by Violet Blue
And yet, I was starting to change my mind about that, because as I watched, Vincent stripped out of his clothes. Oh, he was so handsome—too handsome. I stared as he opened up a bottle of lube and poured a puddle into his palm. Lia began to strain against the bindings. I guess she’d thought he was simply going to fuck her. Vincent clearly had his own ideas.
“If you fight, things will go worse for you,” he said.
The finger, which had only been resting on my clit, began to make slow circles, as if with a mind of its own. I wasn’t telling myself to make those circles. I was doing no instructing at all.
I watched, mesmerized, as Vincent jacked his hand up and down his cock, getting the head and shaft all wet with the lube. Then he spread Lia’s asscheeks and ran his fingertips between them.
“No…” she murmured.
“Yes…” he responded.
I watched, swallowing hard, as Vincent got behind her on the bed and used both hands now to spread her asscheeks wide apart—as he pushed the head of his cock into what I could only guess was her tight little asshole.
Lia cried out. Vincent made soothing noises to her under his breath. I imagined him fucking me like that, envisioned him putting me over his lap and spanking my ass and then preparing me just as he was preparing her, and then… Oh, god, I was going to come. I was. Right there in the bathroom, no better than any other peeping Tom. I shut my eyes. I listened to her whimper, and I let myself go.
Quietly, as quietly as I possibly could, I slipped back to my room.
I was still telling myself that they didn’t have to know what I’d done, that there was no way they could force me to reciprocate.
But I didn’t believe me. I’ve never been a good liar.
In the morning, I didn’t leave my bed. I waited for both of my roommates to get dressed, make coffee and head off to their respective offices. Then I tiptoed my way down the hall to snag a cup of joe for myself. I was surprised by what I saw on the kitchen table.
A schoolgirl skirt.
Lia’s schoolgirl skirt.
Pinned to the hem was a note:
If you want to play, you have to dress the part.
What did that mean? Well, I knew what it meant. Put on the skirt if I wanted to have what happened to Lia happen to me. And I did. Sort of. I wanted Vincent to do all those naughty, nasty things to me. But I didn’t want Lia to have the pleasure of watching. So I was torn. And what if the skirt didn’t fit me?
I held up the red-and-black plaid. The hem reached only the tops of my thighs. This was barely long enough to be called a mini.
It wouldn’t hurt to try on the skirt. That wasn’t agreeing to anything. Nobody was home. I stripped off my yoga pants and slid on the skirt, buttoned the side. The skirt seemed even shorter once I had it on. But it fit.
I was about to take the thing off again, when I had second thoughts. Nobody would know if I wore the skirt for a little while. Nobody would know if I went into my bedroom, grabbed my vibrator and made myself come while I had the skirt on. Who would tell Vincent? The skirt? My dildo?
If I couldn’t participate in their little ménage à fuck, I could at least get off at the thought. I went to the bedroom and snagged my toy from the bedside table. With images from the previous night still fresh in my mind, I sprawled on the bed and started to touch myself. I worked slowly, not turning on the vibrator at first, just running the toy up and down between my legs, over my panties, pressing hard on my clit.
Finally, I turned on the motor and slid aside my panties. Oh, god, that felt good. The fabric of the skirt was a little scratchy against my bare thighs, and for some reason, I liked that. There was sex in this skirt. I thought of Lia wearing the naughty outfit. I thought of the way she’d looked when Vincent had punished her. I imagined being the one over his lap, feeling his hand drag up the hem, feeling his palm on my ass. I…
“Thought so.”
Jesus Christ.
Vincent was standing in the doorway of my bedroom. At first, I tried to feign indignation. But indignation—or anything else, for that matter—is a difficult emotion to slip into when you are spread-eagled on your bed with a toy in your twat.
“Don’t stop on my account.”
I stared at him and swallowed hard. I didn’t think I could make myself come while he was watching. And yet I didn’t think I could stop myself from coming regardless of who was watching. Even if that who turned out to be Lia, who stepped into the doorway next to him.
Damn.
“Keep going,” Lia said softly. “You look so pretty.”
What were they doing back? They were supposed to be at work! Lia took a step into the room, and I just stared. Was she going to say something snide, like always? Was she going to tell me that I wasn’t handling the vibrator correctly?
No, she sat on the edge of the bed and started to stroke my legs. I stared at her. Sure, she was beautiful. I’d always thought so. But the last few months had made her ugly in my mind. Such a know-it-all. And so bossy. Yet she wasn’t being bossy now, she was being helpful, her fingers running up and down my inner thighs.
“Why don’t you let Lia work the vibrator?”
That was Vincent. He was being helpful, too.
“I don’t think you should let her come yet,” Lia said, as if I’d agreed to something. As if we were all on the same page. “I think you should spank her first. She is wearing my skirt after all.”
My fingers clenched hard on the dildo. If the motorized toy had been human, it would have squealed in protest. Vincent smiled at me. “I think that’s a good idea,” he said and came toward the bed. Now was the time for me to flee. Now was the time for me to say, “Hell, no, you freaks. I don’t know what kind of a girl you think I am, but I’m not the kind who would willingly bend over her roommate’s lap and…”
Vincent had sat down in my desk chair. He was looking at me expectantly. Lia gently pried my fingers from around the vibrator and turned off the toy. They were both waiting for me. Meekly, I stood up and adjusted my panties, smoothed the wrinkles in the pleated skirt. I could still run. They wouldn’t expect that. I could turn on my heel and sprint down the hall to safety.
Vincent patted his lap. I walked to his side and lay down over his knees. He palmed my ass through the schoolgirl skirt and then gave me one practice spank. The fabric of my knickers and the plaid skirt muffled the sensation. He lifted the hem and then spanked me through my underwear. I continued to spin myself an imaginary story in which I told my roommates I wasn’t interested in playing naughty games with them, that I was perfectly happy in my loner lifestyle.
His hand came down harder, and I squealed. Damn, that hurt, but not as bad as the one that followed. When he started to pull my panties down, I squirmed on his lap.
“Don’t fight me,” he said, and his tone had gone menacing. “Things will go much harder for you if you do.”
Then my panties were down, and he was spanking me. For real. This is what a spanking felt like: pain and pain and more pain and the most undeniable sultry pleasure of all time. I had no idea anything could feel like this. The spanks stung, but my pussy responded in the craziest way. I could feel the pulse between my legs. Vincent seemed to understand, because after delivering a volley of blows, he let his fingertips probe between my pussy lips, and he came up with a wealth of wetness.
“Look at that, Lia,” he said, “she’s all drippy.”
Lia strode forward. “Can I taste?”
I assumed she was licking my juices off his fingers. But then he spread my thighs wide apart, and I felt her tongue directly on me. On my clit. I was undone. Lia’s sweet tongue made darting circles around my clit. Her face was thrust between my legs. I could not catch my breath. The sensation was overwhelming. My hot ass. Her darling tongue. Vincent’s hands stroking my hair. But before I could come, Vincent said, “Let’s move to the bed.”
He lifted me up and carried me—not to my bed but to his. Before I could say a word, he had me bound, as he’d ha
d her bound. I was still wearing a T-shirt and that magic skirt. But before he tied my ankles, he pulled my panties all the way off.
“Do you want to let her come once?” he asked Lia. “Before I fuck her ass?”
No, no, no, no, no! my mind screamed. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, replied my body.
“Please,” Lia murmured. Then she was back between my thighs, suckling and nipping and licking until I could take no more.
“I’m going to…” I started.
“Of course, you are,” said Vincent. Lia didn’t move her mouth from me until the contractions subsided. And then Vincent took her place. I felt the lube. I felt his cock. I closed my eyes.
“Look at me,” Lia said. She was sitting in front of me now, stroking my curls from my forehead. “Stare at me while he fucks you.”
“It’s going to hurt.”
“It always does,” she agreed. “But then…”
And Vincent pressed forward. I could feel his cock stretching me open. I could feel the pain sear through me. Almost immediately, the pleasure followed, at being filled, at being taken, at having been punished.
“You like it,” Lia breathed. “Oh, god, girl. You like it.”
I did. There was no denying. Vincent pounded into me, and I cried out. Lia moved to the side of our bodies, and she slid a hand under me, so that each time I ground my hips forward, I was grinding against her knuckles. When Vincent came, emptying himself into me, I came, too. Hard. On Lia’s hand.
Then I collapsed, tied to his bed, demolished by my two roommates. Lia undid the bindings. Vincent undressed me and wrapped me up in one of his sheets. We all lay there on the bed, stunned and pleased—but far from finished.
“You ought to punish Lia next,” I said to Vincent as he threw his arm around me.
“Why?”
I gazed at my roommate. “She’s wearing my shoes.”
TRICKS
Lola Olson
The dress was far too short for me. I knew that well. The hem rode up my thigh every four or five steps I took. I tried to walk slowly, balancing dangerously on the tall heels on my feet. It was obvious to anyone looking that I had no idea what on earth I was doing in them and how I managed to make more than five steps easily was anybody’s guess.
I bundled myself as best I could in the small jacket that barely covered my chest. The red dress was as busty as it was short, and a small blush surfaced on my cheeks when I realized anyone watching could see glimpses of my cleavage as easily as they could my fishnet stockings. Keeping my pace steady, I walked through the brisk air toward the street corner where I knew he would be. Short brown hair and blue eyes, my friend had told me. She wouldn’t tell how she found him or where she met him, but when I told her what I was looking for, she assured me he was it.
When I reached the right block, my stomach sank. He wasn’t there. The spot was empty. All of this preparation, my overdramatic makeup, these wretched heels, the risk I ran to walk up and down the street looking like this…everything I had done for nothing. Tilting on my heel and nearly falling over for the fifteenth time, I spotted a figure in an alleyway highlighted by a small red cigarette spark.
My heartbeat raced when I saw a flicker of red light fall to the ground. Summoning the best of my courage, I opened my jacket and walked toward the spark as sexily as I could muster. Smelling his cologne as I stepped closer, I heard my voice tremble when I said, “Hello, Officer.”
His cigarette fell to the street and he stepped forward in the light. He was exactly as she described him, but better. He tilted his black hat at me, revealing some of his brown hair. His eyes twinkled at me as he smiled. “Can I help you, Madame?”
I wondered if he could see my face turn red as goose bumps peppered my cleavage. I couldn’t decide if I wanted him to or not. Grabbing at courage from somewhere I couldn’t fathom, I stuck my chest out farther and winked at him. “I was wondering if I could help you actually, Officer.” Hearing the words coming out of my mouth heated my cheeks. They felt as ridiculous as they sounded.
“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Madame.”
“What I mean to say is,” I began, dropping my short jacket on the ground, “I would be glad to help you.” I slid my hands over his vest, pushing my knee in between his legs, “for the right price of course.”
He pulled away quickly, looking at me with widened eyes, a reaction I expected. I could tell by the folded lines on his brow that whatever he was feeling was a mixture of disgust, shock and something I could and would definitely enjoy putting my finger on.
“Madame, you’re operating under some huge misconceptions,” he said.
“Am I?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said firmly.
“That’s not what I heard,” I said, overcoming my fear slowly but surely. The more I was playing the part, the more I felt it.
“Is that a fact?”
“It is. I heard you got around with lots of us. I heard you were known for that, actually,” I said.
He grabbed me suddenly, pulling me away from where the alley opened into the street and back into the dark, shoving me against the wall, bricks scraping my skin slightly. He held me by my forearms against the wall, anger coloring his cheeks.
“You heard wrong,” he said, an edge coating his voice.
“Did I?” I said, trying to seem unfazed by the sudden force of the exchange. The waver of my voice and the heat building beneath my skirt hinted that I was very, very fazed.
“Yes,” he said, tightening his grip. “I’m an upstanding man of the law.”
A thought scurried through my mind and made me smile and I knew the perfect thing to say.
“What are you laughing at?” he said threateningly.
“Well,” I began, giving him my best smile, “I heard you were upstanding but…in quite the different way.” I started to laugh a little when his eyebrows furrowed. He yanked me from the wall, pulled my wrists to my lower back and pushed me down the alleyway. The cool air rushed past my legs as I walked through the darkness until I felt a roughness on my thighs near my knees that felt like corduroy fabric. He shoved me down face-first into a cushy pillow covered by it. I realized as I heard the clank of metal that he had me bent over the arm of some two-seated sofa…a bad smelling two-seated sofa.
“You’re going to pay for that,” he said, wrapping the cold steel around my wrists, binding my arms back. The seconds seemed like minutes when he released me, and I couldn’t feel the warmth of his rough pants on the back of my legs. If I could have balled my wrists into the rough fabric my face was scratching against, I would have. The anticipation pooled in my stomach and seeped toward my groin. Even though my legs were tightly shut and straight so I could maintain what little balance I had, I knew I was getting wet.
I felt a knee shoved roughly between my legs. “Spread,” he said softly but harshly. I felt the air hit my thighs when he shoved up my red dress, then nothing again for a while, not even any clinking metal sounds. My heartbeat drummed in my ears slowly as I waited. I wanted to beg, but I didn’t know what I should be begging for.
I inhaled sharply when the first blow hit where my thighs met my ass and then again when another blow striped across it in the center, nearing the bone and sending a wave of pain that splayed white across the backs of my eyelids.
“Got any other clever words?” he asked from behind me, swinging the baton and inching farther toward the bone. “Any more clever quips for me, whore?”
The metal of the baton felt cool against my thighs for brief periods between the snapping and clicking strokes. Even if I had wanted to speak, my breath was gone. He landed several more blows before he paused. “Have you had enough, slut?” I caught my breath again and cracked a smile. When the pain dulled its constant throbbing, I felt a throbbing of a different kind. A small breeze brushed across my ass, reminding me of how hot his baton had made me. My red dress must’ve looked so wrinkled and my thong displaced.
“I haven’t actually,” I said, rev
eling in the long inhales I had taken. “I think I want more.”
Just as I finished speaking, I felt the baton snap again against my ass. The throbbing pain began to match the pulses of blood that had to be pumping through my labia and clit. I could feel them growing warm under the assault. The beating stopped when a low moan ghosted out of my mouth, and I would have given anything to see his expression. He paused before he roughly shoved the loose material of my panties aside, digging his fingers into me, spreading my wetness around. I heard him inhale sharply. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he said angrily. “You’re getting off on it like some twisted, dirty whore.”
His fingers felt electric under my labia, swirling around and seeming anything but disgusted. He paused, resting on my clit before pushing against it, firmly and quickly, making me moan again at the sudden speed. “Yes,” I said, both at his statement and at the motions of his hand, moaning again when he pulled away. He traced his hands farther up my thigh, yanking down the tacky tights I had picked out the week before. They had been wrapped in cheap plastic, hanging on a rack in the store. When I bought them I felt a tingling mix of embarrassment and anticipation as I stood at the cash register in my business casual clothes. What would everyone in my office think if they saw me in these tacky fishnet tights? I stuck my ass out at the feeling as he shoved the tights down to my ankles, pulling them off my feet.
“If you’re going to act like a whore, I’m going to treat you like one,” he said roughly, before shoving my thighs apart. I tried to find footing on the ground as I heard him unzip his pants. My arms were growing sore and the pattern of the rough corduroy felt etched into my face. I wasn’t prepared to feel his cock against my ass so quickly, while my thong was still barely on. It felt as warm as my ass did. “Do you like this?” he asked me, reaching up, twisting my thong in his hands, “Or do you want more?”
I didn’t even wait for a pause. “More, please,” I said quickly, while he pulled my thong slowly down. “What was that?” he said. My underwear fell to the ground as he pulled my hips farther away from the couch my face went down, buried in the fabric. It smelled even riper than before, but it was the last sense I was focusing on. He pushed his cock underneath me, so it was sliding up and down my labia. “Say it,” he said, “Louder.”
