by Alison Tyler
I pulled the knife out in one stroke. The panties snapped his prick back in place. He gasped. He was stung but uncut. I grabbed both his hands and pulled them toward me and the bed as I jumped up onto it. I rolled off the other side still holding him. I let go and he lay facedown across it. I took his left hand and tied it to the left post of the black metal headboard. I moved around the bed knotting and cinching his three remaining limbs to the three remaining corners. Then I stood. Breathing deeply. I’d worked fast and was winded. I’m sure he could hear my snorts over the thudding of his own heart.
For the first time, I saw his pink ass. I jerked the waistband down and under the curves of his butt. The smooth, round, white cheeks plumped like breasts lifted by an underwire bra. I cupped them with both my palms. They grew warm. Pap. Pap. Pap. Three swift slaps to warm them more. I allowed a few moments of silence. Enough time for his ears to stop ringing. So he’d be able to hear this. I yanked the tail of my leather belt out of its buckle so hard that it creaked. Next belt and buckle slithered into my hand. The treated and tanned skin groaned as I bent it, then snapped it taut.
“You cocky little fucker. Answer me.” The dead animal’s hide slapped across the hide of my little live one. The echo of the clack somersaulted around the room. The candles wavered. But he said nothing. This boy who, in print, had never made his point in under 15,000 words said nothing. I was growing quite excited as I realized there might be a spark of brilliance in him after all.
“Or maybe you can’t.” I began to punctuate each sentence with the end of my belt. “Not because you’re too dumb.” Thwack. “Not because you’re too smart.” Thwack. “But because you’re one of those pitiable scholars who can’t speak without citing someone else.” Thwack. “Must explicate.” Thwack. “Must legitimate.” Thwack. “Must use the f-word.” Thwack. “Foucault.” Thwack. “Foucault, Foucault, Foucault.” Thwack, thwack, thwack.
His ass was pink again. Almost roseate. I took my left hand and let my fingers survey those patches that even in this dim dark shone. “Such a hot ass,” I said. I lowered my head toward it. My tongue slipped and slid over the nearly hairless skin as if it were ice. Ice that seemed cold and smooth, but my tongue grew warm against it, felt its throb. “Such a hot ass,” I said again and left the room.
The kitchen isn’t far from the bedroom. A few feet. He must have heard me open the mouth of the freezer. Heard it sing its one long, cold note. Heard the spine of the ice tray crack in my hands. “Miss me?” I think he moaned some answer. “Miss this?” I dragged my tongue back along the trail left by my belt. I’m certain he was groaning when I took my tongue and pried at his crack, digging deepest near his hole. He tried to push his ass closer to my face. So trusting for one I’d thought so critical.
I lifted my head. Now, before my saliva could dry, I pressed down the melting cube. His butt muscles clenched. I retraced where the tongue, first of my belt and then of myself, had been. His whole body tensed as I pushed the cube down between his cheeks. “Such a hot ass,” I whispered. I nudged the ice over his hole. It was sweating its own lube. I took my thumb and ground it into his asshole. He rolled his head over the pillow, biting at it. “Go ahead. You still have your dick. Be a man and scream.” He tried to kick me off. Maybe he yelped. I dug at the decomposing ice cube with my fingernail. It plopped out. I slid it down toward his balls, leaving it to melt.
He began to twist against his ropes. All this show to shake off a shrinking chip of ice. I grabbed the scruff of his neck. Then I gave his butt a swift, sharp blow with the belt. He was still.
“You lied to me.” I struck him again. “I’ve read everything you’ve been able to get published so far. You posited yourself over and over as a master theorist. Acted like you could demystify any obfuscation thrown your way. Like you were going to deconstruct the cosmos. Down.” Thwack. “And down.” Thwack. “And down.” Thwack. “Until your praxis led to your dick. But why’d you stop there, boy?” Thwack. “What’s so fucking special about your dick?” Thwack. “Is it magical?” Thwack. “Is that where you keep your male essence?” Thwack. “Your fucking trans-historical male essence.” Thwack.
My left hand pulled at his hair and shook his head while my right hand flung the belt over my back. “You fucking hypocrite.” Thwack. “You’re nothing but a fucking,” thwack, “closeted,” thwack, “gender essentialist.” Midstroke I stopped.
The harder I had hit, the higher his ass had leapt. On the last stroke, it jumped up to meet the belt. “No,” I said out loud. I wasn’t going to let him take control of the scene. This was about my revenge. Not his pleasure. Not tonight. Not on our first date.
I climbed onto the bed. I sat on his butt. Even through my jeans, I could feel the warmth of his skin. I sat there a moment, like a hen on her almost-hatched egg. I sat there a little longer. Soon, I thought with instinctual certainty, soon.
I leaned over his back until I was crouched over him, my belly pushing his head deeper into the pillow. I untied the left hand, then right. I crawled off him and the bed. I untied the left leg, then right. With both hands, I dug for the waistband that had now burrowed under the cheeks of his ass. I took the elastic and scraped it up along the skin. Before I let go, I gave a final yank and, snap, his panties were pulled up.
He began to mutter, reciting a rosary of “no’s.” He must have thought I’d untied him to send him home.
I tugged the ropes and the boy over to the chair and down across my legs until I felt the smooth fabric and the stiff cock slide across my right leg. I stopped when I had his dick bent over my knee just so. As if it had been scaling the outer wall of my leg and was now stuck, unable to heave the balls over.
Keeping the ropes in my left hand, I used my right hand to tear down his panties for the last time. I could feel the faint pulsing of his cock. It wouldn’t be much longer before he wet himself. A few good slaps. So I decided to take my time. I ground my palm into the small of his back. Then I turned it on its side and started to push at that firm pink border wall. It gave a bit. A budge more. Then it recoiled, scooting my hand back to where it began.
Once more. This time I rolled my hand back onto its palm and let it curl into a fist. I plowed against the panty’s waist. My knuckles, like the broad lip of a shovel, tried to lift it. Instead, they pushed under the rim and over the warm earth of his ass, until all momentum was lost and my hand flattened again, this time over that long fissure venting heat from its deep hole.
It was a pleasant moment. Unexpected. I dragged my hand out to try yet again. I placed my knuckles half on skin, half on silk. The boy squirmed a bit. I felt his cock flatten against my leg. He was growing impatient, insecure. Good. I would go even slower now.
I took my knuckles and rubbed at the edge of his right hip. Several tries and I got the rim to fold over on itself. I moved my hand toward the left hip. I did the same there. Soon I had the elastic turned in and out all along the edge of his butt. Now I would knead and roll and knead and roll the panties down as if I were making a pie crust. By the time I had them tightly under the ledge of his ass, I’d left his skin stinging, throbbing even, where the elastic, like a crude lawnmower, had torn out some of the few black hairs. And, though I was pleased, I could feel that my little man’s interest had waned.
“Don’t fall asleep on me, boy.” I slapped his cold butt hard enough that my baby had to fill his lungs with air. “Do I bore you? Afraid you’ll drift off before your queer elder passes the staff along to you?” I felt his body hesitate. He actually thought of answering me. “Oh, is that it?” I yanked the ropes and his wrists to the floor. I let my voice drift back in time and up an octave. “Fuck me, daddy, sir.” Possessed, I began to bounce him against my knee and whack out a beat while I said, “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Fill me full.”
I stopped. His skin shook. His cock quivered. I leaned toward his left ear and whispered hoarsely, “I will, young man, but when I’m good and ready. Do I make myself clear?!”
I tugged the ropes again. H
is dick slid over my leg until his balls where flat against the side of it. “Huh?” I let go and he slunk back. I pulled again. “Well?” Then several more times until I knew these slow kisses between his silk and my denim must have been burning his dick. I could feel it swelling. I let him slide back and forth over my leg several more times as I kept shouting, “Do I?” The last time I didn’t let go of the ropes. His cock and balls could barely teeter on the edge of my quite warm thigh.
“Now, you’re going to tell me the truth. Aren’t you, my queercore kid?” I slapped his ass twice. My palm stung. “You’re going to tell me just how much of a lying essentialist hypocrite you are. Aren’t you?” And I began to whack at the fleshy underbellies of his cheeks. Soft, fat, some muscle. I kept whacking all the while I kept shouting. “Aren’t you a liar? Aren’t you? Aren’t you a fucking closeted essentialist? Queer theorist your ass. You never read Judith Butler. Did you? Did you? No, you hunched under your covers with a flashlight reading Judy Grahn and diddling yourself. Didn’t you? Huh? Didn’t you!”
By hitting the undersides of his buttcheeks, I’d been lifting his ass with each swat. Forcing him to rub his cock over and over against the hard muscle and bone in my leg. Making his own body first slap his balls and then mash them against the side of my thigh. So hard and so fast that the silk and denim were close to sparking. Even if I’d wanted to stop beating on his beet-red butt, it wouldn’t have mattered now. He would’ve kept on humping my leg like the precocious panty-wearing dog he was.
Now, for every word I spoke, I batted at him with whatever strength was left in my nearly numb hand. “I know you read Mark Thompson’s Gay Spirit over and over and over….” A “yes” spurt out of his mouth. “And over and over and over….” Another “yes.” “Until you were weeping and clapping for faeries.”
“YES!” He bucked forward and then rocked back on the fulcrum of my leg. It shook wildly, then he did. And did. And did. He was spewing a loud stream of “yes’s” now.
I waited. He moaned, a low, hoarse sound, while rolling from side to side. I let go of the ropes and let my left hand stumble about until it found my knife again. I passed it over to my aching right hand. In a series of jerky, sawing strokes, I cut up the left side of his panties. When I reached the waist, they sprang apart. Now I leaned forward and cut open the right side. I put the knife down and steadied the boy’s butt in my hand. With my left, I reached under his panting chest and pushed him up. Next, I grabbed the soaked front of his panties and pulled. My right hand felt the back end come slithering from both sides into his crack and up the crevice toward his balls. I watched his face contort as the fabric brushed up and up his still-too-tender shaft.
I gave a gentle shove to his left shoulder. He started slowly to drop down onto his knees, dragging his drooling dick along the denim, leaving behind a silvery streak like a snail’s.
Once he landed on his knees, the real dumb show began. Bobbing up and down like a puppet with a broken string. One awkward attempt after the other to balance the weight of his body on his calves without letting them actually touch his butt. For a minute, it was amusing. Certainly more arousing than his striptease. But he kept on squirming and I grew bored. I bent sideways and fumbled along the floor. I was looking for the other thing I’d brought back with me from the kitchen. My hand patted the rug until I saw it glint in the candlelight. It was one of those tiny spoons used for cracking the shell of a soft-boiled egg and scooping out its jiggling white insides.
I opened my left hand and dug around in the pink wad with the spoon. I slid it under a shimmering blob of come. “Open wide.” I turned toward him. Even with the blindfold, I could sense his blank stare. “Your mouth, brainiac.” He hesitated then dropped his jaw. “Here comes a little spoon for my little man. Filled with man essence. Your man essence. Eat up.” I rested the spoon’s cold underbelly on his lower lip. Instinct—and that even crueler master, desire—made him do the rest.
“That’s it. Eat up all the sacred man essence. We wouldn’t want your sex to grow up without a gender, would we? No, we want your sex to have a gender,” I said as I wrapped my hand around his plump cock and squeezed. “A manly gender.”
I scooped out an even larger dollop. And, while he sucked down that spoonful, I smiled to myself. I was nearly humming by the time I made him lick the still-sticky insides of his panties. And it wasn’t because I knew my little man was ready to be fucked. It wasn’t even because I knew, from that night on, I could have this little man as I long as I wanted him. It was simply because nothing soothes the forever broken like breaking another.
A Hook and a Twist
Saskia Walker
“There’s something about being tied up with rope that brings out the sex kitten in me,” Lizzie commented, loudly, while spooning an impressive helping of creamy torte into her glossy, red moue.
Georgina folded her napkin, dabbed her mouth, and looked at her watch. She was about to leave, I could tell. Now don’t get me wrong; Georgina isn’t a prude, far from it. None of the three of us are shy, retiring types and Georgina has well and truly earned her “London Ladette” label. She’s a man-eater of mega proportions; she just can’t stand Lizzie’s attention-seeking attitude. The fact that several occupants of the exclusive Covent Garden café had turned toward us would be enough to try Georgina’s patience.
“Of course it has to be hand-maderope, and it has to be done with true style,” Lizzie gushed, “and…by a proper master.” She wiped a splash of cream from her lip and smiled down her nose at us, as if pleased to note she had the attention of her pupils. That rankled a bit, I have to admit, but I bit back my pride and returned her smile. You have to play dumb with Lizzie or she won’t spill.
Georgina stood up, pulling on her coat, and announced that she would be late for a meeting if she didn’t run for the tube. Me? I was hooked. Hell, I can suffer Lizzie’s condescending attitude to find out some juicy tidbit. I’m always willing to consider new ways to stimulate my inner sex kitten, and whilst I had enjoyed sexplay with cuffs, belts, and scarves, the mention of handmade rope fascinated me.
Regrettably, I have to inform you that Lizzie’s gushing narrative didn’t give me the lowdown on the rope, and no amount of direct questioning helped. Instead, she wanted to impress me about her new bloke. She failed; he sounded more like an upper-class twit than “a proper master.” But my curiosity had been baited, and the image of bespoke rope had lodged itself in my mind. What was it like? Would it release my inner sex kitten to be bound in it? What would it be like, running it through my fingers, assessing its power to restrain?
I did some research and located several sources for the material. I also discovered to my amusement that you could have it dyed to match other items in your sex assemblage. I even got some samples, and found that I especially liked the feeling of the hemp; its natural resilience and strength felt very sexy in my hands. I was interested, yes, but at first I couldn’t find a playmate to explore my new fascination with. I mentioned it to two lovers, one of whom thought I was joking; the other thought I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. No, it wasn’t until Carl Sanderson walked into my life, several months later, that I had the opportunity to pursue the fascination for real.
Carl Sanderson was a management consultant who had been hired by the powers that be where I worked. He was the hatchet man, the man who would resolve time management issues with certain of our staff. I should have known he’d be into power games. The man positively exuded power. He walked into our offices one Monday morning and announced in no uncertain terms that he’d reviewed the procedures and things were about to be “well and truly shaken up.” Yeah, I was prepared to be shaken up, in more ways than one.
I slid my glasses down my nose and observed him taking charge. He was attractive, not in the classical, good-looking sort of a way. He was strong and presentable, yes, but it was more like he had an underlying aura of power. Was it that quality that appealed to me?
His expression had a consta
nt weathered look. You know, he’d been around the block a few times and his frown looked as if it was welded on. Even when he broke into a disarming grin, the frown was still there, like a testament to his intensity. His eyes were piercing blue, his hair a no-nonsense cut. Beneath the sleeves of his Saville Row shirts, I could see that his muscles were large and strong. Oh yes, Carl was every bit the veneered brute.
He walked from desk to desk in our open-plan offices, delivering snappy orders and tearing a strip off anyone who hadn’t been performing to schedule. I was lucky, I had a ring-side seat but I wasn’t due for any flack. As the CAD assistant, I responded to the needs of the departments that were actually having the scheduling problems. And boy, did I enjoy watching Carl flex his muscles in the workspace. It was midsummer and steamy hot in the city; you know, sex was always on my mind. When he finally paced my way, I sat back in my chair and swiveled to face him.
“Megan Brody, now you don’t appear to be on my list.” He paused in front of my desk. He had a lopsided smile, very suggestive. “Shame,” he added.
I gave him my best come-on smile and crossed my legs high on the thigh. “I could easily cause some trouble, if that’s what you’re after,” I offered, hopefully.
“I’m quite sure you could,” he replied, eyeing my bare legs where my wraparound skirt had fallen open when I moved. He winked as he sauntered off. We had connected. I couldn’t be more pleased.
By lunchtime that first day, I was entertaining full-blown fantasies about him. By the Tuesday, I’d snagged him for after-work drinks. By Thursday, we went for a bite to eat and then he asked me back to his place.
Dinner was light, by necessity—the heat, and the distraction of bodies wanting a different kind of feeding. We hit a noodle bar, sat on stools in front of the steaming kitchens and drank bottles of iced Asahi in an attempt to keep cool. I quizzed him about his work. The noise level grew as the place filled. He increasingly leaned toward me to chat. The smell of his aftershave and the musk of his body raced through my senses, dancing alongside the smells of food cooking and exotic spices. Every sentence was laden with double entendre, each discussion about power interchange and snapping people out of their daily routine. But you don’t want me to tell you about our conversation; you want me to get to the juicy part. You want to know about the rope and how I found out he was one to play with. Okay. So he invited me home and we abandoned our food.
