Wicked Pleasures: Stories of Kinky Love

by Wicked Pleasures- Stories of Kinky Love (epub)

  “You’ll live,” he assured her. “If you really want me to stop, say ‘high tide.’”

  Sarah made a hesitant sound.

  “Say it after me, little angel.” He watched her as though he wanted to memorize her every expression.

  “High tide.”

  “Good girl.” He applied the clips to each of her nipples. She almost screamed, but bit her lips instead. She refused to chicken out.

  “I know they hurt, Sarah. I won’t leave them on long, but they’re part of the plan. You’ll see.” She breathed in and out in time with the throbbing of her breasts, which sent tremors and twinges directly to her tormented inner folds.

  Devon lowered himself over her until he was almost pressing against the clips. He kissed her possessively, deeply, as though he had all the time in the world. As though the rest of the world didn’t exist. “Sarah, you look so beautiful. You wouldn’t believe it.” He deliberately jiggled her breasts, and she gasped. “Are you my woman? Mine and no one else’s?”

  “Yes!” She hissed a little, exhaling. “Like this.”

  He understood her. “Then call me Master. Here in this room.”

  He raised himself up and pulled the clips off her nipples—first one, then the other. He pushed a knee against the base of the dildo, as if by accident.

  Sarah howled as the blood surged back into throbbing flesh and her inner muscles clutched at the hard thing inside her, over and over. Her knees rose and she pressed her feet into the bed, trying to hold herself as steady as possible. Gradually, her spasms decreased. Her energy seemed to return to her body. For an endless moment, she struggled to get her breathing under control.

  He reached up to her wrists and freed them. The music had ended, and she could hear the sound of his breathing while he leaned over her, the sharp scent of his armpits filling her nose.

  She flexed her hands and stretched her arms around his back without thinking. “Devon,” she sighed.

  “No.” His voice was warm and thick with everything he wouldn’t say to her in words. “Who am I?”

  “Master. That was so good.”

  His soft laugh covered her like a blanket of feathers. “Now you can serve me, girl. Show me what you can do. Do you trust me?”

  She guessed what he needed, and she was willing. “Yes. Um. Master.”

  “I need your sweet mouth. I went to get tested, and I’m clean.”

  Now that she was free to move, she wanted to touch him. She reached for his iron-hard cock and circled the base with one hand, feeling his curly hair and the balls below. He felt so innocent, so vulnerable, yet so powerful.

  She remembered he was part of the natural world, no less than a bull or a stallion. Of course, and she was part of the female half of the universe, but that truth was so easy to forget in ordinary time.

  They shifted positions until he sat with his back against the bed frame. She approached his regal scepter on her hands and knees, and held it with one hand so that she could lick its head. He groaned, and she took that as a compliment. She stroked his cock with her tongue, licking all down the shaft to the base and up again. She lowered her mouth onto it, and probed the tiny slit in its smooth head. She ran her teeth ever so gently against it, and licked the underside of its helmet-like ridges.

  His cock seemed to have a life of its own. He pushed against the back of her mouth as she fought off the gag reflex and moved to accommodate him. His flavor was rich and mildly salty already.

  “I’m—coming!” He shot his fluid into her. After a moment’s hesitation, she swallowed. Then came the next load, and the next, as though he couldn’t hold back any more. She held him in her mouth, wanting to suck him dry.

  “Ahhh.” She could feel him relax after the storm. “Good girl.” His cock softened and shrank, and she let it slide out of her mouth. He pulled her up to lean back against him as he held her between his legs. She was trapped as securely as she had been by the handcuffs on the bedposts.

  She was aware that her front side was coated with oil, while her back was coated with sweat. She rubbed against his chest hair, liking the feeling of man-fur against the skin over her spine and ribs. She could feel his words in his chest before their meaning registered in her mind.

  “I don’t know who taught you, honey, but you give good head. I could show you some ways to do better. Just the way I like it.”

  It hadn’t occurred to her that her performance could be improved. She swallowed her disappointment, reminding herself that almost any performance could be tweaked, refined, finessed. It was all in the details. She had heard that often enough.

  “Arrrgh, me lass. Am I your stud?”

  “Yes, Master.” She hoped this was the answer he wanted. “You’re the man of my dreams.” She wasn’t exaggerating.

  “Aw, you’re a fine bitch.” He stroked her hair as though petting an actual pet. “You think it’s all natural, don’t ya? You think I’m a piece of rough trade, not like them city dudes who try to win you over with fast cars and flashy clothes?”

  He seemed to be asking a question, but she wasn’t sure. “You’re a good man, Master.”

  He exhaled in a laugh that was more like a snort. “I’m not playing now, baby girl. Do you think I know how to bring in a catch, day after day, ‘cause I’m the son of a fisherman? It has to be learned, honey, like everything else. I went to school too, and I read books. More restaurants in the West have salmon on the menu than in the East, did you know that? The price of cod went up and down six times since 1995. Those fishies don’t know what they’re worth, but I do. I have to watch the economy if I don’t want to go under.”

  Shame seeped through her, making her feel slightly nauseous. She had kept him in her mind as a fantasy all these years, wrapping him in layers of her own desire like a clam coating a grain of sand in its own nacre, changing it into a pearl. The man she wanted him to be was not who he was. “I never thought you were stupid. I never did.” She hoped she sounded sincere.

  He pulled her across his lap and ran a hand over her ass cheeks in a comforting way, but she could feel the threat in his calloused palm. Excitement ran through her like electricity.

  “No, not stupid. But you never thought I was cultured, not a man who could put on a suit and take you to the opera or an artsy fundraiser. I look damn good in a suit, if you want to know.”

  She believed him.

  The first slap on her bottom was light, playful, barely more than a love-pat. She squirmed, but she made no move to get away from his hands. The next slap made a satisfying sound that seemed to echo off the walls. It stung.

  Whap! Devon was spanking her for real now, and she squirmed under his relentless hand. He held her in place, and she was almost relieved that she couldn’t get away.

  “Oh!” she squeaked. “Master, I’m sorry.” Her ass was growing hot and sore.

  “For what?” he laughed. “I’m not mad atchoo. I’m givin’ it to you ’cause you need it. And I like it too.” He was imitating a soap commercial, but his focus on her unprotected behind was serious.

  His hand came down on her bare skin again and again. Tears stung her eyes and streamed embarrassingly down her cheeks. She was sure he could feel the drops that flew through the air as she moved her head. “High tide” appeared in neon lights in her mind like the name of a television game show, but she wouldn’t say it.

  The fire in her ass reignited the sullen ache in her empty channel. Beyond reason, she wanted to be filled again. Her inner walls were burning with an itch that needed to be scratched.

  “Ready?” Devon flipped her onto her back, grinning like a devil. The cotton bedspread, formerly so soft, rasped against the sensitive skin of her bottom. She wondered briefly how she would bear to put her panties back on later.

  The man held his hard cock, covered with a sheath of latex like the stocking mask on a bank robber. Before she could laugh, he plunged it deep into her, burying his living toy to the hilt. She noticed it wasn’t as thick as the fake version, b
ut it aroused her more.

  He breathed in her ear. He used his knees and elbows to keep himself anchored as he rode her with abandon. “Nothing—like—this.”

  She wrapped her arms and legs around him, grateful for the traction he provided. His grunts and her moans provided a musical accompaniment to the ride they had both wanted for so long.

  He sped up, and she was willing to let him finish. It was always hard for her to come just from fucking, and she formed a vague plan to sneak off to the bathroom soon afterward, to bring herself off in secret.

  Without warning, he withdrew from her partway, and slid two fingers down past her soaked hair to find her clit, the little man in the boat. It was almost too slippery to grasp, and she felt his fingernails sliding over her swollen flesh.

  She came with a moan that rose to a yell.

  “Sarah!” He slammed into her, pumping his fluid against the barrier that protected her from it as though he wanted to leave some trace of himself deep in her core. He groaned from his guts.

  They lay together in their cooling sweat for a few moments after their bodies had slowed down. She became aware that the oil on her skin had greased up his chest hair. He seemed to enjoy being covered in oil and sweat, his and hers combined in a pungent stew.

  She could hear a clock ticking somewhere in the house, as though ordinary time had reasserted itself. “Devon.” She didn’t want to break the spell, but she needed to know who was important to him besides her. “Do you and your wife have kids?”

  He squeezed her shoulders. “She’s not my wife. Yeah, a little girl. She’s three. Named Anne-Marie, after Mary’s grandmother. “

  “Do you see her?” Sarah was afraid she was probing a wound, but she needed to know.

  “Yeah. Oh yeah. We’ve got a schedule. Everything’s worked out. I always wanted kids, and I’m really glad we had her, regardless. She’s a smart little girl. She gives me something to live for, you know?”

  Sarah didn’t know what to say. Getting pregnant and having a child had never been a priority for her, although she hadn’t ruled it out altogether. She was honestly glad for Devon, but the sudden intrusion into her consciousness of a three-year-old with his genes was disconcerting. Anne-Marie. It didn’t sound like a name for a young child—more like a prediction of future womanhood.

  Sarah would need to think about this when she was feeling calmer. “I have an acting class for older kids, age ten to twelve. They’re very creative at that age, if it hasn’t been processed out of them.”

  Devon ran a casual hand over her bottom, making her jump. “For sure. You always were. Are you a star yet?”

  She laughed. “Not yet, but I’m playing the lead in Saint Joan at Trident Theater in September. You should come see it if you can get away.”

  “You want me to come to the city in two months? Why, Sarah?”

  It was a question she hardly dared to ask herself.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he continued. “We can write letters to each other, just like in the old days. Only it’s easier now because we both have computers. You can let me know where you’re at, and I’ll do the same for you. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she answered. She skimmed the room with her eyes, hardly daring to focus on the bookcase, the rocking chair, the doily-covered dresser with various bottles sitting next to a pair of cufflinks. His personal stuff. It all looked unbearably sexy, down to his dirty socks on the carpet.

  She realized more commitment was called for. “I’ll send you an e-mail when I know what’s happening with my mom. Or a phone call if I’m still here. I’ll let you know. But Devon, Mister Sir, I can’t be a wife like my mother or yours. It’s not in me. I’d lose my mind.”

  “I know that, baby.” He rocked her slightly, as though she were really a fretful baby. “It’s okay.” He did know, and it was. He shifted and sat up. “You want a beer now?”

  Sarah laughed. “That’s what you offered me. Sure.”

  As he stood up to put on some clothes, she felt more at home than she had in years.

  Temporary Reversals

  by A. Silenus

  When Miranda made love, she seemed to appreciate instinctively that the dividing line between man and woman was not a clear one. Her long, graceful fingers probed at places that made her lover smile in surrender. He braced himself for that scarlet polish to draw a like-colored fluid as one of her nails scythed into the tenderness behind his scrotum, but all he felt was a penetrating warmth from her gyrating finger.

  “You understand,” he had murmured, with eyelids half closed, during one of their early bouts of mutual exploration. “So few women do.”

  “More do than you think,” she had told him, gently pressing down on his abdomen with her other hand. “But there’s the fear to overcome.”

  “Fear of what?”

  It was her turn to smile, her eyebrows raised in mock condescension as she spoke. “You don’t know your gender very well, do you? Fear of stepping out of one’s role. Fear of confusing the macho ego. Fear of being rejected, I guess.”

  “Don’t stop,” he had replied, growing secure by this time with whatever she did to him. “That’s my fear.”

  He said nothing more for what could have been several minutes or several hours or several days. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink. He was young enough that he did not connect inebriation with performance. No anxiety there. Adrenaline flowed all the smoother in the haze.

  * * * *

  Looking back a mere few weeks, he was amazed at how he’d changed. Acceptance had come, but not without vacillation. That first time she had invited him in for the night, it was her performance rather than his that caused him concern. As his head lolled across the pillow, he peered at the warrior’s bangles on the wrist which held him down.

  “Relax and enjoy,” she had instructed. What choice did he have? Endorphins gave him wings, even as he fought the pleasure. Her Amazon will constricted his own.

  Try as he did, though, he couldn’t comply with her command in its entirety. Relaxation was not easy. There was something in his nature, or perhaps in a multitude of infant and boyhood recollections, that resisted.

  “You’re so rigid,” she said.

  “It’s supposed to be,” he countered, trying to make light of her reproach.

  She circled the shaft of his penis in her hand and stroked him into a St. Vitus Dance of grunts and contractions.

  “I didn’t mean it,” she continued. “I meant the rest of you.”

  He watched, or rather pretended not to watch, as her genitals docked with his own. As she moved astride him, there was a power in her haunches and a grace in her descent that calmed the struggle within him. At first he thought he saw mockery in her stare, the irises as dark and fathomless as a northern sea. Then, as she began to sway, she leaned over him. Her fingers manacled his wrists and a steady moan escaped the lips sucking the sweat seeping the length of his throat. He pushed up to meet the warm, round parts of her, the breasts that stroked his chest and the buttocks that kneaded his trapped thighs.

  Afterwards, she laughed without restraint until he wondered whether he’d missed her taking a hit of something more potent than the wine on the bedside table.

  “Nothing you did, or didn’t do,” she tried to reassure. “It just felt so good I needed to express.”

  “You expressed all right,” he agreed, although there was still something about the experience that left him uneasy.

  * * * *

  Next time they were together, she directed him to shower with her. Afterward, she pushed his naked body back onto her couch and squeezed his knees to his chest until he imagined some disc or vertebra would pop and his spine would clatter to the floor like a cut strand of pearls.

  Once again her tongue soothed his misgivings. He flinched as a tepid saliva dribbled along the tender channel between his buttocks. But his ankles were in her firm grasp, and gradually he succumbed. Then her tongue forced entry with a firmness that made his mind swim with sci-fi i
mages of alien parasites.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He was a man, after all, unwavering in his heterosexuality. A man, who set his own course, who made decisions, who should have been in control of his own destiny.

  “Turn over,” she instructed as she twisted him into a kneeling position. “This may be cold at first.” He recoiled as a trickle of liquid splattered on to his tailbone and rivulets ran over his anus and scrotum and dripped off his hips onto the towel she had spread over the couch. An oily fragrance gathered under him like morning mist in a hollow.

  “Keep still.” Her palm slapped against his buttock, and then again on the other side. Gently she penetrated his anus with her fingers.

  “Does that feel good? Then don’t fight me. Just give in.”

  Give in? Well, why not? It would come to that sooner or later. She withdrew her fingers, and he was aware of her making adjustments of some kind, something at waist level. Then there was contact once more. This time it was not the soft flexibility of a finger but rather a hardness, a smoothness, dipping into the moist fissure that now felt so exposed.

  It probed him, and he gasped as it pushed its way inside him. He could feel the warmth of her pelvis moving towards him in slow motion, one sigh at a time, until she was rocking against him and her hands were anchored on his waist.

  In his passivity, he was bewildered. Emotions flickered in quick succession. First came embarrassment as he considered what this meant to his notion of maleness, then a vague surge of anger at the violation, then perhaps a little panic, like the panic of a lost child.

  She flicked her tongue across the lobe of his ear, and then began to nibble on it. Somehow that took the tension out of his body. He was seduced by how gently she pushed into him. None of the thrusting that would have been instinctive to him in her place. Gradually he gave up resistance and let her shift his position as she desired. He went limp, until even his mind seemed to slump into inertia and his limbs felt deliciously paralyzed.