Never Say Never

by Alison Tyler

  Becky shook her head as she stood up. She continued holding onto Rob’s erection as she said, “I think I’ve got everything I need right here.”

  Jan giggled. “I think you have,” she agreed.

  Becky’s skirt was short and she wore no panties beneath. Raising the hem slightly, exposing her bare buttocks to the room, she eased herself slowly over Rob’s lap.

  Her loins turned to fire when she heard Jan draw an excited breath.

  Dan murmured, “Go for it, girl.”

  Becky held her breath.

  The air was so thick with excitement she was having difficulty drawing it into her lungs. She hesitated over Rob’s erection, savoring the pleasure of having his rounded end pushing at her wetness. The moment was so filled with electric pleasure she could feel her knees beginning to quiver from the experience.

  It had crossed her mind that she could follow Jan’s example. Jan had been sucking on Dan. Becky could have simply sucked on Rob’s erection. But, while that idea held some appeal, Becky did not want to appear as though she was simply mimicking the woman’s actions.

  She held the base of Rob’s erection and rested the sopping split of her sex over his end. Her heartbeat raced when she glanced at Jan and Dan and saw they were both watching.

  “Is there anything either of us can do to help?” Jan asked.

  Becky laughed. “Don’t tempt me with offers like that.” And, with those words, she pushed herself heavily onto Rob’s length.

  The sensation was sublime. His erection filled her. She felt an immediate rush of satisfaction begin to envelop her—more profound than anything she could usually expect from simply sitting on his cock. Gut instinct told her that she would only need to slide slowly up and down his erection a couple more times and the orgasm would scorch through her body.

  While that prospect was appealing, and she could have happily ridden up and down on Rob’s length for the remainder of the evening, it crossed Becky’s mind that she wasn’t providing her audience with much to enjoy.

  Casually, she slipped open the button on her skirt and allowed the zipper to pull open. The skirt fell from her hips leaving her lower half completely bare. Grinning for Jan and Dan as she slid up and down Rob’s erection, Becky teased open the buttons on her blouse. The other couple made sounds of excited encouragement as Becky shrugged off the blouse and revealed herself topless.

  “You do realize,” Jan told Dan, “that now she’s naked, that means we have to take our clothes off.”

  Thrilled by the way the evening was developing, Becky squeezed her inner muscles tight around Rob’s erection. With a wave of encroaching bliss, she relished the rush of the climax that seared through her loins.

  Three hours later they stood on the doorstep preparing to leave.

  This time, when Jan and Becky kissed farewell, Becky could sense that there was friendship rather than the artificiality of their former faux greeting. The pressure of the woman’s lips on hers made Becky wonder what else she and Jan could do in the pursuit of pleasure.

  “We’ll have to do this again,” Jan said earnestly.

  Becky nodded. “We must. Maybe more.”

  “More?” Jan teased. “How much more would you want to do?”

  “It depends what the syzygy is like.”

  Jan looked momentarily puzzled.

  Beside her Rob was frowning and Becky knew he would have a perplexing journey home trying to figure out whether she’d said the safeword because she didn’t want to repeat the experience of the soft swap, or simply because she’d found an opportunity to use the word.

  And, she supposed, by the time he asked her, she might have worked out how she felt about the experience and whether or not she wanted it to happen again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MIND YOUR MA’AMS —

  FEMME DOMME

  Disguise our bondage as we will,

  ’Tis woman, woman, rules us still.

  —THOMAS MOORE

  For a moment, I thought I didn’t have any femme domme clips of my own to share. I told myself, You don’t really write femme domme, now do you, silly girl? And then I thought, Oh, excuse me. What did you just say, little voice? Because my New Stories folder—yes, that’s the ever-so-clever title on the lip—is filled to the rim with f/d stories!

  Why?

  Well, I have this funny internal glitch. Occasionally, I will meet a man and think, Dom. You are a total Dom, Sir. And other times, I will meet a man and think, What you really need is to have some woman, some ice-cold woman, take charge of you. In either case, I go write a story. Like “Plucked,” which features a man named Sandy who meets his match:

  He chuckles, nervously. When was Sandy last nervous in front of a girl? Sometime circa the ’90s, I’d have to guess. “I’m here,” he says, “for good.”

  “That’s my only option? For good?”

  I feel as if Sandy and I are in some way connected. Our hearts beat faster at her dark, slow words. My mental pleas of Run, Sandy, run, have changed in a quarter note to Be bad for her, Sandy. Go home with her and be bad.

  He looks at me, and I see that although his face is composed, his eyes are begging. I pour him a shot and refill her glass, buying him time. I’ve never been nice to Sandy before, but the look he gives me is pure gratitude, worth more than any crumpled-up buck tip he might leave on the bar.

  In “Broken,” my main character finds something he didn’t even know was missing:

  She had cuffs in her hand, as if magically, and she dangled them in front of his face. “You want me to tie you to the bed?” he asked. He’d never played like that before.

  “No,” she said. “I want to tie you down.”

  His cock responded as if she’d spoken directly to it instead of to him. What was going on? He’d never even thought to do things kinky before. Most of the girls he dated were so young that simply the act of fucking was exciting to them.

  “Are you game?” She put one hand on his dick. He was rock hard. “You seem game.”

  “I was going out,” he said, to give himself a second to think.

  She nodded. “I know. You were going out. Take off your shirt.”

  He could stop this charade at any second. He could tell her she was over the top, rebounding, using him to get her aggressions out. But he took off his shirt anyway.

  Some people might start out with their fantasies online, like the character in “Flash,” from Bondage on a Budget:

  In the online room, she was a dominant. She held court and the people around her scurried to obey. I did, as well. I’m not proud. But I was able to capture her interest with my remarks, and ultimately she invited me to join her in a private room. Once alone, we continued our fantasy play. She had a camera. She tied me up and took pictures, spread my legs and observed my cunt under a magnifying glass. I liked it, enjoyed being exposed. It was safe for me since all of it was a farce.

  At the end, after we both took turns climaxing (I’m getting pretty good at typing one-handed), she asked me to meet her.

  Dominatrixes are everywhere. Emilie Paris writes in “Underwater”:

  Some of my friends would be shocked by my tastes. I simply don’t look the part of the dominatrix. I’m slight, but I’m tough. My lovers have always submitted to my needs. There’s never been a question about it. I call to them, the ones that like to bow down. I don’t seek them out, they come to me.

  N. T. Morley spills a craving for a dom in “Date Night”:

  She flipped through the channels and quickly settled on a tall ice-blonde Dominatrix in a tight latex dress smoking a cigarette in a long holder while a very cute and very nude brunette worshipped the Mistress’s shiny knee-high boots.

  Yum. That would do rather nicely, thanks.

  The domme in “Working Late,” by Andrea Dale, has multiple instructions for her man:

  His chest heaved when he saw what I’d packed for him. What I had planned for him.

  “Tell me what you’ve found.”

>   He tried to speak, failed, cleared his throat and started again. “A pair of small clamps—nipple clamps. A butt plug, and a packet of lube. Ma’am.”

  “Tell me what you’re going to do with them.”

  Sometimes I gave orders, but often Jack was smart enough to know what I wanted. I mean, duh, they weren’t unusual toys. Besides, having him describe what was going to happen heightened the anticipation—for both of us.

  My breasts felt heavy, swollen beneath my silk blouse. I didn’t need to look to know my own nipples were clear against the soft fabric.

  “I’m going to go to the men’s room and put the clamps on my nipples. I’ll probably have to massage my nipples a little to get them ready for the clamps.” Jack looked down at the items on his desk. “I’ll coat the plug with lube, and also my fingers, and open myself up before inserting the plug.”

  “Will you like that?”

  It wasn’t an easy question and didn’t have an easy answer. He had a love-hate relationship with the plug, craved the sensation while aware of how it looked, what it meant.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll come back to my desk, and when you see me, you’ll call me with further instructions.”

  “Good boy. Go on, then.”

  Jax Baynard’s “Meltdown” also takes the domme’s point of view:

  I snapped the whip a couple of times, limbering up, trying to think calmly. What was he after? If I knew what it was I could either give it to him or not, my choice. But I didn’t know, and the anger and the hurt running beneath it, the hurt I was trying frantically to stay on top of, made it impossible to think rationally. So I hit him. Despite my threats, I pulled a few punches. I pulled all of them, actually, practicing restraint as a cautionary measure. After a minute or two he said conversationally, “You probably deserved it.”

  “What did you just say?” I asked.

  “You heard me,” he said, which, of course, I had.

  I snapped the whip, the fine tip at the end making a crack. If I hit him like that, he would bleed instantly. It was the same as being sliced open with a knife. They don’t pay me so much for nothing. I was good enough to be blunt, hitting him hard without breaking the skin. He jerked with the force of it.

  “You’re probably a real cunt,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve thought so for years.”

  Those might not be my first words to a domme with a whip. But there are so many different ways people work to get what they want. If you’re a woman who has always craved control—or a closet sub who craves giving up the reins—take a deep breath, approach your lover and confess.

  You might wind up getting more than you want. You might get what you deserve.

  TANTALIZING TIPS

  •Pay attention to the media. There are so many examples of domme women to learn from. Check out the ads for Justin Timberlake’s naughty 901 Tequila ads—foreplay in seconds.

  •Clothes don’t simply make the man, they make the man beg. The right outfit can transform a woman into a fierce domme as quickly as you can slip on those thigh-high vinyl boots.

  •Don’t leave home (or enter the bedroom) without a safeword.

  FICTION: FEMME DOMME

  NO SHAME

  DANTE DAVIDSON

  There’s no shame in asking for what you want.”

  She said the words as she walked around me. I stood naked in front of her. My wrists were cuffed and attached to a beam over my head. I could feel her breath when she came close, when she ran the tip of her fingernail down my spine.

  “There’s no shame in giving in. No shame in begging.”

  My eyes were closed, but that didn’t matter. She had put a blindfold on me as soon as I’d entered the room. I hoped like hell she could not tell from my expression that I didn’t agree with her. I ought to have known better.

  “You think I’m wrong, don’t you?”

  No, Mistress. Yes, Mistress. What was the right answer? What answer would win me what I desired?

  “Don’t you?”

  It wasn’t her fingernail tracing down my back now. That mean device was the tip of a crop. I knew that from experience. I sucked in my breath and waited for the first stroke. None came.

  “Say the words with me,” she instructed in a singsong tone that made me immediately fearful. She was being playful. That did not bode well for me. “There’s no shame.”

  “There’s no shame,” I parroted back to her, lying. No shame? Who was she kidding? Didn’t she know by now that the whole game, the whole fucking situation, was based on shame? This scene wouldn’t be the same without that filament of emotion, burning a bright incandescent blue within me.

  “No shame in begging,” she continued.

  “No shame in begging,” I whispered.

  “So beg me.”

  I bit my lip.

  “Beg me.”

  I turned my head away from her voice. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. She could tie me up. She could whip me. She could make tears streak my face. But I would not ask her to do those things to me. I would not…

  The crop struck once, and I felt as if I had won. Until she said again: “Beg me.”

  My cock was a throbbing beast between my legs. The sound of her voice alone was enough to make me hard. Adding the pain of the punishment could make me come. But she didn’t keep going. She was pushing hard on my boundaries today. Truculently, I pushed back with my willful disobedience.

  “You’re not paying attention,” she said, and she sounded sad. I could picture exactly what she looked like. I’d seen her fully for a second when I entered the room—glossy black latex catsuit. High-heeled boots. Dark hair up in a neat twist. Smoldering charcoal eye shadow. Plenty of mascara. Then she’d told me to strip and put a blindfold on me.

  “You know what happens when you don’t pay attention.”

  I flinched. I could guess. I heard the clink of ice in her glass, smelled the whiskey when she brought the tumbler close to my nose. Then I felt cold fingers behind me, and I knew what she was doing. The ice cube against my asshole made me grind my teeth. My cock got harder, if that was possible. I set my feet wider apart. She probed me with the ice, and I felt drops of precome leak from my cock.

  “I hurt you and then I fuck you when you don’t pay attention,” she said.

  I understood what she meant. She was going to whip me with her crop and then fuck me with her strap-on. My arms ached from the bindings, but I didn’t care.

  “But only if you tell me what you want,” she told me. “Only if you beg.”

  One of her hands caressed my cock now, cold fingers working up and down. Her other hand continued to run the ice cube around my asshole until the heat of my body melted the cube completely. I wanted what she’d promised. I needed what she said.

  “Please,” I said, knowing that wasn’t enough. She wouldn’t be satisfied. She’s never satisfied.

  “Please what?”

  “Please do what you said.” I hated myself for being unable to speak the words.

  She sighed. I heard her heels on the floor. She was leaving the room, leaving me, and suddenly I started to feel frantic. I began to babble. “Please, Ma’am. Please, Mistress. Do those things to me. Hurt me. Fuck me. Take me. There’s no shame,” I continued, words tumbling. “No shame.”

  She returned. She got so close to me. I felt the crop again, felt her running the tip between my asscheeks, felt her probing me.

  “You’re so sweet when you lie,” she said, and then she began.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  24/7 —

  LIVING A KINKY LIFE

  Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.

  —BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  You don’t have to be a writer of erotica to live a kinky life. You only have to possess an imagination. That’s the sound bite, the one fortune-cookie wisp of wisdom I hope to leave with you. When you start to explore what you want—what you need—you ca
n turn your whole world upside down. And that’s a good thing. Thinking about feeling sexy all of the time is surreal. Imagine dressing for yourself and for your lover, finding the toys and the tools that arouse the two (or more) of you.

  Soon you’ll realize that truth might not necessarily be stranger than fiction…but it definitely can be just as fucking sexy. In fact, I think real sex—real-life sex with all the unexpected qualities that go with it—is far more erotic than a make-believe world.

  Take risks. There are two words to tattoo onto your forearm. If you’ve never watched porn, rent an X-rated movie together. If you’ve never tried a toy, visit a sex shop (in life or online). Read each other smut out loud. Leave sexy notes (where you know the intended reader will find them). Give into your desires. Talk dirty. All the time. Make double entendres. Then triple them.

  Feel your heart race. Feel your body respond.

  In the BDSM world, there is a concept of living a 24/7 life—24/7 as the master or slave in a relationship. But we’re all living 24/7 here. Nobody’s checking out at 23. Nobody’s cutting their weeks short to 6. Make your relationship what you crave. Let your cup runneth over.

  Live a kinky life.

  TANTALIZING TIPS

  •Read erotica, eat exotic foods, watch foreign fuck films, dress in the clothes of your dreams, push against your boundaries, fall into your fantasies. Turn your volume to eleven.

  •Borrow my glasses for a minute so that you can see sex everywhere you go. Really, it’s all a mindset. Once you decide to embrace a kinky lifestyle, the opportunities won’t bother knocking at your door. They’ll knock you down and have their way with you on the living room floor. Let them.

  FICTION: LIVING A KINKY LIFE

  IS THAT MAN BOTHERING YOU?

  ALISON TYLER

  Is that man bothering you?”

  I’m standing in front of my closet, trying to decide what to wear. I don’t even turn to face Sam, but I can feel him right behind me, waiting for my response.