Agony/Ecstasy: Original Stories of Agonizing Pleasure/Exquisite Pain

by Litte, Jane

He looked at her a long, interminable moment. “I wasn’t one of those smart kids you grew up with,” he said at last. “I did bad things.” He grimaced. “I did fucking unforgivable things. I was a damned lowlife.”

  She licked her lips. “You . . . You raped someone?”

  His eyes snared hers again. “No, I’ve not raped. But I’ve beaten people up. I’ve felt their noses crunch under my fist. I’ve had people beg me to stop, Liz. But I didn’t.” He took a deep breath, let it out again. “I’ve put all that shit behind me. I can’t force you.”

  She stared at him, the T-shirt stretching over his tense muscles, the jeans not quite hiding the bulge in his crotch. “But you want to.”

  “No!”

  She searched his eyes. “You’re lying.”

  For a moment, he looked so helpless, her heart squeezed in her chest.

  “You want to hurt me,” she said, her pussy clenching at the words.

  His words were flat, final. “I can’t.”

  Her clit had started to throb again, a hollow echoing through her body. “I’ll stop you if you go too far.”

  He laughed bitterly at this. “How?”

  “Trust me,” she said. “Like I trust you.”

  HIS breathing was coming hard and fast. She didn’t know what she was asking for.

  She took another step closer; her fingers closed on his belt buckle.

  His hand shot out, grasping her wrist.

  Her eyes rose to his. “Trust me,” she repeated.

  She wanted to save him, he realized. She wanted to heal him.

  But he couldn’t be healed, not in this. “It’s too late.”

  “Why?”

  He floundered for a moment, his grip involuntarily tightening on her wrist. “I’m too old.”

  She ignored this blatant lie and took another step closer. She was so near now, he could feel the heat all along his front. His cock seemed to strain toward her crotch.

  She lifted her free hand, traced it down his cheek, over his chin, the stubble rasping against her fingers. “Trust me,” she repeated again, leaning in toward him, lips rising toward his own.

  He stood frozen, unable to move. “Don’t,” he begged.

  But she didn’t stop, and he couldn’t stop her, didn’t want to stop her.

  Her lips brushed against his, soft and moist. His left hand went to her back, clutching her to him. Her tongue teased along his lower lip. With a groan, he tilted his head and pushed into her mouth. His hands went to her ass and he ground his cock against her soft belly.

  She pulled back, gasping for breath as she stared up at him, her eyes dark with arousal.

  How could he not give her what she wanted?

  What he’d wanted, every time he’d touched her; the desire he’d reined in, that had made their lovemaking something that shriveled his soul instead of freeing it. He had touched her, forcing himself to stay aloof when all he’d wanted was to feel her, like she felt him. Lose himself in her, like she lost herself in him. Her sweaty body, sliding along his. Her moans. Her pussy, clenching around his cock. Her body, arching as she gave him everything—her pleasure, her pain.

  It had killed him to make love to her while remaining aloof; it was why he’d left her, when everything in him had told him to stay. And God, he wanted her back.

  “Do you want me on my knees again?” she said, voice breathless.

  “No.” He swallowed. “Turn around.”

  She took a step back, another, unbuttoning her jeans as she went. The blue denim slid down her pale thighs. She worked one high-heeled sandal through, then the other, the red plastic shining. The heels scraped against the floor. She turned, bending over, placing her hands on the shelf covering the back wall.

  He stared at her ass. She wore pink cotton panties, the triangle in the back barely covering her cheeks. Between her legs they were askew, showing him a glimpse of dark, curly hair.

  She bent her head, her long fringe falling forward, swaying before her face.

  He forced his feet to move, stepping over her discarded jeans. His fingers caught the line of her panties, tracing the soft skin beneath. He tugged them down, transfixed by the plump lips they revealed, barely aware that she bent to remove the slip of cloth.

  He put a finger on her slit. A drop of white moisture beaded on his fingertip.

  She shuddered, and widened her stance in invitation. “Please,” she whispered.

  He put both his hands on her ass, leaving them there, immobile. “Shall I fuck you?” he said, squeezing. “Or hurt you?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Both.”

  He rubbed a thumb across her skin, feeling the tiny bumps, the taut muscle beneath. He lifted his hand. For a moment he stood there, gazing at her pale skin, the puckered hole, the swollen, waiting lips. He didn’t make a conscious choice to move, but his hand descended, connected with her flesh, the sharp sound resounding through her body—and his. She jerked; his testicles tightened.

  He lifted his hand. There was a red mark where his fingers had hit. The skin on his palm tingled. Did hers? “How does it feel?” he rasped.

  Her breath hitched. “It . . . prickles.”

  He shifted a bit to his side, stroking the fading pink spot.

  This time, he watched the hand fall, watched her jerk again at the impact, watched the force of the hit spread across her skin. He did it again, her left cheek, her right. Harder, until his palm became hot. Until she gasped at each hit.

  “Fuck me,” she said, panting. “Please, I . . .”

  Her cheeks were bright pink, warm. Like his palm. “What do you feel now?” he demanded.

  “Burning,” she managed. “Good. Like . . . Like I can really feel it. Myself. Feel my ass.”

  He closed his eyes, pressed his tingling palm against his crotch. Wanting her. Needing her.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Not yet.

  His hands went to his belt. He released the metal clasp, slid the leather through the loops.

  Her head lifted, looking over her shoulder. Her hair stuck to her face; her cheeks were flushed the color of her ass. She watched the belt slide free, lips parted. “Are you going to beat me, John?”

  God help him, there was only one answer. “Yes.”

  SHE let her head fall back, fingers digging into the wooden plank serving as a shelf. Her pussy pulsed, so slick and sensitive every little movement made her want to moan. Her slit seemed to gape, clenching futilely on nothing. She wanted to beg him, again, to fuck her, but she didn’t.

  She wanted this more.

  She closed her eyes, trembling, waiting. Imagining she could smell the leather. She sensed him shift behind her, but didn’t hear the belt slice the air. It landed on her ass with a sharp snap; she heard the sound ricochet through the room an instant before the pain hit—a sharp, knife-like pain, thrusting her forward toward the shelf.

  She grunted, muscles tensing as the pain turned into warmth, a wave of it rushing from her ass, through her legs, to her clit.

  She was still glowing with the warmth when he hit her again. She cried out, the shelf before her shifting, the boxes rattling. Her hips lifted, legs widening. Her clit throbbed.

  “God,” John said behind her, his voice a rasp, raw, broken.

  She turned her head to look at him. The belt was clenched in his right hand, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His gaze met hers; he raised the belt.

  She watched it fall this time, watched it cut through the air. She recoiled before it hit, unable to stop herself. It hit anyway, a band of fire across her buttocks. Her throat closed up, the cry strangled. The warmth in her limbs smarted.

  She registered the dull thump of something falling to the ground, then his hands were on her tender ass, his cock at her slit. He thrust in to the hilt. She cried out, hips bucking. His hand fisted in her hair, wrenching her head back as his cock pounded her womb, his hips hitting her bruised behind. The grip in her hair pulled at her scalp, tiny pinpricks of pain. She burned. Inside
, outside. Her body tensed, every muscle humming as she arched. Her breath caught. The sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the closet.

  The wave broke; pleasure roared through her. She screamed, hips lifting, neck arching. Her pussy contracted and her scream turned into choked little moans.

  He let go of her hair abruptly, both hands fastening on her hips as he plunged faster into her. She felt the moment he stiffened all the way to her core, couldn’t stop a breathless grunt as he cried out hoarsely, jerking against her, inside her.

  HE leaned forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder, tasting the salt on her skin. His arms closed around her and he felt her slowing heartbeat. “You okay?” he managed.

  “I think . . . I need to sit down.”

  He felt his lips quirk. “Are you sure your ass is up to it?”

  She glanced at him, smiling. “No.”

  He realized her legs were trembling—he felt none too steady himself—and gathered her up in his arms, sinking down onto the floor. His jeans were still bunched around his ankles, but he managed not to fall on his face somehow.

  “Do you think anyone heard us?” she murmured, nestling against his chest, oblivious to his drenched T-shirt as she shifted to find a comfortable position.

  He stroked a hand over her hair, pulling stray strands from her face. “Who cares?”

  She smiled. “It was good.”

  He let out a breath, feeling pleasantly relaxed, rubbing his thumb over her flushed cheek. He didn’t know what to feel about what he’d done—what they’d done—quite yet. But he hadn’t been alone; neither, he thought, had she.

  He bent to kiss her lightly across the lips. “Come home with me,” he said.

  She did.

  Sara Thorn lives way up in the cold north, where she’s warmed by her husband, hot chocolate and erotic romance. She loves writing because “it’s like reading, only better.” By day she’s a computer engineer, which means she spends two thirds of her waking time with her keyboard, be it typing in code or novels. Other than reading a lot, she likes to fiddle with computer games, music, drawing, knitting or anything that keeps her hands busy. Visit her website at www.sara-thorn.com.

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Jane Litte is a blogger, a reader, and now a collector of stories. Agony/ Ecstasy is a collection of very steamy stories that explore the twin concepts of pain and pleasure. These stories represent fresh new voices in erotica and erotic romance, exploring the interiors of the bedroom and the mind.

  Readers can learn more about Jane and her love of books at Dear Author, a website devoted to discovering good books, or they can send her an e-mail at jane@jdearauthor.com. Follow her on twitter,@jane_l, to let her know what you thought of the selection of shorts. She is always looking for feedback and recommendations for other readers.

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  “Transformed” copyright © 2011 by Anne Calhoun.

  “Rescue Me” by Meljean Brook copyright © 2011 by Melissa Khan.

  “The Wooden Pony” copyright © 2011 by Shoshanna Evers.

  “Kiss of Life” copyright © 2011 by Lily Daniels.

  “Silverhouse” copyright © 2011 by Sarabeth Scott.

  “Bruised Ego” copyright © 2011 by Christine d’Abo.

  “On My Skin” by DL Galace copyright © 2011 by Dionne L. Galace.

  “Just Say Yes” copyright © 2011 by HelenKay Dimon.

  “Into the Red” copyright © 2011 by Cameron Belle.

  “Overtaken” copyright © 2011 by Sara Thorn.