“Where did you get that?” she asked, nodding her head toward the odd-looking stand that stood next to the table. Hanging on the stand was an enema bag.
“Greg had it. I think he adapted a plant shelf or something.” Laurel’s voice was matter-of-fact as she began to strap Erin onto the table. Erin tried to relax as her wrists were strapped down. Then Laurel moved to buckle a pair of thigh restraints onto her, and Erin began to worry a little.
“I’ll have to give him a hard time,” Erin said, trying to relax as Laurel fussed with her positioning. “Only dykes can do that kind of thing. Next thing you know, he’ll be driving a truck.”
“Now there’s a scary thought. Okay, how are your legs doing?”
“Fine.”
“Can they stay like that for a long time?”
“Sure.” Erin gasped as Laurel ran a finger up the inside of one of her thighs. Then the waist restraint was being buckled down.
“Try to move.” Erin squirmed. “Harder than that, really fight it.” Once Erin had stilled, Laurel made some more adjustments. “Do it again. Okay, that’s good.” She swung the arm of the odd rack over the table.
“This reminds me of that episode of Star Trek. The one with the aliens doing experiments.”
“That only describes thirty or so episodes. Now, listen to me.” Laurel adjusted a hose that ran from the bag until the odd-looking tip at the end of the hose was positioned above Erin’s cunt.
“Yes, Laurel.”
“Like I told you, I’m going to let drops of water fall on you. One drop at a time, in a steady, regulated drip. You don’t have to do anything; just lie there and feel it.”
“Yes, Laurel.”
“Good girl.” Laurel unclamped the hose, and Erin jumped as the first drop of water fell on her. “Did that hit your clit?”
“Not quite. It was a little above it.”
Laurel fussed with things. “How about that?”
“Right on it.”
“Good. Now be still, and be quiet. Or at least no talking.”
“Yes. Laurel.”
Laurel smiled, leaned down, and kissed Erin. She picked up the blindfold that had been resting on the table near Erin’s head and fastened it on; then Erin heard her move off. Accustomed to listening for clues while she was blindfolded, Erin heard what she thought was Laurel sitting down. Yes, and she was reading; Erin could hear the pages turn.
That’s it? Just drops of water falling on my clit? What’s the big deal here? Why am I strapped down like she’s going to be putting those horrible tiny clamps on me? Erin began to relax. The drops fell, one after the other, and it was actually rather pleasant to lie there and feel them. As Laurel had promised, the water wasn’t all that cold, and the heat in the basement was turned up enough to keep Erin comfortable. Erin would have liked a little more attention, but she decided that Laurel undoubtedly knew what she was doing. I wonder how often those are falling on me? She tried to count them, but they were beginning to be too distracting. Drip, drip, drip. She was starting to anticipate each drop as it landed like the tap of a gentle finger against her clit; except no finger could be this steady. She was wanting to squirm now, but she couldn’t because of the restraints.
Drip, drip, drip. She could feel her clit swelling, and she wondered how long she’d been here. She was getting more and more aroused. I really like this; it’s kind of soothing…almost meditative…It would have been nice if Laurel had put some music on; it would have been something more to concentrate on as the drops fell.
Drip, drip, drip. When will the next one…oh yeah…right there! Erin really wished that the drops would fall harder, or maybe a little faster. Drip, drip, drip. She tried to angle herself to get more out of the drops, but of course she couldn’t; she was strapped down too tight. She no longer heard the occasional sound of Laurel turning a page or the faint whir of the heater; all she could hear were the drips. Suddenly she realized that her mind was providing the noise. In reality, the drops made no sound at all. Erin began to get a little nervous; this was fucking with her head, and mind-games always scared her. As she began to feel fear, she could feel her cunt contract, and it seemed that her clitoris got even more swollen.
Drip, drip, drip. I want to come…and I can’t…oh, this is awful…Erin began to whimper. The drops felt like…what did they feel like? They burned her, as if the water were suddenly boiling or icy. She knew that this was just because she was so aroused that her clit was starting to register the sensation as pain. She felt almost as if that hard swollen knot of flesh were rising toward the water and then shrinking away when it landed. She no longer noticed the slickness of the wet rubber beneath her ass, or the feeling of the straps against her wrists and ankles. But she could still feel the straps against her thighs, and she suddenly realized that she felt them because she was straining against them with all her might. She tried to relax, but when she did, another drop landed, and she tensed up again. That set a pattern for a while; a drop would land, and she’d tense, and then she’d relax in the interval between it and the next one. There would always be a next one. How long can this go on? I can’t take much more of this. She also realized that the odd little noises she was making, almost like choked-off whimpers, were coming out of her mouth in time to the drips.
Drip, drip, drip. No…stop, say “stop”…but I said it was no big deal…oh god…It hurt, but it wasn’t like any other pain she’d felt. She tried to distract herself, thinking of scenes past. Remember the first time she took me to a party? It had been at the house of a friend of Laurel’s, and Erin had wanted to back out of it. Laurel had looked at her and waited for Erin to say “stop” (the only safeword she had). Erin hadn’t been able to, and the result had been that she’d ended up tied to a coffee table with her ass in the air while Laurel brought a paddle down on it. Her face had felt hotter than her ass when one of Laurel’s friends had complimented Laurel on how good Erin looked in that position.
Drip, drip, drip. More memories…The buzz of the needle and the short sharp shocks (they had had a rhythm of their own, much like this water that was falling on her clit) as the tattoo artist had tattooed Laurel’s symbol (a hand with a spiral on its palm) onto Erin’s right hip. There had been an audience for that one as well. They’d been at a leather convention, and after the tattooing, Laurel had bent Erin over a horse and had caned her once for every year she’d been a free person. The cane landing on her skin had hurt, but not like this water that kept falling on her.
Drip, drip, drip. Erin opened her mouth to plead for it to stop, but remembered just in time that Laurel had said not to talk. Anyway, she wasn’t ready to safeword, she just wanted to complain a little. Wait…she was actually getting close…Laurel hadn’t said anything about not coming. Now if the drops would just come a little faster. No, they kept to their rhythm, and she sobbed in frustration. What about the time she used a needle on me? But all Erin could remember about that scene was that Laurel had been very deliberate and methodical as she made scratches on Erin’s skin.
Drip, drip, drip. Erin tried to contract her cunt in time to the drops, thinking that maybe she could get off that way. She had come once without being touched, as Laurel talked to her on the phone while Erin was at work. Laurel had told Erin to close her office door and sit at her desk with her legs spread as wide as her chair allowed.
“Now listen to my voice, start contracting your cunt, and keep your hands on the phone or on top of your desk.” Laurel had then almost chanted (in a singsong rhythm like the water falling), telling Erin that she was a slut and a cunt, that she was Laurel’s possession, her toy. But she still couldn’t make herself come like she had that day; the drops were centered on her clit, not her cunt, and every thought she had was taking on their same simple rhythm.
Drip, drip, drip. A steady, inexorable pain. A dependable, maddening pleasure. There was nothing but the drops any more, nothing but this water falling on her. She was nothing but a clitoris being tortured. She was nothing but a stone
being worn away by the rain. Erin thought about the stone she’d found on the beach one day. It had a hole in the middle that was obviously the work of water and time. Erin could vaguely remember (in a time before the water started) Laurel once telling her that she was no more and no less than what Laurel wanted her to be: “If I want to shove my fist inside you, you’re a cunt for me to fuck. If I want to lend your mouth to a friend, you’re one more possession of mine that I can lend to anyone I want. If I want to drip hot wax on you, you’re a blank canvas. You will be what I make you, and you will learn that you are defined by my wishes and my desires.”
Drip, drip, drip. The water would never stop. Erin suddenly felt her whole body go limp. It would never stop, because it had never started. She had been here her whole life. There was nothing and had never been anything but Erin-who-is-under-the-water-for-Laurel. The water defined everything, and the water fell at Laurel’s command. Laurel made this rain fall on Erin because she wanted Erin to be rained upon. She wanted Erin to suffer (and, oh, was Erin suffering, endless pain as her body was worn down to nothing), and so Erin would do nothing but suffer.
Drip, drip, drip. And more. Drip, drip, drip. Water. Drip. Clit. Drip. Erin. Drip. Laurel. Drip. Breathe. Drip. In. Drip. Breathe. Out. Drip. Drip. Laurel. Drip. Whimper. Drip. Pain. Drip. Need. Drip. Want. Drip. Sob. Drip. Owner. Drip. Drip. Breathe. Drip. In. Breathe. Drip. Out. Drip. Nothing. Drip. Forever. Drip. Laurel. Drip. Breathe. Drip. In.
Nothing. The breath that Erin had drawn in remained in her lungs, and she felt herself go light-headed. Her whole body strained against the restraints as her clitoris sought the next drip. She could hear herself making a weird noise, almost like keening, and she hung, suspended on the moment, waiting for the next drop. And then…it came. Not a drop, but a hard, steady stream of water, and she screamed and ached and bucked and swore and came. And she kept coming as the water kept pounding down on her. She was drowning in it, and she couldn’t stop coming although her clitoris burned and throbbed. It was like those times when Laurel held a vibrator there until Erin was coming continuously. This hurt the same way, but it was glorious in its awfulness.
When it stopped, Erin was a limp rag. She could feel Laurel unbuckling her restraints, but she had been passive for so long that moving didn’t even occur to her. Hadn’t the Owner told her (back at the beginning of time) to be still? She had no interest in talking. Hadn’t the Owner told her to be silent? If Laurel, the Owner, wanted her to do anything, She would tell Erin to do it. Suddenly, there was the hard brush of something rough against her clit. Erin screamed and came hard. Then there was nothing for a while. Then another brush against her clit, this time the light touch of something smooth. Erin screamed and came again. Then there was something warm and soft, Laurel’s tongue lapping delicately against Erin’s clit, and once more, Erin screamed as she came.
After a short time, Erin felt Laurel’s hands at her head, unfastening the blindfold. It was strange to feel the sensation of touch, because she’d really forgotten that any part of her body existed except for her clitoris. She kept her eyes closed and heard the indrawn breath just before Laurel spoke.
“You can move now, love.”
Then Laurel’s lips were coming down gently on Erin’s forehead in the kiss that she always gave Erin when a scene was over and she was pleased with her girl. At that, Erin suddenly began to cry—deep, wrenching sobs that came from her center and washed over her like waves. Laurel climbed up on the table and pulled her into her arms.
“Good girl, goood girl,” she crooned over and over. Finally Erin was all sobbed out, and Laurel let go of her. “You can clean up later,” Laurel said. “But now, I want you to come upstairs with me.”
“Yes…” Erin began, amazed that her voice was still so shaky. She cleared her throat. “Yes, Laurel.”
As they climbed the second flight of stairs that led to the bedroom, Laurel told Erin to stop. “Spread your legs and bend over.”
“Yes, Laurel.” Laurel gently brushed a finger over Erin’s clit and Erin shrieked and clung to the banister, as she shuddered through another orgasm.
“This is going to be a fun evening,” Laurel murmured.
Later that night, after Erin had cleaned the playroom and Laurel had made dinner, they sat in the living room and watched the fire that Erin had made. Every once in a while, Laurel would reach between Erin’s legs and stroke Erin’s sensitive clit, and Erin would come from the merest brush of sensation. When the first crack of thunder shook the old house, Laurel smiled. “Listen darling,” she said gently. “Doesn’t the rain sound nice as it hits the window?”
Even later, as they snuggled together in the big bed upstairs, Erin was jolted out of her light doze as Laurel touched her and made her come one more time. As she came down from the orgasm, she could hear the rain outside.
Drip, drip, drip.
AN INCIDENT IN WHITECHAPEL
Catherine Lundoff
Max was out late again, her feet stumbling their way over the cobbles in a fog that flowed like water through the streets and alleys. She had been looking for Smiling Jack—the Ripper himself—tonight and every night for the last fortnight. It had been her cousin Annie whom the bastard sent to her grave, and the murder filled her dreams until she could not sleep for the blood, the flash of steel. Annie had been good to her, even when the drink took her; she had deserved better than to die like a butchered hog. Max would have his heart for it, or she would know the reason why.
The gas lamps, scattered as they were, gave the fog a ghostly glow, making it even harder to see down the dark alleyways. It was a prime night for the Ripper and any other hunter who haunted the shadows of Whitechapel. A nearly toothless woman made Max jump as she shouted something from a doorway. Her thick Cockney was blurred by blue ruin until she was nearly impossible to understand. But the grimy finger that she ran over Max’s greatcoat spoke for itself.
“What are you doing on the street, mother? Aren’t you worried about Jack? It’s no time for that.” She brushed the woman’s hand away as the whore grinned and pulled a long, wicked-looking butcher’s knife from her sash.
“Reckon I’m ready for ’im. You ’im?” She waved the knife menacingly toward Max.
“If I were Jack, mother, you’d be dead now and not chatting me up. Get inside to safety, woman.” The old woman snarled at her words, or perhaps just her lack of interest, and vanished into the fog. Max drew a deep breath. If he was out tonight, she was having no luck finding him. Time for home and Isabel, as she’d promised. Her way wound up the darkened street onto the better-lit and more populated thoroughfares.
By the time she reached those more prosperous avenues, the thought of Bel’s soft curves lent wings to her feet. The bobby on the corner nodded as she turned the corner for home. “Evenin’, Mister Cruthers.” Max tipped her hat in response but said nothing. Mr. Cruthers, the knife and scissors grinder, was a quiet man, after all. Kept to himself, just him and the missus living up at the end of the lane and no questions asked. Respectable tradesmen were rare in this part of London, and if Mr. Cruthers seemed a bit odd, well, he was no worse than many.
Max bounded up the wooden steps to her small home, and Bel threw herself into her arms the moment she closed the door. “I’ve been so worried!” The soft country burr reached Max’s ears. “Why must you do this? He’s sure to kill you, and then what’ll become of me?” The blue eyes tilted up reproachfully from Max’s shoulder. Max reached up into Bel’s mass of red curls and yanked so that her lover’s face turned up for a kiss. Bel uttered a small yelp of protest, then returned Max’s embrace passionately.
“I made an hot toddy for you. Did you want it now?” Bel’s big blue eyes anxiously searched her face. Max nodded, and she trotted off to the kitchen. Bel had been fresh out of the country when she’d been turned out from a fashionable milliner’s because she would not oblige the owner’s son. She’d been forced to take up whoring then, but the country bloom hadn’t been lost to city grime when Max
met her.
Her upbringing still showed in her manners and in the way she kept their home. The little house was warm and cozy, filled with the smell of baking bread and the bright warmth of dried flowers. To Max, it was almost as though those desperate, hungry months on the streets had never happened.
Their home had been Max’s inheritance, left to her by her father by way of a dowry. Not that any man was good enough for her, except for him of course. She’d wear the scars he had given her to her grave, never forgetting the mixture of joy and pain that filled her when he died of the wasting fever some years back. She swore then that no man, whether husband or lover, would use her like that again.
But if she wanted to live free, she hadn’t the looks for what little semblance of freedom whoring might give, even if she had the inclination. There was nothing for it but to take up his clothes and his trade. Clothes make the man, she thought as she put up her greatcoat and hat. From a clothing change and her own lack of womanly curves was born Master Maxwell Cruthers, a man who knew how to whet the edge of a blade until it sang a song only he could hear.
Until she met Bel, no one had known her secret, and she’d sworn to herself that she’d never tell a soul. Never mind the lonely nights, the strange looks from the neighbors—she could bear it all. That’s how it was before she found she longed for the touch of the blue-eyed whore who worked Tavern Street. She wooed Bel for months, protecting her, feeding her, nursing her when she was sick. Max chuckled to remember the look on Bel’s face when she found out that Maxwell wasn’t a man. Bel, in turn, had introduced her to the pleasures of the flesh, the way Bel liked them when she trusted someone.
With that thought, the bonny lass herself emerged from the kitchen with the toddy. Max smiled at her, then pulled them both down into the big chair so that Bel sat on her lap. Between sips, she unlaced the top of Bel’s nightgown, casually kissing her lover’s neck until she heard the gasp she’d been waiting for. All the while, Bel chattered on about the shop where she worked as though nothing was happening. All the while, her small gasps and half-closed eyes told a different story.
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