He reads my thoughts. “Yeah, well, I was a lot younger then. So were you.”
“Eric … what can I do for you?”
He sighs. “You’re here. You let me touch you, bind you, beat you. You come for me.”
“Is that really enough?”
“Maybe it has to be enough.”
“No – you deserve more, Eric.”
The bitterness in his laugh wounds me. “I don’t even have the right to that much. But if you insist, Sarah, you can suck me.” He is already unbuckling his pants.
“Oh, yes!” I’m jubilant, eager to give him even a fraction of the pleasure he has evoked in me. I understand that my submission satisfies him in ways that are deeper than a physical orgasm. But I want him to enjoy the physical side as well.
He sits up in the bed, propped against the headboard. I kneel between his spread thighs. His cock is pale with pulsing purple veins. The skin is stretched so tight, I’m sure that he’ll burst the instant that I take him into my mouth.
I’m a bit reticent. None of our previous reunions has included anything like this. I begin by licking him gently, flicking the tip of my tongue across his slit, massaging the bulb, soaking him with my saliva. He tastes salty and a bit sour, unfamiliar. The strangeness makes me see and wonder at how comfortable we are together, generally, despite our long separations.
Soon I am sucking hard, taking his full length down my throat. He’s mostly passive, letting me do the work. Only his cock, jumping or twitching in response to my tongue, tells me how he’s feeling. Aside from an occasional grunt or moan, he’s quiet. Mostly, there’s just the squelch of my wet mouth on his smooth flesh.
I want him to pump, to thrust, to yell, to flood my mouth with his bitter spunk. I suck on and on, my jaws beginning to ache, feeling terribly inadequate that I can’t give my master one good orgasm after he’s made me come so many times. I reach out to him with my thoughts, begging him to relax, to trust me, to give himself to me.
And all at once, as if in answer, he quickens. He starts to jerk his cock back and forth between my lips. He arches his back, slamming his rod against my palate, using all the strength of his massive body to stimulate himself. I’m gagging, almost choking, but I don’t care. He’s finally close. I can feel the fluid pumping up the length of him, pulsing, swelling, and I hold my breath, praying for his release.
When he howls, when his come fills my mouth and flows down my chin, I give thanks for his benediction.
We doze for a while in each other’s arms. It has been so long, too long. I often dream of him, of us together, of a time like this. Comfort and peace in the wake of passion, complementary desires satisfied. Two sexual outlaws, offering sanctuary to one another.
The rays of the sun slant in, gilding the wing-back chair. It’s nearly evening. Soon we’ll need to rise. We’ll shower together, then I’ll put on the bra and panties that I brought, to make myself outwardly respectable. He’ll come with me to the station, kiss me tenderly goodbye, and put me on the bus for the two hour voyage back to my home and my husband. I’ll spend those hours feeling my master’s marks, reliving these few magic hours.
My master will stay in this room tonight. After all, it’s already paid for. It will still smell of my cunt and his come.
My husband will greet my bus. He’ll kiss me. He won’t ask questions. I’ll have dinner with him, feeling guilty and awkward, but grateful for his unselfish acceptance of something he doesn’t understand.
Later, there will be poems and post-mortems. My master and I will discuss, via email, all the things we didn’t do. The alligator clips. The unopened package of condoms.
And we’ll dream of the next time outside time, our next reunion.
An Inverted Heart.
Glowing Ruby Red
Marissa Moon
I’m staring at an inverted heart. A perfect peach. Ripe for the plucking. My husband’s bottom is small, firm and round. His legs would make many a woman jealous and I wonder if any of his squash partners have ever commented on his smooth hairless limbs or the lack of pubic hair. Despite a taste for slinky lingerie he’s still a fit sexually active red-blooded male, not one of those prancing ninnies who desire nothing but cross-dressed humiliation and the chance to kiss Madame’s feet. Not that there’s anything wrong with that … (Sissies!)
He’s aroused but apprehensive. Kneeling over a flogging trestle in tarty fishnets and red frilly knickers, hand behind his back, face in profile on the leather headrest. I like to see his reactions as he is punished. He’s aroused, already anxious to be inside me but he knows he must first face the ordeal of fire.
The chamber is lit with red candles, perfumed with rose oil and the twelve red roses he bought me are close at hand. I like to rub the thorns over his ruby red bottom as a final reminder of what happens to naughty boys.
Our Valentine’s Day ritual always starts with him presenting me with a gift, this year a delicious black and red leather heart-shaped spanking paddle, which will soon tan his taut white rump as red as the surface of his thoughtful gift. Black and red, the colours of fetishism. Or should it be purple and black? Well, a careful Top shouldn’t leave bruises. Not after a slow gentle warm-up. But I feel more like a pagan priestess today. I may have to be cruel to be kind. He is gagged, with a pair of my recently worn knickers. Every now and again I rub a finger inside my shaved pussy and dab the moisture under his nose. He groans, eager to snuff up my scent. We have agreed that forgetting to research my Valentine’s Day lecture is a serious offence, heinous enough to merit a punishment spanking. I had been asked to address the London Ladies Munch. And I wasn’t expecting to chip my nail varnish surfing around the net scaring up information. That’s his job. As he well knows. Although the London Ladies wouldn’t want much of a lecture, as it gets in the way of champagne-fuelled gossip and the highly enjoyable character assassination of any ladies not present. I stand back and start to rehearse my speech.
“Some believe the Bible prohibits the symbol of the heart, since it is associated with the pagan observance of Valentine’s Day.”
Four hard smacks get my boy’s full attention. I take the paddle, press it to his lips. He kisses it, reverently, knowing it symbolizes my dominance over him.
“Others think the heart should be purified on this day. And some, including myself, believe the inverted heart represents a soundly smacked bottom.” I use the paddle to underline these words.
It’s harder than I thought to get a satisfying smacking sound from the leather implement. Maybe I need to swing it harder, lower down on the sweet spot. Well, we have plenty of time to practise. He wriggles and mewls all the same, always a pleasant sight and sound. But I want more. I have better luck with three hefty open-palmed smacks, which draw a muted protest.
“There’s no better way to purify the heart than to deal with its fleshy counterpart. Your impudent, little rump.” Three more very hard smacks elicit some twists and turns. Cuter than kittens at Christmas. His lean little bum is luscious, almost demanding you smack it. I stroke his hair, breathing over his face and into his mouth, rubbing my hand inside his slinky knickers to check he is rock hard. He moans harder as my fingertips brush over his anus. He is yearning to be penetrated, while fearful of which implement might enter his most secret place. Kissing him passionately, I press a purple butt plug into his mouth. He sucks at it busily, my darling demonstrating just what an eager little tart he is. He will be needing that busy little tongue later when I am queening him, rocking back and forth on his face. I take the plug, the width of three bunched fingers, lube him up and press it in his bottom. I pull his panties back up and give his rump a maternal pat. He’s squirming with pleasure as we kiss, slowly and lovingly, still hungry for each other after all this time.
When we started it was all about him. I was apparently privileged to watch a preening narcissist get in touch with his feminine side, a female persona whose appeal eluded me. While it was occasionally fun I could only see it as a waste of a perfect
ly manly man. While he would once have been thrilled to tart around in lingerie, imagining himself to be as alluring as his beautiful Mistress he is now all too aware that these pleasures must be paid for. I’m breathing deeply, drunk on power and wondering how far I can go this time.
Domme, do no harm. A simple mantra I recite whenever the spirit of vengeance threatens to claim me. It would be all too easy to tan his hide till the tears ran down his face, over the leather headrest and on to our thick dungeon carpet. (Note to self. Push his boundaries. Soon.) But today is about love.
“Valentine’s day didn’t used to be childishly sentimental – a cutesy, vomitous exchange of newspaper greetings and cards. ‘Ickle Susie loves her big Poppa Bear.’ Hearts and chocolates. It used to be Roman women yearning to have their bare flesh whipped by strips of cow hide.”
I abandon the paddle for my hand and soon hear a satisfying smack ring out. It sounds so good I give him two sets of six. I remove my panties from his mouth. I wish to hear his cries of distress as clearly as possible.
“Drunken lust-crazed maidens fighting each other for the honour of being flogged with leather whips. Pert white buttocks striped red, cries of initial outrage becoming urgent pleas for more. Heat from glowing bottoms spreading to nearby erogenous zones.”
The smacks ring out, colouring his bottom a darker red.
“Ow! Please! Mistress! Not so hard!”
“How else will you learn?”
He knows better than to argue.
“Romance!” I signal the change of subject with a hefty slap across both cheeks, then gently scratching the reddened surface with my fingernails. I run my hands up and down the insides of his legs, then tease his cock and balls. Slowly and carefully I peel the panties down, freeing his stiff manhood, which is yearning to be inside me. For which ultimate pleasure he will have to wait. I am as moist as he is hard. Were I not such a scrupulous avoider of the vulgar I would say we are both “gagging for it”.
“Romance is the only fetish sanctioned by society. The glue that keeps workers chained to their mortgages.”
I put my index finger to the base of the butt plug and wriggle it slowly, enjoying the look of pure dumb pleasure on his face. I keep up the finger fucking as I sift through my thoughts on Valentine’s Day.
“The original Valentine was a priest who married couples in secret after the Emperor Claudius made marriage illegal. I suppose that’s one way of bringing back the romance to these mutual slavery contracts. Make it illegal.”
I give him another two sets of six slaps. He’s finding it harder to stay in place.
“Keep still! Or I’ll cane you. And you wouldn’t want that, would you, my lad?”
Decorum is restored. If one can use that word of a man kneeling to offer up his bare bottom for punishment and penetration. I stroke his warmed flesh, keeping him yearning for my touch.
“Some anthropologists think two years is the limit for chemical attraction, for a union to last any longer each party must make an effort.”
Two more sets of six slaps and I can hear a whinier note in his voice. Good. I’m getting through to him.
“Perhaps female domination is the answer to marriages that have gone stale.
“That’s female domination in the sexual sense as opposed to the usual henpecking. Women can be powerful and capricious while men can be as slutty as they like, becoming the sex slaves they were always designed to be.”
I pick up the paddle and start to cook his flesh, ignoring his pitiful protests.
“These cute little buns of yours are going to glow like red hot coals.” Three of the best and brightest accompany those words. I find the spot that gives the best whacking sound, although it’s still not as resonant as my hand. Keeping the whacks coming on the same spot has him moaning hard.
“Please, Mistress! Ow! Please … I can’t … OWWW!”
Time to give the little lamb a rest. That certainly is a most attractive shade of crimson.
I crouch down and slip my fingers into his mouth, watching the cute little slut suckle eagerly. He’s still moaning, deep in his trance. Time to give his prostate another workout. I jiggle the butt plug up and down till he looks like the proverbial cat with the cream. I do spoil him. You should always spoil the one you love.
“For what are we without love? Heretics like Gore Vidal restrict themselves to casual sex, refusing to believe in Cupid’s darts. Having said that, even the suave and sophisticated Mr Vidal spent his life with a platonic partner – probably just to have someone to tell him how great he was everyday. That’s writers for you. Almost as needy, and deluded, as the average X Factor contestant.”
I pour some rose-scented water over his bottom, which will make him feel the remainder of his spanking more keenly. I settle into a steady rhythm of loud, hefty smacks, putting my arm around his waist as he starts trying to avoid the blows.
“Take your punishment, my boy. Or it’s the cane for you.”
Instant acquiescence. He is so well trained. I keep the spanks coming, opening his cheeks to get right into the crease, right on top of that butt plug he loves so much.
That brings soft sighs of pleasure. All very well but I take more pleasure from hearing his reaction to the next flurry of sharp smacks.
“To keep or rekindle the passion in a long-term partnership try giving something which will become a fetish – ‘an object that is believed to have magical or spiritual powers’.”
Which is how I think of my canes come to think of it. I pick one up and swish it through the air.
“But Mistress …”
“Silence!”
Well, it’s a woman’s privilege to change her mind. The pause lengthens, redolent with his fear and my passion.
“A fetish object can be any reminder of shared passion – love letters, cinema tickets, cute little dildos, scented lubes. Knickers and stockings are perennial favourites but don’t let him keep too many intimate trophies. Or he’ll be straying into Hannibal Lecter territory.”
Just as he’s enjoying his little break I give him three quick hard swipes, as close together as I can manage. Which makes him howl.
I stroke it better or as better as a soundly spanked and beaten bum can be.
“There, there.”
I kiss him on both cheeks before unleashing two hard strokes. His eyes screw up tightly as he tries not to whimper. The next stroke gets him right on top of his legs. He’ll feel that whenever he sits down for the next few days. Saving the best till last I step back and give him one from the shoulder. They’re harder to control but luckily it catches him right across the centre of his crimson cheeks. He yelps in pain, his hips swaying from side to side, his breathing now well out of control.
“Please! Mistress! No more!”
I look at his bottom, beaten deepest, darkest red, striped by the cane. He’s panting, on the verge of tears.
“Have you been thoroughly punished, my dear?”
“Yes, Mistress.” Ooh, it’s good to hear him gasping. On the verge of tears.
“You may rub your bottom.”
He grasps his burning cheeks and rubs furiously, his agonized face a perfect picture.
“On your back, boy!”
He lays himself down, grimacing as his well-beaten bottom hits the carpet. As usual it has been vacuumed to within an inch of its life by my love. I hitch up my robe to mount his face, treasuring his deep groan of satisfaction. Which soon turns to a frenzied moaning as he licks and nuzzles me front and back. Very soon I’m floating off on clouds of pure pleasure. Eventually, having gorged myself to my heart’s content, I take him into my mouth. If I could talk I might finish off with this: “Valentine died in AD 269. Which more or less commands you to wrap yourselves around your lover in a 69 position.” I pump his shaft as he gets close. I don’t swallow his hot, salty seed. But only because it’s one of the best anti-wrinkle creams Mother Nature has gifted us. I rub it around my eyes and forehead then cuddle my boy close. I wonder whether I’ll give t
he London Ladies the secrets of my special face pack. Maybe I’ll keep it to myself. They don’t deserve it. You can’t love everybody…. as told to Mark Ramsden.
Strippers
Greg Jenkins
If my mouth had swung open any wider, my chin would’ve bounced off the macadam parking lot where I stood stunned and weak-kneed, teetering with my two plastic bags of groceries. The girl in the window above me was sinfully young and achingly beautiful and artlessly sensuous in her movements. (And she was moving, I noticed.) A lambent angel in the gray evening sky.
She was also, I noticed, as close to being naked as any young man would’ve dared to wish for.
It was a Thursday in early summer, the dusk misty and warm. I’d just finished buying my usual quota of uninspired staples at the Superfresh – cereal, tuna fish, TV dinners – and I was headed to the far, dim corner of the lot where I’d parked my pickup. I never parked close to my destination; I liked to walk, and I especially liked to walk when my head was loaded with chemicals, as it usually was in those days. My job got me high. I stripped furniture for a living, and all day long I breathed fumes that put the world on a tilt, and made me feel sad when I shouldn’t, and caused me to think that my sinuses – and even the inside of my skull – were coated with a thin, shimmery layer of silver or frost or one on top of the other.
When I drew near my truck, a pink light came on above me, and it shot through my fuzzy mind that this – the sudden wash of pinkness – might be another effect of the methylene chloride. But then I looked up and saw a large lilac bush, heavy with thick white flowers, and behind it a wooden apartment house, and above the white-tipped lilac, two stories up, a casement window glowing softly with a warm pink light. In a moment, the girl stepped to the window. She was wearing only a low-scooped bra and thong panties – white or possibly pink. Not a stitch more that I could see. As I stared up at her, she began to move, to stroll back and forth with a kind of slow, languid, musical rhythm. Sometimes she’d turn away from me, and that’s when I saw she was wearing a thong.
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