We pull down our pants and panties and let them fall to our feet. Then we push our bodies against each other, rubbing our pussies together, starting a fire. I slide three fingers into Kiki’s cunt and nibble her ear.
“Fuck that pussy,” she says.
And that’s what I do; hard and fast my fingers go in and out of her hole, juice all over. I lick her neck and reach under her shirt to feel her breasts. I want to make her come. I push even harder into her. Soon she’s hunched over, holding on to me for support, until I hear her moan and feel her pussy close around my fingers. I pull them out and put them in my mouth. She’s glassy-eyed and smiling as I taste her.
Now we’re back under the bridge. Kiki doesn’t rest much. The crack has turned her into a zombie. But for once, she’s sleeping. I lean my back against the concrete wall and hold her head on my lap. Don is next to us, stretched out with his mouth open, snoring. Even though the city lights are bright, I can still see some stars.
I make a wish for us, and then I close my eyes and go to sleep.
LAST TEN BUCKS
A. Lizbeth Babcock
I call you, late and unexpectedly, and ask if I can come to your home. You say I can, which was my hope (of course). I come in a taxi, the better way, despite what the Toronto Transit Commission would have me believe. I wear only nylons and a short, sleeveless dress under my winter coat. My legs are clad in thigh-high boots. Your favorite. I am completely focused on you. Focused on what is about to happen. I struggle to ignore the incessant chatter of an annoying cabdriver, offering only a monotone mm-hmm where absolutely necessary. I am polite. I always have been.
Finally, I arrive. You have left the porch light on for me. It is blazing on your darkened street, like a firecracker in the sky. I give the driver my last ten bucks, but I would have paid anything to see you tonight. I would have found a way to come.
My attire does not surprise you but you are pleased, like when you anticipate that something will taste really good, and then it does. You tell me to go downstairs. I do. I wait, and soon you come too. You are wearing leather. You are fully dressed, fully butch. The sight and smell of your gear arouses me before we even touch. You are harnessed, already. I tell you what I need, even though I think you know. You pull the front of my dress down, exposing my tits. You don’t touch them, only look at them, and approve of them.
You pull out several different toys from your special chest, where you keep your sacred treasures and the means through which you attain your most sadistic desires. I have never seen the full contents. They are sacrosanct, secured by lock and key, like dangerous weapons or precious jewels. You control them, and tonight, me.
You make your selection, telling me why you have chosen this one over and above all of the others. You want to mark me, make me scream and squirm. I listen to your words like an eager student who has an aching crush on her teacher…the kind of crush you share with your girlfriends on the telephone while giggling, screeching, and making promises not to tell.
You want me on my knees in front of you, and although I am cooperative, you push me down aggressively. You place the heel of your hand on my mouth and slide it across my face, making a messy streak out of my blood red lipstick. I offer up my arms to you, holding them together, my wrists exposed. Methodically, you tie my hands in front of me, always my preference with a newer playmate.
We talked about that on our first date when we met for a late-night drink at a local pub. It was your intensity that struck me then—that held me there well beyond my self-imposed curfew. You looked deep inside of me that night, and everything around us was superfluous and inane. It was packed, as usual. But all of the other people were nothing more than moving colors, blends of light and dark around us, incoherent fusions of sound. I described to you my darkest fantasies and told you of my experience thus far.
You watched my eyes and lips with intention as I spoke. Your sense of your own power was what made me wet, and I secretly pushed my crotch against the edge of my chair like an animal in heat. I imagined you fisting me right there—the table our stage, the patrons our audience. I was present but lost all at once.
When I excused myself to use the washroom, you followed me in. You told me to lift my skirt for you, and you felt what you had done to me firsthand. You slid your fingers under the edge of my panties and fondled me. I stared into your eyes, completely defenseless. I leaned back against a long counter of sinks and let you have your way with me. I wanted to come all over your fingers in that moment. I wanted you to play with my clit mercilessly until my moans became so loud that you would have to cover my mouth and force my silence. You didn’t do that though. You didn’t let me come. You gave me just enough to make me want more. Just enough to make me need more from you. It was humiliating in a way, being forced to show you my wetness only to have you smile and walk away. I left that night with a sense of your ability to control me, to control a situation. And you did this with a seductive ease.
I hold my hands in place as you manage the heavy twine. I love giving myself to you like this. Fully. You pay close attention to each knot you weave, like ritual, like religion. Upon completion, you guide my tethered hands back down toward the floor. You gently place your right hand under my chin and tilt my head so that I am looking up at you—way up—looking straight into you, into your steel blue eyes. Your stare is so intense in this moment that my inclination is to look away, like when you see something you’re not supposed to. I resist that urge. With a voice equally as intense and unwavering you say, “I am going to make you my bitch tonight, got it? I’m going to take your cunt.”
Your statement is quickly followed by a harsh slap across my face. I do not wince. I do not look away. My eyes remain connected with yours. My faith in you keeps me still. I want this. I am flooded with disorganized thoughts and scattered images of how your objective will be achieved. You order me to walk to the other side of the room and bend over a table in the corner. It is an old wooden table—strong, stable, and firm—like you. You have been working on its repair for some time; skillfully crafting and successfully manipulating it to become what you want it to be—your very own.
“Now,” you direct sternly as you shove me forward. I do as you say and it feels a bit like walking the plank—like a final destiny. I feel your eyes on me as I move across the room, my arms immobile and my head down. I bend over the table with a teasing hesitation, stretching my arms out over my head and grasping the far edge of the surface with my fingertips. “Like this?” I ask as I lean into the mastered project.
There is no response to my question. You are coming toward me, telling me that I’m going to get it, and making me tell you that I want it. I do. You lift my dress up, progressively, exposing my ass. You take a few steps back. Then it comes, the hard whack of the mindfully chosen flogger. It is harsh against me—the hit so severe that I cry out in a voice I do not recognize as my own. My heart is racing. You spank me again and again, harder and harder. There are only brief moments of relief.
My nylons provide no shield from the pain, and no compromise of the pleasure. I ask you to wait, but you offer little time for recovery. I can tell that you like me like this—yours. You are tough. Cold. Totally on top. This is my favorite way for you to be, so far. I begin screaming with each wallop, and I can feel my asscheeks heating up, on fire. You do not ask if I am okay. You know that I am. We have an agreement, something we started developing during that first encounter. It’s a nice feeling, like a safety net ready to catch you during a particularly dangerous stunt.
Prior to that first night, we had been mere images to each other; our faces scattered among a thousand other lonely dykes seeking connections in cyberspace; our words complicated by template descriptions of who we are and what we want. Did we have the same favorite movie? Did we long to travel to like destinations? Who cared? This was real life. Full force. Our instant chemistry had led us here to this moment, and this moment was all that mattered.
I start chanting just on
e word, “Please.” More like begging for mercy, or praying for forgiveness. You tell me that I will address you as Sir tonight, and I incorporate that into my hymn. When I writhe out of place, you pull me back, making me take more. “Don’t fucking resist me, whore. I’ll tell you when I’m finished with you, understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna decide when we’re fucking done here, got it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you’re gonna be a good little slut for me tonight, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Tell me!”
“I’m going to be a good little slut for you, Sir.”
“You’re gonna do as you’re told, right slut?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m going to do as I’m told, Sir.”
“Louder!”
“Yes, Sir. I’m going to do as I’m told!”
“Dirty fucking whore,” you mutter under your breath as the discipline subsides.
You tell me that I better behave. And you mean it. You are designedly detached. Strict, demanding, and fierce. I am dizzy with delight. Numb, yet feeling. Hurt, yet wanton.
After a brutal spanking, you pull me up by my hair and force me back down to my knees in front of you. You are cocky, and not just because you have one. You order me to suck you off, and I obediently take you into my mouth. Your fingers are tangled in the roots of my long hair, commanding my movement. You like me like this—your little victim. Our mutual rhythm is hypnotic and spiritual. You make me take you in so far that my eyes water. I can feel the tears escaping from the far corners and disappearing into my hair. You tell me that I am good—a good girl. I am. I love that you say this when you are being so rough with me. The tenderness in your tone makes me feel completely safe and protected. Your hand slowly encourages me to take in even more. I gaze up at you as I struggle to suck your cock just the way you like it. I am completely focused, committed, devout. I want to please you, Sir. Honor you, Sir. You act like you don’t care, but I know that you do—inside.
You say you are going to fuck me now. Hard. And I am not surprised. You shove me back up into my original position, my ass in the air, my legs spread—forced open by the kick of your boots. The redness from my beating blushes through my thin veneer of protection. My nylons are a minor barrier. While acting as an obstacle on the one hand, they also serve as gift wrap on the other. And this is how you see them. Something good is inside, and you want to open your package, claim your prize. You are like a kid on Christmas morning, but more controlled. You reach for a sharp knife, and begin to slice the thin material. You are careful, strategic, as you gain access to my wet pussy. Fuck, you are my dream come true.
You slice the fine fabric just enough to push yourself inside. I breathe heavily in anticipation as you prepare to enter me. My head is spinning, as you plunge your whole cock deep inside of me. I shift with some discomfort in response. “Don’t you dare move, bitch. This is what you want, so fucking take it.” I teeter on that perilous edge of pleasure and pain. Screams escape from my lips, like water running through my fingers. I can feel every detail of your solid cock inside of me, every nuance of its shape. It is wicked. It is miraculous. Again and again, you tell me that I am yours now.
You make me beg you to fuck me every few minutes, and I plead with you to keep going. “Please, Sir—don’t stop. Don’t let me go.” You pull out every time I work up to a climax, and make me wait. You watch me struggle to catch my breath and you push my face hard against the table. “Not yet, you fucking slut.” You reenter me with such fullness and force that my moans vacillate between ecstasy and anguish. I revel in my sense of helplessness.
“Who does your cunt belong to, bitch?” You demand an answer as I lament and whimper. It is you. You are fucking me harder than I’ve ever been fucked—it is as if my life depended on it. The friction from my face rubbing against the wood burns as I submit to the motion of this invasion. “Are you going to come, bitch?” You ask knowing that you are in complete control. “What do you need to do, bitch? You need to ask for permission, don’t you? Come on, bitch, ask me if I’ll let you come now.” I am speechless. You shout, “Do it!” in between each violent thrust, treating me like a whore you have paid for.
“Ple-ease, Sir. Please, please will you let me?” My moans are irrepressible. My words are broken. You control every aspect of my letting go, and I feel completely owned. I am indeed your dirty whore, and yes, a fucking slut. But most importantly, I am your bitch tonight, Sir. In this flicker of time, this is my offering to you.
And that was exactly the way it was supposed to be. Just like that. The right amount of everything, and not too much of anything. You fucked me like that until you came. I could feel your cock dripping with wetness when you made your final exit. You told me that next time you were taking my ass. You said it as a cold hard fact.
I left when you were finished with me that night. I borrowed a token from you and hopped the streetcar home. The purpose that evening was not to linger. It was not our date night, just an intermittent hello. Tonight we will meet at a quiet upscale restaurant on Church Street. We will have a candlelight dinner in a private booth. The glow of the flames will light our faces. The theme: romance.
THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN
Jean Roberta
Let the record state that I, Francis Henry Vincent Edmund Paine, seventh Lord Barrenfield, have sworn before God to tell my damning tale to all who wish to hear it.
Lady Alison Sweet was my fiancée, and she wore the diamond ring that I inherited from my grandmother. Our wedding date was set and our union was heartily approved by her parents and mine. Her property was attractive to me, of course. I have never denied the importance of practical considerations in the taking of a wife. That I loved the lady for herself, however, was clear to all who knew us both.
Before I make my confession to you gentlemen, I appeal to you: consider the spell that my lady cast on all who knew her. Some of you felt it yourselves. Could you feel her radiance between your hands, soon to be yours forever, and not do as I did?
Even now, the image of Alison lives in my heart. She was like a spirited mare who needs the right master to shape and mold her talents, which even she could not properly name or understand.
Here is her portrait in miniature. Note her shining chestnut hair, her robust pink complexion, and her laughing dark eyes, which hint at the secret she was carrying. You can just see the creamy swelling of her bosom above her favorite green gown. At the time, I believed that she wore it to remind herself of the woods where we met whenever we could, away from profane eyes.
My story begins when we had gone a-Maying in our own fashion. What year, you ask? It was 1805, a time not long past.
I have been told that a thorough confession will unburden my soul, and even convey such benefits to my audience. If this is your desire, know this: my lady and I were married in all but name. She had given herself to me when she consented to be my wife, and her passion was greater than I had expected. How she seemed to love me!
On the day when the dart of suspicion first pierced my heart, she ran to me in our usual trysting-place under the oldest oak tree in the woods that belong to her family. She greeted me with a kiss, nestling into my arms, but I fancied that her bonnet resembled the bronze helmet of a female warrior. I untied the ribbons and lifted it off her dear head, freeing her to loosen her hair so that it fell down her back in natural waves.
If you are to understand my actions, you must understand that Alison was never a modest maiden. I believed that it was her immoderate love for me, and nothing worse, which prompted her on occasion to shed her garments and dance for me in her naked glory like a wanton houri in a sultan’s harem. After I freed her from the prison of her corset, she threw all her undergarments atop the muslin gown that already lay on the grass like an impromptu tablecloth. The scene was set for a love-feast worthy of the ancient gods.
The sight of her high, girlish breasts; her slender waist and t
he round, firm globes of her buttocks almost sent me into a frenzy. My soldier stood at attention, demanding to be released from my breeches.
She taunted me like a dryad, hiding behind trees while calling to me to come find her. She gained the advantage while I removed my boots, my breeches, my shirt, my waistcoat and the myriad other items which distinguish a gentleman from the honest savage whose state he envies at such moments.
As a man in the prime of life, I was well prepared to overtake a fleeing, unshod woman, especially one who wanted to be caught! She shone like a capricious beacon in the shade as she ran laughing from tree to tree, luring me on.
I seized her from behind, grasping her warm breasts, which seemed designed for such a purpose. She squealed with pleasure as I rolled her tender, swollen buds between my fingers and told her that she was my captive and must yield to my every whim.
Do not blush like schoolgirls, gentlemen. You have asked for a complete account of all that has led me to the feet of blindfolded Justice, and to you as her seeing representatives. I intend to answer your demand.
“Oh sir, have mercy!” she begged sweetly, tormenting my manhood by rubbing her backside against it. “Will you ravish me?”
“As thoroughly as you wish, my nymph,” I answered. “It is your fate to be possessed by the one you have tempted.”
I placed her small white hands on a tree trunk at the height of her shoulders while I held her haunches steady. I sought out her womanhood with my fingers, and found it slippery with welcoming fluid, and hot as a volcano.
I eased my lance into her until it was in to the hilt. Dear God! Did ever a woman afford such pleasure to her lover as Alison? Her cries were like a beautiful song in my ears, and never did she protest her ill-usage, even as I plowed her like a madman.
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