by Alison Tyler
I nod.
“Then beg me.”
Back in my other life, I’m too proud to beg for anything, but all the rules are different now. I’m different. In this slip-sliding underworld of lust, I’ll do anything to feel the delicious sting of his hand stoking the fire in my flesh.
“Please, Anton, spank my ass while you fuck me.” I’m almost crying, and my pussy, too, is weeping, the juices pooling on his belly.
Anton starts bucking, a butterfly-stroke dolphin kick, mattress style. “Say it again. Tell me how much you want it,” he orders, his voice hoarse and thick.
“Please spank me. I need it. I’ll die without it. Please, boss, please.”
With those magic words, I finally earn my employee bonus, a flurry of slaps on the ass that drive me up and over the edge. A voice screams, “God, I’m coming”—I think it’s mine—and another, lower one joins in with a “Fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck,” and I have to grip my thighs as tightly as I can to stay on as he empties himself into me.
Afterward we snuggle, wrapped around each other like fronds of seaweed, not even bothering to mop up the sticky wetness.
“Do you think I’m a pervert?” I say softly, into his shoulder.
“I think you’re hot,” he replies, stroking my hair.
I smile. “So what do you like to think about when you…you know…?”
Anton laughs. “Funny you should ask. One of my old favorites is that I’m spying on two sexy women doing it in a pool and they catch me and beg me to fuck them.”
I laugh, too, with pleasure and relief. “Really? Do you spank them?”
“No, but I will next time.”
He tilts my chin up. Our eyes meet. His are green and liquid and seem to reach down inside me to touch all my soft, secret places. I hear a voice, too, echoing faintly in my head—his or mine, I’m not quite sure.
Thanks for the ride.
The Clean-Shaven Type
N.T. Morley
Belle arrived at the castle at midnight, soaked through to the bone. The rain had been pouring down amid lightning and howling winds for hours, turning the road into mud and making the mountain passes all but impassable. It was a miracle that she made it through—even more of a miracle given that the carriage she rode in did not have a driver, but was steered in and of itself, or perhaps by forces unseen—while Belle shivered and stewed in the velvet-furnished compartment.
Belle’s carriage was greeted by a tall handsome servant dressed in short breeches and a close-fitting top, a muscular man with a handsome face. He helped Belle down from the carriage with a chivalric hand and a respectful gaze.
“It is a pleasure to welcome you to the castle, Madame Belle.” That title sounded strange to Belle’s ears; she was not used to being called Madame. “I am Andrew, the majordomo. All the castle’s servants are pleased to be at your disposal, Ma’am. Please say the word and anything you wish will be yours.”
Dripping, Belle followed Andrew down long corridors and up great sweeping spiral staircases. The castle was cold and dark, this being well after midnight; wall sconces held candles that lit as they passed, but the chill was oppressive. As soon as Belle entered her chambers, the warmth comforted her; a fire burned, creating a comfortable and cozy temperature. The room was enormous and lavishly furnished, with divans of silk and a great four-poster bed fitted with luxurious bedding and silk sheets that had already been turned down. The fixtures of the room were of gold and silver and even more precious metals, and a small table had already been set with glittering dinnerware and a meal of cold turkey and fruit, with great flagons of wine.
“Shall I help you out of your things, Madame Belle?”
Standing before the fire, Belle turned and looked him up and down, puzzled.
“Isn’t there a maidservant?” she asked haughtily.
“I’m afraid not,” said Andrew.
A pool of rainwater was growing around her as she dripped.
“May I help you get undressed, Madame Belle?” Andrew asked again after a pause.
The honorific reminded Belle that she was not here to serve; she was here for another reason entirely. Her old life on her knees was through, at least until she accepted the Beast’s proposal.
Belle nodded imperiously.
Andrew knelt behind her and unlaced Belle’s corset. She took a series of deep heaving breaths as her aching back relaxed. Andrew unfastened the laces down the rear of Belle’s dress and she shrugged the thing off, covering her bare breasts with her arms. Her flesh was goose-bumped and her nipples almost painfully erect. Still on his knees, Andrew obediently slipped Belle’s dress over her hips and the garment fell around her feet. She stepped out of the fabric and turned and stood facing Andrew, nude but for her knee-high, spike-heeled boots.
“Are my clothes being sent up?”
“No, Ma’am.” Andrew did not elaborate, which irritated her.
She took a step closer to him, savoring his evident discomfort as he attempted to position his body to conceal from her his still-growing erection.
“Put your shoulders back.”
Andrew flushed still deeper. “I’m sorry?”
“I said, put your shoulders back,” Belle repeated, lifting the toe of one pointy boot and deftly placing it on the kneeling Andrew’s shoulder, pushing. This was not easy given Andrew’s stature, but Belle was a tall and flexible woman. Doing so placed her sex in close proximity to Andrew’s face, which caused him to draw a sharp breath as he went slipping back at the pressure of Belle’s toe. Catching himself on his hands, Andrew remained there looking up at Belle, his face level with her sex. The position was awkward for Andrew, requiring him to support his body with the muscles of his arms and thighs and ass. She could see his chest rising as the scent of her intoxicated him and the effort to maintain the posture grew.
His cock was quite evident in his pants.
“May I help you off with your boots, Madame Belle?” asked Andrew suddenly. In the culture that had born both Andrew and Belle, such a suggestion was a colloquial way of suggesting intimate relations, the implication being, of course, that people fucked with their boots off—something that was very rarely true in Belle’s experience.
Belle realized that upon uttering this rude innuendo, Andrew had inclined his head slightly, as if to present his face to her, all but begging for her to slap him.
Belle was unfamiliar with having the power to slap someone. She was surprised to find that it excited her immensely to see Andrew on his knees, offering his face to be slapped. And such a pretty face it was.
This was exactly what made Belle go wet and hot inside when she was the one on her knees, in Andrew’s position. But she was really more interested in other pleasures at that particular moment, and in fact was quite eager to have Andrew “remove her boots.”
Instead of slapping him, Belle caressed his beautiful pink cheeks with her fingers and said, “What did you ask me?”
“I asked if I could remove your boots,” Andrew said brashly, all but daring her to slap him. “Madame Belle, may I please remove your boots? I would love to remove them and…take them all the way off.”
“Hold that thought,” she said. “And don’t move.”
Belle stalked to the table, where cold turkey and wine awaited her. She sat at the table nude except for her boots and, at her leisure, she took slim savory morsels of turkey and poured herself a glass of wine.
“May I serve you?” asked Andrew.
“No, you may not,” she said absently, without looking back at him. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in a dozen years of sleeping with men—” she laughed “—it’s how to serve myself.”
She could not see him, but she could feel the sting of her words.
“As you wish, Madame.”
Belle could also hear the strain in Andrew’s voice; it was becoming hard for him to hold that position, resting with his hands back on his ankles and his cock bulging forth. She did not glance behind her to see the stress in his body
; just knowing it was there made her meal that much sweeter.
Belle took her time eating. The turkey was delicious and the wine was excellent. She had several pieces of fruit, including a few varieties she’d never tasted before—they did not have them in her region.
Belle rose and walked back to Andrew, who was biting his lower lip quite fetchingly, struggling to maintain his posture.
Belle stood before him, taking a long minute to lick her fingers—which were greasy with turkey and sugary with fruit—and her lips, red with wine. Her order not to move, which by now had caused intense pain to the muscles of Andrew’s arms and thighs and ass, had not diminished his erection. Belle could relate.
She licked her fruit-sweet fingers as she spoke. “Andrew, I think you asked me something,” she said innocently.
Andrew spoke with great effort, his brow moist with the tension in his muscles.
“I asked if I could remove your boots, Mistress,” he said, his voice conveying a great humility. “It was impolite for me to ask. I apologize.”
Belle reached out and ran her slick fingers across Andrew’s throat, teasing him. She leaned close.
“They’re the most beautiful boots I’ve ever seen,” he blurted.
He looked up at her, his eyes succulent with adoration of her for the ordeal she’d just put him through, and particularly for the obvious pleasure she’d taken in it. Belle looked down into those gorgeous eyes and laughed.
“My boots are filthy from the ride. I wouldn’t wish you to remove them until you’ve cleaned them—very well.”
Belle turned and stalked the few feet to a large armchair, feeling the soft silk embrace her bare body as she sat down. She stretched her legs out and presented her high-heeled, pointy-toed black leather boots, which were soaked through and muddy.
Andrew crawled to her and lowered his face to her filthy boots. Belle caught him before his mouth met the muddy leather. Her hand went into his long blond hair and she pulled.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” she said. “Is that fair, Andrew?”
“No, Madame,” he said. She released his hair. He went to get up as he reached for the fastening of his breeches; again, Belle shook her head.
With some difficulty, Andrew undressed on his knees, kicking off his own footwear first and then removing his breeches to reveal his ample erection, which was even larger than Belle had first thought. When Andrew’s tight top finally made it over his head, he discovered that Madame Belle’s knees were now folded neatly over the great pillowed arms of the chair, her thighs spread wide and her sex blatantly revealed, the smooth flesh pink with want and the center of her glistening and aromatic. Struggling to contain his hunger, Andrew bent sideways toward one of Madame Belle’s muddy boots.
“Please,” she said, slipping her hand into his hair again. “Please don’t play dumb. You know what you were asking—oh!” She guided his mouth to her sex and pulled his hair firmly as, obediently, Andrew began to lick.
He serviced Belle’s sex ably, licking from the sweet center of her opening up to the swollen bud of her clitoris, which drew great sighing moans from her, and later great shuddering gasps, as his tongue skillfully caressed it. His lips closed gently around her clitoris and he worked it eagerly with his tongue as her pleasure mounted.
“I wonder if you think you’re going to get that thing inside me?” she panted as she neared her orgasm. “I’ve never had a boy to play with before. I’ve always been on the bottom, Andrew. Do you think I’m still dying to get fucked, boy? Andrew, I asked you a question.”
She had timed it right, so that his mouth’s withdrawal from her sex to answer bought her several more seconds of pleasure. She did not want to climax too quickly; to do so would be to all but waste the subtle caresses of a very submissive man. Belle had never enjoyed such things before, and planned to savor them as long as she could.
“I believe Madame will do what she wishes,” said Andrew obediently. His mouth returned to its ministrations on her clitoris, and Belle pushed him back.
“Of course,” said Belle. “But do you think I want to get fucked? Andrew! I asked you a fucking question.”
Andrew drew back, his mouth dripping with Belle’s juices.
“Yes, Madame. I believe you do want to get fucked.”
“Mmmmmm.” Belle sighed. She laughed. “Just like a man… He thinks his cock rules the universe. Get me off, boy.” She was very close at that moment, and almost no malfeasance on Andrew’s part could have prevented an intense orgasm by Belle, but it gave her pleasure to order him to finish her. So often, as a bottom, she had been denied orgasm at the last minute. It invigorated her, now, to take as she wished.
Andrew obediently returned his mouth to her sex, and Belle relaxed into the strokes of his tongue as he serviced her clit. She pushed off her climax as long as she could, savoring the pleasure, but finally Andrew’s skills were more than she could resist. She came fiercely. One hand clawed her own thighs until she left great pink furrows; the other went snaking into Andrew’s hair and gripped him, forcing his head roughly against her sex as her pleasure mounted and her hips started to move. Andrew continued his service as the Madame, essentially, used him. Belle had never fucked a man’s face like that before. She came harder than she ever had.
As she relaxed into the succulent, warm afterglow of her orgasm, Belle was surprised to discover that Andrew continued servicing her, his tongue working even as the pleasure in her clitoris turned to a sudden ache. The pleasure mounted to discomfort momentarily and then, as Andrew slowed his strokes and gave her a minute to recover, it merged back into pleasure, and Belle felt a new sensation growing.
For all her unexpected lust for domination, Belle was still naive in many things.
“Why aren’t you stopping?” she panted.
Andrew only drew his tongue away from her for a moment.
“You did not instruct me to,” he said, and returned to licking her clit.
Belle went slack into the deep armchair, her eyes glassy with unexpected pleasure. Once, Belle had been bound over a Master’s lap as he used a vibrator on her until she succumbed to the onrushing pleasure-pain of a second and a third orgasm. But usually, when she was fucked, she was allowed one—if she was lucky enough to be allowed that at all. This was wholly different, the pleasure mounting as stimulation continued; she felt a momentary flash of guilt, feeling she should instruct Andrew to stop. She was very close to her second orgasm, unexpectedly shuddering all over with increasing pleasure, when, quite to her own surprise, she blurted: “You don’t have to.”
Andrew looked up at Belle in confusion, the expression on his face going from rapt excitement and pleasured acceptance to something akin to panic. It was the first time Belle had ever seen the ecstasy of total submission on the face of another person. It gave her, simultaneously, a thundering sensation of happiness and the sharp taste of guilt for her own doubts.
“Madame?”
“You don’t have to stop when I come,” she said quickly, making her voice as sarcastic as possible. “You men always want to finish after you get us off a couple of times. I’m going to come till I’m finished, do you understand?”
“Of course,” said Andrew breathlessly. “I would never stop until ordered to, Madame.” His eyes went hot as he looked up at her. “If I did, you’d be well within your rights to punish me.”
Belle’s breath was coming short; she felt the buzzing high of power. Andrew was depending on her; as much as she desired to be bent and stretched and spread on her Master’s lap and bed and rack, Andrew wished to be here on his knees, servicing her until he was ordered to stop.
She brought her leg down and tucked it between Andrew’s legs, pushing hard on his erect cock with her muddy spike heel.
“I’ll already be punishing you,” she growled. “For enjoying yourself too much. Now, get me off again, boy, I’m far from finished with you.” To hear her own voice uttering such aggressive statements was unfamiliar and deeply erot
ic to Belle, and she realized perhaps for the first time that she was no longer a sexual servant, as she had been for some years, but something else entirely—or becoming something else, with every stroke of Andrew’s tongue.
“Yes, Madame,” he said breathlessly, and lowered his face back to her sex.
Belle cried out as she came for a second time, and a third. Only then did she let him enact the ritual of cleaning her boots, from top to toe to spike heel, before he removed them. And then, with her appetite whetted, Madame Belle took her servant to bed.
As it turned out, she did let Andrew’s cock inside her—and a mammoth thing it was, sliding into her at a variety of angles as she instructed him to raise and lower himself for her exact satisfaction based not on his desires, or his pleasure or even his physical capacity—she pushed his thigh muscles almost to the breaking point, multiple times—but on the angle at which Madame most eagerly wished to enjoy Andrew’s cock.
Good Lord, she discovered, she really did have a G-spot! And Andrew’s cock hit it perfectly, provided he stood at the edge of the four-poster bed with one foot on the mattress and one on the floor, and Belle reclined with one leg over his shoulder. She used him that way, commanding him not to come, until his face went red and his thigh muscles rubbery. Only then, when she’d exhausted both herself and her slave, did Madame Belle relax alongside her servant, relishing the feel of his naked body against her and the hardness of his cock, still moist from her, in her hand. She stroked it rhythmically and caressed it with her long, slender fingers.
Perhaps it was the very late hour and the long journey and her own physical satisfaction that made her feel so drunk with excitement.
Or perhaps it was the pleasure of power over her servant that made Madame Belle say to Andrew: “I could let you come.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he said, his voice thick with hunger and weak with submission. “If you wished to do so.”
She stroked her fingers up and down his wet cock, alternately caressing and gripping it, showing the extensive skills at manual pleasuring she had gained from her long, long time on her knees. So many times she’d been engaged to pleasure a man with her hands, and she knew Andrew was very, very close. Her habit was, unquestionably, to satisfy the man immediately, per her role in life. But now she felt differently. It would have taken a few firm strokes of her hand, or the permission for Andrew to mount her again and fuck her for his pleasure, or a few quick slurps of her mouth—which was even now watering. She could even just issue a dismissive word that would allow Andrew to satisfy himself: “Stroke,” or “Jerk,” or “Finish” or, most simply, “Come.”