by Alison Tyler
I turned to leave the bedroom, but glanced back.
The pile of heavy, black…stuff laying there was irresistible. The belt was a thick, black snake resting on his bed. So I, with the soul of Eve, checked it out at last. I touched the things Eric used, the tools of his trade. They were things that intimidated, commanded, and subdued. They were cool to the touch and all black. These were things that he handled every day, but they were things that ordinary people—good girls and nice boys—wouldn’t know about. We stay out of trouble. Flashlight. A stick. A shiver danced up my arms and down again. Something in a canister. Mace? Pepper spray? We didn’t talk about his work much. A pouch with a snap on it. The gun, last, but I didn’t touch that. I wouldn’t touch that. I’m not stupid, and I knew it was loaded. So I went back to the pouch.
I’d opened it and taken out the weighty handcuffs, fascinated. “You want to play, Beth? You think those are toys?” His voice was deadly quiet, but I jumped anyway, like I’d swallowed electricity. I felt that sick clench in the gut, the hot shame of being caught. I was seven again, with cookie crumbs on my mouth and no ready excuses.
“No,” I said, jumping up quickly, putting some distance between me and the things I had been, well, playing with. I was surprised by his anger—I hadn’t seen him like this. He stepped closer to me, and I babbled further apology. Something else gathered between us, something dark and dangerous, eclipsing all that had ever gone before. Where was the nice guy, my new boyfriend, lover of puppies, springtime, and his toddler nephews?
Gone. Just like the sun behind a cloud. Instead of smiling and forgiving me with a kiss, a kiss I’d been half-expecting, leaning forward with my mouth shaped to kiss back, he grabbed my arm. He spun me around. Suddenly, I was facing his bureau and my right arm was pinned up and behind me. It was held fast in such a way that I knew he could, just as easily as not, break it. I grabbed the dresser for balance. A lamp teetered, a quarter slid off a dime. “Hey!” I said.
That’s when he grabbed my other arm and cuffed me. The click of the metal sliding home was loud. The metal was cold and heavy. My mouth was dry. He’d never done anything like this before. Had I been wrong about him?
“This isn’t funny,” I said.
“And my cuffs aren’t toys,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to apologize, but I thought it was the best thing to say.
“Sorry’s not enough. You play with the cuffs, what’s next, Beth? The gun?”
“Of course not.”
My hands were behind my back, and the cuffs were on me. They were unforgiving. I’d often wondered what it was like to wear them. Now I knew. And I didn’t like it.
“Take them off,” I said. How dare he abuse his position like this? I tried not to feel something else, something dry and crackling, as it crept up my back. My autonomy was gone, and that was a scary thing. We hadn’t been dating long, and maybe I’d made a very bad choice. This wasn’t the boyfriend I knew, the guy who I had caught crying at a sad movie we’d seen only two weeks ago.
“No.”
“Please.” I held my chin up, didn’t turn around, playing martyr. I was stubborn, even as I pleaded. I wouldn’t look at him. I wouldn’t back down, and it seemed neither would he. Stupid fights start like this, over something small that becomes unforgivable.
When you’re a woman, and your hands are behind your back, that position does something. It arches your back slightly, pushes your shoulders up—and your breasts out. I was a little disconcerted to feel my nipples hardening, puckering against the cup of my bra. More than that—there was a familiar, warm itch between my legs. It grew hotter, like sun spilling over the horizon.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
Eric didn’t take the cuffs off. Instead, he tugged me, and I took a helpless step backward away from the bureau into the center of the room. I didn’t like this at all. He walked around and faced me, still in his uniform. I wouldn’t look at him. He was treating me like a child, not his girlfriend. I saw my face reflected in his badge. I looked strange, distorted in the metallic surface. I didn’t want to know what his face showed. Was it that scary blank expression?
He unbuttoned my blouse, and drew it down over my shoulders. I refused to speak, as if protesting would give him more leverage. He didn’t say a word about my nipples being hard. He couldn’t remove the blouse completely with me still cuffed, and it dangled off my arms. The light fabric hid them, but I knew they were still there. How could I not? I was only lucky they were not too tight. I wondered who the last person Eric had cuffed had been. What man—
Or woman—
It was July, but I shivered. What other women had felt his steel around their wrists? Eric didn’t talk. I didn’t know what he’d do next. It was the kind of fight when part of the dark appeal of conflict is provoking the other, goading him, pushing things. Stuff that you normally wouldn’t say or do rises up, gliding from the dark depths. He didn’t back off.
My bra came undone next, the same way. I should have turned, squirmed to evade his fingers, but I didn’t. He pulled it up and lifted it over my head. The air caressed my bare skin. The straps he slid down my arms, chuckling as he stripped me. My breasts were bared and I was helpless.
And aroused.
There was a part of me, a deep and primal part, which bloomed as if it had waited all my life for this afternoon. A late flower, a twenty-seven-year blossom.
The skirt came off next. A simpler piece of clothing one couldn’t imagine: a narrow elastic waist and the smooth drop of fabric. It was a summer skirt that I wore a lot that year, slipping it on in the morning over bare legs freshly shaved. I liked the way the skirt swished against my skin, panty hose scorned for summer. I wore a plain black T-shirt with it most days, but that afternoon I’d picked a blouse. I’d never see the skirt hanging in my closet again without its pattern reminding me of this afternoon, reminding me of the way light slanted in at an angle through the closed blinds, the sounds of an ordinary summer afternoon going on outside, and how the handcuffs had become warm from my skin, but still heavy. Still present.
Eric told me to step out of it, and I did. I should have kicked him, but I’d swallowed a two-edged sword: fear and arousal. I didn’t know how it would sit in my belly. I still wore my shoes, frivolous summer sandals with a bit of a heel. But this wasn’t how I imagined the afternoon progressing when I’d dressed for a barbecue with his family.
I stood there, mulish and naked, dangling my clothes behind my back. I felt small and bad, a naughty child. I wanted to feel his hot tongue rasping over my nipples. I wanted him to stop this. He took my panties down next, slowly, and I didn’t feel childlike at all. Cotton slid down my thighs, and I seeped want.
Then I was naked and he was still in uniform, though he wasn’t wearing that belt. His uniform was blue, the color of night sky at ten o’clock. Indigo, or something darker. He spoke softly, as softly as the skirt lay on the carpet. “Should I leave you like this, Beth, for the barbecue?” Oh, god. No. A quiver went through me, as I imagined Eric leading me down the steps from the side of the house into his backyard, guiding me as I walked, teetering slightly, without my arms free for balance. As I walked, still cuffed. Still in my sandals. Still naked. Like a prize. His friends, colleagues, men with the same hard faces, the same eyes that had seen so much, there. And now their eyes would rake my naked skin, from mouth to ankle. I trembled, imagining. That scenario was barbaric.
A hot clench of desire shook me. I was getting wet.
“All right.” His voice was so gentle that I wanted to cry. That sounded like the Eric I knew—or thought I knew—the one that took moths outside instead of killing them with a brutal smack of a magazine, who loved playing with the neighbor’s dog. But there was more to him, I knew now: unexpected corners in his psyche. I should have known it all along. You don’t get to be a cop without being tough, without being a bit of a bastard. Even if he was a nice guy. Nice guys had their night sides, too.
“
Why don’t you kneel, Beth?”
But it wasn’t a question. His hand on my cuffed arm held me steady as I sank to the carpet. I wasn’t the only one who’d been moved by this game of taunt and dare. I was face to crotch with him, and even though his uniform was dark, the fact that Eric was erect was clear. I could see the outline of his penis, stiff against the fabric. An answering wave of desire rolled through me. Being naked for him turned me on. His zipper went down with an insinuating slide, and I pulsed. I’d be damned if I’d let him know, though.
His warm skin touched my mouth and I opened my lips. I didn’t need to be told what to do next. He slid inside, thick, surging upward, and I sucked. It was hard to do without my hands free. I never realized how much I liked to grab the base of his cock and squeeze. How much I liked to have some control over how much, how fast, or how deep he went into my mouth. I liked to play with his balls, heavy, soft and, vulnerable. With my wrists bound behind my back, I sucked. I was helpless, balancing on my knees, the world come down to his flesh against my tongue, his steel on my skin.
I couldn’t touch myself. I could squeeze my thighs together, but that jeopardized my balance. I sucked. He swayed, slowly sliding his prick in and out of my mouth. It was absurd, with the sounds of children outside, the thunk-thunk of a basketball against a hoop in the driveway next door. I could hear voices rising, falling. A summer afternoon. I could even smell someone else’s barbecue. That’s what we were supposed to be doing. We should be getting ready, not playing out this uncivil, ruthless scene. In the dim light, I sucked him, want growing with every stroke along his shaft, every sigh. Ordinary had fled, leaving me on my knees, bound. I felt like a hummingbird, drinking from a flower in the darkness. A slave girl on the market, being tested in a back room.
I felt better than I had in years.
I was wet and aching for touch. I wouldn’t tell him, though. The whole thing was outrageous. Surely he must know that this episode would be the end of “us.” As soon as I was free, I’d be free of him.
He could smell the lie on me. I could, too: my arousal was in the air like smoke. I sucked him, his skin warm, silky, and rigid. You like it too, I thought, shifting on my knees, arms beginning to ache. How long had it been since Eric had spun me around and cuffed me? Ten minutes? Fifteen? An eternity? He’d become hard doing it. He was getting off on this. His erection in my mouth was proof.
My compliance was also proof of something. What, I didn’t want to think about.
Only his cock. I sucked, grateful for that contact of skin, something to focus my hunger on. My cunt was engorged, my nipples too, but there were no caresses to slake my want. All I could do was suck, so I did. That, and rub my breasts against his legs like a pet begging for attention. It was degrading. Luckily for me, his uniform trousers were made of a fabric with a bit of stiffness to it. I sucked him for a long time, falling into a rhythm where I could take him in and out without choking, without fear. He didn’t speak. It went on until his breathing changed, his hand came to rest on my head, and his body began to tense. I wasn’t helpless, then. I could do that to him.
He was close to coming, but he pulled out. I closed my mouth, testing the emptiness, easing my jaw. “Do you like my toys, Beth?”
“No,” I lied, truculent. Why didn’t he touch my breasts? I was helpless to stroke, and my nipples were hard with yearning.
“Liar.” Eric turned away from me, his erection a blunt, fleshy club that protruded, rude and blatant, from his uniform pants. I licked my lips. I wanted that cock again. In me. Deep.
“Arms hurt? Legs?”
“No.”
“Lying again.” His hands were warm on my rib cage as he lifted me to my feet. He walked around me again, observing me. I didn’t know what would happen next, and I’d never felt more naked.
He knelt, his hands on my inner thighs, and opened my legs wider. I almost stumbled, but kept my balance. He leaned in, and deliberately licked at my damp skin. Just once, and I gasped with pent-up want when his hot tongue slid over my pussy. Once. Slowly across my swollen clit—the hard center in a sea of wanton need. That was the cruelest thing, far worse than the handcuffs, far worse than anything. To do it just once. He chuckled again, and rose, his prick still thrusting outward, a baton of a different sort. “What to do with you…,” he mused, as if he didn’t have a hundred ideas. He pivoted slowly, hand on his chin, pretending to consider the possibilities.
Eric went to the bed and slipped his nightstick from the loop. He wouldn’t beat me with it? No. That wouldn’t be rational. But fear prickled my flesh again, desire abating for a moment. I thought of something else he could do with it, and another wave of dread washed over me. I didn’t want that.
Gently, with calm control, he slid the nightstick against my damp pussy. I gasped at the cool of it. Desire returned. At last, something was touching me. The smooth surface glided along my hot skin. I was panting. I spread my thighs wider and bent my knees to increase the pressure, and rode the wood. Eric chuckled in the dim bedroom, and pressed harder. I whimpered and humped it. I didn’t care that all my dignity had gone, flown with the click of the cuffs on my wrists. I needed to come. “Please touch my breasts,” I whispered, hating myself for voicing it.
He didn’t bother acknowledging my request. He touched me when and where he wanted, and all I could do was suffer or enjoy. I was a sweet ache, all skin and nerves. He went back to the bed, and absently stroked his cock, stiff and conspicuous, looking down at his belt and accessories. I swayed, almost dancing, my blouse and bra dangling ridiculously. I wondered what would happen next.
“I can’t really use the spray—you’re already pretty cooperative, Beth.” He considered the flashlight. “And I think you’ve seen the light.” Another low laugh. He picked up the belt. “Sit.” I perched on the edge of the bed, legs primly together, just as my wrists remained bound behind me. He knelt before me, and I thought he was going to go down on me now. My knees drifted apart, I tilted my cunt to him. He held up the belt. He stroked my inner thighs with it, the leather cool and heavy, though an entirely different sensation from the cuffs and the baton. Slowly he teased me, tracing patterns on my skin; circling my belly, my thighs, closer and closer to my vulva. He brushed my pubic hair with the belt and I sighed. It felt like wind sounds when it drifts through the tops of the pines at night. I opened my legs wider, throbbing. I could see his prick, swollen, but I couldn’t touch him. It was driving me crazy. I closed my eyes.
I felt something nudge me open, but it wasn’t his mouth, or his finger. The tip of the leather belt prodded between my labia, going ever deeper. I didn’t know what to say. I was wet and Eric crouched before me, intent. Carefully, he pushed the leather belt into my pussy, and I breathed, deep and ragged. I felt dizzy. It was awful and demeaning. It was a terrible taunt: close, but not a cock.
“Is this kinky?” His voice was soft.
I didn’t answer. He pushed a little more and I didn’t close my thighs or try to stop him. I rocked against the belt, not sure if I was trying to get away from it, or trying to rub my slick pussy against the edge of leather. I craved hot friction. “You like it, Beth,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“No.”
He smiled at the lie. “Stand.” Eric unlocked one wrist, my arms dropped to my sides and I sighed with the pleasure of release. I shook off my blouse and bra, shook my tingling arm. Freedom didn’t last long; he pushed me back down onto the bed. I was weak and entirely compliant, under the spell of his strangeness. “Lie down.”
I did, the bedspread smooth against my skin. He left my shoes on. He took my right arm and cuffed my wrist to the bedpost. I looked up at the blank globe of his overhead light. “Better?”
“Yes.” My voice was a grateful mumble.
My spread legs were an invitation one didn’t need to be a cop to decode. Still, he took his time unbuttoning his shirt. I moved, restless against his sheets. I watched Eric undress, the dark uniform falling away, cop becoming man. Underneath, he
was muscular and hairy, and entirely comfortable nude. He sat on the edge of the bed.
He slid a finger down my vulva, my lips opening for him again. He slipped into the wetness up to his knuckle, more easily than the leather belt had. I eyed his cock, springing upward, and the length of his thigh, muscled and downy. He was beautiful. Then Eric was on top of me, a solid weight, his skin all along mine. I reacted with a surge of want, ferocious, pulling him to me with one arm, pulling at the cuff with my other. At last the warm head of his cock touched me. I quivered, and worked my hips up to meet him, to urge him to enter me. I was slick, sticky, and unbearably ready for him.
Slowly, he pushed his cock into me, slippery enticement making it easy. He groaned. My turn to laugh, in triumph. He fucked me, slowly, his cock sliding in and out in long, measured strokes. I fucked him back. With one hand cuffed to the bed, the other on his ass, I wrapped my legs around him tight. I hated him with joy and pleasure.
His voice was a slow, patient whisper as he remorselessly stroked me with his body. “You’ve—” He thrust in. “Been bad—” And out, his skin a hot embrace. “You know.”
“Yes.” I rocked with him, faster, and bucked back, my fever rising. I was almost there, the hot friction—
I made a sound as I came, like something hurt. It didn’t. Still cuffed, I felt my release come. It rolled over me, lifted me. I soared. “It’s for your own good, Beth,” he muttered, frantically thrusting. “All for your own good….”
I know.
Oh, I know.
Leered At
Debra Hyde
I remember the first time a grown man leered at me. Not a college student or an early thirty-something, but a real adult, someone my father’s age. Someone who should’ve known better and probably did, but chose to lust after me anyway. It happened the summer before I left for college while I was hanging out at a pool party with my best friend. I’d just turned eighteen. We had wandered in from the pool for the snack table, unaware as we passed the bar that the adults’ consumption of highballs had surpassed frat house kegger dimensions.
