by Alison Tyler
Fuck. I have to get a hold of myself.
I allowed myself a sideways glance at him and immediately felt the pull of a skydiver’s traction, the pressure of oxygen pushing up against its tank, the skin stretched taught across a firefighter’s healing burns. I perceived every single bit of tension in this hospital straining against the space between us.
“I want to subdue the rest of your pain.” And with that, again needing no permission, his hand crept up over my knee. Trailing along my inner thigh with just his fingertips, Gabriel blanketed my skin with goose bumps.
My heart surging and breath short, I couldn’t look at him. I looked down at the sea of white that covered my body, distancing me from myself. Although utterly responsive, I was outside of it all, as if I was looking down on something that was happening to me, instead of being an active participant. Or at least a willing recipient. I watched intently at how the sheet rose and fell, undulating like waves in the wake of his hand as it gradually made its ascent toward my cunt.
I wanted to scream, but not out of pleasure. I was dying to drive a crack in this pristine surface, to scream out in protest at the top of my lungs, to struggle and fight him off, to push away this satisfaction that I needed so desperately. This desire that I had to have. Still I wanted to scream. I opened my mouth but instead only a moan escaped as I felt his fingers glide across my rain-slicked path, causing time to slow, the room to spin. I gasped at the shock of his fingers, the arousal that grabbed hold, the pain that shot behind my eyes.
“I’m going to need you to be a good girl for me and be very, very quiet. No one can know about this. We can’t risk anyone hearing....”
This awakened an altogether new, more depraved level of excitement in me and without warning, someone—far more brash than me, much bolder and inexplicably crude—someone else’s words were rolling off my tongue. “One scream from me and you could lose your license. You’ve got my DNA smeared all over your fingers and I’m a defenseless, drugged-up, concussed crash victim. It wouldn’t look good, would it?” I witnessed a lustful abyss pooling in his eyes. “So you’re gonna want to do exactly as I say.”
Where was this coming from? I knew that I’d hit my head pretty damn hard in the accident, but what the hell had come over me?
I had started down this path, seemingly, of my own volition; guided by some inner drive, some deep-seated compulsion. No one else to blame but me for having unleashed this nasty woman from inside myself. Clearly I had no control over her aims. She would not be reeled in, so I guessed I had no choice. I had to.
I yanked his hand out from inside me, grabbed the extra tubing coming off my IV, and wrapped it around his wrist a few times. Having used up practically all the slack, he had no choice but to keep his hand adjacent to mine.
Heightening the stakes, I instructed him, as if he wasn’t already all too aware, “If you make one false move, cariño, you’ll tear this IV from my wrist and blood will spatter all over your hands.” I’ve always had a thing for literal figures of speech.
I guided our hands back under the covers, to where I needed them most, hovering just above so as to draw out the torture for both Gabriel and me. He was panting with want, I was aching with need. Curling my pinky and ring fingers around his, I shoved both sets of our first two fingers inside me deeply. Four fingers filled me beautifully. I held us there and could feel the strange sensation of my pussy quivering around both of us at the same time. It all lent itself to the dreamlike quality of the situation I’d somehow managed to get myself into.
Gabriel grew impatient and began pushing in even deeper and so I pulled him out almost completely, granting only our fingertips the gift of lingering inside me for moments that stretched on like days. Having taught him his lesson, I thrust us back inside of me and then immediately forced us out. Our fingers in tandem, fucking me in and out, as fast as my risky bondage would allow. I slammed my hungry cunt down on us just one more time, shuttering and burying us deep inside before curling our fingertips onto my G-spot. I was so close to coming, my body writhing against the once-sterile sheets, it only took a few flicks to push me over the edge. I was weightless, spiraling in slow motion; my head hit the glass and I heard it shatter as my body quaked and I spurted all over our hands.
I opened my eyes and yet again Gabriel met me with his invading gaze, this time just inches from my face. Suddenly, he rammed his tongue into my mouth and we delighted in tasting each other—sucking, biting, wrestling back and forth, tongues snaking around each other, sliding in and out of each other’s mouths. Finally we broke away, heaving air into our emptied lungs. His piercing eyes radiated pure temptation.
He leaned in and kissed my forehead with the longing of insatiability, the tender sweetness of a fallen angel. “I’m going to give you something to help you sleep through the night.”
I began to protest, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Gabriel grinned at me lasciviously. “With all that blood we got pumping inside you, your head is going to start pounding any minute now... Just as soon as the pounding in your pussy wears off.”
So I acquiesced and felt my eyelids start to flutter almost instantaneously, heavy with the swirling of dreams. Willing them not to close so that my eyes could savor him just a little longer, I leaned forward slightly and this time he took my hand. “Gracias, angelita. This was definitely one hell of an unexpected...and delicious...send-off. Any time I feel a pang of loneliness in Aracataca, I’ll take myself back to this moment and revel in tonight.” Gabriel kissed me just once more with lust on his breath, crossed the room and looked back at me as I was already drifting off. He closed the door behind him, whispering, “Que sueñes con los angelitos.” And I could feel my dreams cascading over me before I even heard the door click shut.
I slowly wake. A smile creeps across my face before I bother to think of opening my eyes, the early dawn just barely edging out the night. Luxuriating in this sensuous feeling, I give myself a minute to bask in the glow of the previous night before welcoming the break of daylight. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, my cheeks already flushed with the thought of how I can prove to myself that last night’s thrills were not a dream. I bring my fingers to my face and inhale. Yes, last night was definitely real. An incredibly hot send-off on a long journey for him, a much briefer one for me. Today I get discharged from Misericordia, my head suddenly feeling perfectly clear. The excitement at being able to go home to my own bed and real life again washes over my pleasurable memories.
Not wanting to watch the clock, I think up an ingenious way to pass the time. I decide to do something I’ve never done before—fill out a comment card. They ask you to offer praise or helpful suggestions, so why wouldn’t I bestow accolades upon the most praiseworthy nurse I had ever had the pleasure of attending me? Using disguised language, I lay out the details that made my stay at Misericordia unlike any other: Gabriel’s personal touch, his attention to detail, how he went above and beyond, even his meticulousness with my IV—they all are given the proper acknowledgment that they deserve. I grin as I write out the last line: He seems bound for success. Noting one blank spot on the card, I set out for the nurse’s station. He may never know the extent of my gratitude, but at least I would have the satisfaction of putting it out there.
I ask the head nurse for Gabriel’s last name and she stares at me quizzically, cocking her head just slightly. “I’m sorry, miss, I’ve been here a long time and as far back as I can recall, we’ve never had a nurse, or anyone actually, employed in this hospital by that name.”
A flash of pain darts across my vision as my memories start to spiral. Reality slides out from under me, twisting in slow motion, sending everything around me spinning.
ROPE DROUGHT
Teresa Noelle Roberts
Rain on the roof of the farmhouse woke them, the soft drumming alien after six rainless weeks. The sound infiltrated slowly, filling Ellie’s senses, filling a body that had felt as parched as their fields and pastures until she felt compelled to spring
from bed, shut off the ancient, struggling air conditioner and fling open the other windows to let in the earthy, damp breeze. Energy zinged through her. She’d never thought of rain on the roof as an erotic sound, but to a farmer, after a drought, each drop that shushed on the roof sounded like a sigh of pleasure. She could imagine the rain as a thousand hands, caressing their crops and pastures—caressing her and Zeke too. Silly, maybe, but the image excited her, or maybe it was just the sheer animal joy of moisture in the air at last. “Come on!” she urged until Zeke followed her lead, going from room to room until every window and door in the old farmhouse was open to the night and the rain.
They stood on the back porch, naked and finally, blessedly, not overheated, watching the rain as it fell in slow, steady sheets, illuminated by the porch light. “The Weather Channel said that if this front reached us and didn’t pass right over, it should rain on and off all week. Too bad there’s no thunder,” Ellie whispered, cuddling close to Zeke. “Lightning and thunder would make it perfect.”
Zeke kissed the top of her head. “I know you love your thunderstorms, but this is the kind of rain we need.” Unlike Ellie, Zeke had been raised on a farm, and he knew in his bones all the things Ellie was trying to learn from reading and talking to the neighbors, who were both amused by and supportive of their efforts to turn the failed dairy farm into a mixed-used organic farm, with vegetables and humanely raised meat.
Zeke pulled her close, as if relieved the cool breeze finally allowed it. “Quiet rain’s steady,” he explained. “Big flash-bangs don’t last long. Rain comes down too hard, too fast and most of it just runs off. This isn’t as dramatic but should go until morning before it tapers off.”
“Like you.” She grinned at him and saw his answering smile, bright against his tanned face even in the dark. Her farmer wasn’t flashy, wasn’t loud, but boy could he go on until morning.
That is, he could when they weren’t both too stressed by the lack of rain that pushed their makeshift irrigation setup past its limits (who ever thought you’d need to irrigate in central New York, where too much rain was the more usual problem?); the crisp, browning grass in pastures that should have been lush for their young beef cattle; the knowledge that all the farms around them were just as bad off, so hay, if anyone had it to spare, would be expensive; the nasty choice they might soon face of slaughtering early or switching to corn feed, an added expense that would lower the price and quality of what they’d hoped would be the grass-fed beef that commanded a premium price in city markets. And feed corn mostly came from the Midwest, where the drought was far worse. It was only their second year on the farm, and even if the weather had been perfect, they’d have been struggling some. Farming was never easy and they had a lot to learn, even Zeke. But the drought made everything hard and frightening.
It had been a long dry summer in a lot of ways. But now that the weather had broken, maybe the sex-drought could break as well. Ellie felt Zeke’s cock stirring against her, as he, too, experienced the sound of the rain, the rain-wet wind, as wild, damp caresses.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Ellie tugged on his arm.
“We’re naked.” He sounded amused.
“I know. Won’t the rain feel nice on your skin?”
She danced out of his arms, danced off the porch and spun around on the little path through the herb-and-flower garden, sad and wilted, but starting to perk up a bit in the rain. “It’s so warm and silky!” She began to laugh, softly at first, then bubbling out loud and clear. There were no neighbors to disturb, just like there were no neighbors to see them cavorting around naked. It was one of the attractions of this particular farm, one of the reasons they’d chosen it. Farming was hard work, but Ellie and Zeke had hoped they’d be able to play as hard as they worked—and they didn’t like their play confined to a bedroom any more than they liked their work confined to an office.
Zeke stepped off the porch. “God, this feels good.”
“I feel like a plant, like I’ve been dry so long I need to stay out here and soak up the rain.”
All lean muscle and slick skin and hard cock, Zeke caught her in his arms and kissed her. As she relaxed into the kiss, into the wonder of his body in the soft, necessary rain, he grabbed her wrists and brought her arms together behind her back, where he could clasp both wrists with one big hand. “I know what you need,” he whispered, pausing to lick water droplets off her ear. “What I need, too. I need to take you hard, out here.”
“Honoring the rain.” Ellie writhed against him. “Like some ancient pagan ritual.”
“If outdoor sex makes it keep raining, why not?” He bent his head to suckle her nipple. His mouth was hot, ravenous, and the way her arms were trapped—the way she was trapped by his wiry farmer’s strength—went right to her cunt. She moaned as she moved to straddle his thigh, grinding herself against him, leaving a hotter, slicker trail on his already moist, damp skin.
“Behave!” He smacked her ass with his free hand. She giggled and stuck her butt out, wiggling, which encouraged him to smack her a few more glorious times in rapid succession.
How long had it been since he’d spanked her? Too long, long enough that she jumped away from the sting, so much sharper than it used to be when they were playing regularly, before the rain stopped falling and the fear closed in. As soon as she jumped away, though, she pressed back toward his hand and begged, “Please...”
“Please what?” Zeke liked that game, liked to take advantage of those times when her talkative, English-major side was derailed by lust so she could answer only words of one syllable. She hadn’t quite reached that point yet, but the reminder of what she’d been missing was pushing her in that direction. Luckily, she needed only words of one syllable.
“Tie me up and spank me. It’s been too long.”
He pulled her even closer. “Do you want to go inside? That’s where the toys are, and the rope.”
As the rain washed away the dry, sad weeks, Ellie whispered, “No. Out here.”
Zeke’s grin lit up the night. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He ran his hands down her back, stroking her ass, caressing around her body to glide over her slick belly and breasts. His hands left tingling trails behind, and she shuddered with pleasure. Then he returned to her wrists, still resting on top of each other behind her back, where he had left them. He gripped them, his touch fierce and demanding, in a way it hadn’t been for a time. “Don’t move. That’s an order. I’ll be right back.” He kissed her, a deep kiss that promised much, and headed inside.
As he loped into the house she left her face up to the sky, her mouth open, greeting the rain as it fell. Kissing it as it kissed her.
Zeke was back before she had time to miss him, carrying a battery lantern, its yellow light contained by rainfall, and some soft rope, a spare length of cotton clothesline that lived in a kitchen drawer. He shifted her hands in front of her, tied them together quickly. It was the simplest of ties, little more than a loop, but for Ellie, bondage had never really been about elaborate ropework and strange positions. No, it was the soft, firm touch of the rope that did her in, and the sense of being, for the time she was bound, Zeke’s possession, though at all other times they were equals. Because this tie was so simple Zeke could do it without a second thought, because within seconds he was leading her by the rope away from the house, it added to the illusion that she was a possession. A slave. A pagan sacrifice.
In the other hours of the day, she’d smack Zeke if he even hinted he thought of her that way, but now the fantasy made her tremble, slicked her thighs with her own hot moisture on top of the cooling rainwater.
Zeke led her to the poles that held the clothesline, hung the lantern on the crosspiece. It hung at a slight angle, so the circle of light it cast on the browned-out grass was asymmetrical. For some reason, Ellie’s brain clung to that detail as Zeke untied her wrists, then positioned her so he could tie one wrist to each side of the A-frame that supported the clothesline. He’d cut the rope into
shorter lengths, she realized. Probably used her kitchen shears, a homely detail that cut through the fantasy of being a slave staked out for punishment, or as a sacrifice to the gods of rain.
The reality made it more erotic, rather than less so. He had only enough rope to loop around one of her ankles and tether it to the post, more a symbol than a real restraint, yet that too seemed hot. So much of their life on the farm was like this, makeshift, making do with what they had. But they had each other, and now they had rain, so it was all right. Perfect, even.
And the warm rain was still coming down, drenching her, drenching Zeke, soaking into the ropes. The ropes were cotton, so as they got wet, they’d stretch to the point where the bondage would be even more symbolic. She didn’t care. Sometimes the symbol was all she needed.
Zeke adjusted the lantern on its makeshift hook—so the light fell better on her ass, she speculated—then got into position himself, lining up to spank her. Tingling and throbbing with anticipation Ellie thrust her ass out before she was told, pulling on her bonds just for the pleasure of feeling that long-missed tug, that tug that pulled intangibly on her nipples and clit.
The first spank felt like thunder, felt like the sky opening. She rebounded back from Zeke’s hand and yelped, even though she repositioned herself immediately, eager for more spanking. And more came, that wonderful combination of sting and seduction, soaring pleasure and the safe confines of rope. After the first few smacks, she stopped trying to count—it was all so surreal tied up in the drenched dark that counting anything, even the number of times she was spanked, seemed as futile as counting raindrops. Better just to experience the spanking, soak it in as the parched ground soaked in the rain. Her ass throbbed, and her cunt throbbed along with it, open and hot and slick. Her butt felt huge, and so did her clit. Even the slightest movement magnified the sensation of the wet rope. Each raindrop that danced over her nipple or slipped into the crack of her ass aroused her more. Her world narrowed to rope and rain and Zeke’s hand inflaming her, turning water to steam and restraint to freedom.