by Violet Blue
I took off my dress and since that was all I’d been instructed to do, I returned to him in my hose, my heels, my bra and my panties. I was thankful to the gods of serendipity that everything was pretty and matched. I wasn’t stuck in a decrepit bra or ugly knickers or snarled hosiery.
“Good girl. I was wondering if you’d arrive bare-assed naked or only missing the item specified.” He clapped softly. “Bravo.”
I was wet between the legs, light in the head. So, I said the only thing I could think to say. “How would you like me?”
He cocked his head and studied me. “I think that first I’d like you to grab the small cuff-link shelf. But remember, don’t put too much weight on it or you’ll bend it. This lovely thing is in pristine condition.”
When he said that I knew I was in trouble. A thought that made my heart beat faster and my head spin a little. I put my hands, the left laid neatly atop the right, on the small wooden shelf. I made sure to put barely any weight on it at all. Which, when I bent forward a bit, put all the stress on my lower back and ass. His hands slid down the small of my back, cupped my butt. He found the wet center of me and drove a finger against it. Which only served to wedge my wet panties to my soaked slit.
I bit my lip and waited.
“I think I’d like to see you keep your composure as I use the paddle. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
I nodded.
He tapped me once. Hard.
“Yes, Sir,” I amended.
“Let me just reach around here into the handy dandy cubby and grab that paddle.”
He must have filled it while I was taking off my dress. I had no idea what that compartment held. He pressed his hard cock to the back of me as he reached past me. He was still wearing trousers but the feel of it elicited a sharp inhalation from me.
The paddle said BAD in red leather letters. “I’m going for a look here. More cherry red than cherry-blossom pink. I’ll paddle you till I’m satisfied. So, take a big breath, Jess.”
I obeyed, sucking air deep into my lungs before pressing my ass back in an act of true submission. The paddle whacked against me with a cheerfully dull thud. My body jerked as a thick pain filled me. A dull pain as opposed to the sharp sting of an open hand. It was an act of utter concentration. Focusing on not putting too much pressure on the cuff-link tray, not leaning on it hard enough to bend the slender metalwork that held it above the hanger.
“You’re doing remarkably well. I can see you are being very aware of my treasure, here.” Three more thick blows landed on my ass. Inside my panties, I was terribly wet. I could feel the warm slide of my juices as he continued to paddle me. I could only let myself be aware of it for a split second at a time, or I would lean too heavily on the wooden shelf.
When I had chewed my lower lip swollen with concentration, George stopped. The leather paddle hit the floor, and I heard his zipper. He stepped out of his trousers slowly as blood beat sluggishly beneath my paddle-reddened cheeks. Heat and pain and viscous pleasure occupied my mind.
I started when he shoved my panties down, making sure to preserve my thigh-high stockings. His fingers slipped inside of me with ease, and I blushed.
“Drenched. I’m glad you enjoyed that as much as I did.”
I nodded. “I did, Sir.”
“Reach under there and you’ll find two alligator clips.”
I didn’t react outwardly, but inside I trembled. I hated them. Hated that dull chewing pain on my skin. But when they were removed, it was nearly transcendental. The pleasure-pain of fresh rushes of blood traveling to the tortured spot was heart stopping.
I lifted the leatherette seat and found them without looking. They were lined up at the very front where I would feel their small metal presence.
“Hand them over.”
I turned and put them in his hand.
“Face me all the way, Jess.”
I turned and watched him calmly pop the front of my bra open and push it off. He opened the clamp and let me see the ragged teeth. “Please keep your eyes on what I’m doing. No looking away.”
George brushed the metal over my nipple until the coolness of it raised the flesh up into a tight pink knot. Then he slowly let the jaws shut on my tender flesh. I blew out a breath when I realized I wasn’t breathing.
He smiled, nodded, leaned in and kissed me gently. His tongue slipped along my lower lip and then slid into my mouth. The kiss was gentle. Accented by the sharp bite of the other clip on my right breast as he applied it. He stepped back, surveyed his work and smiled.
“On your knees now, Jess. Face the gentleman’s valet. Hold the ends of the wooden hanger and put your ass out. We’ve gotten it cherry red but I’m itching to feel my bare hand on that warm skin.”
I thought ten strokes. He liked things even. I could handle the clamps for ten strokes. Ten wasn’t so bad…. I tried to convince myself of this as he began. The first bare-handed blow landed on my already welted skin, and I jumped. The pain shot through me, rattling me as the sensation of the blow augmented my awareness of the tiny metal jaws on my nipples.
But through it all, lust and need burned warm and sweet in my belly.
Every blow rocked me, and every rock made me clutch at the smooth wood in front of me. Again, I had to focus on not pulling too hard on his precious find. It was most likely, judging by its appearance, older than the two of us put together. The wood my hands warmed as I clutched it smelled like cedar. I lost myself in that rich cedar scent as blow ten shot fire down my flanks.
With every heartbeat my cunt constricted. Little spasms of hot pleasure that had me chewing my lower lip again. In my mind he lost his edge, lost his cool, lost his calm exterior. Dropped to his knees. Fucked me hard enough to ram my belly against the lip of the lovely leatherette seat. Fucked me hard enough to make the liftable seat flap restlessly, making a banging sound that would remind me, I was sure, of the sound of one hand clapping.
I shook my head, fighting off the crazy thoughts that filled me as I realized blow eleven had landed. It was the first strike that truly provoked a noise from me.
“You were expecting ten,” he chuckled. It wasn’t a question.
I nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
“Today I figured I’d go for a baker’s dozen.”
With that, two more blows crashed down, and I found myself trying to ram my clit against the edge of the seat. Only it didn’t line up. I was humping air.
“Oh, poor Jess,” he said. “Turn around and face me. But stay on your knees.”
I spun to face him, my knees screaming—a totally different flavor of pain from my ass, which was a totally different flavor than my aching nipples.
He ran the tip of his cock along my upper lip as if painting me with lipstick. I kept my tongue in my mouth and did nothing until instructed. When he brushed the hair back from my brow and said, “Open,” I opened so fast my mouth made a soft popping sound.
He chuckled. “You really are such a good girl. You please me more often than not. And even when you don’t please me,” he said, winking, as if sharing a great secret, “I love you.”
Pleasure saturated my nerve endings and my pussy seemed to grow thicker, plumper and even more desperate for him to enter me. It was all I could think of. Him filling me with his big hard cock. Him rocking his hips and kissing me until I came. Him eating up my cries like the small, sweet things they were.
With that he was holding the sides of my head and fucking my mouth. Not slow and gentle, but with great eager strokes that meant he was taking from me what he needed, and that made me happy beyond measure.
There came a point where he hung his head and swore softly, then offered me his hand chivalrously. I took it, stood and looked down at my heels until he put a finger under my chin and tilted my face up so I’d look at him.
Keeping that gaze, he took one alligator clip off. I gasped and he leaned in to kiss me. A moan overcame me as the blood that had been denied that constricted flesh began to flow again. It was the most ex
quisitely pleasant pain.
George leaned in and licked my nipple. When I hissed, he sucked it. A gush of wetness escaped me, and my hips thrust forward on their own. He put his hands on my hip bones and sucked again. I sighed.
The second clamp came off, and a sob slipped out of me. It went from a quiet sob to a consuming one as he settled his mouth on that fragile halo of flesh.
George thrust thick fingers into me, holding me around the waist as he did it. “You did very well, sweetheart,” he said.
That alone caused my pleasure to swell.
He thrust harder, making sure to drive the knuckle of his thumb against my throbbing clitoris. I rarely came from fingers alone but the paces he’d put me through before this had primed me. I was well past ready, far down the road from juicy. I was on the breathtaking cusp of coming before he’d even touched me. When he thrust roughly and truly knocked my clit with that knuckle, I sagged in his arms.
I said one word, remembering myself at the very last second. “Sir.”
“I’m not sure, Jess, if it’s this pristine piece or how well you did, or a combination of your beauty and its, but I think I’ve lost my resolve.”
I waited, biting the very tip of my tongue. I held it there between my teeth because all of me was shaking. Even my jaw.
“Put that sweet lush ass on the edge of the seat, please.” He jacked his cock in one hand as he said it. “Be careful not to put your head against the hanger or the wooden tray. We want to keep this as pristine as possible.”
I balanced there, thighs spread, cunt wet, on the very edge of the leatherette seat. I was not a gentleman putting on my socks and garters. I was not a man having a seat to put on my wristwatch or cufflinks. I was his whore, precariously perched on his new treasured items, pussy drenched, thighs splayed, heart racing.
It was perfect.
George knelt. “Do you like the irony, Jessica? Me on my knees?”
I just stared. At his almost severe mouth. The way it turned more pliable and welcoming when he gave me a wry smile.
“Turns out you’ve pleased me too much for me to tease you any more. Kudos.”
He wrapped my leg around his waist, found my slick split with his cockhead. He dragged that velveteen skin along my wetness until I mewled softly. I wasn’t proud of that sound but it was how I felt in a nutshell. Eager. Willing.
He moved into me and I gripped the edge of the seat, willing myself not to move. He wanted to take me, and my job was to be taken. I concentrated on holding my body still, letting him tilt me and bend me and fuck me at his will. He smiled, knowing the lengths of my control. When we fucked “normally” I moved and clutched and thrust and groaned. Now I simply held my body taut, at the mercy of his will and my shredding amount of control.
“You impress me, Jess. You’ve yet to come undone.”
He hiked my leg a bit higher, thrusting into me so forcefully the vintage chair had a good case of the tremors. I gripped the lip of the seat, held my breath until he pushed his thumb past my lips and I did what he expected. I sucked.
A shiver skittered through him before he could suppress it and deep in that secret place inside of me that remained bright and alert and willful during these interludes I felt victorious.
“Damn,” he laughed. The amused sound of a man bested.
He thrust harder and the chair squealed. He chuckled, his fingers biting into the meat of my hip as I continued to languidly suck his thumb like it was his cock.
He leaned forward, the root of his cock bumping my clit so precisely I gasped.
“You may,” he said. Then he moaned and the sound alone pushed me forcefully past my invisible line of self-control. I came with a cry, my cunt milking him.
“Jesus,” he groaned. “Your perfect velvet pussy,” he laughed.
Again he sounded bested and my heart swelled.
“What do you think of my treasure?” he asked, fixing my hair. It had swung in tatters and tangles around my face. He held my thighs in his hands, his cock still buried inside me though softening.
“I like it.” I smiled.
“I like it too. I like it even more now.”
“Me, too.”
When he stood he offered me a hand. I took it. He kissed my knuckles, my palm, my throat. “Now put all our toys inside the seat. I’ll move it upstairs once you’re done. I think I’ve found the perfect third party to our games. Every gentleman needs two things.”
“What are those?” I asked.
He pinched my nipple playfully. “A beautiful woman and a way to organize her undoing.”
CHRYSALIS
Nikki Adams
This morning, just as the elevator closed, I caught the faint trace of perfume. Whisper of a delicate flower, soft as pillows and sighs. Jasmine, perhaps. It teased like a smile from the far side of a room, and I fell headlong into thoughts of a pencil skirt, and heels clicking across a tiled floor. Who those things belonged to didn’t entirely matter. It was a spark, and the spark was what mattered.
Jasmine-scented spark.
Once the doors opened, I was busy—always so busy. Another day playing the role of a coldhearted bitch who was too engaged to waste time—too occupied to fuck around. Double-checking facts, coordinating with clients, researching relevant cases and, when the other side refused to settle, going to court. And when in court, owning it. Head high, shoulders relaxed, walking with purpose and engaging the jurors with my eyes. Suggesting to them just what it was they should think. Twenty-six of my clients had walked away with at least a million, often much more. Well, not all of them walked—some while away their lives with multiple prosthetics, wheelchairs, hospital beds or machines that have become the most unwanted of friends. Sometimes, winning is nothing at all.
Busy-busy-busy. Very good money, but so little time.
Still, on evenings like this, I’m carried elsewhere. Heat moves to the forefront, and my desire for another woman becomes unbearable. I start to swelter. Burn.
Sparks, like the one from the elevator, become smolder when I see a jogger with her mouth slightly open, ponytail swaying, lower back shimmering with perspiration. I imagine kissing her there, welcoming the salty-sweetness lingering upon her skin. I plunge into fantasies of the two of us tangled, panting and wet with exertion. When the smolder bursts to flame, I reach for the phone. The service I use is discreet, and the girls are young and perky. Earlobes, necks and nipples; fingernails, thighs and clits. I get what I need, I tip generously when we both get off, and she goes away.
My heart is strictly off limits, and I always sleep alone. Always. It has worked out pretty well for me, because I just don’t have time to fuck around.
Lately, though, it’s all turned lackluster. A pulling has risen, leaving me hungry for more than another call girl feigning niceties to squeeze out a bonus. And I surely don’t want to waste time chasing down and bedding an inquisitive straight chick, then watch her fall apart at the seams just because I make her come.
No.
I need someone to move me out of myself and into an intensity I haven’t known before. I want someone to thoroughly intoxicate me—be my drug.
While perusing the W4W section, a posting caught my eye:
A different kind of woman…
Zhanna, 28, 5’10”, M2F Non-op.
I went through the picture links. She was cute. Very cute. Casting a look over her shoulder, she showed a very faint lump in an otherwise womanly neck. Another photo revealed blonde hair reaching her lower back. Her arms were slender. Little breasts pushed against a designer T-shirt, and she had an ass that begged to be patted. Black stilettos accentuated long legs.
Well, damn.
I scanned her profile again. M2F Non-op. For whatever reason, she’d decided to keep what she had.
How long since I had been with a man, I wondered? Brad was the last, and that was four years ago—perhaps five. Either way, it hadn’t been long enough for me to particularly miss it. I supposed it wasn’t his fault that he was
so darn clumsy, though the experience was similar with those I’d had with the other men I’d known. They just fumbled around down there. But a female—particularly when intent on pleasure—knows exactly what to do. Women understand what women want.
So why her? What was it about this woman that piqued my interest? She wasn’t a female in the Merriam-Webster sense. At the same time, she surely wasn’t a man either. No, she was a woman—a female who happened to have something different. She was that tiny sliver in a rainbow, the misty mingling of two hues.
And she was looking to spend her quiet time with a woman….
The longer I gazed, the more captivated I became. It was as if I were being drawn into the eyes of a Vermeer—one that had been turned inside out, and then folded back upon itself.
I blinked at the fascination stirring within. What the hell am I thinking? I shut my laptop and reached for the light.
She fluttered into my head during a board meeting the next day, and again the night after that. I thought of her tall frame and willowy arms. I imagined a cascade of hair as she kissed her way down my stomach. After an hour of tossing and turning, I reached for my laptop. Her picture gazed back.
Hello Zhanna. Quite interested in meeting you. I’m a professional woman, early thirties. Would like a discreet and understanding friend to spend time with. Look forward to hearing from you. G.
My finger hovered over the ENTER button for what seemed an eternity.
I checked messages while brushing my teeth, upon reaching the office, then at lunch. Nothing. Three o’clock found me chiding myself for being so foolish. For all I knew, some overweight, hairy guy might have placed the post wearing a stained T-shirt and socks, grinning as he chewed a mushy-ended cigar that had long gone out.
Just after four, a message popped up.
Hello G. Would be glad to meet. Let me know where and what time works best. Zhanna.
She sent along a picture, head slightly turned with a trace of a smile. It was date-stamped five minutes before. Her eyes appeared soft and kind. Genuine. I felt flushed all over. We agreed to meet Friday evening, at a quiet coffee shop in the next town.
