SEAL'd Trust (Brotherhood of SEAL'd Hearts)

by Gabi Moore

He ran his hand all along my sides and back, stroking out any threads of fear and resistance. We were pinned hard together, only the smallest of movements possible. In a moment, his thumb was in my pussy again, and my entire body responded joyfully. With easy strokes, he guided me closer and closer to an orgasm, but as I saw the edge of it, he pulled out, the tiniest tip of his thumb left touching me, teasing.

  “Come,” he beckoned again, and I took another deep breath, wanting with all my heart to follow that thumb and finally come, releasing myself from this torture. I leant back further, taking more of his thick cock into my ass, but at the same time winning more of his thumb too. Waves of pain and pleasure flooded through me, and I gasped. No sooner had I thought I was close again to my orgasm’s edge, did he pull his thumb away again and plunge me again into desperation.

  “Come,” he said, more insistently. Almost the entire shaft was buried inside me now, so that I felt like a millimeter more and I wouldn’t be able to breath anymore. Chasing his thumb had led me to the wide, painful base of his cock, and I realized with horror that I may not be able to go any further. I wanted so badly to come, but the pain in my wrists reminded me that I was going nowhere, and that if I wanted the sweet release of pleasure, I would have to take it with a hearty dose of pain.

  His breathing seemed to deepen, and become irregular. I felt him throb inside me, seeming to grow and expand into every last corner of my body. I groaned at the thought of him enjoying it, enjoying my ass.

  “You like this, you little slut? You like pretending to be all hardcore, but look at you now, huh?”

  I tossed my hair. He wanted to hurt me, did he? Well, I could hurt him, too.

  “You’re an old has-been who will never publish his stupid novel, and all you do is live vicariously through your students,” I said, the burning pain bringing hot tears to my eyes. Where the hell did that come from?

  “You think you’re so edgy don’t you? You thi--”

  “Whatever. At least I actually write, at least I’m not afraid” I said, shocked at this outburst, the pain making me reckless.

  He paused. I saw the curve of my own tear drop on the table out the corner of my eye. I had gone too far.

  “Well, you should be,” he said. The next moment, he had drawn back slightly, gathered his force and threw himself hard at me, plunging the full length of an angry cock deep into me; I screamed out, my hips banging the edge of the table, the full weight of his manly body driving itself into me without mercy. I saw stars. In the moments that followed, the gathering bliss in my pussy came to one bright, delicious point and burst, sending heavy ripples of stinging pleasure all through me. My entire body bucked and twitched around him. As my poor ass clenched and grasped after him, I pulled him down with me into a juicy orgasm. He cried out too, defeated, spurting jets of wet cum deep into my body and squeezing down hard on my waist to pull in deeper still.

  I collapsed onto the desk, body sore and soaked with sweat, and his body collapsed on top of mine. I welcomed the crushing sensation, feeling all at once that after what we had done together, I could let his body do anything to mine, endure any pain he wished to dole out …and push far past it. I heard him panting in my ear, and we waited like this for a moment, for him to deflate inside me, for my heart to stop pounding in my ears and my pussy to stop twitching so violently.

  Slowly, delicately, he slid out of my body and stood up, surveying the damage in the form of my crumpled body on the desk. He gave my ass a squeeze.

  “You’re still mixing your tenses in that third paragraph,” he said.

  Chapter 8 - Mr. Cain

  I love it when a student has the grit to rise to a challenge. I love when writers can dig deep and confront their limits, pushing them to find what they’re really capable of. Michelle was such a student. For the next three months, I pushed her. At the same time as her words were growing, enlarging, becoming more sophisticated, her body was opening up to me, until I could access even the deepest parts of her, easily.

  And she really wasn’t afraid. I hurt her. I used her body, over and over again, daring her to back down, but each time she accommodated me, somehow finding new levels of pleasure, nuances of feeling that even I, old has-been that I was, had never experienced. I admired her. And I loved completely wrecking her body, finding new ways to violate her little form, to overwhelm her, to punish her naiveté.

  By the time the class came to an end, Michelle was an entirely different person. She had transformed into a noble explorer of new sexual worlds, of vast and fearsome horizons of pleasure, of new places, both profane and sublime …that I had introduced her to, but which she had become native to in no time. My body had been new territory to her, but she had soon charted and laid claim to every last inch of it, so that I could only wish her well when the class was done and we had no more natural reason to spend time together.

  That was also the last class for me. She had been right all along: I was hiding behind my students, being lazy, never pushing myself to write what I truly wanted, to take risks. It was scary, to force myself to do something I had never done before, but then I just remembered Michelle, face down in a pool of her own tears, ass upturned, utterly vulnerable to me and yet not the slightest bit fearful, and I thought, why not?

  After all, tension is a good thing, isn’t it?

  - THE END -

  Damaged - A Bad Boy Romance

  Chapter One

  “Alan! Oh my God, Alan! It’s happening!”

  My wife of 9 years, my beautiful, wonderful wife Tanya, was racing towards me with something small in her hand and a look of deep consternation on her face.

  If the last few weeks have been anything to go by, I could be mere moments away from having a heavy kitchen implement thrown at me, or else pinned down and shagged – or possibly both, in that order.

  Tanya is a woman who knows what she wants. And she wants a baby, preferably yesterday.

  Everything else had been checked off the list: I was one of the first items on the list as the handsome, successful husband, and soon after me followed the autumn wedding, the house with just the right tiles in the kitchen, the pair of beagles we named Bubble and Squeak, the coordinated bedspreads, and the yearly trips to Bali.

  I loved Tanya. With every (exhausted) fibre of my being. I gave her everything, and happily. And as I saw her rushing over, I had the distinct impression she wanted something, shall we say, very specific from me.

  She pushed a mound of papers aside and plonked herself down on my desk, square in front of me as her one, true and rightful project in life. She waggled a thermometer right in my face, looking very excitable indeed.

  “Look? See?”

  She had just woken up, and was still sleepy-haired and sweet and smelling like cotton pajamas. I loved her nearly half to death, this woman. But it was 6 in the morning, and I was bone tired. I rubbed my groggy eyes, trying to focus on what in god’s name she was showing me.

  “Plus! Egg whites. I have egg white mucous. Raised temperature, egg whites… this is it. It’s happening right now,” she said, leaning in very close and whispering this last part to my still slightly confused face.

  “You’re ovulating?” I said.

  Men are oblivious, I know. She had been going on and on about her… secretions for the past week now, and I, unsure about my manly part in what seemed so clearly “woman’s business” was trying to be supportive while hoping she wouldn’t ever quiz me on the difference in viscosity between Day 12 discharge and Day 20.

  I smiled weakly, trying to remember if “ovulation” is the part that involved blood or not. Before I could say anything, she had tossed the thermometer aside and had hoisted her butt onto the desk, plunking her two bare feet into my lap.

  “We should totally do it!”

  “What, now?”

  “Yes now, silly! The window is closing, Alan, even as we speak. And once it closes, that’s it for this particular egg, you know. Whoosh, gone, down the tubes, as it were.”


  I loved how she spoke like an indignant professor whenever she got pissy with something.

  I ran my hands up and down her thighs, probably soothing myself more than anything.

  “Alright, alright, but how long have we got?”

  “The egg is only viable for 12 to 24 hours. We can make it a few days before or after, but really now’s the time, now’s our best chance.”

  Egg? Viable? Was this the same woman who had once whispered dirty words in my ear in the back of a cinema when we were in High School? The same woman who had jerked me off under a picnic blanket at that festival that one time, the girl who had flashed her boobs at me in church at my niece’s wedding?

  I stared at the papers she had shoved aside – council tax, credit card statements, interest rate changes, bills for that damn broken boiler - and now here was beautiful, wonderful Tanya, reduced to another one of my chores, it seemed.

  My work schedule for the last while had been the same every day: work myself to the bone, try to fix up our piece-of-shit house, replace that broken tile in the bathroom, get Tanya pregnant.

  I was tired.

  She sat staring at me, legs slightly parted, a few wild strands of hair falling into her waiting face. Her hazel eyes, the soft curl of her lip, they were all as beautiful to me now as they had ever been. And yet…

  “Ok. Let’s do it,” I said, smiling.

  I would give this woman the world. And good god if she needed it, I would dig deep and find it in me to fuck her, right now, and give her all the damn babies she could handle. I lunged forward and grabbed both her legs, pulling her onto the desk and laying her down.

  “Ouch! Careful,” she mumbled, revealing a pointy paper weight she had landed on.

  She lay back and shot me a flirty smile. Oh yes. God yes. There it was. The gorgeous, sexy little thing I had married. Her hair fell onto the desk and her pajamas fell loosely open. The word mucous popped into my head.

  Shit.

  I leaned in and kissed her passionately, as though this would help dispel the thought. Ok, so if we started now, and it’s probably around 6 o’clock right now, or ten minutes past… so if we take 15 minutes to get this over with, I’d still have a chance for a quick shower and would make it to work if I left by 7… but what if we took longer than 15 minutes?

  I snapped my attention back to the moment and kissed her some more.

  “Ouch!” she said again, and tore her lips from mine to fuss behind her some more, the sound of bills crumpling beneath her.

  “You ok?” I asked.

  She smiled.

  “Yeah, sure, but uh...”

  “Shall we go upstairs instead?”

  “Uh, yeah, we could? I mean, let’s just--”

  “Yeah, you’re here now, now’s the time isn’t it?”

  “Yup, we should be spontaneous about it.”

  We looked at each other.

  I leaned in for another kiss, this one more strained than the last. I thought of her naughty, tanned brown legs under a sundress on our honeymoon, the way she had run away from me on the beach, laughing, the dress whipping all around her in the wind. The dim memory was stirring something down below, thank god. I pressed my cock against her; it was the beginning of an old, old dance I had been doing with Tanya for years now, the familiar choreography, the well-worn, happy ruts we had carved out for one another, affectionate patterns in both body and mind. I’m more or less an idiot with most things in life, but hell, I knew what turned this woman on.

  But somehow, here, spread on the desk, everything was wrong. Our lips were out of sync with one another. A cramp was growing in my calf as I try to balance myself over her (when was I going to go to the fucking gym already?) and she seemed to be distracted.

  She was suddenly pulling at my hair, tugging at clumps of it and manhandling my head as she kissed. She threw her head back and moaned,

  “Oh, yes, give it to me daddy!”

  What.

  I sat up straight, looking at her.

  “Daddy?”

  She flicked a lock of hair from her eyes, looking a little embarrassed.

  We struggled to make eye contact with each other for a few moments more, then she threw up her hands defensively, sending two pay slips to the floor.

  “Ok, I’m so sorry, jeez, I’m just …I’m just trying something new I guess, because of the …baby? I don’t know, just forget it.”

  She was turning a deep shade of red, and started to pull her nightdress down again.

  “No, no, it’s…” I started. The word “mucous” popped into my head again.“…it’s hot. I guess,” I said limply.

  She glared at me.

  I leaned in again for another kiss, but she shoved me away and jumped off the desk, looking angry.

  “Just forget it,” she said and made for the office door.

  Damn.

  She turned around in the doorway and looked at me with eyes full of daggers. “I’m going to the shops in a bit – do you need anything?”

  I looked at her tired face. I wanted to curl up in bed with her right now, and forget all of this, and play Angry Birds with her under the covers with our own patented system of kiss penalties, like we had done only last year.

  “We need milk,” I said softly, with as much affection as I could muster.

  She turned and left.

  “And a baby would be nice,” I muttered to myself after she’d left.

  Chapter Two

  I’m what you’d call an old fashioned guy, I guess. If there’s anything they don’t make anymore, it’s guys like me. Think of every mildly sexist joke and groan-inducing stereotype about men and women and, well, you have a pretty accurate picture of who I am. I like big boobies and fast cars and movies with robots and dinosaurs in them… although not if they’re too long. So sue me.

  Every severely right-brained male specimen eventually gravitates to their own little niche, and my niche was engineering, where my other manly colleagues were more than happy for me to merely grunt at them for weeks, or come into work with the same shirt I did yesterday. I’m not too good with the written word, or social stuff, but I have a fair idea of how the world actually works, and what I know is that it needs people like me …especially when a part of it breaks.

  I’m the type who thinks that a perfectly reasonable response to “does this make me look fat?” is, “aren’t you always as fat as you actually are, though?” and I’ll admit I’m a bit miffed that the consensus seems to be against me in these cases.

  I understand machines. I can glance at an engine or a circuit board and see into its soul, but people… they’re a little trickier. My wife was something of a black box to me, although she was goofy and big-hearted enough to see my shoddy social skills for what they were: innocent. Figuring out the mysterious ins and outs of her unknowable female mind was an ongoing project for me, but after 9 years, I had made her happy, in the ways I knew how.

  And giving Tanya things was one of the greatest joys in my life.

  I hammered and filed down a penny to make her engagement ring and gave it to her in a box I chiselled myself. I gave her my secret recipe for chicken soup and made it for her whenever she was sick. We had bought a house together and every renovation, every new coat of paint, every nail and plank was for her. I wanted to build our life together, one piece at a time, with my own hands, and I wanted her right in the middle of it all.

  In school I had given her my math homework to copy. Behind the bicycle sheds, we gave each other our tongues and our secret, hopeful dreams. I gave her bunches of daffodils, pink socks, a locket with a tiny “T” on it. As we grew older, I gave her my body, and she accepted it, willingly, and gave me hers. Everything I am, everything that I will be, I wanted to lay it at her feet, to give it to her, to make her smile.

  And now, more than anything, she wanted this goddamn baby. And I had to find a way to give it to her. I sat at work all that day, chewing a pen to pieces and staring at my computer. Ovaries and cervical mucous wer
e most certainly not my area of expertise, it was true. But if she wanted a little baby, well, then I would just have to find out how to give her one, wouldn’t I?

  Chapter Three

  It was a real bastard of a day. The kind of day where you work and work and get sweet fuck all to show at the end of it. I was grumpy, headachey and in no mood for… well, anything really.

  I came home a tiny bit later than usual, and Tanya had beat me to it. She was sweet, flitting around with dinner, chatting about this and that, but even I, oblivious as I am, could sense an extra tension, something like the weird change in air pressure you get before a big storm.

  We slipped easily into our weekly night routine, a routine that had been my home for all these years as much as these walls, this furniture. She cooked, we ate, we did that married people thing where we snuggled on the couch and watched stuff on TV, half carrying on conversations started hours or even days ago. I’m a simple guy, like I said. I guess to an outsider I must seem like some kind of caveman, pleased with his woman and his dinner and his warm couch and not thinking too much further than that.

  Something about this morning had scared me though.

  Was she really happy? Getting bored in a marriage always seemed like one of those things that other, less vigilant people have to worry about. People who never loved each other as much as we did. But… well, let’s just say this wasn’t the first time I had been surprised by how unhappy she really was.

  At work, I was most often the most competent person in the room, but when it came to Tanya… I hate to admit it, but there were times when I felt as though I’d been rudely awakened from a dream, where I’d hurt her without knowing, and part of the hurt was not realizing what I had done. She had stared hard at me on a drive home from her mother’s once, fighting back tears and eventually spitting out, “well?”

  Well, what? I didn’t know. In fact, I never figured that one out. Maybe I’m a little autistic. Maybe there are vast fields of emotional nuances pulsating all around me, hidden but woven all around and through my life while I sit oblivious… until it’s too late, of course.