The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies

by Sonia Florens

  He stretches one foot out in front of me and when I’m close enough, he tells me again, “Stop.”

  I’m breathing raggedly, as if I’ve just run a mile rather than crawled the length of the room. He rubs his boot against my forearm, brushes the toe of it against my nipple and I shiver. When he puts his foot back on the floor, he tells me, “Kiss it,” and a whimper catches in my throat.

  Perhaps he’s taking some small amount of pity on me as he leans forward, strokes my hair. But as his fingers tighten and tug, I shiver, go limp. He forces me to look up, to look at him. There is no pity in his expression. “Kiss it,” he tells me and he lets go of my hair. Arms trembling, I lower my face to his boot, close my eyes partway and brush my lips against the leather. “Like you mean it,” he tells me.

  Another whimper from me, the sound almost like a kittenish mewl. I’m lightheaded from forgetting to breathe, from those short little ragged breaths when I remember to take them, from the racing of my heart, from this. I kiss his boot again, lips and tongue both playing against the leather now, moving from the toe, along the top, over to his ankle, back around to the toe. I wait eagerly for a, “Good girl,” some indication that I’m doing the right thing, but he leaves me wondering. He draws that foot back and puts the other one forward. When I give it the same treatment, that’s when I hear, “Good girl.” He tilts his foot up, presents the sole of his boot. My eyes close again and I kiss along the sole, play my tongue over it, over the roughness of the treads.

  “I can smell you, Flora.” And I lower my face to the carpet, certain it is bright red because it feels suddenly like it is on fire. I want to deny it, but I can smell myself. I whisper, “Yes, sir,” against the floor and the carpet gets warm against my face.

  He chuckles. “That embarrasses you.” Not a question, but I nod, whisper, “Yes, sir.” I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Good.”

  I want to hide, then. Want to melt into the carpet to escape that embarrassment, his amusement over it, but he’s not going to let me. His hand is back in my hair, tugging me up so I have to look at him again. I keep my eyes closed, but he tells me to open them. I never imagined it might take so much energy, so much effort, to open my eyes, to keep my gaze from lowering. “Look at me,” he says and I realize my gaze has wandered again: the upholstery of the chair, his thigh, anywhere but looking him in the eye.

  I look at his mouth, his parted lips. I want to kiss them and he knows it.

  He stands up slowly and I’ve got to raise up only onto my knees as he does. That movement leaves me unbalanced; he’s so close. My chest presses against his legs and my face is against his crotch. He still holds my head so I have to look up at him, my neck aching a little, my back arched. His jeans are rough against my breasts and nipples and as he moves, the denim drags against me. My breath catches and I try not to moan. I fail in that attempt and his smile widens. “I want you to sit on your heels, Flora. With your knees spread and your palms against your thighs.” His grip in my hair loosens so I can lower myself. My boot-heels are hard and uncomfortable to sit against. My hands tremble against my thighs.

  He sits down again and looks at me. “No matter what I do, you will not look away. You can blink, but you will not close your eyes for longer than that. You will watch this, Flora.”

  A shiver runs through me and I whimper.

  He reaches over the arm of the chair to the bag on the floor and when his hand comes back into my line of sight, he’s holding a little clear bag full of black plastic clips, some of them small and flat, others like clothespins. Those aren’t mine, weren’t in the bag I packed. My gaze darts from the bag to his face, then back. He bounces the bag and the clips rattle softly. My fingers curl against my thighs, nails pressing into skin, then I force them to relax again.

  “Hold still.” He leans forward, lifts my right breast and drags his thumb over my nipple.

  It’s reflex, I can’t help it, I close my eyes and tilt my head back. His hand comes down in a sharp stinging swat against the top of my breast and I open my eyes wide. “Eyes open,” he says, watching my face.

  “Yes, sir,” I whisper, those two words trembling on my lips.

  I’ve never realized how often I close my eyes in response to pleasure, in response to pain. Never until that moment. He pinches up the skin of my breast, closes one of the flat clips against it. I suck in a sharp breath and catch myself just before I close my eyes. He pinches up more skin, lines another clip beneath the first, like a black sunray in a child’s drawing. One clip after another, five of them in line pointing toward my nipple.

  He starts another line of them a little to the right of the first, then another to the left of it. My breast feels hot and stinging and my fingernails dig into my thighs as I try to keep my eyes open.

  Five lines on my breast and he touches his fingertip to my parted lips. My tongue darts out over it and he presses his finger into my mouth. I suckle it, tongue sliding over it, tongue ring dragging against it while he strokes it in and out. He pulls it away from my mouth and circles that wet fingertip over my nipple. A soft “ohh” falls from my lips and he takes his finger away, takes out one of the black clothespins. I watch. I watch though I know what’s coming, though I want to close my eyes, though I want to look away. He opens it and lets it snap closed; it hasn’t been sprung. I flinch at the sound. He opens it again and lets it close more slowly around my nipple.

  My nails drag over my thighs and I whimper. Eyes close because I just cannot keep them open. His hand comes down over the top of my other breast. “Open your eyes, Flora.”

  I pant raggedly, every breath making the clips on my breast shift. I whimper. It is such a struggle to open my eyes again and it’s nearly impossible for me to focus once I do.

  He shifts, puts one foot between my knees. His foot shifts as he gives my left breast the same treatment, the side of his foot rubbing against my inner thigh, then the toe of his boot dragging against my labia. I gasp and he pinches my nipple, says, “Shush,” reminds me to hold still. I whisper a ragged, “Yes, sir,” and he continues with the clips, another half-sun on my left breast, then that last clothespin on my nipple.

  I give a little whimpered moan and close my eyes, that damnable reflex. He takes hold of both clothespins and tugs, once for each word as he says, “Open . . . your . . . eyes.”

  My lips are parted and I’m panting. Somehow I manage to open my eyes again, look up at him. I’m trembling and my nails are digging even harder against my thighs. His boot continues to press between my thighs and my hips arch slightly. He tugs the clothespins again. “Stay still.”

  I whimper, “Yes, sir.”

  I think I may very well come with the toe of his boot grinding against my clit and pressing against the barbells piercing my inner labia, my nipples throbbing in the grip of those clothespins. I blush again, hotly. He’s not going to let me come so easily, though.

  He lets go of the clothespins, lowers his foot and I give a little mewl of frustration, nearly closing my eyes as I do. He tsks softly, looking at his boot. “Clean that up, Flora.” The throb and heat of the clips against my breast drown out the urge to say, “I can’t,” or, “I won’t.” I’ve got to lower myself – breasts brushing the carpet, clothespins and clips tugging – so I can lick his boot. The mingled taste of myself and leather makes me dizzy with desire. Every instinct inside of me screams that I should close my eyes as I savour that taste, but I manage to keep them open.

  He stands, pulls me up by my hair again as he does. I fix my gaze on his mouth. “You’re going to unfasten my belt now. And my jeans. But your hands are going to stay against your thighs.”

  “Yes, sir,” I whisper, my breath warming the crotch of his jeans. I rub my cheek against his thigh, lick and kiss along the fly of his jeans, up to his belt buckle. I nuzzle at it, catch the end of his belt between my teeth, tug. But it’s not quite that easy. His shirt brushes against my cheek, against my hair, while I struggle with his belt, giving tiny little whi
mpers of frustration. Once he unbuttons his shirt, he strokes my hair, trails fingertips over my ear, down my neck. Eventually I get his belt undone, nose it out of the way. It slaps back against my cheek and he takes pity on me, holds it away from my face. I catch his jeans between my teeth. The button is stubborn, but I manage it. The metal of the zipper-pull makes my teeth ache as I tug it downward, inhaling the scent of him as I do.

  “Good girl,” he says, stroking my hair once more. Then he steps away, takes off his boots and his clothes. I watch him, want to touch him, taste his skin. He’s too far away and I whimper again, not realizing I have.

  He laughs softly. “Do you want something?” and I blush, glance down at the carpet. “Look at me,” he reminds me and I look up slowly. He’s a step closer now. “Do you want something?”

  I nod slowly, whisper, “Yes, sir.”

  He takes another step closer. I could reach out and touch him and my hands tremble with the effort to keep them against my thighs. “What?”

  I want to taste your cock. I want your mouth against my cunt. I want to feel you inside of me. I open my mouth but can’t make the words come out. My throat closes around them and I whimper, flushed and embarrassed.

  He presses his lips together and shakes his head slowly and the fear that I’ve disappointed him burns in my belly. If I could say the words, I would, but I can’t. “If you can’t tell me what you want, you can’t have it.”

  I whimper again. He strokes my hair. “Come here.” He walks to the bed, pats it and I crawl over, climb onto the bed beside him, gasping and whimpering as the clips tug at my breasts. “On all fours,” he tells me and he arranges me so my legs are spread, my hands are out in front of me and my back arched so the ends of the clothespins drag against the bed when I move. Or when he does.

  “Now we’re going to play a game. Twenty questions. I will ask you a question that requires something more than ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir’; you will give me an answer. Every question you answer right gives you a point. I will ask three times. Every wrong answer, I get a point.” He trails his fingertips down my spine, along the crack of my ass. He draws his hand away then brings it down sharply against my arse. “And I’m going to do that every time you don’t answer.” My ass still stings. “Do you understand?”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.” I can still feel the hot shape of his hand on my skin.

  “If you win, I’ll take these off.” He drags his fingers over the clips on my breast and I whimper, shudder. “If I win, I’ll add more.” His hand strokes down my arse, brushes between my thighs, teasing touch in the place he intends to add them. There’s the incentive to win, then.

  “I’ll make the first question easy.” He holds a red satin handkerchief in front of my face. “What colour is it?” and he’s toying with me. I either answer the question and this ends, or I don’t and he swats my ass again. I bite my lip and his hand comes down, sharp and stinging. “What colour is it, Flora?”

  I squeeze my eyes closed tightly.

  “You want to tell me, don’t you?” he whispers against my ear.

  “Yes, sir.” Which is truth as much as it is a lie. I want to answer the question. I don’t want this to end.

  “So what colour is it?”

  I keep my mouth shut, lips pressed together tightly. His hand comes down against my ass again, harder this time and I yelp, muscles tensing.

  “That’s three points for me,” he says and I hear the smile in his voice.

  It goes on like this. Sometimes he takes pity on me and asks me a question I can answer, a question I will answer. At some point, he’s traded swats with his hand for stinging strokes of the rubber slapper and the shape of the fire and ache is different. I’m whimpering and mewling, arching, struggling. My fingers grip the bed tightly and my arms tremble as the questions continue. He trades questions I can answer with questions like, “What colour is a fire truck?” and “What colour are strawberries?” Questions I refuse to answer because I don’t want this to end. He teases me after each of those, asks me, “Are you trying to lose?” and I shake my head, whisper, “No, sir,” and wish that those questions counted in the twenty he’s threatened me with, but they don’t.

  Eventually, he gets back to the question he asked before the game started. “What do you want, Flora?”

  My arse and the backs of my thighs are hot and stinging. If I concentrate, I can picture the shape of the welts from the slapper. One there, one there, another there at a little bit more of an angle, one that caught the sensitive place where the back of my thigh and arse meet.

  What do I want? I want so much. I want this to stop, I want it to continue. I want you to let me suck you, want you to fuck me. I want to come, I want to be denied the same thing. I want to be able to say this. I open my mouth, breath a ragged, “I . . .” and again the words get caught in my throat.

  “You?” And he waits a moment to see if I’ll say more. When I can only whimper, he brings the slapper down again. Harder this time, over one of the fresh welts and I arch, clench my jaw tightly to keep back a scream that is pain and frustration and desire braided together. My fingers ache from how tightly I’m gripping the sheets.

  “What do you want, Flora?” His breath is hot against my ear and he nips my earlobe.

  I want to tell him. “Please,” I whimper. “Please, I . . .” I can beg, but I can’t seem to beg for what I want.

  “Tell me what you want, Flora.”

  I pull at the sheets, nearly sob and he sighs, brings the slapper down in the same place again and I bury my face against the bed, eyes closed, shivering and panting.

  “What do you want, Flora?” And this is my last chance. I don’t know what happens if I don’t say it, but it doesn’t matter because the words start pouring out, surrounded by “please” and “sir”. I’m begging him to let me suck him, to fuck me and hurt me and kiss me. Please, kiss me. “Please, kitten,” And he takes hold of my hair, makes me look up from the bed. “No,” he says. “I’m not your kitten tonight.” And I whimper, almost incoherent with want and ache. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  He strokes his hand over my arse and I flinch, pull at the sheets. Somewhere in the part of my mind that’s still clinging to the world, I know I’m going to be bruised tomorrow. “Forty-four to six,” he tells me. “I won.” He drags his fingers down between my legs, long slow teasing touch, and I mewl, arch, sheets tugging at the clothespins on my nipples.

  There’s the same plastic rattling sound from before. It hardly registers in my head because, at the same time, he presses a finger into me. I go still, afraid I’m imagining it, afraid if I move he’ll stop. “Please,” I whimper. He curls his finger inside of me and drags it slowly out, tells me, “Not yet,” then he catches my outer labia, pinches it and closes a clothespin onto it. I bite at the sheets and squirm. He swats my arse and tells me to stay still, but it’s so hard.

  Three clothespins on each labia and he tells me to roll over, knowing I’m going to have to put my legs together at least a little bit to do so. I’m panting as I roll over and he rubs his finger against my lips, wetting them, then lets me suckle the tip of it.

  “You can’t have everything you want, you know.” He tells me this as he strokes his fingertip against the roof of my mouth and my breath catches at that touch. At his words. And my eyes are closing again. For a moment I struggle to keep them open, but he keeps stroking his finger against the roof of my mouth and I give in, close my eyes. Then open them and nearly scream when he starts pulling the clips on my right breast. They drag and snap off and I arch my back. He slides his finger out of my mouth and plays it against my trapped nipple before tugging the clothespin off and once again I’m gripping the sheets painfully tight, trying not to scream.

  Then the other breast and both nipples ache again as blood rushes back into them. “Such a good girl,” he says, stroking my nipples softly, cupping my breasts, kissing one and then the other.

  His hands move down between my legs again. “Tell me if y
ou’re going to come, Flora.” His fingers play against my clit, against the two barbells piercing my inner labia. Every movement of his hand makes the clothespins bounce, makes me gasp.

  As I get close, I whimper, “I . . . I’m going to . . .” and he shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says as his fingers leave my clit and he yanks one clothespin off my labia. My whole back arches and I forget to breathe. He reminds me, tells me to take a slow deep breath. Let it out. And when I’m breathing normally again, his fingers go back to work.

  Six clothespins, six reminders to breathe. And then he’s on top of me, pressing into me. “Open your eyes, Flora.” I cling to him as he makes love to me, lightheaded, breathless, eyes half open, lips parted. “Please,” I beg raggedly.

  “Please what, Flora? What do you want?”

  “Please let me come,” I whisper, arching against him.

  “Good girl.” And his thumb nestles against my clit, rubbing it as he presses into me. I close my eyes tightly, nails dragging down his back as I orgasm. And even in this he won’t let me off so easily, his thumb still circling and stroking until I come again and he’s not far behind this one.

  I curl up against him, sobbing with the intensity of my release, tears rolling down my cheeks. He holds me, whispers soothing words and the words aren’t nearly as important as the sound of his voice and the warmth of his skin against mine.

  “You can’t have everything you want, not all in one night. And you can’t have anything at all if you can’t say it.” He strokes my hair and kisses my forehead.

  “Will you kiss me?” I ask breathlessly, forgetting myself, hazy with pleasure and pain.

  He kisses me, lips tender and hungry against mine, and I think even time stops then and it starts again when he draws back.