And then there are the accessories. He’s found my jewellery box and draped himself in more glittering paste and coloured plastic than I ever remember buying, including some Art Deco-ish snap-on diamante earrings, clunky jet beads in strings and strings around his neck, and a funny gold fabric flower clipped into his ever more wild-looking hair.
He stands up straight as he shows himself to me, like a finishing-school student balancing a book on her head, and meets my eye, proud of his concoction. Very proud – I can see his cock jutting, rude and incongruous, from underneath the taut fabric of the scarf. He raises one eyebrow and says, ‘Well?’
‘One thing you’re missing.’ I reach down, unbuckle the green shoes and skim them across the room to him. I’m pretty sure they’ll fit – I have biggish feet and they’re roomy on me.
He looks very pleased as he reaches down and takes them. I stare at him, hardly breathing, as he slips the shoes on and slowly adjusts each ankle strap, his legs dead straight and his bum jutting in a Hollywood-starlet pose. Wow.
When he straightens up he looks at me again, and his posture’s changed. The heels of the shoes have made him cock his hips, stick out his bum, pose for me. One stray dark curl is tumbling into his perfectly co-ordinated green eyes. ‘So,’ he says, slowly, ‘how do I look?’
‘Inspiring.’
No time at all later, Thomas, still in his finery, is tied down on my bed. He’s struggling a little, but I know my restraints well, they give a little, but nowhere near enough for him to get free. But they are safe and secure enough to allow him some wiggle room. And I like it when they wiggle.
He’s face-down. Face-up or face-down is always such a hard decision, but I went for face-down, on his stomach. Maybe I did that because I almost always used to choose face-up with David; I could never resist doing nasty things to David’s nipples, either with my fingers or my teeth or with tiny metal clamps. It appealed to my sense of utter fucked-up-ness to inflict cruel sensations on one of the few sexual parts of David’s body that were unscathed, as sensitive as ever they were. And it appealed to that warped part of my brain even more to watch how he moved his sculpted torso away from the biting silver teeth as I brought them nearer – straining against the restraints imposed on his body by both me and heartless nature, yet so clearly wanting the pain they promised, down to the last strands of his DNA. That was so David. Pretending not to ache for the pain when his whole body was screaming for it, gooseflesh dancing over his inner arms, blood flushing his cheeks, neck, chest, breath so shallow, so needy as he tried to hide his shameful desires in flat, empty, emotionless words like ‘no’ and ‘Mary’ and ‘please’. Especially ‘please’. The ‘please, don’t’ that we both knew was ‘please, do’, ‘please, more’, ‘please, oh, god, please’.
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, Thomas isn’t like David. Thomas is greedy and wanton (and currently gift-wrapped). And Thomas is on his front, arched over a couple of pillows, so his luminescent arse is twinkling at me, his glorious summit.
‘You’ve been a very bad boy. A dirty boy,’ I say, gentle and soft as I reach out and run my hand over that single laws-of-mathematics-defying curve.
‘Uh, are you going to spank me?’ he says, sexily, but also sounding rather pleased about the prospect, which is a bit strange. Very un-David-like. David would rather put his balls in a vice than admit that he might, just slightly, like something as humiliating as being spanked. But that, exactly that, is one of the things that made David so perfect for me.
Not that Thomas won’t do. Thomas is far too pretty to be considered a booby prize.
‘Do you want me to spank you?’
There is still something sexy about his slutty needing-it shtick sometimes. Like now, when he says, ‘Please, spank me. Please. I need you to. I’m such a bad boy. I deserve it.’ And then drops his voice to the lowest of the low when he says, ‘Hurt me.’
So pretty. I mean, as tired and worn out a cliché as they come, but, yeah, so pretty. I move closer and slip a soft leather blindfold over his eyes. Even prettier now.
And then I give it just a few beats. Just enough for my silence to unnerve him and make him say, ‘You are going to spank me, aren’t you?’
I press my lips against his ear. ‘Yes. I. Am.’
He pulls his breath in. Hard. I let him flutter for a moment and then go on. ‘I am going to spank you for dressing up like such a filthy little slut.’
And there’s the first stroke. Quick, no build-up, right on his eager, elegant arse. He yelps, as well he might, and that little sound makes my clit turn itself on, just like that. Flick. Like a light switch. Ooh, nice noises. It’s going to be far too wonderful if he’s going to make those pathetic noises every time.
‘I am also going to spank you for getting a hard cock when you are dressed up like a slut.’
I hit him again. A shade harder. He cries out and tugs at the leather straps around his wrists. He tries to turn his head and look at me, but although his head turns just fine, the blindfold stops him seeing what might be coming next. ‘Mary?’ he says, and just leaves that hanging for a moment. Then, ‘Mary? Please.’
I bend down and whisper again. ‘That was just a little warm-up. A tester. Now I’m going to give you your proper punishment. Ten, I think. And I want you to be a good boy for me and keep quiet.’
I see every muscle in his arse go tense.
Making him try to keep quiet is using a little bit of perverse psychology on myself. I love the noises he makes, but I will love them even more if he’s trying not to make them.
For the first one, the first slap, ringing and hard enough to hurt my hand, he is stoic and silent. And he keeps this up as I spank his quivering, reddening arse three more times.
Then, for the fifth stroke, I hit him a little harder and he can’t hold back an ‘Ahh!’ followed by a ‘sorry’. That makes me squirm on the spot because it’s so delicious to hear it all released like that. Plus the apology, oh god, the apology is pure sugar-rush icing.
I climb on to the bed and straddle his upper thighs, inching my hands under the artfully draped peacocky fabric.
‘Oh dear me, was that sore? Your poor skin does feel a little heated.’ And it does. Oh, wow. It’s blazing nastily. My palm is feeling the sting too – time for a little change of tack. ‘But I’m afraid I did tell you to keep quiet, so I’m going to have to be strict now, which means no more of this little luxury.’ I wrench the slippery fabric away from his sore skin, leaving him bare, gasping with excitement/humiliation/trepidation, and drop my head almost instantly to run my tongue along the perfect dark seam of his arse, revealed like a precious reward. Mmm. He tastes like burnt sugar and the bottom of the sea, and the sudden pheromone hit is almost enough to make me come right there.
‘And,’ I say, as I come up for air to hear him still groaning with pleasure from that one fleeting piece of tongue action, ‘I’m afraid your bad-boy behaviour means I won’t be using my hand any more either.’
The paddle is ready on the bedside table, because I knew very well I wouldn’t be able to do all I wanted with my hand. Not if I didn’t want my palm to hurt every bit as much as poor Thomas’s arse.
Luckily the paddle I own is perfect for the job in hand (so to speak). It’s a nice simple little thing.
Now, I’m no toy fetishist. Even when I was working and had the money I didn’t go in for spending heaps of cash on sexy bits and pieces made from rainforest-endangering exotic woods, or various bits of dead animal – listen to me saving the planet, dear old Carrie would be proud.
Anyway, I got this little paddle from a second-hand stall at a monthly kink market in Bristol. It’s just made of wood, smoothed by a history of careful wear and decorated with two heart-shaped holes. It’s simple and classic and I like the fact that it had a life before me. It has a history I don’t even know about. And its secret history is about to get a new chapter.
I reposition myself slightly to give me room to swing my weapon of choice
, and then I slap his naked arse with the paddle. He yells, helpless to keep quiet under this new – firmer, harsher – assault, and bucks against the straps. Oh god, such a pretty move, it really is hurting him. I swallow hard, rub my legs together a little, hoping that Thomas remembers a conversation we had a million years ago about safe words, and hit him again.
He yells again on the second stroke. Screams on the third. I am such a hard-edged sadist sometimes – all the time. I bathe in his pain, it’s delicious. It makes my clit buck and pulse between my legs. But I do keep control. I am a good little dominatrix and I behave myself. But it’s hard. The Wicked Witch of the West in me wants to let rip as his screams get louder, wants to forget about limits and quotas and numbers and safe words, and just see how hard I can hit him, how loud I can make him scream.
But, as I’m in good-girl mode, Thomas’s punishment doesn’t last long. Well, not as long as I would like, but plenty long enough for a naive little novice like him. It’s with a heart full of regret that I deliver the fifth and final stroke with the paddle.
Each blow, with its ringing, smacking sound and answering yelp of helpless pain, has brought me closer and closer to the edge. But I want more. I want something more – something else – before I give myself over to the blinding force of orgasm. I want more of delicious, dirty, needing-it Thomas.
I dip my head and place the tip of my tongue at the very top of the groove that runs down his arse. And then I make a couple of gentle nudges, venturing a little further down each time.
Thomas moans. He lifts his hot, sore arse higher, trying to get my tongue to venture down lower, deeper inside him. That dark pheromoney taste is still there, getting stronger. Sweet and salt.
My heart starts to beat faster. Oh! I love this so much! I love making them scream from both sides. Pleasure and pain.
And the further I push my way inside Thomas the more I think of that first time with David. That time when I did precisely this, not knowing what would happen. Not knowing, even, if he could get hard. And not knowing what I would think if he couldn’t. Not knowing if that would turn me on. Just doing it. Still pressing inside him because it felt right, and because I could sense him responding to me like a musical instrument. I could feel him almost becoming a part of me. Like an extension of me. And then reaching around him – just like I’m doing with Thomas right now – and finding him hard and wet and desperate, thrusting against the bedclothes.
Thomas is hard too. It’s not quite the same as it was with David. I don’t feel the same shattering symbiosis, but it is very, very good.
And then before I know it, sudden and sharp, Thomas is coming, pulling me out of my David-inspired reverie and into the moment. The moment where Thomas is screaming, tied down on the bed and still wearing a blindfold, his arse red and smarting, and then drenched in cascading pleasure. It’s a beautiful thing, and I ride the wave with him until he crashes down the other side into a messy, blurry heap of restrained, straining limbs and far, far too much hair.
And all I need now is a perfect orgasm for me, like a full stop, to finish this whole glorious mess off. And I have the perfect thing in mind.
Before Thomas has fully recovered from his own trembling peak, I untie and undress him. He’s still not coherent enough for orders, so to get him where I want him I use the universal language of gestures and brute force, tangling a hand in his big hair and yanking him off the bed on to the floor. I manage to get him into a kneeling position before snapping his wrists back into the cuffs and smiling down at him.
I bend at the waist to give him a slow and reassuring kiss. Then I pull away from him, step back and strap the delicious shiny green shoes back on to my own feet.
I love the way the heels on these shoes make me feel. I stand in front of Thomas, leaning back against the bedroom wall, the dark glossy curls of my pubic hair only centimetres from his face.
Thomas is a bit more with it by now. He looks at me and gives an I-get-it grin and leans forward, reaching for me with his tongue. I love it when they make that mistake.
Before his tongue reaches its destination, I push him away, tangling my hands again in his gloriously messy bird’s-nest hair. And I push down. Because some things never get old. I push his head right down as far as I can, until it almost touches the floor, and then I raise my left foot and place it gently between his shoulder blades. Holding him in place, kneeling, prostrate, with my beautiful glistening right shoe just in front of him. And, novice though he might be, he can hardly say he doesn’t know what to do.
Thomas reaches out with his tongue again, but this time his destination is my glossy green toe. His tongue shines the leather once again, over and over, until it glistens and sparkles.
When I feel perfectly pretty, I take my left foot off his back and hook my toe under his chin. I lift his head a little and encourage that clever tongue to start lapping at my right ankle.
He seems to know what I want immediately and he gets it so right. He makes delicate kittenish flicks around the place on my ankle where the round bone protrudes and slides frictionlessly across the front of my shin, ticklish and delicate, half making me want to pull away and half making me want to scream for more.
But I fight both urges down and keep still and quiet until he begins to move onwards, upwards. Up my left leg he glides, not quite going straight but snaking from side to side. I look down at his face as he works. His concentration. His glistening tongue. His lips, pillowy and pretty-pink. His eyes are half closed, reverent. He’s so into it – so into me.
He passes my knee and takes a detour, sliding across a little so he’s on the inside, skating up my inner thigh where the skin is thin and delicate. His progress almost burns.
I’m panting now. Wanting to feel his hot mouth on my cunt so much. So greedy and eager that it suddenly overwhelms me, and I interrupt his graceful progress to grab him by the hair – that hair, so made for this kind of cruelty – and force his face hard against me. And then I literally grind myself into him. We’re so close and intimate like this that I can feel everything – his caught breath, his surprise and confusion, and his arousal.
Right now, over and above everything else, my clit is like a sparkling, over-sensitised point of light and heat. When his tongue grazes it it’s too much. I yelp and manage to say, ‘No, lower down. In me.’ And I push at his head a little. His tongue responds to my commands and winds its way further down, deeper and down. He finds a new angle and slides just the tip inside.
I cry out. Twisting and desperate because he is so right there. That is it. That. Is. It.
The wall behind me suddenly seems to be very smooth and very cool. My legs feel wobbly, like columns of water, incapable of supporting my weight. My head tilts back. I’m just not in control of my body anymore.
His tongue finds that spot inside me again and just grazes it. I yell and push his head harder between my legs. I buck against him. Riding him. Forcing him deeper, closer, harder. And when I come, I lose it so much that it’s only his body pressing against me that keeps me upright.
After that, I finally do let him go. It’s the least I can do. I release him from the handcuffs and collapse on the bed, still buzzing, and watch him dress in his street clothes, like a scene from a dream.
He asks to take the scarf and the camisole with him, and I agree, but draw the line at the shoes. He seems happy with the compromise. And then I’m kissing him goodbye and murmuring at him to let himself out. He still smells of sex. I like the fact he isn’t the type to rush to the shower, but walks out proudly into the world with the tell-tale scent of me still staining his face and twined into his hair.
And there he goes. Kinky and gorgeous and mysteriously devoted. Practically perfect and, god, I barely dare think it, but ever so slightly boring compared with …
David
At least, with Mary out of the way, I might have saved my business from complete bankruptcy. Truth be told, my compensation money has been the only thing keeping my pathetic freelan
ce endeavours solvent for ages. And that money is running out now. But I can’t blame the distraction of my relationship with Mary for this financial time bomb, because it dates back to my old hermit-like days before I met her.
But I’ve pulled my socks up now. Workwise. Which means I’m trying not to notice that it’s exactly one month since Mary and I split up, and to concentrate on what I’m meant to be doing today. Namely, rejigging some web content for one of the university sites, a job Larry wangled me as a freelancer. Yep, time to shape up and face up. Because Mary was just a short-lived episode of madness (mostly on her part) and this – work, family, sexual frustration – is my real life.
So here I am, in my bedroom-cum-office, logging on. But before I sink my teeth into that dynamic database that’s giving Larry headaches, I decide to quickly launch my Instant Messenger. And guess who’s online. A blast from my cybersexual past. Yep. Slutbox04.
And the really awful thing is that I haven’t even thought about her for months – for all the time I’ve been preoccupied with Mary. (Except for one morning when an eye-wateringly large buttplug arrived in the post. Which – thank all the gods – I managed to hide from Mary just in the nick of time.)
Anyway Miss Slutbox04 (or Mr Slutbox04, I haven’t yet ruled that out) is sitting right there online. And I’m here, recently jilted, with nothing more stimulating planned than a big pile of boring work. I have to ping her. Won’t she be pleased to have me back in her life?
DragonSlayer666:
I check my email while I wait for her to ping me back. But by the time I’ve deleted twenty unsolicited offers of Viagra she still hasn’t. I check again in case she is logged on but not at her computer, but her status is active. I try again with something a bit more chatty.
DragonSlayer666:
Equal Opportunities Page 18
