by Harper Bliss
And then it starts. Her fingers plunge into me without warning, fucking me insistently, without pause, over and over. I can feel her fingers exploring me from the inside as she fucks me. I can’t even breathe, she feels so good. I scream with pleasure. It is all I wanted from the very start and she is finally giving it to me. I come all over her, my insides clenching and unclenching around her fingers. She stays inside me after I orgasm… just resting. She clicks off my headphones with her other hand and removes them. All I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears and my breath coming in short gasps.
“Again,” she says and begins fucking me some more. I can barely handle the sensation as she slides in and out of me. “Again,” she says louder as she increases her intensity. I can feel the tension building in my belly… and then I explode once more, this time longer, and more forcefully. The contractions are so strong that they almost feel like cramping. “Good girl,” she whispers and gently pulls out of me. She removes the nipple clamps. The blindfold lifts and I finally get to lay eyes on her for the first time all night.
I just stare into her eyes, not really able to focus. I am exhausted and spent, limp and destroyed. I am wholly present and living right in the moment, all the stressors of my day erased.
“More?” she asks.
“No,” I reply weakly, and then with more resolution, “No.” She silently begins the work of untying me. I focus inward as she labors, quietly taking stock of my emotions. When she finally unties my legs, she helps me unbend them, massaging as she goes. Her touch feels loving now, and sweet, and the opposite of the commanding strokes she used on me just moments earlier.
“Can we… go out some time?” I ask her. It comes out of my mouth before I have time to think about it. “I know we don’t know each other—” I start. She stops me.
“Correction. You don’t know me. I don’t know a lot of particulars about you… but I know you. You learn a lot about people in this business.”
“Do you like what you know so far?” I am still naked, and feel as vulnerable as I could possibly be.
“Yes.” She smiles. I had never seen her smile. It softens her. Makes her more human.
“How can I get to know you better?” I am leaning in close to her now, taking in her scent, feeling her heat. I want to curl into her lap like a puppy.
“Well…” She stares into my eyes. “You can take me out, wine and dine me, and we can have some perfunctory first date conversation. Or…”
“Yes?”
She holds up the rope and the blindfold. She gives a wicked grin. “Or… you can actually get to know me.” She laughs. “And maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn a thing or two about yourself in the process.”
She instructs me on how to tie her to the bed, spread-eagled and naked. And then tells me to look in her tool kit. I open the duffle bag and my eyes widen. “I can use… anything in here?” I ask.
“Anything,” she replies. No further instruction is necessary. I place the blindfold over her eyes. I don’t want her to see that she makes me nervous.
I purposely tie her sideways so that her head is in the middle of the bed. I want more of her tongue. I straddle her head and simply say, “Lick me until I say stop.” She starts immediately upon my command. My eyes flutter closed as I sink into the warmth of her mouth. She will do this as long as I want, I realize. I let her. She kisses me until I come again. It takes every ounce of strength to tear my sex away from her tongue.
I stare at her naked body, taking my time because I know she can’t see me doing it, pleased to see a hint of wetness dripping from between her legs. She liked doing that to me. Good. My confidence ups a notch.
I grab a riding crop from her bag and run it up and down her body. Then I set it down next to her. I will use it in a minute. I kneel down onto the bed and begin kissing and sucking her nipples. Her breasts are so large and soft and I get lost in them. I can’t stop sucking even as I feel her breath quicken. I bring my hand down towards her clit, and when I find it, I quickly swat it with my hand, lightly, but hard enough to stun her. She gasps. I do it again. Then I rub her clit, exactly how she had instructed over the phone earlier in the day. Then I swat her again… rub, then swat. Her cheeks are flaming red, her lips parted. I grab the riding crop and begin lightly slapping her with that instead. It is a quicker, but harder sting against her clit and she cries out. I do it again and again. I feel powerful watching the confusion between pleasure and pain cross her face. I give her a brief respite, sticking my mouth on her swollen red clit, licking and sucking. She tastes amazing. I don’t want to take my mouth away. I realize it takes just as much discipline to dominate as it does to submit. I bring the riding crop back down, punishing her for how badly I want her. I bring it down on her breasts, her clit, her mouth… everywhere I want to kiss, I swat. Then I cover every inch of her with my mouth. She moans when my lips touch her body. She pants when my mouth returns between her legs, her wetness gushing all over me as I kiss and lick and suck her sex. She is mine now. Completely mine. I feel her submission.
I bring my lips to her mouth and kiss her, long and deep, with my tongue dancing in her mouth. My hands tangle into her silky brown hair and I wrench her head back as she did to me, making her expose her neck to me. I kiss her collarbone. I keep one hand tight in her hair and then slide my other hand down her body and between her legs. I stop at her lips, my fingers resting right against her, but not entering her. “Say it,” I breathe between kisses. “Say. It.” I am commanding this time.
“Please,” she pleads.
I slip two fingers inside her. I have never been inside her before. It has always been me, getting fucked by her. I travel every inch of her, feeling how tight her walls are around me, how unbelievably wet she is for me. I fuck her hard and fast, like she fucked me, my knuckles jamming against her body. I’m inside her as far as I can go. Her arms and legs are tied, but her hips can still move and she slams against me. She comes hard, harder than I thought she would, harder than I thought I could get her to. I slowly withdraw my fingers, not wanting to leave her. Silently I untie her, kissing and rubbing each wrist and ankle as I do so.
“I knew you had it in you.” She smiles that smile again. I kiss her in response. I lay down next to her running my hand down her body, stopping at each red mark that the riding crop, that I, have caused. Suddenly, my phone alarm goes off. It is my five a.m. wake-up for work.
“I thought you said none of your clients last longer than three hours?” I say, a bemused expression on my face.
“Well, you aren’t a client anymore, are you?” She laughs.
“So, I’ll wine and dine you at seven tonight then?” I ask. I’m not timid with her anymore. I say it more like a demand than a request.
“You will.” she says, looking me directly in the eyes. “After all, I think we just passed that awkward getting-to-know-you stage, didn’t we?” She winks at me and stands up, puts her clothes on, packs her bag, and walks out my door.
Dance for Me
JANELLE RESTON
“Again!” she barked, hitting the tip of her cane against the wooden floor. Its thunk reverberated through the boards and made the soles of my feet tingle.
I was exhausted. The muscles in my legs and arms quivered like piano strings. But if she wanted me to do it again, so be it. I would give anything to please her.
The accompanist started playing. Professor Lacey thumped her cane faster, goading him up-tempo until his hands flew across the keys at breakneck speed. I felt momentarily sorry for him, until it hit my consciousness that I would have to keep that pace with my entire body, not just my hands. I returned to my starting position at the center of the room.
I’d been dancing for three hours straight—through the ninety-minute group class and now through my weekly private session. Even after seven semesters at a performing arts school, that much dancing was exhausting.
“Your landings are still too heavy, Miranda. If you get it right this time, we’re done f
or the day.”
I sucked in my bottom lip, doubting the laws of physics would allow improvement on this front.
Professor Lacey was fluent in body language, and responded as decisively as if I’d spoken my doubts. “I know you don’t think you can do it, but I know you can. And you will.” It was an order as much as a statement of faith. Her eyes were sharp, focused, alive. I felt my strength coming back. My muscles were embers being stoked back into flame.
She tapped the cane against the floor. The movement made her black curls bounce. “On ‘four’! One, two, three-and—”
I leapt in the air, then landed as soft as snow. Whether it was the practice or my inability to disobey Professor Lacey’s wishes, I couldn’t say. I tried not to think about it. Overanalyzing things in the midst of a dance is a sure way to screw up. I surrendered to my body’s intelligence and to my teacher: her tapping cane, her commanding voice, the passion she brought to each lesson.
Desire bloomed in my loins. I was flying. I was free.
The dance came to an end. I was on the floor, bent on one knee, my torso pressed against my thigh, my head tucked. I was folded in on myself like a sleeping dove, but my body was supremely awake. I breathed heavily. Blood thrummed through my veins, pounding in my ears. Otherwise, the room was silent.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
I looked up. Professor Lacey had her cane tucked under her elbow so she could slap her palms together.
My mind flashed back to the only other time she’d ever clapped for me. It had been early on in the year, when I’d fought her tooth and nail on everything. She’d wanted me to kick higher. I’d given her a long-winded speech about anatomy and the limitations of my own body. When I’d paused long enough to catch my breath, she’d clapped and said with a sneer, “Brava, Miranda. Put that much passion in your acting and maybe someday you’ll win a Tony.”
Was she mocking me now?
But then I saw her eyes. For the first time since I’d begun working with her, they were alight with unabashed approval. She was smiling so hard it pinched the skin around them into crow’s feet. “That was beautiful, Miranda. I knew you could do it. We’re done for today.”
Exhaustion overtook me again, as well as an unfamiliar emotion: relief. I wanted to crawl the distance between us and kiss her feet. Instead, I stood and gave a curtsy.
She walked toward me. Like the piano earlier, my heartbeat went up-tempo. She rested her hand between my sweat-drenched shoulder blades. “Go to bed early tonight. Your body needs to recover.”
Dancing was not my forte. I’d been a singer first, and then had discovered musical theater. Acting had come easily to me. Dancing? Not so much. I wasn’t terrible at it—as a musician, I had no problem moving in time with a beat. But I danced with proficiency, not artistry. My body was tense and inflexible. High kicks and splits were the bane of my existence. I hated being bandied about in some leading man’s arms.
I was now at a school for the performing arts in Manhattan, majoring in musical theater. My first three years hadn’t been so tough, since my previous dance professors had let me treat the subject as secondary—an accessory to the things I truly cared about. Professor Lacey wouldn’t put up with that attitude. She expected me to dance like it was an end in itself. She wanted me to say as much with my body as I could with my voice.
At first, I’d hated her for it. Didn’t she understand there were things my body simply couldn’t do? Besides, I was destined to be a leading lady, and directors and choreographers constantly make adjustments for their leads’ inferior dancing skills. Ethel Merman wasn’t expected to be Ginger Rogers. Kristin Chenoweth wasn’t Beyoncé.
I’d barged into her office with this argument during the third week of class. I’d just received an email with the grade from my first performance exam with her: D-minus. “This is unacceptable! You’re judging me on criteria you’d use for an actual dancer. But I’m good enough for musical theater. I know I am!”
My arguments hadn’t flown with her. “You don’t break into a cut-throat business by being good enough. You do it by blowing people’s minds. And that’s what I’m going to teach you to do. If you don’t want what I’m offering, if it’s just too hard for you, talk to your dean. I’m sure she can find some useless filler class to round out your major. You’ll have a nice-looking degree to stare at while you wait for calls from your agent that never come.”
She’d found my fatal weakness and employed it against me: pride. I was willing to swear eighteen ways to Tuesday that Professor Lacey was unfair in her grading, but no way was I going to admit her class was too hard for me.
So I stuck with it, through all the pain and sweat. I let her break me down, unteaching me the bad habits I’d accumulated through the years. It was the most difficult work of my entire undergraduate career. I learned my body could do things I had never expected. Hannah Lacey pushed me beyond what I thought I was capable of. And I loved her for it.
I developed the habit of doing everything Professor Lacey told me to, and learned that taking her advice was always to my benefit.
So on the nights she told me to go to bed early, I would—though I didn’t always fall asleep right away. I was distracted by images from her studio. Her curly black hair framing her brown face. Her whiskey-colored eyes. Her small breasts, snug in her leotard. Her small hands resting on the large brass knob that topped her dancing cane.
She often wore scarves around her neck. I imagined her unwinding one, holding it out to me like an offering. Come here, Miranda, she’d say. I’d walk over to the grand piano, and she’d have me lie on it, my calves dangling over the back leg. She’d tie the scarf around my ankles, binding me to the piano, and then another scarf would appear in her hands, and she would use that to bind my wrists over my head. Then she’d shove off her wrap skirt and pull the crotch of her leotard aside, sinking onto my face, her hot, wet labia pressed against my lips. Eat, she’d say, and of course I would, feasting on her dripping pussy as she moaned and writhed. Good job, Miranda, she’d moan. I knew you could do this. She’d thrust her cunt onto my tongue, her clit against my nose, and as she neared climax she’d reach behind her—a dancer is nothing if not flexible—and slip her fingers into my wetness. She’d come with my name on her lips.
I had some of the best orgasms of my life during these masturbatory sessions, two fingers working furiously over my clit while those of the other hand squeezed at my breasts. They were fierce and overwhelming and, frankly, much more delightful than what Jane, my girlfriend at the time, was giving me. My real sex life was as vanilla as they get. I’d never recognized my own submissive nature until Professor Lacey awoke it. But it didn’t occur to me to pursue her. She seemed far off, unreachable. Besides, I was pretty sure it was against the rules.
“Tie me up,” I said one evening to Jane. We were in her bed, our clothes halfway off.
She looked at me like I’d gone crazy. “Why would I do that?”
“I just—I thought it would be fun to try. That’s all.”
To Jane’s credit, she tried. But the energy was all wrong. “It feels weird when you can’t touch me back,” she said. “And how am I supposed to get off?”
“You could sit on my face.”
She squinched her nose. “But that’s so demeaning.”
That’s the idea, I wanted to say, but didn’t. It wasn’t Jane I wanted demeaning me, anyway. It was Professor Lacey. I wanted to give myself over to her completely—not just my dancing, but all of me. I wanted her to take me apart and build me back up again, make me more whole than I was before.
A week before graduation, I went out with a group of friends to celebrate the completion of exams. Jane and I had broken up by then—the vanilla sex had become unbearable to me, and my demands for kink had become unbearable to her—and I was hoping the night would end with me getting laid by a powerful stranger.
I hadn’t gotten all my grades back yet, but I knew I’d done well enough that my degree was in no danger. Professor
Lacey’s class was the most challenging, and even she had given me an approving smile when I finished my routine for her, though this time she had not clapped. “You’ve grown so much this year,” she’d said at the conclusion of my dance. “It’s been an honor to watch you bloom.”
She was, of course, the reason for my blossoming. She was the sun and rain. Without her, I couldn’t have grown.
My desire to find a fuckable stranger flew out the window as soon as my group walked into the bar and I spotted Professor Lacey in the corner, sharing drinks with another woman around her age. Professor Lacey’s companion looked like she might be a dancer too, with a wiry body and long blonde hair cascading down her back. The blonde batted her eyes and laughed enthusiastically whenever Professor Lacey spoke, but Professor Lacey didn’t return the enthusiasm. She seemed distracted. She fiddled with the ends of her own silk scarf, her eyes flitting around the room until, at last, they landed on me.
Her mouth spread into a smile. I waved. She winked at me. My stomach flipped.
She turned back to her companion, and the moment was suddenly gone. I wondered if it had occurred at all. Perhaps it had been a product of my horny imagination.
My friends and I found a table. I had one margarita and then another. My eyes scanned the bar as restlessly as Professor Lacey’s had done when I’d first entered. They often wandered to her, and to the blonde, who was ramping up her flirtations. Every few minutes, she reached across the table to readjust Professor Lacey’s purple scarf or touch her hand. Jealousy burned my throat.
