by Alison Tyler
Panic rose in my chest and stalled my breathing.
“Yes, what?” he cooed to me.
“Yes, I was aware.”
He grunted but as my reward for keeping my mind on track, he slipped his fingers back into my body. Shoving them deep he nudged me in the place that made my throat tickle and my cunt flutter. I was going to come soon—whether from plain or pleasure or just promise, I didn’t know. And I didn’t care.
“Are you ready?”
I didn’t say anything. He surprised me by pinching the tender skin that had already been plumped up by blows.
“Ready for what?” I gasped.
“The last two?”
I nodded, caught myself, made myself say it aloud. “Yes.”
“Hard or soft?”
Again he’d caught me off guard. Hard or soft? Hard or soft? They were two entirely different sensations. Two entirely different reactions. One was no better than the other. One was hard to take but the payoff was exquisite. One was easier to take and the pleasure was still ample, but different.
“Hard,” I said without thinking.
He laughed. The laugh unnerved me but he said “Very well” and then I felt him stiffen just a bit. My body followed suit, going rigid the way I would if I could see my car about to crash. Which is, ironically, the worst possible thing to do. And it was in this instance, too, because I tensed all of myself—preparing, I thought, for a fierce strike. What came was a whispering kiss of palm on flesh. He barely touched me, and I think I shocked us both when I burst into tears.
The rush of adrenaline and mental preparation left me bewildered and in a semi-state of shock when nothing like I was anticipating happened. Emotion overload was the result and I found myself draped over his lap, sobbing like a lunatic.
Mark laughed in that way he does that says I am crazy but he loves me. Another butterfly of a kiss on my bottom as his palm barely came down again and he muttered, “Eight.”
And then he was moving me, tugging me, rearranging me—and me feeling foolish and spent and damn near boneless. “Come up here, Annie.”
He got me on his lap, facing him, and then I watched my fingers as if they were not mine, working his button and yanking his zipper to get him bare. My pussy so wet and swollen I felt full though I wasn’t. Beyond ready. Pretty much desperate.
“Good girl,” he said softly, kissing my throat. I leaned in, still confused—feeling a bit empty like a husk from all the weeping—and feeling a bit ditzy.
His lips found my collarbone and then his teeth scraped me as he gripped my hips and positioned the head of his cock—flushed and hard and silken smooth at the tip—along my slit. I lowered myself slowly, watching him watch me, feeling him study my tear-streaked face.
“All I wanted was some sugar,” I said and smiled. The stupid feeling was waning, the good feeling from his cock in me expanding.
“This is better than sugar,” he grunted, and thrust up hard. I gasped, letting him hold me by my hips and keep me where he needed.
Mark rotated and thrust just so until I was panting, and when he kissed me, swallowing those small puffs of air, he gripped me tight and thrust up hard. I came, still kissing his lips and grinding my hips down to meet him.
“One more,” he said. “The after-dinner hour isn’t done yet.” One hand found my nipple and his fingers—so strong from manual labor all day in the sun—clamped down hard enough to make me hiss. But the pressure was sublime. Exactly what I needed to sharpen my mind and my arousal.
I was moving side to side in a mindless metronome motion, trying to grind my clit to his pubic bone. Rushing toward another orgasm at his command. His free hand kept me steady at the flare of my hips even as he continued the pressure on my nipple. His lips on my shoulder as soft as his fingers’ grip was hard.
“Come for me once more, sweetheart.”
His body was controlled chaos, his rhythm a frenzy. His breathing told the story, he was on the edge. And just when his eyes went darker and his face grew serious, I clenched myself up around him and he released my hip to land a final blow on the swell of my left cheek. It was a biting sudden pain that did everything I’d anticipated that undelivered blow would do.
A rush of heat, a bite of pain, a swell of blissful pleasure and I was coming, chanting his name like some deranged cheerleader. He released my nipple, and the blood rushing back into that tortured flesh only amped up my release.
I pressed my forehead to his and he roared out his climax, his stubble rasping against my cheek, his heart pounding under my palm splayed on his chest.
“Still miss sugar?” He tugged a hunk of my hair and kissed me.
I leaned into him and pressed my forehead to his chest. My thighs were still shaking, my body still cooling. “I’m pretty sure if we can replace it with that, I could go cold turkey.”
“I plan to make you stick to it.”
“Stick it to me, baby,” I said. And meant it.
SEVEN P.M. KINKY CRAFT NIGHT
Teresa Noelle Roberts
It looks like spiders threw a party in here. Tacky spiders on acid.”
Sitting on the living room floor, where I’d been luxuriating in my piles of new yarn, I looked up at Jace, who’d been at the gym. He must have run home because he was still lightly sheened with sweat. Yum. “I scored at a yard sale this afternoon. All this”—I gestured at the yarn taking up most of the living room floor—“was just five dollars. Two big trash bags full, and some of it’s great.”
Jace picked up a huge skein of safety orange super-bulky acrylic, looking as though he thought it might bite. “Really?”
“That would be some of the not-so-great stuff.” I laughed. “It must have been some elderly relative’s whole stash: the good, the bad and the really, really ugly, complete with one each of four sizes of aluminum needles, which are already in the recycling bin because even I can’t justify keeping unmatched knitting needles.”
“You could already knit sweaters for everyone in Providence with the yarn you already have. Why get all this yarn you’ll never use?”
“I couldn’t help myself. Don’t you know yarn’s addictive? There’s no such thing as too much.” Jace grimaced. He got the slightly alarmed look of a man who realizes he’s fallen in love with a Crazy Fiber-Arts Lady and might wake up buried alive in miscellaneous wool, cotton and acrylic, so I attempted to reassure him. “I’m not keeping all of it. I’m sorting it into keep, give to Mom for her charity knitters, and…” I gestured at the evil orange stuff in Jace’s hand, which looked like it had been thrown up by a jack-o’-lantern. “I guess toss. It hurts to throw out yarn, but I can’t imagine what else I’d do with some of this scary stuff. Or what anyone would, for that matter.”
Jace pulled a length of the orange yarn out of its skein, tugged on it experimentally to gauge its strength. “I have a few ideas.” He smiled slowly and evilly. “Don’t throw this out yet.”
Which led, around seven o’clock that evening, to me standing in the bedroom wearing a chest harness of that awful orange yarn. The yarn also bound my hands together behind my back, wrists to elbows. The remains of the skein formed a crotch binding. Where it rubbed my pussy lips, the yarn felt only slightly softer than Brillo. Normally, that’s not a quality I like in a yarn, but under the circumstances, the slight discomfort added to the excitement at being tied up and played with, like I was suffering for Jace. Like I was being twisted and kinked like yarn was when it was knitted. The yarn, if it had a résumé, could add damp and smelling of horny girl to its list of dubious qualifications, along with screamingly bright, stiff, and made from long-dead dinosaurs. While I still had a few functional brain cells, I mentally noted to do a second sort of the yarn and make sure nothing this nasty texture was in the bag for Mom’s charity knitting circle. Chemo patients, preemie babies and homeless people had enough problems without hats apparently knit out of old pot scrubbers.
“How does that feel?” Jace ran two fingers between my legs, dipping into th
e moistness where the yarn held my lips open. I shivered under his caress, at the way it echoed from my pussy lips to my clit, from my clit to my nipples, and from my nipples up to the place in my brain that was starting to open up, so if all went well I’d soon be getting that floaty endorphin-rush feeling.
I was still clearheaded enough to answer Jace’s question, though based on past experience I wouldn’t be coherent much longer. “Hemp rope has nothing on cheap acrylic yarn for making me aware how tender my tender bits are.”
He laughed. “And it’s much easier to wash. We may be on to something.” He raised his fingers, slick with my juices, to his lips, and licked sensuously, never taking his eyes from my rapt face.
I drew a deep, sharp breath, thrilling at the constriction of the yarn around my body.
Thrilling at the lust and love flaming in Jace’s dark eyes.
Thrilling at the fabric of us, the way we were woven or knitted together into a wonderful creation.
While I was busy quivering, Jace grabbed another skein, this one a baby-weight acrylic in a weird yellowy-greenish-brown that I couldn’t imagine on a baby, or on anyone else, for that matter.
He threaded one end through the ring on my left nipple and ran the yarn down my body to my navel piercing. Fire followed his touch and lingered where the yarn lay against my skin. This yarn was an unfortunate color, but lovely and soft. It teased at my nipple, at the skin of my belly. He drew the yarn down to the ring in my clit hood and threaded it through. As he moved up again to the belly ring, yarn snaked over my clit, tantalizing me until I was grinding against the air.
Finally, he pulled the yarn through my right nipple ring, forming a sensual spiderweb connecting all those sensitive areas, so one movement could tug on them all.
(Yeah, I knit and crochet and I have a bunch of body piercings and my boyfriend and I are kinky. Get over it. Fiber arts aren’t just for little old ladies, and based on some of the conversations I’ve had at knitting workshops, not all little old ladies are as demure and vanilla as I used to assume. But I digress.)
When all my piercings were connected to his satisfaction, Jace grabbed the safety shears. There was a whole ugly skein unraveling on the floor next to us and he could have snicked the yarn without getting the shears anywhere near me. But what fun would that be?
The blades were just pleasantly cool on my heated skin—he hadn’t pulled them out of the freezer this time. As he moved them over my nipples, I still shivered, clenched in something that danced on the border between dread and anticipation. I knew the scissors were blunt. That’s kind of the reason for having EMT safety shears when you’re tying someone up; cutting’s only fun if you’re doing it on purpose. But my nerve endings and the primitive part of my brain where the endorphins live didn’t register the bluntness, only the cold kiss of metal on sensitive skin that covered important internal organs.
My knees weakened. My heart pounded. And when that cool metal kissed between my legs, so did my clit. I’d been wet before, but the shears came away dripping, leaving a trail of my own juices on my belly and breasts.
I closed my eyes as Jace opened the shears near my nipple, imagining delicious horrors, and when they snicked shut with nothing more ominous than yarn caught between them, something exploded in my brain. By the time I could actually process anything other than euphoria, Jace had tied the cut ends together and was tugging outward.
Right nipple, left nipple, belly and clit. Each pull hit all four, jolting me with pleasure and an intense awareness of the yarn connecting them, of the hundreds of nerve endings connecting them, of the time and love and lust connecting me and Jace, joining us together into something greater, like yarn knotted upon itself becomes a garment.
Bondage can be weirdly solitary, at least for me. When Jace is painstakingly tying me up to immobilize me or decorate me with rope (or in this case, hideous yarn), I get lost in sensation, so far in my own head and body I enter a meditative state, intensely aware, yet detached—a kind of sexual Zen. Unfortunately, I also detach from Jace.
That doesn’t bother me at the time because not a lot is going to bother me when my nerve endings and I are enjoying a flight through inner space. But when Jace does something to bring that connection back, like those little tugs on all my piercings, my flight becomes even better because we’re exploring the galaxy together.
Keeping the tension on the yarn, Jace leaned in and kissed me like rocket fuel. He’d taken his shirt off, and his skin felt cool against mine, cool and delicious because I was feverish, burning up inside with the pleasure of that very second, of his big hand on my ass, the yarn keeping tension on my nipples and hood, the strength of his body, his lips both soft and fervent, his tongue assertive but not aggressive as it danced with mine. He tasted faintly of cinnamon, but mostly he tasted like Jace. I moaned into his mouth, pressed myself against him.
When his hand cracked down on my ass, I squealed and jumped, but it was a squeal of delight, and I promptly stuck my butt out and wriggled it, hoping for more.
“You need a little pain, girl?”
Even though all connection between my brain and my lips seemed to be lost in space, I still blurted out an eager “Yes!”
Jace arranged me so my upper body was sprawled on the bed, my ass thrust out. With my arms tied behind me, I felt strain up the back of my legs, but it was a good strain, like what I felt in my arms from the bondage. The crotch rope pulled and teased at my cunt lips, and somehow—probably because Jace made sure of it—the yarn through my clit ring was caught up just enough under me for a slight, constant pressure.
He warmed me up with his hand, starting slow and light, each smack more like a love tap that warmed my butt without much sting. Each blow was a single stitch in something bigger, though; after a few dozen, my ass was getting sensitized. I felt Jace’s hand more acutely, more pleasurably. I squirmed. Pressure from the yarn wrapping my pussy hit my clit, a direct jolt that made me gasp. The movement also reminded me of the way I was bound, of the way Jace embraced me through the yarn. Warmth spread through my whole body. “Now,” I said, my voice barely audible even to me. “More, please.”
He began to spank harder, hell and heaven at the same time. It stung, so I couldn’t help trying to wriggle away, but the sting quickly morphed into heat, so I pushed my ass back out for more. Every movement, whether toward Jace’s blows or away, made me more keenly aware of yarn around me, yarn through my piercings, yarn binding me.
Jace binding me.
Jace and I bound together.
The world narrowed to my body and his, his hand and my ass, his fiber art and my skin.
I ached with arousal, but at the same time I didn’t need to come, wasn’t begging and mewling for release. I was on a rocket trip through space, propelled by fossil fuel in the form of acrylic yarn, and the renewable resource of Jace’s hands, imagination and love, and the trip was so great that I wasn’t worried about the destination.
When I was somewhere around Jupiter, Jace murmured something that didn’t travel well through space. He stepped away for a second, though he kept reaching out to stroke my spine or lay his hand on my throbbing butt, as if to say I’m right here. I squirmed within my yarn cocoon, my yarn rocket, the yarn that extended Jace’s arms so he could hug me even when his hands were busy. I heard the sound of a zipper, a rustle of fabric. My cunt clenched in anticipation.
Something smacked my hot, tender ass. It wasn’t Jace’s hand and it didn’t feel like our old friends the crop, the leather slapper or the repurposed ping-pong paddle. It stung and thudded at the same time, hurting in a deep, delicious, cutting way, like a cane—except we didn’t have a cane. It was cool and hard. It didn’t wrap at all.
I had my suspicions, but unable to push myself up, I couldn’t see behind me enough to get a good look.
Before I could make my foggy brain formulate a question or squirm around enough to see what this mysterious new toy was, Jace used it again. I shrieked as a thin line of fire seared int
o my ass.
While I was still shrieking, Jace brought it into my view: a size 9 aluminum knitting needle, as pink as my ass.
Which he hit again with the awful-slash-wonderful thing.
Jace tugged on the harness, shifting the yarn that ran between my legs just enough to tease my clit. The intense pain transmuted into equally intense pleasure. I exploded into stars, only the yarn bonds keeping me knit into the fabric of earth and not actually shooting through the roof and into the Milky Way.
While I was still convulsing, Jace shoved aside the yarn at my crotch and entered me. One quick thrust, no subtlety at all, and then, before I had a chance to become accustomed to the sensation, he leaned over me and began to pound. My poor, tender butt felt spanked all over again each time his hips crashed into me, and my bound arms, caught between my body and Jace’s, protested. I felt every wrap of the scratchy yarn as if it was three times its actual thickness. My muscles ached.
I loved it.
I was moaning and screaming and begging Jace not to stop, each stroke, each fresh challenge pushing me further. “That’s it,” Jace snarled. “Come for me, love. Come on my cock.” It wasn’t like I had much choice at that point. The nasty, tender words tightened the bonds, stroked my clit, and I came again as Jace did, even harder than before.
I was too dazed, too hoarse from crying out, to say anything other than “Wow. Love you,” as Jace untied me.
But once I was curled on the bed next to him, staring at a damp, sweaty snarl of yarn, I couldn’t resist saying, “I told you yarn was addictive.”
“I see what you mean,” he agreed. “But that orange stuff still has to go.”
EIGHT P.M. APPOINTMENT TEE VEE
