by Sacchi Green
There were no words, no thoughts. Only heat. Like a fish, I gulped in air, but it only scorched my lungs. At her mercy, I burned. Her tongue was a cruel mistress. Distantly I heard myself begging for more of her rough tongue with its power to strip away everything that wasn’t this agony of pleasure.
I would have faced the fires of hell to keep her mouth on me like this for all eternity. But I wasn’t that strong. My body quaked as the orgasm rushed through me. Like a tidal wave it quenched all that heat, leaving nothing in its wake but the smoky remains of desire.
I lay there spent, in a daze. When my eyes could focus again, I saw cracks on the walls. As I came around, Amira was standing at her broken windows, looking at the street down below. There were car alarms and sirens.
Fear descended on me. “What happened?”
When Amira turned to me, her eyes were round like big, dark universes. “I think you broke the building.”
“Oh no, no, no, no, no . . . ” I stuttered.
Then she laughed. “I’m just fucking with you. It doesn’t look that bad.” She tiptoed her way back to bed around broken glass. “Looks like we had ourselves a little localized earthquake.”
“No one’s hurt?”
She shook her head. “My apartment took the brunt of it.”
I hung my head. “I am so, so sorry.”
Amira scoffed. “It’s a rental. Be sorry all you want as long as we get to do that again.”
Then I was back in her arms, and she was once again stoking the fires inside me.
Since then, I’ve become the one people turn to instead of turning to despair. I’ve made the earth and air tremble. I’ve changed land formations forever. I’ve fought in wars. I’ve saved lives. I’ve seduced women. But it all began, I began, with Amira and that night.
THE LADY INVENTORS’
CLUB OF KINK
Andrea Dale
My mistress is part of an elite club of women, all engineers and scientists and programmers. They share one other interest: lesbian BDSM, as creative as their wicked minds can make it.
To that end, they formed The Lady Inventors’ Club of Kink. They challenge each other to invent ever more devious and torturous devices and toys, and hold quarterly parties to show them off.
Build a better mousetrap? Oh yes they can, especially when it comes to designing one that will snap cruelly on a sub’s tender nipples without warning. Possibly by remote control.
The theme of tonight’s party is Animals.
No actual, living animals will be a part of it, of course. Kink means consensual. Leather is allowed; real fur is not. But other than that, the theme is, as always, open to interpretation.
My mistress is hosting the party this time. Her estate is the lady inventors’ club of kink outside Silicon Valley, in the hills, with a wall of windows affording breathtaking views of the glittering city below. The main floor is open plan with high, beamed ceilings, and tonight the furniture is arranged around the perimeter so that there’s space for the demonstrations and displays.
Her housekeeper and chef have the night off; the hors d’oeuvres are made and the submissive girls will serve those and the drinks.
My job, of course, is to answer the door and usher the guests in.
I can greet the guests only with a polite bow and my hands extended for any coats, because my mistress has already fitted me with a bit gag. Other than the tasteless, brown silicone bit in my mouth, the rest of the gag is made of brown leather and chrome rings, and the rich smell of the leather fills my senses.
Soon I’ll smell my own sweat and juices . . . if I’m lucky.
I know my mistress has been hard at work on her device for tonight. I’m aware, roughly, of what it’s like, because she’d needed to fit it to my body. She likes to win in all things, including these party challenges, and that usually means a win for me.
In deference to the theme, my blonde hair is in two high pigtails, and a small, jaunty red cowboy hat perches between them. A Western shirt, white with red embroidery, skims my upper thighs; I’m not wearing anything underneath. My red cowboy boots click smartly on the slate entrance tiles.
Given all that, I’m guessing pony play is in my near future. While it’s not my favorite variation, anything that involves bondage and teasing and a little pain excites me beyond belief. My pussy lips are already slick with moisture, my clit growing fat with erotic tension.
Many of the other subs are also erotically and inventively costumed, although some simply arrive naked. The gated estate is private, and the night is warm.
There’s a cat girl in ears and whiskers and a black PVC bodysuit, which has cutouts for her nipples and crotch, as well as metal rings in various places—to bind her to something, to bind toys to her.
Another girl is wearing a long, elaborate black-and-yellow bird beak over her nose. Her eyes twinkle as she lifts her head so I can see beneath the beak. It’s also a gag, and her mouth is smiling around it. Strategically placed feathers tickle her reddened, peaked nipples.
Yet another is wrapped in white gauze, only her eyes and nose visible. The bandages go down to her upper thighs, so she can walk to the house. There are some unusual lumps on her back, beneath the stretchy white fabric. She’ll be fully mummified before the night is out, I imagine, but I wonder what that has to do with any animal.
When everyone has arrived, the games begin.
Some of the inventions had been delivered earlier, uncrated and assembled and covered with pristine white sheets. I’ve seen none of them, and I assume most of the subs haven’t, either. Not every Lady Inventor created a large device, of course.
I was right about the girl wrapped in gauze. She lies on a large, padded table in the middle of the room, and her mistress continues wrapping gauze around her legs and around the table in various places, pinning her to the padding. The mistress explains that her sub is wearing a remote-control clit vibe, and then performs some breath play on her while adjusting the vibe controls. When the sub can’t breathe, she quivers, her hips thrusting as she tries to come, but can’t.
The mistress releases her, allowing her to stand. “Behold, from the chrysalis emerges the butterfly.” She cuts the gauze away. Now we can all see a harness strapped to her back, the straps around her hips that hold the vibrator in place, and the sparkling, jeweled rings in her nipples.
The sub, sweaty but smiling, spreads her arms and grasps the upper bars of the X-frame on the wall. She doesn’t need to be restrained; she obeys all commands. As her mistress paddles her, every time she arches her back, the motion triggers the harness. We watch in fascination as butterfly wings, lush with jewel-tone colors, grow with each jerk of her body. Finally her mistress turns the remote up to high and lets the sub come, and as she does, the giant wings flutter as if she were taking flight—and in some ways, with her grateful orgasm, she is.
The cat girl, her hands encased in paw-shaped mittens, is made to parade on hands and knees. Chains run from a belled collar around her neck to the clamps on her nipples, tugging the sensitized buds as she moves. When her mistress slides a butt-plug cat tail into her, she arches her back, pretending to knead the floor. Finally, she’s made to stand, her wrists cuffed and attached to a hook in the ceiling, her stance widened with a spreader bar, her nipple clamps removed.
Now her mistress dons needle-sharp claws, which she grazes along the girl’s flesh, making her gasp and wriggle. Then she traps the sub’s nipples between the evil, pricking claws. Two more mistresses assist, one jiggling the butt plug while another presses a Hitachi wand to the sub’s clit.
I know this sub. She loves to come, any time, any place, and usually can do so at her mistress’s command—which her mistress now commands her to do. But I guess her predicament: when she comes, she will writhe and jerk, and those vicious claws will sink into her nipples, which are already tender from the clamps. It’s horrifyingly amusing and arousing to watch her struggle to stay still while orgasming.
Then it’s my turn.
>
Again, I have some vague ideas about my mistress’s device, but she blindfolded me before finishing adjusting it to my body, so I had no idea what it looked like.
Or what it could do.
I knew it was something padded that I bent over, cradling my torso as I rested on my hands and knees. There were cutouts for my breasts to fit into, so they dangled down, easily reached, and there was some kind of additional, removable piece at the other end that supported a dildo but left my clit and ass otherwise accessible.
Now, I gasp around the bit in my mouth at the sight of the device. It is a beautiful, carved rocking horse, fashioned out of pale wood. My head will rest in a groove in its head. Its saddle is shaped from a soft, dark-brown leather cushion along its back.
Mistress has me remove my shirt and boots. Then she attaches blinders to my head, so like a racehorse, I can see only forward. I’m trembling with nerves and neediness by the time she says, “On you go, darling.”
I drape myself over the horse, adjusting my breasts into the holes, settling myself until I’m comfortable. Of course, “comfort” is a tricky word in this type of situation. Mistress doesn’t want me unduly harmed, and wants me secure so that our scene can go on longer.
Once I’m ready, cuffs attached to the horse’s legs near the bottom are strapped around my wrists. She places a buzzer in my right hand and assures me that I can press it in case of emergency, since I can’t speak. Then Mistress moves behind me, where my spread legs rest along the outside of the horse’s hind legs. She smooths a hand over my ass as if she were caressing a skittish horse’s flank, and I make a snuffing noise, hoping that it’s appropriately horse-like.
“Good girl,” she coos, and I flushed with pleasure.
I hear some clicks and the sound of wood against wood; obviously she is affixing the extra piece. Then she says, “Raise your hips, darling,” and I do, and when she tells me to lower them, I feel the tip of a dildo slide between my slick pussy lips. It doesn’t go in as far as I want it to—just nestles inside, about halfway in, frustrating and tantalizing—and I can’t stop clenching around it, as if I could draw it farther inside me with my vaginal muscles alone.
Mistress chuckles, buckles cuffs around my thighs, then tugs a strap around my waist so I can’t hump my hips. The plaintive mewl I make sounds more like a kitten, as my bondage predicament settles into my brain.
I hate being restrained. I love being restrained. I hate being on display. I love being on display. I hate being teased, especially in front of onlookers. I hate being told I’m not allowed to come when I’m desperate to, and I especially hate having orgasms in front of everyone; that’s humiliating. And I love all that, too, including, bizarrely, the humiliation. The dichotomy of everything is what fuels my submissiveness, and Mistress knows how to play off of it all.
I’m sure my juices are already dripping down the dildo, staining the wooden base. When Mistress reaches beneath to pluck at my nipples, she isn’t surprised to find them crinkled and hard. I already knew they were, without looking; I can feel them throb in time with my neglected clit.
I wriggle a little at her touch, wanting more, harder, yes, please, even though I can barely move.
Mistress laughs softly again, and I hear another thunk-click of a lever of some sort. Then she reaches beneath again and rakes her fingernails across my sensitive buds.
This time, when I wriggle, the horse moves: it rocks a tiny bit, just like a rocking horse should.
A squeal escapes my lips—when the horse rocks, the dildo moves.
“Now she understands,” my mistress says, addressing the assembled guests. “When the horse rocks forward, the dildo pulls almost all the way out. When the horse rocks backward, it thrusts all the way in. Thus.”
She pushes on the horse, sending it into motion. I moan through the gag as the dildo fucks me, and moan again when, after a few back-and-forths, Mistress makes the horse still.
I’m already so aroused that I’m sure just a few more thrusts would give me my release. I’m also sure that won’t happen for some time—or if it does, that still won’t be the end of things.
Mistress comes around in front of me to show me what’s in her hand, and my eyes widen. I moan, “No,” around the bit, but the safety buzzer in my hand remains silent. I don’t want this (do I?), but I can’t refuse my beloved mistress.
I’d known as soon as she put the blinders and bit gag on me that pony play of some sort would be involved. But I’d allowed my brain to block out the truth, the obvious fact that where there were blinders and a bit, there would be a tail. Even when I’d watched the cat girl submit to the humiliation of her tail being eased deep into her rectum— her eyes closed, an expression of combined bliss and embarrassment on her face—I’d refused to think further, to connect the dots.
I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks as someone else— because Mistress is in front of me—drizzles lube on my asshole and then massages it in, first one finger, then two. Another mistress? A sub?
The tail is long and graceful, pale blond. The horse and I, we are a Palomino. The plug . . . I know better than to close my eyes and refuse to look at it. The plug isn’t large, but it is flanged to stay in, and it isn’t just the plug, it’s the tail, too, and I tremble.
My mistress moves back behind me, and fucks me gently in the ass with the plug until I am open enough to accept it popping in. “Good girl,” she says again, and rocks the horse back and forth, the dildo fucking me, as a reward.
Again, she stops too soon.
My heart pounds—every beat of it sends pulsing throbs through my nipples, my clit, my ass, even my cunt, which twitches, half-empty and fully needy.
“I’m sure you all want to inspect my invention,” she says to the onlookers. “Let’s have some champagne and hors d’oeuvres, and anyone who wants to try her out, can. You know the rules.”
They are allowed to touch me anywhere. They are allowed, with specific request, to paddle me or spank me. They are allowed to tease me mercilessly.
They are not allowed to let me come. Only she has that authority.
Meanwhile, I am on humiliating, horny display.
My nipples are pulled, pinched, twisted. The cat girl’s mistress even catches them between those wicked needle claws. I hold my breath, my pussy fluttering helplessly around the part of the dildo inside me.
When I am spanked, the horse rocks, until I don’t know whether I want the spanking and rocking and fucking to stop or continue.
I have no idea how long this goes on. I’m a mess of desperate desire, my thoughts jumbled, my body sensitized and focused.
Through the haze, I hear Mistress’s voice again. “I think we’ve tortured our plaything enough tonight, don’t you, ladies?” She leans down to me, kisses the tip of my nose, and says, “I’ll get you started out of the gate, darling, but it’ll be up to you to bring home the purse.”
And with that, she pushes the rocking horse, gets it going at a good, strong clip, and then steps back. “Go.”
I understand. Once I have that momentum, I can throw my body back and forth along with the horse, keeping it going. Can I continue long enough to fuck myself to orgasm? I have to . . .
Oh god. I’m struggling to come amidst the crowd, their oohs and ahhs and encouragement and commentary filling me with humiliation, which in turn spurs me on as if a jockey with spurs rides me.
I have no idea if I am whinnying like a horse or squealing like a pig or just keening with need.
I’m close, so close, and so desperate. I fling my body back and forth, fling the rocking horse back and forth as hard as I can to drive that dildo into me, to fuck myself with it. I can hear the wet squelches as it drives in and out of me.
Please . . .
When the pressure builds, I almost lose the rhythm. I balance on the fine line between needing to stay focused and needing to let go.
Then, in my mind’s eye, I imagine a finish line before me, imagine I am a nose ahead in the race, and j
ust need one last burst of speed.
As my mental body breaks the tape, my orgasm breaks.
For an impossibly long moment, I freeze, and then I am screaming through the bit and shuddering and helpless as the rocking and the dildo urge every final pulse out of me.
Mistress places a wreath of roses around my neck.
PROVE IT ON ME
Cara Patterson
The office is too hot, and the fan whirls with a rat-a-tat. It’s too hot for a smoke, even with the window wedged high and the shutters brought low. The wallpaper peels down in strips, like a parcel half-unwrapped. The walls underneath are yellow. Smoke or water or both. Enough to keep the rates low.
Jack pushes her hair back from her brow.
It’s too damned hot for making trouble, and as always, that’s when trouble always comes knocking.
The stranger steps on in. He stops, like they always do, frowning. Jack knows she ain’t no Sheba. In a suit, she passes, but with her smooth chin, she looks young as a kid.
“Are . . . are you Mr. Parker?”
She rises. “Jack Parker.”
He says his name is Marshall. Jack surveys him. Fifties, solid, fine cut to his suit. Come from money, then, and with plenty to eat and drink. Another look catches cracked veins on his nose. Too much to drink.
She leans back in her seat. “So what brings you here?”
The man is sweating, sending his white shirt gray. “I’m told you’re good at finding people.”
Jack inclines her head. “It happens. Who you looking for?”
He pulls a beat-up photograph out of his pocket. “My daughter. She got in with a bad crowd, Mr. Parker. Gone two weeks ago now; she ran off. Took her things and disappeared.”
Jack takes the photograph. She’s a regular girl, plain-faced and fair with a button-down blouse. Like any good little poppa’s girl.
“How old is she?”
“Going on nineteen and stubborn as a mule.” He takes a kerchief out of his pocket and wipes his forehead. “I’m a good Christian man, Mr. Parker. I can’t just sit by and let her go down that road.”