by Unknown
“Because you’re a good girl. Now smear some of your juices on my asshole.”
I tensed up, afraid of hurting him. “Won’t you need lube?”
“Do what I say. I’ll tell you when I need lube.”
At the hint of sexual menace in his voice, my pussy clenched again and I went from drenched to full flood. My fingers trailed a thread of slick wetness as I pulled them from myself and touched them to him. To his asshole.
I wasn’t entirely inexperienced at exploring the male butt-crack, but I’d never had a lover who was really enthusiastic about the notion, so my explorations had never gotten too far. I touched the pinkish-brown wrinkled opening gingerly, not because I was repulsed, but because I wasn’t sure how much pressure I should use and it seemed better to err on the side of caution.
“You’re slick,” he said in a growly voice. “Feels good. Now circle.” He kept making small, pleased noises as I did. The noises gave me confidence. I must be doing something right.
“More of your juices.” I complied, noticing to my dismay—or was it delight?—that I was wetter than ever, and I couldn’t help stroking my clit, just to tease and ease, before I got back to work on Luke.
“Now ease the tip of one finger in.” He hissed when I obeyed, and I feared I’d hurt him until he groaned, “Yeah. In and out now, gently.” My breath caught in my throat, but I did it. He was tight around my finger, gripping, hot, a little rough. Not like fingering myself—no natural lubrication to speak of and so very tight, though he was easing up readily. What was most jarring to me was that touching him like this was arousing me, maybe because he was so obviously enjoying it.
“Lube,” he grunted abruptly. I’d had the bottle of lube in a bowl of warm water on the nightstand—I hate cold lube and I couldn’t imagine Luke would like that startling feeling any more than I did. It still felt chilly on my hands, but my efforts to warm it up in my palm and transfer it provoked a “just squirt some on me!”
I cracked open, and waves of love and lust widened the cracks. I hadn’t been looking forward to doing this, and I was still weirded out. Being the person doing the penetration felt powerful on some primitive level, and I wasn’t entirely comfortable feeling powerful in relation to Luke during sex. But doesn’t the person providing the pleasure always have some power, even if she’s submitting? Luke’s urgency, the way he moved as I squirted and then stroked the lube, reminded me that if I was taking him, it was because he wanted it that way. As I eased my finger into him, I said, “I understand now.”
“Good girl.” It sounded like he spoke through clenched teeth. “Deeper now…” And sooner than I expected, “Try another finger.”
This time my pussy clenched shamelessly as I obeyed him, working a second slicked finger into his slick passage. I’d never done this before. I’d never wanted to do this before. But it was starting to feel right.
Luke coached me through opening him up, readying him. I wasn’t confident I’d actually found his prostate—my fingertips couldn’t detect what the research I’d done told me I might feel. (Yes, I’d done research. If Luke insisted I fuck him, I was determined to do it well.) But the way he reacted told me I was doing a good job.
Finally the moment I’d been dreading arrived, the moment he said, “Get the Feeldoe and put it in you. Then lube. Lots of lube.”
Only I found I wasn’t dreading it as much as I’d imagined. For one, the turquoise contraption felt good, filling my wet pussy and pressing against my clit. Whoever designed this thing was some kind of twisted genius. And Luke obviously wanted the feeling of having his ass filled, stretched, fucked. I loved pleasing him, making him come. This was just another way to do it and damn, the way the toy was made, I might even get off myself.
Still, I was nervous. I’d practiced thrusting into a pillow so I wouldn’t feel like a complete klutz, but a pillow didn’t have nerve endings.
I positioned myself to enter him and froze. The toy looked huge from this angle, although it was smaller around than Luke’s cock, which filled my ass in a wonderful way. “Are you sure? I asked, and I’m not ashamed to say my voice was shaky.
“Go slow,” he responded. “I’ll tell you when you should speed up.”
The first inch or so was agony—for me, not for Luke. I imagine it was mildly uncomfortable for him, because the first bit of butt-sex usually is, but from the noises he made, it was an interesting discomfort, the kind he knew would sort itself out to pleasure. But until he thrust himself back, taking more of the silicone dick than I would have dared to give him, I was one scared sub, convinced I was going to damage him.
Luke knew his own body, his own desires, and quickly I was as much a toy as the dildo. I was fucking him, sure, but mostly he was fucking himself, working the turquoise dick in and out of his ass.
My universe realigned. Everything made sense again. I was fucking him, but at the same time, he was using me for his pleasure, a configuration I found erotic as well as comforting. Okay, make that using me for both our pleasures. As he moved—and as I saw how he took charge even with me sticking a dildo into his ass from behind—the Feeldoe’s evil, awesome design worked its magic on me. As Luke moved and I pumped my hips to keep up with him, the toy moved as well, pressing on my clit, tormenting and tantalizing me. Pleasure spiraled through my body. My cunt gripped the toy. My hands gripped Luke’s hips. “Stroke my cock,” he ordered, an edge of delicious desperation in his voice that didn’t dampen the aura of command.
I crashed forward onto him as I obeyed, and lost some of the leverage I needed to keep fucking him. He more than made up for it, though, moving fast and hard, fucking himself through me. My hand worked double time.
“Now,” he cried, then, “Yes!” and then he gave a shocking roar that might have started out as an English word, but was no longer recognizable. His big body convulsed and shook. Hot come shot out, filling my hand, splattering onto the bed.
With what seemed to be his last scrap of energy, Luke said, in a voice hoarse with shouting, “Good girl. Good, obedient girl. Come now.”
With a little help from my come-slick fingers, the sated pride in his voice pushed me into my own moment of incoherent screaming.
Once we’d cleaned up (and by cleaned up I mean a few swipes with some wet wipes and dropping the Feeldoe in the upstairs sink to be dealt with later), I said, “That may never make my top ten list of favorite things to do in the sack, but I could definitely get used to seeing you come that hard, and hearing you say ‘Good, obedient girl’ in that dreamy voice. I liked knowing I was pleasing you by doing something I wouldn’t have even imagined trying if you hadn’t wanted it. I guess I’m even more of a sub than I realized.”
Luke let out a rumbling, throaty chuckle, like Barry White might laugh if his partner did something delightful and unexpected. Through the laughter, he said, “That was the point: to let you know you and I are reaching a new level of D/s, one I don’t think either of us expected when we got together.”
“That and you like being fucked in the ass sometimes.” Sub or not, I’m still human, and wiseass remarks still pop out of my mouth.
“That, too,” he agreed. “Why should you subs have all the fun?”
THE LETTER
Tiffany Reisz
By their thirteenth date, Brice decided to just make a game of it. Would it be tonight that Leigh dumped him? Tomorrow? Would they make it to fourteen dates? Fifteen? Why she kept saying yes to him when he asked her out was beyond him. On their second date they’d kissed. On their fourth date, they’d made out on her sofa. After that, all progress toward consummation came to a screeching halt, entirely without explanation.
Dinner came. They ate it. Dessert came. They ignored it. Brice studied Leigh over the top of his wineglass. Beautiful girl…red hair with streaks of brown and black, dark eyes that brightened with laughter. She had a freckle on her top lip that he loved to bite when she let him kiss her. On date twelve she hadn’t let him kiss her. Tonight she wouldn’t even loo
k him in the eyes.
“Are you a virgin?” Brice asked, deciding he had nothing to lose at this point. Clearly things were going nowhere. If he couldn’t have her, maybe he could at least get some answers.
Leigh sat up straighter and gave him a look of profound shock.
“No…of course not. Where—?”
“Born-again virgin? Incredibly Catholic? Do you have an STD? HIV? Raging antibiotic resistant tuberculosis? If so, I’m willing to work around any and all of that.”
Leigh laughed nervously and shook her head.
“Brice, I don’t have—”
“Why haven’t we slept together yet?”
She sat her glass on the table and crossed her arms over her chest.
“It’s complicated,” she began, then stopped. “I wish I could explain. I want to but when I try, it’s…” She brought a hand up to her lips and pulled at the air as if trying to drag reluctant words from her mouth. “I can’t.”
Her body sagged, and suddenly she looked so small and sad in the chair across from him that he wanted to drag her into his arms and apologize for even bringing it up. This girl…he fucking adored her. Her laugh, her smile, her dry sense of humor, the way her voice went all goofy and high-pitched when she played with his dog. He had to have her in his life. And she must have felt something, anything for him, to keep saying yes to all these dates. So why…?
“Can’t what? Can’t tell me? Can’t explain? Can’t say it in any language other than French? That’s fine. I’ll learn French. Just tell me.”
She shook her head.
“I should never have said yes to the first date, Brice. And I’m sorry. The kind of person I am, I don’t need to be meeting guys at the gym and going out on regular dates. It doesn’t usually work for people like us…”
She paused and growled, as if profoundly frustrated with her own inability to explain. Brice wondered what the hell she meant by “people like us.”
“I like you so much that against my better judgment—” she continued.
“Oh, thank you very much for that.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Leigh clenched her hands and groaned softly. That groan—he heard passion in it. Frustration. No way was this woman frigid. Exhaling through her nose, she looked up and met his eyes. “You’re the nicest guy I’ve ever met. You’re kind and sweet and chivalrous and gentle…”
“Horrible, I know.”
“I’m not like you. I’m different. And I want to tell you how but I just can’t.”
“Then write me a damn letter if you can’t say it.”
Leigh’s eyes widened at the suggestion.
“A letter? I can do that. I’ll do that.”
“You will?” He hadn’t been serious. But the thought of a letter, the thought of any form of explanation for her strange behavior, excited him. At this point the thought of knowing why she wouldn’t sleep with him turned him on almost as much as her actually agreeing to sleep with him.
“Yes. I’ll write it and mail it to you. It’ll explain everything. And then you won’t have to see me again once you know. You’ll just know. And then we’ll both feel better.”
Brice nodded in agreement.
“Fine. Write the letter. But I promise you will see me again.”
Leigh turned her head and stared down at the floor. She grabbed her sweater from the back of her chair, threw her purse over her shoulder and stood up.
Looking at him, she gave him a wan smile.
“Read the letter first. Don’t promise me anything until you do.”
And with those ominous words, she left the restaurant and maybe even his life.
For the next three days, Brice rushed home from work and checked his mailbox before doing anything else. Nothing… nothing…nothing. Finally, on day four, he held it in his hands. Pale pink envelope, black ink…the letter.
It took all of his willpower not to open it up and begin reading it right on the sidewalk. Shoving it in his pocket, he went inside, poured a glass of white wine, sat in his favorite chair and carefully sliced open the envelope.
The stationery matched the envelope—black ink on pale pink paper. Scanning the first page, Brice saw no date at the top, no “Dear Brice.” His eyes fell onto the first sentence and he began to read.
Naked, she waited on the bed…knees to her chest, arms around her shins, head bowed and eyes closed. As instructed. As always. And as instructed she’d pulled her long hair into low pigtails that hung over her shoulders and tickled her collarbone. He seemed to love the combination of sweet and spice in her—her hair so girlishly arranged, her body naked, her eyes rimmed with black eyeliner in full Cleopatra mode. Anything he wanted she would do for him. She’d style her hair as he wanted, dress as he liked…anything for him. All it took was an order.
She stiffened slightly when she heard the bedroom door open. Closing her eyes tightly, she fought the need to look at him. God, she loved to look at him—at his black hair, slightly unruly, his bright blue eyes, the leather bracelet he wore along with his leather-banded watch. He’d always rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbows. Until Brice, she’d never realized how erotic male forearms could be.
Brice paused in his reading. He looked down at his shirt. As usual he’d rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbow. On his left wrist a black leather bracelet accompanied his leather-band watch. He ran a hand through his black hair, a few inches longer than his mother considered entirely respectable.
Wait…was Leigh writing about him? No way. They’d never… only in his dreams.
Brice kept reading.
She inhaled sharply when his hands came to her shoulders and rested there for a moment. From her shoulders they slid higher until he held her by her neck, his fingers lightly pressed into the hollow of her throat. Her entire body came alive at his touch, both gentle and threatening. His hands fell away from her and then it was his lips on her neck instead.
He trailed kisses from her ear to shoulder and back up again. She flinched as his teeth met her earlobe.
“Hands and knees,” he ordered in a whisper. Without hesitation, she rolled forward and into position.
His hands traced a path down her back, over her hips, down and up her thighs. His fingers found her labia and he opened the delicate folds wide…wider… She knew he was looking at her and studying the most private parts of her. Her skin flushed, but not with embarrassment, only with desire.
He pushed two fingers into her. He went deep until he found the core of her. A small sigh escaped her lips as he pulled his fingers out.
Then all the gentleness disappeared.
With one hand he forced her onto her chest as he yanked her arms behind her back. Cold metal ringed her wrists—handcuffs. He pulled her roughly up to her knees and dragged her to the floor.
“Knees,” he ordered, and she went down without hesitation. He opened his pants, took her by the chin and forced himself into her mouth.
She loved the size of him, the feel of him in her mouth, the slight salt taste of him against her tongue. Slowly, he thrust in and out while she sucked and caressed and kissed. Ostensibly she was his property. At moments like this, however, she knew she owned him as much as he owned her.
His breathing quickened and she readied herself to swallow. Instead he pulled out of her mouth, grabbed her by the shoulder, and dragged her once more to her feet.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” he rasped the words in her ear.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Because you like sucking cock? Or because you like sucking my cock?”
She smiled.
“Yes, Sir.”
He laughed softly and nipped at her neck.
“Good answer.”
She stood still and waited as he undressed. She wanted to watch, wanted to see him, but kept her eyes respectfully lowered to the floor. Only her respect for him, for his dominance, his mastery of her, eclipsed her love and desire for him. Everything primal and female in her wanted to lay itself at the feet
of everything male and primitive in him.
Brice coughed and adjusted himself. He took a large drink of his wine and considered turning the air-conditioning up in the house. Suddenly it had gotten incredibly warm in his living room.
With a hand on the back of her neck, he steered her to the closed closet door. As a birthday gift to her, he’d gotten an over-the-door restraint system. Now he had somewhere to tie her up. Made for much easier flogging.
He took off the handcuffs and tossed them aside before forcing her arms over her head. One by one he buckled her wrists to the straps on the door. She turned her head and rested her cheek against the cool painted wood. In and out she breathed, slowly, deeply. She let herself fall into a meditative trance that even the first fall of the flogger on her back didn’t interrupt, but the second, much harder lash did. She grunted with every new strike. Her back burned with pain. Her body burned with need. She wanted it to go on forever. She needed it to stop immediately.
He dropped the flogger and pushed his chest into her back. At first she flinched from the pain, but the feel of his warm body on her ravaged back sent renewed desire singing through her skin.
When he unstrapped her from the door and pushed her onto the bed, she felt only relief. At last.
“Stomach,” he ordered, and she rolled over and spread her legs. She loved to spread for him, to offer her body to him and let him take her any way he wanted. Straddling her hips, he pushed inside her and started to thrust. Underneath him she lay almost motionless as he used her body for his own pleasure. He clamped his hands over her wrists and pinned her hard against the bed as he moved harder and faster inside her. She tried to ignore how her body responded to his every movement, his every touch. The tip of his cock grazed her G-spot and she gasped into the sheet. His mouth caressed the sensitive center of her back. She wanted to raise her hips and take him even deeper inside her, let him make her come. But this time was for him and him alone. She loved to give herself over to him, to be used solely to satisfy his own needs. His breathing grew louder. His grip on her wrists tightened to the point of pain.
