“I’ve always been fascinated by electricity,” he said in a conversational tone as the bulb approached my cunt. I tensed, waiting for the jolt I knew would come. Nothing could have prepared me for the raw sensations. Sparks danced on my clit and sputtered among my wet folds. I screamed again, overwhelmed, confused as to whether I was in terrible pain or close to climax.
My tormenter paused. “I didn’t invent this handy little device, but I’ve made a few modifications. For example, I can turn up the power, or increase the frequency. Or make the variations random. Would you like that?”
All I could do was moan.
“But this is my favorite innovation.” He held up a pair of gloves, made from some translucent material. “Carbon nanotube fiber. Got it from a friend in the materials engineering department. Flexible, essentially indestructible, and highly conductive. So I can switch to one of the cylinder-shaped tubes, like this, and then hold on with one hand, like this, and then my every touch becomes electric.”
He touched one gloved finger to my aching clit. Current surged through me, different than before, sharper and deeper. “I can shock your nipples, or your earlobes.” He demonstrated, each charge stronger and more intense than the previous one. “I’ve programmed the power unit for an increasing ramp,” he said with a smile.
He trailed his free hand down between my breasts to my belly. A cascade of sparks followed the path of his fingers. I twitched and writhed, tears welling in my eyes. “I could do the same thing with bare hands, but the carbon-based gloves make the sensations stronger and more focused.”
“What I really like, though, is to do this.” He plunged three fingers deep into my cunt. The power unit hissed. Electricity sizzled through my moist flesh, waking every nerve, burning away the last shreds of control. My muscles clamped down on his hand. My clit pulsed wildly. He hit me with another jolt. Energy arced through me. I thrashed and struggled against my bonds, jerking like a rag doll as I came again and again and yet again.
Ryan was unfastening the ropes when I struggled back to some semblance of consciousness. My wrists hurt. “You chafed them a bit,” he said apologetically. “I didn’t realize how strongly you’d react. We’ll have to get you some nice lined cuffs, so you don’t do more damage.”
My whole body felt limp, light, transparent. My mind was strangely blank. Doctor Moresby climbed onto the bed and cradled me in his lap, stroking my hair.
“Are you okay, Colette? You may speak now.” But I just nodded.
“Did you enjoy it?” I smiled shyly and dropped my eyes. Enjoy was such weak word. He raised my face to his and kissed me gently.
The telephone began to ring.
“That will be Richard.” I was surprised to discover that I could talk after all.
“Do you want to answer it?” He seemed to know who I meant.
“What would I say? I really don’t know.” The ringing went on and on. I snuggled against Ryan’s chest. I suddenly felt his erection poking up against my ass. “You’re still hard. Do you want…? Can I…?”
“Later. There’s no rush.” Idly, he began to play with my breasts, strumming the nipples with one finger. The sparks had left them unbelievably sensitive. I squirmed in his lap, noticing with a smile how this made him harder.
“Tell me. Tell me about your research. Your apparatus.”
“Wouldn’t you rather be surprised?”
“I’m sure that hearing about it, and experiencing it, will be quite different.”
“Well…” His hand began to travel gradually down the length of my body. “I’ve adapted the design of a common TENS unit to be a great deal more flexible and adaptable.”
“TENS?”
“Transcutaneous Electro-Neural Stimulation. Basically a controllable shock generator. Much more powerful than the Violet Wand.”
A delicious shiver traveled up my spine.
“Anyway, I’ve developed a whole range of specialized attachments. Clamps. Probes. Needles. A pair of stainless steel dildos, so that you can be fucked front and rear while you’re being shocked.” His fingers were dabbling in my cunt now, his thumb occasionally brushing my clit, bringing memories of shocks, new sparks.
“I’m working on a motorized unit, so that I can synchronize the thrusts and the charge release. I’m very interested in the effects of anal electrical stimulation.” One finger worked its way into my rear hole, raising a whole range of new sensations. I closed my eyes, losing myself again, letting him take me over.
I must have made some small sound of pleasure.
“What are you thinking, Colette?”
My eyes met his, so bright, almost the eyes of a fanatic. Another orgasm shimmered on my body’s horizon. I wanted to give up everything for this, for him.
“I’m wondering, how much is sex worth? How much should you be willing to sacrifice, to endure?”
“You mean, for just sex?” With the skill of an expert he pinched my clit and sent me tumbling over the edge and into ecstasy. “I don’t know, my love. You tell me.”
RECLAIMING THE SOFA
Maddy Stuart
Despite everything, I still flinch at the word slut. It’s the same with whore and cunt and the rest of them—despite all the this-isn’t-for-real assurances in the world, some part of me, the good-girl or the assertive-woman part, wants to flash her eyes and spit a retort. But I think that’s what he likes about me.
He’s standing over me now, his beautiful body visible only in silhouette. I’m stretched out face-forward on the sofa, which is just short enough to force me to lay my ankles on the armrest. My limbs are an awkward tumble, one arm trailing on the floor and the other dangling over the end of the sofa. My legs are stretched to their greatest length, just the way he asked. He told me over the phone, while struggling to strike the right balance between “friendly conversation” and “phone sex,” that he preferred not to tie me up. The sight of me voluntarily arranging my body according to his wishes, he said, was a far greater sign of respect.
We’re meeting in my apartment this time, although he won’t be seeing what’s in my bedroom. I have yet to see what’s in his. My roommate is away for the weekend—a rare occasion—and I’m nearly giddy at the prospect of claiming the living room as mine. It’s the last frontier of my apartment, the one room in which I’ve never been openly, lazily naked; its virginity has been preserved by my roommate’s ubiquitous presence on the sofa.
Careful not to alter my pose, I turn my head to the side, just enough to see the length of his cock dipping toward me, lightly brushing my lips. He’s leaning over the sofa, propping himself with his arms against the back, and bending his knees just enough to allow me to reach for his cock with my tongue.
“My slut,” he calls me, and I part my lips slightly in protest, drawing my breath in quickly. But I remind myself to remain silent, and soon my lips taste of salt as he bends his knees and pushes his cock past my teeth and against my tongue. I yearn to reach out my hand and stroke his lean thighs and his ass that seems the perfect size for my hands, but today is the day for getting what I want, not taking it. He rests his hand lightly on the back of my head, shifting to support himself with the other arm, and fondles my hair with his fingers. He doesn’t need to be firm—he knows and I know that he will lead, and I will follow, like ballroom dancers. He grunts and I tilt my head to take him in farther.
It used to be the other way around between us. Our first meeting involved me plundering his ass with a purple dildo strapped to my hips, heaping upon him all the words and phrases I’m now learning not to abhor. I gorged myself on his body, took fistfuls of everything that pleased me, relished his moans and raked my fingernails across his back. He, now, is much gentler and more restrained than I was. Perhaps I should be grateful for this, but sometimes I think that struggles and whimpering entreaties would be a lesser thing to demand from me than the stillness that I am giving him now.
Over the phone one night, when I had just finished listening to him orgasm after c
alling him my fuck toy and demanding that he beg for me to fuck him harder, he suggested that we try switching places. I was hesitant at first. My last experience submitting to a man was what I referred to as a “pie-eating contest”—the man had constantly demanded thicker toys, more toys; deeper, harder…as if his only goal was to see how much flesh and silicone could be stuffed inside me at once. It seemed childish to me, a grotesque spectacle, and I told him I wanted no such experience again. My current boyfriend assured me that he would be different.
The first time we met, poor planning had left both of us sober. We ransacked the cupboards of his friend’s apartment where we’d arranged to have our tryst, looking for something to wear down the nervous edges. But the little apartment wasn’t mine and wasn’t his, neither of us knew where to look, and we came up empty-handed save for something that claimed to contain alcohol but had the flavor and potency of grape juice. So the rough edges stayed, and with each thrust my hands feverishly sought a new patch of skin to maul, a new word to call him. He simply shuddered and moaned.
This time, the second physical meeting for us, I’m pleasantly intoxicated. He has the same purple dildo in his hand that I savaged him with on our first meeting. It curves up and its head is enlarged, making me think it was designed to penetrate a woman. If so, now we are returning things to the natural order. But a few hours before he arrived, for safety’s sake, I boiled the dildo in a pot on the stove, and the sight of the disembodied purple lump of plastic bobbing up and down in the pot made me giggle. It seemed wrong to giggle at something that was supposed to tame me.
My legs are splayed haphazardly on the sofa, knees bent, one foot on the floor. He’s withdrawn his cock but it still bobs just in front of my face, occasionally brushing against my lips or my cheek. Leaning over, he strokes my pussy with a knob-knuckled finger before easing it inside. I squirm and stretch a little, suddenly thinking of my roommate and relishing my conquest of the living room sofa.
“Stay still, whore,” he tells me, and my face turns red while a lightning bolt shoots through my gut at the sound of that word. I’m not a whore, I want to tell him, you know I’m not. But I know the word is meant to prod, is meant to thrill, is meant to make my insides burn and boil with the contradiction of accepting the poses and the words he is choosing for me tonight. It’s been quite some time since I’ve felt the thrill and the burn so acutely.
His finger is all the way in now and my chest is heaving. He smiles at the sight of all of this—it’s not stillness he wants so much as the appearance of restraint, the tension of desire barely controlled, the signs that I’m desperate to get up and either pull his cock inside me or slap him in the face. My foot flinches, my leg straightens and kicks, and his smile turns to a grin. He removes his finger, climbs on the sofa, leans his whole weight against me, and covers my mouth with the newly freed hand. I can feel his cock against my belly and the sofa suddenly seems like my natural domain and his movement a forceful conquest. His finger smells of my juices and I finally give in to the urge to push back against him, squirm and struggle like a damsel in distress, take all the things from him that I took so freely the last time. But he’s having none of it. He slaps my breast, hard. I feel the lightning bolts again, and the living room that has never really been mine has become, suddenly and completely, his. So I loosen, stretch my body out, arch my back, and spread my legs as wide as I can.
The dildo that was so recently an amusing lump of plastic boiling in a pot on the stove is now making its way inside my cunt, and I feel my body strain, then relax. His hand over my mouth means that I can moan as much as I like. I hope he can feel my hot breath against it as I try to tell him how much I’m burning up with desire, how the heat coursing through my body seems to follow a trail from my clit to my gut to the base of my throat to the tongue I’m licking his fingers with. It all comes out as grunts and moans, of course, nothing like the soliloquies I was prone to when he was under my hands. But he acts as though his mastery of my body is so complete that the moans are as articulate as the soliloquies, and when he removes his hand from my mouth in order to better position the dildo, I do not speak but simply hum with desire, like a purring cat.
Once the dildo is fully buried, he stands up, moves to the end of the sofa, and draws his cock to my lips. I take the opportunity to look the beautiful angles of his body up and down, the way I did when I was about to make it mine. I remember when the sculpted shoulders were mine to push down, the hips mine to grab hold of, the ankles mine to clutch. I feel a playful insolence creeping into my gaze, one that silently reminds him that if I am a slut, so is he; that we are each other’s plaything and that it’s only the sofas of friends that have been conquered. In response, he smiles deviously, takes hold of my ankle, and tells me, “Still,” before he gives my inner thigh a hard, stinging slap.
But I can abide no more stillness, and instead of clenching my teeth, I let out a loud yelp. He grins, raises his hand again, and lands a second one in the same spot. At that moment I know he’s been waiting for me to burst, waiting for me to show him every nuance of the effect he has on me. After a third smack, he pulls the dildo out again, straddles me, pushes my shoulders down, and plunges his own cock, which is so beautiful I could never, never giggle at it, as deep inside me as it will go.
Now, I buck and wriggle and groan to my heart’s content while he fucks me with the measured, forceful strength of one who is completely assured of his mastery.
“Are you my slut?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m your slut,” I tell him, and find myself relishing the words.
HOW BAD DO YOU WANT IT?
Gwen Masters
I sat in the middle of the rumpled bed. The sounds of silence were all around me—the ticking of the clock, the call of a distant bird, the lack of footsteps in the hallway. Wayne had ordered me to stay naked, said he would be right back, and left me there. That was an hour ago.
My bare breasts felt heavy in my hands. The red marks on them were beginning to fade. Wayne had used the new whip, the one that bit like fire. I had closed my eyes and counted the strokes out loud, waiting for the moment when he would decide I had had enough. My wedding ring was cool against my overheated skin.
Wayne liked suspense. He loved to hold the whip above my skin, moving it just enough to stir up the tiniest breeze, then bringing it down when I least expected it. He loved to lull me into a feeling of security, then test me by pushing the boundaries. No one would know what I enjoyed just from looking at me. None of my friends knew the way things were. Only I understood that when I disappeared behind closed doors, being submissive wasn’t just a desire, it was a need—it was what kept me ready to face the world.
Tired of waiting for him, I lay down and closed my eyes. I dozed on the bed until I awoke to the familiar crunch of tires on the gravel driveway.
Wayne whistled his way into the bedroom. He smiled when he saw I was still naked, just as he had left me. He sat on the bed behind me and snuggled close, pulling me back against his broad chest.
“I went to Blake’s house,” he said as he kissed my ear.
“How is Blake?” I asked.
Wayne’s hand slid down my belly, seeking the place between my legs. I opened my thighs for him. When he spoke, his voice was sensuous and filled with promise.
“Blake is looking forward to seeing you, baby.”
I sat very still. The tone of my husband’s voice said all I needed to know, but it took a moment for it to sink in. Wayne said nothing else, just rested his lips lightly on my shoulder, waiting for the thoughts to form in my head. He knew I wouldn’t say no—if Wayne wanted me to do something, I would do it. It was my pleasure to please him. We had never talked about having another man in bed with us, but Wayne wasn’t one to let me know all that was on his mind, either. He liked surprises just as much as he liked suspense.
“I know you like him,” Wayne said softly. “I’ve seen the way you look at him.”
“That doesn’t mean…”
The silence fell between us. The ticking of the clock was very loud. Wayne simply sat and listened to it while he let me sort through my thoughts. There was an impossible jumble of them.
“Can I ask a question?” I said.
“Go ahead.”
“Why?”
Wayne seemed prepared for any question I might ask, save that one. It took him aback.
“Why?” he repeated.
“Yes. Why?”
Wayne contemplated that while his hands slid up and down my arms.
“You know it doesn’t make me happy when you question me.”
“Yes,” I said.
Wayne kissed my shoulder. “I could say it’s about pleasing me. I could say it’s about pushing you further than you’ve been before. I could say it’s a test of your trust.”
I nodded, waiting.
“It is all those things. But it’s also a treat for you. Blake is your type, isn’t he?”
The scarlet blush rose from my chest to my face, lighting me up with heat.
“You’ve never said it. But I’ve seen the way you get turned on when you read about a woman with more than one guy. I know how you get when I use more than one toy on you.”
As he ran his hands up and down my arms, I realized Wayne knew me much better than I knew myself. Had the way I looked at Blake really been that obvious?
“You’ve never been into threesomes,” I pointed out, shifting the attention from my actions to his. Wayne said nothing, and by doing so he acknowledged that he wouldn’t let the conversation waver from the point. He kissed my shoulder one more time before he stood up from the bed. From the look in his eyes, I knew the discussion was over.
He left the room and when he returned, Blake was with him.
Wayne looked pointedly at the quilt I had pulled up over my body. Understanding what he wanted, I let it fall to the bed. My nipples immediately hardened.
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