Bound by Lust

by Shanna Germain

  They hadn’t seen each other for a month. He had a cold, she had heaps of work on, he had family visiting, the usual. She suggested they meet midway in a hotel for an afternoon. No sleepover. They must have hotels in London where you can pay by the hour. You know, like those Japanese love hotels?

  But London, she discovered, is not Tokyo. She complained she felt like a whore, contacting hotels to enquire about hourly rates. “Well don’t bank on not being treated like one,” he said, making her try a little harder.

  Eventually, she found somewhere, booked a room for an afternoon. “So seedy,” she said excitedly.

  The night before she could barely sleep. Fifty miles away, neither could he. In the morning, she took extra care over her appearance. It had been six weeks. That deserved lip liner, at least. He selected underwear she liked, jeans his arse looked good in, the jacket she’d once admired. He shaved his head because she found it hot when he looked nasty and mean. He glared at himself in the mirror, turning his swag on. He was dom, but he liked to please. She’d told him it wasn’t unusual.

  She arrived first, checked in, dumped her bag of kit in the room. They met downstairs in the hotel bar, a warm but spacious area with leather sofas the color of good cigars, open fires, bare boards, and red brickwork. Firelight rested on thin metal sculptures and glossed the floor with amber puddles. Behind the bar, rows of tawny-hued spirits gleamed as they might in a country pub, a dangerous enchantment of nectars. It didn’t feel like noon.

  “See?” she said. “I’m a high-class hooker.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he replied, grinning.

  They drank brandy, smirking secretively but saying little because there was too much to say and not enough time. Before long, he said, “I want you to go up to the room, strip to your underwear and kneel. I’ll follow you in five.”

  She took her brandy, feeling it was important to carry the magic of the bar to the privacy of their room. He watched her arse as she walked away, wanting to slap it. Upstairs, she drew the curtains, blocking out the rarely glimpsed underside of the city, the back ends of shabby buildings, delivery doors, and fire escapes. The room, like the bar, was warmly minimalist, a cocoon of cream, browns, and aubergine. She turned up the dimmer switch, stripped and knelt, pleased that the thread of ribbon in her black bra was a near-perfect match for the bruise-purple stripe on the bed linen. Not that he would notice. Not that she cared. This was a sex thing, not a matching-bra-and-bed thing.

  On the dressing table, the brandy glowed like a tiny fireplace. I could be anyone, she thought.

  When he entered, he glanced at her as if she were nothing but furniture before he turned to hang his jacket in the alcove-cum-wardrobe. “Clasp your hands behind your head,” he said, removing his shirt.

  She did. She felt nervous and stupid, playing this game of make-believe because it aroused them. Children play games, not adults.

  He removed all his clothes, aimed the TV remote, then flicked through screens of information. Naked in the dimness, he was glorious, his cock erect, vulgar and shameless, his arms sculpted with light and shadow, his butt taut and lean. Colors from the TV shimmered on his chest.

  She recalled him once telling her about a program he’d watched, something involving Romans and their servants, and how it had turned him on. This was months ago when they’d first started seeing each other (if you could call it “seeing”). She’d treasured the snippet because he never revealed much about his day-to-day life. Then again, neither did she. Distance.

  But this was cheeky: six weeks apart and he switches on the TV first? She was aching for the warmth of his skin, the scent of him and the wild thrust of his cock, and knew he was equally hot for her. She admired him for being such a cool bastard. The more he ignored her, the more humiliated and horny she grew. She liked to claim she wasn’t ashamed of her kinks, but when she was in the thick of it, compliant, needy, and submissive, she felt embarrassed by the enormity of her lust. She wanted satisfaction and didn’t like to dwell on how low she might go to achieve it. But it was a tricky business, this game playing, because going low was part of her pleasure. She loved what she hated, hated what she loved.

  He didn’t have that problem. He loved it all.

  He set down the remote and addressed her. “Hey, what’s this? Free whore?”

  She winced at his jaunty tone, hated it.

  He approached. He had a pen in his hand, a Sharpie. “Now this is what I call room service,” he said. “What are you?”

  Her voice was soft. “A whore.”

  “Sort of a whore?”

  She closed her eyes. “A free whore.”

  “That’s right. Likes getting used so much she doesn’t even want paying.”

  He wrote the words across her chest in black ink: FREE WHORE. She held still, swaying only slightly.

  “Arms folded behind your back,” he said. He pushed her bra straps down, lifted her breasts free, and grabbed her by the hair. Holding her head firm, he drove into her mouth, increasing his reach until her throat was opening to clasp the last inch of him, so warm and tight. She gazed up obediently, her lips around his root, her eyes watering. Her makeup ran, making her tears as black as the words on her chest.

  When she needed air, she tapped his thigh and he withdrew. “Aw,” he said, thumbing away a tear. “Such a good submissive.” She thought he was taunting her; then, in a gentle voice, he added, “You’re beautiful when you cry, you know?”

  She thought he was being sincere. (He was.) “I’m not crying,” she said.

  “You will be soon,” he warned.

  He was right, of course.

  In her bag of kit, she had rope, cuffs, flogger, blindfold, ball gag, bit gag, butt plug, vibe, condoms, lube, Wet Wipes. The crop had been too long to pack, so she’d left that at home rather than have its handle poking out of the zip on the Underground, letting everyone know she was a pervert. She should have left the whole bag at home. All he used were the condoms plus the pen that he’d brought himself. It was testament to his dark imagination he could reduce her to a sobbing wreck with so little equipment.

  He fucked her on the bed with slow cruelty, easing himself into her without hitting home. He didn’t thrust, he didn’t go deep, and the angle was weak. She was on her side, a leg in the air, pleading for more.

  “When I’m ready,” he said, rocking calmly into her cunt.

  She shifted position, trying to take more of him, but he laughed and readjusted, denying her the advantage. “What are you after?” he asked. “Tell me, I might give it to you.”

  She muttered obscenities, begging him to fuck her and fill her and let her have his cock, oh please, it’s torture, I can’t stand it, give it to me hard, please, please.

  He took the pen, made her twist forward, then wrote her words on her back as if she’d been dictating. “In case I forget what you want,” he said. He swiveled her onto all fours, gripped her hips, and penetrated her with one neat, clean thrust. Her walls stretched to take him, and the two of them groaned in unison. “Oh, I’ve missed this little cunt,” he said.

  He fucked her one way for a while before flipping her over, pushing her legs back and slamming in deep again. He went at her with a dour force and passion, his face clouded with absorption in the moment, sweat sprinkling from his forehead. She clung to his cock, slippery and snug, and he filled her with his big, meaty aggression, calling her names through gritted teeth. He withdrew without coming—time for something else now—and told her to kneel on the bed.

  Her legs were shaky, and she was bothered by the ink stains on the sheets. She imagined the words printed backward on the cotton, entertainment for the chambermaids. Fuck me hard, please, I can’t stand it, I need your cock, please, oh god, please, and do you think that will come out with Dreft?

  He’d had plans he’d been mulling over for weeks, plans involving rope and pain, gags and ass-fucking. But he’d found the Sharpie in his pocket on his way up to the room, and he was running with sudden, n
ew ideas. He made her open her knees a little wider then pushed the pen into her wetness. “Grip it,” he said. “Don’t let it drop.”

  “Oh christ.” She squeezed her PC muscles, her entire body tensing with the effort. But the pen was so slim, and his cock had been so big, leaving her wet and open. A lifetime of Kegels couldn’t have saved her. She couldn’t hold the pen for a second.

  “Try again,” he said.

  When she failed for a second time, he slapped her face. This was usually the point when she’d start slipping away from him. He could see it in her eyes. He pinched and twisted her nipples, scratched her skin, and she arched toward him, whimpering for more. He circled and rocked her clit, his fist in her hair, stretching her neck taut. She came quickly. His gaze never left her face.

  She looked dazed and remote, as if she existed somewhere behind her eyes. He could do anything he wanted when she started to drift, but he was always careful, measuring her reactions, occasionally checking in for a whispered “yes.”

  She was in a black, swimmy place veined with purple, pinpoints of light growing large and small. She had no words. If he needed it, she would try her very best to say “yes.” Sometimes, “yes” was as heavy as a boulder. When she couldn’t manage to lift the word, he always understood. He never heard her silence as “no,” thank god.

  Her hurt her some more, fucked her some more, sank into her throat, then came on her tits. He dragged her to the mirror so she could see what a whore she was.

  She saw a monster. Her skin was blotched and raw, black tears streaked her face, and her eyes, pink rimmed and bloodshot, struggled to meet their image. Her hair was a tangle of knots, and on her chest, the nasty, inked letters were smeared with come and sweat.

  He thought she was beautiful and brave, allowing herself to be this thing for him, although first of all, she was this thing for herself, wasn’t she? He knelt with her, licked his come from her tits, stroked hair from her face, and kissed her.

  She tasted him, sharp and salty, and held him lightly, his back wet beneath her shaking hands. Then she began to sob, the way she always did after a hard session, and he took her to bed, letting her nestle in the crook of his arm till the tears subsided.

  “It’s okay, just let it all go,” he said, unfazed by her reaction. Her tears, he knew, were tears of release. There was no suffering or shame.

  She was grateful he understood, that he didn’t freak out the way some men did. She’d explained it to him early on, said this was how it was for her, the tears, the vanishing, and he accepted that. He didn’t think she was deranged or damaged. He trusted her.

  She liked how he held her, tender and reassuring, waiting for her to surface but never rushing her to be better. They called it “aftercare” as if it were different from caring, and as if the dispensing of it were his role alone. But he needed comfort too, not as much as her, but he needed it all the same. He wasn’t okay till he knew she was okay, knew she was happy.

  She smiled, sniffing, then began to laugh, elated and joyful. He laughed at her laughter, then licked her tears. Side by side on the pillows, they kissed lazily. And she remembered back to when they’d first hooked up. “No kissing,” he’d said. He didn’t want to get emotionally involved. He regarded kissing as something you did in relationships, not when it was like this, just a sex thing.

  “But I like kissing, it’s horny,” she’d complained, and by their third date, the rule had gone, never to be mentioned again. Because aren’t rules made to be broken? But the no-sleepovers, that was set in stone. It would complicate everything if they were to lie together, soft, honest, and vulnerable; if they were to drift apart into their separate dreams and wake smudgy-eyed in the morning, nuzzling close to reconnect. Too confusing, too messy, too dangerous. So, that rule was staying.

  They wouldn’t break it, they wouldn’t sleep together; not for a few more months yet.

  CROSSING THE LINE

  Dominic Santi

  After six months of dating, I knew Therese was the one for me. But it took me four more months to pop the question. Despite the exasperated advice of my legal-shark best friend, my cold feet had nothing to do with my six-figure annual income. Hell, Therese made more than I did!

  What had me pacing the floor of my townhouse at all hours was the certainty that since I really did want to marry Therese, I had to figure out a way to tell her about my cross-dressing. At five-feet-eleven with curly blond hair and sky-blue eyes, I’d been told I was a good-looking man. However, with feminine attire draped over my slender frame and mascara darkening my long, thick lashes, I knew I made a stunning woman. Eventually, five martinis into a night that ended with Therese and me dancing cheek to cheek and cock to belly on her patio, I blurted out that I loved her and wanted to fuck her senseless every day for the rest of my life—and I really needed to occasionally, okay, fairly frequently, dress up in a skirt and heels and the sexiest lingerie I could find on the Internet.

  Imagine my shock when Therese cupped my face in her fingers and arched her belly into my erection. Therese was all about lush, sexy curves and dark wavy hair that cascaded down her back. As usual, she didn’t hesitate to speak her piece.

  “I can’t wait to see you in a designer gown. I bet you’re gorgeous.” She ground against my cock until I groaned. “But from now on, sweetie, you’ll be getting your feminine attire right here in town from Martine’s Boutique. Friday night is going to be accountability night at our house. I’m going to be present when you try on every item, so I can be certain your delectable derriere is properly presented when I bare your bottom for your weekly corporal punishment session.”

  My tongue-tied gawking had nothing to do with the liquor. I’d never heard of what Therese called a “disciplinary wife.” She assured me that from this day forward, the term was going to be an important part of my vocabulary. She rocked her warm, soft belly against me, stroking her thumbs down the sides of my face as she explained how the next morning she was going to give me the list of rules that would govern our lives. We’d talk about them, and she’d answer all my questions and concerns.

  The bottom line—all puns intended, Therese assured me—was that every Friday night, whether we went out to a classy restaurant or had pizza at home, I’d be “dressing” for dinner. Sometime before bedtime, Therese would call me on the carpet to answer for that week’s misbehavior. Then she’d lift my skirt, take down my panties, and thrash my lovely bare bottom until it was red and hot and I was crying so hard I was dancing on my high-heeled toes and my mascara was running.

  “You’re not to worry about your makeup during your punishment, sweetie. When a naughty girl is getting a good, sound thrashing, her mascara runs and her lipstick gets smeared. After corner time, you’ll sit on a pillow on the vanity seat and we’ll get your face all pretty again. But during your thrashing, you’re to concentrate only on how much your bottom hurts and how very sorry you are for displeasing me. Afterward, you may apologize and promise to do better and plead for forgiveness.”

  I was still stuck on her first sentence. “You’re going to spank me?!” I was so stunned I would have stopped dancing if Therese hadn’t been moving so seductively against me.

  “Not spank,” she whispered, sliding her hands down my body. Her kisses were hot and full of tongue. I shivered when her fingernails stroked my behind. “I’m going to thrash your lovely bare bottom with my hairbrush.” I jumped at her slap. “And young lady, when you’re really naughty, you’ll wear a big sturdy anal plug as well.”

  Therese ground against me again, and I came in my pants.

  We were to be married two months later. Stone-cold sober, Therese and I had negotiated, in writing, the rules that were going to govern the first year of our lives—the way we would renegotiate every year on our anniversary from then on. Just reading the document made my cock stiffen, even as a cold shiver of sweat ran down the back of my neck.

  The first part of the rules covered what Therese called “common sense.” I was to obe
y all governmental laws, with the caveat of being allowed to participate in football and basketball pools at work. Financial, social, and job-related decisions were to be made jointly, with Therese having veto power if she decided I wasn’t being “sensible.”

  The rest of the list brought home to me the reality of what being married to a disciplinary wife meant. Therese promised to be fair and reasonable, to encourage me in exploring my feminine side, and to never wait beyond Friday night to punish me when I’d transgressed. I promised to obey her and to accept a bare-bottomed “thrashing” whenever she decided I needed one. I could discuss any issues that came up, and I was to let her know if I had concerns. But when Therese gave an order, her word was law.

  Just picturing the list in my head made my cock fill. She’d listed several specifics to be certain I was clear about them. Disobeying or lying to her, even by omission, was grounds for an immediate thrashing—in addition to the one I’d get with my weekly accounting. That meant even if she hadn’t caught me breaking a rule, I still had to confess—or take double the original punishment when she found out.

  I was to be in bed no later than fifteen minutes after she was each night. I was allowed to keep my porn subscriptions and my extensive collection of what she called “exceptionally raunchy videos,” but I could not masturbate without permission. That didn’t mean just not coming, either. I was allowed up to a half-dozen long, slow, soapy strokes in the shower. Anything more than that needed Therese’s permission—before I did it.

  Finally, starting the week after our wedding, I was to leave work early enough on Fridays to stop at the “specialty” day spa next to Martine’s on my way home. Therese was leaving standing orders for me for a full-body shave with bikini wax. My face heated every time I thought about that part, so I concentrated on how I was also to get a manicure and pedicure (my choice of colors for the nail polish) and have my hair done. When I left, I’d be carrying a garment bag that now held my suit and tie and the other masculine accoutrements I’d shed before donning the feminine attire Therese had left at the spa for me earlier in the day.