by Violet Blue
“I’ll do anything for you,” you said. “Could you be more specific about what you need?”
Since you asked….
You could be a father, brother, uncle, priest. Or nobody. Faceless, but older, rigid, stern, commanding. Male. Typically stereotypical.
You sit on the edge of a bed. Your sleeves are rolled up, cuffed at the elbow. I can see the veins pumping in your forearms. I am defiant and outfitted in Catholic schoolgirl cliché. My tanned calves strain against the regulation white knee-socks. The skirt is a little too short for your liking. My large, dark nipples peer through the sheer, white fabric of my shirt. I’m pouting, preening, younger than I look.
I start off by teasing you. I bend at the waist to rearrange my socks, showing off my ripe, bared ass. You are embarrassed —angered. I giggle, mocking you. I am such a bad girl, really.
You are still and your eyes are cold and staring. Suddenly, your hand flies at me, grabs my wrist, twisting it under. I wince. Show me your fingers, clamped tight and then tighter, turning red, then white with pressure. You will not be mocked. While you hold my wrist, your other hand passes through my hair, gently grazing my cheek. Slip two fingers between the buttons on my starched blouse and rip it open. Paw at my exposed breasts, full and lovely. Pinch my nipples fiercely and hold my gaze. Humiliate me with your rough touch. Leave your mark.
I will fight you, slap your hand away. Buck against the reins of your fist, clamped unrelentingly around my wrist. When I call you a fucking bully, you smile. When I cry out and plead with you to let go, you only tighten your grip. There are no safewords here. My hand goes numb. When I reel back and spit in your face, your smile turns sinister. I notice the stirring in the crotch of your trousers and feel a shudder up my spine.
The burden of being a strong woman falls to the floor with my torn blouse. In here, I am a little slut, and you tell me so. Your voice is so calm and smooth. Tears stream down my face as you list my sins: insolence, pride, promiscuity. You set me on your lap and let go of my wrist, hold my face in your hands, lick the salty trails off my cheeks. I’m so bad, you say, but you can absolve me. You don’t say it will hurt you more than it hurts me. That’s a lie I don’t need or want to hear. It’s supposed to hurt me, and I can trust that you’ll make sure it will.
“Look at yourself,” you command, while your eyes grope my naked breasts. When I obey, peering down over my body, you hurl me to the floor. The carpet burns the thin skin over my hipbone. I disgust you. Still, my spirit is unbroken. I arch my back hungrily, running my hands across my body. Holding your gaze, challenging you, I thrust one hand under my little skirt and two fingers slide in easily. I bring the shiny fingers to my lips, suck them into my mouth, savoring the salty cream. I lick them clean, and a moan escapes from the back of your throat. “You dirty bitch,” you mutter so softly it’s almost endearing. The first slap comes then, across my cheek and harder than I expected. My ears ring.
You pull me from the floor and across your lap. Face down. Your erection pushes against my aching clit, and I wriggle slightly, longing for the release of that pressure. You say, “Do you feel that, what you’ve done to me?” I’m lost in the pattern of the bedspread and the tingling of your hand smoothing under my skirt. You pull a bottle of lube from your shirt pocket, fingering my asshole. “Goddammit,” you whisper as your middle finger slips in past the tightness of that hole. My hands clutch the blankets and I draw a quick breath, grinding my hips against you, insistently. “Be still,” your voice warns. It is agonizing, the way you draw it out, the way your hand forces my head into the mattress while you work your finger inside me.
“Has a man ever entered you here?” you ask. I pause, not knowing which truth you want.
“…No,” I finally answer. My voice is strained and unrecognizable.
You pull your finger from me and your hand comes down hard on my ass in two quick smacks. The skin burns. “That was a lie,” you tell me. “Do you actually expect me to believe this is a virgin asshole?” Your hand is moving in slow circles. My pussy throbs so hard, I know you can feel the vibration. The seam of your trousers pulses against me, and I press my hips into you again.
“I told you to be still,” you say, and there are two more sharp smacks on my ass. Harder than before. My teeth bite down into my lip as I try, unsuccessfully, to stifle a longing moan.
“Oh, you like that? You dirty girl,” you say, smiling wickedly. Your hand comes down again, slaps that make your cock buck into me. I spread my legs to receive the fullness of your hand, press my hips into you with each stinging smack. I cry out from the pain. I’m almost coming and you sense this. One step ahead. The slapping stops abruptly, and you are tolerant again with your soothing circles. I feel the heat rising from my skin; your hand is strangely cool.
“You’ve gotten my good slacks wet with your juices,” you scold, reaching down to feel the moist spot on the fabric, tracing it to the swollen lips of my cunt. Your fingers slide into this moisture, then quickly out again. I taste blood from where I’ve bitten my lip. “I need to get these out of the way,” you remark, fumbling one-handed with the button on your waistband. “You’ll probably leave a stain.” I think of your thick, naked cock sliding into me, anywhere, and a whine escapes my lips. I hear the descent of your zipper and almost turn my head to catch a glimpse, but the rules are clear. I’m not to look, to move, without your permission. I want your strong hand coming down on my raw flesh—I will do anything to incite you, but the game has changed. My desire is as plain as the creamy wetness I’ve left on your trousers. You know not to give it to me. For now.…
“Stand up,” you command. I move off your lap reluctantly. You rise from the bed and your trousers fall to the floor. Your cock stands rigid and angled from your body, twitching. Menacing. The drop of moisture on the tip makes my mouth water. You catch me staring and ask, “Do you want to suck it, Sweetheart?” Your voice is gentle again. I smile up at you, beaming. Oh, yes, Daddy. Please. It is all the coaxing I need, to fall to my knees in front of you. I run my hands up and down the velvety skin of your penis, mesmerized. I want the approval of your load shooting down my throat. My mouth swells with slickness, like a cunt. Tentatively, I touch my tongue to the purple head, and you push me roughly to the floor, where I sprawl on my sore ass.
“I thought so, you sssslut.” You draw out the final barb, sliding on the s, the point of the t hitting me across the face with your spittle. “Get up,” you say. I struggle to stand. My legs weak from yearning pushed to its limits, I’m dazed and determined when I grab at myself, pull the hood of skin back, and start pinching my clit. You smack my hand away, but I don’t care, automatically bringing my hands back to position. My lips are parted, wet, and I draw a quick breath between my teeth. Your cock sways, watching my every move.
You grab me and pull me down again across your naked lap. You slip into my dripping slit with no resistance. At last. Your strong, cool hand comes down again and again—your thrusting hips in perfect syncopation. You smack and smooth my pink ass, murmuring sweet obscenities, that I’m getting what I deserve, bucking into me, my juice smeared across your lap. I am bad, and this is so good. My eyes roll back into my head, and the heat from where our bodies connect burns there, red behind my eyelids. Pulsing with my blood.
I am a little girl caught masturbating in church, tiny fingers twisting beneath her Sunday dress. I am splayed across my father’s pinstriped lap, alive with senses—the musk of his sweat and aftershave, the feel of his worn-leather palm smacking my naked ass. I am screwing my boyfriend in the family room, watching my mother’s pacing silhouette on the stairs, calling down to me to please, please be a good girl. I am kneeling on cold, hard tile while they strip me, shame me, until I’m back in my pink bedroom, sobbing and squirming against my hand.
I am coming.
I sat on the edge of the bed, purged of this fantasy, out of breath. You stood across the room, and the outline of your cock pressed endlessly against your worn corduroys. You
walked slowly toward me, grabbed my hair in your hand, pulling my head back to look up at you. Firm. Delicious.
“So, is this what you want?” you asked.
“Please,” I said.
Grenadine
HANNE BLANK
When her fingers split the fruit, he almost gasped. She looked up for a moment and smiled, then down again into the dish that lay before her on the table, ruby crystal drops spilling from the cleft pomegranate, raining with a soft purr into the shallow glass bowl. The parchment-colored inner membrane clung to irregular pockets of seeds as she broke off a piece and held it up for him to see. Pale pith connected each seed to the fruit, the walls of each garnet-colored drop shaped by its neighbors, packed in tight.
“Like a honeycomb,” he said.
She shook her head. “Not at all. Like a woman.”
She closed her eyes when she bit, indelicately, wholeheartedly, greedily using her lower lip to coax the seeds into her mouth. He almost blushed to hear the bursting, subtle crunches between her teeth. Several of her fingertips wore red-purple, ringing her cuticles, the space beneath the filed half-moons of the tips. She swallowed, then opened her eyes, a sear of juice sheer and wet and lusciously blood-dark on her lower lip, and she smiled.
“So you’ve never had one?”
“Not yet,” he replied.
Precise as a surgeon, she peeled away membrane, paper-thin, shallow dimples making a net to show where each acid-sweet jewel had been hidden. Bending back the peel, her fingers spread the fruit, seeds fanning to either side of the ridge, the quiet noise of the fruit’s flesh yielding like a spade biting sand. She took her time, mouth open against the piece of the pomegranate like a lover, lingering; inhaling the clean, barely bitter breath of its skin as her tongue flicked droplet after taut droplet from its moorings. Strange envy flirted with his belly as her eyebrows lifted, her nostrils flared, her chin lifted just far enough for him to watch the private motions of her throat as she chewed, as she swallowed. He had hoped, when he arrived, that he might be the object of her dedicated hunger.
“You’re in for a treat, then.”
He cleared his throat quietly, shifting his weight. “It looks that way.”
As if she did not know what kept his hands below the table, she leaned toward it, reaching forward, cracking the remains of the section of pomegranate in two with her fingers, holding the redness up toward his lips, toward the sunlight that came in from the window above his head. Ruby prisms caught the light, her fingertips blushing with reflected glory. He licked his lips and leaned forward and then forward still more until the thick wooden tabletop pressed hard just under his ribs so that he had to work to breathe. Licking the residue of drying juice from her lip, she watched him.
He had asked her what she wanted him to bring her from California. “Pomegranates,” she had replied without hesitating. His voice had arched like his eyebrow, inquisitive. She had repeated herself slowly, her tone rich, smooth vowels slipping into his ear like lovers slipping into a darkened doorway, their tenancy voluptuously, fabulously transient. “Pom… e… gran… ates.”
But the gift had seemed too humble to him, the hard, mottled leather of the dense spheres too graceless. He had had the greengrocer choose them, and hoped that they were good. He wouldn’t know. The serrated flaps of pithy tissue at each blossom end seemed to mock his ignorance, looking like some sort of bottle cap, a fantastical finial on a cork he wouldn’t begin to know how to remove. With the fruit in a plastic bag, he went into a shop whose high white walls were backdrop to spare, elegant glass shelves lit from below, each pristine glass slab holding a single purse or a couple of scarves or a small, extravagant tangle of python-banded wristwatches arranged artistically, self-consciously, as obviously intended for scrutiny as if they had been on microscope slides. He thought of her hair, dark as her voice, and of the translucence of the skin above her breasts where the veins showed through like looking at a river through the ice, and chose a scarf the blue of the sky just before the first star.
She had untied it with delight, the heavy , hard orbs inside the silk making her beam with anticipation. “Oh, they’re gorgeous!” she gushed, and he felt slightly cheated: The scarf had been terrifically dear by comparison to the soft-ball-sized fruit he had wrapped in it. Vanishing into the kitchen, she returned with a bowl, placing two of the pomegranates at the far end of the table and the third into the shallow glass dish.
“Shall we share one now?” she asked, rather rhetorically he thought, pulling out a chair for him. He sat, gamely smiling, not sure how to console himself for the fact that she seemed to be more excited to see the pomegranates than to see him. From behind him she leaned down, kissed his cheek, her hands on his shoulders in a firm, affectionate squeeze, and warm, strong fingers sliding down his arms. He sighed, smiling tiredly, permitting himself—even as he thought it vain—to believe for a moment that this was a sign that she really was glad, gladder than perhaps she wanted to show, that he was back. It was so hard to tell with something so new, and hard to tell with someone like her, but perhaps it was true.
He closed his eyes at the feel of her breath on his neck, her cheek against his ear, settling back toward her body, her fine warm body, round and sleek. “Sssh,” she said when he startled to feel the fluid, cool density of silk on his wrist. She pulled his wrists back gently, as if guiding him to touch her, silk wrapping around the other forearm with sensuous simplicity. “Just let me.”
He did, the pang of separation almost audible when she walked away and left him on his side of the table, a plucked cello string that shimmered echoing in the resonant chambers of his soul. And he waited, watching, while she began to eat the fruit, until she offered it to him. She didn’t move it away as he struggled to get closer, her sweater-sheathed elbows not budging from their spots on the tabletop as he arched his torso awkwardly toward her without pausing to think. Just that, to taste the gems in her fingers, seemed suddenly the point of it all, the hidden goal of the long hours of travel, the long days of waiting until she called him at his hotel, finally, and whispered viscous, buckwheat-honey words into his ear that made him gasp uncontrollably and squirt nine days of work-filled frustration into the Sheraton’s starchy sheets.
She did that to him—made him react without thinking, bypassing his cautions, his roadblocks and checkpoints, a master thief who delighted in her own artistry, spilling out the bag of rubies in front of him with such easy grace that he could only wonder how he had ever presumed to own them. Pushing himself harder against the rim of the table, he strained his neck toward her hands, feeling his body pleading suddenly, his eyes widening, imploring, mouth open but still too far away to taste what she held. He felt his ears burning as he fell back into his seat, her implacable soft smile mocking him gently. Her dark eyes, impenetrable, fell on his as she plucked one red kernel from the fruit and placed it between her lips, holding it delicately between her small white teeth, teasing it with her tongue as he watched her. As if her tongue-tip were on his flesh rather than the seed, perhaps on his lower lip, at the notch of his collarbone, he breathed in with his nostrils flaring as she bit down and crushed it.
“Try again,” she said, still proffering the fruit. Eyes stinging with cross-country fatigue, he blinked at her, at himself for his silent and instant agreement, leaning toward her outstretched hand again. Smooth shoe soles slipping slightly on the muted tans and greens of the carpet, he tried to raise himself up, to get a better angle, to win the extra inch or two that would close the gap, his hands useless but straining, fingers gripping hard to opposite forearms, behind his back. Her smile flickered brighter, though her gaze remained impassive, unreadable. She could, he realized, see everything: The French doors at his back were a fine mirror.
With a grunt he lurched forward, managing to press his lips against the fruit, startled to feel how smooth and resilient the round seed-tips were against his lips. Somehow he had expected, even wanted, them to be more delicate, more fragile, to burst ag
ainst his mouth, drenching him in their juice. A soft groan left his throat unbidden, followed by another desperate lunge, his teeth sinking into small, shocking explosions of tart juice.
Heart pounding, blood rushing, he smiled triumphantly as he chewed, looking into her eyes as he sat back with a heavy thud into the chair. A bead of juice trailed from his lip along his chin, dropping fat and vivid onto his white shirtfront before he noticed a purplish-red inkblot spreading out near the pocket of his button-down. She rose from her chair, staring at it, at him, her expression an odd mixture of challenge and hunger that made him realize quite suddenly that somewhere along the way he had become rock-hard.
Slipping between him and the table, leaning into him and pushing him back against the chair, she straddled his thighs, her skirt taut. He thought that she might kiss him, but instead her tongue found the juice on his chin, scouring it off, her cool, stained fingers slipping between the buttons of his shirt, releasing buttons from buttonholes as they moved down his body to his waist. He moaned at the sensation of her inquisitive tongue, probing the corner of his mouth for hidden juice, at the feeling of her breasts, her belly pressed against his skin as she bared it. And then the sharp splatter, the instant of resistance followed by a bursting liquid half second, the pressure of her thumb on his chest once, then twice, three times—pomegranate seeds she’d hidden in the palm of her other hand crushed one by one against his body.
“You’re getting juice everywhere,” he said softly, alarmed, slightly shocked, yet helpless.
“No, you are,” she replied and, looking down, he realized it was true. As if he’d been shot, trickles of red streaked his chest, his belly, their stain dripping down from concentrated bursts where the pulp and the white kernels clung. Juice soaked into his shirt, trailed tickling to his waistband where the dark hairs on his belly became mired in the stuff, slicked with the sweet tartness. She smiled at him, a naughty-girl smile, a knowing smile, the smile of a woman who knows it and does it and gets away with it anyway. “So it’s a good thing that you don’t mind.”
