Sweet Danger

by Violet Blue

  “Say it,” I whisper into your ear.

  You look at me desperately, hungrily, knowing you must obey.

  “I’ll be in the dungeon in a few minutes,” you say, your voice raspy from the pleasure flowing through your tits as strangers suckle your nipples. “Any of you men who want to can visit me and come on my tits.”

  An approving murmur goes around the room. I check you again and find you’re even wetter than before. After a few dozen more strangers suckle your breasts for a few minutes at a time, I decide you’ve had enough. I lead you out of the lounge area and down to the dungeon.

  I choose a central location, laying you out on a low platform at just the right height. I undo your bondage sleeve and stretch your arms over your head, buckling on the restraints and padlocking them to the top of the table. I do the same to your ankles, keeping your legs together.

  A group of men has followed us down into the dungeon, waiting for their opportunity to come on your tits. Several of them already have their hard cocks out and are stroking them.

  “Just the tits,” I tell them, stepping back. “You can only come on her tits.”

  “With pleasure,” one says, and leans over you, looking into your frightened eyes as he strokes his cock, aiming it at your full, firm mounds. When he shoots his load over your breasts, you whimper softly, the humiliation mingled with excitement. He rubs his cockhead over your breasts, smearing the cream into your nipples and cleavage.

  Another one takes his place, climbing onto the table and straddling you as he pumps his cock over your tits.

  I watch as three, then four, then ten, then twenty men crouch over you and come on your tits. You’re covered soon, your breasts slick with jism. You’re moaning, and when I come around to the end of the table and slip my hand up into your crotch, you almost come at that moment.

  As men continue to use you, jerking off all over your tits, I unclasp your ankles, spread them apart, and clip them to the corners of the table, spreading your legs. I can see your fear: Am I now going to let the men fuck you?

  But you’ve exhausted all the men in the party. Female submissives shoot you angry glares, their masters’ orgasms having been co-opted for your degradation. Your tits are covered with cream, glistening with it, your corset soaked. A pool of it has formed under your shoulders. I unsnap your crotch and pull the leather-lined spandex up, revealing your pussy. I take out my own cock and, climbing onto the table, slip it between your swollen pussy lips. I enter you with a hard thrust, and your eyes go wide as you lift your hips to meet me. I start to fuck you, giving you your much-deserved reward, and a cheer goes up from the men who just shot on your tits. I come down on top of you and my chest rubs against their semen, reminding you of how you’ve been used. I pound into you and it’s not long before you come, thrusting under me, begging me to fuck you harder. Your moans of orgasm bring another cheer from the men, approving of the way you’ve been rewarded for giving them your all.

  When you’re finished coming, I pull out, crouch over you, and unload my cock on your breasts. Streams hit your face and I rub them in too, feeling you lick my fingers clean as I push them into your mouth.

  There’s a faint round of applause as I zip up and unclasp your restraints. I quickly wipe down the table and smear the excess semen onto your breasts again. I put your bondage sleeve back on and lead you up the stairs, your breasts dripping come, your face red from shame and post-orgasmic pleasure. When we reach the showers, I soap you up and hose you down, then lead you into the dressing room.

  You put your street clothes back on and I lead you into the world, knowing your ordeal will weigh heavily on your mind from now on, dominating your thoughts whenever a man looks at your tits. In the car, you look at me and smile, humiliation giving way to release, giving way to fondness.

  I kiss you on the lips, and your tongue grazes mine. I put the car in gear and we drive away.

  Dress Me Up

  ERICA DUMAS

  I love it when you dress me up. Well, you don’t dress me up, exactly—though that’s how I like to think of it. I put on the clothes, but you pick them out. When we play this way, you come over to my apartment and let yourself in using the key I gave you, never telling me what clothes you’ll select for me. And they’re always so much more revealing than I would have dared pick out for myself.

  Tonight it’s my tiniest white minidress, with a matching white lace thong, push-up bra, and garter belt. It’s all laid out on the bed, with a handwritten note from you saying Don’t be late. The stockings are white, too—seamed down the back to accentuate the curve of my legs. The white shoes you picked out for me have six-inch heels: fuck-me shoes. Fuck-me-hard shoes. Fuck-me-till-I-scream shoes.

  And I know you will.

  They’re all mine, but I would never wear them all together. The dress I probably wouldn’t wear at all—it’s much too naughty, too daring. I bought it with you in mind, knowing you would make me wear it. Just the way I want you to.

  You set out my jewelry, too—a pearl and gold choker, matching earrings, matching bracelets. These aren’t mine; they’re new. The kind of gifts you’d give a prostitute. It turns me on to hold them, feel their weight in my hands. I don’t worry about how you can afford all this; I know I’m worth it, because I’m your whore. And I know tonight I’ll be the best whore in town.

  I put it all on slowly after my long, luxurious bath, savoring the way the skimpy clothes reveal my body. I put on my makeup extra-thick, the sexy clothes inspiring me to paint myself like a slut. Then I do my hair the same way—big hair, porn-star hair. A whore’s hair.

  There’s no purse and no watch—tonight I’m at your mercy. I know you’ll take care of me.

  You ring the buzzer at exactly seven, and I grab my jacket and head for the door. Then I stop and think, and put down my jacket—you didn’t lay it out, so I won’t wear it. I’m not to wear anything you didn’t give me.

  I hope it’s not too cold tonight.

  When you see me, I know you’re pleased with the way I’ve filled out your selections. Your eyes rove over me as I approach the car. My breasts stretch the top of the minidress, and the push-up bra shows them to full advantage. It is a little chilly out, and I notice right away that my nipples are hardening under the dress, so much so that they’re quite visible. My face reddens, but I don’t move to cross my arms. I want you to see. I want everyone to see.

  You lean over and kiss me, letting your hand rest on my belly and trail up a little to casually brush my tits. I shudder as you do; it sends a pulse of sensation from my breasts to my pussy. I shift uncomfortably on the seat as your lips curve in a smile; you can tell how turned on I am, and how the nervousness heightens my arousal.

  “You look nice,” you tell me.

  It’s all I need to hear. If you gushed over me, told me what a sexy slut I am, it would be too much. All I need is to know that I’ve satisfied you, that you’re happy with the way I look. The fact that you’ve dressed me up like your tart is just the icing on the cake.

  “Where are we having dinner?” I ask.

  “Somewhere everyone can look at you,” you tell me, and turn the heat on.

  Somehow that excites me even more—the silent acknowledgment that you can tell how hard my nipples are, that you know it’s not just the cold. My heart pounds as I sink into the luxurious heat blowing from the vents. You pull away from the curb.

  People look at me as they pass by in cars or cross the street in front of us when we’re stopped at lights. They can’t see much, but they can see enough. They know I’m a slutty little bird. That’s enough to make my pussy feel hot, to make my clit rub against the too-tight thong you’ve selected. The thong is entirely made of lace, see-through and a little rough, reminding me how hard my clit is. I know if I checked I’d find myself wet.

  You take me downtown. You pull up outside the most expensive hotel in town, and the valets ogle me as they take the car keys.

  I’m aware of all the eyes on me as we
walk across the lobby. My nipples are still quite hard, with no hope of being any different until you’ve fucked me hard. You take me to the tower elevator and push the button. Businessmen look at me, trying to glance away so it doesn’t look like they’re looking. You have your arm around me and you pull me close, staring them down with a little smile on your face.

  In the crowded elevator, you push the button for the top floor: CAFE SKYE. I lean close to you, half frightened that I’ll feel a hand up my skirt—and half wanting to. The elevator empties out as we travel up ten floors, twenty, stopping every few floors as people disembark. Then I do feel a hand up my skirt. Yours—I think. I lean back onto it and feel your finger slipping between my cheeks, plucking the crotch of the thong out of the way. Easing between my barely-parted legs. Touching my wet pussy.

  I have to stifle a gasp as your finger creeps forward to touch my swollen clit. It’s your hand all right—no one can touch my clit like that. My knees almost buckle; my whole body feels like it’s about to melt. You rub me as the elevator empties out, until there’s only one man left. Then he leaves, one floor before the restaurant.

  When the doors close, you grab me and push me against the wall. I moan as I sink into your grasp. You press your mouth to mine and your tongue invades me, pushing hard against mine. I can feel your cock hard in your pants, pressing against my belly. Even with the six-inch heels, I’m shorter than you. Your left hand cups one breast, your palm rubbing my nipple through the thin fabric, nudging it until it pops out of the bra cup and stretches the white dress, hidden from the world only by the thinnest of gossamer fabrics. Then you reach in and gently ease my breast out of the dress, making it press against the arm strap, tucking my bra cup underneath. Your other hand, now curved more fully under my ass, pushes firmly against my clit and then you ease your fingers back, fucking two of them into me.

  I almost come right there.

  The elevator dings and you turn away from me, leaving me panting and weak against you. I move my hand to tuck my breast back into my bra, into the dress, but you gently take my wrist and pull it away.

  You tuck my breast in instead, always the protector—and always in control.

  My face hot with excitement, I put my arms at my sides as we walk into the restaurant.

  The maître d’ eyes me, scandalized by my slutty dress. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but then he decides not to. As he looks through his reservation book to find your name, his eyes keep slipping up to my breasts. My nipples are showing plainly through the dress. Perhaps he thinks I’m unaware of how skimpy the dress is, that I’m not used to dressing in such a revealing fashion.

  Perhaps he thinks I’m a dirty whore, showing off to any man who will look.

  You hold out a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Right in the middle of the restaurant, please,” you say. “We’re here to see and be seen.”

  “Evidently,” he murmurs, and accepts the bill, tucking it into his tuxedo jacket.

  He leads us over to our table in a section in the center of the room on a raised dais where everyone can see me. As I pass through the room behind you, all the male diners, to a man, look at me. Their wives shoot me dirty looks. Every pair of eyes touching my hard nipples sends a wave of pleasure into my cunt. I know my thong is soaked by now. Dripping. You smile at me, glancing around to make sure everyone is looking. They’re trying not to, but they can’t help it. My knees feel weak as the maître d’ holds out my chair. Perhaps it’s an accident that his arm brushes one of my nipples as he hands me the menu. Either way, it sends an explosion of sensation from my nipple to my cunt. I can feel my clit throbbing hard in my soaked thong. It makes me even more aware that men are looking at my tits, looking at me, studying my exposed nipple. Wanting me, but hating me. A whore, showing off for everyone.

  I don’t notice much about the food or the service or the supposedly spectacular view. What I notice is you looking at me throughout dinner; undressing me with your eyes; taking off my tiny dress and my slutty underwear; using your gaze to tug my other breast out of my bra, out of the dress, to show off both my tits to everyone. I’m so wet I’m afraid I’ll soak through the dress, leave a wet chair behind. In fact, I’m pretty sure I will.

  But I also notice the patrons whispering, pointing at me. I notice the kitchen help, beautiful brown-skinned boys with wide shoulders, filling water glasses and pointing at me, bending close to mutter comments to each other while looking right at me. One busboy in particular fills my water glass every time I take a sip. He looks at me and smiles, his eyes filled with lust. And I notice our waiter, looking at me salaciously with mingled contempt and desire.

  And I notice you leaning forward over the table, feeding me chocolate cake for dessert, a tiny forkful at a time. Each bite makes me wish it was you in my mouth.

  After you’ve paid the bill, you reach across the table and leave a hotel key card in a paper sleeve with a room number on it.

  “I’m going to the room,” you tell me. “Have a drink at the bar and meet me at the room. But don’t come down for at least an hour. I’ll be there all night, so take your time.”

  “You’ll…you’ll leave our tab open? I…I don’t have any money,” I say apologetically.

  You shake your head. “No,” you tell me. “I’ve already closed it out.”

  “Then…how can I get a drink?” My voice is quivering, half from arousal, half from fear. I’m terrified of what you have in store for me, but my clit is pulsing with anticipation. This humiliation is agony, but I swear if you don’t fuck me soon I’m going to come spontaneously, without ever touching my clit.

  You lean forward and smile, pointing with your finger. “See that man at the bar?” you ask me.

  I glance over; there’s a gray-haired man, perhaps sixty, dressed in an expensive suit. He’s sitting alone, sipping whiskey from a highball glass. He’s looking at me hungrily, not even caring that you’ve noticed him.

  “Do you see him?” you ask me.

  “Yes,” I say, my eyes locked on the gray-haired man.

  “You’re going to get him to buy you a drink,” you tell me. “And you’re going to pay him back for it. Every time he offers you another drink, you’ll accept it and finish it quickly. Within ten minutes. If he buys you one drink, you’ll get him alone and give him a hand job. And let him come on your tits.”

  “Oh, God,” I whimper. “You must be joking….”

  “Not at all,” you say. “I’m dead serious. If he buys you two drinks, you’ll suck his cock and let him fuck you. And stroke him off onto your face when he’s ready to go. Three drinks…”

  You lean closer, smiling, looking into my horrified, humiliated face, knowing the effect your words are having on my aching cunt.

  “Three drinks?” I whisper in a small, frightened voice.

  “Three drinks, and he gets to fuck you in the ass,” you tell me.

  I shiver.

  “What if he doesn’t want to?” I ask.

  “Come now,” you say. “He’s a man. All you have to do is ask him, and I’m sure he’ll put his cock in whatever hole you offer.”

  “How…how?” is all I can say.

  “You’re a talented girl. You know about the birds and the bees.”

  “Where am I supposed to take him?”

  “Perhaps he has a room,” you tell me. “Or perhaps you can do him in the hallway, like any other whore. He looks like he’s got money, darling. I hope you brought some lube.”

  I shake my head. “No, I didn’t bring anything.”

  “Then I hope you’re good and turned on by the time he puts it in your ass,” you tell me. “I guess you didn’t bring a condom either.”

  I shake my head again. “Nothing. You told me not to bring anything.”

  You chuckle. “I did, did I? Well, then, no condom. I guess you really should know about the birds and the bees by the time the evening is over. Men always prefer the feel of a naked pussy—or asshole. So I’m sure he
’ll appreciate it when you let him fuck you bare.”

  You get up from the table, bend over, and kiss me on the cheek.

  “At least an hour, darling,” you tell me. “But take your time. If he wants to fuck you all night, I’ll be waiting. And as soon as he finishes with you, come to my room ready for more. I’m sure you’ll just be getting warmed up.”

  You leave me there, panting, my face red. The busboys are eyeing me, particularly the one who has just appeared to fill my water glass. His arm brushes my nipple as he bends over, and I don’t pull away. I’m too confused, too excited. I can smell his sharp sweat. I look over to the bar and see the man you’ve picked out for me. Thirty years older than me, if he’s a day. He’s leering at me openly.

  Weakly, I smile at him.

  I walk over on trembling legs and sit down next to him. He looks at me hungrily. Not knowing what to do with the key card clutched in my hand—of course I don’t have any pockets—I lay it on the bar in front of me, making a mental note that under no circumstances can I let myself forget it.

  The bartender appears in front of me, his face twisted in a look of disgust. He must be thinking I’m like any high-class hotel whore, working the restaurant.

  “Can I get you something?” he sneers.

  “I…I need a moment to decide,” I say.

  The bartender disappears and the man next to me leans close. “Hi,” he says to me. “Here alone?”

  I take a deep breath, barely able to speak. I can feel tears forming in my eyes. A little sob grabs my throat when I try to say something.

  I cover up for it quickly, speaking in a tormented voice, plainly edging toward tears.

  “I am now,” I tell the man. “My boyfriend just broke up with me.”

  “Oh, baby, I’m sorry,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Erica,” I tell him.

  “Erica, I’m Hal. Let me buy you a drink.”