Bound for Trouble

by Alison Tyler

  “We’ll probably miss our dinner reservation, but the movie’s not until nine.” Eric watched keenly as Pella stood between his legs. “Did you still want to go out?”

  “I don’t know.” Pulling off her silk chemise, she stood naked before his bound-up body. “Whatever you like.”

  VALLES MARINERIS

  Laila Blake

  She has a thing about Mars, my baby girl.

  Kneeling at my feet in her cozy one-room apartment, she has her cheek on my thigh, reading the official NASA blog on her iPad. Her fingers glide over the screen like a dance. She is an involved reader—never completely silent. Sometimes, she huffs or snorts; she utters those tiny little pleasure sounds when she smiles or hums in agreement—it’s the cutest thing. I have my hand on the back of her neck where I can just feel the warm leather collar she put on before meeting me at the door. I caress her scalp, get distracted from the essays I brought with me to grade. Her hair smells like flowers, soft and with that hint of dampness from when she showered earlier. Everything about her is supple, from her heart-shaped face to her breasts, her stomach, her rounded thighs. Kneeling there, she is all velvety warm curves and skin, shaved and moisturized. Naked of course, but that goes without saying.

  I like her apartment. Mine of course has the collection of implements and toys, the benefit of my home ground—but coming here is like stepping into her head, into her personality. Around her bed, the entire corner—both walls and ceiling—are covered in a huge red mural of the planet Mars, intricate and well rendered with its craters and valleys. She has so many books all over the room but I’ve never seen her touch any of them—she always reads on her iPad. Over her desk is a large framed picture of the blue police box in “Doctor Who” and secretly, I am sure that she chose the sofa color because it matched the Tardis so well.

  She is not one of my students—that’s important to me. I teach college freshmen and sophomore sociology. She’s waiting tables, tutoring, writing articles for science magazines—waiting to hear about her PhD proposals. Chemistry.

  I must have seemed distracted because she looks up at me with her huge hazel eyes and bites her lip.

  “Do you want me to put the computer away?” she asks. I smile, have a look at the stack of mediocre essays that hasn’t shrunk in the last hour and finally nod. She finds the OFF button and slides the tablet onto the coffee table. Then she smiles up at me again. I don’t know if it is instinct or by design but she pushes her breasts out as she leans back to regard my face. Hers is upside down and I pet her cheek, her nose; I let my fingers enter her willing mouth.

  “Suckle…” I whisper and she obeys. Her tongue swirls around my finger before her lips close tightly around my knuckle. Warm wetness engulfs my finger and she sucks it in to the hilt. I brush along the very back of her tongue and up toward her soft palate until she gags a little. I love making her gag, that tiny choking sound that goes with a jerk through her entire body, every muscle jumping to attention with just a tiny stroke of my finger. Even her eyes widen, glisten with that reflex to water.

  When I take it slow, I can push my finger all the way into her throat, can feel her muscles contract and spasm around it. My cock aches for her.

  “Such a good little pet,” I whisper, and she sucks harder. Her eyes close in lustful concentration—with that adorable little wrinkle between her brows. She has the same expression on her face when she does complicated formulas, which doesn’t sound like a compliment, but it is on her beautiful little face.

  I insert a second finger, then a third. She can’t close her lips around them tightly anymore and saliva drips down her chin. Messy little pet. The slurping noises, wet and sticky, are delightfully suggestive; she gags again and it makes her breasts shake a little longer than the rest of her body. I yearn to spank them pink and make them dance.

  I let my free hand trail down her neck and find one of her nipples. They are small, cute pebbles on her weighty breasts—good for squeezing. Fucking her mouth with my fingers, I lift her breast up by that nipple. She groans; her body is trapped in that moment where her impulses tell her to try to free herself but her desires lock her in place. She wriggles, shakes, her eyes are watering but heat radiates from her body and I can see her trying to push her cunt onto her heel for pressure.

  My eyes are caught by her mural again. It draws you in, like a spell. When I first stepped into her apartment—I was taking her out on our second date—I made the mistake of commenting.

  “And here I thought women are from Venus,” I said. Even then, I didn’t truly think it funny, just something you said to break the ice. I cringed at the look on her face, though—the first time, I thought she might not pick up the phone anymore when I’d call her the next day. She seemed to decide to ignore it though, picked up her jacket and changed the subject.

  “Venus is poisonous.” It was later at dinner at the small Thai place I’d taken her to that she picked the topic up again, calm and with a sweet smile on her face. “They named it for the goddess of beauty because it’s the brightest object in the night sky…apart from the moon of course. They thought it so stunning. Now we know that we can’t even see its surface because the entire planet is surrounded by clouds of sulfuric acid and an atmosphere of carbon monoxide.” Her voice tends to lower when she talks about the universe, her eyes grow intense and she leans forward. That day, she blushed a little, as though afraid I might find her less attractive for her passions and yet unable to stop. “Venus is like…one of those mean girls in high school. Beautiful from afar, but… you don’t want to get too close. She’ll burn anyone who does.”

  “And Mars?” I asked, wanting her to continue, wanting to see more of those intricate changes her face went through.

  “Mars…doesn’t pretend to be anything it isn’t,” she said quietly, blinking and reaching for her apple juice. “No atmosphere, no clouds. It’s open; doesn’t have any protective shields. Mars is scarred, it’s most likely the remains of some ancient catastrophe—but it’s still there, still beautiful, showing its scars to the world.”

  I fucked her that night for the first time under that Mars mural. I tied her hands to her bedposts and choked her as she came…twice. Then she curled up in my arms and fell asleep there. For almost an hour she made the softest little pleasure sounds with every exhale—as though her body was still in afterglow. I wanted to hold her safe forever.

  “Get on the bed,” I say. My voice is hoarse with desire; there’s decidedly too little space in my pants. “Hands and knees, face on the blanket, pet.”

  When I take my fingers from her mouth, they are sticky with saliva. For a heartbeat, a transparent string spans the distance between her lips and my hand before it snaps. She is breathing hard but smiling.

  “Yes, Sir,” she whispers—hoarse and whimpering—and immediately turns around to crawl across the room. She must be feeling the carpet burn but she doesn’t show it; her ass sways and her open cunt is glistening in excited expectation. I don’t move from my spot until she climbs onto the bed and situates herself there, cheek pressed into the sunset-colored sheets. The fairy lights she’s slung around the headboard throw interesting light effects on her skin. If you believe fashion magazines and those popular TV shows she watches sometimes, she could stand to lose some pounds—but that just goes to show that they have never seen a woman like this, kneeling on that bed, her beautiful round ass high in the air, folded over into a cute little package of herself—warm and soft and inviting. I watch her for a while, how she tries to stay motionless but how her ass sways anyway, wriggles from time to time to try to compensate for the mounting arousal.

  When I push myself off the couch, I take a deep breath and rearrange my pants. Space feels good but so did the rising pressure.

  My hand is still wet with her saliva. I use the other to pull her asscheeks apart and spread it down her crack.

  “Good shave, pet,” I whisper, and she whines in response. My fingers glide down over her sphincter; it contracts lik
e a shy flower. Her ass shakes when I smack it. Her whole aura is filled with the beautiful bouquet of cunt and flowery moisturizer and I step inside of it like stepping into an alluring bubble.

  I let my fingers roam down to her cunt, too. So wet and sweet, then drag her juices up to her ass again. She wriggles and whines—the massive scar on her back glitters in the fairy lights. The scar tissue is darker than the rest of her skin, its edges ragged like the fjords of Norway. Its texture is glossier, seems thinner and more fragile. It took her a while to let me see her like this—her scar on display. It was a chemical burn she said, but when I pressed her for details, she kissed my neck and her fingers slipped to my crotch to encircle my cock. She has beautiful hands.

  I push her hair from her back to see it in its full spread—crossing her back from her right shoulder over her spine and fading out at her left hip. She sometimes talks about finding a way to get a tattoo artist to turn it into something beautiful—but it already is. I can see her look back at me nervously; I smile and run my fingers down the frayed edges while the other starts to encircle her clit. She is breathing more heavily now, her face is flushed.

  In the small of her back, just over the dimples she has there, my fingers find the familiar circular burns. Three, in a neat row. Cigarette burns, clearly. I didn’t do that to her, someone before me did. I always find it both painful and exhilarating to find these marks of her sexual history on the very skin I love to kiss.

  “Tharsis region,” she whispers, voice soaked in need.

  “Mmm?”

  “That’s what they are,” she says, and swallows, pushing her ass back against my hand little a kitten looking for more petting. “The three volcanoes of the Tharsis bulge. On Mars.” She makes a vague nod up at the mural. “Valles Marineris and the Tharsis bulge. I asked for them.”

  “Did it hurt?” Fascinated, I can’t stop sliding my fingers over the shiny white burns. She nods and I lean over to kiss each of them in turn. Somehow, my other fingers have made it into her cunt and I am pumping it harder now. I don’t ever want to hurt her like that and still, I feel jealous. I imagine the smoke of the cigarette, the smell of charred flesh—it should turn my stomach but it doesn’t; it makes my cock so hard it hurts.

  “Did you cry?” Again she nods; I can actually see the tremor run down her spine and I pull my fingers from her cunt.

  “I’m going to fuck you…” I exhale, my voice is shaky—I hate when that happens, or when I get so desperate to have her, my hands can’t get the button to open immediately. “Beg me, ask me to fuck your ass, pet.”

  “Please, Sir,” she obliges immediately, “please, please fuck my ass, please?” She used to find this so difficult but it slips easily over her tongue now, needy and honest. She wriggles again, and I run my fingers over the tight ring of muscle. I want her so much, my head hurts and before she can guess what I am about to do, I push my cock deep into sopping cunt. She cries out loud and I push in hard and deep, once and then again. Both my hands find purchase on her asscheeks and I pull them apart. Again, she cries out and I wonder if I was too rough, but then she whimpers and moans for more.

  “Please, Sir…pleeeaaase…?”

  Words that could squeeze my heart bloody every time.

  I pull out and find her ass. My cock is slick with her juices but nothing else. I don’t want to prepare her today. Not today. Instead I rub the head of my cock over crack, back and forth, back and forth. I aim a gob of spit right at the top, where her round cheeks form that delicious fold and then smear it all over. She can’t stop shaking, whimpering, pleading with me.

  When I push past that ring of muscles, she fists the sheets. Her moan is almost inhuman—I realize I want her to cry, just like that time she asked some ex to burn those Tharsis volcanoes into the small of her back. I push it in to the hilt and then pause. I hear her sniffing but she looks back at me and her eyes are glowing. She is so tight. I have to exhale a shaky sigh, too. It almost hurts it’s so good.

  “Please…Sir?” she gasps and I want to kiss her and hold her forever. Instead, for the moment at least, I fuck her.

  I take hold of her hair for leverage, and I fuck her hard and long, pull up her torso so that I can bite her shoulder when I cum.

  We slump over to the side; her ass contracts a little around my slowly softening cock. She exhales a moan with each breath and I kiss the Valles Marineris carved down her back. My pet, my beautiful baby girl—she has a thing for Mars.

  WHAT SHE HAS

  Sommer Marsden

  You want what she has.” Carl’s voice is up close. His breath washing across my face. He smells like the mints he keeps in his pocket since he quit smoking. His lips drag along the slope of my shoulder, provoking the need to shiver.

  I repress it.

  “I saw you looking at it. All night long. Your focus should have been on me. On our dinner and our visit with Peter and Callie and yet, all your focus was on her.”

  It’s true. I chew my lip and wait. My heart is knocking so hard I feel heat flood my body. A hot flash spurred by panic. My wrists trapped in soft leather cuffs are clipped together so I have no play. I try to loop my joined arms over my raised knees and curl in on myself. Carl stops me.

  “I don’t think so.” He pushes my legs flat so I’m sitting up straight and proper, bound wrists in my lap, eyes blindfolded so I have no fucking clue what he’s going to do. I can’t even tell how angry he is because he always keeps his voice calm and even. It’s his face, his dark green eyes, that let me read the tide of his emotions.

  “Tell me I’m wrong, Edie,” he says.

  I shake my head and swallow hard. My stomach cramps with worry. He’s not wrong. He’s absolutely right. All I could focus on was that fucking new collar on Callie’s trim neck. Supple black leather, thinner than most, but thick enough to fit a small D-ring. She’d cocked her head and moved her shoulders and done everything but point to it to show the thing off. I had wanted to just be happy for her. The physical proof of her bond with her master. Instead, I just felt jealous.

  What Carl and I have is better. I am better. I’m a better sub, a better girl, a better…everything. She is usually bitchy and bratty and it isn’t to prompt a punishment if she’s in the mood. It’s just because she is a brat.

  My throat is thick with emotion and shame.

  Something taps my haunch. A flap of leather. A crop. My heart picks up again.

  “I asked you to speak, Edie. I’m confused as to why you haven’t spoken.”

  “You’re not,” I blurt. “Not wrong. I was…I am jealous.” I blow out a breath and straighten my spine as if to say: There. Are you happy?

  Carl chuckles. That could be good. That could be bad.

  “Where should your focus have been tonight, Edie?”

  I blush. I know the answer. I always know the answer. It’s a no brainer. And yet, it clearly isn’t what I did. I’d behaved terribly. I know this. “My focus should be on you.”

  The leather flap of the crop slides up my calf, tickles under my knee, moves high to caress my trembling thigh. I feel goose bumps rush to life under the sensation. My heart does a restless little flip, but between my thighs I’m all wetness and heat.

  “And was your focus on me?”

  He strokes the crop over my belly, carefully inserting it between the inverted V of my arms since I don’t feel it at all until it’s licking at my skin. He drags it a bit lower and the leather prods my mound. I’m nude and cold and blind and…waiting.

  “No, Sir. It was not.”

  “Where was it?”

  There is a fleeting slip of leather between my legs. My clit thumps at the brief contact and then hums needily with blood. But there is no more sensation. No more touch there. Of course not, I’m being reprimanded.

  “On Callie. On her collar.”

  “You’re not even a leather girl,” he laughs.

  I frown. I feel my face turn down—quite unattractive, but his amusement hurts me some. Part of my heart s
eems to crimp up in an almost painful way.

  “I know, Sir.”

  I’m not. I don’t prefer leather. I prefer prettier things. My leather cuffs are cobalt blue because it’s my favorite color and he spoils me. The crops and whips and paddles are all his. They are manly—black and sleek and mostly leather. But the stuff that will be on me is always prettier; he likes to please me. For heaven’s sake, the butt plug he likes best is pink glass. Pink because I thought it was pretty.

  “Then what was the problem?”

  I shrug. Too embarrassed to say.

  “Come now.” The crop nudges just beneath my chin, lifting my face up toward him even though I can’t see him.

  All I can focus on is the wet thrumming between my legs and the embarrassed heat in my cheeks.

  “Edie…” There’s warning in his voice.

  I shake my head. Press my lips together.

  “Turn over then,” he says.

  I hold my hands out, try to obey, but my balance is off and my body has taken up a fine tremor from a bizarre combination of shame, anxiety and excitement. I always feel topsy-turvy when he punishes me. Sometimes he punishes me because I’ve disobeyed. Sometimes because we both need it. Sometimes as just a prelude to a good fuck. There are all kinds of layers to punishment. What has me nerve-racked and antsy is that I can’t read this one.

  Is he amused? Is he flabbergasted? Disappointed? Angry? Does he understand my feelings or does he think me petty? If I could see him…

  He hardly every blindfolds me for this long. He prefers to watch the emotion in my eyes. So maybe this is it, he’s really truly angry with me.

  His big hands are on me, helping me move to my belly. “Hands beneath you,” he says almost clinically as if he’s the physician and I’m the patient. He’s here to cure me of my jealousy, I think wildly.

  My hands nestle beneath my pelvis, the discomfort reminding me this is not just him playing with me. This punishment will be for a very real transgression. I had behaved like a petty child and the worst of all was that Callie had known how I felt. She’d eaten it up. That bitch.