Asarotica

by Asa Akira

  He enters with ease. All the way inside me, he stops and gives me a look of gratitude. Pure love and graciousness.

  He knows what a rare, special treat this is.

  Slowly he pumps, savoring every inch, pulling out even slower.

  “Fuck me harder and cum inside me.” Usually, I make him pull out, reserving creampies for real men. Knowing my spouse has been holding back, edging all night, touching himself as a voyeur in the dark. This is all he needs to unleash his tight, swollen balls in my puffy, throbbing, cum-filled cunt.

  He does. His eyes roll back in his head and he looks as if he is fighting tears.

  He falls on top of me, catching his breath, reclaiming his masculinity and his wife.

  He holds me tightly, but loosely enough to watch me enjoy another man.

  Best. Gift. Ever.

  BLACKOUT

  BY CASEY CALVERT

  My phone rings, his name popping up on the screen. He tells me he’s on his way home from work. Get ready. “We’re going out.”

  I turn the shower on. He never calls me. He texts. He wanted me to hear his voice. I shave my legs, my pussy. We never go out. We play at home.

  What should I wear?

  Nervous excitement in a short black dress greets him at the door.

  “Hi Sir. Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” He smiles.

  I haven’t lived here long enough to guess where we’re going, but the car ride is short. We circle the block around a nondescript building with a very long line out front.

  A club? No. We don’t go to clubs.

  And then I see the sign, a sandwich board on the sidewalk. “Blackout.”

  I mentioned it to him in passing months ago. I didn’t know he even registered it. I also didn’t say that I wanted to go; in fact, I kind of implied the opposite.

  Blackout is a haunted house that bills itself as sexy. But as much as it intrigued me that day, it’s still a haunted house, and I do not like being startled by strangers.

  “You know where we are?” he asks.

  “I think so,” I say, trying to swallow my apprehension.

  Sir slips off the delicate, subtle collar that I wear every day, replacing it with a thick leather band that couldn’t be anything else.

  “I arranged something special for us tonight.” He gets out of the car and walks around to open the door for me. “Out.”

  I step out to his hand on the small of my back, pressing my pelvis against the car. “Lift up your dress.”

  I look around. Is anyone watching? He yanks hard on my collar and I inhale.

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” I say as I lift up my dress.

  “Panties.”

  I slowly lower my panties to the ground and step out of them, my bare ass now exposed to the evening breeze.

  “Stick it out.”

  I do, spreading my legs into the position Sir wants his slave to take when given this command. I feel his rough fingers on my asshole, exploring, teasing, before the shock of cold steel presses against me.

  I gasp as he slides the smooth metal in, stretching me open without warming me up. It’s not unusual for Sir to enjoy my asshole, but this toy feels even bigger than the very large things he likes to shove in me. I shudder as my hole finally swallows it.

  “Look at me.”

  I straighten up tentatively, breathing through the discomfort inside me. I reach back to touch the base of it, try to get a better idea of what exactly it is, but Sir’s glare stops me. He puts his hand around my neck. Tight.

  “Slave.”

  “Yes, Sir?” I choke out.

  “Your instructions are simple. Everyone in this building is superior to you. Do exactly as you’re told.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Don’t embarrass me.”

  He picks up my panties and tucks them into his coat pocket.

  We walk across the street, into the line of people. I scan the faces. They all seem so normal, the kind of people I’d expect to see waiting for a haunted house. Are they here for something special too? Can they tell I’m wearing a buttplug the size of my fist?

  We get near to the front of the line. They only let one person in at a time. Sir gets swept away first. I wait.

  Then up the stairs, clenching my cheeks together, holding the plug in. My turn.

  As soon as I’m in the pitch darkness, a woman grabs my hair, grabs my face, drags me into a dark room. Tells me to kneel, remove my shoes. My nervousness dissipates as my sexual adrenaline kicks in. I can smell how wet I suddenly am.

  More waiting. Silence, punctuated by screams coming from other rooms.

  The door opens. A man now. He has a flashlight, and I have a short dress and no panties. He shines his light around the room—an old, disgusting bathroom—and lands between my legs.

  “Are you not wearing any panties?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a whore.” I don’t know where this confidence comes from, but there it is.

  “You want to show it to me?”

  I lift my dress up over my hips, revealing my smooth pussy.

  “You want to touch it for me?”

  I start touching myself.

  “Let me smell it.”

  I hold my fingers out. I can’t see his face. I can’t see anything other than my pussy in the beam of his flashlight.

  I hear his footsteps behind me.

  “Get on your hands and knees.” Then, “Do you have a plug in your ass?”

  “Yeah.” Again, not shy. But the words come out before I can stop them.

  “Get up.”

  He grabs me by the hair again and drags me out of the bath-room into a room that’s even darker. He turns his light off.

  “Get on your knees.”

  I do.

  “Open your mouth.”

  I do.

  I feel something brush against my lips. It’s warm. It’s a sensation I’m very familiar with.

  His cock is in my mouth.

  I tilt my head so he can access my throat. He fucks my face hard, trying to make me gag, not stopping to let me breathe. I gulp for air between his thrusts. My eyes water.

  I try to be a good girl for Sir.

  It’s not long before he groans and his bitter cum fills my mouth. I swallow. He wipes his dick on my cheek.

  He stands me up, puts one hand over my mouth and the other inside my pussy. I moan.

  “Shut up.”

  He fingers me, violently, his knuckles banging against the plug. It hurts. I like it. I can feel myself getting close to orgasm.

  “You want to cum, whore?”

  Before I can answer, he pulls his fingers out. Puts them in my hair. Tells me I can never tell anyone about what just happened.

  “Do you understand?”

  Eyes wide, still subconsciously searching for light, I nod.

  He sends me on my way.

  Heart racing, cunt dripping, the rest of the haunted house is uncompromisingly generic.

  I never saw his face. I never even saw his cock. I only heard his voice. The perfect stranger. I just got face-fucked and fingered by a complete stranger.

  A row of shoes, including mine, and a light at the end of a dark hallway signal the way out. I walk quickly, excited to tell Sir all about how much I enjoyed his surprise.

  A bag over my head, the drawstring synched tight. I jump, the first time tonight the “haunted house” actually scared me.

  A small hand grabs tightly onto my bicep, yanks.

  “Come on, cunt.”

  I trip over my own feet as she drags me away, into some back room somewhere in this building. I had no bearings to begin with.

  We stop. She slips the bag off.

  This room is dimly lit, bare lightbulbs hanging from their wires. A small wooden chair with a very tall back, and a black bag beside it.

  She leads me to it.

  “Bend over.”

  I do, putting my hands on the chair, spread
ing my legs just enough to accommodate the now extremely uncomfortable plug.

  She lifts up my dress, completely exposing me. She’s silent for a moment, her fingernails on the back of my thighs.

  With a loud smack, the pain of her palm connecting with the naked flesh of my pussy buckles my knees.

  “When someone gives you a command, what are you supposed to do?”

  “I … uhh …” My mind races, confused, my pussy tingling, before my training comes back to me. “Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry, Mistress. It won’t happen again.” I cast my eyes downward.

  “Good. Bend back over.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Her fingernails again, goosebumps. I feel her fingers teasing the edges of the plug. She yanks it out, fast. I scream.

  “Clean it.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” Collecting myself, I drop to my knees. She holds the huge plug in front of my face. The steel warm from my body heat, I fit as much of the tip in my mouth as I can and run my tongue up and down the sides, tasting my ass.

  It’s a familiar taste, one Sir has taught me to love.

  The woman pats the chair like I’m a dog, and I sit down on it, feeling the sudden emptiness. She pulls rope from the bag.

  My chest is bound first, the rough rope wrapping tightly around my breasts. Then my hands, expertly bound together behind the back of the chair. She parts my thighs, drawing my knees towards the edges, so I won’t be able to close them again. And then, a few wraps of rope around my neck, attached to an anchor bolted into the top of the back of the chair, high above my head.

  She leaves me there, all tied up. The rope scratches against my skin. I can’t help it. This makes me horny. I shift, searching for a way to give my throbbing pussy some relief.

  She brings back a simple metal rig—a base, an upright pole attached to an L-angle with another pole, and hitachi strapped down on the front. She sets it down in front of me but doesn’t turn it on.

  Without saying a word, she leaves again.

  What is this?

  Sir walks in the room, dragging a small, dirty mattress. The woman follows, leading a cute redhead on a leash with her head bowed. She hands off the girl and leaves one last time.

  The hitachi buzzes to life, inches in front of my pussy. Sir throws the girl down onto the mattress.

  I watch as he strips off her clothes. I watch as he grabs her tits. I watch as he adjusts his cock in his pants. It’s hard.

  And I can’t breathe.

  I’ve slid down in the chair, my aching clit attracted to the vibrator like a magnet. It offers sweet release, but at a cost—my breath. I struggle myself back upright, coughing. Sir looks over, smiles. Takes off his pants.

  I watch as he makes her suck his cock. She enthusiastically takes him in her throat, drool dripping down her chin.

  I slide down towards the vibe.

  I watch as he bends her over, forcing her face into the mattress and his cock into her ass. She yelps. There’s no lube, just her spit, it must hurt. She looks over at me, and fucks back.

  I sit back up.

  I watch as he puts it in her mouth, straight from her ass, Sir’s favorite. She gags on it. He slaps her.

  I slide down.

  I watch as he steps back, and pees all over her face. She opens her mouth to taste it. He leans in and holds it closed until she swallows.

  I sit up.

  I watch as he shoves his cock back in her ass, fucking her harder, faster. She moans, the combination of pain and pleasure I know so well.

  Down.

  I watch as he cums deep inside of her.

  Gasping for air, giving up, my holes so jealous for that same attention, I shudder until I can’t cum anymore.

  Sir and the girl leave. The woman comes back, unties me, chuckling at the wet spot I’ve made.

  “Stand.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  From her bra, she produces my panties and uses them to mop up.

  “Open your mouth.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” My taste and scent consume me.

  She puts the plug back in, my sore asshole barely enduring. Then the bag goes back over my head.

  Walking again.

  Sir knows my brain so well.

  My pussy clenches, swooning. Her grip tightens on my arm, pulling me around a corner. I didn’t realize I had stopped.

  This woman punished me for forgetting her honorific, instructions I know came from Sir.

  She drops me off exactly where she grabbed me, takes the bag, leaves the panties.

  The man didn’t. That man didn’t care about anything except using me.

  I head outside, head spinning, where Sir is waiting for me. He clips a leash onto my collar and leads me to the car.

  So what was his plan?

  The redhead is in the backseat.

  And if that was the plan, what was the blowjob?

  He takes the panties back.

  “Hi Sir.” He says nothing in response, his fingers inside my pussy tell him all he needs to know.

  A red light, maybe halfway home. He reaches over, touches my cheek.

  “What’s this?”

  I flip down the visor, look in the mirror.

  It’s cum.

  “Oh. Mistress spit in my face.”

  RULE OF THREE

  BY KIRA NOIR

  Angel,

  You’re probably at lunch. Everything on shelf 1408 needs to go. Trash would be best. Keep what you want. Needs to be done today to make room for used coming in. Thanks!

  Love, Mom

  With a sigh, Angel made her way over to the shelf across from the collection of new and used bodice-rippers; the erotic romances that all had covers featuring the same models in different Victorian outfits that seemed to be falling off. The shelf to be purged was labeled “Witchcraft and Wicca.”

  Working in a family-owned bookstore meant parents as bosses; they knew where to find her at any place or time during the work day—the one they had scheduled. But it sure beat the hell out of working for some crabby old lady, or sitting behind a secretary desk hundreds of feet above downtown.

  She scanned the shelf she had never taken the time to look at before. Most of the books were flimsy and cheesy-looking. A select few contained interesting artwork of buxom women or bubbling cauldrons that Angel admired before dropping them in the box to be taken out with the rest.

  She decided to open a large volume with a charming illustration of a happy witch straddling a broomstick and pointing her magic wand at a bewildered frog. Inside, she found that the book had been hollowed out to make room for another book. She picked out the dusky red booklet and dropped its container in the box. Leafing through the pages, the word “Attraction” caught her eye. Her curiosity was piqued.

  Light a red candle and picture the desired target of the spell deeply in love. Meditate on the idea, imagining them falling in love over and over with the intended recipient. Pour the melted wax on the ground. Write the target’s name three times in wax with a needle, keeping their face in the forefront of your mind. Let the wax cool, then preserve in a safe place.

  Works best under a full moon, on Tuesday or Friday nights.

  Looking up at the clock on the wall, Angel realized that the rest of her workday had passed seamlessly. Good thing too, there were still things to do.

  Back at home, she rummaged through her things until she found a small red candle and a sewing needle. Words were not her thing, so she thought giving Tara the wax and telling her about the spell would be a way to make up for her lack of friendly comfort at lunch. She wanted Ben and Tara to end up together, but she just didn’t know how to say it right. Maybe the book and some wax would offer just the right amount of sincerity and silliness to get her feelings across to Tara.

  Angel lit the candle and closed her eyes. She imagined Ben, overcome with emotion, grabbing her tiny friend and kissing her; how happy Tara would be, her tears of joy, how she would reach up to kiss him back, giggling through her tears an
d their kiss. She thought about how they would fit together so well despite their height difference, holding one another in delirious happiness.

  Ben would slowly undress Tara, sliding his hands up her legs, over her tight little butt, lifting her dress off. How he would have to bend down to take one of Tara’s tiny pink nipples in his mouth, making her shake with arousal. How Ben’s big hands would explore Tara’s petite frame, making her bite her lip and moan. Tara would blush as Ben slipped his long fingers between her legs to caress her dripping wet pussy and—

  With a gasp, Angel’s eyes popped open. Did I just picture that? What the hell?

  Her cheeks burning, she hurriedly poured the melted wax on her kitchen floor. Why would I ever think of Tara like that?

  Angel took a deep breath and focused on cleaner images. Tara and Ben on a dinner date. Tara and Ben holding hands. Ben getting down on one knee as he proclaimed his love.

  Better.

  She carefully scratched Ben’s name in the wax, etching a clean relief in the puddle of wax. As it solidified, she peeled it from her floor and placed it in her windowsill.

  And waited.

  Is that it? I just gotta write this motherfucker’s name in some wax and think about him not being a motherfucker? Ugh, sorry, positive, positive thoughts. Um, marriage, mansions, flowers, Tara in some kind of lacy dress … what?

  She suddenly remembered that she hadn’t exactly started at the beginning of the little red spell book. She picked it up and flipped to the front page. Inscribed, obviously by hand, in beautiful calligraphy, it read:

  To the practitioner of such arts as these: Ever mind the rule of three, three times your acts returned to thee. This lesson, well, thou must learn, thou receivest such that thou dost earn.

  Angel jumped as her phone rang. Her redheaded friend was hysterical on the other line.

  “Tara, slow down, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Angel’s heart pumped hard as her mind raced with the possibilities.

  “He proposed!” Tara finally cried out. “He ran to my house and said that he couldn’t hide it anymore, that he loves me too and that I’m the only woman for him—oh God, Angel, Ben asked me to marry him this weekend!”