Bound for Trouble

by Alison Tyler

  Except for my harsh breaths, there was silence. Silence, I realized, because she’d told me not to move—another form of bondage, that order—and I had. She was waiting for me to acknowledge my transgression…and realize I would be punished.

  I moaned again and began to apologize, but she cut me off, curtly reminding me that unless it came to a safeword, pets didn’t speak.

  “But I’m glad you know you’re going to be punished further,” she said. She tapped the crop against my inner thighs, high up where the flesh is most sensitive, and I caught myself before I flinched again. Tap-tap-tapping, higher and higher, until the leather tongue rested against my cunt.

  My pussy lips fluttered and my insides clenched. How hard would she hit me? And would I come when she did?

  Truth be told, I didn’t know if I could come with my legs forced apart like that.

  I also didn’t know if I was allowed to come. I’d forgotten to bring it up before we started.

  I bit my lip, and decided to ask only when it became necessary.

  And I held my breath, waiting. There was nothing else I could do.

  Her low, breathy laugh startled me, and I tensed, just before she touched the crop to my most vulnerable area. Another tap—not exactly light, but not nearly hard enough to sting or burn. Just the right pressure to arouse me even further.

  She wove her fingers into my hair and pulled my head back so she could put her lips near my ear. “That was a warning,” she said. “Next time I won’t be so kind.”

  Then she proceeded to do what she’d threatened to at the beginning: she got out the clothespins and decorated my breasts with them. Each innocuous, nasty clip shocked and burned as she made a flower-like halo on the outside of each breast, then four in an inner ring, equidistant.

  And then she opened a clothespin in each hand and reached for my hard nipples.

  I hadn’t told her how sensitive they were.

  My whole body stiffened, which was ironic, because that made me thrust my chest out, as if eager, as the clamps bit down. The pain was excruciating, but at the same time, freeing. Later, I would understand what they meant by subspace, that sensation of flying.

  As the pain dulled slightly into an aching throb, I feared she’d use the pins elsewhere. But she didn’t.

  Instead, she circled me, examining me. My breath was harsh, but I looked ahead to watch her as she came in front of me, her eyes first on my ornamented breasts, then on my face.

  “Well, look at you,” she said. “What a sight. Do you like this feeling, pet? Of not being able to move? Of not being able to do anything about your predicament? Of having to wait, to experience, to turn over all control to me, even when I do this?” And she raised the crop and knocked one of the clothespins off, then two more in rapid succession.

  I could barely move, and yet I writhed within my bonds. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t cry out, but I clamped my teeth together and keened each time she smacked another one off me, because it hurt even more than when she’d put them on.

  It wasn’t that, however, that was pushing me so close to the edge. It was her words. She kept up that litany as she struck the pins off, reminding me (as if I could forget!) that I had no power to stop her, to cover myself, to hide, to run.

  She talked about what else she’d like to do to me: strap me down on the bench so I couldn’t move my hips at all; chain me against a St. Andrew’s cross; mummify me in plastic wrap, pinning my limbs together; suspend me in intricate Japanese rope bondage.

  Her hypnotic words, her deliciously threatening words, and the pain of the clips being ripped off my breasts inflamed me. My focus narrowed to just that, and the aching heaviness in my cunt, ratcheting tighter.

  So when she got to the last two clothespins, the ones on my burning nipples, I imagined what that agony would be like, and she said, “There’s nothing you can do. You’re helpless.”

  I started to come before the clothespins came off, my pussy convulsing around emptiness, my clit vibrating. I’d never been able to climax like that before, without direct stimulation, so it took me by surprise, and that made it all the more intense. The pain when the blood rushed back only extended my orgasm, and I bucked and screamed and I—distantly heard—thanked her.

  She guided me to a sofa I hadn’t even noticed, helped me drink from a bottle of water. When I could hold it by myself, she sipped from her own, cuddling me, my head against her leather-clad breast. I hadn’t clued in that she was still clothed until now.

  I asked her if I could do anything for her, and she laughed softly and said I’d done quite enough, thank you.

  “I’d like to see you again,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, no,” I said. “I’m only in town until tomorrow, on a business trip. I don’t think I’ll be through here again.”

  What I didn’t say is that I was getting married in two weeks, to the man of my dreams, a man who loved me beyond compare. This wasn’t his scene, wasn’t his interest, and all I’d wanted was one night he didn’t know about to experience my fantasies.

  The marks would be gone by the time we said our vows.

  They say that when a door closes, another opens.

  I thanked her, walked out the door, and gently shut it behind me.

  SITTING PRETTY

  Alison Tyler

  Let’s discuss the placement. Positions are extremely important. I’m not talking in bed—doggy-style, missionary or otherwise—but positions in the bar.

  The “Number One” girls always choose the preferred stool. Doesn’t look like much, I know. Scuffed black leather. Faded silver duct tape covering one deep scratch. Scars and dings on the wooden rungs from the many high heels that have been hooked there. But this is the spot they favor. When you walk in, the stool is the first on your left, at the corner of the bar. Snag this seat and you have the perfect view of the whole place. You can see anyone walking in without craning your neck simply by gazing in the mirror.

  The girls sit there. And by “girls,” I mean the girls who are tapping the bartenders. Either one. Luke or Dave. The girls sit there and they purr. I’m the pussy that ate the canary, they say with their glittery eyes, and they arch and preen and lick their paws. They look around and you can hear them thinking, “This could be my bar. This could be my man.”

  Suffice it to say: I don’t care much for that stool.

  I sit at the other end of the bar. I sit on the far side, my back to the kitchen, almost lost in the shadows. I remember the ghosts of girlfriends past who have sat there, whose hot little bottoms have warmed that stool. I can tick them off if you’d like, but I’d have to use toes as well as fingers and I still might run out of digits. The bar boys get around. Oh, yes they do. They’ll own the bar one day, and somehow they manage to stay civil in tight quarters under constant bombardment. They turn, they swivel, they pour, serve, and sneer.

  “Amaretto sour.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? Do we look like a place that would serve an Amaretto sour?”

  The latest is Lexi. She’s got blonde feathered hair—let’s say that together, shall we? Feathered fucking hair. She wears bubble-gum pink lip-gloss and her eye shadow is always a shimmery Porn Star Blue. She’s doing Dave, and she thinks she’s his. She thinks because he slides her a free round every so often, she is in the inner sanctum. This gives her the confidence to flirt with the men on either side of her stool. Lexi believes this makes her more attractive to Dave.

  Look, baby, Men think I’m hot.

  No, hon. Those men think you’re easy.

  She doesn’t understand the bar boys. She doesn’t know that their relationships tend to have short expiration dates. In fact, “relationship” is a bit of a stretch, the word too long for the length of their attention spans.

  Lexi stretches. She arches. She purrs.

  I sit in the corner, and I sip my whiskey, and I watch.

  When Dave passes me, off to get a new bottle of merlot, he tilts his head and gives me a wink. I’m not
the cat who ate the canary, but I’ve swallowed Dave’s sword before to the hilt—all eight inches, long and hard. I look at Lexi. She’s perched, she’s rubbing, ever so gently, her cunt on the bar stool. It wasn’t so long ago that she learned her power. I’ve got something here that the boys want, she thought. She doesn’t seem to realize that having a slit instead of a piston only means she uses the restroom with the flower. There’s no sparkling tiara waiting for her here. There will be no ticker-tape parade.

  Lexi turns her attention to the mechanic on her right. He’s got massive hands, gnarled knuckles, a white shadow where his ring used to be. Lexi toys with the chain around her neck, tugs the chrome heart. I’ve seen her slip the cold metal pendant into her mouth and suck, a nervous habit. A coy girl trick.

  Jonathan knows she doesn’t want him. He’s a placeholder, a paper doll cutout that she can play with while she waits for Dave to get off. To get off and then get off in her. Maybe behind the bar tonight, baby. Maybe in the back of your truck. Yet she trots out that old used trope of flirting with a man to make her lover see her worth.

  Doll, I want to say. You didn’t invent this little dramedy. And other girls have played your role with so much more feeling. So much more depth.

  Dave returns with the merlot and he leans into me slightly, his hips bumping mine as he moves behind the bar. Our eyes meet. I think of the way his cock feels in my mouth, the rounded tip, the thick shaft.

  I wonder what Lexi would say if she knew I’ve tasted her juices on Dave’s cock. It’s almost like I’ve fucked her. She’s got a bite to her sweetness, a sharp flavor that suits her. She pretends she’s a pussycat, but she’s all barracuda beneath the skin.

  The bar is bustling. Dave is hustling. Lexi perches and flirts and twitters. I enjoy the view, thinking of all those girls before her. Thinking of all those girls who will snag that seat in the future. I’m not jealous. I’m not the type. But when Dave refills my glass, he says, “You know what that girl needs?”

  “An ass-whooping,” I say, and he grins and nods. He’s got a shadow going. I love the way those whisper-whiskers feel when they graze my skin.

  “You up for it?” he asks me, and my cock gets hard.

  It’s two a.m. at my place when he brings her over. She’s shiny around the edges now, sleepy but ready. She says, “Hiya, Hank,” as if her charms will work on me. How’d Dave get her here? Wanna stop by for a drink at my friend’s house? You know Hank, right? Dave doesn’t like to drink at the bar, even after closing. It doesn’t set a good precedent when the owner decimates the stock.

  I’ve got the bottle of top-shelf whiskey on the coffee table and three antique crystal glasses set out. A silver bucket of ice if that’s her style. She’s a cosmo girl, I know. A pink drinker. But I don’t have the accoutrements. It’s whiskey—neat or on the rocks, if you must—or nothing.

  Dave says, “Lexi doesn’t know what you do.”

  “Yeah, Hank.” She’s so perky. “Dave made me guess on the way over. I couldn’t figure it out.” I can hear her voice in my head. Is he an architect? An engineer? A reference librarian?

  “I’m a refinisher,” I say. She looks around my place. Sees the furniture, appraises the workmanship. “I strip things down to the bare, to the core, and then I rebuild.”

  The way I say the words makes her straighten up. She can hear a threat in my tone—or if not a threat, a promise. She’s sitting on my chair the way she sits at the bar, her pussy right on the lip of it, balancing on her power. She rubs back and forth. I don’t even think she knows she’s moving.

  “You do all the furniture in the room?” she asks, looking around, nervous suddenly.

  I nod.

  She licks her lips, sips her drink, chatters the ice cubes in the glass. Dave is relaxed, leg crossed so his ankle rests on his knee, watching me. I know what he wants to see. There’s no reason to put off the inevitable.

  “Dave says you’ve been a bad girl,” I tell Lexi, and her nervous twitching movements suddenly stop.

  “What did you say?”

  I enunciate carefully. “Dave tells me you’ve been a bad, bad girl.” I add the second bad for emphasis.

  She looks shocked at Dave, who doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. He takes a drink and smiles, nothing nervous in his attitude. Dave likes to be here. He’s sitting in his black leather chair. I finished that one just for him.

  “Did you, Dave?” she can’t decide how to play this scene. Does she act all giggly about it? Or become incensed, her reputation soiled. I’ve stripped her first layer, without any effort at all.

  Dave nods, but gives her no additional assistance. This is where we find out what Lexi has in her. Will she storm out? Throw her drink at Dave? Call me an old lecherous bastard? There are a slew of possibilities, but I’m fairly secure in the end result of the evening. Or morning.

  She worries her bottom lip. She squints her blue eyes at me.

  “Why would you say that?” she asks, and the question is posed to both of us.

  I decide to be the one to answer. “You act like you want to be Dave’s girl,” I tell her, “and then you squirm on that bar stool and send off your scent. Do you think he doesn’t see you flirting like that?”

  “I was… I mean, I wasn’t…”

  “You were.” There’s no need to argue. She seems to understand this.

  “I wouldn’t have done anything with them.” She says this with a pout.

  “Does that make it better?”

  Not many of us get to confront our true selves. We dress up. We go to the bar. We mingle with the rest of the humans. And we wear our masks. I’ve taken Lexi’s away. She is a tangle of nerves, a visible twitching ball of raw emotions.

  Her ice cubes are clinking together again. She’s at a juncture. Will she stay or will she go?

  “No,” she says, and she looks at the coffee table, which I found one day on a dump run and refurbished over a period of months. The sheen is pure love and sweat equity. She runs her fingertip over the rim. “No,” she says again, and we’re right there—at the pivotal place. Didn’t take us that long at all. She says, “That doesn’t make it better.”

  I stand and walk to her side. I take her drink and set the glass on the tray. I help her to her feet and bring her back to my chair, where I sit once more and stand her between my legs.

  “Dave says you’ve been a bad girl,” I repeat. The cadence now is like a song. Lexi starts to tear up; years of practice make crying on command one of the tricks in her magic bag. I shake my head. “Sweet girl,” I tell her simply, “you haven’t earned your tears yet.”

  She’s staring at me with her wide blue eyes. Her plump bottom lip is ripe and bitable. Her fluttery halter is made of silk ruffles. She says, “What do you want me to do, Hank? What am I supposed to do about it?” She knows better than to be aggressive, but there’s still an edge to her tone, like there’s a bite to her taste.

  That’s all I need. I look over at Dave, who hasn’t moved, but he’s excited. I can tell. His fine cheekbones have a warmth to them, a heat. I take Lexi and bend her across my lap. This is it. This is the start or the end. She is malleable and willing. She has given in, given up, joined the program.

  Lexi’s over my lap and I lift her little floral mini skirt and stare down at her ass. She’s got on a thong. Of course, she does. A lemon-yellow thong trimmed in white lace. I let a hand rest on her ass, and I look at Dave again. He’s grinning. This is the best part for him. He loves to watch me punish his girls. He’ll do almost anything to get to this point. And I’ll do anything for Dave.

  I don’t spank her right away, though. I rest my large hand on her ass, and I say, “What’s going to happen, Lexi?”

  She has her palms on the floor, bracing herself. Her hair falls over her face. She knows, and Dave knows, and I know. But we have to hear Lexi say the words. It’s part of the routine. She’s got to give in.

  “What do you think I’m going to do?”

  She doesn’t want to
talk. She’s convinced herself that this is acceptable—her being over my lap and all. She’s had the inner dialogue, has made all sorts of devil’s deals with herself. If this is what Dave really wants. Maybe he’s more kinky than she thought. And blah blah blah. But she didn’t think I’d make her spell out the situation. I crave clarity.

  “What do you think I’m going to do?” I ask her. My voice is like the finest grade of sandpaper, hardly rough at all.

  “You’re going to…you’re going to…” She turns her head to face Dave, but I can’t have that.

  “He doesn’t have the answer,” I tell her. “Neither does the floor. Or your little heart-shaped pendant. What am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to spank me.” The words are a rush, a tumble, ice cubes melting in a crystal glass.

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “What am I…?” It’s so hard for her. I want to tell her that she’s not alone. It’s hard for all of Dave’s girls.

  “What are you going to do?” I repeat. “As my hand comes down on your firm little ass, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to cry.”

  There. We’re all on the same page. I tug at the floss of her thong. She feels the pull against her asshole. A divine shiver works through her. I know that if I were to slip my fingers between her legs, I’d find a puddle. I could make her guess the rest of the evening’s events, but I decide to wait. We’ll begin the begin.

  I slap her ass once. Hard. She sucks in her breath. I can almost hear her thoughts. That wasn’t so bad. I can take this. I can handle this. I slap her again, quickly, and the thoughts begin to come faster. How long will he spank me? How much will this hurt? And again. She exhales. She was holding her breath without realizing. I give in to myself and start smacking her ass rhythmically. This isn’t only about her after all. Dave is leaning forward on his chair to watch. I’m turning the key that opens Dave up. The watching. I put on a proper show. When Lexi starts to squirm, searching for purchase with her cunt against my knee, I grab both her wrists and pin them at the small of her back. I have clocked her arching at the bar. Now I bend her like a bow, and I motion to Dave.