by Violet Blue
“I thought you wanted to go to a kissing party, Belinda,” he teased me, tipping the driver double our fare as he reached his hand down my black wrap dress and gave the man behind the wheel a peek at my nipple. I noticed him smile before Derek pulled me out of the cab.
“I do want to go, baby, but I don’t know if I can wear these all night.”
“Oh, you can, Belinda, and you will,” he said, pulling me close for a kiss that started with my lips slammed hard against his, and ended with him biting my lower lip hard enough to make me whimper. I hurried up the stairs after him as best I could in my towering four-inch black-and-silver heels, my sexiest shoes, ones that conveniently pushed my ass out and my tits forward. Derek paid our entrance fee and ushered me into a lush bar with red-painted walls and erotic art on the walls.
Couples were kissing on bar stools, against doorways, in seats. And not just couples; I saw triple kisses and groupings, foursomes, and one lucky man lay across the laps of three beautiful women, one of whom was leaning down to kiss him. With a hand cupping my ass, Derek led me to the bar. Usually I’d order an extra-dirty martini, but when he ordered me a vodka and cranberry, then turned me around and began to blindfold me, I immediately knew why. I love the elegance of a martini glass, its sleek curves and olive decoration, but trying to drink out of one without seeing what I was holding would surely lead to a martini-soaked dress. Plus Derek likes seeing me put anything in my mouth, mini-straws included.
“And for the lady,” the bartender said, making my face warm when I turned back in my seat, knowing the word emblazoned on the blindfold would tell him everything he needed to know about me: slut. It was true—for Derek, I was a slut in the very best sense of the word. I’d do anything he asked me to, even if I didn’t initially like it, even if it embarrassed me or made me nervous. I love and trust him, and he’s never steered me wrong.
“Thank you,” I said when Derek pinched my ass, then put my hand out for my drink, but Derek slapped it away.
“Not tonight, my slut.” I heard him rummaging around in my bag and seconds later found my wrists being fastened into leather handcuffs behind my back. He must have slipped them in my bag when I wasn’t looking. He returned to his stool and said, “Now you can open that pretty mouth,” and when I did, he slipped the straw in. It may not seem like such a big deal, sipping a drink from a straw, especially in a room full of people kissing, but when you’re wearing a slut blindfold, nipple clamps and handcuffs in public, it becomes a pretty big deal—big enough to make my pussy ache. I took a big sip and then let the straw go.
No sooner were my lips free than Derek was tilting my head toward his and kissing me again. This kiss wasn’t like the one we’d shared outdoors. It was soft and slow and tender, his tongue making love to mine, filling me with warmth. I angled closer, tilting my head, taking him in. His hands moved to my cheeks and his tongue took over, invading so I almost couldn’t breathe. The kiss finally ended, leaving me trembling. “You have fans, Belinda,” he whispered in my ear. “I can see several couples checking you out, admiring how hot you look. I think the friendly thing to do would be to offer to kiss them, don’t you?” Of course it wasn’t really a question—it never is with Derek. He was telling me that I was about to kiss strangers I couldn’t see, under his tutelage.
He gave my cheek a little pat, then a slightly harder one. I moaned, knowing this wasn’t the time or place for a full-on slapping session, the kind that leads to him tossing me onto the bed, shoving my ankles up to his hips, and fucking me as hard as he can. Maybe I’d be lucky and get that later. Now it was kissing time.
Derek moved behind me and helped me stand up, keeping an arm around my waist to balance me as I walked in the heels. I heard him say hello to a table of people, then thrust me forward. “This is Belinda. She’s mine, but I’m offering her to you to kiss and pet. She likes being used like that, and she’s very good with her mouth. Feel free to kiss her here, too,” he finished, exposing my clamped nipples, which by then were throbbing.
“Hi, Belinda,” cooed a woman’s voice. I pictured her with teased bleached-blonde hair and glossy red lips, a modern-day Marilyn Monroe. Her sweet perfume suffused my senses, and soon I was sitting down next to her while her lips met mine. Her lips were sticky with gloss, her tongue tentative at first. I heard murmurings around me but was too focused on the kiss to make out the conversations. The woman’s hands brushed the skirt of my dress open enough to expose the fact that I wasn’t wearing panties. She left it like that, and kept kissing me, her tongue tickling mine, her gloss smearing into my skin.
Since her hands were tangled in my long brown hair, I knew someone else must have reached for my nipples, thumbs massaging them, rotating each clamped nub. As the touch permeated my body, sending waves of pleasure starting from my nipples and radiating outward, I realized it didn’t matter who was touching me. Maybe it was even hotter not to know, not to think, to simply feel. “You can take them off if you want to,” I heard Derek say. No one else had ever shared that honor since we’d started dating, and he hadn’t told me he planned to allow that. Maybe it was spontaneous. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but the woman’s lips and the mystery hands felt so good, I didn’t even think about protesting. Besides, I knew what protesting Derek’s plans usually got me, and I wanted to savor the moment.
I tried to prepare myself for the rush of blood about to flood my tender flattened buds, but you can never truly be ready. That’s part of the thrill of kink for me—the unexpected, the way even the most familiar activity can catch you off guard, make you feel like a virgin all over again as the pain crashes down.
I felt heady as the woman kissed me deeply, her hands on my cheeks, her perfume invading my senses as my nipples got reacquainted with their freedom. They only had a few moments before someone took one breast in his or her hand and started sucking my nipple. Derek whispered my name in my right ear, a reminder, a warning, a promise. He can make my name sound like the most beautiful aria or the most dreaded epithet, and he knows me well enough to know that in the right circumstances, both of those turn me on.
Then he was kissing the back of my neck, his lips warm, his stubble brushing my skin. I almost laughed at the sensual overload, my dress still splayed open, leaving my pussy on display, while three sets of lips devoured me. Derek’s tongue brushed lightly against my neck, a tender contrast to the woman’s tongue pressing deep into my mouth and the mouth now sucking deeply on my nipple before biting it just enough to make me gasp.
“Is she being a good slut for you?” Derek asked, loud enough to surely draw the attention of anyone who hadn’t already been watching us. “You should see what she looks like with a cock in her mouth and one in her pussy. My girl is happy as long as she has something to fill those pretty lips.” No sooner had Derek made that pronouncement than my pussy clenched, making me wonder if I was dripping onto the seat beneath me. The other mouths on me quickly separated from me, leaving my nipple wet and needy, my mouth empty. I rearranged myself as best I could, trapped by the cuffs. I could talk, but what would I ask for? Derek surely knew what I wanted, and I was getting increasingly antsy for him to take me outside and give it to me.
Instead I felt his fingers, four of them, fucking my mouth, making me focus all my energy on stretching around him. He was showing me off, teasing the crowd, making sure they knew exactly how far my oral charms extended. We weren’t kissing, but I had a feeling that didn’t quite matter by then. We’d already broken a few rules, so perhaps they were ones the crowd had been waiting for to be broken. He kept his fingers in my mouth, but stilled them, so I was left to simply suck and salivate while I listened to the unmistakable sound of him kissing the woman, hearing the same murmurs she’d just made while kissing me. I wondered if he wanted to do more than kiss her, though I would’ve bet money she wanted to do more than kiss him. I could tell from the noises she was making, the whimpers coming from somewhere deep inside.
“Kiss her again,” Derek said, a
nd soon her lips were pressing hard against me. I pictured his hand on her neck, pushing her against me, mashing our mouths together. “It’s too bad Belinda has to leave soon so I can make sure she gets fucked good and hard. Maybe I’ll have to strap a vibrator inside her next time we attend this party so she can be a little more patient. Give her a hickey as a souvenir,” he ordered gruffly, and in seconds the woman’s mouth was fastened to my neck, biting hard. I shuddered, surprised he’d let anyone else do that to me.
“Thank you all,” Derek said, before he ushered me to my feet and led me away from the table. I’d thought maybe he’d let me see who I’d been kissing, who’d been touching and sucking my nipples, who’d been watching me. Instead he led me to the doorway and only once I felt the promise of the cool air did he undo the cuffs and take off the blindfold. “Kiss me,” he commanded, his lips warm, sweet and brutal—just the way I like them.
One newly freed hand found its way to his cock, hard and warm beneath his pants. “I’m not done with you,” he told me, as he led me out the door. Now I could see, and hold his hand, but a part of me was still floating, caught up in the high of being on display, being kissed and sucked and used, but only being able to return a fraction of those touches. We quickly reached an alley he seemed to know well, leading me far enough from the street that we couldn’t be seen unless someone walked directly past.
“Stand right there,” Derek ordered, and lest I expect to keep my mobility, he raised my arms above my head and refastened the cuffs. “Put your arms around my neck.” We just fit, him pressed tight against me as he lifted my dress and shoved his fingers inside me. I buried my face in his neck as he fucked me, more ready than I’d realized. In no time I was trembling against him, grateful for the extra support of the wall behind me and his body pressed right up against mine. He kissed me roughly, stealing my breath for a few moments as I came against his fingers, which he quickly withdrew. He undid my arms from his neck and clamped his hand over my mouth as I kept on trembling. I was still so wet and open, and when he let me taste myself on his fingers, I hoped he’d give me his cock next.
But when I’m tied up, when I’m cuffed, when I can’t move, Derek likes to make sure I’m fully aware of exactly whose control I’m under. I knew he’d probably love to fuck me right there, pound me into the wall, let my bare ass brush against its coldness, but instead he rearranged me so my bare breasts were hanging out, my dress barely more than a wispy decoration.
With my arms clamped in front of me and my tits hanging between them, he pushed me to my knees, my legs tucked under me, wet slit pressed against my calves. I watched him take out his cock. I immediately stuck out my tongue, hungry to taste him, but even that he wanted to deny me. “I know you wish everyone from the party were here to watch you suck my cock, but they’re not. Nobody’s here to see what I’m about to do to you.” He stroked his cock slowly, teasing me by bringing it so close to my outstretched tongue, letting its dripping head brush once against me before stepping just out of reach. I put my tongue back in my mouth. He hovered over me, aiming his dick right at my tits. It didn’t take long before he was groaning, covering my breasts, my cuffs, my fingers and my dress with his come.
He scooped some up and fed it to me, then pulled me up by my joined wrists before unbuckling them. I knew full well he knew I always carry wipes in my purse, but he didn’t offer to let me get one out. Instead he took my face gently in one hand and kissed me, while twisting one nipple with the other. He kept kissing me even as he undid the cuffs, tossing them on the ground before returning to greet my lips with his. His sweet, soft kiss combined with his harsh grip, even with his cream coating me, had me aching to touch myself again. With Derek, though, I don’t need to be tied up to know when I’m allowed to move. If he wanted me to touch myself, he’d tell me to. Instead I kissed him back until he was done, then covered myself as best I could. He let me put on a sweater and led me to a taxi.
Inside, he smiled at me, recounting our entire evening in a voice loud enough for the driver to overhear. “Maybe we should host our own kissing party,” he said as we neared our door.
“Any time,” I told him, as I headed up the stairs, his hand on my ass, promising me our night wasn’t over yet.
A NOT-SO-SUBTLE SPICE
Alison Tyler
Bent over, bottom exposed in the split of the leggings, plump arsecheeks.
There was a time when I read Victorian pornography that I kept hidden beneath my mattress so my husband wouldn’t know. I’d bought the book at a secondhand store—clearly shelved by accident with the mysteries. The title had piqued my interest, and when I pulled the tome from the shelf, the fat spine split open, and I found myself mesmerized by the text on the yellowing pages.
Words leaped out at me: birching, pantaloons, figging, flogging, martinet. I knew what some meant, didn’t understand others. I’d only read a few paragraphs, growing wetter and wetter with each sentence, before deciding I needed to own the book.
I paid for my purchase and immediately left the store on shaky legs. I couldn’t even wait to get home. I hurried to my car parked in the dusty little parking lot behind the bookstore, and I fell inside the driver’s seat, trembling all over. I’d never read anything like this before. With no control of myself, I slid my fingers under my dress and into my panties. I devoured the stories about taboo topics—the printing odd and almost indecipherable in places, the descriptions of the undergarments like something from a twisted lingerie catalog.
My car was parked beneath a magnolia tree. Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the purple-tinged white petals, heating their scent. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t stop myself. I leaned into the steering wheel, groaning as the climax took me.
That was my first.
I’d seen porn before, of course. Everyone had spied the stack of Playboys kept in the garage or in a toolshed—even mild-mannered housewives such as myself. But the models in those spreads were blonde and shiny and clean. Their bios were penned in darling handwriting as they confessed a love of strawberry ice cream and sunset walks on a white-sand beach. These stories were filled with secret longings, dark desires.
Birch rods, quim, flog, spirit, naughty, cocks.
I was supposed to buy Hamburger Helper at the grocery store, to have my husband’s ice-cold Bud on the Formica table when he came home from work. But I couldn’t make myself.
Wide-open cunt, lovely bottom hole.
I skipped the store.
At home, I touched myself to story after story. I had never done this before. I knew men masturbated—it was something they did for release—but I hadn’t felt the urge. Now I was in a frenzy. The pieces had been originally printed as serials—and the layout of the collection was true to the publication. So in order to read an entire story from start to finish, one had to flip forward, trying to find the next installment, trying to devour the whole situation. A naughty maid, soundly punished for a minor indiscretion—figged—there was that word again—to keep her from clenching.
Clenching how? Clenching what?
The time got away from me. I made Sloppy Joes at the last possible minute, an old standby and Henry didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t smell my scent on my fingers. I’d scrubbed myself fiercely after climaxing for the fourth time—and my skin was tinted pale green under my nails from Palmolive. Henry bent and lightly pressed his lips to my cheek before taking a second beer to the living room to watch TV. And that was that for us. That was that for the night, except for the occasional call for a fresh Bud.
I washed the dishes. Then I sat at the table and waited for him to go to sleep, needing to read more of the book. Taking the book into the closet with me, sitting by Henry’s work boots and trying to figure out every phrase in the story. Henry rolled over heavily in the bed, and I started, then snuck the book to the living room, reading curled up on one corner of the settee until I’d finished the whole thing, breathless and confused.
This was a fairy-tale collection.
That’s how the stories read to me. Taboo fantasies that could never come true.
Until…
I went to the library to research figging. I was desperate, my panties wet as I learned more about the term. I unraveled the mystery slowly. The way the piece of ginger was peeled and often kept in a glass of water until the appropriate moment of use. Appropriate. What a word to go with the act of sliding a fresh piece of ginger into a woman’s asshole. The way a naughty miscreant would be bent over and forced to hold her asscheeks apart for the insertion.
Oh, sweet mother of mercy, insertion.
Finding a grocery that sold ginger root and not powdered ginger in sanitary bottles was difficult. I had to drive thirty minutes to a specialty store and purchase the knobby, gnarled bulb. By then, I was keeping my battered copy of the Victorian erotica in my handbag, stealing moments in alleys, on shady streets, reading and rereading the words until I had entire passages memorized.
I stashed the root in the vegetable crisper, certain that Henry would never discover my secret. He was a simple man with simple tastes, both easy to anticipate and to please. He was fine with my chipped beef on toast, happy with a tuna casserole, grateful every time I mixed Lipton soup mix into sour cream to create his favorite dip. If he sensed a change in my behavior, he didn’t let on. We made a good team—we always had, and if—as people say—variety is the spice of life, then we were both satisfied with life on the bland side. A little salt. Not too much pepper. Nothing unexpected, foreign or gourmet.
We had a routine. He went to work, and he put in a full eight hours. I kept the house, and that meant something. There was dusting, vacuuming, gardening, making his meals, ironing his shirts. My days were filled—at least, they always had been— until I found the book.
I sat in the kitchen late at night, fondling the root while he slept, wondering if I’d have the nerve, if I might take the parer to the tanned digit-like protuberance and shave away the thick skin. I imagined what the ginger would taste like if I sucked the tip into my mouth. I fantasized how the root would feel if I got up the nerve to put the thing where I wanted it most.
