by Mira Paul
I heard some chuckles, low toned, and it sounded like the two women behind me were quite aware of the effect that gentle graze of my asshole had on their submissive. “Did you like that, sweetie?” a voice asked. Elise, and I could tell she was smiling, her voice a joyful purr.
“I think he did, the little anal slut.” Nina, and her voice was more of a growl. Someone grabbed my hands, yanking them together, then something was placed around each wrist—cuffs?—and I found I could no longer move them freely. But all that was done as I noticed the gentle touch of a finger, ever-so-slowly sliding down the space between my ass cheeks, inching its way towards—then the finger was placed directly on my asshole. I couldn’t stop a moan from flowing from my lips as that finger gently circled my hole, the one no one had ever touched. Then, even better, the finger began to tease my hole, pressing against it, sliding in just a little bit, then all the way out. “Has he ever done this before?” Nina said, and I was grateful she’d thought to ask. “No, so I guess we’ll have to lead him through it,” Elise said. All the while that finger continued to tease me, to send shivers down my flesh. I was so very angry with myself for never trying this before, for never suggesting even that someone just tease my ass. Well, it was apparent—I was still just starting to discover what I liked in bed, I thought to myself, surprising as that thought was. “Okay, Parker,” Nina said, “Here’s how it works—you need to relax, and you need to breathe, and we need to use lots and lots of lube. Now, Elise, would you kindly prep the anal beads?” I heard giggles, whispers, and not much else. Then a very cold pressure against my asshole, and I gasped. “That too cold for you, sweetheart?” Elise said, more evil in her voice than I’d ever heard before. The pressure increased and I felt one bead after another slowly slipping inside me, easy as that. No wonder so many people liked this, having their asses played with, having their asses fucked. Then I remembered the strap-on, and I prayed it would get used on me tonight. A guy can dream, right? I lost count of how many beads had gone in—five, maybe?—but before I could ask, I realized suddenly how wet I had become, the juice practically dripping down my thighs. “Oh, I think he likes it!” Elise sounded delighted, and who could blame her? I was pretty delighted, too. Then I gasped as I felt one of the beads start slowly easing in and out of my ass, back and forth, stretching me, then popping out, a sensation that there were no words for. Before I could find them, I was flipped onto my side, the beads still in, and I felt something hard pressed up against my lips. “Open up, darling, open up,” Nina said, and I realized what I was feeling against my lips was a dildo—I guess now she was wearing the strap-on. So I did, opening my lips wide, and I felt them stretch tight as it slid in between them, the girth surprising me all over again, even though I knew quite well how big the dildo was. Then she began fucking my mouth, slow and steady, showing me how well she could thrust those lovely hips of hers. I was so distracted by the face fucking I was receiving that I barely noticed as the beads slowly slid out of me, one by one, although I did notice how empty I felt when the final one was pulled out. I wasn’t empty for long, though, because a finger started teasing me, then sliding in, and I felt myself being stretched as each knuckle found its way inside me. I’d never been so full before, never had both my mouth and ass fucked at the same time, and it came with a glorious feeling, a feeling of being used, but loved, too, all at once. Then a second finger joined the first one, and the fingers began to fuck me—not gently, I should add. The cock shoved in my mouth began to fuck harder too, then I heard a click, and the cock began to vibrate, shaking against my lips. “Suck me, Parker. Suck me till I come,” Nina said, her voice quivering. Then, only a few moments later, came that loveliest of sounds, the proof she was coming, and damn if she wasn’t coming hard. I would have grinned if my mouth hadn’t been so full. Then I became empty once more, the cock and fingers slowly slipping out of me. Someone pulled the blindfold off, and I saw it was Elise who removed it, smiling down at me. “You did a lovely job, sweetie. Just lovely.” She leaned forward and kissed me ever-so-gently on the cheek. “That was…awesome,” I said, laughing a little. “I’ll have to figure out some way to thank you.” “Oh, I doubt you’ll have much trouble coming up with an idea,” Nina got up from the bed and leaned over me—then, a light brush of fingers across my forehead. “I think I’ll leave you two alone up here, so you can decide together what a proper show of thanks would be.” She walked towards the door, pulled a black fuzzy robe off the table beside it, and left the bedroom, the door shutting behind her with a soft click. “So.” I looked up at Elise, my lovely femme, the girl who I’d gladly do anything for. “I came up with an idea for how to thank you, but it requires something that’s at our apartment. So maybe, for now, I could just give you a few orgasms?” “I think that would do just fine,” Elise said, and the sadist’s grin from earlier was back on her face. She shoved me onto my back. She moved, smooth as satin, up to my face, her beautiful cunt hovering above my lips. Then she lowered down, my tongue met her clit, and the whole time I worked towards getting her off, I found myself thinking happily of the box with the ring in it waiting for us at home, waiting to slide down Elise’s finger, waiting to make her my wife. It would—hopefully—soon become my very favorite thing to ever encircle that finger.
My second favorite thing, well, that you’ll just have to guess.
Homecoming
by Angel Propps
Caroline smiled wearily at the small boy who kept giving her shy peeks from under the thick fringes of his eyelashes. The child’s mother gave her an equally shy smile as they stood there with their bodies almost touching in the cramped and people-jammed aisle of the airplane.
For the last six weeks she had been traveling nearly nonstop on a small singer/songwriter tour that had taken her far from home and often left her feeling vulnerable and alone. A beautiful blond woman traveling alone always attracted weirdos in the airports and bus stations. Add the guitar she wore strapped onto her back into the mix and suddenly everyone wanted to talk, to tell her they played, to find out if she was famous or about to be, to ask questions and talk music. It drove her nearly insane at times.
The air in the plane was stiff and sticky. The smell of people who have been crammed into tight places and taken long distances was a nearly unbearable reek and Caroline found herself wanting to shove her way past all the slow, stupid people who were too busy chatting or rearranging their things to simply take their belongings and get off the damn plane so she could do the same.
The bottleneck caused by a weasel-faced man who was trying to stretch out the time it took to get his bag from the overhead in order to make one last attempt to hook up with a clearly out-of-his-league woman finally broke free, thanks to the woman’s loud and angry directive to that man to move his fat ass. An order which made Caroline and a few others laugh out loud.
She had to wait at the jetway for her guitar. She always gate-checked it and the one thing that would guarantee her a fucked-up day was to be told to collect the instrument down below. The guitar was a beloved thing, a 1940s model Martin that her father had given her many years ago, and nothing upset her more than having some careless baggage person toss it into the regular cargo hold. To have to stand there waiting for the carousel to spit that instrument out was an incredibly stressful experience and not one she wanted to go through right then. After all the time alone, she was finally home.
More than one set of eyes came to rest on her as she strode through the airport. She was one of those women who attracted attention and not just because of her model-thin physique, long hair and legs, or the heart-shaped face with eyes the precise shade of the sunniest summer skies. There was a confidence in her movements, a prowling grace that made people look her way.
Women read her cool stare as bitchiness. Men looked at those standoffish eyes, the full lips below them, thought, cock tease, and sighed. The truth was harder to define.
Hannah saw her coming and a smile crossed her cute bow mouth. She waved her arm
s over her head and jumped up and down, causing her full breasts to bounce and become in danger of falling out of the halter top of the spotlessly white sundress she wore.
They ran into each other’s arms, oblivious to the stares and the double takes. If anyone was in doubt as to what they were to each other, they didn’t stay that way after the two exchanged a brief but intensely wet-mouthed kiss that left one old woman gaping and gulping, an expression which made her look remarkably like a hooked trout.
“You’re home!” Hannah chanted as she skipped alongside Caroline, the two of them heading for the big glass doors. “Oh honey, I am so glad you are home!”
“Me too.”
In the beginning of their relationship Hannah had worried about the often terse responses she got to her exuberant outpourings of affection but eventually she had come to see that Caroline had to have some sort of space to retreat to and her silence was where she went to get it. Now she took the answer as a matter of course, and chattered on easily as she walked beside her lover.
Caroline knew they were an odd-looking couple. She was tall and lean. Hannah was dark and round and pretty in a sweet–faced, merry kind of way. Caroline was mainly quiet and often hid behind her armor to gain a little peace from the world. Hannah ran at the world with swords made of pink flowers and lip gloss. Caroline was hard and sharp-angled in her demeanor, Hannah was as soft and friendly as a goofy puppy. They had met four years ago when Caroline had been playing at a local club. Hannah had come up to her, given her an oddly intense gaze and announced they were made for each other. Somehow, despite their differences, they were.
Hannah could tell Caroline was excited to see her and in more ways than one, by the telltale glaze of sweat on that upper lip. To be naughty, she swished her skirt and made a point of clicking her high heels across the floor of the airport, the concrete of the parking lot, and finally the linoleum of their old kitchen floor.
They sat on the puffy couch in their living room, Caroline’s duffel and guitar case on the floor and momentarily forgotten. Hannah climbed onto Caroline’s lap, facing her, and began to grind her wide and cushiony hips against Caroline’s crotch and belly.
“Did you miss me?”
“You know I did.”
“Do you love me?”
“You know I love you.”
Hannah did know it but she needed to hear it. She needed to be told that things were going to be fine, that there was now and always love between them. She needed to know she was loved. It was how she kept herself separated from the rest of it.
“I want to play.”
That was their code. It meant one of them wanted to do a scene and the verbalization of that desire opened up the moment for them. Either of them could agree or disagree. The words were not nor ever would be a command; they were a respectful request. The words could and did often set the stage; they were necessary to them both. Those words were the ones that would signal their leaving their life upstairs behind for a little while to become the people they were in scene.
“Me too, ” Caroline whispered and her heart began to thunder along with her pulse as they stood and walked to the door that led to the basement. By the time they went down the stairs the rush hit them both, that free-falling feeling, a giddy whirl of fear and crotch-pulsing excitement. When they got down to their private dungeon, they both slipped nimbly into the beginnings of the headspaces that would change them from Caroline and Hannah into Mistress and sub.
Hannah stood perfectly still and silent, trembling with excitement and trying to control her breathing. The cool air crept up from the floor, from around the doorframe, and lifted ticklish fingers against her skin. From behind her there was a small snap and snick of a lock opening. She could hear the hinges on the old leather’s doctor’s bag creaking, and she had to clamp her mouth tightly shut to keep from blurting out a small moan of anticipation.
She was naked but for the ropes. Some lengths of it bound her breasts, forcing them into aching roundness, and more of it was knotted into a beautiful and complex pattern that spun around her wrists, which were extended high above her head and held there by a wickedly sharp hook that jutted down from the ceiling. There were loops of it around her waist; it ran upwards and became a collar around her throat. Her heart beat against the walls of her chest as she stood there waiting to see what would come next.
There was the scent of old leather and the balm used to preserve it, the rustle of things being laid out in careful and precise lines on the square of old velvet that her Mistress liked to store and display her tools on. No toolbelt for her. Her floggers never resided at her waist. She liked the element of surprise, liked to rattle her sub’s cage, both literally and figuratively.
The sub did not move but her thighs clenched when a thin whisper of air blew against her back, slid up the knotted column of her spine, and died against the nape of her neck. Her shaved bare crotch felt slippery and heated. The muscles in her arms stretched and lengthened, gave off a tiny protest that made her even hotter. Under her bare feet the floor of the basement room they played in felt gritty, and she dug her toes into it in an attempt to slow down her desire.
Mistress advanced on her sub. She came around her and forced her to look at her, to see the black leather catsuit that showed off her body to its best advantage, to see the empty hands so she would feel her lust for her Mistress ignite and she would wonder if she was going to be set free without being allowed her play. Mistress knew the act of being bound was enough to put her sub into the deepest subspace. She always took her time, getting the knots just right and forcing her sub deeper into her space with each one. Now she reached out and gave the wrists a sharp tug, causing the sub to whimper.
“I love your face when you cry,” Mistress said and bit her sub’s bottom lip, a quick nip that left a small sting that faded far too quickly. “I am going to make you cry. You want that? You want to cry for me?”
“Yes,” the sub whispered. “Please…I do. I want to cry for you.”
Mistress smiled, then her hand flashed out. It struck against the sub’s cheeks, where a hectic flush bloomed. The sub squealed, then let out a high-pitched scream as the hand slashed back down on the opposite cheek. Forwards and back the hand went, snapping her head left and right and back again.
“Ooooh….oh…” There were no words and no need for them. The sub knew her Mistress preferred her not to speak. She liked for her to scream. Fluid leaked from her center and coated her inner thighs. Mistress flicked a careless finger across the sub’s swollen clit and laughed.
“Don’t move,” she warned. “Not a single muscle. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the humble reply and the Mistress smiled in satisfaction.
Fingernails raked against her skin, drew lines across her belly, her upper thighs. Her nipples were flicked with a harsh thumb, then twisted and pulled cruelly. The nails went in circles across the cheeks of the sub’s ass, growing more insistent, then pulled away, leaving a tingling sensation behind. The sub felt the first of the tears start to trickle down her face and she muttered out a soft and wordless plea that was cut off when Mistress grabbed her by her hair and pulled her head into her breasts, stuffing her hardened nipples into the sub’s mouth, letting her suckle and nuzzle as a reward that lasted nowhere near long enough.
The sub shivered as the Mistress walked behind her. Her ass arched out involuntarily and her knees went weak.
“Why did you move?” Mistress spoke in a tone that said she was angry. The sub had not shown restraint and Mistress did not approve.
There was no right answer to that question. The sub knew she had disobeyed a direct order and she whispered, “I’m sorry,” but her Mistress did not feel like forgiving her.
“How many times must we go through this?” Mistress asked and her heels clicked against the concrete as she walked away from the sub and towards the table where her tools lay. “How many times must I educate you on proper manners?”
Fear
bloomed in the sub’s lower belly and she listened intently, trying to separate sounds into objects but she could not. She had to force herself not to turn her head to see what Mistress was doing—to do so would cause Mistress to end the scene. That was a breach of etiquette that she would not tolerate under any circumstances. As the heels came clicking back, the sub’s breath became ragged and quick.
Mistress stood in front of her and her eyes were cold and not amused when she spoke. “You are going to count. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry,” the sub whispered on a shaking breath.
“You are going to be more sorry,” Mistress said rudely. “But you will also be more educated. I am doing this for your own good. You did not listen. Is it my fault you did not listen?”
“No, ma’am,” the sub whispered as tears spurted down her cheeks. “I will be good now. I promise, please…”
“Five,” Mistress said, and the sub knew there would be no relenting. There never was, and if Mistress had let her off the hook, so to speak, she would have felt a lack of respect for her. A Mistress who did not know how to properly punish was a Mistress who did not know how to properly reward either. “Ask for it right now.”
A sob came welling up. It drowned her first attempt to speak. Mistress waited, the flogger swirling impatiently in her right hand and her eyes set and grim as she watched her sub struggle.
“Please give me the first one, Mistress.” She wept and the flogger made of soft, knotted strands of the same soft silk rope that tied the sub sang out. It was a light tool, suitable for warm-up, but if wielded by an expert such as Mistress it could also inflict painful but not damaging punishment. The sub screamed as it struck against her tender genitalia but she did not flee from it; to do so would be to invite greater punishment. Her eyes were blinded by tears but she knew her own actions had brought her to this. “Thank you,” she wailed. “Thank you, please, can I have the second?”