by Unknown
The trees in their wood were made for them. Jay unlocked Lana’s cuffs and stretched her arms above her head, clipping them to a rope that hung waiting from a branch. He kissed her neck, traced the lines on her stomach that he once said he could see mapped in silver in the moonlight. She shivered under his touch and waited. The nightdress must be torn again. It might be time to go looking for a new one. The whisper of the flogger sliding out of his belt brought her back to her stretched arm muscles and she waited for its touch, a sweep across her shoulders, her back, her ass. She lowered her head when it stung, the blows falling fast, not the heavier strokes she preferred. With a squeak, she twisted away from a smack that wrapped around her ass cruelly. Ah, this was the retribution—not the flogging, just this. She pressed her face to the smooth coolness of the trunk she was tied to, pressed her hips against it, let the tree absorb the blows for her. I am the tree, she thought for a second, and felt her sap rising, her connection to the earth.
Did Jay see how far away she was getting? All of a sudden the toy landed on the ground beside her, his hands were on her, lifting her legs. He hooked one over the branch to her right and held the other one in the crook of his own strong arm. His clothes were open already, and she yielded to the push of his cock when he stroked against her once, twice, spreading her wetness, opening her seam. And then he was inside her, stretching her, not quite waiting for her to catch up with him. His thrusts pushed her roughly against the tree trunk but she didn’t complain, because her clit was getting crushed against its solid bark and Jay’s fingertips were baring her breast roughly, slapping and kneading it. He shoved against her and buried his face in her neck. He slowed a little, lifting her higher to take some of the strain off her arms. Wrapping both arms round her thighs and hips, he pushed a hand between the tree and her hot, wet skin. She ground onto his fingers and gasped.
“Jay! I’m going to come, I can’t…”
“Not yet, honey, hold on a second, wait, now.”
He slowed a little, stilled his fingers. He gave her a chance to inhale the night air, heavy with blossom and him, but then the monitor on his belt crackled, and he started to work her faster, taking no chances, thrusting her hard against his hand and the tree. She was sacrificed, hung on the tree for him, stretched. She was the ache in her arms and the pounding in her cunt, she was tree bark and widespread limbs fixed where he chose, for his pleasure. This sent her spinning out of herself and into an orgasm that wracked through her and dissolved everything into green-black sky.
When Lana came back to herself, she found she was sitting on the ground, leaning against Jay’s chest while he leaned against the tree, gently massaging the ache out of her muscles and whispering into her hair. The monitor murmured, and Jay pushed Lana to her feet. He put his arm around her and pulled her against his warm body and they walked out of the woods and back across the grass to the darkened house. Lana floated a little as they walked in sore, happy silence. She could run again now, fast but not far. She was bound to her home and her life with Jay, with bonds stronger and more secure than any she had ever known.
TACKLING JESSICA
Maxine Marsh
I had to knock three separate times before Jessica answered her apartment door. I thought she must have been in the back, getting ready, but when she pulled open the door, she was wearing gray cotton shorts and a simple white V-neck t-shirt that plunged down between her substantial breasts. She looked like she was still in college.
We sat on the floor in front of the couch. She lay on her stomach, head propped in her hands, her bare feet absentmindedly swaying in the air behind her. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled into pigtails that made her seem younger than she actually was. She watched the football game intently, huffing when one of the wide outs missed his catch.
“So, does this count as a date?” I asked.
Jessica smiled at me over her shoulder. Something about her was acutely girlish. Fun and soft. The side of a woman that was a mystery to mankind.
“Of course it does. It’s our third date.”
Then she turned back to the television as though she had forgotten about me already.
I was pretty sure she had asked me over so we could screw. Why else does a woman invite you over to hang out and watch a football game? The night before, I had put my hand over hers on the dinner table. The chatter in the restaurant died down to a faraway roar in that moment—there was something there, something I could not put to words if I tried. That’s the kind of moment that tells you there’s a future with someone. But there was something else, something she seemed to be holding back. I could see it in her eyes. It was a personal joke to which only she was privy, and I wanted to know what it was.
The game went to commercial.
She turned to look at me again, tossing a pigtail over her shoulder. “How many lovers have you had?” she asked. Her eyes searched me as I thought. I wondered if she wanted an adjective. Many, some, a few. A number?
“A dozen or so.”
She nodded matter-of-factly.
“And you?”
“Two,” she said.
Only two lovers at twenty-nine. She rolled over onto her back and put her legs up on the couch, keeping her eyes on me, and then reached for my hand, brushing my fingertips with hers, making my cock stir. Fantasies of fucking her passed through my mind, pushing those little gray sweatpants down around her ankles, pinning her wrists over her head and pounding her until her heels dug into the floor and her body arched upward into mine.
“We should get tickets to a game,” I said.
“I’ve never been.”
“Never? Why not? You seem to love it.”
She shrugged. “My ex-boyfriends were never into it, I guess. They never played.” She thought for a moment. “Did you ever play football?”
I nodded. “In high school.”
Her eyebrows rose and she sat up a little, propping herself on her elbows. “What’s it like? Getting hit by big guys all the time, I mean.”
The question took me by surprise. “You get used to it,” was all I could think to say. “Your body gets used to it.”
“Oh.” She lay back again.
I got the feeling my answer bored her. Then something flashed through her eyes again and was gone in a second. Some mysterious thought, that little joke. I had the urge to hold her face in my hands and stare at her until I saw it. How could I tease it out again?
“After a while, you kind of start to crave it. The jarring. The feeling of your bones rattling inside you. It releases adrenaline, and that’s addictive.” That got my mind rolling, and apparently Jessica’s, too, because she was staring at me again, her eyes full of suggestions I couldn’t decipher. I wanted to see those big brown eyes focused on me forever, studying me, adoring me and begging me for more of whatever made her pussy damp.
“There’s a moment,” I said.
“A moment?” She pushed her fingers through the spaces between mine; they were entangled now. “What kind of a moment?”
“You know when they show the action in slow motion? The next time”—I pointed to the television—“don’t watch the ball. Watch the moment when their bodies collide, when they first meet. There’s a moment, as a player, when you blink for a second and time slows down and you feel the first contact. The adrenaline rushes to your muscles. It feels like falling, in a way, like you’re out of control and everything’s up to fate.” Old memories of plays, experiences I hadn’t thought about in years, rushed through my mind at lightning speed. I wondered if I sounded silly to her.
She smiled again.
“The good players can push through that moment. Their subconscious or something takes over and they can make the play come out right,” I said.
“Is that how it was for you?”
I shook my head. I was surprised at how nostalgic talking about playing made me feel. “No. I always got caught up in the rush. I think I liked the feeling too much.” I laughed, wondering how that might sound to her. “M
aybe I was too addicted to it.”
“Do you ever feel that way anymore?” There it was again. That little devil behind her eyes. Was it stalking me?
I wasn’t sure how to answer her question. These things happened a lifetime ago, it seemed. In high school I had secretly wondered if I was bisexual. I liked the feeling of throwing myself into another guy. I liked the way it felt to hold my teammates down during practice; I liked the way their muscles strained against my hold, especially during the real game when I could feel the true rush of a body underneath me, wriggling to get free, when I could hear grunting and panting and feel the energy of pure physical will.
The warmth of her hand on my face brought me back. She had scooted close enough so that we touched at the hip, although she was still upside down, and her legs were still up on the couch next to my shoulder, like a kid lounging around. She grinned when I pushed my face into her palm.
“Are you ticklish?” she asked.
“No.” No guy admits to being ticklish.
Her hand, warm and small, moved gently down my cheek and onto my chest. If it moved a little farther down she would feel my cock straining against my fly, dying to find its way into her. Before I realized what she was doing, she’d sat up halfway, reached both her hands under my arms and started to tickle me. I jostled, trying to back up, forgetting that I was up against the couch. She had me cornered, but her half-sitting, half-lying position left her unbalanced, so when I lurched forward, grabbing her hands away from me, she fell over on her side. She cried out and laughed at the same time. Soon we were wrestling.
As tiny as she was, she had some strength in her. I let her get in a few good goes at me. It’s more fun to get the jump on someone when they still think they’ve got a chance. So I fell over on my side, too, and let her jump on top of me. She straddled my abdomen and dug her fingers into my sides, giggling and beaming as I bucked underneath her. I could have sworn she was deliberately wiggling herself against me, grinding onto the hardness in my pants, all the while tickling her way up and down my sides.
When I’d had enough I rolled us over, straddled her, feeling her shake with laughter underneath me. Her smile was huge and beautiful. I engulfed her hands in mine, pushed them over her head and put enough of my weight on her to immobilize her.
She panted, breasts heaving up against me. The little peaks of her nipples pushed through her T-shirt unabashedly. She tried to catch her breath.
“I love a good tickle fight,” she said.
We panted together, eyes locked and searching one another. Burning energy passed between us, and I could have sworn she pushed her hips up into mine. With a moan I pushed back.
She went stiff and her smile disappeared. She’d had enough. I wasn’t sure what I did to make her uncomfortable, but I shifted my weight to one side and slipped off her.
I felt a stab of frustration in my cock. I must have done something wrong. She got up and moved back against the couch and we returned to watching the game in silence.
Play after play and she didn’t say a word, didn’t even glance in my direction. Was she mad at me because I’d pinned her? I wondered if I’d scared her. Part of me had wanted to use my full-blown strength on her, but I’d held back, not wanting to seem like an asshole. Maybe I hadn’t held back enough.
The game went to halftime and the players left the field, some with their heads up and others with shoulders slumping. I could relate. We sat through a barrage of advertisements before she finally turned to me.
“Tackle me,” she said.
“What?”
“I want you to tackle me.”
I frowned, trying to make it seem like the idea sounded crazy to me. Truly, the thought turned me on. I’d gotten pretty warmed up rolling around on the floor with her. Holding back the bulk of my strength when we played left me on edge. The muscles in my arms and legs were antsy to get some more action. I was already planning to go and run a few miles after I left her place.
“I want to feel what you were talking about before. About the moment. I want to feel that.” She was earnest and direct, and it was sexy as hell.
“I could hurt you.”
“So what?”
I looked at her. She somehow seemed amused and serious, at the same time.
She gave a little. “Okay, let’s go in the bedroom. You can tackle me onto the bed.”
I followed her to the back of her apartment, into a dark room. The shades were drawn. A small table lamp lit the room dimly from the night table next to her big, unmade bed. Her room was simple: a big bed, made up with comfortable-looking white bedding, a large dark-hued headboard and a big dresser made from matching wood. I was surprised not to see anything particularly girly. The faint smell of orchids in the air was the only feminine aspect of the room.
She went and pulled the comforter off the mattress and threw it onto the floor at the foot of the bed.
I stood in the doorway, feeling like I was on the edge of her little, private world. She positioned herself by the side of the bed, bit her lip and then looked at me.
“Okay, go.”
“Wait,” I said.
“What?”
“You’re serious about this?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Getting tackled isn’t like getting pushed over or something. It’s like getting hit. Really.”
She frowned at me. “I didn’t take you for such a pussy.”
There was my little devil. I ran at her, pretty fast. I lowered my head, tucked a little and hit her, my forehead colliding with her right shoulder, my arms wrapped around her body in a big bear hug. We flew into the soft mattress. She didn’t make a sound.
I pulled back to look at her, wondering if she was hurt. I was met with wide eyes, her lashes flitting; mouth wide open; ragged, hot breath passing between her lips and puffing up into my face; looking like she had just been made love to. She slowly pushed her hand between us, until my cock was cupped in her palm.
“Again,” she said breathlessly.
I stood in position. I tried to think how I could hit her harder. I watched her, waiting.
She nodded.
This time I backed out of the bedroom door a little, giving myself more ground to pick up speed. I flashed back to images of training in high school, recalling hitting heavy posts during drills, hearing techniques being shouted at me, drilled into my brain and my muscle memory. I hit her again. Her body jarred, her limbs flailed like those of a dummy. This time, she gasped upon impact. The bed didn’t feel quite as soft as before. She let out a little noise as I lay on top of her.
“Again.”
My cock went hard.
I didn’t hold back one bit the third time. That one hurt even me. The pain from the impact felt far away. A few seconds after we hit the bed, I heard Jessica whimper and begin to tremble. I looked into her eyes, watched the glossy orbs as they made an effort to focus on my face.
“Did you just come?” I asked her.
She nodded.
The scent of her wetness reached my nostrils. A raging arousal I couldn’t get a hold on pulled at me. My limbs tingled from the adrenaline as I lay on top of her, pressing her into the bed under my weight, covering her small form almost completely. Usually my desire seemed directionless, aimless, out of control, but now I felt the core of me burning steadily, all of my lust concentrated on the beautiful little thing beneath me.
I lifted myself up onto my hands and knees, my stiff cock held back uncomfortably in my pants, hoping she wouldn’t ask me to tackle her again. The feeling of dominating her was immensely gratifying, but at this point our little game was one of teasing. Her scent leaking through her little shorts taunted me, and I needed more.
That’s when I saw it, that shadow of her inner workings peeking out at me again. I thought I had been the one teasing it out of her, but I realized that she had been calling to the fierce longing inside me. Calmness overtook her features, her body relaxed beneath me, ready to submit, ready to be a dirt
y little slut, ready to be my dirty little slut.
Breathing deeply, she spoke slowly, intently, each of her words so deliberate that I thought she must be struggling. “My last one was for three years,” she said. “He taught me so much, but his cravings seemed to…dissolve over time, and he moved on. The things I wanted started to scare him.”
I knelt over her as she continued. “These games can be so much about always pushing and pushing. I know how much I need, how much I want. I need to find someone who’s all right at this level. Someone who can bring me right to the edge. Someone who can love me while they’re hurting me.”
So, the little devil behind those eyes was auditioning me. And it seemed that I’d landed the role.
Eyes loving, body limp with a mixture of exhaustion and post-climax bliss, she remained quiet while I climbed off the bed and then undressed. Her eyes found their way to my dick, rigid and jutting toward her, casting a shadow on my thigh in the dim bedroom lighting.
When I’d finished undressing, I went back to her. Instead of pulling her T-shirt off completely, I pulled it upward so that it was taut, stretched from arm to arm, covering her face. The sight of her posed, vulnerable and open to me, made my mouth water. Her tits lay exposed, the soft skin of her belly sloping delicately down to the edge of her shorts. I understood the joke now, that such a pristine body, built so delicately, so small and unassuming in personality, was meant to lie before me, like a blank canvas ready to be soiled, manipulated by someone who had the courage to take her to her limits of pain and pleasure as she desired so greatly. I watched the thin material of the T-shirt as it sucked in and out with her breath.
I tickled one of her nipples with the tip of my tongue, sucked her sensitive flesh into my mouth. She writhed as I moved to her other breast, giving it equal attention. Soft and supple skin rippled under my mouth. After I’d teased her nipples to hard, swollen peaks, I couldn’t resist biting into her flesh. With each nibble, I left red marks up and down the sides of both breasts and I didn’t stop until her torso was beautifully red and irritated, and she was sobbing in a tone caught somewhere between pleasure and pain. I pulled her T-shirt up from over her face, throwing it aside, and found her cheeks were rouged with arousal.
