Sweet Love

by Violet Blue

  “How about sushi?” I ask, then drop and hang from the bar at the full extent of my arms. I’m wearing loose combat trousers and a white sleeveless singlet now that the show’s over; the muscles are corded in my arms. My feet dangle well short of the mat.

  “I thought you didn’t like the idea of raw fish?” He’s within arm’s reach.

  “Well.” With one leg then the other I reach out and hook him round the torso, pulling myself tight up against him. “There’s a first time for everything,” say I with a grin. Hey, it’s not subtle, but I’ve had it with being subtle. It was getting me nowhere. He looks up at me with surprise and doubt. Looks up, because his face is actually on a level with my boobs, which are straining against my white cotton top. I’m not wearing a bra and my nipples are hard.

  “Izzy…”

  “Hey?” I ask, softly.

  With a certain inevitability his gaze falls from my face. I can hardly blame the man. Snaking an arm about me, he dips his head ever so slightly and his warm breath washes my right nipple. His lips graze the cotton and I stop breathing. He circles the raised nubbin of flesh with his mouth, establishing just how stiff it is, how thin the cotton covering, how warm and soft the mound of my breast. I feel teeth—the most delicate of exploratory nibbles—and I let out a squeak of anticipation and pleasure.

  Instantly he lets me go and pulls out of my thighs’ embrace. As he stalks away I drop to the mat.

  “Blayne!”

  He runs his hand through his hair and heads into the shadows. He keeps walking until he reaches a wall; I half expect him to just bump up against it like a toy robot but he leans his arm to the brickwork.

  “Blayne, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have I pissed you off? Talk to me!”

  “Izzy, please just forget it…” He can’t meet my eyes, and his face is all pinched.

  “Are you married? Gay?” I’m dead certain he’s not gay, not judging by the way he’s been watching me since we met. So certain in fact, that I reach out and grab the front of his loose trousers—and it’s a good thing he has a hard-on because otherwise that would’ve been really embarrassing. He jumps when I grasp what is definitely a stiff cock, and a substantial one at that. “You are so not gay,” I whisper, rather shocked at myself.

  He could shove me off with one push, but instead he plucks my hand from his crotch and folds it against his chest, cradling it. His other hand takes hold of my shoulder. “Izzy, please.”

  “Have you got a wife then?” He doesn’t wear a ring and I’ve never seen him with a woman, not once in months. He hasn’t told me anything. “A girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “Izzy, I really like you.”

  Oh, god: the poverty of the English language, where “I really like you” has to stand in place for everything from “I’m in love” to “I want to fuck your brains out” to “I want you to piss off and leave me alone.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “I really like you,” he repeats. “I think you’re brilliant, and lovely, and great to work with, and what we’ve got going here is something so good. I don’t want to lose that. I want us to be able to carry on together.”

  “Like I don’t?”

  “It won’t work.”

  “I know something that thinks it will.” I’ve already burned my bridges. “This big hard cock of yours thinks we’ll do just fine together.” I press against him to make my point, and he certainly makes his, right in the wall of my belly. My cunt flutters greedily. He shifts his hips, his eyes darkening. He’s holding my hand really tight.

  “Believe me,” he says hoarsely, “it’ll not work out right between us.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Experience.”

  “Then just fuck me,” I whisper. “I’m a big girl, you know: I can handle a one-night stand without going off the rails.” I’m not playing fair either, pulling his hand from my bare shoulder down to cup the orb of my breast. He thumbs my nipple instinctively, sending electric flashes through my skin, and I moan.

  “Izzy…” He sounds desperate, but he doesn’t break. There’s something weird going on here.

  “Are you scared you’ll hurt me?”

  Something flickers in his eyes. “Far from it.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  He drags his hand from my tit and secures both of mine against his chest where I can’t do anything naughty with them. I lean into him instead, my thighs burning against his. “Izzy, I have this thing…”

  “I know. I can feel it.”

  He grins without any amusement. “There’s this thing I do. It’s…a part of my life. It doesn’t come as an optional extra. And it’s not something you’d be at all happy with.”

  “What?” For the first time doubt seeps in. “This is a sex thing, is it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, god. Is it something illegal?”

  He shakes his head. “No—consenting human adults only. I promise.”

  “But you think I’ll freak out?”

  “It’s…difficult to understand.”

  “So you’re kinky.” I swallow, trying to be blasé. “I can handle that. I’m not a prude.”

  He pulls a face: disbelief.

  “What is it? You like to wear women’s underwear? Lick feet? Ah—it’s not nappies is it?”

  He laughs, and then shakes his head.

  “Then what? What’s so bad I won’t even be able to work with you?”

  “Can’t we just leave it?”

  “Too late for that.”

  He shuts his eyes for a moment. I feel something in the twitch of his muscles. I recognize it: the moment you decide to jump. “You ever been spanked, Izzy?”

  “Oh,” I say, all sorts of pieces sliding round in my mind, trying to find places to fit. “My first boyfriend—I sort of asked him to spank my bottom.” To my own surprise I blush. “He called me a freak, and dumped me the next day.”

  “Ow.” For a moment he’s smiling again.

  “Does that count then?”

  “Um. It probably counts as a try.”

  “So…?”

  “So: I’m into pain. In a big way.”

  “You want me to spank you?”

  “Not receiving it. Inflicting it.”

  “Oh,” I say again, wit deserting me. I’ve got enough sense left to realize that he’s talking about more than a bit of playful ass-slapping. “Whoa. You get off on hurting people?”

  “Women. Yes.” He watches me wince.

  “Don’t you…?” I struggle to frame the question without sounding like a Daily Mail editorial. “Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “Worry me? Yes; all the time. I’m not a psycho, Izzy, or a wife-beater. I’m well aware of the responsibility.”

  For a long moment there’s silence, while I stare at him and try to understand. Because it’s still Blayne holding my hands there. He hasn’t turned into some weird stranger. It’s still Blayne with the anguished eyes and the twisted, rueful mouth, looking so good I want to eat him up. He doesn’t have a moustache to twirl or mirror shades or a bloodstained hockey mask. He’s the most grounded guy I’ve met. He doesn’t lose his temper when frustrated or throw arty tantrums, even under provocation. He’s the pinup boy for self-control.

  Oh. Maybe that does make sense, in a way. And we’re getting used to people admitting that they like being caned for kicks. I suppose for everyone who gets off on being whipped there has to be someone who wants to do the whipping. For every bottom there must be a top.

  My lips are dry and I run my tongue around to moisten them. “You want to spank me, then, do you?”

  He jerks his chin. “Oh, yes; I’d like to spank you. I’d like to put you over my knees and pull down your panties and spank your beautiful ass.”

  Oh, god. Oh, god. Where is this going? Why aren’t I walking away right now? “Hard?”

  He sighs. “Ge
ntly at first, until your cheeks glow pink. Then harder, as you warm up. I want to see you wriggle. I want to stroke your pussy and make you wet, so wet you’re dripping on my hand and my legs, and then I want to spank you right there on your open pussy and make you squeal. I want to make you thrash about, and have to hold you down, and I want to keep going through your wildest struggles. I want to hear you sob and see your mascara streaked down your face with your tears. Do you get it now, Izzy?”

  “Oh, god.”

  I get it now. I’m leaning up against this man while he holds my hands so I can’t stop him doing anything, and I’m hearing him tell me in a low dreamy voice exactly why I should be scared of him.

  And now that he’s started, there’s no stopping him. A steely look creeps into his eyes; he’s seeing himself without flinching and showing me too. “I want to rope you up and slap your pussy and your tits, Izzy. I want to whip you. I want to pinch your nipples until you beg me for mercy. I want to hold you close and see the fear in your eyes and smell the sweat of your pain, and I want to know you trust me to take you through that clear to the other side.”

  He hesitates, a hitch in his throat.

  “I want to be there when all the barriers go down, Izzy; when there’s no faking or trying, just your raw naked need. I want to make you come over and over without being able to control yourself, in the middle of everything you dread. I want to inflict unbearable delight. I want to take you places you don’t dare go to on your own, and I want to carry you through the dark and hold you and comfort you and kiss the tears away and make you whole again.”

  He lets go of my hands. There’s a bleak and haunted look on him as he sets me on my feet, like a man saying good-bye.

  “So now you know.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  How do you react when someone you like tells you he wants to hurt you? That he gets pleasure from your pain? We don’t like such people, do we? We hate and fear them. Since I was little I had, like most girls, run away from hurt. We don’t get into fights, we don’t ride our bikes down steps just to see what happens, we don’t skin our knees and get up and keep going.

  “Okay,” I admit. “That scares the hell out of me.”

  He nods. Told you so.

  I put my hand on the wall, because my legs feel wobbly and my body’s quivering. I want to feel something solid to lean on. The painted bricks are cold on my bare shoulder. Blayne turns as I do, so we’re face-to-face, still close as lovers. It’s the intimacy of confession. “It turns me on, too,” I whisper.

  His eyes widen slightly, but what I read there is doubt and concern. He lifts his hand to my face and traces his fingers down my cheek.

  “Just listening to you talk makes me…” I swallow hard. “Wet. I’m all wet.” My knickers are sodden, my pussy swollen and heavy. But, amazingly, he shakes his head.

  “I’m not trying to convert you, Izzy. It’s something you either get or you don’t.”

  “I do get it. I think. A bit. The pain thing…” I’m trying to think past the tender, regretful caress of his fingers. “When I had my tattoo done, it was horrible for the first five minutes. I had to force myself to stay put. And then this endorphin rush kicked in I guess—and forty minutes later it was still hurting but I just wanted it never to stop. Pain’s…a weird thing.”

  “Complicated,” he agrees. “More so than we’re ever told.” He smiles. “I didn’t even know you had a tattoo.”

  “Want to see it?”

  He nods. “Please.” I think I glimpse then how vulnerable he is in his need, and how isolated. How he must hold himself on the edge, waiting for permission to jump. I turn my face to the wall, pulling up the clingy cotton of my top to expose my lower spine and slipping the top button of my trousers to drop them low on my hips. It’s a barbed tribal-style tattoo at the small of my back, nothing very original I suppose, but I love it. The delta of black thorns is like a magical ward over the cleft of my bum.

  Blayne touches the ink and I shiver all over. Then he slides to his knees behind me. I feel the first touch of his lips and I’m flying, my heart pounding in my chest, my head full of the beat of wings. The tip of his tongue follows, warm and moist, tracing the path of the tattoo. I hear his soft groan. My fingers feel clumsy, but I manage to slip three more fly buttons and there is cool air on my cheeks as my trousers fall away to expose the curves of my out-thrust rear.

  He can’t resist that, can he? My bottom, offered to him as a gift, tied in the lace ribbons of my very tiny thong?

  No, he can’t resist.

  His hands cover the twin globes of my ass, warm on my cool flesh. Then with a surge he’s standing again, pressing into me from behind, squashing my breasts to the brick wall and grinding into me with a cock so hard and imperious that he seems likely to split the fabric of his own pants. He grips the rope of my braid and slowly tugs my head back, and with the other hand he delves under the jut of my ass, between my thighs, scrabbling aside the elastic lace of my gusset. Finding wet. So much wet.

  “You weren’t lying, were you?” he breathes in my ear.

  I whimper, words fleeing as he explores every whorl and hollow and swell of my sex. Blayne growls under his breath, a bass line to the soft high noises I’m making.

  “What’s your safeword, Izzy?”

  Off the top of my head: “Trapeze.”

  “Good.” He pulls away—but not to release me: his hand whips through the air and lands with a stinging slap on my butt. I feel the wobble and the shock runs up and down my spine, right to the tips of my toes. Adrenaline crashes through my system, looking for an outlet: anger or panic. I push away both, gasping, and ride the burn.

  “Feel free to cry out,” he whispers. He wraps my plait round his fist and tugs at my scalp, and there’s something about that small but specific pain that brings tears to my eyes and makes my breasts tingle. “Ask me to go slow or fast. You can beg if you like: it won’t stop me. But I will take it easy…this first time.”

  He pulls away from the wall. He’s got me by the hair; I have to follow, my ankles hobbled by my fallen trousers, every tiny step. He takes it slowly, savoring the way I hang from his hand. He turns me into the crook of his arm. That’s the first time he kisses me, right there, with his fist in my hair and my head pulled back and my throat exposed. And here’s the weird thing: he isn’t rough—though his grip in my hair is unrelenting. He’s sweet and soft and sensual. He holds me close, supporting me as much as pinning me. He whispers my name as we break for air, both breathing hard.

  I touch his face. I’ve wanted to touch him for so long.

  Another tug on my hair. My breath catches in my throat and I know my eyes flash hurt because I see it reflected in his expression and I feel the surge of his cock.

  He lets me go. He walks away backward, step by step, and it’s like I’m seeing him fall from me. He takes one of the chairs set out for the audience to rest in, the type with the orange plastic seat and the metal legs that squeal on the lino tiles, and sets it in place: squeal. Then he sits, his thighs apart. He pats his left one; an invitation. His erection is making a tent of the cloth over his groin.

  Funny: I’d assumed that cruelty went hand in hand with being rough. I’m learning all sorts today. He’s asking me to join him. To jump.

  Here’s the thing. When I was doing my circus training I’d had to learn to stop fleeing pain and failure. Looking over the edge of the trapeze platform at a bar hanging in space, hauling myself up a rope ladder yet again with my shoulders burning—it wasn’t easy for me. That little girl inside had called the shots for so many years. Cowardice was a constant temptation, and it took me time to learn that I could ignore it, to build my strength, to take the risk. To accept the pain, because only by pushing through it would I reach what lay on the other side.

  I kick off my shoes and trousers and walk across the cold lino. A little clumsily, I settle myself across his knee. It’s not comfortable, and I strain to keep my head up. I won
der why he wants me over one thigh, not his whole lap.

  Then he slides his hand up my spine, pushing me firmly facedown, off balance, and he catches one of my knees under his other leg to stop me tipping onto the floor. I hear the purr of his flies being unzipped, but I can only picture the way his cock springs free. So that answers that question, anyway. My ass is staring at the ceiling, my damp gusset exposed to the cool air. He strokes me lovingly, making me quiver, then he pulls my panties down to my thighs and then he hits me.

  Slap, it goes on my ass; KABOOM it goes in my head. I gasp. The sting and shock are followed by an exquisite burn—and then another blow.

  Thank god he does go slow: I don’t think I could have handled it otherwise. He’s actually being a lot gentler than his avid description, but it’s my first time and I’m not sure what I can take and my head is full of fear and questions and weird old shame left from childhood and outraged pride. I’m struggling desperately for some kind of mental control; it takes a long time for him to persuade me to let go because though my legs are dangling over the abyss I’m still clinging to the safety barrier in my head. His patience is saintly. He uses both hands, his fingers dancing over my sex between each slap, delving into the hot wet places, comforting my hurt, persuading me to trust him, to surrender, to take more. My ass starts to burn and throb, swollen with racing blood. With each blow I long for his caress, and then with each caress I long for the next blow. He makes me forget everything: my dignity, my reserve, my fears. My self.

  I don’t burst into tears, not this time: he’s not that harsh on me. But I do squeal, over and over again, especially when I’m coming. Then I scream like a seabird in flight.

  The hurt is gone, just like that, even though he’s still slapping me. In the no-gravity of orgasm, pain is pleasure.

  The moment I start to come down he tips me back off his knee onto the floor between his splayed thighs. I’m looking up at him and clinging to him and I’m flushed and gasping and he looks…awestruck and proud. Yes. We kiss, clumsily. I try and squint over my shoulder to see if my bum really is the bright red balloon it feels like. He strokes my hair and my face and I smell my own wild scent on the fingers he’s had inside me. I reach for his cock: it’s standing up from the gash of his open flies, a solid column of need, smooth and dark like wood that’s been polished with handling. I can smell myself on his cock too; he’s been stroking himself with the hand laved in my cunt-juices. When I’ve got my breath back, I promise myself, I’m going to suck that cock—but for the moment I’m all a-wobble with shock and orgasm.