by Amy Valenti
He looked lost. Out of his depth.
He looked excited.
He looked as if he didn’t know what to feel, and didn’t quite trust just letting himself go.
A sharp snapping sound, a gasp. The blonde woman had whipped her partner again.
Matt had flinched at the sound, his eyes fixed on what was happening.
Now the blonde woman stepped forward and to speak into her chained man’s ear, her words only audible as a low rumble.
Julie moved forward.
Pausing just behind Matt, she leaned in and said, close to his ear, “Does that turn you on?” He flinched again, but didn’t move, didn’t turn. That was good. He knew when to be obedient. “The tight leather. The sound of the whip. Can you feel it? Can you feel it?”
She reached down, hooked her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and jerked him backwards against her. Holding him there, she pressed against him, feeling the pull of tight leather, the pressure of his hard back against her breasts.
She bunched her fist, pulling his waistband tight, making him gasp – in discomfort, or at the thrill of clothes tightening around his manhood, or both... she could not tell.
“Have you had a good look around?” she asked, her voice low in his ear. “Do you like what you’ve seen? Do you want some of that?”
She could get to like this. Being in control. Being dominant. She tightened her fist just a little more, and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.
“Are you ready to be my bitch?”
Another sharp snapping sound. Another gasp. Another flinching response in Matt’s body.
Peering past him, Julie could see vivid red lines across that bare white ass, and the flexing of the guy’s muscles as he pressed himself hard against the wall. Was he going to bring himself off like that? Was that their thing? Beat him and hurt him until he came against the bricks?
Julie shifted position, feeling the leather pulling tight against her again. Had the pants actually been designed so that they pulled just there when she moved, or was that just a lucky coincidence of seams and anatomy?
She shifted again and felt that tugging sensation against her.
When she’d moved in behind Matt, there had been a press of bodies, the tightness of the Saturday night crowd. Bare flesh against her, coarse lace and fishnet, smooth leather and the catch of buckles.
Now, though...
The crowd had thinned around the two of them, people shuffling aside, turning towards them to see what was happening.
She thought she’d been subtle, just threading her way through and taking up position at his rear like that. She knew the rules. Never interrupt a scene. Never distract the onlookers or the players. It was bad manners, bad etiquette, it broke the moment.
It was in the air, though. The sexual tension. One of those things that you don’t have to see or hear to be able to detect.
It was just there, between them.
She said it again, louder: “Are you ready to be my bitch?”
He nodded. It could be that he knew to be discreet, or it might simply be that no words came.
She gave his waistband one last twist and then released him.
Even the blonde in the catsuit had stopped what she was doing to watch. She didn’t look too pissed at them. She looked excited, her expression one of anticipation.
Matt stepped forward, almost staggering at the sudden release.
He caught himself, turned, paused. If anything, his eyes were even wider now, as he saw her for the first time.
“Julie?” he said, and his voice was almost breaking like a teenager’s. His look crawled all over her. Down her body to the leather pants, to the stilettos, and then back up, before jumping down again.
His mouth had fallen open. Did he know he did that when he was so desperate, hungry? Perhaps he’d never known that kind of desperation before...
“On your knees.”
He dropped, instantly. He rested his hands on his thighs and looked up at her.
“You want some of this?”
She was in the zone. The people all around were a blur and it was just her and Matt.
He nodded.
“You want some of this then you’d better understand,” she said. “This is me, or a part of me. You want me then you have to want it all.” She slapped a hand on her thigh, and it made the same sharp, snapping sound the catsuit woman’s flogger had made before. “You want it all?”
The expression on his face was answer enough.
“I said, do you want it all?”
This time he nodded.
She smiled, tossed her hair, and then she raised one foot and planted it on his chest. She pushed sharply, felt the stiletto heel pressing into yielding flesh and then he tumbled backwards into the middle of the room.
Everyone was watching, waiting. Julie looked up, and the blonde in the catsuit was staring at her. Angry? Pissed that her scene had been interrupted?
The woman smiled, nodded, and tossed Julie the horsehair flogger.
§
“The shirt.”
Kneeling before her, he pulled the black t-shirt over his head. His body was lean, a slim waist filling out into chunky muscle across chest and shoulders. Fine blond hair glistened across his chest, drawing the eye to tiny dark nipples.
She balanced the flogger in one hand.
“Do you want to know what it feels like?” she said. “That instant when all you’re aware of is the pain, and then what follows: the way the pain spreads and transforms and you realize you’re feeling what might be pain but might be something else entirely? You want to feel that?”
He nodded.
“I said, do you want to feel that?”
“Yes. I want to feel it.”
She raised the flogger and then brought it down across that broad chest. It struck with a sharp crack, leaving angry red lines across the pale skin.
He gasped, flinched, held himself strong. She liked that. He didn’t shy away. He was here for the full experience.
She looked into those pale eyes.
“The pants,” she said. “Everything.”
She held his look while he undressed. He was there with her: in the zone. Nothing else mattered.
She wanted to take him to a place she’d been only a few times. A place where all that existed was pure, physical sensation.
She broke his look, allowed herself the luxury of exploring his body with her eyes. The ripple of the abs, the narrow hips and, oh, the way he was filling out before her.
His manhood was long and uncut, hanging down straight even as it began to engorge itself.
“You want some of this?” She ran a hand across her body, bare shoulder, breasts, belly, pussy, a thigh, and then the hand trailed off into air.
His shaft was pushing away from his body now, impressively long, the skin rolling back to reveal a glossy purple head.
She moved her hand back to her belly, and now his dick was pointing directly towards her, then it gave a slight twitch and nudged higher, now long and fully hard.
She stepped towards him.
She didn’t have to say anything, he just dropped to his knees, leaning back slightly so that his thighs strained and his shaft stood vertical.
She buried her free hand in his hair and held his head to her belly, his face squashed against sheer leather, his chin against her pussy.
One hand on the back of his head she pulled him harder into her, felt the grind of his chin.
She used his head against herself, grinding and shifting, losing herself in a mix of sensations like no other she had known: the hard bone, the soft flesh, the tight pull of leather against herself – the way that seam just pulled tight against the fleshy covering of her clit, riding across it in a little, intense flip of sheer pleasure.
When she looked down, she could see the tight ripple of his muscles and occasionally, as they moved against each other, a glimpse of that stiff, erect shaft.
Her other hand... the flogger.
She raised it and brought it down sharply across his shoulder-blades.
His body tensed, an extra thrust of hard bone and soft flesh against her, and it nearly took her over the edge.
She glanced across, saw the blonde woman watching them, that look of anticipation still on her face. Julie smiled, held out the whip and let the woman take it.
Now, she buried both hands in Matt’s hair, held him and steered him against her.
The first blow made his whole body stiffen and his head jerked away. He looked up at her with those pale eyes, understanding that something had changed: with both of Julie’s hands in his hair then there must be another controlling the flogger.
The whip came down again, a sharp crack. He winced, his eyes narrowing, his teeth gritted, and then his neck relaxed and Julie pulled him against her again, and now she was lost to that upwards trajectory. The grinding of soft and hard, the pulling of leather against her, the crack of horsehair on bare flesh.
She looked around, the room a blur of staring faces, bodies gathered around. The other guy was still chained to the wall, his body twisted so he could watch, his hips still grinding himself against the brickwork.
Another whip-crack.
Another whole-body flinch.
She pulled his head harder against herself, not caring if it hurt or if he could breathe, not caring about anything other than that mix of sensations, the building pressure, the tightening... The sudden, sharp flutter of muscles inside her, the pulsing against that tight seam. The sudden shortness of breath, the sharp tension in her abdomen, the weakness in her legs.
More tightenings, but less so now, and shifting, transforming. Her orgasm was like the pain of a whip’s impact as it became something else, a sharp intensity spreading and mellowing, drawing itself out even as it faded away.
Finally, she could take no more.
She slumped, caught herself against him, against the wall. Just about managed to stay upright.
Her breathing was ragged and for a moment she thought she might faint.
She looked back at him, still kneeling there.
For a moment she feared what she might see, scared that she might have finally crossed the line and driven him away entirely.
He didn’t have the look of a man driven away.
He pushed himself upright, and that impressive erection still stood out before him.
He reached for her, tried to pull her into his embrace, but she stood firm, held herself back. Gave that slight shake of the head.
“You want some of this?” she said, then she pushed herself away from the wall, neatly stepped past him and headed across the room.
Glancing back, she saw him standing there, a confused look on his face. She paused, met his look, then gestured with one crooked finger for him to follow.
He hurried towards her and she turned, found the door, and left the room.
She headed across the chill-out area, people pausing to look. Down the stairs, through another chill-out area, past the bar, and all the time he hurried after her, his stiff dick swinging from side to side as he moved.
§
The room was mirrored. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, even.
At first she’d thought it was a dressing room, but then she’d realized it was more than just that. Position a guy just right and he could see everything, every angle.
Stand him just there, with his back to one wall. He can look straight ahead and see himself standing there, arms angled downwards, braced against the wall of mirrors he leans against. And on her knees at his feet, a brunette, her hands on his hips. The perfect shape of her figure, that narrow waist flaring out to an ass wrapped in leather so tight it’s like a second skin. That ass bobbing up and down in time with the bobbing of her head.
If he looks to the side he sees a different view. Sees the way she slides along his shaft, taking him in so incredibly deep until her face is buried against his lap, her chin against his balls and her nose buried in that tight fuzz of hair.
Looking up at the mirrored ceiling. That head drawing back, his shaft materializing from between her lips like a magician’s trick.
And down, the view from beneath reflected in the mirrored floor: his balls hanging, her tongue swirling around the purple head of his manhood as she finally reaches the end. One arm moving so that the hand can wrap around his shaft while the head stays lodged in her mouth, riding the soft flesh of her tongue.
Looking ahead, and her head is bobbing again, sheathing and unsheathing him rapidly, her fist pumping.
Sideways, and the intensity of her movements, the flexing of her arm as she works him with that hand.
Down and he sees her eyes looking back up at him, fixed on him, urging him on.
This is what she wanted for him: for everything to come together in those sensations – the visual, the physical. The intensity she had felt upstairs.
Everything. For him.
She felt it building. That tension in his body. The way his breathing started to come out in soft grunts, and then a long, drawn-out groan. There was a tightening in his balls, like a clenching muscle, and then his shaft throbbed and wet heat exploded in her mouth. She pulled back, swallowing, and the second pulse sprayed across her lips and chin and down onto her breasts and as she watched those pale eyes flitted from looking down at her to the mirrors and back.
Another wet pulse and then his body started to slump. She drew him into her, pressing her face into his lap, feeling his shaft grow soft against her. She kissed its base, felt it shift against her, still subsiding. Then he dropped to his knees, their legs interlocked like a zipper, and he held her in his strong arms and time did that thing again where it could have been only seconds but it felt like forever.
§
They woke in a tangle and for a few long seconds Julie wondered where she was and who she was with and how this all had happened.
Then it all came back. Matt. The Club.
They were back at his place now, the apartment over the coffee shop. Somehow they’d staggered back here in the early hours.
The night had been one of dozing and waking, of finding this glorious, mysterious body pressed against her and exploring it. Finding the things that made him gasp, the things that made him grind his head back into the pillow and grip the bedding. Of giving herself to him just as he had surrendered himself earlier.
It was a new world for both of them. A new mix.
A man who actually cared, and who was capable at least of instances of niceness, but also a man who was willing to trust and explore, who didn’t shy away from experience.
It was, for Julie, a pretty damned fine mix. In a few minutes, when she had gathered herself, she would find her phone and call Rachel, tell her that things had moved on and that everything was okay, it really was okay.
But for now... Matt moved against her and she remembered the way he had gripped the bedding and ground his head back into the pillow and, well, for now maybe she could put off that phone call and make that thing happen just a bit more.
The Author
Writing under other names, PJ Adams is a successful novelist, with several novels published by major publishing houses and optioned for movies. As PJ Adams, she writes in the genre closest to her heart, erotic romance – love stories with that added heat, including the international bestsellers Winner Takes All and Black Widow. Working as Polly J Adams, she writes best-selling erotica, relationship stories crammed full of explicit sex. Among Polly's most popular stories are the Girls’ Club series, and Wings of Desire, the story of a young woman's relationship with the wealthy owner of a New England sex club.
You can find out more about Polly and her writing on her website, on http://www.facebook.com/pollyjadamswriter and on Twitter as @PollyJAdams.
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www.pollyjadams.com/about.php
Pavlov
Club Dishabille Redux.
Arden Aoide.
Chapter On
e.
30. M.
I do not play.
Serious inquiries only.
There came a point when it was just done. Over. A point when you've gone too far and couldn't ever come back from it. Past the point of no return.
Yeah.
That happened to me a lot.
I didn't quite know when to keep my mouth shut, but apparently it wasn't just me.
I'd began to wonder if my expectations were unreasonable. Well, probably. I sort of just cut to the quick far too, well, quickly. When I started testing their patience, I hadn't known how satisfying it would be when they used their safeword out of boredom. But that was the point. If their obedience and patience was making them bored, then they weren't cut out for this. I felt like I was doing my duty to all of kinky-kind by getting the poseurs out of the way.
She'd only lasted fifteen minutes on her knees while keeping silent and still for me. Sarah, Sally, Susie. Don't remember. Irrelevant. I hadn't even finished the crossword on my phone. It was quieter on a phone. No paper to rustle.
“This isn't what I signed up for,” she said as she brushed imaginary dirt from her knees. Her completely unblemished knees. She got points for wearing her good lingerie. Black and sheer. I'd tell her, but I couldn't remember her name. That happened to me a lot, as well.
“What did you sign up for?” It was a silly question, I know, but one they can never elucidate clearly. Such a fine line between easy and ashamed and whatever word means 'promiscuous and proud of it'. Can't quite think of the word. It's right on the tip of my tongue‒
“Not this. I was on my fucking knees for fuck's sake. The least you could do was make me blow you.”
She was oddly still in the room. She's pretty. I could do her. “You want to blow me? Really? I could tell you to blow me, then be done with you. That really would have been fine with you?”
“Well, no. Of course not.” To her credit, she did look a little discomfited. She might have just figured out submission might not be what she was wanting to do.
