Colin’s nose is just an inch from Ben’s curly pubes when a familiar scent jolts him from his meditative state. Lilac. It’s Ananda’s favorite body wash, but it’s on Ben’s body, clinging faintly to his skin and hair.
Only it’s not Ben’s skin or Ben’s hair, because Ben belongs to Ananda. Ben’s body is Ananda’s, and so is his cock. In this moment, in this scene, the cock in Colin’s mouth is Ananda’s. Each suck, each lick is for her pleasure.
Colin drives toward the scent, taking the cock’s head deep into his throat until his nose buries in Ben’s—Ananda’s—soft cloud of hair. The lilac scent overwhelms the flavor of Ben’s—Ananda’s—leaking erection.
Ananda withdraws her hands from Colin’s hair, but this alters neither his pace nor the depth to which he takes her cock. Her moans and whimpers are difficult to distinguish from Ben’s.
“You’re enjoying it, aren’t you, my little cocksucker?” she taunts. “You like taking my dick, don’t you?”
Colin’s throat is too stuffed to answer with a moan, much less with a yes. All he can do is show her how much he likes it. He curls his fingers deeper into Ben’s thighs—pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing—driving his wife closer to ecstasy.
The air is heavy with the scent of Ananda’s arousal. She thrusts her hips against Ben’s ass. Colin can feel the reverberations in his teeth.
“I’m going to come.” She pronounces the words like a threat. “I’m going to come down your slutty little throat, and you’re going to take it.”
Ben’s cockhead mushrooms deep in Colin’s throat and hot, slick come bursts forth. It’s bitter and plentiful, and Colin wants to swallow every last drop—this gift from his wife, his Dom, the woman who knows him better than himself and gives him what he needs.
GOOD GIRL
Genevieve Ash
This is insane.” Louise gathered her favorite tote bag, the one with the flowers cascading over a wall in Tuscany—or was it Greece? She just thought it was pretty and it made her feel better about never having the courage to travel there alone. Since her husband had passed, she kept pretty much to herself. Sometimes she was lonely, but she enjoyed the quiet. More time to read and knit and craft.
“Excuse me, is everything okay?” A voice sounding like melted chocolate trickled into her ear with a puff of warm air, making her shiver. She stopped, but as in a paralyzing dream, she could not turn to see from where it came. The heat from a warm body covered her back, taking the chill and replacing it with an odd sense of comfort.
“Yes, I have all the information I need. I’m not staying for the hands-on session.”
“I assure you, what we do here is practically vanilla. And there is no pressure, no judgment. It is an opportunity to learn and share. You don’t have to participate.”
Louise had been a psychologist for many years and had heard many wild stories, but her most recent client had a penchant for control and his tales had piqued her curiosity. She had only attended the BDSM seminar in an effort to understand him better.
“I am a grandmother for god’s sake. I don’t belong with—” A warm reassuring hand squeezed her shoulder and she sighed. How long since she’d felt the gentle touch of another? It was a reminder that she was alive.
“Stay. Sit. You needn’t worry, I will keep you safe.”
Louise didn’t want to create a scene. The lights dimmed and she took a seat while risking a glance at the man whose body warmth was now in her personal space. Dark suit, close-trimmed beard, strong features. Maybe he was handsome, she didn’t really look, but his indomitable presence gave her a sense of security. His fresh scent drifted toward her nose and she inhaled: all male.
The stage now held a couple involved in a discipline scene. A skinny young man wept at the feet of the strong redheaded Mistress who wanted to make sure he’d learned how to listen. As she raised the paddle, Louise squeezed her eyes shut.
“Open your eyes,” he commanded, as his large hand came down to rest on Louise’s thigh. “They have rules. Their lifestyle requires this type of punishment and they both enjoy it.”
“But, I—oh!” She jerked as the paddle made contact with a resounding thwack. “I can’t believe that anyone would enjoy this.” She bent to gather her things once again, but he tightened his grip on her thigh.
“Are you not still safe?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
His hand was caressing her thigh now, sliding the slippery fabric of her skirt over her flesh. She wanted to stop him, express her outrage, but somehow, between the pounding of blood in her ears and the shallow breaths that numbed her upper lip, she couldn’t find the words.
His fingers found bare skin, and Louise panicked. The room was dark, silent, as the crowd focused on the couple on stage. Louise heard a few soft moans before she realized they were coming from her own lips. His fingers slipped and slid closer and closer to the now damp swatch of silk between her legs. Suddenly the years fell away and she was a young woman again. A woman with needs and desires. She wanted to feel again. The daily routine, the filling of time with busyness, was no longer enough. But she was in a public place; this was not what Louise would ever do. She knew it was wrong, but she didn’t want to stop him.
“Now, close your eyes for me.” Louise wished he’d make up his mind, but did not hesitate. “Good girl. Keep them closed.”
She smiled despite herself at being called a girl, because that was exactly how she felt. Her world began to spin, the intensity of sensation increasing as her sight disappeared. She felt the pathways and diversions of her nerves as if it were a road map leading directly to her clit. If only he would touch me, just once…
She felt him lift the edge of her panties and push them to the side. She gasped, holding that breath in anticipation of his touch. But he stilled, and waited.
“Do you want me to touch you?”
Louise wanted to war with herself, but knew that she had already answered when she’d allowed his advancing caress.
“I asked you a question.” His voice had a hard edge now and the gooseflesh rose on Louise’s skin.
“Yes, Sir,” she said, remembering her notes from the seminar. The simple act of using the words gave her a thrill and, swallowing hard, she tried to slow her racing heart.
The darkness, the silence, and the surreal reality all collided in a moment of waiting that seemed interminable. She thought she might literally explode; her need was front and center, any control she had left hanging by a thin thread.
Suddenly, his fingers slid through her wet folds and straight into her cunt. She gasped with shock, and relief, but when his slippery thumb began circling her clit, she forgot about everything except pleasure.
“Shh. You must not make any noise or I will stop, do you understand?” His graveled whisper carried a threat, and Louise felt the panic rise inside.
“Yes,” she whimpered. “I’m sorry.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, I am sorry, Sir.”
“Good girl.” He began again immediately, the slow lazy circles pressing on her clit as his fingers once again began working their way in and out of her pussy.
Louise fought to stay quiet, but she was sure everyone could hear her screaming on the inside. The pressure was building, lifting her higher and higher. The wet sounds of his fingers inside her seemed to echo in her ears as she neared her breaking point, though it was the firm hand across her mouth as he whispered, “Come quietly for me,” that sent her spiraling into the oblivion of pure bliss.
Her body splintered into fragments of color as the long-overdue release lighted every part of her body. Never-ending sensation seemed to roll on as wave after wave of pleasure filled all the empty places inside of her. Finally, she shuddered softly, complete.
“Well, I do hope you enjoyed our hands-on session. I have many more lessons for you. Here is my card. Call me tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled, keeping h
er head bent like a small child to hide the heat in her cheeks, “but I think we both know that I won’t do that.”
“Oh, but you will. You know it and I know it, isn’t that right?”
Louise sighed, the orgasm making her relaxed and happy. “Yes, Sir,” she said, turning to him as the lights came up, but he had already gone. Well, a little more research wouldn’t hurt.
KINTSUKUROI
Corrine A. Silver
Kintsukuroi: The Japanese art of repairing broken items, i.e., pottery, with precious metals or lacquers, in the belief that they are then more beautiful for having been broken. See also, Kintsugi.
I know when he finishes with me, I will be a heaving, flailing mess of limbs. A pile of rags. A sack made of skin, filled with flesh and the putty, the Jell-O he has made me. I will be tears and weeping, the dragging edge of being lost in my own mind, pulled down under the depth of giving to him.
I will be resplendent.
I will be carved from the earth, repaired with the gold of his words, of his work.
That is the way of it with him, and why he will only come to me once a month, sometimes not even that frequently. He doesn’t have any interest in explaining himself to me, but I know it’s because he likes to see me mended, threaded through with my strength. We that do this, that love like this, have the same vocabulary with alternative definitions. My beauty is in being broken and repairing. My strength is in my scars.
He traces old scars when he touches me. He traces the stains of his love. He licks the places where he has curetted away what I didn’t need. And shivers run through me. Because his mouth is cold. His words are cold. The floor is cold under my knees.
He nudges them apart again until I’m spread the way he likes to see me.
“Eyes down.” His fingers are warm as he tilts my face. “I think there may be a day when I don’t have to remind you of that. Why do you want to look at me?”
I know I’m not meant to answer so I don’t speak. But there’s an answer on my lips. I look because I can’t look away. You’re a maelstrom I can touch and not die. You are gravity. I’m so glad I don’t get the privilege of a voice because I would have felt so stupid if I had said that out loud. He doesn’t appreciate childish flattery. He doesn’t like me to idolize anyone. I shouldn’t, but I do.
His cock is out, brushing my hair where it has fallen out of the braid, against the back of my neck. I want to look at it, touch it. I want it on my lips. Tears prick my eyes because I can’t stop putting myself first, putting what I want first. The velvet head brushes my cheek.
I know the moment he sees my tears as he rounds my body, a small intake gasp. A murmured hum and his hand gripping his shaft. “Why are you crying? You know how much I like that.”
His thumb collects a tear from the corner of my eye and circles around the head of his cock, mixing the salt of my tears with the salt of his skin and the salt of his precome. Three salts. My tears come harder and I don’t know why. Only that this is all playing out in front of my face and I know it means he’s not done with me yet. And that he is nearly done with me. I’m already aching and sore. I’m already empty. But I can’t breathe for how much I want him. I want to be torn apart. I want to surrender more than I have. I don’t know what I want and that’s why I kneel. It’s what he gives me.
His thumbs slip into my slack mouth, massaging my tongue and running along my teeth. His cock follows and his hand crowns me. I’m golden. Mouth open. Ears open to his murmurs. I want to move on him. I want to swallow and suck and massage, maybe nip at him. I want to get his scrotum in my mouth too. I want to hum and smile and drool all over him. I want to frenzy. All the tension, all the coiled energy of the day fills me.
“Pause, hold there, beloved.”
I close my eyes and feel beloved trickle through me, finding the cracks. Each broken place. Each empty, achy spot. He feels like honeycomb dripping directly on my brain. Like summer sunshine heat on the back of my neck.
The tears leak around my lashes again because he heals me. Healing hurts. Repair is painful. The hot lacquer that will hold me together burns as it finds every defect.
He sets the pace of what he does with my mouth. But we both know it’s because I want it like this. I want to be splintered apart and put back together. I want to hold him in my mouth, literally and metaphorically. I want the seat of my power, my words, my worth, to have been filled with him. I want the vessel that carries me through my life to be marked with him. I want it to last. I want him to king me. To let me worship him, serve him.
And because he knows it, he always makes it a challenge. Today he lashed my back till I bled, the deep scarlet splattering on the strands of his implements. My implements. I own them. I keep them, maintain them. But they’re his. The way my skin is his. The way my mouth is his.
My throat is crowded now, the head of his cock filling me up, unapologetic. It could be so impersonal, but it isn’t. This is art. This is holy. This is something I can’t name.
My wrists are still tied to my ankles and another length of rope connects my elbows. He likes to contort me. My fatigue wrecks my posture. But these are the absent thoughts of a mind wandering from its task.
His cock in my mouth. His skin on my skin. I want it all. I want to give it all to him. I love that he gets naked with me. That he doesn’t need to lead from a place of clothing while I’m nude. I love that I can see the hair on his legs, the twitch of the muscles in his thighs. He turns my head to the side, angling me for his pleasure or just to remind me that he can move me however he wants. I can see his feet, my initial tattooed over the top of his right foot. He told me he’d take pain for me too, that when I kiss his feet I am loving myself too.
I shudder as the familiar emotions run through me. The feeling of emptiness and the molten shock of being filled with love. The spasm of pain at bursting for him, exploding with his heat. The love of him.
I hate that it’s this complicated. I hate that I can’t just love like someone else. Like other people do. I hate that I need it to hurt so much in order to break me open so I can access this. But I’m so goddamn grateful that he understands.
BUILDING SOMETHING NEW
Xan West
Rickie wanted to approach this conversation with Jax’s needs and desires in mind. He wasn’t going to let Jax focus the negotiation on him. He needed Jax to name what he wanted, especially since this was the first time they were contemplating taking their D/s relationship out into the world, on their first romantic date. It wasn’t just play anymore.
“When we spoke earlier, I got the impression that this party might be difficult for you.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Jax admitted.
“I’m going to the party to support you. Do you think being in dynamic would feel supportive? Or might it create more pressure, make things harder on you?”
“My gut says that it would feel supportive.”
“And is it what you want? Do you want to stay in dynamic with me tonight, throughout the night?”
“Yes. I want that. But only if you want it too.”
“I think we should try out a discreet D/s dynamic. I don’t want other people witnessing an obvious power dynamic. We don’t have their consent. Something subtle. But where we know it’s there; we can still feel it.”
“That sounds good,” Jax replied, his voice suddenly hoarse.
Rickie’s heart was pounding. He reminded himself that they were trying this out. This was an experiment, not a commitment. It might not work out. This night might totally go down in flames. There was something comforting in that idea—that they were trying it on, and might totally fuck it up. He wasn’t sure why it was comforting, but it was.
“It may be difficult not calling you Sir. It’s how I think of you in my head.”
Jax yanked him close and kissed him, fierce and trembling into his mouth. Rickie smiled at him, just let the smile take up his whole face.
“You like that, don’t you, Sir?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, boy. I like that very much.” Jax’s voice was all gravelly and serious, almost fervent. Well all right then. This was a whole bundle of new to hold. Wasn’t that something?
“So,” Jax said, “we should have a signal, for if you want to ease off a bit on the D/s.”
“Okay. How about I reach for your hand, like this? Not grab for it, just offer mine. You take it, or not, either would be okay.”
Jax took it and intertwined their fingers, his thumb tracing the inside of Rickie’s wrist, making Rickie shudder, his breath shakily leaving his lungs. He was holding hands with Jax. He didn’t want to let go. Didn’t want that thumb to stop moving. They could just keep doing this, please.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good signal after all. Except, it seemed right. Seemed like a let’s even out the power just a bit, but don’t you go anywhere kind of thing. Seemed like an offer of connection and comfort, too.
“We have our signal, then.”
Rickie grinned. “I think we’re going to be just fine, Sir.”
“You know what? So do I. Thank you for agreeing to come to this party, boy. For wanting to support me.”
“My pleasure, Sir. It is most definitely my pleasure. Thank you for trusting me to support you.”
“I trust you a great deal, boy. We have built that, together. And we continue to build.”
Yes, thought Rickie. We are building something new tonight. He hoped it would involve more kissing. More kissing would definitely be a good thing.
It didn’t take long to get there, even with the transfer from one subway to the next. He’d gotten thrown off for a moment, because he always took the stairs. And Jax seemed to have a habit of taking the elevator. Rickie wasn’t sure why. Was it about the crowd? Was it something physical about stairs? Maybe he could find a way to ask that, sometime.
Big Book of Submission Volume 2 Page 15