“Sit up, girls, I have something for you.”
In the box lie two beaten silver anklets, one with a blue gemstone, one with a piece of tiger eye embedded in it. Michael puts the box down and pulls our legs onto his lap, strokes each ankle.
“What do you think? One each? I can even lock them together.” He smiles. Each one fastens with a delicate silver lock. The keys are tiny, miniature in his hands. Liz’s eyes shine. She holds my hand. He reaches up and touches her collar, still fastened around her neck.
“I’ve told you before. This stays on you until the day you find yourself taking it off without even noticing. We have plenty of time. And in the meantime—” He places the silver band around her ankle, the other around mine. “In the meantime, there is this.”
Liz touches the silver at my ankle, and I run my hand over hers. We watch as he adjusts his tie in the mirror, turns to kiss us good-bye.
“Good-bye, kittens. Be good while I’m gone.”
I’ll miss him, I always do. But now I have my slave sister, our kitten to care for, until he comes back to us again.
A BEAUTIFUL CORPSE
Craig Sorensen
I sometimes wonder if I’d even be able to get out of bed without you. What, with my lower back the way it is. After a night’s sleep, it might as well be a rusted ball joint, for all its flexibility. I wish everything was so stiff.
And what about you, getting down the stairs with that knee that only bends twenty percent of what it originally did?
No, you pulling me up to position, and my bracing you down the stairs, well, it’s just a part of our day.
We never talked about it, but I came to realize you bought into the idea “Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse” as much as I did. And what a beautiful corpse you would have left. Oh, that day we met. You seemed so sweet and innocent, your skin was white as a dove, your eyes blue as an early spring sky, your hair red as a five-alarm fire.
Heads turned to you like to a meteor falling to earth. Not the least of which was mine. So glad I was the earth you fell to. Yes, you could have left a beautiful corpse and would have. It wasn’t for lack of trying.
Remember the way we used to drink? Hand over fist, tequila to scotch and then whiskey to wash down some ludes. Remember the Sinsemilla to sweeten a line of cocaine?
We took challenges by the balls, didn’t we, Michelle? Those cliffs we climbed, including the one that fucked up that beautiful knee, now pocked with scars where they tried to fix it. Things were different back then.
Those nude high-dives to crystal-clear water out at that quarry, especially the one that fucked up my back. My arm from when we were on that new KZ-900 and I lost it. I braced out to absorb the shock, denying you of your corpse aspirations. Now that arm is so fucked up it was easier just to learn to be left-handed.
Your face is wrinkled, feels like a seasoned barnstormer’s leather jacket. You’re kind of brick-orange from years of sun. Your freckles simply united like small villages swallowed by urban sprawl. Your hair is whiter than your skin once was. Your muscles, sinewy, your breasts were once small and perky, now they’re small and pendulous. As you lean over to leverage me, your robe opens to give me a peek. I feel a strange, wonderful twinge. Your nipples still have that rich color, and they’re big and plump as ripe black cherries when you’re stimulated. Did you hear them? I did. They’re begging to be sucked. You try to pull your robe over that nipple, and I grab your hand.
Remember how I used to hold your hands over your head and have my way with your sensitive tits until you positively had to be fucked. Lord how you could beg. Just the need in your eyes was enough, but the way your voice got in on the act didn’t hurt. Oh, your sigh when I opened my pants and let it fall free but denied you, and you unable to act, bound by four of my best silk ties to the corners of the oversized bed. That bed used to fucking groan like it would buckle at your command. We did collapse a bed or two or three, didn’t we?
Your eyes are still that powerful blue, still so vibrant and alive after all these years. “Get the hell up, Lars.” You try to tug my left hand from holding your robe open. “Got things to do today.”
“You know better.” We both know we don’t have shit to do today. And what if we did? We couldn’t do most of them.
No, like you, my muscles will do what they can, but the structure underneath just doesn’t work right anymore, and I don’t have it left in me to fight with them. So we get up and pretend. Team up and make his-and-hers bowls of oatmeal with our three good arms, three good legs, and our one good back.
“Get up, you old buzzard.” You tug again.
I wink.
You tilt your head and give me that funny grin, your teeth like the picket fence in front of our tumbledown cottage. Your full cracked lips are like a pink road with potholes. Amazing how very soft they still feel when we kiss. I love how we kiss a lot to this day, but fucking? Well, remember how we used to fuck? There wasn’t a place we didn’t fuck. If we had one of those CSI things that picked up the hint of sex juices, maybe made things glow green, our house would glow like a golf course in spring midday sun. Doggie-style, standing face to face, you lifted against the wall, me holding you like a wheelbarrow, you on top pinning my elbows pumping me, you sideways taking me upside down with a twist, my hand leveraging against your beautiful throat. Feeling the hoarseness in your moans like an old phone receiver in my hand.
Bound and down, fucking in a car, in a bar, up a tree, in the sea. Forgive me if I got my Seuss all over you, but sometimes it seems that’s all I have left.
We once joked that the Kama Sutra was for sissies, then I ripped your panties off, bent you backward over the neighbor’s coffee table while they made Tequila Sunrises in the kitchen, your hips arched unnaturally and my cock squeezed downward in your magnificent cunt. Damn I was hard that night. I pulled out, hauled you home, and turned you over my thigh and spanked you cardinal red for making me miss out on that cold drink. Those two were stiffs, but man they could mix a drink. Wonder what ever happened to them? Anyway, I carted you upstairs over my shoulder, strapped you down to the bed like a fresh drum skin on a big conga. Tight. So fucking tight as I curled into your splayed body. Oh, the rhythms I pounded out that night. Oh, the melodies your voice composed. Call and response, that’s what they say. It’s been years since we fucked like that. How long has it been since we fucked at all, my sweet Michelle?
They say it’s what’s on the inside that counts, but on the outside you’re beautiful like the moon, marked by a lifetime taking unfiltered meteors, refusing to fall from the sky.
I feel it. A strange sensation. A strange, wonderful sensation: My dick feels so heavy. I tug your arm. You curse at me as you try to steady. Bet you forgot how strong my good arm is. I laugh kind of mean and tug harder. You make me pay the price. You land on me like a jumper from the twelfth floor into a stuntman bag. It hurts like fucking hell. I grunt.
“Serves you right.” You laugh like when you used to get me all turned on and ran off after I stripped. Make me chase you so you could watch my burgundy hard-on bounce. I was faster than you, but man you could cut a corner. When I finally caught up, I’d put all my weight down, trap your ankles under my shoulders. Gather your body in mine and compress you like a Ferrari in one of those car-crusher-things. Fuck, you used laugh and taunt me when I got like that.
Now your weight is centered on that bad spot in my spine. It hurts, and I keep getting harder. Your right tit landed conveniently close to my mouth. What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t oblige? Okay, I’m no gentleman, but still I fumble to one-hand your robe, and you open wide. I draw one nipple in my mouth.
What a beautiful sight. I move from breast to breast, tongue and teeth, and I’m thankful for all those dentists’ appointments along the way. I still have them in some fashion. I bite. “More.” I bite harder. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Your pussy feels so fucking good on my thigh. I need to get in. But the logistics just aren’t that simple anymore, Mi
chelle. We’re bound by limitations. I keep my back tilted just so, you extend that bad knee at a bearable angle like a bow ready to sling an arrow as you position.
Your hot old cunt engulfs me. Oh, that feels so great. I yank those magnificent tits like handles. We manage the trajectory like Houdini getting out of a big box full of water.
Water. You’re wet as that river we swam in and nearly got washed out in class-four rapids. Our hearts still pounding double time, mouths still awash with adrenaline, we only got back to the shore by teaming up. That was after I fucked up my arm, and you saved my life, kept me from my aspirations. Remember that big rock we fucked on while still feeling the electric charge and tasting the adrenaline of cheating that “beautiful corpse god” again? That old rock afforded only one position we could manage. Funny, but as I recall, it was something like this moment. It’s like being bound by that rock’s shape this many years later. And why not? That was one epic fuck.
My cock is completely hard. Don’t know the last time it did that. Feels wonderful. You slide along it like a master ballerina. Tip kissed by your pussy lips, then gulped all the way up you. You haven’t lost a move. On your good arms, you sway that perfect rhythm. Musicians call it muscle memory. I call it heaven to be in you again. I could die like this. Oh, you’re slick and smooth. It really is what’s on the inside that counts, my sweets.
Ha!
Know what, Michelle? I’m a bit numb down there, have been since the back injury, but I feel you now. I feel you in ways I never felt you before. Maybe the weird way my back is tilted is giving me more sensation like a hose suddenly unkinked, a rush of urgent water. Maybe it’s all in my head. Either way, you sway on me like a weeping willow in the wind. Now I shift my back, to try to kink a measure of that numbness. I don’t want this to end.
Your good knee locks up. Your bad one must hurt like fire. I know my back does, so I pump hard into you, and you meet every thrust.
Are your grunts pain or pleasure? Mine are both, thankfully.
Pain. Damn, you could administer a spanking, Michelle. My strong hips draped over you, my pants pulled down to my ankles and my hard cock rubbed raw by the seam of your blue-jean thighs, a hair brush cracking over one cheek then the other until I throbbed, then you turned me over, pinned my elbows under your curled legs, grabbed fistfuls of my long, curly hair, and made me eat you for a half-hour, only releasing me when convinced I’d given your pussy sufficient attention. Then you grabbed my hair again and made me eat some more.
I haven’t eaten so good in years.
By god, I’m still hard. I take every forceful drive of your pussy. Viagra is for sissies. I work your clit, surrounded in white-cloud pubic hair, with my left hand and watch your face open like a kid ripping into the best Christmas gift ever. Your orgasmic shout harkens back fifty years. It’s like the song of the furies: irresistible. Crash me on your shore. My nuts squeeze tight to my crotch like a new peach emerged from an old, knurled branch.
I hold my breath as I sputter into you. I continue to hold to feel this orgasm more intensely, but I have to gasp a breath before I fucking pass out. I see you. I see stars. I pull air.
Perfect, Michelle. Perfect.
You collapse to my chest. I feel the fast pounding your heart. I wrap my good arm, then my lousy one, around you and hold you tight to savor. I time my breaths with the rise and fall of your chest. Your nipples poke like fingers. Your low voice emanates from your chest with each exhale as we fight to get our pulses back down. Your skin is so perfect, rough and soft all at once.
You kiss my cheek. Those perfect lips.
We lived fast, but didn’t die young. I can’t speak for mine, but when your body finally is a corpse, it’ll be more beautiful than it was at sixty, or fifty, or forty. That much I know.
I grunt. “Ow, my fucking back.” It spasms as you shift your body.
“You love it, and you fucking know it.” You grab my face and wink.
“Almost much as you. Christ, help me up.”
You rise off me like girly-girl push-ups, swing your good leg over, and fight to a standing position. You work your knee as best as you can, then take my left arm, and we manage to get me upright. I fold my left arm around your waist and you brace. You reach for your discarded robe, but I hold you fast. I don’t want you to dress. “Leave it, Michelle.”
Yes, you are so gorgeous. More gorgeous than you were at thirty, or even fucking twenty. You are perfect.
I nestle my nose in your ear, my cock still wet with you. “You still fuck perfect. Let’s make a big breakfast, just like this, you beautiful bitch. Remember? Hot bacon splatters feel as delicious as they taste.”
You slap my naked butt nice and hard. I felt that sting but good! You laugh. “You still got it, you handsome bastard.”
That I do. I got what counts: you. I pull you a bit tighter to my hip and we work toward the stairs.
EINE KLEIN SPANKING
Clarice Clique
Rozalyn was wearing nothing but her favorite red thigh-high boots. I stared with raw desire at her beautiful ebony skin and the delicious curves of her naked ass and breasts as she walked about the room taking her time choosing between a whip and a cat-o’-nine-tails. My own movement was restricted by how tightly she’d tied me to her four-poster bed, and although I’d never admit it to her, the sheer size of the dildos she’d pushed into my pussy and ass. Sometimes she teased me by moving out of my line of vision and noisily playing with herself, but right now she was leaning against the wall stroking the tip of a whip with her long fingernails. Every single thought in my head should have been focused on my gorgeous friend and what she was about to do to me. So why could all my years of obedience training not keep my mouth closed?
“He’s so hot, Rozalyn, I mean really really seriously hot. And did I mention he’s German? The scene over there’s supposed to be wild, isn’t it? I’ve never been, I meant to, but other things have always got in the way, but now a German guy is right next door to me, that’s got to be fate, hasn’t it? Imagine him barking out orders in that harsh accent, and they’re supposed to be such a disciplined and efficient country, aren’t they? I’d be sure to do things wrong and need lots of punishment.”
“You don’t have to be German to want to punish you, Audrey.” Rozalyn came over to the side of the bed and looked down at me. “I’m ordering you to go ’round and talk to him. He’s your new neighbor for fuck’s sake, how hard is it to make up an excuse to say hello? Introduce yourself, take around a welcome basket of homemade cupcakes, ask to borrow a cup of sugar, I don’t care. Just do it, or I’ll do things to you that not even you with your filthy little mind could imagine.”
“Yes. You’re right. But do you think a welcome basket would be too much? I mean, he moved in two weeks ago, is it too late to welcome him? Are cupcakes a good idea? Maybe too homely, not giving off the right signals, what about cookies, are they better, everyone loves cookies, right?”
“Cookies are great. They tell a man very clearly that you want him to bend you over and fuck you harder than you’ve ever been fucked in your life. Now enough with the talk, you’re not normally this annoying.”
Rozalyn opened a drawer of her side table and pulled out a ball gag.
“I’ll be good, you don’t have to use that, you know I’m not the biggest fan of being gagged.”
“That’s kind of the point of a punishment. If you listened to yourself you’d know you deserve a lot worse.” She momentarily put the whip down and fastened the gag around my mouth and smiled down at me. “Now we can start having fun.”
She picked the whip up and brought it down on my tits so hard that her own breasts swayed with the effort. Rozalyn was right, the fun was starting, but still I did something I’d never done before. I closed my eyes and imagined it was someone else punishing me; a tall, muscled German man with a stern accent whipping his new American slut.
So, this was the first meeting with my dream master-to-be:
He answered the do
or almost immediately after I knocked, like he’d known I’d been pacing up and down my kitchen for the last hour and he was just waiting for me to work up the courage to come see him. A good sign.
“Hi, I’m your neighbor. Sorry it’s taken me so long to come over and introduce myself but you know how it is busy, busy, busy. I made you some cookies. And cupcakes. And muffins of the blueberry, chocolate chip, and apricot variety. Hope you like something in there.”
I held the basket out to him. He stared at it for a moment before taking it.
“Thank you,” he said in that beautiful thick, hard accent.
“My name’s Audrey. Like the film star. Audrey Hepburn.”
He nodded. “You look something like her.”
I beamed and glowed even though I’d heard that compliment a hundred times before and much more eloquently put; yet with him it didn’t sound like an empty compliment but a statement of fact, and that turned me on.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Wolfgang, like the composer, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.”
“Wolfgang?” I pronounced it in an English way, as in a gang of canine predators, and for some stupid reason I couldn’t stop laughing. A bad sign.
“What is funny?” he said in all seriousness.
“Nothing,” I said through the giggles I couldn’t control. “Nothing at all. I better get home. Hope you like the cakes. Bring the basket back whenever. Bye.”
I carried on laughing until I was in my kitchen with my back to the door, then I sunk to the floor and wondered what idiotic part of me had been in control in creating that essential first impression.
So that was our first meeting, and for ten minutes I thought it would be our last and was considering whether moving to Alaska would be a viable option and if that would be far enough away. Then there was a knock at my door, and there he was in all his six-foot-five glory standing on my porch.
“I am returning your basket,” he said holding it out for me. “Thank you for the food. Would you like to come to dinner with me on Tuesday evening?”
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