by Jillian Boyd
***
Fair to say she never imagined my home to be a 5,100-square foot estate on Blue Jay Way, seemingly soaring over the incandescent glow of the Sunset Strip. An old lover, an architect by profession, had designed the house entirely from a rough blueprint I myself sketched on her naked back. In my life, there were priceless few things I was coy about. Any advantage, no matter how seemingly small, could be employed, could be used to the utmost. My true friends, few as they were, knew where I lived; my enemies could get my address with a click of a button. Fair use. Nothing was personal in my world; not because I didn’t want it so, but because sooner or later, in our digital world, secrets were bullshit and everything was bound to come out. Therefore what was the use of secrets?
Emma followed me to the front entryway across the glass bridge hanging over the pool, her stiletto heels clacking on the white Carrara marble as we crossed the living room, through the French doors, to the back yard. Along the left side of the patio, there was a row of three plush daybeds with rattan canopies. A narrow strip of grass to my right angled towards the kitchen. Beyond the pool’s edge, my bedroom drapes billowed in the breeze creeping through the open floor-to-ceiling glass doors. I felt her beside me; I felt her eyes trained on the bed.
“Get out of those clothes,” I directed.
She tilted her hips haughtily, her arms crossed over her chest. “You’ve seen the tape. You know I don’t take orders in the bedroom.”
I grinned. “You’re not with that weakling now. And I’ve told you already - I don’t repeat myself.”
I snapped my finger, and she came alive, tearing at her clothes, baring her marvellous body save her white, silk laced panties. I pointed at the daybed. She stared at me as she parked her derrière, so lost and vulnerable. I felt the mildest pang of tenderness.
I eased her on her back, prodding my knee up between her thighs. “This is your free lesson,” I said, affectionately. Her eyes fixed on my mouth, even as her own trembled with need, drunk on the promise of a kiss. “Tune your senses. Internalise every beat. There will be a test afterwards.”
Before she could respond, I rolled around and heaved her right leg like a scarf over my lips. I was pecking, then, on her cunt through her skivvies, inhaling her scent, effecting feverish gasps and blessed, magnificent vulgarities that gushed forth from her like honey music to my ears. She didn’t know what to feel or think; from the waist down she squirmed like an eel, clutching her loins around my mandible, drawing my tongue in deeper, and yet her arms flexed and her nails gouged at the back of my neck.
I couldn’t be bothered with her indecision. I wrestled her arms down, pinning the wrists to her cheeks as I spread her wider, buried myself and sought out the tiny button peeking through a curtain of flesh that would render her completely, unquestionably, under my spell.
Crooning, she started to toil her haunches against my nose and mouth - but I gave her a healthy cuff on the backside to set her straight. I was the choreographer, and best she remember it.
It happened just so. A gentle flick and she was mine - docile as a mouse.
She needed just a moment to collect herself, then climbed off me. She stood at the foot of the bed, disoriented like waking from a dream, her face slackened but flushed red, and her knees unsteady.
I slid my hand down her shivering arms. I loved that she towered above me; I loved that she had to bend her head down to see me, and that through narrowed eyes and the pleasure-fuelled gloss, I could see I’d become her world.
Quickly, I undressed, and her eyes gawked hungrily, mouth salivating.
“Now - your turn.”
I forced her down on her knees in front of me. No resistance whatsoever; how sweet that was. I didn’t move again, not until I felt certain she understood who was in control, who wielded the power. Then I placed my hand on the top of her head, pulling her into me.
Her tongue moved slowly, bestowing me with soothing, luxurious strokes. As my own eyes shut, I revelled in the bliss wading inside me - the gentle ripples before the wave of orgasm. She burrowed as deeply as I had, lips pressing against my clit, and the tip of her tongue fondling parts of me I’d never taste myself. It was obvious, somehow, the taste of a woman was alien to her, but she was ravenous, like she was anxious to gorge on me, frantic to have her tongue coated in my juices.
“Lie on your back,” I ordered, grazing my hand across her face, shutting her eyelids. “You’re only just beginning.”
Leaving her eyes closed, she obeyed. She lay perfectly still on the lawn - the ideal pupil. I kissed her, finally, lips moulding together beautifully. Then I lifted her arse, slipping her knickers to her knees. I bent my head down, and I breathed a path of warm air across her chest, filling her navel with the aroma of twelve-year-old Scotch, to her pussy.
She groaned, writhed. But I held her ankles down. I drank from her, lapped the nectar greedily, as my hands busied themselves elsewhere. She was oblivious, ensnared in the euphoria. In the grass, the leather cuffs and pinions were imperceptible. Even if she’d dared to resist, she wouldn’t have known until it was too late, until the binds were locked and her limbs were shackled to the ground.
Without speaking, I walked inside and poured myself another Scotch. I drank slowly, letting her smoulder outside in the open air, naked and glorious under the moonlight. I grabbed what I needed from a kitchen drawer. When I emerged with my tools in hand, I stood over her - how lovely and picturesque she was, peering back, not scared or angry but anxious, hungry. She saw what I held, and it both thrilled and terrified her.
Before her widened eyes, I tied the leather strap around my waist, pulled it taut, so the rubber dildo bobbed wildly, monstrously. I gripped it in one hand, rubbing it from base to tip; and in my little hands, it did truly appear like a horrid beast.
“Not a peep,” I warned. “I have neighbours.”
I spread her legs, sidled close on my knees, and watched her smooth, slippery folds slowly envelop the crown as it slipped in. Then I butted forward, hard, embedding the full length so our pelvises crushed together. She wrenched her eyes shut, breast racking. Her mouth burst open in the most breathless gasp. I stabbed the prick again and again, with force, with fury, sweat running down my brow. I must’ve looked like an animal myself, fangs bared, but damned if she didn’t keep begging, and begging for more. She gasped and wheezed and thrashed, reincarnated on the head of that cock, transformed into the same filthy whore from the tape.
When I had her good and pummelled, I withdrew the brute, wiped its brow along the hammered lips, grazing the clit, puckered and swollen, and getting her riled up again.
“Do you want to taste yourself?” I asked, and she nodded keenly.
I held the prick out to her like an offering, and I reached down and seized her long, lustrous hair in one hand, held it high over her head, tipping her face up; she opened wide and let the beast slide over her tongue all the way to her throat. Such a sweet and innocent little mouth, yet stifling, and, eyes bulging, she gobbled nearly every inch, amazingly, even if her jaw looked ready to come unhinged. When finally she ran out of breath, she exhaled; the cock popped out covered in drool and slapping against my belly. She smiled at me, and beside myself, I smiled back.
I’d seen the look a dozen times, but it never failed to delight. I dread to label it as reverence, but few words could better describe it. I don’t think she even noticed that I’d let go of her mane until she felt the sting of the crop. I rained the blows, then, upon her breasts, her knees, her legs and pussy. She squealed as the leather connected, yet the lust in each of her groans, the squelch of sweat fused with dripping excitement was the sweetest harmony. She was overflowing, her back arching and her chest heaving rapidly, as another orgasm took hold.
It wasn’t her pleasure, naturally, but mine that needed to be fulfilled. And once it had been, I released her and, naked, we walked back insi
de together. She started towards the bedroom, then halted when I didn’t follow.
The red message light on my phone was flashing brightly. I switched it on, eyes scanning and focusing on the screen. My reaction was anything but concern; I was still too euphoric. But she must’ve seen something in my expression. She ambled over to me, alarmed, and I handed her the phone.
I thought she’d faint when the whole thing finally registered for her. Judging from the angle, the wily little cunt had set up in a tree behind the high gate on the west end of the estate, zoom lens capturing my entire backyard. There was a good shot of me with the crop brandished in mid-air. The rapture in the flesh.
“Oh my God...”
“Gets worse. Check the sender,” I said. The shock on her face nearly made me laugh, then it nearly made me sick. “That’s right - your personal email. Your phone’s been hacked. It’s easier to do than you’d think.”
“I had personal information, documents - private photos.”
“Not any more.” I grabbed a sheer wrap from the dining table and wrapped it around my shoulders. “The photographer works for the Times, goes by the name Lilith.”
“I was careful not to be followed.”
“It wasn’t you she was following.”
The realisation hit. But I didn’t let her ask why.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said, already moving to the door.
Never ceased to amaze me how far some people would go to climb into my bed. Precious Lilith with the caramel skin and the superbly Latin curves. Normally, I’d have cherished her submission, treated her like a pet rather than a slave. She should’ve known I wouldn’t respond to force. Beware what you wish for.
Now I’d have to teach the trollop a lesson.
Learning to Let Go
Janelle Reston
I’m hardly in my December years. Just 44 - middle-aged by most standards, but fairly young for my field. Most successful directors don’t really start making a name for themselves until this point in their careers, once they’ve built up a body of work to prove they aren’t just one-hit wonders or young ingénues with a few good ideas that last them a decade, but no more.
Still, it raised eyebrows in the press when Claire and I first got together three years ago. She was twenty-one then - “barely legal,” as the press liked to say.
The names they gave me were just as lacking in originality. I was her sugar mama, a cradle robber, a cougar. One website made an effort at creativity and came up with “the cougaress of cunts,” but it was a misnomer. There was only one cunt I cared about, and it was Claire’s.
The less charitable gossips called Claire my kept woman. They said she was docile around me, so young and eager to please. To be fair, Claire fed into this. When photographers appeared she loved nothing more than to appear meek and submissive. She’d often kick off her shoes to emphasize our height difference, then look up at me with large, unblinking doe-eyes. “Look how passive I am, bending to your every whim,” she whispered if they were far enough not to hear, her voice full of mischief and lust. “First you control me in front of the camera, now in the bedroom. When will I ever learn to be my own woman?”
The truth was far more complex and delicious.
We met the way directors and actors usually do: by working together. From the first, I could see she was pretty - even beautiful. I’m not blind. But that didn’t impress me, especially when she tried to use it to carry a scene.
“You’re right,” she said when I chided her. “It’s good to have someone tell me the truth for once.”
Good. I liked it when actors acquiesced to me. I explained what she needed to do to make the scene work - to make the character work, to make the movie work as a whole. She nodded. Her pupils were dark. Was that her arousal I smelled, or mine?
This continued, from day to day. I told her what to do - how to smile, how to stand, how to laugh, how to seem like she was falling in love. She obeyed my directions to a T.
I don’t often get crushes on my leading ladies. Affairs like that interfere with the work. The power dynamics become too messy. But Claire was different. I fell, and I fell hard. I ignored my desires. I was collegial with her, and friendly when she didn’t displease me. I taught her to be a better actor. At night, I fantasized about teaching her to be a better lover, instructing her in the art of making me come. She was young, and must have so much to learn.
The film came out beautifully. Two weeks after its release - after a whirlwind of press conferences and screenings at which I saw her all the time, but dared not flirt or touch - she called me.
“Where are you?” she said, as if this was a perfectly normal thing to ask, as if she were a friend who called me daily to check in on my whereabouts - when in fact she’d never phoned me before.
“In my bed,” I said, too shocked to evade the question.
“What are you doing?”
The shock turned into amusement. “Nosy, aren’t we?”
“I miss you,” she said matter-of-factly. “And we’ve been pussyfooting around this long enough. I’d like to join you in your bed.”
The shock rebounded. The second hit was stronger than the first. It held my tongue in its grip. I was unable to speak.
“I’m inclined to take your silence as a yes,” she said. “But I’ll wait for you to speak the word.”
My tongue unloosened. “Yes,” I said. “Yes.”
***
I regained my composure while waiting for her to arrive. When she walked through the front door, I was in control once again.
She was wearing tight blue jeans and a fitted button-down top under which she wore no bra. Her areolas showed dark and luscious through the light green fabric, and her nipples formed tempting little peaks that pushed out and begged to be touched. A silk scarf was tied around her waist like a belt.
I offered her a drink and a chance to freshen up. Then I took her by the hand and led her to the bedroom.
“The best way to make me come is to rub my G-spot with your fingers while you push on my clit with your thumb,” I said, businesslike. “And you?” I didn’t realise that she’d stopped walking until I was two paces ahead of her and the distance between us almost pulled my arm out of its socket. I tried to let go of her hand but she held me fast. I stepped toward her. The look on her face was one of dismay. Ah, I thought. She’s young. Not used to communicating her needs so directly. “Don’t be shy. There’s no shame in saying exactly what you want.”
A tremor ran through her face. Before I could understand the joke, she was laughing - no, cackling. Was she laughing at me?
“What’s so funny?” I demanded.
She took a deep breath and squeezed my hand gently. The look on her face turned to that of a mother patiently explaining the obvious to her child. “I’m all for communication, but I’m not your hired handjob. If you want me to get you off the same way you’ve gotten off a thousand times before, I’m not the one for you.” This was not what I had expected from her, given her age and our work together. I was the elder and the director. I was supposed to take the lead.
I stepped closer to her. She looked up at me, her breath warm on my face. “But you are the one for me,” I said nervously. It was a foolish thing to say. We hadn’t even kissed yet. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”
She smirked. “Yes, I know you have. But I won’t be your toy,” she said - calmly, authoritatively, making it clear she would brook no argument.
“Oh?” I said, my pulse quickening. “Then how do you propose to get me off? I’ve been doing this - oh, I’d guess at least twenty years longer than you have.”
She moved her hand to my wrist, took the other wrist in her opposite hand. She looked into my eyes as she stepped even closer to me, her breasts pressing against me as she drew my wrists behind my back. “By teaching you how
to let go.”
She kissed me then: softly, gently, her lips plump and smooth against mine. It could have been described as chaste if it weren’t for the way she had my arms pinned behind my back.
It was the kind of kiss that makes you forget all kisses that have come before.
The tone of the kiss changed. She nipped my bottom lip until it was fat and swollen. She licked into my mouth and thrust her tongue in almost violently. I longed to touch her with my hands, but each time I tried to move she only tightened the grip on my wrists. Soon, the reason for my struggle shifted - I wanted to see how tightly she could hold me. The tighter the squeeze, the more my clit throbbed.
She pulled away, letting go of my wrists. “Do you think you can play by my rules?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I want to try.”
***
She gave me a safe word when we entered my bedroom, and some rules: I was to obey her in all things. If I was uncomfortable, I was to use the safe word rather than contradicting her or trying to take control. If I wanted something, I was free to ask for it. But if it came in any form other than a request, there would be consequences.
Then she sat on the edge of the bed and said, “Undress. I want to see you.”
I did as I was told. She told me what to remove and when, how slowly to peel it from my skin. “Turn around,” she said when I was down to my underwear. “I want to see your arse. I want you to unwrap yourself for me like a gift.”
My cunt was soaking now, my wetness leaking through my underpants and onto my inner thighs. I turned to show her my fabric-clad arse.
“Pull them down just far enough for me to see the top of your arse crack.”
I complied. I shivered at the exposure, though the room wasn’t cold. I was, in truth, embarrassed and even ashamed - not because my arse was unattractive, but because it had been ingrained in me from childhood that arse cracks were something dirty and to be avoided at all costs. Certainly not a part of sexual pleasure.