31 Flavors of Kink

by Leia Shaw

  His eyes narrow. “Are you laughing at me?”

  I bite my lip and shake my head, but it only makes the laughter more obvious. “I…I ca…can’t help it.” I giggle some more until he swipes me with the doubled-over belt, twice. After a squeal, I stop giggling. “Okay! Okay! I won’t laugh!” I bite down on my bottom lip. “I’ll just grin. You sure you’ll be able to…perform, after that?”

  He puts the belt down to my right and picks up the spatula and turns it slowly, inspecting it while we stand hip to hip. If this is the end of playtime, I guess I can stand it, though my pussy throbs and I’m so wet the stickiness has reached my thigh.

  “I’m sorry I laughed. Are you okay?”

  “Honey.” He looks sideways at me. Somehow his expression conveys both dark seriousness and amusement. “You just earned yourself extra punishment.”

  “What?” I don’t know if the idea thrills me or scares me.

  “How are your hands?”

  “Um. Fine.” He’s not letting me go? I eye the spatula. The flat blue end on it looks promising. I can’t help doing a tiny wiggle.

  Confidence back in his stride, he goes to the fridge. I hear the slide of the vegetable drawer opening, then closing.

  “Nick! Whatever’s in there is for eating. Not…not…”

  A grin plastered across his face, he returns and pokes me.

  Cold!

  “Stop! Nick!” I dodge, laughing, as best I can, but the thing—which turns out to be a cucumber—gets applied to my belly and breasts. He holds me down and slips it along my cleft. “Nick!” He better be joking about where that is going.

  “I can’t put it inside your wet little pussy? Stick out your ass.”

  I do the opposite. I tuck in, attempting to shield myself from him and his…evil salad ingredients. He steps away and smacks me with the spatula right on the crease of my thigh and cheek.

  “Ow!”

  His hand gripping my hip also has the cucumber, but at least the vegetable has warmed a bit and is a long way from any orifices. My giggling and wiggling return as he lays a series of fiery smacks all over my butt. There will be marks left, I’m sure. By the umpteenth smack, I’m going hazy, and I arch my back, seeking that odd fusion of pain and pleasure that sits there waiting for me.

  Another few swats and he swipes his fingers along my folds, moves some inside, deep, then slips them out and in with my moisture.

  “You’re soaked down here,” he says distantly, painting my skin with coolness. I don’t care at all, lost in a foggy land where all is right.

  No more smacking. I lean on my forearms as he makes me move my stomach away from the counter. I feel him get down between my legs. There’s a thump as maybe his back hits the cupboard door; then his broad hands are on my thighs, parting me. Heat engulfs my clit.

  “Ohh.” I moan and push into his mouth, still with my elbows braced in the sink. My flesh is infused with fire and lust and wet molten lava that seeks out my little clit. It pumps up, filling. Blood. Hotness. Delicious slippery tongue.

  The cucumber probes at my entrance. I gasp and squeeze my legs together. “Nick! This isn’t funny anymore!”

  His laughter is pure evil. “Oh yes it is.”

  I’m in a panic now, pulling furiously to free my arms. I’m going to lodge a vegetable in his ear if he—

  Then he pushes it up, up inside until I feel as if I’ll burst. Fuck! I can’t believe he did it.

  “Nick! Take it out right now or I’ll—”

  A slow vibration startles me to a stop. Wait. A vibrating cucumber? “Wha…?”

  With a strangled chuckle, Nick plops the cucumber next to me in the sink. The Throbbinator is in me.

  I huff. “Very funny. I so hate you right now. Just wait until I get loose.”

  He grips my clit in teeth, and again my rant is cut off. Coldness wars inside with warmth, making me more aware of precisely where he’s put the vibrator. The buzzing rumbles through my flesh to where his teeth and tongue are playing. Nibbling, sucking, and flipping that sensitive part of me from side to side like some appetizer. Mmm—nice. But cold. Cold?

  “Why is the vibrator cold?” My words come out thick and slow. His tongue deserves a Nobel Peace Prize. Maybe I can forgive him.

  “I hid it in the fridge.”

  The fridge? A vibrator in my fridge? I swallow my next protest. His tongue, the vibrations, and the strange coldness are together doing glorious things. Complaints can wait. I open my mouth, lower my eyelids, and part my legs farther. He slides the vibrator out to the very tip, then back in, splitting me.

  In and out, lick, wriggle of wet tongue, and then I come and come, hurtling into white space. My legs and tummy jerk as I moan at the exquisite explosion of my senses. I settle, slowly, falling almost into the sink with my head lying on my wrists. I pant and recover, listening to the slithery metal sounds of a zip undoing and then the shuffle of Nick shedding his clothes.

  “Now,” he whispers huskily at my ear, his hands on my shoulders. “I get to perform.”

  At the first prod of his cock at my pussy, I curve my lower back. He slips one of his hands around my chest to cup my breast, while he flattens the other across my tummy, urging me outward until I’m stretched out and exposed. Now he can take me easily. He does so with a single thrust that slides straight in, on target, making me gasp at the sudden fullness. Then a smooth withdrawal—going, going, and gone. I’m empty and aching.

  “Mmm.” I whimper and wriggle. He drives back in, hot and fast and devastating, slapping into my butt and jarring me forward. Fire flares to life where the belt and spatula hit me.

  “Ahh…” The sound eases timidly from my lips.

  Nick chuckles and bites the side of my neck, clamping down with teeth as he speeds up the tempo of his thrusts. Faster, harder, shaking me to the core.

  I surrender to him, wanting all he can give, giving all that he can take. My legs tremble and wobble. More thrusts and I’m pure melted muscle, breathing hard, hair over my face and the pajama rope bouncing and jerking each time Nick slams in and pulls out.

  Just when I think I’m happiest, he slows and fumbles for something on the counter. Half-dazed with pleasure, I spot the Throbbinator disappearing downward. It buzzes to life, and Nick places it over my clit. He resumes his thrusts, steadier now. My clit engorges. One second it’s barely there, but now, oh my God, it’s standing up and begging. More, please, more!

  Tension builds within, blossoming stronger. I groan and drag in air. My nipples bunch tighter in the cool air, and the heat in my butt burns higher. I’m pinioned between the humming on my clit, the blunt ram of his cock into my tunnel, the ties on my wrists. The fires spread, twist into one, and tighten. I moan again as my body locks in place, focusing down, thighs straining. Bliss erupts and tumbles through me. Head down, I cry out, shuddering while the orgasm wreaks havoc on my overpleasured body. My knees cave.

  Nick doesn’t let me fall. With his arm wrapped under my breasts and a hand at my hip, he thumps his cock up into my still-spasming sheath. Jammed against my ass, he groans and comes.

  Gasping, trembling, I wait with my head on my arms, in the heavenly state that arrives after ecstasy. Time flows past.

  When he undoes the ties, I smile sideways at him. But I can’t bear to move yet and spoil the feeling.

  For a minute or two, he’s busy cleaning and disposing of the condom. He gathers our clothes, then kisses my cheek and says, low and sexy, “Are we having cucumber salad this year?”

  “You are so dead,” I croak.

  He snickers and bumps me with his hip, laying his arm over my back and pulling me close. “That’s why I love you. All those sweet things you say.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Three weeks. It’s been three weeks since that delightful experience in the kitchen. I’ll never look at our kitchen—or a cucumber—the same way again. We had sex—glorious, wonderful, mind-blowing sex—in our pretty, pristine kitchen.

  I frown, staring at
the sink where I orgasmed holding on to the faucet. Three weeks ago. And nothing since then. I unload the dishwasher, thinking while I put the dishes and cutlery away. The house has been quiet as a tomb since Nick entered busy season at work. It started right after the holidays. He works late almost every night, comes home exhausted, and goes right to bed. I feel like a lapdog begging for a scrap of his master’s attention.

  Initiating sex got me nowhere last night. He pushed me away with a remorseful frown, promising it was only because he was so tired. Still, I can’t help feeling the little sting of rejection.

  After the dishes are away, I make myself another frozen dinner and sit in front of the TV to eat alone. I’ve thrown away so much food lately. Tossing everything in the garbage when I’ve spent two hours cooking gets old fast.

  Our exciting descent into BDSM feels like a memory now. Inside, I know I’m being dramatic. It’s only been three weeks, not three decades. But I crave it. My body is tense and needs release. I pour myself into my erotic novels, but it’s not the same. Even using the vibrator on myself doesn’t do it for me. I need Nick.

  But obviously he doesn’t need me. I sigh and poke at my pasta primavera. Insecurity should be my middle name.

  The door opens, and Nick walks in with a smile. He drops his briefcase on the floor. “Hi, hon. Came home a little early.”

  I look at the clock. It’s seven. Earlier than nine, yes, but he used to get home by five thirty. He plops down next to me on the floor, where I’m force-feeding myself the tasteless dinner.

  He looks down at my food. “Have you been eating this crap every night?”

  I shrug. “Well, I’m not going to cook a whole meal just for myself.”

  “I’m sorry, honey.” He leans in and breathes on my neck.

  He stinks like alcohol. I pull away. “Have you been drinking?”

  “I went to happy hour.” He takes my hand and brings it to his lips. He puts my pointer finger in his mouth and sucks on it, nipping the tip.

  I’m reeling from his admission. Happy hour? I yank my finger away. “You’ve been going to happy hour while I’ve been sitting here alone eating frozen dinners the last three weeks?”

  “No. This was only the second or third time. And it’s part of the business, Sid. I’m expected to socialize with the CEOs outside of the office now and then. It’s how I’ll land a promotion. You know this.”

  “At what cost?” I want to cry. In anger. In frustration. And because my dinner tastes like shit. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He rubs his hand across his face. “It’s not a big deal.”

  It is to me, I want to tell him. We need time together, and he also needs to work. I know that. Somehow the balance has slipped too far the wrong way. I shuffle ideas about in my head but shelve my plan to ask him to slow down and reevaluate. Tomorrow will do. Arguing feelings and facts with someone on an alcohol buzz is as useful as discussing philosophy with a dog.

  He looks at my uneaten dinner. “Are you done? Come to bed. I’ll make it up to you.” Rising to his knees, he practically crawls up me while I lean away. He plants a quick kiss on my lips, then pulls me to stand.

  When he tugs on my hand, I let him lead me to the bedroom, depositing my plate in the kitchen as I go past. Am I so sex-starved I’ll do this while I’m mad at him? In the bedroom, he unbuttons my jeans, and I sigh. Shameful, Sidney. Shameful.

  Briefly, I wonder if I should let him tie me up in his condition. But it doesn’t matter because, I realize a moment later, he’s not planning to anyway. Unclothed now, he’s already erect, and he has that gleam in his eye that means he’s ready. And he doesn’t seem to care that I’m not.

  He herds me toward the bed, then runs his hands up my hips to my breasts. His hungry gaze heats me, but it’s not enough. When he fingers my nipples, I pull away.

  “Honey.” I grab his wrists when he starts to stroke my thigh. “I can’t do vanilla, remember?”

  His lips tighten, and I can tell he’s frustrated. “Okay,” he says crisply. Then he pushes me facedown on the bed.

  He gathers my wrists behind my back and pins them there. But it doesn’t feel right. He’s rushing. Or irritated. He’s not into it, and it just feels wrong.

  I open my mouth to say so, but his slap on my backside cuts me off. Definitely wrong. I get nothing from this. He slaps me again. Not hard. I’m not worried for my safety, but emotionally this is breaking me. He doesn’t want BDSM. He wants plain sex. That message is just about stamped on his forehead.

  “Stop!” I squirm to get out of his hold. He releases me, and I flip over, panting. “This isn’t working. You don’t want it like this, do you?” Though my words are sodden with hope, I know the answer.

  His face droops in disappointment. Flopping onto the bed next to me, he mumbles, “It’s so much work.”

  My eyes water, and my head aches, but I hold back the tears. We’re back to that again. It isn’t as much of a blow this time. I expected it. With a discouraged sigh, I get up and pull on my clothes. Nick doesn’t move from the bed. He lies back and covers his face with his arm.

  This isn’t utterly new or anything, I remind myself. Last year work got crazy too. And Nick has trouble resisting when the guys want to go out for drinks. And why should he? He deserves time to kick back and relax. Am I being unreasonable? Now I’m not so sure I’m in the right. With one last glance, I say softly, “I’m going to finish my dinner. I’ll be up to bed later.”

  He nods, and I leave him behind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You’re not working late on Valentine’s Day, are you?” I ask Nick at breakfast Saturday morning, idly stirring my spoon in the milk and cereal left in my bowl. It’s only three days before the holiday.

  He shakes his head. “I’ll try to make it home on time.”

  I smile, hope rising in my chest. “Are we going out? I can book a restaurant?” I’ve already bought something to give him, but I want something we can do together.

  His brow furrows. “For Valentine’s Day?” He snorts derisively. “Stupid holiday. Do I really need to buy you overpriced flowers and novelty gifts once a year so you know I love you?”

  In my disappointment I mumble, “Sometimes it’s fun to get flowers and novelties once in a while.”

  It may be a made-up holiday designed to get us to buy stupid gimmicky stuff, but it is only once a year, and I so need some demonstration of love. I’m feeling lost. We used to at least go out to dinner. Have we gotten that stale? After only five years? My chest tightens in anger. No sex for a month. We barely see each other. Now, on the one day a year set aside for romance, he wants nothing to do with it. What the hell happened? Something has come between us. Could this all be because of BDSM?

  For the first time in our relationship, I’m beginning to doubt his faithfulness. Deep inside me, something is weeping as sadness tears at my soul. But ultimately it’s anger that surfaces.

  I take a deep breath. “You obviously don’t need any romance, but what about me? Do you even care what I want? We’ve only been married five years, and you’re giving up on romance? What are we going to do after twenty? Will we even be talking then?” My anger grows in my rant, and I’m yelling now. He watches me with wide eyes. Good. I have his attention. “I’m tired of being ignored. And I’m tired of being told my sexual needs are too much work. I’ve never felt so connected to you as I have the last couple months. If you really cared about me, you’d want to give me that as much as possible, not complain about it. If you really loved me, you wouldn’t act like”—I’m sputtering, and the words don’t come fast enough—“like…an ass!”

  A storm brews in his eyes, and I know his yell will be just as loud as mine. “I do care. But I’m too busy earning a living—so you can buy hundreds of books on your Kindle, by the way—to worry about a day when Hallmark says I have to buy my wife a gift that she’ll never use!”

  “What? You think you’re the only one who works in this house?”

 
He gives me a patronizing look I despise. “A few piddly hours in a bookstore for minimum wage doesn’t count.”

  I gasp in outrage. How dare he put down my career! Like I’m inferior because I have no interest in climbing the stupid corporate ladder. “Fuck you.”

  I slam down my fork and push away from the table, knocking my chair over as I leave. I let it remain on the floor, an illustration of my rage.

  * * * *

  The next day, Nick tries to apologize for the insult about my job, but it only stirs my anger again. I hate the burden of carrying around anger, and the hurt in his eyes haunts, but I turn away and ignore him. All day I berate myself. Anger and confusion and guilt sit in a lump in my stomach, so bad I can’t even eat. I can’t take much more of it. I decide to make up that night. He comes home late again and tired. When he climbs into bed I shuffle across on my knees and grin tentatively down at him. Inside I’m quailing. Did I mess up too much yesterday?

  “What?” Already his eyes are half-closed. The flat tone and single raised eyebrow convey both suspicion and resignation. Does he think I’m about to start the argument again?

  “Peace talk. Turn over. I’ll give you a back massage while we talk.” This is my infallible truce flag. Back massages are my specialty.

  “Sid…” He sighs. “I’m exhausted. Not tonight. Go to sleep.”

  I sink down onto my heels, dismayed. He never says no to massages. “Nick. We need to sort out your…” I can’t say work commitments. Too technical and it makes me sound like some sort of critic.

  “My what? My work? It is what it is.” He pats my thigh, then shuts his eyes. “Sleep. I love you, but go to sleep.”

  I stare at him, then my fingernails for a while, before sliding back to my side of the bed and wriggling under the covers. He’s never been so unreachable. I cram a pillow over my head to hide my tears.

  The following morning, he showers, dresses, then snatches a piece of fruit for breakfast, ignoring the huge plate of toasted waffles I’ve cooked for him so I can get him to sit still long enough to talk…or mumble around his mouthful of waffles at least. Though he does a double take at the sight of the waffles, he doesn’t head for a chair.