I hold my hands in place as you manage the heavy twine. I love giving myself to you like this. Fully. You pay close attention to each knot you weave, like ritual, like religion. Upon completion, you guide my tethered hands back down toward the floor. You gently place your right hand under my chin and tilt my head so that I am looking up at you—way up—looking straight into you, into your steel blue eyes. Your stare is so intense in this moment that my inclination is to look away, like when you see something you’re not supposed to. I resist that urge. With a voice equally as intense and unwavering you say, “I am going to make you my bitch tonight, got it? I’m going to take your cunt.”
Your statement is quickly followed by a harsh slap across my face. I do not wince. I do not look away. My eyes remain connected with yours. My faith in you keeps me still. I want this. I am flooded with disorganized thoughts and serrated images of how your objective will be achieved. You order me to walk to the other side of the room and bend over a table in the corner. It is an old wooden table—strong, stable, and firm—like you. You have been working on its repair for some time, skillfully crafting and successfully manipulating it to become what you want it to be—your very own.
“Now,” you direct sternly as you shove me forward. I do as you say and it feels a bit like walking the plank—like a final destiny. I feel your eyes on me as I move across the room, my arms immobile and my head down. I bend over the table with a teasing hesitation, stretching my arms out over my head and grasping the far edge of the surface with my fingertips. “Like this?” I ask as I lean into the mastered project.
There is no response to my question. You are coming toward me, telling me that I’m going to get it, and making me tell you that I want it. I do. You lift my dress up, progressively, exposing my ass. You take a few steps back. Then it comes, the hard whack of the mindfully chosen flogger. It is harsh against me—the hit so severe that I cry out in a voice I do not recognize as my own. My heart is racing. You spank me again and again, harder and harder. There are only brief moments of relief.
My nylons provide no shield from the pain, and no compromise of the pleasure. I ask you to wait, but you offer little time for recovery. I can tell that you like me like this—yours. You are tough. Cold. Totally on top. This is my favorite way for you to be, so far. I begin screaming with each wallop, and I can feel my asscheeks heating up, on fire. You do not ask if I am okay. You know that I am. We have an agreement, something we started developing during that first encounter. It’s a nice feeling, like a safety net ready to catch you during a particularly dangerous stunt.
Prior to that first night, we had been mere images to each other; our faces scattered among a thousand other lonely dykes seeking connections in cyberspace; our words complicated by template descriptions of who we are and what we want. Did we have the same favorite movie? Did we long to travel to like destinations? Who cared? This was real life. Full force. Our instant chemistry had led us here to this moment, and this moment was all that mattered.
I start chanting just one word, “Please.” More like begging for mercy, or praying for forgiveness. You tell me that I will address you as Sir tonight, and I incorporate that into my hymn.
When I writhe out of place, you pull me back, making me take more. “Don’t fucking resist me, whore. I’ll tell you when I’m finished with you, understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna decide when we’re fucking done here, got it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you’re gonna be a good little slut for me tonight, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Tell me!”
“I’m going to be a good little slut for you, Sir.”
“You’re gonna do as you’re told, right, slut?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m going to do as I’m told, Sir.”
“Louder!”
“Yes, Sir. I’m going to do as I’m told!”
“Dirty fucking whore,” you mutter under your breath as the discipline subsides.
You tell me that I better behave. And you mean it. You are designedly detached. Strict, demanding, and fierce. I am dizzy with delight. Numb, yet feeling. Hurt, yet wanton.
After a brutal spanking, you pull me up by my hair and force me back down to my knees in front of you. You are cocky, and not just because you have one. You order me to suck you off, and I obediently take you into my mouth. Your fingers are tangled in the roots of my long hair, commanding my movement. You like me like this—your little victim. Our mutual rhythm is hypnotic and spiritual. You make me take you in so far that my eyes water. I can feel the tears escaping from the far corners and disappearing into my hair. You tell me that I am good—a good girl. I am. I love that you say this when you are being so rough with me. The tenderness in your tone makes me feel completely safe and protected. Your hand slowly encourages me to take in even more. I gaze up at you as I struggle to suck your cock just the way you like it. I am completely focused, committed, devout. I want to please you, Sir. Honor you, Sir. You act like you don’t care, but I know that you do—inside.
You say you are going to fuck me now. Hard. And I am not surprised. You shove me back up into my original position, my ass in the air, my legs spread—forced open by the kick of your boots. The redness from my beating blushes through my thin veneer of protection. My nylons are a minor barrier. While acting as an obstacle on the one hand, they also serve as gift wrap on the other. And this is how you see them. Something good is inside, and you want to open your package, claim your prize. You are like a kid on Christmas morning, but more controlled. You reach for a sharp knife and begin to slice the thin material. You are careful, strategic, as you gain access to my wet pussy. Fuck, you are my dream come true.
You slice the fine fabric just enough to push yourself inside. I breathe heavily in anticipation as you prepare to enter me. My head is spinning, as you plunge your whole cock deep inside of me. I shift with some discomfort in response. “Don’t you dare move, bitch. This is what you want, so fucking take it.” I teeter on that perilous edge of pleasure and pain. Screams escape from my lips, like water running through my fingers. I can feel every detail of your solid cock inside of me, every nuance of its shape. It is wicked. It is miraculous. Again and again, you tell me that I am yours now.
You make me beg you to fuck me every few minutes, and I plead with you to keep going. “Please, Sir—don’t stop. Don’t let me go.” You pull out every time I work up to a climax, and make me wait. You watch me struggle to catch my breath, and you push my face hard against the table. “Not yet, you fucking slut.” You reenter me with such fullness and force that my moans vacillate between ecstasy and anguish. I revel in my sense of helplessness.
“Who does your cunt belong to, bitch?” You demand an answer as I lament and whimper. It is you. You are fucking me harder than I’ve ever been fucked—it is as if my life depended on it. The friction from my face rubbing against the wood burns as I submit to the motion of this invasion. “Are you going to come, bitch?” You ask knowing that you are in complete control. “What do you need to do, bitch? You need to ask for permission, don’t you? Come on, bitch, ask me if I’ll let you come now.” I am speechless. You shout, “Do it!” in between each violent thrust, treating me like a whore you have paid for.
“Ple-ease, Sir. Please, please will you let me?” My moans are irrepressible. My words are broken. You control every aspect of my letting go, and I feel completely owned. I am indeed your dirty whore, and yes, a fucking slut. But most importantly, I am your bitch tonight, Sir. In this flicker of time, this is my offering to you.
And that was exactly the way it was supposed to be. Just like that. The right amount of everything, and not too much of anything. You fucked me like that until you came. I could feel your cock dripping with wetness when you made your final exit. You told me that next time you were taking my ass. You said it as a cold hard fact.
I left when you were finished with me that night. I borrowed a token from
you and hopped the streetcar home. The purpose that evening was not to linger. It was not our date night, just an intermittent hello. Tonight we will meet at a quiet upscale restaurant on Church Street. We will have a candlelight dinner in a private booth. The glow of the flames will light our faces. The theme: romance.
REDEMPTION
Michael M. Hernandez
She parted the heavy leather curtains and entered the bar, one of the oldest on Warmoesstraat, suffering that temporary blindness that accompanies travel from light into darkness. At the moment it was impossible to see without infrared vision. It was easy to believe that it was the bartenders’ fault. The fumbling around in the darkness ensured that the power balance remained with those who were serving. Then again, more than likely the reason for keeping the bar so dark was that darkness invited raw sexuality. Light tended to drive out the beast within. The darkness served another purpose than employee entertainment. It allowed those sitting along the bar to feast their eyes upon their future conquests without the potential “victim” receiving the reciprocal benefit.
Ian knew that if she could just stroll up to the bar without tripping over anyone or her own two feet, her eyes would adjust in the amount of time that it would take the bartender to bring her a drink, and that itself would increase her opportunity to score tonight. In this bar, the balance of power was paramount. Appearances were everything. Anyone who forgot that would soon have the tables turned.
She was the smoothest of operators, clad immaculately in black leather from the Daddy cap on her head, down to her steel-toed motorcycle boots, blending easily with the raw masculinity of the majority of the bar’s patrons. She wore faded blue button-down 501s under her chaps revealing a rather large basket. As she approached the bar, she absentmindedly reached down and stroked her cock. Her leathers, while clean, did not radiate that polished gleam that came from the pristine butches or leathermen. While she respected the traditional values of the older generation, such fastidiousness was not her style. She was dependent on her ability to blend into the background. All the good hunters in the animal kingdom depended on good camouflage. The respectable fade of her leathers increased her chances of remaining hidden in the alley, of watching from afar without being spotted, and of disappearing without a second glance. She could move through the Warmoesstraat and be noticed at the time of her choosing.
Tonight she wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Butch, femme, either/or, punk, something else. Thrill-seeker tourists from Germany or the United States were always good and hungry. Anyone would do so long as they were a good time. Gender was irrelevant. It was all about a quick thrill, sex in a public place, and her getting her rocks off. She didn’t have to go far nor did she have to take her clothes off to bury her cock in some young mouth. The alley behind the bar would do quite nicely for starters. Her dick twitched. She could smell a potential partner within a two-mile radius. A little verbal spar-ring and the next step was the alley. If “it” sucked well enough, they’d go back to her fuck pad in the Jordaan. Blindfolds were used as a matter of course. The combination of blindfold and her neighborhood, which was less than welcoming at night, also prevented visitors from appearing at her play space uninvited. She’d interrogate a scene out of “it,” then play to her heart’s content, although her heart was not usually the organ that got the action. Actually the word play was too mundane of a description of what she did. It was more like…feeding.
That was it. She consumed her prey. It was the emotional juices that she craved as well as the physical ones. Emotions such as fear, desire, passion—that is what she sought to elicit. That, and the skeletons that everyone hides carefully in the closet.
Barst safe, sane, and consensual! It was the edge of non-consensuality that lured her and in turn lured her victim. No, victim was too harsh a word. Quarry was more like it. She did not feed often. Prey that proved satisfactory were few and far between, but when found, a veritable pleasure. She, like her cats, played with the mousies before the spilling of guts upon the floor, metaphorically speaking of course. Through her skill, Ian was able to carefully excise and bring the souls of her partners into the light of day where she played until she tired and moved on to the next one.
If her quarry showed enough initiative to stop the scene, she did so promptly, reapplied the blindfold, and drove back to the bar. No looking back, no regrets, no second chances. She played for keeps. Catch and release kept her skill honed. Only once had the prey really meant it. The others complained all the way back to the bar about the scene having terminated. Some begged for a second chance, but Ian was resolute. Rules, while bent from time to time, were never broken. In that she was absolutely intolerant. She had no intention of changing a damned thing. That was the way she did things now. No long-term commitments. No mess. No smell. No headaches. No transatlantic phone calls in the middle of the night. No scathing notes pinned to her door with knives. No clothing chopped into tiny bits or personal effects hoarded or destroyed. Oh, her life had drama enough, but it was limited to the drama that she carefully created for herself. She ran the fuck and if the fuck did not want to be run it could go elsewhere. There were plenty of other fucks for the having.
Somehow, she had failed with the last one. Denise. The fact that she remembered a name showed how much that one had gotten to her. It fueled her hunger. A real virgin was a rare find these days. Oh, not that type of virgin. It was innocence that drew her. A clean slate. Fresh, undiscovered, unexplored, untainted by the views of the so-called community. That one filled her thoughts and dreams until she screamed at the walls. She had taken her sweet time and then tossed her out when she had been sated. It had been sweet, but the woman wanted to cling to her for some reason. Unacceptable. It was now a matter of principle. Verdomme! “Never go back,” she whispered under her breath, and that statement was enough to create the reality for her. She tore herself away, slightly angered at her daydream through the past.
Ian was hungry tonight, very hungry, but she refused to let it show. That would certainly deter her potential candidates for the evening. She slowly unwrapped a cigar and worked it in and out of her mouth, coating the end with saliva. She removed a small silver cigar cutter from the breast pocket of her motorcycle jacket and precisely placed a V cut in the cigar. She surveyed the room as she placed the cigar between her lips, rotating it counterclockwise.
Two young punk dykes practically tripped over each other in an effort to light it for her. The cute punk with the jet-black mohawk glared at the shorter skinhead whose scalp was adorned by an elaborate and colorful Celtic knot tattoo. In a split second the room erupted into violence as the mohawk took a swing. Her target deftly removed her face from the fist’s trajectory, miraculously causing mohawk to miss. They somehow managed to get into a bear hug and proceeded to knock over several chairs, then fly over a table before crashing to the ground. It was a scene right out of an old Western.
While Ian was enjoying this entertainment, a set of long, perfectly painted red nails came suddenly into view. The thumbnail expertly flicked the head of a safety match, providing the fire for her stogie. Impressive, she thought, very promising, indeed. This one knows that lighters are not for cigars. Even more impressive was that fact that the femme was not afraid to split a nail or ruin the polish. Hmm, wonder what she’s lookin’ for? Ian flashed a wolfish grin. The dame flushed. Good, good. This looked promising. Promising indeed.
Ian leaned into the flame and puffed until she was certain that the cigar was lit, then turned her attention to the dame attached to the nails. She was struck by the intensity of the eyes. Ian was captivated as surely as a black widow spider’s mate. The magical moment was broken by Artie’s bellow and her baseball bat hitting the counter. Patrons went scrambling for the corners. “Wel verdomme! Cut that crap out, you rotkoppen, before I collar your kutten and chain you to the goddamned bar. You’re gonna get fucked nine ways to Sunday, and I guarantee that ya ain’t gonna like hot pepper oil being used as a lubricant.” The fi
ght stopped mid-punch.
Artie, the bartender, was a force to be reckoned with. Her no-nonsense approach to trouble was well known in Amsterdam and gaining speed throughout the leather bars of Europe. Like any story in the community, it was embellished and passed along from flapping lip to eager ear. The latest rumor flying around was that leatherboys and baby dykes disappeared, never to be seen again. Secretly, Ian believed that Artie enjoyed the artificially created reputation and did everything to continue its embellishment. Artie continued to glare, and the baby butches sheepishly looked down at their Doc Martens.
Ian threw her head back and started laughing so hard that her eyes watered. The new lady, startled at first, was quickly caught up in Ian’s contagious laughter. She had a delicate, fullthroated laugh that was musical. Artie glowered at them as well. No one was above reproach. They moved away from the bar still chuckling to themselves. No sense tempting fate.
In a better lit corner, Ian sized up the dame, taking a puff on her lit cigar in appreciation. The stranger was a tall drink of water, or so Ian thought until she looked down to gaze upon the five-inch spiked stiletto heels. In the heels were a pair of picture-perfect legs enmeshed in black fishnet stockings. Ian’s gaze wandered up the legs and just managed to spy the garters underneath the brilliant green velvet dress that the dame was l-i-te-r-a-l-l-y poured into. Ian’s heartbeat doubled. Ample cleavage peeked out from between the sweetheart neckline of the dress. Ian’s gaze continued upward across that white porcelain expanse of cleavage to return to the most probing gray-green eyes that she had ever seen. Liquid gold floating in a sea of green. Blazing red hair, and not from a bottle either. Cocksucker red lipstick adorned the full, luscious lips. Where had this woman come from? A tourist, perhaps, visiting the bars in the Red Light District? In for a little action? Ian hoped that was the case.
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