Then I’m gonna put my knife right up under the softest part of her jaw and tell her she better stop. Pull my cock out slow and rub it all over her face, make it all shiny and slick. Tell her how pretty she is.
Gonna pull her up by her hands and spin her around. Take the belt off her and wrap it around my fist. Slap the end up against her pussy and make her lick it clean. Then I’m gonna wrap it around her neck, just tight enough to make her think. Gonna twist my hand away, making it hard for her to breathe, and tell her to bend over, tell her to reach down and spread that ass for me. Gonna tell her she better hope she got it good and wet, ’cuz I’m ready for a ride. Make her brace her hands against the wall and step in, wrapping my hands around her stomach, pulling her up against me. Gonna go so deep, she feels my jeans against her ass.
Yeah, girl like that makes me want to fuck her down and dirty, slow and deep and long enough to make my brain take a vacation. Want to fuck her till all I see is red, all I hear is my cock pumping in and out of her. I want to take her breath away from her and just long enough to make her struggle, feeling how she moves on me, then let her go, fucking her in time with the way she’s gonna be gasping for air.
And I’m gonna save the best for last. Gonna save that sweet little asshole till I feel her pussy clamping down on me, till I feel her thigh muscles start to shake. Gonna wait till I know she’s almost there. That’s when I’ll step back a little, pull her away from the wall, push her head down so she’s bent over with her ass up in the air. That’s when I’m gonna take her, for real, because there ain’t nothing like feeling all of a big old cock working its way in to make a girl give it up. And that’s what I’m gonna do, gonna make that girl give it all up to me, like she ain’t never done before. Gonna stand there with my boots on and slide my cock into her sweet ass and out again till I know she’s feeling every goddamn inch of it. Ain’t gonna give it to her proper till she begs.
And I guaren-damn-tee she will. Because I’m gonna be that girl’s back door man. Gonna fuck that sweet ass of hers until we both get to grunting and hollering and doing it nasty like she ain’t never had it before. Till she don’t know up from down from sideways and I got her heartbeat right there in the palm of my hand. ’Cuz a girl like that brings out the best in me.
Nylon
Karin Pomerantz
I like the way the light catches the edge of a sharp, serrated blade out of the corner of my eye. I like the way it sparkles like a diamond or something a girl is supposed to like. I like to watch it come closer, unable to move for fear of where it will land. I like putting my faith in your hands. I like being out of control and teased with the possibility of disaster. I like that.
I like being backed into a corner and seeing the look in the eye of my lover. The look of a starved beast. The look of desire and passion and wanting and anger. The look that only I can bring to your eyes. The one that says, “you’re in for it tonight.”
I like it when you get to your knees and run first your fingers, then the tip of your knife up and down the inside of my thigh. I like the way the sharp tip of the blade digs into the soft flesh around where my legs meet my ass. My eyes roll back as I feel the full length of the blade against me inching its way toward that place that knives should never go. That soft vulnerable place that my mother and your mother told us never to touch.
I especially like it when that shiny blade cut a small hole right through the nylon. Just large enough so that I could feel the air, but not so large that I could feel you. Just the little tip of your little finger trying to inch its way toward me being blocked by a layer of synthetic material. But you push your way in, don’t you? You push your way past the nylon and into me. You’re not surprised there’s nothing under there. You know I never wear panties under my nylons.
One little finger sweeps past my clit. Not too much on me, but just enough to make me purr. “Yeah,” you hear me say, and that is when you change your tune. You stop being so genteel and so kind. That’s when you get to the part that I really want. That is when you give me what I like so much about you.
“Yeah?” you respond, and you hook that little innocent finger into the hole you made, and you pull. You pull down on that nylon between my legs, and we both feel it come away. The tearing sounds unlike cotton or any natural fiber. It tears hard, and the sound isn’t sexy, just raw.
You push me back, don’t you? From your position on your knees on the floor, you push me back into the counter. You watch me stumble on my heels and recompose myself before you can take full control. You watch me flounder, and a smile like the devil’s comes over you. That’s what you like, isn’t it?
And slowly you stand. One foot, then the other, rising to your full height, puffing yourself up, trying to impress. Don’t you know I’m already impressed? But you don’t really care about that do you? You do have a supreme ego, and you use it as a shield to cover what we both know you are to me. Don’t you?
My hands lay flat on the countertop behind me as I thrust my hips and my chest out just enough to catch your attention. You look me up and down. Like you’ve never seen me like this before. But you have, haven’t you? Often enough to know exactly what I’m looking to you for and often enough to want to give it to me over and over again.
You, all arrogant, take a step closer. Just one. Just enough to let me know in which direction you’re heading. I think for a moment to smile, but I know what response that would elicit, so I don’t. I keep my thoughts in my head and keep silent and stone. You can’t read me. You think you can sometimes, but you can’t. I don’t let you. Even after all this time. I won’t let you into that place that you so much want to see. I won’t go there, but you, in all your splendor and glory, you try as you might to get there. With your hands, with your face, with the shiny steel between your fingers.
One more step and you hover right in front of me. You know I like it when you tease me with your body, your mouth. You know I like that. Standing just inches from me but not extending a hand to touch me. Just a gaze. Almost a glare. And I close my eyes awaiting your arrival on my mouth, but you leave me there. Leave me waiting for you the way you know I like. The way you know that makes me crazy.
“Stay,” you say as you turn and walk out of the room. “Don’t move.” I am left alone in silence and impending darkness. The light from the window is starting to fade, and it casts an eerie sort of a shadow on the vinyl flooring. You know I’ll wait. You know I will do anything to elicit from you what I want. But you also know I don’t have to.
You return shortly. But nothing seems to have changed. Not the look in your eye. Not the lump in your jeans. Not the steel in your hand. You left and returned the same. Only I have changed. In my mind I have been playing out the next hour or two or three, and all that has changed is my pussy. My cunt, my snatch that was barely wet moments ago, is now throbbing with the need for you.
“Come,” you say. And I do. “Turn around,” you say. And I do.“Bend over,”you say.And I do.I bend at the waist and hold myself as steady as I can on my heels. With no support. You still have not laid a hand on me. There are no walls to hold me up, only my tired legs and my distorted sense of balance.
With my back to you I hear the click of your knife, the snap as it straightens into place, and my stomach jumps. Jumps from where it can be found on a daily basis to that place just below my heart where it goes when I’m inching toward ecstasy.
You’re back on your knees behind me. I like it when you get on your knees for me. I never know what you’re going to do when you’re there. The nylon, still mostly whole, covers my legs. It is stubborn and does not want to be removed. You, blade in hand, press the sharp edge against my ass and run it down the back of my leg, tracing down the nylon as though you were tracing a seam. First one leg. Then the other. They snag, but they are stubborn, like me, and do not come off.
You take that steel blade that has not served you well this time, snap it closed, and thrust it into your pocket so that it can’t disappoint yo
u any longer. You reach up to the hole you made all that time ago between my legs, and you spread it even wider. First one hand, then two tearing through what covers me. It does not come off entirely, but you have what you want. The smell of sex hits us both like a semi; its ripe dampness like a blessing. It knocks you off your knees, balanced so precariously behind me. You weren’t expecting something so pungent. You hadn’t accounted for the way a pussy smells after it’s been in nylon all day.
Your hand touches me ever so softly, brushes past the soft, well-trimmed hairs of my lips, and creates a whirl of sensation within me. I can’t see you or what you are doing, but I can sense that your head is close to my ass, and I know what’s coming next. Your tongue comes out and licks at the underside of my ass, just moistening me up enough to feel the chill in the winter air. I think to mention the potential result of cold air on my ass but am quickly distracted by your tongue, mouth, and teeth all playing softly with my ass, inner thighs, and clit. Your gentle nature does not last long, and soon the softness of your mouth on me turns to hard biting and nipping. I wince with the pleasure at the pain, my knees lock, and my thighs tighten. “Relax,” you say. I don’t. “I said relax,” you say, “or I’ll stop.” I let myself go, just one small bit, but find that my balance is even more difficult to maintain now that my head is swooning with my scent and the feeling of your teeth.
You stand slowly, and as you do, drag your mouth up over my back biting lightly all along your path. When you get to your full height, I can feel your warm breath on the back of my neck. I can smell your cologne and the whisky and cigarettes on your breath. The smell that is only you. That stirs something inside me and has since the day I first saw you strutting your stuff in that dingy girl bar. You reach over my shoulder and take my face in your hand. You pull my cheek toward you and plant a kiss on it. A soft kiss made rough by your chapped lips. “You are such a pretty thing,” you say “such a pretty thing.”
You spin me around and for one brief moment look me in the eye and grin. Then your hand flies. A snap, and all I can feel is the imprint of your hand on my cheek. “Get on your knees, girl,” you say, and I do. It doesn’t take long before your hands move to unfasten the heavy silver buckle which closes your thick, black leather belt. You pull it from around your waist, grab it with both hands, and stretch it across the back of my neck. With one hand in the middle of my neck over the leather, you hold my head down; with the other you unbutton your faded jeans, reach inside, and pull out your cock. Your cock, always hard, hangs directly in front of my face, but you forbid me to touch it. You forbid me to take it in my mouth and suck. You make me wait. With your hand still on the back of my neck, and my face angled down, you make me wait.
“You want to suck me, don’t you?” you ask. I know better than to answer. “I asked you a question, girl. Answer me.” And with that, the hand that was releasing you comes under my chin, lifts my head, and stings my cheek, all before I can think to form an answer. “I said answer me.”
“Yes, sir,” I manage to mutter. Although the hard floor is beginning to hurt my delicate knees and my feet are starting to throb from having been packed into shoes all day, I take you in my mouth and suck. I take you all the way into my throat, the way I know you like. I know you like to watch me suck you off. First the head with my lips and tongue, I circle around you, feeling you feel me. Then I move slowly down you, nodding just slightly and opening my mouth wider to accommodate your size. Deliberately and agonizingly I move down your shaft until I have your entirety in my mouth. “That’s it, girl,” I hear you say, but your voice is barely audible over the sound of your cock beating against the back of my throat. Saliva starts to ooze from the corners of my mouth and down my chin. You keep your hand on the back of my neck.
You start to rock on your heels. Back and forth pushing yourself deeper into my mouth. Deeper and deeper until I gag a bit. Not too much because I know you won’t be happy about that. And you push in farther. Faster into one hole when really it’s the other that wants you. The one getting cold from the hard, vinyl floor.
You pull out, take my chin in your hand, and lift my head up. No words are exchanged, only a look from you that says something like “follow me,” but something else like “careful, girl.” You turn, and I follow. You know I’d follow you anywhere, but you also know I don’t have to. You sit and pull me onto you. Not onto your lap really but onto your cock. My back to you. Your one hand maneuvers yourself under and into me, and the other reaches behind you. I know what you’re doing, and you know I know.
I suck in air hard through my teeth as you enter me. From behind but not really. Through the hole you made in me, that part of you that just left my mouth became a part of me. My cunt opens for you. Wide. One of your arms wraps tightly around my belly to keep me pumping. There is no resting, no stopping. Keep the motion going. Out of the corner of my eye I can see it again, the glimmer and sparkle as the last remaining bit of sunlight hits your pointed steel.
Moving from my belly to my mouth, your hand repositions itself with rapidness and stealth. All I can taste is the sweat on the palm of your hand. To keep me silent. To keep me from uttering any sound when that knife of yours is raised to my neck.
I can feel the sharp edge dig into the soft side of my chin as I raise and lower myself onto you. Pumping and fucking harder and harder, I can taste the salt on your hands and the blood that soon may be oozing from my skin. I bite my lips to keep silent; I bite your hand to keep you there. I like to feel you under me, my weight and the weight of my sex burdening you. Your attitude summed up with a flick of your wrist and the click of your knife. I like it when you threaten me. I like it when you hurt me. I like it when you make it sting, but you also know I don’t have to.
The First Time
Laura Antoniou
The first time I was bound, she wound strips of a mutilated white cotton nightdress around each wrist, chiding me for my rude behavior. How dare I make fun of her exquisite gowns, delicately edged in lace, gathered slightly below the bodice and sweeping to cover my feet while floating above her own delicate ankles. I’d laughed at them, these gently worn, sensual garments of such feminine intensity that I could not even imagine them near my skin, unless they were clinging to her body, then pressed next to mine. But wear such a thing? No, not I.
When she picked up the scissors, I laughed aloud and shivered in mock fear. When she made the first cut, just below the neckline, I started to reach for her, to stop her from destroying such a pretty thing. But her arms tightened, and all the concentration in her eyes pinned me to the bed. I had to watch her rip through the thin cotton, making ragged, long tears that rapidly became strips of anonymous white material, ethereal yet stronger than I might have guessed.
I pulled one hand away, testing her fortitude, and she slapped me with an imperious look. It was delicious. I let her bring my hands together, wrapping them around with one strip, and then across with another; then I relaxed back onto her rich linen sheets and hand-embroidered pillowcases.
I let her touch me, smiling and sighing between the giggles, and reached for her as if to fight, aching for the strips to be tighter, to keep my hands above my head so there was no way I could impede her progress as she continued to make her points with maddeningly light slaps to my body. I reared up once, to kiss her, and she pushed me back as easily as I could push her slight body around and yes, I let her.
I wanted to see what she was going to do.
Because no one had bound me before.
But we were young and shy and the boldness we showed on stage and in the dark corners behind the scenery vanished into the awkwardness of authentic intimacy. She reared back herself, and during the silence, we both made our decisions. We were apart before long, and she remained a sharp reminder of the dangers of straight women, the perfidy of femmes. And she made me hunger for shadows of her for years, until at last I laid myself down for a woman in a gown, and sighed in perfect release and abandon.
Or, maybe i
t didn’t happen that way at all, maybe I imagined it.
Because the first time I was bound, it was to my own bed, by a man younger than I; he was an aching, beautiful boy, expertly instructed and coached by the one who knew exactly what she wanted. He danced and ran and shook his body in delight, never still, never at repose, even when he snuggled up to me in the coldest moments of the night. He grinned when I sought his eyes and told him it was time, and he eagerly handled my toys and used them in careful progression, making me crazy with need and then falling on me with a passion so pure it had to be exactly as he claimed—virginal. We gave each other a sacrifice that year, cutting into ourselves and handing over the warm, moist parts that were our secret passions.
I bared myself for him, and he bared himself to me. He struck me with all his youthful strength, and crammed folded towels in my mouth to muffle the cries, and held onto me later, when his body twitched in a sleep without rest. He didn’t tease, couldn’t know how to tease, and so he satisfied me fully, and made me feel that I might actually have a way to fulfill this desperate need in me.
I knew precisely what he was going to do; I was his instructor.
I needed to be in charge; no one had ever bound me before.
And so he knew where the tools were, and knew exactly the kinds of stimulation I wanted, where, how often, for how long. I was in absolute control of my tender young faggot, my sweet lonely lover, and was able to surrender to my passions, if not to him.
Or maybe it didn’t happen that way at all.
Because, really, the first time I was bound, it was by a stranger. A tall, powerful woman who could have lived my life twice with time to spare. She buckled worn, leather cuffs onto my wrists and locked them in place and slapped me, hard. I could not look at her while she completed the rituals that transformed her from the rough-voiced seducer in a crowded and smoky bar into the sleek, silken seductress who could charm the most frightened young woman into a very dangerous game. I knew the proper words to say and the proper games to play, but still I went with her to a place I did not know, leaving no one behind to call for me, or to know into whose hands I had given myself.
Best of the Best Lesbian Erotica Page 11
