Unspeakably Erotic

by D. L. King

  “Minnie, tell me how your setup is—oh, fuck— progressing.” Pulling my brain back into a place where I can speak is good. It fills me with a sense of power, makes me sharper and more aware of what’s happening to me. Sensations are nice, but I don’t actually like to disappear into them. I taste them better when my mind’s alert, and when I’m focused on the situation as a whole instead of crawling inside my own consciousness.

  “Almost ready. Everything is sterilized. I’m just getting organized.”

  I feel her moving just beyond my field of vision. For a second, I wish I could have two Minnies. She knows how to fuck me just right. She knows how to make me feel split open in the best way, how to fill me more than I thought possible, how to push just past the point where I think I can’t take it anymore, and how to tell the difference between a desperate scream of pleasure and an incoherent cry for a break.

  On the other hand, if I’m going to get nipple rings in a situation like this, and I’m planning to make them permanent, it has to be Minnie who gives them to me. She’s got the sense of timing required to make this work just the way I fantasized, she learned to pierce for me and I want her to mark my body for life the way she has my heart and mind.

  Besides, I’ve got no complaints about Alice’s technique. She’s spearing me enthusiastically with four fingers, and Minnie must have done a good job with the rope, because I’m shocked I’m not sliding all over the place under the force of her assault. Braced this way, I can’t do anything but absorb each of Alice’s thrusts, and I indulge in a long whimper before forcing myself back to saying words.

  “All right. Alice, ease off just a little so Minnie can set up.”

  She gives it to me hard a couple more times, a challenging expression on her face, and then does as I’ve requested.

  “Just stroke the G-spot lightly. Tickle it, almost.”

  “Tickle, tickle.” Alice smirks.

  It doesn’t tickle.

  I take a deep breath, letting the pleasure surround me and press at the edges of me, without surrendering to it.

  “Minnie, if you’re ready, come here.”

  The stand’s wheels roll closer. Minnie puts a hand on my head. Her cool touch makes me realize how hot and sweaty Alice has gotten me.

  “Make your marks now.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  I’m so sensitive that I gasp when Minnie’s pen touches down on one side of my left nipple, marking a spot to guide how she inserts the needle. My cunt clutches around Alice’s fingers.

  “Down, girl,” Alice teases. “I’ll get back to the good stuff in a minute.”

  I acknowledge Alice with another squeeze, but most of my attention is on Minnie. She looks gorgeous above me, a cute wrinkle of concentration marking the bridge of her nose, curly, dark hair hanging down, breasts swaying under the floral dress as she moves.

  She presses the tip of the pen once more on my left nipple, then touches twice on the right. I can tell she’s doing her job well. I glow with pride to think about how good she’s gotten at this, at how much she’s learned for me, at how skilled and beautiful she is—and that she’s mine.

  “Would you like lidocaine, Miss?”

  Minnie grins slyly. I snort.

  “Painkillers aren’t the point. You know that. You realize more punishment means you won’t get to come, don’t you?”

  “Alice looks like she’d be quite competent at punishing me.”

  I feign outrage while Minnie smears sterile solution over my nipples. “And I wouldn’t?”

  She only smiles in reply, but I think I see her game. If Alice and I wind up trying to outdo each other—well, that’s a recipe for exquisite torture if I’ve ever heard one.

  “Once I have the clamps on, I’ll be ready to put the needle in as soon as you give the signal,” Minnie informs me.

  I hiss as she pulls the skin taut. “Okay, Alice, you can go back to what you were doing before. No more holding back. Make me come.”

  Alice grins and ups her intensity—to what it was before, and beyond. The woman is strong. She gets her whole arm and body behind each thrust. I half expect the table to collapse.

  “Keep fucking me through the orgasm when it hits,” I instruct. “Don’t let up until I say.”

  “You got it. Unless my arm gives out.” She winks.

  I’m not worried. Alice seems to have way too much pride to give up for anything short of an emergency.

  What she’s doing feels painful and good, but I always need more than that. Often, when reaching for orgasm, I think about a moment exactly like the one we’re in now, dwell on the idea of being penetrated by fingers and a needle at the same time, imagine myself totally unable to move, caught between two excruciating sensations.

  I look at Minnie, who’s holding the needle less than a centimeter away from my nipple. A thrill of fear and anticipation shoots through me. Based on our temporary piercing play, I know just how it will feel, but I’m never quite prepared for what hits me when I look at a needle, a complex combination of fascination, compulsion, revulsion, and desire. I want Minnie inside me this way. I want to feel the odd, dull pain that comes from inside, combined with the sharp, crystalline hit of endorphins that punches my chest when needle breaks skin.

  And there’s no forgetting Alice. Her hand feels so big, so inescapable. Her thumb tickles my entrance, and I feel her knuckles hitting hard every time she presses in. I don’t think I could take her whole fist this way, but I love the image of opening.

  Fuck.

  “Now, Minnie. Put the needle in. I’m gonna— Fuck, I’m— Good job, Alice. I’m about to—”

  The needle parts my flesh just as I begin to ripple around Alice’s hand. I can’t breathe. There’s no room for anything. My body wants to squirm away, but Minnie’s rope has made it so I can’t. My too-full cunt aches as its muscles struggle to move while impeded by Alice’s thrusting fingers. My nipple is a bright spot in my mind, lit with sensation.

  I cry out. Just as I’ve instructed, my orgasm stops nothing. Alice is still fucking me just as hard. Minnie is tugging the cannula through the opening she’s made, the tugging on the inside of my nipple weird and unsettling and inescapable, just the way I wanted the pain to be.

  I can’t leave the moment. Both Alice and Minnie are forcing me to stay with them. So my orgasm can’t make me fall off the edge of the universe, or whatever the old euphemisms were. Instead, it fills me up, overwhelms me, gathers at the base of my skull, makes my breathing feel like I’m running in a thin atmosphere. I’ve got nowhere to go, but this feeling needs to go somewhere. I’m stuck for a second, but then Minnie reaches the end of the cannula and begins to tug the thicker nipple ring through.

  I’ve got no choice but to accommodate—uncompromising metal, and Alice’s equally uncompromising hand.

  It feels like there’s not enough room inside me, but then my body makes the room. Parts of me are moving that I didn’t know could move. My cunt finds buried centers of pleasure, and my orgasm starts within them and spreads down to my toes and up to my now-aching nipple. My body gives way before Minnie’s jewelry. I feel the finality of her snapping it into place with a twist of her fingers.

  I’m pumped full of endorphins. I feel amazing, like I could lift this table off the basement floor and bring both Minnie and Alice with me for the ride.

  “Keep going,” I shout. “This is fucking awesome. Keep going. Minnie, second nipple. Alice, see if you can make me squirt.”

  Alice barks out a laugh, but she also presses hard on my G-spot. She grabs a second glove with her free hand and uses her teeth to help it on. Then she brings the bony heel of her hand into contact with my clit, sandwiching me between two excruciating forms of pleasure.

  “Oh, that works,” I tell her. “Minnie, I’m ready for the second nipple.”

  The sharp, the ache, the bruise, the bone-on-flesh rub . . . The sensations mix together into something I can’t sort out anymore. Still, I’ve never felt so in control.
>
  White spots appear behind my eyes. The sensations of my newly pierced left nipple press at my consciousness while Minnie works on the right. It feels like Alice is squeezing the orgasm out of me. I don’t know exactly what noises I make, or exactly what my body does. I do know this feels just the way I pictured it.

  And I haven’t let go. I haven’t forgotten that after this moment ends, after I’ve had a moment to catch my breath again, Alice and I will need to punish my girlfriend. Probably a lot.

  It’s fucking perfect.

  PRIVATE PARTY

  Rose P. Lethe

  Taylor arrived well after eight. The tiny parking lot outside the square two-story brick building that David and Vanessa rented was full, so she had to park on the street instead, her car becoming another in a row of neutral-colored sedans. The air outside was cool, with a breeze that rustled Taylor’s hair as she climbed out and slung her handbag over her shoulder.

  She would have to text to be let in. That was one of the rules.

  Breathing shakily, Taylor fished her phone from her bag and found David’s name in her contacts. Hey, it’s Taylor. I’m here. Sorry I’m late.

  David’s response came seconds later: Anna will open the door for you.

  Anna? Taylor cast her mind back to the two munches she had been to, but she couldn’t recall ever meeting an Anna. So there would be at least one person here she’d never met before.

  Her nerves, already in a poor state, began to wear and fray like a cut wire, hurling sparks of panic through her. She inhaled deeply, trying to mend the damage before it worsened.

  Taylor would enjoy herself. She refused to even consider the possibility that she wouldn’t. She’d been dreaming about this for years, after all. First only in brief but poignant flashes, a silent yearning she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and then as she learned the language she’d been lacking—submission, role-play, pet-play—a near-constant ache, a fantasy she played over and over.

  Her new job had been a boon in more ways than one. New town, new friends, even a new therapist with a new approach. Dr. Browne encouraged her to step out of her comfort zone, to push herself to do things that would trigger her anxiety—although he probably hadn’t had something like this in mind.

  My first play party, Taylor thought. But rather than the shiver of excitement she should have felt, panic flooded anew.

  She closed her eyes and talked it down, reminded herself that it would get better—just like the grocery store and the bank, both unavoidable parts of life, and now the munches and play parties, both fundamental to being kinky.

  Over an hour she’d spent in the bathroom, taming her thick ash-brown hair and brushing a rosy glow onto her pale cheeks. Even her street clothes had been chosen with care: a black sweater dress that clung beautifully to her hips and tits and masked the little paunch she’d gained during the stress of the cross-state move.

  Beneath the dress was her real outfit: a black see-through camisole over a black lace halter bra and matching hip-huggers. Black was Taylor’s best color, according to more than one of her ex-girlfriends. It contrasted nicely with her pale skin.

  The accessories were in her handbag: a narrow leather collar and a pair of cat ears. There was also a long, fluffy black faux-fur tail, attached to a slender steel plug. She didn’t know if she’d want to go that far tonight, but she’d brought it just in case.

  Taylor gripped the straps of her handbag, adjusting them on her shoulder. This could be so good, she thought. Please don’t let me freak out.

  The front door opened as she approached and shut promptly behind her, revealing a woman standing behind it. They were in an entryway, small and overly bright, with another closed door straight ahead and a set of narrow wooden stairs to the left. From behind the door, which was marked with a gold A, Taylor could hear the muffled beat of music and the rhythmic, telltale thudding of a flogger hitting skin.

  She paid the noise little attention, too focused on the woman, who stood with her hands on her hips as though relishing the attention. Even with a pair of tall scarlet pumps, she was an inch or two shorter than Taylor, and her skin was a golden brown, her hair a dark brunette and pulled into a neat ponytail. She wore a pair of tight leather pants—so tight Taylor couldn’t imagine how she’d managed to put them on—a black push-up bra, and a corset that matched her pumps in color and satiny-looking material. Her nails were neatly manicured and painted the same shade of scarlet as her shoes and corset.

  She was gorgeous, and so confident. Taylor swallowed thickly, struck with the urge to bow her head in reverence.

  The woman’s lips, which were soft and plump but free of lipstick, as far as Taylor could tell, curved into a smile.

  “Hello. I’m Anna. David and Vanessa’s backup DM for the night.” She offered her hand.

  Taylor took it. Anna’s hand was warm and smooth, a sharp difference from Taylor’s clammy ones, and her handshake was gentle but firm. “Taylor. Um. Hi, nice to meet you.”

  Anna’s hand lingered a moment, her gaze sweeping over Taylor’s features, before she let go. “Welcome. Come on in.”

  She opened the door marked with the gold A and waved Taylor into a short, empty hallway. Inside, the lights were dimmed and the walls painted a deep burgundy. There were two open doorways on the right, one dark and the other with light spilling out. At the very end of the hallway, an even brighter glow came from a room to the left. The music was louder here, and the flogging sounds were accompanied by the distant murmur of conversation.

  Taylor’s anxiety surged. It felt like she was shaking on the inside, something thrashing under her skin to be let loose.

  You want to be here, she reminded herself. You want to be kinky. This is how you do it.

  “If you want to change or freshen up first, the bathroom is right there.” Anna pointed to the darkened doorway. “When you’re finished, I’ll give you a tour of the dungeon.”

  Taylor went, still clutching her handbag straps like they could keep her from rattling out of her bones.

  The bathroom was small, decorated with unlit candles and a vase of real, freshly picked flowers.

  This isn’t what I expected, she thought, setting her bag on the white marble countertop.

  Although when she tried to conjure an image of what she had expected, she couldn’t. She hadn’t considered much beyond the people and the weight of everyone’s scrutiny as she tried (and surely failed) to behave like she wasn’t a hopeless amateur.

  Her stomach twisted at the thought, so she tried to sweep it away, busying herself with undressing and removing the collar and cat ears from her bag.

  The collar jingled incessantly as she lifted it, and the noise echoed as loudly as a drum in the quiet room. It was a simple collar, only a plain leather band with a silver bell in the center, but it struck her as quintessentially catlike. She’d loved it when she’d bought it.

  Now, the sound of the bell made her chest feel tight. It would ring with every move she made; it would call attention to her.

  That’s what pets do. Is this your kink or isn’t it?

  It was. She knew it was.

  Heart pounding and stomach still twisting, she wound the collar around her neck and picked up the ears. Fastened to a thin wire headband, the cat ears were made of black faux fur and pale-pink felt. She slipped the headband on, arranged her hair so that it hid the metal wire, and then stood back, peering at herself in the mirror above the sink.

  She looked . . . childish. Like a teenager straight out of Hot Topic, trying to look edgy and cool, trying to stand out.

  Pathetic. What are they going to think of you?

  Panic closed in on her, covering her like a sheet and bearing down, trying to snuff her like a cigarette. Her heart throbbed in her ears and sweat beaded on her forehead, her temples, and her nape.

  She closed her eyes, clutching the countertop, and tried to breathe. In through her nose, out through her mouth, just like her therapist had taught her. In through her nose, ou
t through her mouth.

  The panic didn’t wane. Her limbs began to shake.

  Push through it, she thought. Remember the munches. It always gets better.

  Still shaking, Taylor stuffed her dress and ballet flats into her handbag. Her trembling fingers slipped twice on the zipper before she managed to zip it shut. Then she looked herself in the mirror one last time. Her eyes were deer-in-headlights wide, her cheeks pale. As soon as she’d wiped the sheen of sweat from her face, even more had come to replace it.

  It would have to do. She gathered her handbag and left, her legs weak and wobbly.

  Anna was waiting for her, leaning against the wall and looking poised, self-assured, and lovely. A far cry from Taylor, whose head went light and spinny. She had to grasp the door frame to keep herself from stumbling. Why had she thought she could handle this? The people, the strangers, watching and judging her—

  “Hey,” said Anna. “All right? You look . . . not well.”

  Understatement. Taylor’d had enough panic attacks to recognize that she wasn’t really dying, but god, it felt like it. Her lungs burned; her heart pounded even harder. “I—” was all she managed.

  “That’s a no.” Then Anna was there, her hand on Taylor’s bare arm. “Let’s get you some air.”

  Anna led her down the hallway, not dragging or pushing but guiding gently and with clear authority. It felt nice, somehow. Soothing. Anna’s hand proved a warm, grounding presence. She gave Taylor a single, simple path that she didn’t have to think about to follow.

  Taylor let herself be led into the entryway. Anna gestured for her to sit on the bottom stair and then squatted in front of her. It must have been murder in her tall pumps and tight pants, but if it was, she gave no sign of it. Her expression was open and kind.

  She said nothing, only remained a strangely safe and comforting presence as Taylor fought to breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth. She concentrated on the slow rise and fall of Anna’s breasts, trying to match the rhythm. Slowly, the worst of the panic abated, although it lingered at the edge of Taylor’s consciousness, waiting.