by Alison Tyler
When I can see again in the explosion’s aftermath, Erin’s face above me is white and clenched and she’s swearing a streak as Sheila, now ungloved, resets the clamps on her shoulders and strings her back up in the now familiar position. Then it’s my turn to grimace and swear as she ducks underneath my back to reset those clamps over sore and abraded skin, although the continued happy throbbing of my traitorous clit takes some of the edge off.
Both Erin and I are sweating freely, our muscles straining as we strive to balance in our awkward poses. Sheila looks indecently happy, and is still humming. She disappears somewhere behind my head again, while Erin hisses at me, “That hurt, you bastard. You nearly pulled my fucking nipples off.”
“Hey, I’m sorry, okay? I couldn’t help it.” I start to think about ways I could kill myself painlessly before the next soccer practice with Erin.
“You couldn’t help it? That’s a laugh.” She glances over me at whatever Sheila’s doing and then grins at me mockingly. “Looks like you’ll have a chance to redeem yourself. I think you’re going again.”
Sheila appears, regloved carrying the lube bottle and a bright red, fairly hefty-looking butt plug. My sphincter snaps shut at the very sight of it. She seats herself on the bench behind us again, and I can’t stand to look at Erin’s mocking grin while my ass gets invaded, so I just close my eyes and clench my teeth and wait. And wait.
And suddenly my nipples get plucked upward and my eyes fly open and Erin’s quivering there, face full of disbelief. I hear Sheila’s light and tinkling laugh, along with the breathy splutter of a lube bottle being squeezed, and I understand. And she takes her time about it too, working that big ol’ plug into Erin’s ass slowly, with lots of back and forth movement and salacious verbal encouragement. Erin’s rocking body pulls a bit on my nipples, but I don’t mind, as it’s no longer my eyes that are closed in horror.
For the first time, I kinda feel sorry for Erin. Only a little sorry, mind you. But maybe this means dying from embarrassment will not be necessary.
With a last giggle from Sheila and a reluctant-sounding “Ungh” from Erin, it appears the deed’s been accomplished. Sheila’s obviously in a celebratory mood, because she drops her gloves, picks up a slim whip and spins it experimentally. Looking at its delicacy, I’m feeling optimistic until she actually starts using it on us. Light enough to be used on almost any part of our bodies, its heavily-oiled bootlace tails sting so much neither of us can keep still.
My world soon becomes a blur of struggling to remain more or less in position, belly aching with effort, the clamps burning behind and before, and always the whip, like a merciless insect, landing and biting my skin—or landing unfelt by me and followed by a painful jerk to my tits as Erin twists and swears. My perceptions are starting to whirl, and at first my only anchor is Sheila’s warm, throaty voice as she describes to us exactly what handsome, brave boys we are, and how wet we’re making her.
I find my eyes locked with Erin’s now, as we watch each tiny struggle show on the other’s face, the sudden pain of the lash, the constant ache of muscles holding us in strained positions, the slight humiliation of bouncing in painful jolts back and forth between us like a little perpetual motion machine.
Sheila lands a particularly whistling stroke across my thighs, and Erin’s eyes flash at me as I struggle to cope with the searing pain without ripping our nipples off. “You can do it,” she mutters, so softly, then sips air frantically as she gets her own whistler across the backs of her thighs. Although she grimaces ferociously, she makes it without yanking on our tits, and I nod at her encouragingly, appreciative of her ability to take it.
Three strokes crash across my thighs—hard ones—and I have to tense every muscle until my ears roar, but I’ve got something to live up to, now, and Erin smiles and mouths “Thanks, Buddy,” when I make it through.
“Twelve more like that each, my sweet boys,” says Sheila as my thighs explode in pain once more, and as I struggle to remain still, to take the lash, Erin’s face twists as she gets hers, and then me again. We’re twisting and jerking at our chains more now, not so controlled. I twist a bit too hard, and we both gasp at the pain in our nipples, and I mutter “Fuck, man, I’m sorry,” and she says in a tight voice, “S’okay, it’s hard…” and when the whip whistles through the air this time her eyes go wide and fresh sweat beads her forehead.
Soon it’s hard to tell when I’m hit or when she’s being hit—each blow runs through us both with a rattle of chains and a little tearing feeling from the clamp’s teeth. But now we’re staring at each other, willing each other to take it without moving, and acknowledging each other’s efforts, and it makes it easier, somehow, than any other beating I’ve had…despite all the things that make it harder.
“Twenty-three…twenty-four… That’s it, boys. You’ve done just perfectly.” Sheila tosses the whip to the floor with a sigh. “That was really fucking hot. But I’m not feeling quite…done. Boys, will you do something else for me?”
We’re still staring into each other’s faces, panting still, and trembling. But we must be insane, because our “Yes, ma’am” comes out in unison.
“Good. Darcy, stick out your tongue.”
As I comply, somewhat startled, Sheila throws a leg over my head, and stands astraddle, legs thrown really wide apart. Looking up, I note that her black latex panties are pulled so tight over her cunt I can see her labia clearly and perfectly outlined.
I only get a second’s look, though, because Sheila grabs Erin’s hair and pulls her up sharply, causing a chain reaction of nipple pain that brings my whole upper body up past the horizontal with a pained grunt. I fetch up with my face pressed into the heat of her latex, my mouth open. As a few of the clamps on my back slide off, increasing the bite and tension of the few left, I groan loudly, little cartoon stars of pain shooting about under my squished-closed eyelids.
Sheila hums happily and rubs her latex-covered crotch on my mouth. My tongue obediently out and rigid, I can feel a little hard spot that must be her clit, because she’s shoving it at me over and over. The fire in my belly muscles is having a contest with the fire in my nipples, and the burn of the clips across my back is coming in a very distant third. Every time my belly muscles fail and I droop a bit, I gasp for air, and Erin and I both groan at the increased tension on our nipples. It seems like everything I’ve seen tonight has been framed by somebody’s thighs, and in this case I can see Sheila’s hand working busily at Erin’s clit. Then I can’t stand the pull on my nipples, I tense my aching belly again, and the taste of latex fills my mouth as Sheila continues grinding her cunt on my face.
Surrounded in girl-flesh, I can’t see a thing. Erin’s leg muscles are not so much trembling as oscillating, and I’m wondering if she’s gonna fall over on me or what, when suddenly her leg muscles go rock hard and she hisses a long intake of breath. Suddenly I know exactly what’s gonna happen and I have just enough time to think “Oh no!” before Erin, with a hoarse cry, comes in a very big way. My nipples suddenly explode with pain, and as I fall backward with a shriek, I see Erin standing bolt upright, eyes closed, face red and hips a-jerking on Sheila’s probing fingers.
I can still hear squealing and realize it’s me. I feel a kind of despair as I realize that the nipple clamps have popped right off Erin’s nipples but, although shifted, they’re still attached to mine, and Sheila reaches down left-handed, grabs the chains in one white-knuckled fist and hauls me back up to her spit-slick latex-covered cunt, mashing herself onto my face without care or regard for the feelings in my stretched-tight nipples or my need to breathe in instead of simply screaming out.
But I suppose my bubbling cries help matters along for her, because moments later she comes so hard she pulls those fucking clamps right off, and follows my face to the floor, going down on one knee as she works her latex-covered clit against my somehow still-yelling mouth, getting the last juicy growling seconds out of her orgasm. I almost pass out then, with some remote par
t of me marveling at how my tits hurt so bad that I don’t care if I’m suffocating.
Then I’m feeling a rush of sweet air cooling my sweat- and spit-covered face as I slump, curved backward with my head touching the floor. I barely notice as Sheila, panting, carefully but quickly releases the clamps on my back. Each one is a small white-hot flash of pain. She pats me on my shoulder in an absurdly comforting gesture, releases Erin similarly, then pulls expertly at our various knots until our ropes are loose enough that we can complete the job of shaking them off.
My knees and hands released, I slither to the floor completely, and lie there, stunned. Sheila kicks off her shoes and sprawls on the floor beside me with a sigh, and Erin collapses along the bench like a lion in an Acacia tree, limbs dangling on the floor.
“At ease, soldiers,” says Sheila dreamily to the ceiling.
“Holy goddamn fucking holy shit, Sheila!” says Erin, all muffled with her face smooshed into the bench.
For some reason this strikes me as absurdly funny, and I laugh until tears run into my ears and the room goes all wobbly. When I get myself under control and look up, Sheila’s regarding me with kind and knowing eyes, while my brother-in-arms reaches out with a smile and smacks me on the leg. “Well, we lived through it,” she says.
Later, as we put on our boots at the door, Erin offers me a lift home. I accept. As we walk down the driveway, she turns to me and says, “Hey, man, maybe you could come over and help me fix my TV.”
“Huh?” I look sharply at Erin, but her face is serious. “Fix your TV? What in hell’s wrong with it?”
“Well,” she says, patting my aching gut and exhibiting a sudden gleeful grin, “I’m having problems with my horizontal hold.”
I chase Erin the rest of the way to her car.
Jane’s Bonds
Shanna Germain
It comes to her by mistake. Although it’s her address on the plain brown envelope, it is someone else’s name; perhaps the house’s previous owner. She and Derek have lived here for almost five years, but they still get mail for the people that owned the house before them, people they’ve never met. She’s about to stick the envelope back in the mailbox with a PLEASE FORWARD notice on it, when something below the name catches her eye: OR CURRENT RESIDENT. Oh, that’s me, she thinks. It looks like junk mail of some sort, but she opens it anyway.
Inside the envelope is a purple catalog, offering “sexual satisfaction for women.” She lies down on the bed and starts flipping through it—she’s never seen so many women-oriented sex toys in her life. Sure, she’s been to Fanta-She’s-R-Us downtown (once even with Derek) but it always seemed like all the products were geared toward men—videos that offered nothing more than fake boobs and way-ugly men grunting, those ridiculous-looking fake mouths, rows and rows of cock rings.
But in this catalog (which, she realizes with little surprise, is from a woman-owned company), there are tons of toys for women—cool tie-dyed dildos in pink and purple, lipstick-shaped vibrators, even videos directed by women. She flips toward the back and there, tucked away on the last page, is a toy that catches her eye: two purple cuffs lined with fake fur.
She traces her hand along the page, imagining the cuffs’ fur-lined softness against her skin. She’s never used toys like these, but she’s thought of it often, when Derek sometimes takes her hands and presses them to the bed during sex. She wonders if he’d go for it—probably not. Her husband’s a wonderful man, but is still sometimes stuck in his religious upbringing, feeling guilty for anything outside of the missionary position. He’s grown a lot since they met (getting him to go to Fanta-She’s-R-Us was a big one) but still, he balks at things that are outside the mainstream (going to a strip club together for instance) and she never wants to push him too far or too fast. Still, she sighs as she runs her hand over the cuffs on the page, a few toys would be nice.
She reads the description: “Soft and delicate, yet tough in all the right ways, these fur- and silk-lined bonds are sure to please.” And there’s even a matching blindfold. She wonders if she should just buy them, let Derek find them somewhere in the house and act surprised. Or maybe she should put them on her wish list—her thirtieth birthday is coming up.
An image pops into her head of opening a gift like this, late at night, after a good meal and a glass of wine. Perhaps she’s already opened her other gifts, and they’re cuddled up in bed when Derek reaches beneath the pillow and pulls out the blindfold and cuffs. They’re not gift wrapped, but it doesn’t matter because they’re so soft and silky and festive already. She’s about to say thank you and wrap her arms around his neck when he grins sheepishly and says, “Shhhh…I’m afraid I’ll change my mind.”
So she lies back and closes her eyes. He fits the blindfold over her eyes a little clumsily, his big fingers fumbling through her hair. She’s tingling down to her toes in anticipation—it’s all she can do to lie still and let him work. But she doesn’t want to scare him, so she stays still, focuses on her breathing—in, out, relax—and enjoys the waves of excitement running through her body. When she opens her eyes, she can’t see anything—a little aura of pink light through the fabric, but that’s all.
He presses his lips to hers, and she realizes she’s never kissed him before without watching him lean closer and closer in anticipation of the impending kiss. But now, she doesn’t know what to expect, his lips are there and then they are elsewhere, and she doesn’t know how to react, how to plan. Instead, his lips light unexpected little fires wherever they land, as though he’s pressing fireflies to her skin. He is kissing the curve of her neck when he whispers, “Undress for me.”
She feels a jolt of panic. Get undressed? How? She can’t see anything. How will she know what she looks like? What if she does something stupid? But he is kissing her along the back of her ear, across the front of her shoulder blade, and she realizes it doesn’t matter, that she’ll do as he asks because she wants to, because he wants her to.
He helps her to stand, and then she hears him lie back down on the bed. The room around her feels too large, too empty, too alone, even though she knows it isn’t. She fights the urge to reach out for something, anything—the dresser, the edge of the bed, the closet door—and instead reaches down to find the tie of her robe. She unties it slowly, then slides it off her shoulders and lets it fall to the ground. Then, she takes a deep breath, and pulls her tank top slowly over her head and throws it over her shoulder. Her nipples are erect from the excitement and the cold air makes them pucker even more. Then she leans down, drops her panties down over her feet, and stands back up.
She hears Derek sigh, and tries to imagine where he is in the room, what he’s doing. Then his hands are on her, trailing down her hips and across her thighs, and she realizes he’s sitting on the bed and she must be standing right in front of him. He takes her ass in his hands and pulls her toward him, them runs his tongue across her belly button, down her thighs.
“Lie down,” he says, and it doesn’t even sound like his voice. It’s gruffer somehow, more forceful. “Put your arms up,” he says, and she does, feeling his strength as he holds both her hands above her with one of his own. Then she feels him slide the cuffs around her wrists, their furry softness caressing her skin, and then tightening and pulling them just enough so that she can’t slide out. He hooks them to something—she’s not sure what—and suddenly she can’t move.
“Okay?” he asks tenderly, and she can’t do anything but nod. She’s not sure what she feels—excitement, anticipation, fear, desire—she wants him to do whatever he wants to her. She would say yes to anything he asked.
She realizes there is silence all around her. She can’t hear or feel Derek anywhere. Her skin comes alive, and she imagines this is what it’s like to be in a horror movie, where you know something’s coming for you, but you don’t know what it is or where it’s going to come from. Or like being prey—every nerve, every muscle twitching, ready to react with a flight or fight response. “Derek?” she whisp
ers. She’s afraid to break the silence, but she feels like she has to do something. “Derek?”
She doesn’t hear anything. A pull on the cuffs only seems to draw them tighter around her wrists. Is he sitting there watching her? Did he leave her here? What if he’s taping her? She knows, of course, that he would never do any of these things, but the longer she waits the more the fear creeps in.
Then, finally, she hears a noise. She pricks her ears in that direction, feeling like a wild animal. Is that him? Is it the cat? She can’t tell. Her senses are deceiving her. Something cold brushes against her stomach, and she has a moment of near panic—she’s ready to rip the cuffs right off—but then she feels Derek’s tongue too, next to the coldness, and hears him crunching something in his teeth.
He runs his tongue, along with the ice, up her stomach, leaving a tingling trail of heat and cold, until he reaches her chest and the ice melts. Her stomach does somersaults as he winds his cool tongue around one nipple and presses his palm firmly between her legs. She presses against the flat of his hand, willing him to touch her, stroke her, enter her. She has forgotten she is handcuffed to the bed, that she cannot see. All of her senses are focused on just one spot—she feels that if he doesn’t split her open soon she will explode.
“Please…,” she whispers, “Please….”
“Please what?” Derek asks as he enters the bedroom. She didn’t even hear him come in, and her face flushes with embarrassment. She thinks about pretending she was asleep, then thinks better of it and hands the catalog over to him.
“Please…please buy me these,” she says softly, pointing to the silk bonds with one tired, trembling finger.