They’re using me, she thought. I’m just a fuckdoll, a sex machine, I don’t even know their real names and they probably don’t know mine, but fuck, it feels so fucking good!
After that, the rest of the night and the next day and the next night were something of an erotic blur. She did have a clear memory of jerking two of the men off so she could watch them come on her breasts, and then licking as much of their jizz as her tongue could reach before the other women finished the job of cleaning her up…and of Shorty returning for a second go at her tits, this time facing her feet while she licked his ass as avidly as she’d rimmed the Indian woman’s, or Ting’s, or Abigail’s… and of being blindfolded and ordered to guess whose cock was in her mouth, with the “threat” of a spanking if she guessed wrong, and of coming as the “threat” was carried out…and of being fucked and sodomized by all of the men, and by Ting with a strap-on, though she couldn’t remember in what order… but as she woke up Sunday morning, her body still glazed with come and other juices and covered with lipsticky kisses in four colors, the most important thing she remembered was how much pleasure her body, too long ignored, had given her and seven other people.
She lay there in what Abigail had called the “recovery room,” still slightly dazed, and wondered whether she should ask the chauffeur to stop at a church so she could go to confession on the way home—at a church where no one knew her, of course. She’d gotten less than halfway through listing her encounters of the weekend in her head before reaching for one of the vibrators Abigail had thoughtfully left on the nightstand.
* * * *
Linsey kept her expression neutral as she listened to the secretary of the PTA drone on reprovingly about the teacher some parents thought was being too frank about sex in biology class. The woman was only a few years her senior, and as Linsey looked across her desk at her prim, even severe, appearance, she realized she was what she might have become without Brianna’s gift.
Maybe I’m judging her too harshly, she thought. Maybe she has a girlfriend as well as a husband. Maybe she has an impressive collection of piercings and tattoos under that Dior suit. Maybe her ass isn’t really so tight that it doesn’t regularly accommodate a nice hard cock, or so hard that it doesn’t jiggle a little when it gets spanked. Maybe she likes to go to sex shop movie booths in some other town and suck cocks through a glory hole. Maybe—
“…do the girls even need to learn biology at all?” the woman asked, bringing Linsey out of her reverie. “Unless they decide to go into medicine, what use will it be to them later in life?”
Linsey stared at her for a moment and seemed to hear Brianna’s voice in her head. You can choose when to be submissive, it said, and that means you’re choosing when not to be.
“The course stays on the curriculum,” said Linsey firmly. “Biology is not some shameful little secret. There’s a reason they call it a life science. And I am not going to fire a teacher for doing her job, answering questions, and encouraging curiosity. Yes, we will tell the girls that abstinence is safest—but if they ask about alternatives, any alternatives, I expect the teachers to answer the questions as honestly as they are able and let the girls make informed decisions about their own lives. How do you put it? ‘Teach the controversy?’”
The woman turned red and stood. “I hope you’re ready to defend this position at the next meeting, when I suggest to the other parents that we pull our daughters out of this school—”
Linsey resisted the urge to make a joke about withdrawal not being a particularly effective alternative. “You’re free to do that,” she said, “but I’m not apologizing for the position I’ve taken. Is there anything else you wish to say?”
Clearly there wasn’t, as the woman stood up and stormed towards the door. Linsey looked at her ass for a moment, fantasized about having it bent over her desk ready for a thorough spanking, then reached for her cell phone. “Brianna? It’s Lin. What’re you doing this weekend?”
Fair Game
by Elizabeth Coldwell
Donovan lived for the weekend, because that was when the “hen” parties came to town. Friday and Saturday nights would see him sitting in one of the bars that lined the marina development, watching bachelorettes and bridesmaids-to-be trip across the cobblestones in their strappy high heels, dressed in the uniform marking them as girls celebrating someone’s last night of freedom. Sometimes they were angels with little gauzy wings. Sometimes they were devils with horns embedded with twinkling lights and tiny red halter tops. If he were honest, he liked it best when they went for the slutty schoolgirl look, with their hair in pigtails, too-short skirts, and shirts unbuttoned to give a flash of pushup bra. Whatever they wore, though, they might as well all have had the words “FAIR GAME” tattooed across their foreheads.
He had lost count of the number of hen night conquests he had made, and he doubted he could remember the names of more than one or two. After a while, they all merged into one. It was all so predictable: He would watch them trooping into Montgomery’s or Diamond Lil’s, where it was always happy hour and margaritas came in a two-pint jug. A couple of drinks there to loosen them up, and then he would look up from his seat at the bar to find a dozen identically dressed girls surrounding him, giggling and teasing the bride-to-be as they debated whether they were going to order Screaming Orgasms or Long Slow Comfortable Screws. It was very rare that he approached the “hen.” It wasn’t that she wouldn’t have slept with him, had he asked. He knew how often these women fancied one last no-strings fuck before they waved their freedom goodbye. If anything, they were too easy, too eager to fall for his muscular good looks and his effortless charm.
No, his target was usually the girl straggling at the back, the one not having quite as good a time as everyone else. Probe a little and he would discover she was insecure about her looks or resentful of all the attention her friend was getting, however hard she tried to deny it. These were the girls who were grateful—the overweight, the gawky, the lonely. And they never turned him down.
He made sure, too, that they had a good time. He had a solid seven inches and a long, supple tongue, and he knew how to use both. He was careful to use protection, whether they raised the subject or not. He told them they were beautiful, special, that no one had ever made him feel the way they did, and they lapped up every word. Of course, when they awoke the next morning in their hotel room with the hangover from hell and the soreness of taking a thick cock in an underused pussy, they probably had second thoughts. But by then he was gone. Done and on to the next, as the song had it.
So when the Go Girls came into the bar that night, he thought this would be another smooth, easy one-night stand like all the rest. He knew they were the Go Girls because they had the slogan written in Day-Glo pink ink on tight white T-shirts that strained across their breasts. The outfits were completed with skinny jeans and ponytails secured with strings of pink and silver tinsel. A couple of them were sucking on round pink lollipops. He felt himself getting hard just looking at them.
As well as the lettering on the front, they had their names on the back. He discounted Frances, “the future Mrs. Anderson,” straight away, and bypassed Linda, Shelley, Nicki, Gwen, and Julia—though the last two were particularly difficult to ignore, given that they were identical redheaded twins. Instead, he turned his attention to Beth. It would have been hard not to: She had streaky blond hair, huge green eyes, and the best arse of any of the girls there, shown off to perfection in those tight-fitting jeans. His eyes were also drawn to the pair of fluffy pink fake-fur handcuffs she had attached to her belt. He’d seen girls with them before—just another part of the hen night ritual. But though she was definitely there in body, her spirit seemed to be elsewhere. She was the one – he knew it instantly, and as she stood on the edge of the shrieking group, sipping at her fruit-heavy cocktail through a straw and looking bored to tears, he wandered over.
“Having a good time, Beth?” he asked, giving her his most sincere smile. He knew she was tak
ing in his six-foot frame, his tousled dark hair and the row of sharp white teeth he revealed when he smiled, making the snap judgment which would decide whether she would get sucked into making conversation with him.
Clearly having decided he wasn’t a jerk, she returned the smile. “To be honest, no. I’m only here because Franny’s one of my oldest friends.” She kept her voice low, presumably so the future Mrs. Anderson couldn’t overhear her disloyalty. It meant Donovan had to lean in close enough to smell the spicy perfume she was wearing. “I mean, these outfits, the silly hairdos—it’s all too tacky for words.”
“You should try being a bloke,” Donovan said conspiratorially. “You either spend a weekend staggering round Prague, drunk out of your skull, or you go go-karting, for God’s sake. Now, if it’s ever my turn to tie the knot…”
“You’re not married, then?” she asked. He was surprised she hadn’t glanced down at his ring finger. In his experience, it was the next thing a woman did after taking a sneaky peek at a man’s crotch.
“Nah. It’s never seemed like the right time to get tied down.” He swallowed the last of his beer. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked. “Or would you rather go somewhere a little more quiet?”
Beth looked over at her friends. Two of the girls were up on one of the tables, singing along at the tops of their lungs to one of the songs from the soundtrack of Dirty Dancing, a perennial favorite when the hens were in the house.
“Don’t worry,” Donovan said, “I don’t think you’ll be missed for a little while.”
“So where did you have in mind that’s a little quieter?” Beth asked, as they made their way along the marina, the neon-lit frontages of the bars and the groups standing drinking on the cobbles reflected in the smooth, dark water of the harbor.
“Well, my place isn’t that far,” Donovan said. This was the moment. She could either tell him to get lost and go chasing back to her friends, or she could accept his invitation and let him take her to bed.
“Okay,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “Lead the way.”
He heard her high heels clip-clopping behind him as he turned into the little alleyway that led to his front door. As always, he wondered whether he would have to go through the polite ritual of coffee and small talk before things got physical. But then Beth virtually pushed him up against the wall, her mouth locking on to his as he fumbled with the key, and he stopped wondering.
Her body pressed against him, the twin points of her braless nipples boring into his chest, her hand reaching down to cup his cock through his jeans, and he tried to reconcile the hungry slut making all the moves with the quiet, disinterested-looking girl he had first spotted in the wine bar.
“My bedroom,” he managed to say when she finally broke the kiss. “We’ll be more comfortable there.” And he would be in control again, he thought.
Their progress to the bedroom was slowed by more kissing, more fondling, and breaks to remove items of clothing—mostly his, he was disconcerted to realize. By the time they finally stood by his bed, he wore nothing but his black jersey boxers, which clung uncomfortably to the rapidly rising length of his cock. Beth still wore the “Go Girl” T-shirt and a pair of lacy, hot-pink boy shorts. Donovan itched to strip her of those items, though he thought idly about asking her to put the heels back on. She would look great with them wrapped around his broad back. He stretched out an arm to pull her towards him and somehow—afterwards he was never quite sure how—she gripped it and spun him around, catching hold of both wrists as she did so. He staggered and felt the backs of his legs bump up against the cold metal of the radiator. There was a sudden click and he felt the unexpected sensation of fur against his skin. He tried to step forward, alarmed at what might be happening, and came to the shocking realization that he had been secured in place.
He hadn’t seen her take those silly hen night handcuffs from her belt—lust had blinded him to much of what was happening on their ascent to the bedroom—but she had managed to use them to chain him up. This wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go—by now she should have been topless and on her knees in front of him sucking his cock, instead of standing there with a mocking smirk on her face.
“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” he said, trying not to sound as scared as he felt. “Joke’s over. You can let me go now.”
“I don’t think so,” Beth said. “Not just yet.”
“Look, what is this?” he said, struggling against the cuffs. That got him nowhere – for a cheap toy, the cuffs were surprisingly strong. “Why are you doing this?”
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she said.
He racked his brains, but he had no memory of her. As far as he knew, he had never seen her before in his life. Those eyes, that arse—surely he wouldn’t have forgotten those?
“No, I didn’t think you had. Mind you, my hair was mousy brown then, and I was about a stone heavier. Oh, and I had plain contact lenses, rather than these green ones, but I think these suit me better, don’t you?”
Donovan sagged against the radiator as Beth continued. “You met me in that same bar, eighteen months ago. Shy little Elizabeth, down for her sister’s hen night. You gave me all the charm, all the chat, and I fell for it. Then you brought me back here and you fucked me on that bed. Clean sheets then, clean sheets now…You must have been confident you were going to pull tonight, eh?”
“So what’s this leading up to? I broke your heart and now you want revenge?”
“Not quite.” Beth came up to him, so close he could smell that her perfume was now mixed with a definite hint of her arousal. Looking at him restrained and helpless like this was clearly turning her on. “That was the original plan, I’ll admit—to strip you, chain you up, and let one of the neighbors know where to find you, but…you didn’t exactly break my heart. However, the way you treated me was pretty appalling, you must admit. I mean, I tried ringing the phone number you gave me when I was back home, to see if there was any chance of seeing you again, and found myself talking to a very nice woman who ran a minicab firm. Nice trick, Donovan. How many other girls have you fobbed off like that?”
Donovan started to mutter an explanation, but she silenced him by pressing the palm of her hand across his mouth.
“So really,” she continued, “you deserve everything that’s coming to you, but you need to know it’s because of you that things turned around for me. We had some pretty spectacular sex—” Donovan began to grin, preening himself over the compliment, but the sudden pressure of Beth’s fingers against his jaw stopped him “—and once I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I decided I wanted more. I stopped being mousy little Elizabeth who nobody noticed and nobody fancied, and I lost weight, cut my hair and—well, you seem to like the results if that bulge in your boxers is anything to go by. But the real reason I’m not going to humiliate you the way you deserve to be humiliated is because you may be a sneaky little shit and a user, but you’re still the best fuck I’ve ever had. And I want that big cock of yours inside me again.”
Finally she did what Donovan had been wanting her to do from the moment they had stepped into the bedroom. She peeled the T-shirt over her head and treated him to the sight of her bare, lightly tanned breasts. They would have made two delicious little handfuls, he thought, if only his hands were free to grasp hold of them.
As it was, all he could do was stare, and shift slightly as his cock began to pulse and stiffen, responding to the sight of Beth’s barely clad body. She squatted in front of him, pulling down the waistband of his boxers. Her hand encircled him, stroking him ’til he was fully, achingly hard. He felt dizzy, blood rushing from his brain to his aching groin, and when her hand was replaced by the heat of her mouth, his knees threatened to buckle and he was almost glad of the furry cuffs that held him in place.
Whatever else she had done in the eighteen months since they had last met, she had certainly learned how to suck cock. Her tongue wove intricate patterns, touching and teasing all the sweet, sensitiv
e spots along his length. He was moaning, trying to tell her how good it felt, but somehow her clever mouth had robbed him of the power of speech, and his words sounded like nonsense even to his ears.
As he watched, she slipped a finger between her widely spread thighs, burrowing under the crotch of her shorts to bring it away shiny with her own juices. She pushed the finger between his lips, urging him to suck it. He had the briefest taste of her excitement, and then the finger was between his thighs, worming into the cleft of his arse and finding his tight little hole. When she began to ease inside him to the first knuckle, he almost lost control. How did she know it would feel so good, when he had had no idea?
No woman had ever taken charge the way Beth had. Normally, they were content to let him lead the way, to tease them and lick them and make them beg to be fucked. Now he was the one begging, wanting to be allowed to come. But she clearly had other ideas.
She stepped back, peeled off her shorts, and put her shoes back on. Donovan could see how enticingly damp her shorts were, and he wanted her to shove them in his mouth and gag him, to overpower him with the scent and flavor of her. Then she was pressing against him, clutching his cock and gently guiding it inside herself. With the heels, she was just the right height to slide all the way down on to him.
As she began to move, Donovan realized this was what it was like to be taken, to have someone use you for their pleasure, not your own. Not to be the one controlling the pace, setting the rhythm went against all his experience, but it felt good. So good that he just went limp in his bonds and let Beth do what she wanted. Her finger was on her bud, rubbing in some little pattern that was particular to her, and her eyes were distant, glazed with pleasure behind the green lenses. She looked fierce and utterly magnificent. Donovan could feel his balls tightening, his peak approaching, and when Beth gave a squeal and her muscles tightened around him like a tightly clenching fist, Donovan surrendered to the sensation and came.
Wicked Pleasures: Stories of Kinky Love Page 9