He thought back to when their positions had been reversed, and he had been the one to kneel in submission. In his daydreams, he could still feel her breasts against his back as she eased inside him. Then, as he stood cradling the curve of her buttocks in his palms, it occurred to him that he should repay her in kind. Perhaps she’d recoil, but the chance was worth taking.
Quickly he coated his penis in slippery liquid from the bottle and prepared to test the crater. There was an incoherent murmur from Miranda as he made contact, but nothing to suggest resistance. He pushed a little, enough for the crater to expand and, it seemed to him, grip around him. Bit by bit, he worked his way inside her and, as he did so, she began to push back. To the extent the restraints around her wrists and ankles would allow, she pivoted in time with his thrusts. She became more vocal too, sighing and occasionally squealing. In her anguish her fingers curled, rings flickering like prisms, and blond locks flayed the bedclothes.
Was she fighting what he was doing to her? He couldn’t decide what the turmoil before him signified. All he knew was he couldn’t fuel it much longer. He waited for her vocalizations to build to a scream, which he took to indicate culmination. Then he reached his own point of release. A pulse shimmied through him in tandem with the spurts he felt leaving his body for hers.
For what seemed an age, he stood glued to her by sweat and semen. She was still swaying slightly and mewing. He waited for the physical effort to lapse into tranquility.
“I couldn’t help it,” he said as he drew back from her behind. ”You were driving me crazy. I hope you don’t hate me.”
“Hate you?” She looked up as she said it, motioning with her head for him to undo her wrists. “Waiting, that’s what I hate. I thought you’d never catch on.”
He was going to ask what she meant. But now that her arms and legs were free, she was pulling him on top of her.
His spine tingled in response to her fingertips, and he shivered as her lips plucked at his nipples. Already, as her thighs arced around him, he felt renewed. Her breathing was heavy again, and a drifting, helpless expression had returned to her face.
“I got jealous,” he confessed. “I got worked up about that Julian guy.”
“Who?” she asked in a daze. He drew back so he could see her face, hoping perhaps for a confession.
“That Julian from the office you kept talking about.”
She gave him one of her full frontal stares and, looking bemused, murmured, “Did I?”
Just Friends
by Cynthia W. Gentry
Back when Matt and I were trying to be lovers, he used to talk dirty to me on the phone, teasing me slowly into orgasms over the course of many long-distance phone calls. Eventually, being lovers didn’t work, especially over a distance of two thousand miles. I finally gave him an excuse to become angry with me and stop returning my phone calls. We made up after a year of silence and now I think of him as a friend. An odd one, maybe. But I think about him and all I think about is how I’d like to be enfolded into his arms.
I’m in New York on business, staying at the Doubletree. I am amazed when I walk into my room. It has a separate bedroom, with a door, and a sitting area with a long, low chaise lounge and an ottoman. I laugh when I see the bed. It’s an iron bed with patina grillwork on the frame. I laugh because one of the fantasies that Matt used to torment me with was a scenario where he would tie me to a bed and have his way with me. “That pussy’s mine,” he’d whisper over the phone, as I masturbated to orgasm after orgasm, hundreds of miles away.
Now here I am in Manhattan, alone again. I’m meeting Matt for dinner but since he and I are just friends now, this lovely bed will go to waste. Oh well. I shower off the airplane grime and change my clothes. I think about how Matt used to talk about waiting for me in a hotel room while I was at a party; how he’d describe undressing me, peeling off my black cocktail dress, sliding my black thong panties over my hips and down my legs. But now, because we are just friends, I throw on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. How times have changed.
Twenty minutes later, I arrive at a Mexican restaurant on the lower West Side. He’s already sitting at a table, drinking a margarita. He gives me a big grin when he sees me. He’s cut his hair, for which I’m glad. I hated the ponytail and moustache he sported for a while. But now here he is, cleanshaven with short blonde hair falling over his blue eyes. He stands up and hugs me. I’m tall, but still I have to go up on my toes. I like this. I like men being taller than me. It makes me feel, for a moment, like I’m not a large clumsy Amazon-- an image of myself that I picked up in junior high when I was two feet taller than everyone else.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say. “The plane was delayed.”
“That’s OK, babe,” he replies. “Can I get you a margarita?”
At the word “babe,” a tingle runs through my body. He used to call me “babe” when we were more than just friends. I loved it because it let me pretend for a moment that I wasn’t a supercharged, professional, got-everything-together kind of woman. It let me feel that I was, well, a “babe.” I know, it’s politically incorrect to admit that.
“A mineral water,” I tell him, and then, when he raises an eyebrow, “I don’t drink anymore. I thought I told you.”
This is true. I drank a lot when Matt and I were more than just friends. Entire bottles of wine by myself. When I thought he had dumped me, I decided it would be romantic if I drank myself to death. Thankfully, I changed my mind and joined AA instead.
“That’s right,” he said. “You told me that. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.”
“Do you mind if I drink?”
“Why would I? You’re not the one with the drinking problem.”
I feel very positive and magnanimous in my sobriety. It’s what got me to re-establish contact with Matt in the first place. I heard about the possibility of him losing his job because his division was being closed down. I sent him an e-mail saying I was sorry and was thinking about him and he wrote back. We made up and now we’re friends.
And now he’s doing what friends do: asking me about my job (boring, although I should be thankful I have it); my relationship with my boyfriend, whom I love but to whom I am no longer attracted; my writing. Then I take the focus off me and ask him about his love life. I play counselor. This is what I’m good at, especially with men. Sometimes it ends up being a way for me to worm myself into their beds, but with Matt, I really want to know. He’s involved in a hopeless romance with some woman fifteen years his junior. Instead of being threatened, I laugh and tease him. I tell him what I think. I begin to get a reaction from him and switch over to flirting mode. I can feel myself doing it. Lowering my head to look up at him mischievously, I smirk, pout, and punch his arm lightly. It’s fun. I feel alive.
“How’s your sex life?” he asks me suddenly.
I find myself entranced with a piñata hanging from the ceiling. I don’t want to talk about myself anymore.
“My, this flan is good,” I say with exaggerated enthusiasm. We both laugh.
“That bad, huh?”
I relent. “No, it’s fine.” And then I blurt out, “As long as I fantasize.” It’s as though I’ve been the one drinking margaritas.
“About what?” He grins at me. I’m not going to play.
“Oh, you know. The usual.”
“No, I don’t know. Tell me.”
“Matt,” I say primly. “That’s private.”
He laughs. “OK, babe.”
Oh, so he’s going to drop it that easily? “You should know what my fantasies are, Matt. You gave them to me. Over the phone. Remember?” I’ve just crossed the line. Now let’s see how he’ll react.
He doesn’t. He sits back, smiling. For some reason, I think he’s relieved. But why? I’m not sure I want to play this game anymore.
“Let’s get a coffee somewhere,” I say. There. Back on safe ground.
Outside the restaurant, he puts his arm around m
y shoulders. I look up at him.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say, and lean up to give him a quick kiss. It’s a test. He passes. He didn’t try to stretch it out.
We turn back to the street and almost run straight into a young man with dark hair and cheekbones that could cut ice. He’s dressed in jeans and carries a gym bag, like he just came from working out.
“Hey, Rich,” Matt says. “What’s happening?”
I feel a twinge of adrenaline. Rich? My fantasies, the ones Matt gave me, include a Rich. I didn’t realize he actually knew one. Matt introduces me. Pleasantries are exchanged. It’s decided that Rich will join us for coffee.
Over cappuccinos, Rich surprises me. I’m shy with him at first, as I usually am with handsome men. Guys with his looks aren’t usually so funny, so smart. Matt pretends to be bored while we discuss movies. But he’s sitting close to me on the couch. I sink into it and rub up against him.
“Poor Matt, left out of the discussion,” I say. “What would you like to talk about?”
“I’m just teasing you.”
“What else is new?”
“You seem to like hanging out with guys,” Rich says.
“I get more attention that way.”
“You don’t seem like you need a lot of attention,” he says. “You seem extremely self-sufficient, actually.”
I’m pleased but instead I make a face of displeasure. “Oh Rich, I thought you’d see through my facade. I need lots of attention. Lots. I’m insatiable, in fact.”
Our coffees are finished. But none of us seem to want to separate. Then Matt makes his suggestion.
“Let’s go hang out at this giant hotel room you keep telling us about.”
I feel another shot of adrenaline, of pure fear, like I’m about to do something very bad.
“Only if you boys behave yourselves.”
“Scout’s honor,” says Rich.
I lead them in. Matt, of course, pokes his head into the bedroom and grins. I feel my face getting warm as I reach past him to pull the door shut.
“The mini-bar is that way,” I tell him. Drinks are poured-- they sip tequila. I’m suddenly very thirsty. Rich, ever the gentleman, goes to get ice. While he’s gone, Matt sits down in the chaise lounge and stretches his legs out on the ottoman.
“Come here,” he says, and suddenly I have no will of my own. I squeeze into the chair with him. He looks into my eyes. “It’s good to see you. Every time I do, you become more and more of a babe. Don’t make that face. You are.”
There’s a long pause. My mind is suddenly blank.
“Do you mind if I kiss you, for old time’s sake?” he asks. My heart begins pounding.
“No tongue.”
“Sure. No tongue.” I tilt my head up and let him. At first he keeps his lips closed. Then his tongue slips between my lips. The heady fumes of tequila fill my mouth.
“You said no tongue,” I say, but I don’t pull my head away.
“I lied,” he answers, and keeps going.
“Is this going to ruin our friendship?” I whisper.
“No. It will make it better.” I would like to believe him, but my experience with him and others tells me he’s wrong. No matter. I keep kissing him. Then I’m conscious of someone else in the room. Rich.
I pull away from Matt, embarrassed. “Sorry, Rich. Your friend grabbed me.” But Matt doesn’t let me go and Rich only smiles.
“Don’t worry about it. It looked like fun.” He pours me a glass of water, which he sets on the coffee table. He sits down on the ottoman, near our feet.
“It is fun,” Matt says. “She’s a good kisser.” He turns to me. “Rich broke up with his girlfriend recently.” If this is calculated to get my sympathies, it works.
“Oh God,” I say. “Then you don’t need to watch us kissing.” I try again to pull away, but Matt doesn’t break his grip.
“Yes, I do,” Rich says.
At times like these, there comes a moment when we make decisions. To decide whether to stay with what is familiar and tell ourselves that we are being good, or to go with the unknown. And though I don’t consciously know it, it’s at this moment that I’ve chosen the latter.
“There’s only one problem,” I hear Rich say. Matt and I are kissing deeply now. He has pulled me closer to him. I’m letting him stroke my back, my ass. At Rich’s words, we stop and look at him.
“I’m sitting here thinking how much I’d like to be kissing those beautiful lips myself.”
His words were catnip to me. I’m already wet between my legs, now I feel my cunt lips fill with warmth, soften and open. My heart thuds in my chest. Can’t they hear it? I pull away from Matt and sit at the edge of the chair. I picture myself as supremely benevolent, the Queen of Kisses, bestowing them out of charity and goodwill. I take his face between my hands and lean forward. My lips meet Rich’s and I’ve made another decision.
I start to French kiss him, but he says, “Wait. Slow down.” He puts a hand on my cheek and kisses me gently with his lips closed, and then again. With each new kiss, he begins to slip his tongue a little further between my lips. We begin kissing deeply, his tongue playing with mine. Finally, I pull away.
“There,” I say. “How was that? Do you feel more included now?”
He smiles. “Matt is right. You are a good kisser. I’d like to kiss you again.”
“Don’t stop on my account,” Matt says. We both shift our positions so that I’m sitting on the edge of the chair with my back toward him, his legs on either side of me. He puts his hands on my hips.
“One more,” I say to Rich, telling myself that that will be the end of it, but I know I’m wrong. As I kiss Rich, Matt leans forward and slides his hands under my shirt, playing with my breasts. I feel him nuzzle my neck, my ear. He unhooks my bra and gently rubs my nipples. Then he slides one hand down my stomach into my pants. I freeze.
“Is this okay, babe?” He whispers in my ear.
I stare into Rich’s eyes. They are warm and earnest.
For a split second no one moves. Then I put my lips to Rich’s again. Matt’s hand continues its explorations down my pants, under the waistband of my underwear. But because of the jeans it can’t get much farther than that. I shift my hips almost involuntarily, trying to give him access. His other hand leaves my breast and unfastens the buttons of my jeans. He slides his hand back down and discovers the wetness between my legs. I hear his intake of breath and I moan as he caresses my clit. Meanwhile, Rich continues kissing me. My mind is so full of sensations that I can’t think.
Again, I pull away from Rich and lean back into Matt, whose hand is deep inside my wetness. Rich takes off my shoes. He reaches for my jeans.
“We should stop,” I say, but have no will to make that happen. They have to decide.
“Is that what you want?” Rich asks me.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s okay, babe,” Matt says. “Let’s go into the bedroom. Let Rich give you a massage. Then you can decide.”
In the bedroom, I turn and stand before them. Matt stands behind me and pulls my t-shirt over my head. I let him ease my bra off my shoulders. Rich slides my jeans over my hips and down to the floor, kneeling as he does so. I step out of them. He hooks his fingers into the elastic band of my panties. He smiles at me as he slides them off. I’m completely exposed to both of them. I want to cover myself. He begins stroking my legs. His hands move up the back of my thighs, then around to the front, and he traces the V of my public hair with his thumb. If Matt weren’t holding me up, my knees would have given way by now. I wait for him to put his mouth where his hands are, but he rises instead.
“I’ve got some massage oil in my gym bag,” he says and leaves the room.
Matt turns me around to face him. “Nothing will happen that you don’t want to happen,” he says.
“I know.”
He pulls the comforter, blanket, and sheet back from the bed. “Lie down.” He takes off his shirt.
I st
retch out on my stomach. Matt stretches out next to me and we kiss. Rich returns to the room with his bag. I turn my head and see that he has also taken off his shirt.
“I’m going to take off my pants,” he says, “so that they don’t cut into you.” He does, and I see the huge bulge under his briefs. I turn away and wonder why. To preserve his modesty? A moment later I feel him straddle me lightly and begin to stroke his hands over my body. Slippery with oil, they glide over my skin and his strong fingers knead my muscles. I sigh with pleasure. “You’re tense,” he tells me. “Relax.”
“Matt, are you bored yet?” I ask, trying to make a joke.
“Not at all,” he answers, smiling. “You have such a beautiful body. Such beautiful skin.”
By now, Rich is finished with my back. He massages my buttocks. He slips a finger between my legs and lets it stop at the opening to my cunt. I groan.
“You’re so wet,” he whispers.
I don’t want him to stop, but he keeps moving down my legs to my feet.
“I’ll go to sleep if you work on my feet,” I tell him. I’m not lying.
“We wouldn’t want that,” he says, but he massages them nonetheless. All tension melts out of my body. “Turn over,” he says, finally, and he continues to work on my feet.
Eyes closed, I hear Matt shift on the bed. He takes my wrists in one hand. I open my eyes and see that in his other hand, he is holding a long velvet scarf. He smiles and begins to slowly wrap it around my wrists.
“Let me do this,” Matt says. “I won’t hurt you.”
“I know, but…” He covers my mouth with a kiss even while he loops the other end of the velvet through the grillwork of the headboard. It holds my arms above my head, firmly, but not too tightly.
“I want to make your fantasies come true,” he says, smiling at me. I look down to see Rich’s reaction. His eyes gleam.
“Nothing is going to happen that you don’t want to happen,” he says again, reaching down into his bag to pull out more velvet ropes. He hands one to Matt. They part my legs gently and tie one ankle loosely to one bedpost and one to the other. There is enough slack so that I can bend my knees. I begin to twist. I feel too exposed.
Wicked Pleasures: Stories of Kinky Love Page 4