair with somebody at the library where she goes to write on Fridays (that’s a joke—it’s a novel, not an affair).
Standing in the kitchen, her eyes were full of not panic, but plain fear. Her parents are teetotalers but they’re like the alcoholic parents of a friend of mine in college. Elvira picks and picks and picks until someone around her snaps and can’t take it anymore and says something, and then Henry rounds off on the offender who dared to question or insult or shut down the wife I’m not sure he notices at any other time. Then there’s a screaming fight, because Henry can go from zero to rage like a high-performance asshole.
I really don’t understand how those two people produced such a glorious woman.
It’s not that Annie’s afraid of confrontation, it’s that she doesn’t see the point, and with the Misery Twins for parents, I can’t blame her. Any time someone starts an argument not to win it but simply to have it, they’ve already won the moment voices are raised.
I swallowed, hard, and followed her back out to the living room with the coffee service.
“Oh, dear,” said Elvira. “I thought we were having tea.”
Annie started to stand. I sat down next to her on the couch and put one hand on her wrist. “Now,” I said, and she subsided. And so that wouldn’t sound odd, I said, “Now we’re having coffee.”
Henry asked me about my business. He always seems offended that my bookstore is still doing well. I think he got a Kindle just to spite me. Elvira asked Annie what she’s working on, and Annie told her in breathtakingly dull detail about a series of glossy fliers she was doing for a catering company.
Elvira approves of copywriting work like that. Not too adventurous.
The evening ended eventually. They always do. It only feels as if they don’t.
>
“Now,” I said to Annie the minute the door closed behind them. She didn’t even glance at the unlocked door or the carelessly drawn curtains over the living room windows. She removed her shirt, her bra and her watch and laid them on the end table beside the door, then knelt at my feet.
“You may,” I said, and admired the way the lamplight picked out the gold highlights in her hair and the silver tints on the collar I’d locked around her throat on our honeymoon. She wears charms on it, and polite society pretends it’s a necklace.
She paused long enough to give me a dazzling grin that said everything she needed to say about the evening being over, then unzipped my trousers and found me naked under them, rock hard and beaded with want. She pulled my cock out and leaned forward, her tongue out to catch the drops of precome at the head.
“No,” I said and put both hands on either side of her head, pulling her roughly to me. Her mouth hollowed, making room in the instant before I slammed into her, fucking her mouth, making her head bob. She made little grunts and moans, her eyes fluttering open and closed, and when she was as deep and as lost as I was, I ordered her to stand, her arms clasped behind her, breasts thrust out at me. I took her strawberry nipples between thumbs and forefingers and began to pinch.
Annie has the most exquisitely sensitive nipples I’ve ever played with. There are times I’ve almost made her come by playing with them. When she’s on top and I’m slapping them, biting them, pinching them, it all takes her over the edge time after time.
It’s always been with a certain amount of control. Little pops. Little scratches. Gentle biting. She can take a spanking, but where her nipples are concerned she’s apt to open her eyes wide and suddenly, gasping, start with the word no and move on to red.
Her safeword. She said it then.
She met my eyes when I looked at her. I hadn’t dropped my hands.
“Submit.”
Her big brown eyes widened. “Aaron?”
“Submit,” I said again.
I saw the conversation come back to her then, one from a couple of weeks earlier, one Saturday morning with no looming parental dinner, when I’d played with her breasts while she was tied to a kitchen chair in the bright sunlit morning. I’d stung them with wooden spoons, dragged the tines of a fork over them and slapped them, and she’d said, “Red,” and I’d stopped, but instead of releasing her, I’d pulled a chair up in front of hers, straddled it so I could lay my arms along the top, facing her, hemming her in.
“What do you think about doing away with your safeword?”
Annie’s eyebrows had shot upward; her mouth opened, possibly in protest; and then she’d closed it, slowly, looking confused. “I’m listening,” she said, which made me think about that sitcom with the psychiatrist, but she was listening—she was hardly in a position not to—so I talked.
“There’s nothing that I’m ever going to do to harm you, or scar you, or do anything permanent we haven’t discussed.”
When she started to speak again, I urged her not to by the expedience of putting a piece of duct tape across her mouth. This made her grin, because she obviously felt silly or found it funny, which made the tape pull off promptly. Either I have inferior duct tape or those people restrained effectively by it in movies are just wimps. But she stayed quiet.
“We’ve talked about getting you tattooed,” I said. “That’s permanent. So is piercing, as long as it doesn’t reject.” We’d talked about cutting and branding, too, but only in a titillating and horrifying sense.
I reached out and ran one finger down the sweep of her nose, let her briefly suck it into her mouth then continued down the line of throat to breast. Her head tipped back slightly and she let her eyelids flutter. I took her nipple in my fingers and squeezed. Annie groaned and tried to press her hips forward but she was well tied.
I pulled my fingers hard off her nipple and her head snapped forward, eyes opening, mouth starting to form the word red.
Only she could take it. I knew she could. I kept my eyes on hers and reached down to stick my middle finger into her cunt.
She was dripping wet.
“Do you trust me?”
“Completely,” she said, though her tongue didn’t seem to be working quite right, or maybe it was her brain that wasn’t working.
“You know I would never hurt you on purpose, and a safeword can’t stop anything that might happen by accident.” Otherwise insurance companies would go out of business.
Annie just nodded, staring at me with eyes glazed with lust.
“Think about it,” I’d said, and left her there to do so, tied to the kitchen chair.
Most women would sulk at that. Annie had taken her revenge by bouncing up and down on my cock for a very, very long time that afternoon.
I looked into her eyes, and saw that sunny Saturday morning come back. “I submit,” she said.
“What is your safeword?”
Her attention had drifted from my eyes, going down my body to focus on my cock.
“Annie. Look at me. What is your safeword?”
“I don’t have one,” she said. “I don’t need one.”
In the bedroom I made her finish undressing, then bent her over the bed. She flipped her curls back out of her face and looked back at me. “May I ask what the spanking is for?”
I spank her during sex, when she’s over my lap or on my cock, and I love watching her eyes unfocus and her mouth open in pain and pleasure. I love to let my fingers stray and sting her pussy and watch her get on top of the pain, watch the pain turn into pleasure.
When I bend her across the end of the bed, the frame of the four-poster digging into thighs or clit, she’s being spanked. Punished. No holds barred.
“I want you to stand up for yourself with Henry and Elvira,” I said. “We’ve talked about this. You said you were unhappy with the relationship. Have you made any changes?”
“No, Sir,” she said.
“You use a safeword with them, you know,” I said, and when she glanced at me, confused, I said, “‘Please.’”
She lifted her chin and nodded.
“I’m the only one I want you to submit to,” I said.
Annie let her head sink back to the bed. “Yes, Sir,” she said, and I saw her eyes start to close.
I don’t know where she goes when she does that, but she wasn’t going there now. “Keep your eyes open. I want you present.” I didn’t tell her to count. She sucks at that, forgetting promptly. So I did, from one to twenty-five, my hand hard and stinging. I crisscrossed her ass, spanking dead center, just under the curve at the tops of her thighs, on her thighs themselves, her pussy. I hit every surface over and over, leaving her red and hot and a little teary-eyed when I told her she could get down on her knees and thank me.
I know some people separate punishment and play, but she takes it well and I enjoy the reward. She sucked hard, and this time I let her do it at her own pace—her head bobbing, tongue working—and when I pulled her up from her knees, I sat down on the edge of the bed and put her on my lap, facing away. She linked her hands together behind her back, clutching her wrists, leaning forward that way, deeply impaled as I started to fuck her. My hands came up and grabbed her breasts, hard, taking fistfuls, grinding them against her chest, pulling my hands off roughly. And then I started on her nipples, slapping hard, harder than ever before; one hand holding her breast, squeezing it taut; the other spanking as hard as I’d spanked her ass, then letting go, letting the blood flow back fast as I grabbed nipples and pinched, hard, hard enough her breath caught; then pulling my fingers off, pinching hard the whole time, pinching, releasing, twisting, using my nails. Hurting her.
I heard her breath catch every time she wanted to utter red, every time her mouth automatically started to form the word no, every time she stopped herself—and every time she arched against me, head thrown back, cunt dripping around me, sucking hard as she came.
When I came, shooting into her, she gave a little cry and went ut
terly limp in my arms. I felt a little limp, too, but I’m a gentleman master. I helped her up, tumbled her back down on the bed, followed her down and that was it until Sunday morning woke us.
Another Saturday afternoon and there was a message on the voice mail when we got back to the house. Henry and Elvira didn’t seem to hold with cell phones for anything other than emergencies. Actual conversations were held at home, not in post offices and supermarkets. I can’t say I totally hate that; not being forced to endure the conversations of complete strangers would be fine with me.
Elvira and Henry also didn’t hold with waiting for invitations. The voice mail Annie put on speaker said they would be arriving at 5:30 and would bring a salad, as what Annie had served the previous week had been somewhat tired and perhaps she should consider switching grocery stores.
I puttered in the kitchen, switching on the coffee maker and rummaging for bagels that turned out not to exist. But I was watching my wife.
She didn’t know it. She’d gone to that place where she goes when she’s working through the outline of a book and trying to figure out why reality is having such a hard time transferring to the written word.
I didn’t say anything. I just watched. Watched as she replayed the message, her face going from that faraway working place into sharp reality. She picked up the house phone, dialed, waited, and then said, “Hi, it’s me.” Pause. Knuckles whitened a bit, fingers clamping the phone. “Well, that’s how I say it. Anyway, I wasn’t aware we had extended an invitation to dinner for tonight.”
Not sure she was going the right way there. I wanted confrontation, not passive aggressive maneuvering.