31 Flavors of Kink

by Leia Shaw

  “The Little Drummer Boy” plays in the background for the fourth time.

  Nick makes an aggravated sound, then lunges for the stereo remote. I reach it first.

  “No.” I hold it behind my back. “Don’t change it.”

  His lips tighten. “I can’t take any more holly jolly, Sid. Do you want me to hang myself with Christmas garland?”

  A smile plays at the corner of my lips. “It’s only once a year.”

  He takes a step toward me, and I step back. His eyes narrow. My heart pounds.

  “Hand over the remote,” he says, low and dangerous.

  I shake my head, grinning now.

  He looks around the room and does a double take at my porcelain nativity set I’ve arranged on the table next to the couch. With an evil smirk he grabs the manger with little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay. I eye him suspiciously.

  He walks the few steps to the tiled hallway between the living room and kitchen and holds it up high in the air. “Hand over the remote, or baby Jesus gets it.”

  I gasp. “You wouldn’t!”

  “Oh, I would. This is what Christmas music does to me, honey. I’m not kidding around.”

  I stare at him, gauging the seriousness of his intent. He stares back, cold as ice. I sigh and shake my head. “I can’t believe you’re bringing baby Jesus into this,” I mutter. “Okay. I’ll put down the remote; you put down baby Jesus. On the count of three.”

  He nods and comes back to the living room.

  “One.” I lower the remote toward the coffee table. “Two.” He lowers baby Jesus. “Three.” When baby Jesus is safely on the table, I shove the remote down my shirt and run.

  He chases me. I’m laughing hysterically as I bolt up the stairs. He’s too close behind. I book it to the bedroom and try to slam the door, but he catches it. The next moment, he has me pinned face-up on the bed.

  He gazes down at me with his brows raised, but I see the smile in his eyes. “You hid the remote in your shirt? You think I won’t go down there and get it?”

  I struggle to get free, but he’s straddling my waist, and his hands are locked around my wrists, pressing them down above my head. He moves both my wrists into one of his hands, then lifts my shirt with the other. He pulls the remote out triumphantly as I pant and giggle.

  He tosses it aside and stares down at my exposed bra. His gaze darkens. I feel his growing erection against my belly. Oh no. I manage to wriggle one of my hands free, and I push him off me and squirm away. But he catches me and returns me to the position.

  He ducks his head down toward my breast, and I panic. I squirm in earnest now. Adrenaline courses through my veins. Like the flick of a switch, this is no longer a playful game between a husband and wife. Now I’m fighting for my life. I kick and scratch and try to buck him off.

  My voice gains a panicked edge. “No! Let me go!”

  Nick’s eyes widen, and he releases my arms. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

  I shake my head, unable to speak as I catch my breath. “Sorry. I just, um… Sorry.”

  He stands up. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I was just playing around. I didn’t mean to scare you. But shit, Sid, what was that? I thought you liked being held down.”

  “I did—I do. It’s just…” I sit up and fish for the right words. “I don’t know. That felt different.”

  Nick blows out a frustrated breath. “How am I supposed to know whether what I do makes you hot or scared?”

  Good question. I shrug. You’re just a fountain of helpful advice, my subconscious sneers. “I don’t know. I’m sorry—”

  “Stop apologizing!” he barks. Then he closes his eyes and sits back on the bed. “How could I scare you? I’m your husband. We’ve known each other for seven years. Don’t you trust me?”

  I stare down at my hands. “I don’t know. I mean, yes, I trust you but…” I take a step back mentally to figure out what happened. We were having fun. I’ve always liked to play wrestle. Then something snapped. His gaze darkened when he looked at my breasts. I thought he was going to try to bite them. “I think it was ’cause you looked like you were gonna attack my boobs.”

  “I was.”

  “Yeah. See? That freaked me out. You know how sensitive they are.”

  He frowns at me for a moment, then shoots off the bed. “Come with me.” He walks toward the door to the hallway.

  “What? Why?”

  “I want to try something. To see if we can get your nipples less sensitive.”

  Said nipples tighten in protest. I cover them with my arms. “What?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  Mostly. “Yes.”

  “Then come with me. I promise I won’t hurt you.” He gives me a lopsided smile. “Unless you want me to.”

  Just like that, the playfulness is back, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I give him my best sultry expression. “Well, I have been very naughty this Christmas.”

  His eyes widen; then he bursts out laughing.

  I scowl. “That wasn’t supposed to be funny! Those were my bedroom eyes.”

  When his chuckles fade, he points out the door. “Get your bedroom eyes downstairs, naughty girl, or the only thing you’ll get for Christmas is a lump of coal.”

  I meander slowly to the door, sashaying my hips seductively. “A riding crop.”

  “A what?”

  “I read a really hot scene about one. I’ll show you later.”

  He arches a brow and motions me forward. “Uh-huh.” He gives my ass a swat as I walk past. The lingering burn from it conjures up a little hope, a tiny bit of anticipation. At least he’s trying, but will I like what he has in mind?

  * * * *

  What the hell possessed me to agree to this?

  We have a support post right smack in the middle of our living room. It’s always been a nuisance. I look up at my arms stretched above me. What an understatement now.

  My wrists are cuffed together, then secured to the post with a rope. I’m naked, and Nick has just walked back in the room with a bowl from the kitchen and an evil look in his eye. He still has his clothes on, jeans and polo shirt, and the contrast is disturbing in some nerve-racking way. I yank, trying to free my arms. I’m good and stuck. If I want to hide my body from him, I can’t. My breasts are out there in plain view, exposed and vulnerable. A familiar tightness gnaws inside me, like a hundred little bugs scratching at me, begging to get loose. If things go wrong, I’ll panic again.

  “Relax,” he tells me, but the mischievous sparkle doesn’t fade from his eyes. “I won’t touch them with my mouth until you ask me to.”

  Yeah right. “If I don’t?”

  He lowers himself onto his knees and gives me a steady look. “Then I won’t.” With a smirk, he lifts an ice cube from the bowl. “But you will.”

  My eyes must be wide as saucers as I watch him approach my nipples with the cube. Futilely I lean to the side, trying to get away. The dull pain from the leather-lined handcuffs reminds me that I asked for this. I take a deep breath and remain still.

  The ice cube hits my nipple, and I gasp and flinch back. Goddamn, that’s cold.

  “Look at it, Sid. Look at how hard they are.”

  I look down and see my rosy pink nipples, firm and pointy like little targets for a curious mouth. I pull against the cuffs again. Oh please let him fulfill his promise not to touch them. He circles one nipple with the ice, and the water drips down my belly, leaving tingles in its wake. Then he moves to the other nipple. I’m surprised to feel a slight stirring between my legs. My mouth opens. Mesmerized, I watch his fingers only an inch away from me, my skin, my areola. The ice doesn’t hurt. And it definitely doesn’t tickle. Goose bumps dot along my breasts. A drop of water hangs from one nipple. I imagine his soft tongue licking it off, and I feel a rush of heat to my middle.

  Nick looks up at me, excitement brimming in the depths of his eyes. “I can warm them up for you. All you have to do is ask.”

  His warm mouth on my n
ipples. I shudder. The stirring between my legs becomes a little hotter, melting like the ice. If he put his fingers on my lower lips, would they come away wet?

  I never have thoughts like this.

  “Okay,” I rasp. “You can lick them.”

  The way he studies my breasts, as if wondering where to start, creeps me out a bit. Knotted with anxiety, with my very skin constricting, I stop breathing and clench my fingers. The handcuffs clink. But he doesn’t touch me. He exhales a warm breath, and heat swirls around my nipples, shooting through my body like hot little sparks.

  I moan and strain toward his mouth. “More.”

  He looks up at me. “Who’s in charge here?”

  I bite down on my lip to keep back a smart-ass remark. But he obliges me and blows hot air on the nipple. Then his tongue inches out, softly flicking the tip. First one, then the other. I can’t stop staring at him teasing me, his mouth near me.

  It’s so novel for this to be pleasurable, so wonderful, and every little tingle is mimicked below. My need rises to a fever pitch. He swirls his tongue around each nipple, warming me to my core. I squeeze my thighs together, and for once, the idea of him taking me inside his mouth and sucking is exactly what I want.

  After one last lick, he sits back and looks me over. His gaze heats me up as much as his tongue did. My breasts seem heavier, fuller.

  A sly smirk touches his face; then he rises. “I’ll be right back,” he says and disappears upstairs.

  Apprehension fills me. What is he doing now? My arms are starting to ache. I wriggle to get more comfortable, but it’s useless. I’m stuck until Nick finds it in his heart to release me. This thrills me at the same time as frightening me. I can always say “red,” I remind myself. It’s like a mantra now.

  Nick returns. He’s undressed and has the pink penis-shaped vibrator I call the Throbbinator and a bottle of lube. His erection is far more impressive than the plastic device, but my breath quickens as I watch him pour the lube on the vibrator.

  The awful memories of my past overwhelm me. Penis or vibrator—both equal pain and discomfort.

  “You’re not putting that in me, are you?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing.” Before I can protest again, he rubs it against my clit, and my muscles relax into the sensation. The rhythmic pulse is exquisite.

  With one warm hand clasping my waist, he steadies me. The romance novels speak of the smell of arousal. I understand now and lodge it in my memory. Even without sight I’d know Nick was here, beside me, wanting me.

  My clit swells, and I press my groin forward. Need rises. Delicious heat fills me.

  “Yes. That’s good.” I close my eyes as he slides it back and forth, coaxing my clit to engorge. So tight and slowly getting tighter, harder.

  Mmm…

  As the vibrator tip ventures an inch along my slit, I jump in surprise, then wiggle to dislodge it. “No,” I demand nervously. “Not in my lady parts.”

  The easy way it glides between my labia lets me know how wet I am. I’ve never, ever been like this. So… What’s the word they use in historical novels? Wanton. Yes, that. I suck in a breath.

  With a twist of the tip and a big push, it’s inside me. Gah! I didn’t expect it and immediately tense up. This is so foreign and strange. “Stop! Take it out!”

  Nick strokes a hand down my neck and soothes me. “Shh.”

  He adjusts the vibrator, moving it forward a bit until the bulbous base throbs on my clit as well as within. The way it buzzes on me, the tiny jiggling of my clit—I zero in on that intense feeling. It’s just right. My muscles clamp onto the hard plastic. My hips tilt in a primitive response. My neck tenses and I quiver, caught and waiting, waiting…

  Pleasure hits. I buck against the vibrator, pulling on my restraints. A strangled moan escapes my parted lips as a soft wave of heat ripples through my body.

  My panting subsides. Oh. My. God. I’ve orgasmed here—tied to a pole. Incredible.

  Nick slips out the vibrator, and I pout as the movement reawakens need. He uncuffs me, lays me on my back, and positions my aching body on the floor. With floppy arms and my shoulders still tired from being stretched above, I feel like a rag doll—his rag doll.

  The fog in my head lays a blanket over my thoughts, slowing everything down. He props his arms on either side of my shoulders, and I look up into his eyes and smile. Then his muscular thighs nudge mine open. But something evil escapes the dark place in my soul and pushes to the surface, gripping me with terror.

  “No!” I cry out.

  He freezes. “What?”

  “Sorry. Sorry.” I’m conflicted. I’ve never felt so good. I don’t want to stop. Yet…I can’t stop the fear. “Don’t ruin it,” I beg. “Please.”

  With a sigh he flips me over, and I instantly feel better. His body is heavy on mine, pushing me into the floor. The carpet is soft against my cheek.

  There’s laughter in his voice when he says, “Did you say ‘lady parts’?”

  “What?”

  “A few minutes ago, did you refer to your pussy as lady parts?”

  He’s bringing this up now? “Yeah, I guess.” He shoves his hand under my body and finds my clit. His finger lightly strokes it. “Ahh!” I dissolve into the floor.

  “You can do better than ‘lady parts.’ We’re getting down and dirty now. Say a dirty word for it.”

  Mmm. Is he talking? Why is he talking?

  Abruptly he stops moving and holds his finger on the tip of my clit. “Say it.”

  Sweat beads on my brow. “Say what? The p-word?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  He removes his hand. “Then I’ll stop right now.”

  I snort. “You can’t. I know you.”

  “Do you really want to test me?”

  Do I? One thing about Nick—he means what he says. And he doesn’t threaten idly. My lower body wants more. I ache and try to wriggle my crotch into the carpet, though his weight means I can’t do much. My heart beats a smidgeon faster when I feel his erection pressing along the divide of my backside. I sigh. “No.”

  “Then say it.” His hand strokes down my side and across my ass. My eyes drift shut as my muscles relax under his warm hand. “The dreaded p-word. What do you think will happen? God will smite you?”

  “Haven’t you heard, every time you say the p-word, a fairy dies?”

  “Say it,” he growls. He lowers his mouth to my ear and bites it.

  The jolt of pain makes me blurt, “Pussy.” Then the word and the bite somehow intertwine and run a streak of warmth straight down to my…yes, my pussy.

  “Good.” He shoves my thighs open and finds my slick center with his hand, cruises along, his finger just a tiny thrust away from entering. “And what do you want me to do to it?”

  His fingers circle my clit, slipping in my moisture and spreading it…around and around. This is so not fair. The answer slips through my lips. “Fuck it.”

  He gasps in mock horror. “Dirty girl!”

  “You made me!”

  He laughs, then lifts my hips and plunges into me, splitting me with his cock. I gasp and arch. The orgasm has left me so ready for this that one stroke is enough. I groan and tremble with anticipation, waiting for the next thrust, but he only shifts, rocking himself, pressing deeper inside. Perfect. I lie there, absorbed in feeling the pulse of him within me.

  Chapter Eight

  Sunday morning I wake up stiff and sore. I reach over to my bedside table to grab my cup of water, and a smudge mark on my skin catches my eye. I take a closer look. A nasty blue bruise decorates the top of my right wrist. I stare at it for a moment, shocked. How did—oh. Handcuffs. I was pulling hard, though I didn’t feel much pain at the time. An odd sort of fulfillment sweeps over me. I like this bruise—this proof that last night really happened.

  All day at work, I study my bruise out the corner of my eye. Like a newly engaged girl who can’t stop staring at her ring. In what dark, twisted place
do I exist?

  I shake my head. No. I’m psychoanalyzing myself too much. This bruise is a reminder of last night. My first orgasm at the hands of my husband. Putting my body in Nick’s care and trusting him to take care of it. Things I thought I’d never have. Why shouldn’t I be infatuated with the reminder?

  I’m so proud of my newest accomplishments. That night I write to the BDSM online forum. Some of the members I’ve had long conversations with. They feel like friends, though most of us live hundreds of miles apart from one another. They may not know my real name, but they know my deepest, darkest secrets—a strange combination of anonymity and vulnerability. But I’ve grown to trust them.

  I tell them about the ice, the vibrator, and my small orgasm. I brag about Nick’s performance. That even though he started too hard with the belt a few days ago, he backed off when I told him to. He proved that I could trust him. But mostly I tell them that we had a great time.

  A few encouraging and congratulating responses come through and warm my heart. I shop online for a while, browsing for Christmas presents. An hour later, I visit my group again, eager to read more encouragement. I blink, shake my head, then blanch at the new comments.

  “Topping from the bottom isn’t true submission.”

  “She’s playing at the lifestyle, not fully committed to it. Someone is going to get hurt.”

  “She’s admitted her husband isn’t really into it. A dominant personality can’t be created. You either are one, or you’re not. A friend who tried pushing her husband into being a Dom ended up divorced.”

  “Sounds like he’s just going along with what she wants so he can get laid. He’s resentful she has all these new needs; that’s why he’s spanking her too hard. The man sounds a nasty piece of work.”

  “Just because he spanked you doesn’t make him a Dom. It’s stupid to think so.”

  What the hell? My face heats in anger, my good mood crushed to pieces, along with my confidence. I slam the laptop shut and gnaw on my nails. Mentally I give them all the finger.

  Suddenly I’m not really submissive because I tell him my preferences and ask him to stop when I’m scared? Well, maybe I don’t want to be submissive. Maybe I just want him to tie me up once in a while. Maybe I like topping from the bottom.