“Yes,” Jo panted. “I want it hard.”
My thumbs pressed roughly into the flesh on her back, squeezing and pinching, and then sliding around to pull on her nipples through her silky bra. “I want this off,” I said, unclasping the hook in front, pulling the pink lacy thing down to further bind her arms. My hands slid over her smooth sides, moved around to her belly and cupped her breasts, then held her nipples tightly between my forefingers and thumbs. Rolling my fingers together to pinch and twist Jo’s large hard nipples made her squirm quietly. I pinched harder and she cried out. “What shall I do with you?” I murmured in her ear just before my teeth clamped down on her earlobe.
“Anything, please, something. Whatever you want. Please!”
I stepped back, taking hold of the waistband of her shorts, and pulled them down, panties and all. She stepped out of them. Her asscheeks, high and round, were white compared to her tanned legs. Using my fingers to follow the crack of her ass, I slipped my hand between her legs and found Jo to be wanting this as much as I did. Her lips were wet and swollen and her clit was a hard pebble under my finger.
“Yes,” she whispered, as I used my boot to slide her legs apart. Jo leaned her cheek on the door and pushed her ass out toward me. I squatted on my haunches, running my hands down one leg to the top of her heavy boot and back up the other side. Her ass stuck out in my face, and I breathed deep the scent of her excitement. With one hand on her thigh and the other holding on to her hip, I took a mouthful of cheek and bit down gently. Jo pulled her ass back in far enough to press her stomach to the door.
“Now Jo,” I said sternly as I stood up again, “are you going to pull away every time it hurts a little?” Her ass moved backward again and I smiled. My hands, rough with a lifetime of calluses, traced her arms up to her shoulders. I turned her to face me, and her hard nipples puckered when I took each in my mouth, my tongue flicking over and over. Jo’s eyes closed as she leaned awkwardly on the door, her arms still bound behind her. She whispered something too quietly for me to hear. I stopped my gentle sucking and stood to look in her eyes, now open and pleading.
“What did you say?”
Jo’s eyes closed again, and in a tiny voice she said, “I want you to hurt me. I know you know how.”
I wondered how she could possibly know, but that didn’t stop me from walking her to a clear space on my workbench and bending her over it. I removed the tank and bra and she moved her arms, muscles rippling, to rest on the bench over her head. Gathering up the bridle laying there, I draped the strips of leather over her lower back, holding the bit in my hand. My other hand rested on her shoulder. “Are you ready for me?”
Jo laughed, “I’ve been ready and waiting for weeks.”
I set the bit down on the small of her back, the reins hanging to one side and puddling on the floor at her feet.
“Don’t let that fall off,” I whispered. Scanning the bench, my eyes rested on nothing but possibilities. Bits of leather, pliers, a hoof pick left here for no apparent reason, a rubber curry comb with the handle missing, and yes, there was exactly what I needed. An old cotton cinch, starting to fray, colored by years of horse sweat and rain and who knows what else, gave my own pussy a jolt. The whole piece was maybe thirty-six inches long, with a round metal ring on either end. I doubled the cinch up, threading my fingers through both rings, feeling the heft of it. Not heavy at all, but certainly capable of providing a little stinging sensation when slapped against the tender, exposed, white ass before me.
Jo stood very still, her ass waiting for whatever I wanted. I gently tapped the folded cinch on her cheeks, moving from side to side, gradually striking a little harder, ending with a solid whack! She jumped and cried out, almost losing the bit balanced on her back. Changing my angle, I swung back and forth, hitting close to but not directly on her pussy, not wanting to mingle her juices with those of a multitude of horses. Stopping long enough to slip my fingers between her thighs, I pushed my knuckles up into her, feeling the heat and wet of her desire. My only goal was to tease her, I wasn’t ready for this to end quite yet. Pulling my hand back out, I laid the cinch across her back. With my dry hand I squeezed her right cheek, pressing my fingernails deep and creating half-moons, while the hand moist with her juices slapped down hard on her left.
“More!” Jo gasped.
I left the cinch where it was and started spanking her in earnest, blow after blow, her ass getting hotter and redder with each slap. The bit was dangerously close to falling off, the reins slithering across her back as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. The air was filled with the scent of her excitement, and my own cunt had soaked the crotch of my dusty jeans. I didn’t want to wait any longer, I wanted to hear her come and scream for me.
I pushed a finger deep inside her cunt, feeling the heat and wet. Pulling it out, I plunged it deep in her ass. She moaned loudly, and pushed hard against my hand as the halter slid the rest of the way to the floor. My other hand found her unfilled hole, opened wide, hot, wet, and ready for me. Jo’s cunt absorbed two of my fingers without even trying, and I quickly added a third. Pumping hard into her, I alternated hands, almost coming out of her ass, while pushing hard in her other hole. In and out. Slurp and smack. Slurp and smack. Slurp and smack. Moving faster, harder, pressing in, pulling out, the knuckle of my little finger hitting her clit with each thrust.
“Come on, Jo, come for me. I want to hear it,” I panted as I pounded both her ass and her cunt.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” she chanted breathlessly, matching her rhythm to my own.
My hands moved faster, pressing in, sliding out, and shoving her body hard up against the workbench with each thrust. Jo’s cries got louder and more insistent with each pounding against her sex and her beautiful ass. The feel of her clit growing larger and harder against my hand flamed my own excitement. I wanted to hear her now. Pulling my finger out of her ass, I slapped my hand down hard on her cheeks, moving from one to the other, while still pumping in her cunt with the other, when suddenly her pussy clenched down hard, trapping my fingers inside her. Jo let out a loud scream, and hot, wet juices flowed over my hand as she came. Wave after wave of tightness ground my fingers together until I was sure they would break in two. And suddenly, Jo was sinking down, her knees finally giving out, unable to hold her up because they trembled so. I caught her as she went, and lowered her to a pile of big clean saddle blankets. Settling in next to her, I wrapped my arms around her, holding her safe while she rested and tried to regain her composure.
“Don’t you want to know how I knew you could do that?” Jo asked, looking up at me from the crook of my arm.
I looked down at her, a little confused at first, not understanding what she meant. Jo looked away, unsure how I would take this news. “I needed a job, and one night when I was driving by here late, I saw a light on. I figured no one but the boss would be working so late, so I pulled in and walked through the barn toward the back where the light was on. I figured if the boss was working that late, he must need help; then I heard two women’s voices. I quickly realized what I was hearing was not really conversation, but something hotter. I couldn’t help myself; I sat down and listened until I thought you were almost through. And then I left, not wanting to get caught. Later, when I came back during daylight hours to ask about work, I had trouble not blurting out anything about what I had heard. I recognized your voice right away, and I was so afraid you would know something was up, but I needed to hear that voice every day. And now here I am.”
I smiled at her, not believing my luck. “And here I am, too. Do you have other secrets I should know about?” I didn’t wait for her answer. I kissed her, my tongue slipping into her mouth, my fingers sliding down her body, reaching for more. Reaching for her.
THE WOMAN UPSTAIRS
Tara Alton
My grandfather had always taught me not to dwell on things that I couldn’t change but I was having a truly hard time following his advice after Marissa left me. Six months ag
o, she had returned to France to be with her ex-lover, with whom she had opened a cheese shop in a suburb of Paris. I had thought our love of cheese was something shared only between the two of us, but apparently not. Our favorite Sunday ritual had been to sleep in, then venture out to Zingerman’s deli around noon and find a new cheese to take home and nibble in bed while reading the Sunday paper. Now Marissa was sharing cheese and living life to the fullest with someone else in France.
As for me, I was hardly living my life at all, choosing sofa diving on the weekends instead of going to my yoga lessons or pottery classes. I barely had the energy to get myself together to come to my grandmother’s annual spring house party.
As I sat in my car in the driveway, I pondered over her beautiful two-story house with its sloping roof and massive back porch. How much had changed since my grandfather’s funeral two years before? That was the last time I had come here. Knowing my grandmother, it probably hadn’t changed much at all. She already had it decorated into country house heaven, making it look more like the photo spread in a magazine than a home.
Glancing at my watch, I realized I couldn’t stall any longer. I was already late. The moment my shoe touched the porch, my grandmother appeared at the front door and came outside to greet me. With her matronly figure, she was one of those women you could call handsome. Of course, she was wearing her fake company smile.
“Iris, it’s so good of you to come,” she said.
“Hello, Grandmother,” I said.
She opened her arms for a hug, but despite her size, I felt as if I was holding a piece of cardboard. I pulled away. Without much decorum, she sized me up. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she didn’t approve of the length of my brunette hair or my light blue sweater with the pearl beading, the one Marissa had given to me last Christmas. It had been accidentally washed and shrunk, and it probably accentuated my breasts far too much for her, but it was still the nicest thing I owned.
“Your mother couldn’t make it. She’s at one of her alternative women’s retreats and she couldn’t pull herself away,” she said.
I wasn’t surprised. My mother stayed away for many of the same reasons that I usually did, mostly because of the disapproving glances and criticisms. The only one who didn’t feel it was my sister, Becky, my grandmother’s perfect pet.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Well, come inside then,” she said, holding the door open for me.
I stepped inside.
“You could have made it on time,” she said behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder at her. She raised a critical eyebrow at me and then left me to join a group of women in the kitchen, giving one woman a very sweet smile, probably a new addition to one of her home decorating clubs. Abandoned as a punishment for being late, I looked around for a familiar face, but seeing no other, I decided to look for my sister.
Becky was in the living room, chatting with some distant cousins I barely remembered. Seeing me, she nodded but made no move to get up. Obviously, her feelings hadn’t changed since the last time I’d seen her.
As always, she was immaculately dressed. She lived by the three Ps: poised, polished, and professional. She once told me she didn’t even own a pair of jeans, and I believed her. She never left the house without her makeup and jewelry. You would never have guessed we shared the same freckles on our foreheads. Hers were obliterated by foundation. Every fiber of her being was committed to being the polar opposite of our mom. Becky wouldn’t drink herbal tea if you paid her.
Unlike her, I frequently drank herbal tea, and I wore blue jeans, peasant blouses, and sandals to work every day at the Wisdom Bookstore, which specialized in spirituality and psychology. There was also a coffee shop, which served organic muffins and cream-cheese-frosted carrot cakes.
Everyone thought I got this love of the spiritual from my mom, but I didn’t. It was from my grandfather. I loved his stories about his adventures before he met my grandmother. He’d hitchhiked all over the Far East, exploring Hindu temples, exotic cultures, and spiritualism.
My mother wasn’t spiritual—she was trendy. She went to spas and retreats where they wrapped her in seaweed and gave her yogurt enemas. Before all this, she had written a best-selling cookbook, its recipes loaded with fat and calories, but she had a heart attack after it was published and she freaked out. Now, with the royalties from her cookbook, she chased after her health like a rabid bunny.
Feeling awkward standing there alone, I moved into the dining room where a buffet was set up. Avoiding the cheese plate because it reminded me of Marissa, I selected a couple deviled eggs and looked for somewhere to sit. There was an empty spot along the window seat, but an elderly woman said it was already taken, so I sat on the stairs leading up to the two guest bedrooms.
I took a bite of a deviled egg and frowned. Too much sugar in the mayonnaise, I thought. I put the egg back on the plate and studied the dining room, noticing a few new things. On the wall was a collection of antique fishing flies in a distressed frame, though I knew my grandfather hadn’t liked fishing. He used to say he hated watching the fish suffer once they were out of the water.
What he had liked to do was take long walks around their property. I remembered him on one such walk, back when I was little, catching me in the woods rubbing my two naked Barbie dolls together in a fury of same-sex lust. He hadn’t told on me, but I had been so ashamed that I gave my dolls a funeral in the backyard. I let them sleep in the dirt until morning, when I retrieved them, unable to part with them any longer. Their hair was heavy with dirt, and no matter how hard I tried to wash it out, it never felt like it was gone.
I hadn’t really thought about the tenacity of dirt again until I met Marissa. She had been a manicurist in Paris but one day she quit, came to America, and got a job at a greenhouse. That was where I had met her. I was having trouble with bunnies eating my marigolds, and I stopped at the greenhouse to get some advice.
After we moved in together, I used to look at her short rough fingernails while she was sleeping. It was hard to believe she had been a fancy French manicurist when her nails were so rough and stained.
Even with her greenhouse nails, I’d never met anyone who stirred so much passion in me. When I was younger, I used to hold hands with girls in the backseats of cars and steal kisses in the back rows of movie theaters. I was very happy just kissing girls, not even going to second base, but when I met Marissa, she opened a whole new world for me.
Then my sister Becky found out. One day Marissa and I were having a tussle on the floor with the front door partially open when she stopped by. She saw us and fled. I didn’t know what to do. I’d never told her I liked girls, and I couldn’t explain this away. Grown women didn’t roll around on the carpet together giggling and trying to get their hands in each other’s pants.
Nothing was ever said to me, but I knew she had told the rest of the family and they didn’t approve. There were fewer invitations to family functions, and birthday cards were signed best instead of love.
At the time, I told myself I didn’t care. I had Marissa. She was the love of my life, but she had other things on her mind. I should have known that something more was going on. Those long distance phone calls to France hadn’t been to her family. Then one morning, I woke and found she was gone.
Suddenly, there was a creak on the stairs behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see a young woman descending behind me. She was very pretty with an angular face, high cheekbones, blonde hair, creamy skin, and big blue eyes.
Moving aside to make room for her, I waited for her to pass, but she didn’t.
“You’re Iris?” she asked. “The granddaughter who works in the bookstore. I saw you outside.”
I nodded.
“I’m Lucy. Judy’s daughter,” she said, as if expecting me to know who Judy was.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said.
“Come upstairs with me.”
Without a second thought, I left my
plate on the stairs and followed her. It was better than sitting there alone, I thought.
She led me to the white bedroom where my mom used to stay when we visited for the weekend. It hadn’t changed at all. There were still the full-size gabled bed, the ticking-covered armchair, and the hardwood floor with the braided rag rugs.
Lucy walked across the room and stood by the window, where the sunlight streaming in gave her skin a luminous glow. I studied her: she looked perfectly dressed in a white blouse with a black skirt. Her hair was pinned up in a makeshift French twist.
Now she smiled at me. I had no idea why she had asked me up here. Normally, the only time my grandmother allowed anyone up here was when company stayed and I didn’t see any suitcases.
“I don’t think my grandmother wants anyone up here,” I said.
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt us.”
She looked me up and down.
“I like your sweater,” she said. “You’ve got a great sense of style.”
I looked at my sweater. After I had accidentally shrunk it, I had hidden it from Marissa, not wanting her to know what had happened. She hadn’t even noticed it was missing.
“I’m a fashion design student,” she said. “I should know. You look great. It really goes with your eyes.”
Feeling flattered, I smoothed the cuff.
“I saw you outside, sitting in your car. You didn’t want to come in did you?” she asked.
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