by Various
My body is a swirl of pain and pleasure as he fucks my ass, two cocks rubbing, sinister and close, on the thin membrane of my flesh that separates them. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ has joined my sounds. I’m not sure what I’m saying but I can hear my own voice. I sound breathless and raw.
‘She likes it.’
‘She’s a slut. A gorgeous slut.’
A binder clip is removed and the blood rushing back to my flesh is damn near orgasmic.
‘Greedy little slut. One cock isn’t enough.’ There is a grunt. I am gone from them. I cannot completely tell who is saying what. Front or back, up or down. My cunt is all I can feel and the fun house effect is maddening, but freeing at the same time.
‘She needs two. Doctors are usually hard cases.’
There goes another clip and I come. Bright blips of pleasure curl through me and I feel my pussy milking at the cock that fills it. The fullness in my ass heightens it all. One of them groans and I echo the sound.
There is a knock on the door but I’m still crying. My voice is a mess. Tears are streaking my face. There goes a binder clip. Blood flows to flesh. I am babbling. ‘Not now, I’m busy. I’ll be done soon. Soon. Come back. I’m coming soon …’
Tad laughs again. A dark malicious laugh. His cruelty tightens me up on the inside and I am back to the cusp of orgasm again. What if someone were to open the door? What if they found out? What if Doug found out? The anxiety only makes the feelings that much better.
Tad’s pinching my nipples. Hard. Over and over again as Branden releases the skin of my back from its bonds. The nerve endings compete and I twist. Impaled. Two cocks move inside me. Sometimes in tandem, sometimes opposing. I am pushed and pulled and tugged and stretched and full. So very fucking full. I watch my pink fingernails bite into the brown fabric behind Tad’s head. I hold on and pray. Pray I will come again. Pray it won’t end. Pray that this is not the only time. And I wonder about myself and Doug and wonder again why there is no guilt.
My G-spot is bumped and prodded from both angles and I clench up, coming without warning, as my phone blips and bleeps impatiently.
‘You’re in demand, Doc,’ Tad says.
‘Can’t you see why?’ Branden jokes.
Both men laugh. I am an object. A cunt. A slut. A whore. I come again. How many is this? I have lost track. At home I am a doctor, a lover, a friend. A mate. I have meaning. Right now I have no meaning. I am the pleasure and the pain and I am free. ‘Dirty little slut,’ I say.
They still for a moment. ‘Dirty little slut,’ Tad says almost tenderly and locks eyes with me as he fucks me. When Branden runs his hands down my back, now devoid of clips, it is a softer touch.
‘I’m done, man,’ he then says. ‘You’ve such a sweet ass.’ Then he’s clutching at me, tugging me, coming with a stifled groan that sends another thrill through me.
Tad bares a breast and nips me with his teeth. Hard. Little sharp bites. I am so very close but don’t think I can manage. Until he grips me and slams up into me. Angling me back a bit so he is hitting new and virginal nerves. Branden is still buried in my ass and I think of their cocks rubbing together. How they can feel each other. How they are both in me at once. Bright white sparks ignite in my vision and I come again.
Tad is right there with me. I slump onto him as he empties into me. ‘Such a dirty little cocksucker,’ he says. He kisses me and wipes my tears.
‘You look pretty happy for a Tuesday. To look at you, you’d think it was Wednesday,’ Doug says, as I kiss him hello.
He has a steak on the grill and his handcuffs and Glock are on the table. He’s still in uniform but for his Kevlar vest and white shirt. He smells nice and looks better. I kiss him harder. I love how he looks in his uniform. He is the law. In charge. Striking. Strong.
I am used and bruised and boneless. Such spectacular pain fills my body. And the thumping aftershocks of pleasure race through me. Next Wednesday I may pick a new rep. I may not. I have a week to decide. I have considered pencilling my new boys in on Tuesdays. Earlier in the week. But I want to keep my options open.
‘You in there?’
‘Sorry. Wool-gathering. What?’
‘I said, you look pretty happy for a Tuesday,’ he laughs and smooths my hair back off my forehead.
‘I’m thinking Tuesdays can be good too,’ I say and kiss him again.
Short stories by Sommer Marsden are included in the Black Lace collections Lust at First Bite and Seduction.
The Woodsman
Charlotte Stein
HE LIVES IN a caravan in the woods somewhere, I know he does. No matter what time of year I come up to my little cottage in the middle of nowhere, he’s around. So it follows that he must live here, doing God knows what. He’s probably a pervert or a mental patient; I’ve always known that I’ll wake up one night to find he’s killed a squirrel and left it in my kitchen.
Or worse than that. I think about Deliverance and Straw Dogs often.
And yet I’m not scared at all when I wake up one morning and he’s standing in the doorway of my shadow dusky bedroom. I have no idea why I’m not – I should at the very least be startled – but instead I just turn off my stomach so that I can see him better, and rub my sleep-furred eyes.
He looks immense in the doorway, shoulders broad and almost touching the frame on either side, as tall as a tomb. He looks like a caveman, most of his face obscured by hair, thick and shaggy and black. The hands that sprout out from the unbuttoned cuffs of his checked lumberjack’s shirt are like bear paws.
But I’m not afraid. It seems I was right not to be, because then he just turns and walks away again, and when I roam around looking for evidence of him, there is none.
I’ve never told anyone about him – about the woodsman, I mean. Francie says things like: ‘Did you have a nice holiday in your hermit’s hole?’ And I reply that I did, that it was great, I got loads done and I saw seven squirrels, but I never tell her that some hairy maniac lives in a caravan nearby.
I’ll never tell her about what happened, either, even though it’s an actual event worthy of telling. He just stood there in the doorway of my bedroom, looking at me with his great still eyes. They looked very pale amidst all that black hair. Like pools of water set into his granite face.
I know all of this because he does the same thing the next time I’m up there, and I get more of a chance to study him. This time I sit up in bed, and stare right back into his pale water eyes. This time I’m not just unafraid, I’m the opposite. Come in then, I think. Come right in and do or say whatever you want to do or say.
But he doesn’t, and I should be glad because they’re mad and dangerous thoughts to have. Though, then again, it’s not like what he’s doing isn’t mad and dangerous. What if I did actually believe that he was a maniac, and had a can of Mace under my pillow? Or a crossbow?
That would almost certainly get a reaction out of his stone-monolith-self – pointing a crossbow at his chest. Then he’d have something to say, like: ‘You’ve got a gas leak.’
Because that’s obviously what it will be. Something boring and mundane and that he couldn’t quite voice because he’s mentally impaired in some way, or mute. It probably isn’t the former because that gleam of sharpness in his eyes is obvious, but it could be the latter.
Or maybe he thinks I’m a stupid townie, and deserve to die in a massive gas explosion.
Or maybe I’m just an idiot, and he’s waiting for me to ask something of him, like: ‘Can I help you at all?’ He’s probably just recently knocked himself unconscious and is still dazed with concussion, and needs me to help him to a hospital.
Which seems very, very reasonable to a person who doesn’t really believe in the things that happen in a movie called The Woodsman Has Perverted Sex With Some Townie. Porn music would certainly start up in the movie version of him standing in my bedroom doorway, but this is my real, boring life. It’s not going to happen now, I can promise you. I don’t even want something like that to happ
en, because that’s insane.
So I’m totally not wanking at 7.28 the next morning, two minutes before he usually turns up. That’s what he is now: usually. He’s become as regular as a stripper’s gyrations when I put my coin into the slot; I’ve hit play on the DVD and here he is. Fantasy number two-eight-zero: vaguely threatening rugged hunk wanting sex with you sort of against your will.
Only it isn’t against my will at all, and that’s even better. I’ve never been the sort for rough-housing in the bedroom, but I’ve always been the sort, apparently, for a mysterious woodsman hungry with lust for my soft pale curves. He probably saw me in my underwear through the window one day, and couldn’t take his eyes off all my womanly flesh the likes of which his hungry hermit eyes hadn’t seen in years and, oh, Christ, my clit is diamond-hard and I think I could come just because he’s suddenly there.
And he is. There, I mean. Watching me with my hand beneath the waistband of my shorts, the sheets covering some things but certainly not all. It isn’t him watching me rub one out that embarrasses me, though – it’s the fact that I moan, I think. I moan loudly and uninhibitedly and twist my face into the pillow.
I’m embarrassed, but I don’t stop rubbing my aching clit. I don’t stop doing anything until the bed dips and I feel his hands on my thighs, and I only stop then because I want to touch him instead. He doesn’t let me, though. He takes my wrists in one hand and puts them above my head, and then grabs the waistband of my shorts with the other.
I’ve never seen anyone remove an item of clothing so effectively. They whoosh off my body and then it’s just me, a stranger, and my naked pussy. I squirm on the bed thinking that he’s going to fuck me now, only he doesn’t. Well, I suppose he does, sort of, but it’s not in the way I expect. He gives me this one last long glittering hungry look, and then he spreads my legs with the clinical precision of someone who is not a caveman hermit, and puts his face in the space in between.
The first thing I think is: I’ve never been eaten out by a man with a beard. The second thought is somewhat less coherent. It’s sort of somewhere between an ‘oh’ and a ‘yes’, but never quite fulfilling the jobs of either.
I don’t even know what he smells like or what he looks like naked or, for God’s sake, what his name is, and he’s kissed my cunt before he’s kissed my mouth. His name’s something like Butch, I think, and then I giggle; then the giggle dissolves into another sound that is neither something nor another thing when his apparently long tongue effortlessly parts the lips he has kissed.
It doesn’t take long. He can’t have lived in the woods forever; at some point he must have learnt how to give a girl head, because he’s good at it. Quick little laps with just the tip of his tongue and then slow circles and then back again until I’m sure I can feel my heart pounding in my clit. Buzz-saws of sensation thrill from the core of my cunt to the tips of my toes, and they get louder every time I see his great work-roughened hands on my smooth townie thighs.
God, he makes me feel smooth, I think, crazily, and then I come and come in great jerking heaving spasms, groaning and hissing like a porn star, wishing that I knew his name so I could give him the personal praise he deserves.
Woodsman, I think. Thank God for you, Woodsman.
He never says anything, so I’m sure he must be mute. The first few times I don’t say anything to him, either, so he can be forgiven and I can assume. But the fourth time, as he’s getting up to leave, I say to him: ‘Don’t you want anything in return?’
It’s a stupid thing to say, but then it’s a stupid thing we’re doing. He comes in every morning, licks my pussy like some sort of pussy expert, and then gets up and leaves. It’s sort of like wham, bam, thank you ma’am, only without the wham bam. And the thank you. What has he got to thank me for? I never do anything except lie there and get tongue-fucked into oblivion.
Of course, it varies. Sometimes he plays with my tits while mouthing and licking my pussy. He’ll pluck and rub my ever erect nipples until I’m half mental, or else he’ll cup my breasts with both hands, test them out, check them for consistency.
Occasionally he’ll slide two thick fingers into me and twist until I go incoherent, or run them up my slit then follow the path they’ve made with his tongue. Sometimes I’ll feel just the edge of his teeth, and then he’ll suck my clit into his mouth as though to soothe the pain he didn’t actually create.
There’s never any pain. He’s never rough with me. As I said, he never even wants anything in return, like sudden rough butt sex. Even when I ask, stupidly, he doesn’t reply. He just looks back from the doorway and half smiles. I think. It’s hard to tell, beneath all that hair.
I’m dying for his cock. Who would have thought it? All any man needed to do to make me hungry for cock was give me five or six fuck-tastic orgasms with his mouth. Though it’s not really that much of a surprise – usually it’s the other way around. Too much cock, not enough head. Or there is, just not any head aimed in my direction.
But, God, I want his cock. I’ve never even seen the fucking thing! He probably doesn’t even have one.
Only he does, because I’ve seen it making a tent out of his thick muddy green trousers. So clearly this whole bizarre scenario excites him, and he’s capable of being excited, it’s just that he’s fucked up inside, possibly, and can’t have me polluting his sacred phallus with my whore’s pussy. Or something.
But I bet his sacred phallus is amazing. Smooth and long and thick, like his fingers, with a gleaming slippery head that feels the way they always do, like running your tongue over the almost not-there soft skin of the insides of your mouth. That soft hardness all at the same time yielding to and resisting the pressure of my mouth – oh God, oh God. I want to give him what he gives me. Not even Patrick Connelly gave me what he gives me, and he had a degree in biology.
But I don’t reach for him, or really say anything to him, or do anything at all but lie there and think of England. An England in which people constantly have hot, hot sex.
It’s truly like it isn’t allowed. This is some sort of mad game in which the rules are: he can touch you and make you come, but you’re not allowed to do anything to him. They’re not even unspoken rules, exactly, because I feel as though he’s said them. It’s that clear.
So when I put my hand into his curly black hair as he feasts on me for the eight thousandth time and he doesn’t push it away, it feels like a minor triumph. I’ve won the battleground of your hair, I think, and am more excited by the feel of it – not at all greasy, as I sort of expect, but soft and thick and fine – than I am by what he’s doing between my legs.
However, I think I am then sent some sort of message. It’s not that he stops me, or even seems irritated by my touching of him, but he does stop the oral assault. He kneels up, just keeping two fingers inside me, and I think I moan or twitter or urge my hips up at him because he then smiles this odd smile. It’s not cruel, exactly, but it is hard. Hard, and … triumphant, I want to say. His eyes gleam in a way that makes me not want to give him the satisfaction, but I do, because I can’t help myself.
He fucks me hard with those fingers, twisting and rolling them in my slick greedy cunt, and I’m shocked by the intensity of the feeling it provokes. I spread my legs wider, and urge him to go faster with my jerking hips, and only half hate myself, because it’s not like he’s lording it over me exactly. I have no idea what he actually is doing, but, good Christ, it’s hot.
By the end I’m panting and my eyes are closed and I’m thinking, I’ve never come like this before but I’m absolutely going to. Still, it surprises me when my pussy contracts around his fingers and strange brutal pleasure gathers itself in me and then crashes back out again. So much so that I blurt out: ‘Oh, God, I’m aching for your cock!’
I can almost feel him grabbing me, and fucking me, and the image is so good that once isn’t enough, and I put my hand between my legs. I’m so wet that my fingers glide and my thighs are slick, and I’m so turned on that I
don’t care what he thinks. Nor do I care when he puts his fingers into my mouth and I can taste myself on them; I lick and suck and pull on them until all of me is gone and I can only taste him. I show him how well I could suck his cock, and then just the thought of it sends me off again. My clit pulses against my fingers and my pussy grasps hungrily at nothing as I shiver and moan around the not-a-cock in my mouth.
And then I collapse in a soggy, wicked heap.
When he gets up to leave, this time he’s trembling.
It’s all disturbing my life. I mean, that’s not a shock, or anything, but still. The disturbance is there and I should definitely do something about it. Like going to my hermit’s hole every single weekend instead of just once a month, so that I can unravel the mystery of my Woodsman.
I don’t even know his name. His name is so unknown to me that I’ve started capitalising Woodsman. Of course it’s probably not an appropriate name – he’s probably more of a Criminal, or a Caravan Man, or a Gypsy – but it sticks anyway, and he’s just going to have to live with it.
I wonder if he knows my name. I wonder so many things about him that I go insane and write him notes that I can’t give him, and walk out in the middle of the night to see if I can see his caravan, and write little plot outlines for his plotless life. He has no life; he is no one. He is a cipher, a nothing, a symbol.
Just a symbol of my own unfulfilled lusts.
Of course then I start to really worry that I’m going crazy. I consider telling Francie about him so that she can tell me how likely it is that he’s real. I think up stupid plans to help prove my own sanity, like taking a secret picture of him while he sleeps.
Only he never sleeps, so I suppose that idea is right out. Or at least he never sleeps around me.
Though I’m sure he must sleep somewhere.
Which is probably how I end up investigating this whole sleeping business. All these questions in my head make me. One Friday night, after my drive down here, they make me go down to where his caravan might be and search out his dark secrets.
