by Unknown
I had been watching her silently from across the room for the last ten minutes or so. She was beautiful. I know I sometimes forget to mention that because, to me, it is so utterly clear and obvious that it almost seems trivial and silly to try and put it into words. But let me be clear: my kitten is utterly beautiful—with her huge, shining eyes, the wild red hair and the freckles that spread all over her light, almost pink skin, down her face, her breasts, her shoulders and all the way down, only petering out in the small of her back, over the dimpled cheeks of her ass. She carries just enough weight and gravity to make her soft and plump like a ripe fig, ready to feast upon.
Maybe it was cruel, but I want to try and explain it if you have never been in this situation before. You know that she is perching there, in pain, every second stretching into infinity, waiting, always waiting for a word, a gesture of yours that would end the struggle. She wasn’t tied to the chair at all and—albeit with some struggle to make her stiff and aching muscles move—she could have gotten off the chair at any moment. But she didn’t, because of you. Because of me. Watching her fight to keep her shaking muscles in line, forcing her body to ignore every rational reaction to the stimulus of pain it could come up with, was more than a testament to power. Far more. Power means nothing in the face of all that longing, that desire, the knowledge that every stretching second, she is imagining your face, your cunt, the taste of your tongue.
It would also be fallacious to assume that the power dynamic was tilted all the way in my direction, just because I was sitting comfortably over a bowl of cereal with strawberries and she was kneeling, loosely bound, sweating and aching. Not yet. It would have tipped if she’d given up, but as it was, her refusal to give into this most base desire of her body to avoid pain, the power was perfectly balanced. I watched her, thought of her in every stretching second, too. My strong, my stubborn, my brilliant kitten.
So when I finally walked over, my naked feet smacking softly against the hardwood floor, it was I who made a power concession. Just for a second, for as long as it took me to cross the room, she had won and we both knew it. I watched her back straighten in silent triumph and felt myself grow wetter, warmer. Gathering her hair in one hand, I pulled back her head and her eyes sparkled up at me wide, proud and beautiful.
“Stay,” I whispered and for the most fleeting of moments, I thought her face fell, flickering in a flash of dismay. I wanted to leave her in that state of uncertainty but power was a more complicated arrangement than it ever appeared to the outside. It was in the nobility of her suffering, in the pout of her lips, in the aching in her eyes and I brushed my lips over her forehead with a reassuring smile. The knots in her temples dissolved.
Tearing myself away from her, my fingers ached to touch her more with every step that took me further away. My light dressing gown fluttered at my sides as I walked into the bathroom. I found the harness drying on a rack by the shower. The plastic cock still attached to it was the sweeter, softer one: pinkishly flesh-coloured and soft to the touch. I had her massage essential oils into the rubber surface for so many hours, it smelled like jasmine and not the stark and biting scent of industrial plastic. It didn’t feel right that day and I pulled it from the leather apparatus, gently depositing it on the rack where we kept the toys that were frequently in need of washing.
I chose by instinct when my fingers closed around one of the rubber cocks, glossy black, huge and dangerous. The head and veining so realistic it tended to make her uncomfortable—my kitten always preferred the cute ones, pink or blue and with a design that removed them far from the association with male genitalia. I never minded, but kitten is particular. This is why I chose it that day.
It fitted snugly through the leather loop, large and impressive as I fixed it around my hips and thighs. I liked the way it peeked out from down there in the space between the swells of my breasts. Fingers encircling the black rubber, I ran them up and down the shaft and let that familiar aching shiver run down my spine. This one still did smell acrid and rubbery. Kitten doesn’t like touching it with her small, soft, lesbian hands and she must have neglected it far more than the cute ones.
It wasn’t a cute cock kind of day.
Almost as an after-thought, I reached for a small washcloth, too, drenched it in cold water and then wrung it out over the sink.
A cock rising in eternal rubber erection puts a different kind of swing in my step, it bobs a little with the gravity of it and I tend to start walking like a cowboy, a crooked smile on my face as though I’d chewed on one too many dry stalks of grass. I even tried spitting once, but that was a humiliating failure that had kitten double over in giggles. None of that, now.
She didn’t turn around when she heard me approach—still such a good little kitten. I stood behind her, watched her shiver, fight her every instinct to look, to move. With puckered lips, I blew and stirred the air that hung over her back. Little kitten mewls filled the room.
Gently, I brushed the mass of curls over one shoulder, freeing the line of her spine. Her skin there was glinting with sweat. When I brought the washcloth to the sensitive patch of skin between her shoulders, she jumped so hard, I worried about the chair. Her moan was instantaneous, her back curled and she was breathing hard. The cold had to feel good after so long. Carefully, I ran it all over her back, then kissed the moist skin.
“What a pretty little kitten you are,” I whispered and already her spine seemed to straighten with pleasure. As my fingers encircled the black cock, I brushed it down the crack of her ass. Little kitten wriggled, so needy.
The height wasn’t quite right though, and neither was the chair sturdy and safe enough for what I had in mind for her later. Instead, I walked to her flank, gently petting her face.
“Turn around to me,” I whispered and carefully, she managed the ninety degree turn. The effort in the simple movement was obvious. She winced as she placed her knees into the new location. Picking up the sponge again, I ran it over her forehead and her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she breathed, eyes wide and sparkling. How beautiful she was. Whatever plans I might have had, in that moment, I simply tilted up her face and brought my lips to hers. She still tasted like toothpaste from this morning. My poor little kitten—I would feed her later, maybe bathe her and treat her to a massage. My tongue met hers and she moaned into my mouth as I balled my hand to a fist in her hair.
“Scoot back.”
She looked at me uncomprehendingly and I raised my brows. There was a watery note of uncertainty in her eyes, but she moved back until I told her to stop, knees resting just at the far edge of the surface.
“Hands here,” I continued, patting the other edge, the one closest to me. She swallowed and leaned over, shaking a little until I put a hand on the back of the chair, steadying it. Her face was now directly in front of my huge, shiny cock. I could see her wrinkle her nose at the smell, and the note of embarrassed chagrin in her eyes.
“I want you to lick it.”
She blushed. Fuck, that was adorable. I petted her cheek and she looked up at me as I brushed the cock over her lips. She knew better than to show her distaste over this particular one today. She opened up, lips parting with a tiny pop and her sweet, pink tongue started to encircle the rubber head. There was a moment in which I could almost imagine what it had to feel like to do this with the real thing. I pushed it into her mouth. She choked a little, fingers clawing into the edge of the chair but she took it well, slurping and moving in with each stroke. When I told her to touch herself, I had to hold her shoulders to steady her, but her moans made the long morning of waiting worth it. The wet, spluttering whimpers around a rubber cock, like a symphony of undervalued instruments. I was just trying to decide what to take next, her ass or her cunt, when suddenly she uttered a gurgling cry and the cock slipped in so deep it cut off her air-supply.
I pulled out. Panting, she rubbed her face against my naked stomach. Feeling magnanimous and far too turned on, I forgave her for coming without pe
rmission and pulled her close. I helped her off the chair and half-lifted, half-dragged her to the bed. Her knees shook like leaves in the wind.
When we kissed, her mouth tasted like rubber and it was fitting and beautiful.
“I’ll get you some tea, kitten,” I whispered, kissing her forehead, but when I returned a few minutes later, she had fallen asleep. My kitten, such a hard, hard morning. Smiling, I left the tea by the bed and joined her, resting my eyes. The shiny black cock still stood to attention, pointing happily at the ceiling, glistening with her saliva, still waiting, and hungering to be pushed into her cunt. The cock could wait, though, and so could I.
Loving the Lady
Lucy Felthouse
In relationships with large age differences, people often assume it is the older person who instigates it. Something to do with power, or confidence, I guess. But when it came to Clarissa and me, those people couldn’t be more wrong. It was I who did all the running. I was determined to get my lady.
And a lady she was. As soon as I laid eyes on her at a posh charity do at the golf club I work at, I wanted her. Despite her advancing years, she looked truly stunning in a high-necked and high-backed midnight blue dress and matching shoes. She had a glass of obscenely expensive champagne in her hand—I should know, I’d poured it—and was surrounded by smiling, simpering people who appeared to hang on to her every word.
Only someone so used to watching people, so used to reading their body language, could have known that she didn’t really want to be there. That someone was me. I observed and noticed the too-tight grip on the crystal glass, the occasional clenching of her jaw and the slightly abandoned look in her eye as she forced another smile.
The man at her side, who I guessed was her husband, looked pleasant enough, as men go. But I knew just from watching them that their relationship existed on paper only. It was probably full of love and passion to start with, but not any more. The Lady—as I’d thought of her before I knew her name—gave him only cursory glances, and the most platonic of touches. He offered the same in return, and his gaze often followed the young waitresses who milled around in their short black skirts and tight white blouses. He wasn’t remotely subtle about it, either.
He didn’t check me out, though. I look too boyish, too male, to draw the attention of a straight man. That night, in my black trousers, flat black shoes and white shirt, I probably looked just like a man. With the exception of the slightest bumps in the chest area, so small as to be unnoticeable.
I was truly the Tramp to her Lady, but I honestly didn’t care. I wanted her. Wanted to ruffle her refined feathers, mess up her hair, turn her fake smiles into genuine ones, her forced laughs into giggles of pleasure.
I set out to do just that. I had no idea, of course, if she was interested in women, but I figured I would never know unless I tried.
So I headed to the serving hatch that led to the kitchen and picked up a tray loaded with new glasses of champagne. Ignoring the expectant glances aimed at me as I whizzed past groups of party goers, I headed directly towards the Lady and the people with her. Most of them took fresh glasses and replaced their empty ones with barely a glimpse in my direction. And certainly not a thank you—the posh types frequenting the golf club rarely noticed the hired help. But my lady did. She noticed me. Her gaze lingered rather too long on mine, before flicking quickly up and down my body and returning to meet my eyes.
I did a mental fist pump. I wasn’t sure if she realised that I was, in fact, female, but either way she’d checked me out. Result. Now I just had to figure out a way to seduce her.
I walked away before her group thought I was mad and circulated the room until my tray was full of empty glasses. It gave me the opportunity to think. By the time I put the tray on the serving hatch’s shelf, I had a plan.
I turned to face the room again, immediately pinpointing her. I fixed my gaze upon her mature, delicious figure and waited. She couldn’t fake interest in the conversation she was being forced to listen to indefinitely.
Sure enough, after a few minutes her eyes started to wander. A few seconds later, they alighted on me. I shifted my gaze from left to right to make sure no one was paying me any attention—except for her, of course—then looked back at her. Our eyes met and remained locked for far longer than a casual, disinterested period of time. Without breaking eye contact, I took a long step to my right—towards the door. I then subtly jerked my head in that direction and raised my eyebrows, so she couldn’t possibly be in any doubt as to what I was suggesting.
She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, then turned back to her companions and excused herself.
I left the room quickly and lingered in the opulent corridor so no one would see us leaving together. Not that anyone would realise what was happening. After all, why would a lady, a proper lady, want to go off with me?
I hung around just long enough for her to see me, then moved off down the corridor, pulling a set of keys from my pocket as I did. When I reached the supply cupboard door, I was ready. I pushed the shiny silver key into the lock and twisted it, then opened the door. I checked she was behind me. Then, after sticking my head into the minuscule room to make sure there was no one in there—you can never be too careful—I reached for her hand and pulled her into the cupboard with me, slamming and locking the door behind us so nobody could see or disturb us. The building was so modern that the light came on as it sensed our movement, bathing us in artificial light.
“Hi,” I said, turning around to face her. “I’m Antonia. But everyone calls me Toni.”
She let out a small squeak of surprise. “You’re... you’re...”
“Yes, a girl. But really, I think you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Her silence told me everything I needed to know. “And your name is?”
Her eyes widened, as though she could hardly believe I didn’t know. Then she seemed to remember I didn’t move in her circles—far from it—and her expression softened. “I’m Clarissa... just Clarissa.” She gave a nervous smile, and I wasn’t sure if she was trying to say she didn’t have a nickname or was unwilling to give her surname.
“Well, Just Clarissa, it’s lovely to meet you. Shall we stop talking and do what we came here to do?”
I leaned forward and covered her mouth with mine before she got a chance to reply. She stiffened and let out a muffled sound of indignation.
I ignored it and carried on kissing her, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her closer to me. So close she could feel the dildo I was packing. I’d expected her to panic further, but instead she relaxed, positively wilted into my arms, into my embrace. Somehow, that little demonstration of manhood had calmed her down, had made her think that what she was doing was okay.
I came to the conclusion she’d never been with a woman before—much less a butch lesbian who definitely looked more male than female. I decided to tread carefully. I didn’t want to spook her and ruin my chance to screw someone as close to aristocracy as I was ever going to get.
I continued to kiss her, long and slow and passionate. I rolled my hips gently against hers, pressing my fake hardness against her very real softness. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to yank up her dress, tug down her knickers, if she was wearing any, and bury my face between her thighs.
I moaned into her mouth. She echoed me. The sound seemingly boosted her confidence, as she deepened the kiss, thrusting her tongue between my lips and seeking out mine. I let her, encouraged her, sweeping my tongue sensuously against hers, showing her how much I wanted her.
Sounds continued to emanate from our throats as we kissed. If my lips hadn’t been otherwise occupied, I would have been voicing expletives, instead. Clarissa just felt so damn good in my arms. Shapely, womanly, and so fucking responsive. Perhaps the danger, the fact that what we were doing was so risky, was turning her on further. I didn’t really care either way. I just cared that she was with me, for the time being at least.
Twisting my neck to pull
away from the kiss took a great deal of willpower. Clarissa was a wonderful kisser, the sort of woman I could kiss all day and all night. But, sadly, we didn’t have forever to partake in our tryst, and I wanted, at the very least, a taste of her cunt before we had to part.
I dropped to my knees in front of her, and did the very thing I’d been dreaming of—pulled up her dress and yanked down her knickers. The undergarment was very skimpy, particularly for such a mature, classy woman, but I guessed that anything else would have ruined the lines of her dress or given her a visible panty line. She stepped out of them, and I tossed the scrap of lace to one side, then bade her to hold up the dress so I could get to the treasures beneath.
She gasped. “I’ve... I’ve never—”
“Shh,” I replied, placing my hands on her inner thighs. “I know. Don’t worry. Just keep quiet.” I pushed her legs apart, eager to feast on what was between them. As soon as my face was close enough to smell her, my own cunt clenched with need. She was wet, ready, and her musky arousal filled my nostrils, swept across my taste buds, threatening to make me salivate. And I hadn’t even tasted her yet.
I rectified that very quickly. I pushed my thumbs between her lower lips and pulled them apart. They were heavy, slick, and I gazed upon what I had revealed. A beautiful dark pink pussy, shimmering and swollen with need. Even as I looked, a trickle of cream seeped from her entrance and I quickly darted out my tongue and lapped it up.
Then, once I had started, I couldn’t possibly stop. She was delicious, perfect, and I desperately wanted more. I began to lick her with all the enthusiasm I felt, and before long she was trembling and mewling and I had to pause a moment to remind her to be quiet. I smirked as she let go of her dress with one hand and stuffed her fingers between her lips. Her straight white teeth dug into the skin and would muffle any sound she made. I decided to put it to the test.
Snaking my tongue around and into her most sensitive parts, licking up all her nectar, I then headed for the jackpot—her clit. I’d barely touched it up until now and already Clarissa had been making orgasmic noises, so I figured some stimulation in just the right place would send her over the edge in record time.
