He glanced up. “Kinky girl, huh?”
She stared him directly in the eye, her heart beating fast as she braced herself for rejection. “Does it bother you?”
“Quite the opposite,” he replied, and flashed her a grin. “If I know what turns you on, it gives me power . . . and it just so happens I like to be in charge.”
Oh, that made her hot. It was so far from what she had expected him to say, so direct. And then he moved. In a heartbeat, he levered himself over the counter, jumping lithely down onto her side of it. For the first time, he had breached the physical divide between them – and he’d brought the pen with him. Holding it raised in his hand, he put his free hand on her shoulder and walked her through the rails of plastic-covered clothes, backing her toward the wall behind those rails, out of sight of the shop front. He cornered her up against the wall.
Her body pulsed with the thrill of his actions.
He grasped her two hands easily in one of his, and lifted her chin with the pen under her jaw, an action that shot sensation down her neck and chest, right into her hardening nipples. She gasped for breath, her eyes closing and her head moving back to lean against the wall.
“Oh yes, it really does it for you, doesn’t it? How bad is it?”
He still had the pen under her jaw, controlling the position of her head and where she could look. Could she tell him? Her eyes were shut and she kept them that way. “I need it.” Her voice was a mere murmur. “I can’t come any other way, not the way I do if . . .”
When her voice trailed off, he moved the pen just enough to apply pressure to the sensitive flesh beneath her jaw. Her eyes flashed open.
“Is this making you wet?”
“Yes.” He was close, staring at her, his eyes bright and focused. The curiosity she had sensed in him had multiplied. He was aroused by her responses, his body shifting close against hers, one knee pressed against the wall at the side of her body.
He gave a soft chuckle. “You know, Molly, I used to wonder about you. I liked the way you looked, very pretty but different, and always thinking . . . always with the sexy eyes. There was something else though, wasn’t there? You were always playing with your pen, always sucking on the end of it. Couldn’t just be ready for the next customer, I figured. Couldn’t quite work out what it was, but it made me hard just watching you play with the damn thing.” His voice turned husky, right at the end there.
“Are you hard now?” She flashed her eyes, her responses rolling out readily.
His grip on her wrists tightened and he moved the back of her contained hands against the zipper on his jeans. “Well, what do you think?”
Beneath the black denim he wore, his cock was rigid.
Her skin tingled with awareness when he brushed it over that spot. She nodded. He moved the pen, lifting it from beneath her jaw and taking it down to the hem of her miniskirt. Putting it under the fabric and between her thighs, he tapped it from side to side then up and down, making her thighs tremble with the need for a deeper mark, the pressure, and the stain – the written evidence on her body.
He let go of her wrists, and lifted her skirt right up, exposing her. “Ooh, white cotton panties. Just like a blank page.”
She stepped from one foot to the other, wired. “You’re torturing me,” she breathed.
“Maybe this will help.” He ran the pen down the front of her panties, pushing both pen and fabric into the groove of her pussy.
Her flesh blazed under that touch. She glanced down to look at the solid line he had drawn, but he was still moving the pen, pressing deeper into her groove, rolling over her clit. When she gave a sudden gasp, he paused and concentrated on the same spot, drawing back and forth over it. A jaggedy blue scribble was forming right over the spot.
“You like that?”
Her clit was swollen and pounding, the direct stimulation hitting her hard. She nodded. “Very much.”
He did it some more.
Her hands and head were flat to the wall, her hips jutting out toward him. “Oh yes, yes,” she said, pounding the palm of one hand against the wall as she came, her free hand reaching out for his shoulder to steady herself.
She was about to speak, to say thank you, to say something, when she heard the door opening in the shop front, and hurriedly pulled her skirt straight. He stepped to one side, pointing down with the pen he held, possessively. “I want those panties, you better keep them for me.”
“Maybe.” She smiled. She wanted them, too. “You only gave me half of your number,” she added, concerned that he might leave now.
He spanked her on the behind playfully, smiling that smile of his. “Fuck that. You’re coming home with me tonight.”
A month later, Molly’s foible had been well and truly exploited. Before Doug, she’d fretted about her route to sexual pleasure. Doug had all but mended that in her, and now he was adding his own spin. He was fascinated with her odd little needs, and he’d written on just about every part of her body, watching her, enjoying her – wanking with one hand or fucking her hard while he gave her exactly what she wanted. Afterward, he tended her carefully, bathing her and massaging away the telltale signs of her kink.
That made her feel cherished, safe.
He asked her to move in with him. She said she’d think about it. He didn’t press her on the subject. Instead, he showed her that those kind-of-weird needs of hers would never be forgotten.
That night he took her back to his place and told her he was going to kick it up a notch. The way he said it scared her and thrilled her at the same time.
Shortly after, she found herself naked and blindfolded, standing with her back against the wall, her hands splayed either side of her – just as he had instructed. Keyed up to the max, she shifted anxiously, unable to stay still. She’d never been blindfolded before, but the velvet covering her eyes was soft as a sigh, a shield that raised the awareness of her every other sense. Her body ached for contact, for pleasure and relief.
She could sense him moving.
The room was silent and the air was still, but she knew he was treading softly, watching her and making a plan. That was his way. Maybe she’d sensed that in him when she’d watched him across the counter. It was his curiosity, and his intensity, that had spiked her interest. Rightly so, as it turned out.
She heard a click and a fan whirred into action. A moment later the air brushed over her alert skin, tantalizingly. A whimper escaped her.
He began to hum under his breath, then he sang to her huskily. A song she loved. A song from ages ago. Breathless, aroused laughter escaped her; she felt delirious under his spell. “Dougie, please, you’re playing with me.”
“Always, sweetheart, but you love that.”
He was so right. She squeezed her thighs together, scared to say more, and scared to ruin this.
“Will it drive you mad, not being able to see where I choose to write on you?”
“I don’t know.” She swallowed. “Maybe.” She turned her face away, desperate with longing for that first touch, the pressure she craved – her skin was crawling with the need for it. Watching him write on her was half the pleasure, she thought. Not seeing it was an unknown quantity. But Doug knew and understood that, and – now – so did she.
Slowly, he drew a line around each wrist.
Her arms trembled with the sheer intensity of sensation that shot along the surface of her skin, and deeper.
“Shackles.” His voice was a murmur close to her. “Because I want you to be mine.” He kissed her throat and then, slowly, with great deliberation, he signed his name right across her breastbone.
“Oh. Oh, oh,” she cried. The intense sensation shot beneath her skin, wiring her whole body into the experience. Her nipples were hard and hurting. She shuddered with arousal, her toes curling under, her heart thudding against the wall of her chest.
His next move came out of nowhere. He drew along the crease at the top of one thigh, then the other. The sudden deep stimulation in a
place so sensitive primed her for release. She longed to see his marks on her.
“The insides of your thighs are wet, right down to here.” There was admiration in his voice. Restraint, too. He touched her with the pen, briefly, between her thighs, and it made her squirm up against the wall.
“Face the wall,” he instructed, his voice husky.
She turned.
His cock brushed against her buttock. “There’s a box to your left, step onto it.”
She moved her foot, felt her way. He guided her up onto the box.
“Offer yourself to me.”
Understanding hit her; he was going to fuck her there up against the wall, while she stood there on a box, blindfolded. This was Doug; this is how he liked to have her, to be in charge of her. Hands braced against the wall, she spread her feet, angling her bottom up and out.
“Oh yes, I like you this way, on a pedestal, all ready for me.” His cock moved between her thighs.
The box put her right at the height he needed to glide up into her. Anticipation had her in it’s grip. She was breathing so fast she felt dizzy. Picturing the shackles he had drawn on her wrists, she splayed her fingers on the wall, knowing she’d need to anchor herself – he got kind of wild when he was inside her. He was humming again now, and she wondered what he’d done with the pen. Was it in his mouth while he arranged her to his satisfaction?
He stroked her pussy, opening her up. His fingers moved with ease, slick, sliding in against her wetness. With two digits, he opened her up to his cock. The intensity of being felt, held, and displayed that way on a pedestal all at once took her breath away. With one hand around her hips, he thrust the thick shaft of his erection inside her.
Where is his other hand? The thought echoed around her mind frantically.
Then she found out.
Even as he thrust into her, in shallow quick maneuvers, keeping her in place, he began to write down her spine with his free hand.
It was almost too much. Her shoulders wriggled and her pussy twitched on his shaft. Her stomach flipped and sweat broke out on her skin. She would have staggered, if he hadn’t got her pinned by his cock. She panted out loud, her mouth opening, her body clenching on him rhythmically.
“Oh yes, that’s good,” he said, keeping the pen moving in around her spine, working his way down her back. “This makes you so wild, you’re going to squeeze my cock until I come.”
“Can’t control it,” she whispered, head hanging down.
“That’s the way I like it,” he grunted.
By the time the pen reached her tailbone, she was a panting wreck on the verge of climax. He drew a wobbly heart there at the base of her spine, following the shape around and around with his pen. The action and her response were mesmerizing, and when her climax hit it lasted long, easing off only to return in a rush when he grew rigid and jerked, coming deep inside her.
They stayed that way until his cock finally slid free, and then he untied the blindfold and lifted her into his arms, carrying her toward the bathroom.
She squinted up at him, clinging to him. Kissing his shoulder, his throat, and when he turned toward her, his mouth, she felt grateful to have found her perfect opposite. She was still trembling from the intensity of her release.
“This is one of my favorite parts, scrubbing you down afterward, my dirty girl.”
“It gets you going again,” she teased, smiling at him.
“You’re not wrong there.”
Inside the bathroom, he stood her on the bath mat, and reached for the taps. While the bath filled, he traced his finger across her chest, following the line of his name that he had written there earlier. “So, you’ll move in with me?”
She shivered, an echo of her orgasm tingling from the core of her body to the tip of her spine. “Yes.”
“Good,” he replied, nonchalantly. “Ever thought about having a tattoo?”
She saw the humor in his eyes. He hadn’t made a big deal of her moving in, just as he hadn’t made a big deal about her kink that first day. He’d come to understand her, very quickly. “Having a tattoo would probably kill me, and you know it,” she replied.
“Hell of a way to go, though,” he mused, as he lifted her into the bath.
The warm water moved in and around her legs and hips, melting her. After he scrubbed her down, he would climb in with her. That was one of her favorite parts.
He kneeled down beside the bath and reached for the sponge. “If you ever do have a tattoo, I want to be the one who is inside you while you’re having it done. Is that a deal?”
She reached her hand around his head, drawing him in for a kiss. “It’s a deal,” she whispered.
Improvisation
Craig Sorensen
I deny the notion that I’m a control freak. Just because I think that actors should keep to the script doesn’t mean I’m unreasonable. There is a reason the words are crafted as they are. The actors bring depth, but the playwright crafts the scene.
Enter Jodi . . .
Jodi is an actress, and an exceptional one. It isn’t just her profession, it’s her passion, and she carries it in everything she does. I’ve benefited from this for two years. Still, Jodi does not turn heads in a crowd. She’s skinny and has only the slightest of feminine curves tickling her sharp angles. Her hair is a matted light brown and her oval face is fairly plain. Her pale complexion is not so much porcelain as clay. Only her oversized violet eyes are truly remarkable. She plays each attribute like a first chair violin for the Vienna Philharmonic. On stage, she can become a stun gun beauty or a repulsive crone – an innocent teen or a wise old woman. Though just twenty-three and barely “on” from “off-Broadway,” some say she will be a legendary star of the stage.
Off stage finds Jodi in plain, floppy Bohemian clothes and no makeup. When the footlights blaze, she is a butterfly of shape-shifting chameleon wings. It’s almost proudly that she declares she has no imagination of her own.
Enter Colin. That’s me.
I’m a playwright, with surplus imagination. Our common love of the stage brought us together. But our common love of sex is the true crazy glue.
Night after night, I cast Jodi. Cheerleader, waitress, construction worker – that was fucking hot – business woman. Her range is limitless. I craft settings, script the scene and she devours each role. So often I fuck a different woman, and each time it’s Jodi beneath. I swear to God, her skin transforms, her breasts change size, her pigmentation changes. Her vagina feels different.
Recently Jodi completed an impressive collection of wigs then she took to shaving her whole body, top of her head to the base of her bony legs; every spot, except eyelashes and brows.
When she said she had one request, one kinky little play she’d like to produce in our apartment, I had to say yes, sight unseen. Jodi sat at her end of the small dinner table and twirled the spaghetti around in marinara sauce. She smoothed her hand over her nude scalp and studied me. Her most recent role was beneath her talents, but she was pouring everything into it as if she was the lead.
I was absorbed in a re-write that was beating me to shit, so we hadn’t had sex in a week. When I couldn’t script it, it didn’t happen. We both shone best when the bed became a stage.
“Colin, I love to play the parts you create.” She gave me a sweet wink.
“Thanks Jodi.”
“But there’s one part I’d like to do.”
It can be hard to tell when Jodi is not acting, but she wasn’t now – no makeup, no wig. I finished a bite of spaghetti and washed it down with cheap Chianti. I nodded. As she explained in detail I leaned back and folded my arms across my chest. I share Jodi with one hundred to five thousand people nearly every night. I wasn’t sure I could do this. But how could I deny her?
My heart thumped like horse’s hooves, as I stoically nodded my agreement.
Marc was an actor Jodi had worked with in the past. Handsome, tall and muscular, Marc was the sort of man who could make a room full of wome
n go quiet just by walking in. My concerns about our play grew once I met Marc. But there was no rehearsal. I had two choices: see the play through or turn up my nose at the role like a primadonna with second thoughts on opening night. Marc’s dazzling smile shimmered in the fluorescent hallway lighting.
“You must be Colin.”
“Yeah.” The front of his faded jeans bulged and the concertina wire tattoo on his thick left bicep stretched as he moved a bag from his left hand to his right. His left nipple was obviously pierced and poked at the shiny black Lycra tank top painted to his strong chest. He held out the bag: Maker’s Mark whiskey; a weakness of mine that I can rarely afford. I waved him in and he placed the bag on the slit of a bar between the living room and the galley kitchen.
I walked over and pulled the bottle from the bag. My hand lingered on the waxy drip texture of the bottleneck.
“You want a drink?”
“You gonna have one?”
A drink might make this thing go down easier. But this was Jodi’s play, and I couldn’t take the chance of ruining it. I wanted to do this in one take.
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
Marc shook his head. “Me neither.”
I asked Marc about the part he was playing now. He asked about the script I was working on. He flattered my last project. Theater small talk to fill the long chasm until the bedroom door opened. I watched Marc’s eyes widen as Jodi came out. She was dressed in a tiny white skirt. Her small breasts were rendered shapelier by the thick cables down her dark purple skin tight tank top. She wore a bright red wig tied off in pigtails that looked so natural that I forgot she was bald underneath it. Her violet eyes glistened as she entered the room and held out two simple brown uniforms. She looked like something out of a Manga cartoon.
According to my script, Marc and I had captured her and were to question her, taking turns trying to get her to talk. When all else failed, we were to take her together.
The coup de grace: a wicked double penetration.
The bulge in the front of Marc’s pants thickened. He smiled. Jodi smiled. I paused then forced my lips into a crescent shape and took the uniform built for a skinny man and with lieutenant’s bars. Marc took the thick-chested, narrow-waisted one with sergeant stripes and we went into the bedroom to change. I had always hated the locker room after Physical Education in school. I was skinny and hairy and awkward, and I was one of a very few who were uncircumcised.
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