by Alison Tyler
“Jesus!” I cry out.
He chooses that moment to slip the blindfold off me. Immediately my eyes fill with the sight of his handsome Latino face, so full of warmth, of secrets, of hesitant compassion. I see now that the bathroom is tiny, garishly lit by one faintly flickering fluorescent tube. The walls are covered with graffiti. The shower curtain is torn and hanging uselessly on the shower rod from a half-dozen rusty rings.
He reaches behind me to untie my hands. It feels funny to be free. To suddenly have full use of my arms, my hands.
The towels the motel provides are barely large enough to dry a person’s face. But that’s okay, it’s too damn freezing to risk taking an actual shower.
“Here,” he says, handing me a soaking washrag. “Use this.”
Thank god it’s hot. I clean myself off with it.
“You’re going to walk me to the train, right?”
“I’ll ride all the way home with you,” he says.
I’m relieved to hear it. We’re in the middle of a concrete jungle of nowhere and frankly I’m not all that sure about how to get home from here. But more than that, I’m happy to have some additional stolen moments with him, even though we’ll be out in broad daylight, on a public subway train. I’ll have to be careful about being seen. “But that’s so far out of your way,” I protest, if only to be polite.
“That’s okay,” he insists. “I don’t have to be anywhere. There’s nobody waiting to take me to some cracker dinner party.”
There’s a tone in his voice that’s accusing. I take it for the little slap of reality that it’s meant to be. I’m going to a fancy dinner party. He lives in a rundown rooming house.
“Thank you, Enrique,” I say, hoping that at least the expression on my face can tell him I love him, that he isn’t just an afternoon fuck, but that I still need time to figure it all out. After all, I’d be giving up everything, not just dinner parties….
“It’s okay, Mami,” he says. “You don’t need to thank me. The pleasure is always mine.”
But that is so far from the truth. The pleasure is mine, too. One of these days, I’ll tell him that—as soon as I know it for sure.
Be a Good Sport
Elaine Miller
“You fucked up,” I hissed to her as I pulled off my cleats and stuck them in my bag.
“Whatever,” Erin said dismissively, bending to pull on her engineer boots. “We won. Let it go, Darcy. Everyone else has.”
“Are you kidding? I was wide open! You saw me on the wing; I was totally clear!” Frustration bubbled up, robbing me of self-possession. “You could have made a perfect pass to me, but you want the whole pitch to yourself, don’t you? You want to make the goal and be the hero. I’m on your team, but you don’t want to share the game with me.”
“Whoa, girl. Chill,” said Erin. She passed her fingers through her flattop and rubbed the short hairs on the back of her head meditatively. “There’s enough play to go around. The girls look at you too, you know. They should; you kinda look like me.”
As I sat, mouth open in outrage, she tossed the last of her gear in her bag, picked it up, and walked off with an easy, long-legged stride. Even the fit of her biker’s leather jacket across her strong shoulders looked insolent.
God, she pissed me off.
At home after dinner that day, I refused to think about Erin. I was busy getting ready for tonight’s playdate with Miss Sheila Crof—the femme top so hot that me and every other butch bottom in town would walk a mile barefoot through snow to stand in her garbage. I checked on the final spit-shine of my boots. Sheila had promised me “something special” tonight. I wasn’t going to fuck that up for anything.
Despite oodles of emailed negotiations over the last month, I’d only had one date with her—a briskly impersonal and devastatingly effective flogging at a public play party. Sheila’s feline smile and the swish of her long red hair were the things I remembered most, other than the high that lasted—I swear—a week.
Sheila’s smile, though cocky, was not infuriating the way Erin’s was. Damn Erin! What the hell was the matter with her!
So that’s how I find myself here, ringing Sheila’s doorbell. She takes so long to answer the door that I need to dry my sweaty palms on my jeans twice, and then I hear a tick-tick of high heels on tiles from inside, and the door swings open wide.
One look at her, and I break into a fresh queasy sweat. She’s got on shiny black rubber underwear, and she’s wearing this thing on the top that must be more about engineering than tailoring, because her boobs are perched impossibly high and rounded. There are these long stockings, and her shoes are all black, sleek and spikey. I should know. I’m looking mostly at her feet now because I’m way too scared to look at her face and see the smile I know is there.
“Come in,” she says, sounding amused, and oh god I’m frozen on her doorstep, I’m never going to be able to move unless it’s to run in my heavy black boots all the way back to the bus stop. Then she turns away from the door, and her tiny rubber hot pants aren’t covering her goddamn ass even a little and somehow I’m following her, would follow her anywhere.
“Close and lock the door behind you,” she throws over her shoulder as she walks down the hall, tick tick tick. I have to backtrack a few steps, having, in my gobsmacked state, left the door wide open. Then I hurry after her.
She’s standing in the hall by a closed door, holding cuffs and a collar. My knees start to bend of their own accord as soon as I see her standing there like my friggin’ slickest wet dream, but she hasn’t ordered me to kneel, so I simply stop and drink in the sight of her. “I promised you something interesting, Darcy. I’d like to do some…ah…complex bondage scenes.” Sheila pauses. “With another bottom. She’s here already. There’ll be pain as well as bondage. You up for it?”
Now I could have sworn she promised something “special,” not “interesting,” and there’s a world of difference between the two terms. But a gentlebutch doesn’t quibble with a lady. What the heck. “Yes, ma’am.” says I, all lamb-to-the-slaughter willingness.
“Excellent. Your safeword is pronounced safeword. Suits?”
I assent, a bit dry-mouthed. Sheila directs me to remove my clothes, except my boxers—how did she know I’d be wearing boxers? I hasten to strip, and then stand as she buckles the wrist cuffs and collar on. She snaps the cuffs together in front of me while I’m still dizzy with the feel of cool leather encircling my throat, then opens the door and pushes me on ahead, her hand on my shoulder.
The room is large, warm, softly lit, and contains what must be every piece of dungeon furniture ever invented. Three steps in, and I balk like a horse confronted by a rattlesnake. Unbefuckinglievable.
Erin, sporting nothing but a ball gag, a jockstrap, and cuffs and collar similar to mine, is standing stretched up against the far wall, her arms bound above her head and attached to the wall. She’s been watching the door, and her eyes widen as she recognizes me.
Sheila gives me the tiniest shove and to my horror I keep walking, my mind racing so fast that my body is numb. We walk straight toward Erin, and just as I’m about to turn and run out the door, Sheila lifts my bound arms high with surprising strength, and slips the cuff connector into a carabiner clip attached to the wall. She eyes the two of us hanging side by side, with a quirk at the corner of her mouth, and turns and walks away.
Our eyes, on automatic, follow her perky, mocking asscheeks for a second, then I turn to Erin, outraged. “Is this your idea of a sick joke?” I hiss, as quietly as possible.
Erin’s eyes grow even larger over her gag, and she shakes her head no.
“C’mon, you asshole, you found out who I was seeing tonight, and decided to horn in on it!” I’m yelling sotto voce, which I hadn’t realized was possible.
Erin’s eyebrows knit in annoyance, and she grunts at me emphatically through the gag, just as Sheila reappears tugging an honest-to-god locker-room bench, about six feet in length, into the center of the roo
m. It’s been modified slightly, and the modifications make merry clanking noises as the bench is moved. You could hitch an entire soccer team to the hardware on this bench. “Getting along well now, boys?” she says cheerily. “I don’t hear any safewords, do I?”
We direct identical outraged glares at her. As mute as Erin for the moment, I press my lips together and shake my head. No way am I going to safeword in front of Erin, or because of her. I’ll go through with this even if it kills me.
She unclips us both from the wall carabiners and turns to pick up some lengths of soft-looking rope. “Drop your underwear,” she says in a voice like warm honey. Neither Erin nor I hesitate to obey, but we utterly refuse to look at each other.
Sheila obviously knows what’s she’s doing, because she doesn’t hesitate as she pulls me over and directs me to sit on the end of the low bench. “No, Darcy, not like that. Sit astride, knees bent and feet tucked under, with your ass at the end. Face the empty length of it,” she directs. “Yeah, back even further—like you’re riding a horse and are about to fall off its butt.”
I don’t know why, but she finds this funny and giggles about cowboys to herself as she binds my knees to bolts placed just under the bench top, and then, pulling my arms straight down at my sides, clips my wrist cuffs to the bench bolts nearest my hips.
Erin, doing a creditable Old Stone Face, is led over and placed standing astraddle the bench, facing me. “Erin, boy, move forward a little,” directs Sheila. “Stand over Darcy’s knees. Mmm. Shuffle forward about five inches. Okay, right there.”
The muscles in Erin’s jaw flex around her ball gag as she pretends mightily that I’m not in the room, and the muscles in her long thighs flex as she strives to achieve a stance so wide she isn’t touching me in any way. Sheila solves this recalcitrance with a few loops of rope and a couple of brisk tugs, harnessing Erin’s calves firmly to each of my legs just above the knee. I can’t decide how I feel about this, and I concentrate on not staring at Erin’s tits, which are small, firm, and directly in front of my face.
Erin’s wrists are bound behind her head and anchored there with a quick twist of rope in a figure eight around her shoulders. With her arms up and elbows bent like that, she looks like a caricature of leisure, like she’s in her favorite lawn chair. Then Sheila picks up a tangle of nasty-looking clamps and fishing line, and after a few preparatory smacks of Erin’s shoulder blades, places the clamps along her back. Erin grimaces and blows air through her nose at each pinch. Sheila stops every so often to check in with her, stroking her skin as she does, the way you’d gentle a horse, and when she’s done, pushes the trailing fishing lines through a pulley in the ceiling, leaving the ends hanging limply.
Of course my turn is next, and I get to feel firsthand what Erin just experienced. Ow. Ow. Each clamp chomps ferociously into the skin across my back, and the fishing lines attached to them tickle maddeningly, trailing across my skin. With a whisper from Sheila I lean back slowly into midair, holding myself up with the tension in my belly muscles, until my upper body is in a perfect horizontal line with my thighs. She gathers up the lines to my clamps. I wonder what she is going to attach them to—but Sheila, who must have been a Girl Scout, is prepared with a crossed set of dumbbells of the hefty variety, which she kicks into position on the floor under me, and wastes no time in pulling the lines taut and securing them.
To ease the strain on my stomach muscles I allow my upper body to droop back toward the floor, and she flashes me a dangerous look. “Slumping already?”
I take that as a hint, and haul myself quiveringly horizontal. Sheila casually grabs for Erin’s bound arms and pulls her into a bent-over position that leaves her hovering over me in a mockery of a courtly bow. She sucks hard on her gag, holding in the sudden rush of drool—a courtesy I appreciate beyond measure. There’s a tiny rattle of chains, and then my right nipple explodes in pain. I sneak a glance, and groan. It’s a butterfly clamp—the kind that grips harder the more you pull. Like the standard pair of clamps, these are joined by a slim chain, but instead of attaching the second butterfly clamp to my nipple, Sheila uses it to painfully compress Erin’s left nipple. A second’s work strings another set of clamps between Erin’s right and my left tit, and she and I have become painfully conjoined twins.
Sheila then enjoys herself far too much as she adjusts our various chain and fishing-line tensions until even a slight movement up or down for either of us tugs at the clamps, then she ties off Erin’s clamps at the ceiling pulley with an air of completion. She takes a good look into our tense, somewhat bug-eyed faces, then unbuckles and whisks away the ball gag with a final desperate slurp from Erin. Sheila walks away with a final comment: “You boys behave yourselves, now.”
The click of the door closing behind her sounds very final, and the silence that follows is what the literary types like to describe as pregnant. For a while Erin and I stare over each other’s shoulders as if we’re in an elevator—an elevator where we’re naked, straining to keep our upper bodies horizontal, and clamped together at the nipples. So the analogy breaks down, and so does Erin, who speaks first.
“I can’t believe you thought I was doing this just to piss you off….”
“How could I not think? Everything you do pisses me off. You always like to be right in the middle of…” Both our voices are a bit strained from the discomfort of holding our positions, and from the clamps, but I find myself needing to either talk or bite her.
“Hey. You think I asked to be here?” There’s a pause as Erin reflects on the absurdity of her statement. “Well okay, I did ask for this playdate. But not—I repeat—not with you.”
My pride is stung. “Whoa, Mr. Undue Emphasis. What in hell’s wrong with me?”
“This is gonna be so much fun,” says Sheila brightly, as she swings the door open so suddenly that someone more cynical than I might suspect she’s been standing just on the other side of it. We both fall silent, watching her warily. She dumps a small pile of toys on the bench behind Erin, then selects a long, wicked-looking leather strap, which she flexes meditatively for a few heartbeats, then brings down in a fast, decisive arc across Erin’s exposed ass.
Erin starts violently upward, which yanks the chains between our nipples and sends a searing pain through my tits as the clamps bite hard. I lurch upward to lessen the pull, and as the clamps across my shoulders nip at me, I bite back a squeak and glare at Erin as if it’s her fault. She’s doing her own grimacing, having bent forward again rather suddenly to relieve the tension on her nipples. I can see the fishing line attaching her to the ceiling vibrating tautly, so I’m guessing she’s had the one-two pinch as well.
Sheila smiles beatifically. She’s making happy little humming sounds now, and swinging the strap at Erin’s ass in long, slow, lazy blows. The first few, Erin jerks hard, making us both do the marionette-dance of pain, but then she settles into the rhythm of the strap, and stands steady, staring down at me with a challenging gaze.
I stare back, grunting a little with the effort of holding my body out straight with only my belly muscles, almost wishing that I could feel the strap, to prove to snotty Erin that I can take it too. Then I deeply regret the thought as Sheila speaks. “Poor Darcy, I’ve been neglecting you!”
She drops the strap and goes behind my head to fiddle with something in a cupboard. I can’t see her, but Erin can, and she breaks out into a grin, which I know damn well does not bode well for me.
Sheila reappears wearing a well-lubed nitrile glove. Instantly, the word safeword trembles on my lips, then dies away unsaid. I can’t chicken out now; I’d never live it down. Instead I feel a blush burn my ears and I avoid Erin’s mocking gaze as Sheila sits on the bench directly behind her, scoots herself into a comfy lower position with the ease of a born mechanic, and reaching between Erin’s legs and mine, slides her slippery fingers up inside me without even a pause to get acquainted. Embarrassingly, I realize she didn’t need that lube, not really.
So I’m no
t saying that I haven’t been dreaming for weeks about Sheila fucking me, that I haven’t been jerking off to fantasies of her demanding fist inside me as I scream and scream and beg her to keep fucking me. But this is not how I’d seen it in my horny little mind’s eye, not with Erin grinning down at me, not with the clamps on my tits and my back burning and tugging as I teeter back and forth from the horizontal with my abs gone all trembly from effort.
I refuse to cry out, to moan, to show any reaction. I can take anything, even this. I press my lips together, determined not to be my usual loud fuck-me-harder self. Then Sheila’s slow stroking fingers find my G-spot, and a little grunty sex moan escapes me. Furious, I clam up again, and concentrate on how much I hate Erin’s supercilious look. I’ll just refuse to feel Sheila’s slowly thrusting fingers moving faster, bumping my G-spot with a delicious firm stroke. I won’t feel a thing. I won’t give them—either of them—anything.
But somehow I’m having a hard time concentrating on keeping my upper body still, and I start to dip a bit, rhythmically, yanking on my own tits and Erin’s, too. Serves her right. But that steady yanking on my tits is kind of my undoing; I’ve always had a hair-trigger and now I’m starting to make a little horrified groany noise between my clenched teeth, because I’m already feeling the heat build up. I’m just hoping Sheila’s not gonna touch my clit, because if she makes me come like this I’ll die of embarrassment.
She’s fucking me pretty roughly now with what feels like four stiff fingers, having been welcomed in fast by my treacherous cunt, and then—oh, just my luck—she moves her slippery gloved thumb into a position where it grazes my clit with each stroke. In moments I don’t care that I can’t see anything but Erin’s smugly grinning face, and something in me pulls in tighter and tighter, until it explodes outward and obliterates my thoughts. I yell myself hoarse as I come so hard I think I might turn inside out. Still blindly coming, I howl again as my carefully horizontal position collapses, my head suddenly bonks the floor behind me and my nipples feel like they’ll tear off. Then I shriek again, running out of air, half the clips wrenching free of my back as I rebound upward, frantic to save my nipples.
