Evidently, I’m not yet enticing enough. He takes one hand from my rump and, after licking his thumb, finds my asshole and pushed it into me. This, I don’t take too well. It’s rough, it hurts. My body tenses against it and I scream into the pillows that accent the love seat. If I could use my hands, I’d brace myself against this intrusion and if my feet were planted on the ground, I’d surely squirm. But I can’t. The only part of my body that responds to his thumb is my asshole and it clenches in protest.
Hovering in this awkward position, my legs and arms are ready to give out, but I have no place to anchor myself and my arms must stay pinioned behind me. I struggle with what little strength and freedom of movement I have and again I scream into the pillows. All the while, he reams me. His cock drills me and his thumb tears at me.
It’s enough, though. He’s pounding me so fast now that I know he’s close. One last push of the thumb, one last protest from me, and he’s coming. He slams into me, jetting his come, filling me with his liquid heat.
When he pulls out, I don’t move. I know he likes to watch his come drip from me. It isn’t until I feel his hand on my arm that I know he’s satisfied. He helps me up, takes me in his arms, and kisses me with a passion that’s mixed with thankfulness.
“You’re a treasure,” he murmurs between kisses.
“One that only you can claim,” I remark as I fall to my knees. I take his spent cock into my mouth and claim it as my own reward. My tongue gently caresses him clean, a gesture that tells him how thankful I am as well.
So there you have it: toothin’ for sex in a myriad of ways. Hot, isn’t it? So hot that maybe I shouldn’t wait for my cell phone contract to expire before I upgrade its services. I’m too impatient to wait for that. It can’t come soon enough. Because, quite honestly, neither can I.
Dungeon
Christina (Catford, Canada)
I owe Joan one. She had taken me on that blind date to Nassau and I had suffered that boring jerk of a brother of hers for one week. I could have killed her.
This is payback time. The seven-hour flight back home is going to be my time to myself. I am going to do everything my way in this dream, this show for myself. If life doesn’t give me what I want in reality, I’m going to create it in my dream. At least in a dream I can go the whole hog, be as dramatic as I wish. Gothic even.
I will create a building like a castle, battlements and turrets rising, elegant and imposing in a wooded landscape. It will shine like a beacon through the dark and mist. Keep it pretty. I did not order this cold wind lashing against us, chilling us as we run from car to entrance, head down into the wind. In this story, this fantasy, I will fix her, that’s if I don’t get pneumonia at the same time. Can I get pneumonia in a fantasy?
Once inside we shake off our umbrellas and coats and I look around for some indication as to what I should be doing. Whatever, it is, it has to be fun.
A cold hallway, marble and dark. Unwelcoming. Why had I decided to bring Joan here? Ah, yes; payback. A man comes to us, something out of the Addams Family, Lurch, perhaps? He’s just over the top, too theatrical in his formal suit and shining black shoes. He takes our coats and umbrellas and says in a polite, deep voice, “Welcome, Ladies. Welcome to Hill Club. I am sure you will be pleased to visit. You are both the expected guests of Rhona Degeneris.” He gives this speech and bows formally.
I grin back at him and nudge Joan with my elbow. “Yes, exactly. Miss Degeneris said that she would make sure we were expected.”
I lead her, hand in hand, like two little girls, to explore the club. Inside, the atmosphere is one of an airport or a railway station, rather than Gothic threat. People amble into rooms, leave rooms, mill around in corridors or halls, eating, drinking, and talking. Every costume imaginable dons bodies turning people into a variety of characters from Queen Elizabeth to John Knox. People join others and leave and join and leave.
“You, my dear Christina, are a pain in the neck. Why I let you bully me into coming here.” I squint at Joan. It’s plain she doesn’t want to be here and perhaps she’s right. I’m sure that she thinks that there are better ways of spending an evening than watching men doing tribal things.
As if she knows what I’m thinking, she says, “I’d rather manicure my nails or wash my hair.”
“Oh, what a spoiled little princess you are. I’m sure that women will be doing . . . oh, stuff . . . Look, it’s a new experience. It was nice of Rhona to get us in as guests. An honour. Something different. I mean . . . I’ve been once before so it’s not easy to get me in again as a guest and to get you in too . . “
“Some fucking honour! Besides, what’s so different?”
“Smile, sweetie.” I tweak her cheeks and she turns from me sharply.
“This is too, too much.”
“Come on . . . it’s something different. Try it. Give it a chance. You’re so fucking white all the time. WASP. Work, work, work. Let that hair down.” I have lusted to bring her here. I know that she would never, but never, set foot inside a place like this.
“You’re being a racist bitch and, anyway, this stupid costume! I feel a real fool as a pink angel with the gossamer wings. Why an angel? Why do black women get all the fun? I mean, just look at you. Bo Peep, for God’s sake.”
“You could have been whatever you wanted. Anything. I mean. . . you could have been an executioner if you like. Or Bo Peep like me. And besides, angels are sharp. You can wear anything.”
She shrugs, sighing as if it’s the end of the world. “Oh, well, I guess no one would know us with these masks and it’s your night out. Birthday Girl had a right to pick whatever you want. I mean . . . if anything is dumber than an angel in pink it has to be a black Bo Peep.”
“Be cool. She said that all we have to do is say, ‘Red Alert’ if we don’t like what’s going on. That’s all. Red Alert.”
“Like what? What could be going on to make us say that?”
This woman’s an idiot. I should not have got her into this. Boring. Boring. I think I’ll have to move onto another fantasy, another dream.
We stand at the top of stone stairs. The air heaves with a strange acid smell. Jasmine? Joss sticks? We step down into an area set out like a dungeon: stone flags on the floor, bare beamed ceilings, barred windows and arched cubicles. In the quiet, a few people sit in the corridor, talking and laughing. This is supposed to be exciting! Two great iron-trimmed doors close off an entrance at one end.
Joan opens one door. We are in a room the size of a movie theatre that must have been the main cellar. A fire at one end, logs crackling, takes some of the damp chill off the air.
A boxing rink, its ropes enclosing a man and a woman, is the attraction here. We move forward round tables and chairs to get a better look and we stand beside a stone pillar. The woman is naked but for a feather mask and gold cuffs on each ankle and on each wrist. The man stands above her, covered from head to toe in black leather. He wears a small waistcoat over this bodysuit; it’s studded with gold buttons and hung with long gold chains. The woman is tied to the four corners of the rink by gold ropes attached to her cuffs. His cock bulges through the leather, huge, thick, plain in every detail.
I tremble and move closer to Joan to reassure her. Why would anyone humiliate herself that way? It has to be the most degrading thing to lie naked with a fully dressed man standing above her. No woman with any self-respect would do that. Never. A childish spectacle. Kids playing at being grown-up, naughty, naughty.
The woman’s breasts rise and fall as she breathes deeply. The bright light turns her hair into a crown of fire. A small tongue slicks lips. Tears glisten in her eyes. The man places his boot on the woman’s chest; up and down, up and down, it vibrates with her breathing. The high shine of the boot glistens in the soft light. The sharp spur seems to rotate with each movement. I want to leave. I do not like this sort of thing. What sort of thing? No, I dream of this every day, every minute I can.
The boot is so hard, heavy looking and ro
ugh, such a contrast against the fine, fine white skin of the prostrate woman. The full dress of black leather shouts, vulgar, beside the elegant simplicity of the naked woman.
I feel the boot on her chest, the cold leather on her skin. I turn to say something to Joan. She has gone. Charming. Nice to take off like that and not say a word. Where is the bitch? In this vast hall, watching the performance of these two people, I feel acutely alone, out of it, strange, a stranger. I have no place here, a voyeur, a nothing. This is not my scene. What is my scene? Of course, it is.
The man flicks his whip against the woman’s thighs so gently, so gently it’s hardly more than a breath. Then he takes the whip and turns the handle so it’s a stick. He places it at the woman’s small pink mouth, slack and shining. She wets it and licks it and sucks it until it dribbles her juice. He spreads the woman’s legs wide apart with his boot and places the whip’s handle at the entrance of her sex; her pink open lips curl round the knob. Her blonde hair, wet, flattens against her skin.
He pushes the whip handle into her, gently at first and then, with ever-increasing force, it’s thrust deep. The woman whimpers. It could be a horse’s cock buried in the mare. The turgid swollen sex weeps and glistens.
He plays with the whip for a minute or two and, just as she’s screaming for more, he removes and snakes it across her mouth. She licks it clean, mewling and sighing.
He again whips her thighs, so gently at first and then harder, harder until they are red and covered by stripes.
The woman cries in evident pain one moment and at the next moment demands more.
Two people have moved close to me, one on each side. One is Napoleon and the other is an angel. I half turn and smile. Thank God. Now that I have found Joan, I can leave.
I whisper, “It’s barbaric. I don’t know how I could be watching this disgusting performance.” The angel says nothing.
Now the woman screams, “Yes, yes, yes,” and pulls on her wristbands. The ankles and wrists are red with the pressure of the cuffs, her thighs rosy and serrated.
Only five or six people seem particularly interested in this performance, while the rest talk, play cards or drink.
“I wish I was outside. Fresh air and sun.” At the same time my mind is saying, no, you want to be here watching this woman being tortured, tormented, to see her scream in pain, in agony. I feel so . . . so superior watching, as if I am the queen and the woman on the floor my servant. Yes, my servant. Now my thighs burn. The moisture of passion dribbles down my legs. My body is soaking; it’s drowning in its own juices. I want to leave, this has gone far enough. This is wrong. I am a businesswoman, I am professional, I am equal to men, I cannot tolerate this sort of thing.
“Come on . . . let’s get the hell out of here.” I try to move away but am held by my arms. “Joan? What’s happening? It is you?” Is it Joan behind that mask? I feel myself being lifted, lifted high by the two people and the lights dim and the chains click and the woman on the stage is standing up, leaning against the ropes, a patronising smile on her face.
The two remove my costume and tether me just as the other woman had been.
The naked woman says, “Now, my little fairy, it’s your turn. I saw your smile, I saw you lick your lips as I was getting it.”
I shiver. If only I knew who it is. If the angel isn’t Joan then this could be Joan. It could be anyone: the local doctor, the lawyer. God, she has a beautiful body. Why is she being so mean, so evil?
Yes, there’s no need to worry. They had assured me that anyone could shout Red Alert at any time. The game would stop at once. I mean . . . I wouldn’t have brought Joan to anything actually dangerous, not dangerous.
Cuffs tighten on my wrists and ankles. The ropes binding me to the corners of the rink tense, to poise me between the corners. Mentally I shout Red Alert.
The naked woman holds the whip and plays with it, weighing it in one hand first and then the other.
I should shout Red Alert now and get out of this den of obscenity. I should have known it would end up as something silly when the business with the costumes started. I am a fool. So . . . I made a mistake. I pray it isn’t a fatal one. I pull on the ropes and just end up hurting myself.
The woman nudges me with her boot and the man in black leather kneels between my legs and breathes onto my sex. All I can feel is the warm breath. What is he doing? What is he intending to do?
He stands above me, one leg on each side of my body and holds his cock. It sticks out of his costume, thick and pulsing, blue veined and gnarled like an oak. It’s the cock of a horse; it has to be up to his waist. He squats and holds it and brings it across my lips. I turn my face away.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it? Well, it’s time to teach the bitch a lesson.” He takes the whip from the woman and sweeps it across my breasts. Then he lifts it and brings it down onto the floor hard, with such a bang I would have jumped off the floor if I could. The room reverberates with the crack of the whip. Tears gather in my eyes and roll down my cheeks. Thank God for the mask and for the privacy of my tears.
The woman slinks between my legs like a cat. She licks up the insides of my thighs and sniffs every inch of my skin. Up and up, she nuzzles. In a heavy dramatic melodramatic voice she says, “I do believe, Master, that we have to show her what true obedience is. We have to . . . train her.”
The man nods. He holds the whip to my face. “Smell it, bitch. Smell the sweetness of her juice. Smell her perfume on the leather.”
I can’t help but smell it. My head is full of that fleshy, rich juice smell of woman. I want that whip between my legs, between my breasts, on my bare backside. I want the handle of that whip up my anus; I ache for it to be thrust deep into my cunt.
The woman takes the whip and I turn from her, trying to blot the whole thing out of my mind. The whip cracks deafening, hard against the mat beside me. Then it’s feathered against my breasts, hardly touching, just stroking. Spun and feathered. Gently, it vibrates between my legs. Just a touch. It jerks against my clit. Just a jerk, nothing more and then it’s pulled across my mouth.
“Wet it, bitch.” I do as I am told.
The woman swings it across my belly then flicks it just hard enough to warm skin. It lashes against my breasts, just missing my nipples. I scream. I squirm. I ache to shout Red Alert, but my body has its own designs. The man kneels over me and strokes my lips with his cock and the woman bites me hard in the inside of my thigh. I imagine small, perfect teeth sinking into the fine flesh just where it joins the forest of thick black hair.
As a reflex, more or less out of myself, I lick the cock and take it into my mouth. The woman bites the other side. Hard. So hard, I scream and I hear myself scream. Yes. Yes. I relax my mouth so the whole of that enormous cock sinks in easily, down, down into my throat. The stink of rubber and cloying perfume possessed by some condoms.
He moves above me. Something clamps onto each nipple in turn. A ratchet-like noise as each clamp is tightened. I can die with the pain. Die with the pain. The man withdraws his cock from my mouth and angles above me, placing it just at my clit. He moves it back and forward. The woman tightens the clamps on my breasts slightly.
“Oh, doesn’t she have the most delightful nipples? See how they bloom and explode with the gold. Yes, she does suit gold. Better than silver on her skin, I think.”
The man agrees. “We should find more places to ornament her.”
“Not today,” The woman says. “We should tempt her back. Keep them for some other time.”
Yes, right! I do not think that there will ever be another time. I just want to get the hell out of this time.
Pain, and at the same time his flesh at my flesh. My body shouts for more. More. No, it’s time to shout. It’s time to get the hell out of here. No. Yes.
Now his tongue is licking me so gently, so kindly. The woman tightens up my nipples even more. Indeed they could explode, take wings and fly right off my body. They are as hard as gold or ivory.
The woman is on my face, presenting herself. Tongue, which has its own life, lifts to find the woman’s clit, circles it, licks, strokes, tastes the fine taste of fish and honey and vanilla. Yes.
The man whips my thighs. I imagine them bleeding. Pain, and when not pain a burning, yes a burning and a heat, as I had never imagined before.
My tongue is locked into this woman. It’s part of the woman’s clit and together they are moving to something else – the pain has become distant and, at the same time, it’s right in front of me. I am pain and I am that tongue working the woman and the pain.
The man is stroking me and rooting in my bush. He has a finger in me then two fingers and then his cock. The body above me gyrates in rhythm to my tongue and juices drip down my face as the woman grinds into my face. The man’s cock fills me so full I have no body left, and at the same time, his finger on my clit and curling and teasing until I can’t stand it any more and I scream in agony. I come, pulling on my restraints, curving my body up to meet his. When I shout, I feel the woman above me gyrate and thrust in her own orgasm. I scream Red Alert. Red Alert. Yes. Yes.
The man takes his time finishing. The next thing I know they are standing looking down at me.
I can’t breathe. I am numb. The restraints are removed. No one says anything at first. The man dresses me in my fairy outfit. The woman combs my hair and kisses me gently on the cheek.
I feel ashamed. Coward to shout. I still burn with the heat of the whip. I rub my wrists where the cuffs had scuffed the skin.
Once I am dressed and about to leave the stage the man says, “You new?”
“I guess.”
“Coming back?”
“I guess.”
The pilot announces that we are an hour out of Heathrow.
My hand is welded onto Joan’s thigh and pinching her so hard that she digs her elbows into me.
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 29
