by Roxy Harte
I pull her hands away. “I have a reason for asking. Honest,” I assure her.
“Yes, sort of, I was sitting, he was standing.”
“Ah,” I say, willing away the image I have of her, legs spread, sitting on a table. “Let’s try something. Roll over.”
She surprises me by complying. She rolls onto her stomach and lifts her behind. I do not ask which of her two men coached her in this, but I do slide my fingers between her slick folds, and she pushes back into me without flinching.
I take the condom out of its wrapper and slide it over my erection. Then I finger her in earnest, in this less painful position, coaxing her to near orgasm before I climb over her legs and slide into her. I feel her shift to touch herself as I thrust. She tenses, and I know it hurts.
“Too much?”
“No,” she whispers. “I tried to touch myself, but I think my clit is bruised. It hurts too much to rub myself…like I normally would.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
She pushes her hips up. I slide deeper inside of her, making her sigh. “God, no, Bishop, please don’t stop.”
I thrust, making her grunt, I thrust again, making her moan, and then I set up a rhythm, waiting until I am completely sure that she is enjoying it as much as she can without the clitoral stimulation. I rock over her, thrusting, hard, harder. She screams, close to orgasm. I feel her frustration as her body refuses to go over the top. I thrust again, feeling my own orgasm build. I take a chance and cup her Venus Mons, not rubbing her or pushing into her clit, just holding her solidly as I thrust. She whimpers, and I feel our rhythms match.
She cries out, “Oh God, oh God.”
I thrust harder, and she pushes against my hand. I let my palm flatten, closing the distance between her clit and my hand, as her moans reach a feral intensity. My own orgasm propels me into temporary mindlessness as she comes, cursing and screaming, her pain pushing her into ecstasy.
Chapter 8
Toby
Thunder plays a lullaby in the background as I lay trapped between sleep and wakefulness, wanting to sleep but not sleeping; awake but it seems like a dream. I remember falling back to sleep in Adrian’s arms, wanting to talk, worried about the interview, but he needed rest. I understood since he’d been awake all night. I must have fallen asleep with him, because I don’t remember anything past his soft snores.
He stills my hand, and I realize he is awake and my fingers are wrapped around his penis. He’s hard, but just barely.
I love playing with Adrian’s dick. Honestly, most of the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it until he points it out…like now. I’m glad he doesn’t mind too much, but I’ll admit it kind of hurt my feelings when he made me stop. I guess we’ve been together long enough now that he perceived he had, because he immediately wrapped me in his arms and snuggled into my neck with soft, warm, gentle kisses, and whispered words…
And then he bites me.
I don’t know what happens when he sinks his teeth in, not hard enough to make me bleed, but hard enough that I go primal inside. It is like I could eat him and I could let him eat me, seriously chew chunks out of each other, although we don’t. I am covered with bruises though, as is he. God, I love it when he bites. I always bite back, an extreme combination of pleasure and pain that makes me go mindless and crazed. I love that place where there is no thought of right or wrong, no worry over should I or shouldn’t I.
“Stop,” he says, pulling my hair so that I am away from him. I’m sad he made me stop, irritated a little that right in the middle of our fun he stops it and makes me kneel, and so I kneel, waiting.
The storm is moving away, soft rumblings roll around above me. I can’t see the sky, but I can imagine how it looks, the deep gray clouds rolling over each other. I think about what is going on outside to keep my mind off of what is going on inside.
Adrian has gone in search of toys.
I’m not afraid of him, I’m not afraid of the pain…I’m afraid of what that pain makes me feel, like the biting, primal need swells through me, making me feel as if I will explode. In those moments I almost ask him to fuck me for real, but I don’t. I can’t. The thought of it makes me want to vomit. Does every girl feel that way the first time?
He enters the room and lays his collection of playthings off to the side on a bedside table that is out of sight. He moves to stand in front of me and presses his palm against my forehead, pushing my head back, forcing it back as far as my neck will let it go. I am left looking up at him, he bends at the waist and kisses me hard, still pushing my forehead, stretching my neck. The force he uses scares me…and excites me. I feel my primal beast rising, it hasn’t been that long since we were wrestling and biting, and my need is so close to the top.
“You’ll obey me?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He kisses me again, pulling my bottom lip between his teeth. He bites, and I taste blood but know he didn’t mean to bite that hard. I am certain the metallic taste in my mouth is as much a surprise to him as me, but he doesn’t stop sucking my bottom lip and soon, I am rocking on my knees, my clit wanting—no, demanding—that I touch it, but I don’t. I deny myself that pleasure even though he did not forbid me from touching myself as he sometimes does.
I deny myself because I don’t want the distraction from what he is doing to me.
“I want to slap you,” he says.
Oh God, it’s going to be one of those days. “Yes-s-s,” I hiss, and I realize how badly I want this.
There is no warning as his hand whips across my face. The sting comes quick and intense. I gasp. He doesn’t ask me if I am okay, I don’t expect him to. I know my safe word, and there isn’t a chance in hell that I’m using it. It takes too much effort to get him this worked up, and now that I have him here, I am in for the ride.
He knows how to play rough, and he does it very, very well. That was why I sought him out in the first place. I’d seen him at a BDSM demonstration with another man and as I stood there, drooling because I wanted him to punish me with the same intensity as he did the man in his demo, I knew I had to have him. From a friend I learned that he taught a rope bondage class and I went, volunteering to be a practice dummy even though I’d never been tied before. I wasn’t scared though, I’ve never been afraid of him.
I think he only took me up on the offer because I intrigued him. The weird girl with a shaved head and abs that made him envious. Nah, I don’t have to think it, he’s told me as much. He wanted to find out just what makes me tick.
I hope he’s figured it out, because I still don’t know.
He slaps me again, and my cheek blazes, but I barely have time to revel in it because he grabs me under the arms and tosses me on the bed.
“Touch yourself,” he commands.
I shake my head, but I don’t safe-word. He slides his naked body over mine and the warmth of his skin feels good even though I fear his erection between us. He won’t use me though it’s always there, the solidness of it throbbing between us when we play like this, and there’s always that moment when I think I’ll ask, but I can’t and so he doesn’t.
I close my eyes, knowing he seeks my gaze…I don’t want to look. He can talk me into almost anything with those eyes. He bites my cheekbone, actually holds on, not letting go until I open one eye to look at him.
Still holding he growls. “Touch yourself.”
I obey his command, sliding my hand between us, and I am embarrassed that he knows my fingers are touching my clit.
“Good boy, stroke your cock for Daddy.”
Oh God, he is really trying to push all of my buttons. I hate it when he calls my clit a cock. It’s humiliating enough knowing that I often have the thought in my head, but for him to acknowledge it aloud…it is just too much.
“You are mine, Toby.”
“Yes, Daddy, I’m your boy.”
“You’ll always be mine, even if you go to another, you will always be mine.”
I stroke my cli
t harder, wondering if he knows how hot his words are making me.
“Tell me that you belong to me, Toby.”
Holy fuck, not that. I haven’t let him collar me. All these years and I never have. Is that what he’s asking? “I’m your boy, Daddy. No one else’s…just yours.”
“Prove it,” he says, bending to bite my neck, sucking hard, making me hump my fingers harder. His hand slides between us, joining mine, his hand on top of mine. He whispers, “Come for me, baby.”
“Oh, fuck.” I feel my need peaking, I stroke one last time, sealing my fate. His fingers pull away as I hit the wall of pleasure hard, leaving my hand shaking over my clit, no longer touching myself. “Oh God, Adrian, please!”
“Tell me what you need, Toby.” His whisper is a rough growl of need.
“Jerk me off, Adrian,” I beg, knowing that he isn’t talking about this moment or the next. I know he wants me to forget that I might need someone, something other than him, other than what he can give me, and the honest truth is that I don’t know, so I say, “I want to come in your hand…not mine,” instead of looking deeper because this moment isn’t the time to face that.
“Do it, Toby. Come for me. You are going to jerk off, and you are going to do it now.”
I press my hand down, rubbing against my clit softly, but the peak of need is lost. “I can’t, it’s gone.”
He pulls away from me, leaving the bed. He stands and challenges, “Then I guess you’ll have to start over…I’ll watch.”
Chapter 9
Bianca
I wake up to the sound of rain hitting the windows and find myself wrapped in Bishop’s arms. For a few minutes before he realizes I am awake, I just look at him. He seems solid, confident, strong…even in sleep. I remember him asking me to spend the weekend with him just before we fell asleep. I told him I’d think about it, but I’m already trying to figure out a way to tell Jameson my change in plans.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
I look into his eyes and smile.
“You look deep in thought this morning,” he comments, rolling up onto an elbow to look down at me. “Regretting last night?”
I shake my head. “Not on your life. I think you promised me a weekend of luxury and sensual indulgence.”
He winks at me and says, “Then I guess I better get started on indulging you,” just before he disappears under the sheets. I feel the roughness of his cheek sliding down my belly and then a soft lick, just over my clitoris.
“Oh!” I jerk because it still hurts.
I try to kick free of the covers, because I want to see him, I want to watch him, but he obstinately remains hidden and his tongue dives between my labia, making me go wild. It hurts, pain shooting through my body; it feels so good my toes curl. I may die from sensation alone. I beg him to stop, but he doesn’t stop licking me even after I plead for mercy. I come quickly, thinking he will stop, but he tries his best to make me come again.
“Oh God, Bishop. Stop, stop!” I thrash and giggle. “I know my body! I can’t come again…not unless you are inside of me!”
He takes that not as a threat, but as an invitation to explore me with his fingers, stroking first through my wetness, then pushing inside…one, two, three fingers…he stretches me, making me realize that I am just as tender as last night. I cry out as he stretches all of my tender spots.
His fingers curl in and he methodically massages my g-spot, simultaneously licking my clit, matching the rhythm between fingers and come. My body reacts to the pleasure building sensory overload in the only way it can, giving him what he wants, and the orgasm that crashes over me and through me is the hardest I’ve ever had.
He whispers against my thigh, “Come to London with me.”
I gasp, still riding the final edges of pleasure that quakes through my body. “I can’t go to London!”
“You don’t have a passport?”
“Yes, I have a passport,” I answer, wondering how I can even consider going with him, but I am. Seriously considering. Because when he asked my heart leapt at the question, nervous need sped through my veins, a want, a need to go with him.
“Good,” he says.
I repeat, “Yes,” and he must take it to mean that I’ve agreed because he kisses my thigh before climbing out of bed, but I’m not sure what I meant or why I said it. I’m not seriously considering going, am I?
While Bishop showers and shaves, I call Jameson. He doesn’t answer the house phone so I call his cell, suspecting the boys have tucked the house phone beneath a cushion or under a bed…not malice…just kids being kids. He answers his cell on the first ring.
“Hi, baby,” I say.
“Hi.”
In just that one word I can hear the tiredness in his voice that usually comes after a Friday night with the boys, although he sounds even more flat than usual. “You sound exhausted.”
“Yes.”
“Tough night, huh?” I pace the hotel room, not certain what I’m going to say.
“Morning too,” he agrees.
I wonder at his shortness, but looking at a clock realize that it’s eleven-thirty, and my best guess puts Emma standing right beside him, listening to his every word.
“She’s there, isn’t she? Listening?”
He sighs heavily, and I take it for granted that he is relieved. By guessing I saved him from a round of twenty questions.
“All right, look, I won’t keep you. I just wanted you to know that I’m going to stay out this weekend. Would it make you terribly unhappy to entertain yourself?”
“That actually sounds wonderful. We’ll catch up Monday night then?”
My eyebrow goes up irritably. I expected a fight and that we aren’t fighting over this tells me something is up. Suspicion makes me bitchy. “I’ll probably swing by in an hour or so for an overnight bag. Think you can have your wife out of my house by the time I get there?”
“Sure, not a problem. I’m taking them to a movie.”
Nervously, I sit down and start plucking loose lint off the goose down comforter covering the bed. I ask, “Emma’s going with you, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” He goes back to his one-syllable answers.
Sarcastically, I say, “Fun afternoon for you then, good luck with that.”
He hangs up and I don’t feel slighted that he didn’t say goodbye because normally he feels bad that I insist on not saying it. I am upset that he didn’t ask what my plans entailed. He didn’t ask me for any details at all, which is highly unlike him. My frown deepens and I start to call him back when I glance up and see that Bishop is standing in the doorway, watching me. His short hair is still damp and his face freshly shaved. Wrapped in a towel, he looks like a man in his late twenties, instead of the late thirties I know him to be.
“Wow,” I say. “You look hot.”
“I look like a man who just added more stress to your very complicated love life.” He leans into the threshold, and I doubt that he is trying for the sexy pose, more likely the pose is just a result of the fact that he is so damn hot.
“Well, in that case, you are looking at the woman who is the master of complicated relationships.”
“So tell me, how do you manage to appease two men who both live in the same town?”
I tilt my head. “You really want to know?”
“I asked.”
“It definitely helps that we are all in polyamorous relationships. Every once in a while it gets messy, but we all have our fair share of drama, so we put up with each other’s shit a lot more than an average couple might.”
“No one’s sneaking around.”
He phrases it as a statement, not a question, so I answer, “Exactly,” adding, “Everything was a lot easier before Jameson left his wife to live with me. Now it tends to be one long battle.”
“Have you been seeing Jameson and Adrian long?”
“Long enough to have established a rhythm. I think we’re all in a certain level of comfort zone. I know which nights
belong to which man.”
He laughs. “Not completely stress free, obviously.”
I shrug and answer, “It’s manageable, and I believe they would say the same…except for those nights when we all want to attend the same function—and both men want to take me, making me choose. That’s nerve-racking!”
“I’ll bet it is. I assume you have a method for dealing with that madness as well?”
“I do, actually,” I answer with a smile, explaining, “Depending on which man is more important to the event itself decides who I go with. Like when Jameson was recently honored at an Educator’s National Convention, I went as his date, knowing that Adrian also would be there with his own date. That same scenario happened a few months later when Adrian received an award at a Leatherman’s Conference and I went with him as his date, leaving Jameson to figure it out.”
Bishop says, “So, he took his wife.”
“No. He went alone. His wife doesn’t know that he also dabbles in BDSM, so anything that has to do with whips and chains and naughtier things…big secret.” I shake my head, shrugging. I whisper, “I tell myself that isn’t my problem. I try to believe that.”
“How many secrets does he keep from his wife?”
“Too many.”
“And you’re okay with that?” he demands, and I don’t like his tone. Who is he to judge Jameson? He lifts his eyebrow, and I know he isn’t going to let this drop. I don’t answer him. Softly he asks, “How many secrets does he keep from you?”
I purse my lips thoughtfully before answering. I don’t want Bishop to think it doesn’t bother me that Jameson is so secretive with his wife, because it really has been a big note of contention throughout our relationship. The really unfair part is that I am being blamed for their separation, yet I’m her biggest advocate. I want him to respect her enough to be honest with her about everything. But none of that is any of his business, so I keep it simple, answering, “I don’t know,” and I realize how exhausted my answer sounds, so I add, “I hope I afford him an honesty he can’t have with his wife because she’s judgmental.” I shrug. “I also know he doesn’t tell me everything.”