by Lauren Rico
The skin on her inner thighs is warm and smooth under my lips and she fights a growl somewhere deep in her throat when I land there. Using only my mouth, I make my way up, slowly, running my tongue along and into the dip where her thigh ends and the soft, mound of her sex begins to swell.
Lisa shivers as I trace up and around, but not inside. I get close, but not close enough to give her any satisfaction. I reach up and tap the top of one of her knees. She gets the idea and bends them up so that she is open to me, her thigh muscles fighting against the pull of the bungees. It makes her legs tremble.
I take my time, using my fingers to peel her layers apart slowly. When I hit a sensitive spot she gasps. I have a perfect view of her as I dip my tongue into the slick pink flesh and give a long, slow lap. She spreads her legs wider against the restriction of the cords and tilts her pelvis up, inviting me in for further exploration.
I’m done playing. I hold her open with my thumbs and find her swollen clit. With the daintiest of bites, I start to nibble.
“Oh, ohhhhhhhh, dear God. Oh ….”
I stop abruptly. “Don’t you even think about coming,” I hiss, pulling away long enough to look up at her agonized face. “Do you hear me, bitch?”
“Yes, Sir,” she breathes out in barely a whisper.
I glance up at her and am amused to see her bite her lip and dig her fingernails into her own hand to keep from giving in to the pleasure.
I renew my assault, dipping my tongue deep within her moistness, lapping from one end of her to the other until she can’t control the quivering. As soon as I feel her body begin to tighten, I stop. From above me, she lets the faintest cry of disappointment pass her lips.
“Was that a complaint?” I accuse her harshly.
“No, no, Sir,” she sobs.
“Oh, I think it was.”
She lifts her head and her face pinches into a mask of fear. Oh, she’s good at this.
“No, Sir. I swear, Sir. Please don’t punish me,” she begs in a tone that implies I should do exactly that.
Damn, and here I am without a riding crop. No worries though, I’ll just have to do a little more improvising. I get up off the bed and saunter out of the room, leaving her in a spread and ready position long enough to grab a spatula and a couple of those stupid clips you use to close the chip bag when you’re done. She can’t see it when I walk in, but she sure as hell feels it when I deliver a quick, stinging blow to her inner thigh with a very satisfying smack. Before the gasp can even pass her lips, I deliver another swat and another in quick succession. Ugly red marks the size of a bar of soap are starting to raise on her milky skin.
“Are you sorry?”
“Yes. Yes, Sir. So sorry, Sir,” she says quickly.
I give her one more smack for good measure, then walk around to sit next to her on the edge of the bed. She looks incredibly hot like this, legs splayed wide, breasts stretched upward from the pull of her wrist restraints. There is the slightest sheen of perspiration on her forehead.
“Aw, poor Lisa! Look at you, sweating. Do I make you nervous?” I mock her.
“No, Sir,” she whimpers and then immediately realizes her mistake. “I m-mean y-yes, Sir. Yes!”
“Oh, Lisa, a little too late. I’m going to have to make sure you get that answer right the first time.”
I see a shiver move through her body as I open the drawer in my nightstand next to the bed and pull out a hunting knife. I’ve never been one for guns; I prefer a more hands-on approach to home security. I mean, if you’re gonna get in there, you might as well get dirty.
Lisa looks decidedly less excited, and more concerned as I pull out the blade – as well she should be. I take just the tip of it and circle her bellybutton with it. Her flat stomach ripples in a contraction with the sensation. I pull it up the middle of her body to the sternum, pausing between her cherry-red nipples. Then, in one quick, upward slice, I liberate first her left wrist and then her right.
“Are we done, Sir?” Disappointment and relief compete in her voice.
I wrap my hand around her throat, pushing down hard into the pillows beneath her head. Her eyes grow wide, and she struggles to breathe, but she doesn’t try to pull away or pry my fingers off. Still grasping her, I lower my face so it is only inches from hers.
“Did I tell you that you could speak?” I menace.
“No, Sir,” she croaks through her obstructed windpipe.
“Then shut the fuck up or I’ll gag you,” I threaten and see the slightest flash of excitement in her eyes. “Oh! So, you’d like me to gag you then? So you can’t scream?”
She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t have to. But then, this is about my pleasure, not hers. When I pull my hand away, I can see clearly the red outline of my fingers on her flesh. That’s going to bruise. I guess Lisa will be wearing turtlenecks for a while. I cut the ties on her ankles and return the knife to its drawer.
“Turn over and get on your hands and knees,” I growl.
She starts to slide off the bed, and I give her thigh a stinging slap.
“On the bed, you stupid cunt!”
She scrambles to take up the position and I run an appreciative palm along the curve of her ass.
“What a perfect, perky little ass. But you know, it’s not quite ripe enough for the picking … so we’re going to have to help that along. She cranes her neck around in time to see me pick up the belt from where she laid it over the footboard earlier. In an instant, I have looped it around my wrist and it snakes out, biting into her flesh with a crack.
“Ughhh!” comes her involuntary response.
“Shut up,” I warn her and deliver another quick, punishing blow.
She gasps.
Three more lashes, and I’ve made a crisscross pattern of angry welts across her ass and the back of her thighs. I can see her legs quivering again, this time with the pain and the effort to remain upright for it. But she’s not fooling anyone. Her inner thighs are slick with the juices of her arousal. Without warning, I toss the belt aside, position myself at her opening and thrust myself into her. I feel as if I’m going to burst, but Lisa’s not the only one who should be patient.
“Ohhhh, yessssssss!” she moans.
I pound into her faster and faster until she is panting and wriggling against me. And then I stop. And wait. When her breath has slowed, I start moving again, oh-so-slowly. It’s just enough to keep her on the edge. Slowly in. Slowly out. And then a fast thrust again.
“Don’t you come!” I yell at her.
“Oh, please!” she mewls. “Please! I’m so ready …”
I stop and she swallows a sob, hanging her head low between her shoulder blades. I pull out all the way and deliver another slap, this one to her already raw backside. She winces.
“Not until I give you permission!” I growl. “Do you understand?”
“I understand, Sir,” she confirms, her voice considerably smaller and less enthusiastic than it was a half hour ago.
I slip back in and we start the process all over again. Fuck! This is hard, but my self-control is so worth the effort as again and again and again, I deny her release. She’s practically on the verge of tears when I pick up the pace and reach around and in between her legs to finger her in the front while I’m fucking her in the back.
“Now! Come now, goddammit!” I yell.
The effect of my words, my hands, and my cock are instantaneous. Lisa throws back her head, and starts to moan loudly.
“Ohhh, yesssss. Ohhhhh, yessss …. Ohhhh, Jeremy, God, you’re so big, so hard … Ohhhh I’m coming!”
The feel of her flesh convulsing, squeezing, milking my dick pushes me right into my own long-delayed orgasm. Finally, she collapses flat on her stomach onto the bed. I fall on top of her, covering her back with my front. My face nestles next to hers.
“Holy shit, Jeremy,” she mutters when she catches her breath. “I wish I’d known you sooner. I’d have gotten you a pair of handcuffs and a whip for your birthday...”<
br />
I laugh and it feels good. This has been just what the doctor ordered.
Jeremy 17
The smell of French Roast draws me out of my dreams, and back into my bedroom, where the morning sun is fighting its way around the window shades. I stretch and feel the dull ache of too much repetitive motion – namely, belting Lisa. You see this shit in porn and they make it look so easy. But in truth, the reality of this kind of activity comes with a physical price tag including bruises and scratches and sore, aching muscles. Of course, for some, that’s part of the fun. When I make my way to the kitchen, I find Lisa looking way too comfortable in one of the button-down shirts from my closet, sitting at my table, reading my newspaper.
“Good morning, sexy! Would you like a cup of coffee?”
She gestures to the fresh pot, which woke me.
“Sure. I take just a little milk,” I say, having a seat.
I look around me and notice that the glass shards have been swept up and the walls cleaned of the sticky beer remnants that I hurled onto them last night. The books that were a jumble on the living room floor have also been returned, nice and neat, to their shelves.
“You cleaned up.”
“You noticed!” she smiles, then turns more serious. “I guess you had a pretty rough day yesterday, huh?”
“To say the fucking least,” I grumble.
“Well, everyone’s talking about it, Jeremy. A lot of the musician’s think you were railroaded. Of course, there are some jerks who say you had it coming. I was so angry that I just marched right into Doug’s office. I didn’t even have his coffee or his messages or anything! I told him he was a fool and that you were the only hope this orchestra has for revitalization and that letting you go was going to haunt him the rest of his career. I told him if he was smart, he’d reverse the decision immediately before you got snatched up by another orchestra.”
My brows go up in amusement. “And what was his response?”
Her face hardens in anger. “Oooooo! He made me so furious, Jeremy. That jerk told me if I didn’t like his decision then, I should leave, too. So I did.”
“You did what?”
“I left.”
“Left to come here?”
She smiles. “No, silly! Well, yes, sort of, but I mean I quit and then I came straight here.”
“Huh …”
“But, don’t you worry about a thing, Jeremy! God, I’m so sorry this happened to you …but I’ve got a plan …”
She can barely suppress a giddy smile. My head throbs just looking at it. And her.
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“Well, I’ve already been putting out feelers on openings in other horn sections around the country. A few of the orchestras have administrative openings, too. How great would it be if we could find work together? So, I figured I could maybe help you get your resume together and start making some calls …”
I sit there, without comment, and take a sip of the coffee in my hand.
“Jeremy?”
The smile freezes and then slips from Lisa’s horsey face as she realizes I’m not nearly as excited about this as she is. Finally, after a long moment, I turn around behind me and start to pour some more coffee into my cup, speaking to her the whole time.
“Well, hey, thanks for the solidarity, Lisa, and for providing me with all the information I needed to fuck with Dougy.” I turn back around to face her. “And, hey, thanks for the terrific fuck last night. I hope you enjoyed it, too because, unfortunately for you, I won’t be needing your services anymore. But hey, you’ve got a real knack for the blowjob. You might want to consider a job in the sex industry.”
Her face has gone deathly pale and her lips are trembling.
“Anyway, I’ve got to take a shower. I’d appreciate it if you were gone by the time I’m done.”
She’s still staring after me as I leave the kitchen, coffee cup in hand, whistling Mozart.
Jeremy 18
You can break many men with psychological torture. You can break most men with physical torture. But, in both these instances, you should keep in mind that the human body has an amazing capacity for self-preservation. It’s just a matter of time before the individual either regresses into a dissociative state or loses consciousness in order to protect himself from the ongoing trauma.
Okay, what if you want to avoid those little physiological loopholes? What if your goal is not to manipulate or to extract information, but rather, simply, to inflict as much pain as possible. In this instance, because you have no material motive, there is nothing that the victim can offer up in exchange for relief. There is no amount of begging or bargaining that might convince you to spare him or her. In this instance, you are only governed by your own weakness; your capacity for mercy. If such a thing exists in you on any level, you aren’t wired for this sort of activity.
So, let’s assume you have the constitution to execute this scenario. How do you proceed, if not using the old standby’s like sleep deprivation, beatings or electric shocks? The answer is easier... and closer than you might imagine. As close as the people who surround us every day. What most people fail to realize is that we are most vulnerable through the people we love. As much as a target may be able to endure, as resilient or determined or brave he happens to be, there is absolutely no relief from the agonizing knowledge that someone close to you is in pain because of you.
Simply put, the most effective method for destroying a man’s psyche, by far, is to cause his loved ones to suffer on his behalf, with no ability to assuage their torture. It’s not just the knowledge that your loved one is in trouble, it’s the knowledge that she is suffering and you are helpless to do anything about it. Spouses, children, parents and even pets make a person vulnerable. I keep this forefront in my mind as I start to assemble a plan.
I’ve been slowly boiling in my rage since I left for Detroit. It was a fine gig, but it wasn’t the one I wanted. I should have had my pick of any job in the country. I should be the youngest tenured faculty member at Juilliard by now. It should be me with the new CD and touring schedule. Julia and Matthew stole my life and I’m going to make them pay for it.
The first item on my list is anonymity. It won’t do to have someone from McInnes spotting me on the subway and calling Julia. So, I find my way to one of those swank salons downtown where I tell the girl with the purple hair, pierced eyebrow and nose ring, that I want a whole new look.
She seems to get what I’m after, and assures me my own mother won’t recognize me by the time we’re done. So, I sit still as she paints paste onto my hair and wraps it in tin foil. When she unwraps me a half our later, she launches an assault with tiny, sharp scissors. I’m starting to feel like a fucking topiary by the time she’s finished cutting. But if I thought that was going to be it, I was wrong. She blasts my face with a hairdryer strong enough to peel the paint off the walls, brushing my hair this way and that. Back and forth and back again. She follows it up with a straight-razor shave.
At last, she stands there staring at me and nodding her approval of my new look.
“You ready to see it?”
“I guess,” I mutter unenthusiastically.
The stylist spins the chair around so I can see the ‘new’ me in the mirror. And I’ll be fucking damned. This little girl has brought my dark brown hair to a much lighter shade, threaded with golden highlights. My usually shaggy-but-neat haircut has been tailored into a style that looks professional without being stuffy. I can’t stop staring at myself. I should have done this years ago. I give her a big tip and take her card for the next time I need to hide in plain sight.
The next item is proximity. I have to be close to my targets in order to study them, so I close up my Detroit house and take a ridiculously overpriced sublet close to the Strathmore Building in New York, where Julia and Matthew live most of the time. I have cleared the big white wall in the studio and covered it with large swaths of butcher’s paper. This is where it all begins, my blueprint for
revenge, my declaration of war. I call it my War Wall.
With the help of a private detective, I have a glossy stack of candid photos of Julia, Matthew, Brett and Maggie as they make their rounds throughout the city. They were easy enough to track and capture on film. The nanny, though, she’s another story, though. Natalie Hughes gave my PI quite a workout as she pushed that goddam stroller all over midtown, in subways and taxis, on the LIRR. She takes the brat to any of a dozen different parks all over Manhattan, never visiting the same one twice in a row.
I affix the pictures of all of them on the wall with notations about their schedules underneath. I have the rehearsal, touring and concert calendars for both the Walton String Quartet, which covers Julia and Brett, and the Gotham Chamber Players, which takes care of Matthew. Where the two ensembles overlap in their schedules is where I can find Miss Natalie Hughes.
Okay. Time to get boots on ground.
****
I’m all for a leggy bitch but this girl is ridiculously tall. At least it makes it easier to track her as she pushes the stroller through midtown Manhattan. This is the third time I've followed her, and my PI was right, she never does the same thing twice. Different parks. Different museums. Different parts of town. When she’s not working, Nanny Natalie shares an apartment with two other girls in the Flatiron District. And when she’s not at home, she’s in the law library at NYU. Now, as I sidle up to the bench she is sitting on, I realize she’s quite attractive. Maybe this won’t be so difficult after all.
“Which one is yours?” I inquire, taking the empty spot next to her.
She gives me a sidelong glance that lasts so long I’m convinced she recognizes me. I’m sure Julia and Matthew have prepped her with pictures of me. But then the long moment passes and she points to the sandbox.