I knew she had imagined I would take her in a dungeon of some sort, and I enjoyed her unease as she wondered what else she might have been wrong about.
I pulled out a riding crop – black, the whip made of dark purple leather, the thick handle of latex ridged to ensure a good grip – or a hard fuck.
I crossed the room to her. She had her feet on the floor, elbows on the bed. I held the riding crop so she could see it out of the corner of her eye. “Spread your legs wider.”
She did, stretching them as far apart as her tight skirt would allow. I trailed my fingers lightly over the fabric as it followed the perfect curve of her ass. The first lash with the crop was hard, the sound like a firecracker in the still afternoon. She cried out, more from surprise than pain, and balled her hands into fists. I could feel the tension, her every muscle taut with the desire to flee. But she stayed. The next few lashes were lighter, just a sting on her ass, then I surprised her with faster, harder lashes, alternating from one ass cheek to the other. Her breathing changed, her gasps following the rhythm of the whip. When I stopped, she wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.
“Pull up your skirt.”
She stayed bent over the bed but reached behind her with both hands and pulled up the skirt, bunching it around her waist. I smiled at her choice of a black thong, made mostly of lace, and so delicate that it begged to be torn. I ran the riding crop up between her legs and followed the thin string of the thong between her ass cheeks. I caught one string of the thong with the end of the whip and twisted, then tugged it. She understood and reached back with both hands to push the thong down. When she had pushed it just below her ass, I slapped her hand lightly with the whip to stop her. Her skin was already pink from the earlier lashes, but I spent a few minutes slowly whipping her bare ass until it was bright red, the thong around her thighs acting not as a restraint, merely as a reminder that she was not to move away from the pain.
Without any warning, I thrust a finger into her cunt. She was wet, as I knew she would be, but wetter than even I had imagined so soon into her submission. She whispered, “Please . . .”
“Are you still a virgin?”
She tried to laugh but it came out more as a sob. “No.”
“But has anyone fucked you?” I asked quietly.
Her whole body froze, her “yes” barely a whisper.
“Are you sure?” I asked, letting her feel the thick riding crop handle parting the lips of her pussy so that she knew I wouldn’t ask again before I fucked her. Her “yes” sounded even less convincing the second time. Slowly, I dragged my wet fingertips from her cunt up to her asshole. I let my fingers rest there a moment, enjoying the sensation of her sphincter muscles spasming in anticipation of pain.
“No,” she whispered, and I could tell she was begging me not to ask.
“Has anyone fucked you up the ass?”
She just shook her head. I stood her up then, and told her to remove the rest of her clothes except her heels. I opened the window seat lid and pulled out everything I needed.
Bending her back over the bed, I drizzled a few drops of lube down the crack of her ass. “This is mine, then,” I said making small circles around her asshole with the tip of one finger. “Do you understand? Mine to do with as I please.”
“As you please,” she echoed in acquiescence.
For a few minutes, I did nothing more than tease her asshole. But each time I felt her relax a little, I increased the pressure until I heard her first reluctant moan. “That’s right,” I murmured, pushing the first ring of the butt plug into her. There was a sharp intake of breath, and her knees buckled for a moment.
“Say it,” I commanded her, my voice more stern than before.
“I don’t know . . .” She hesitated, her voice muffled by the bed linens.
I pushed the butt plug in to the second ring and she lifted her head, her back arching, and cried out in pain. I waited. When she had caught her breath, she managed only another “Please . . .”
“Please what?” I replied, aroused by how sure I was of her answer.
“Please . . . fuck me.”
I trailed my hands gently from her neck, down her back, then over her ass. “Say it.”
“Please fuck me in the ass,” she groaned.
I moved in close to stand against her, my body steadying hers. She took a deep breath, and released it raggedly between her clenched teeth as I pushed the butt plug in to the hilt.
“Oh, God,” she shuddered in pain, and then said again, “Oh, God,” with something more like surprise.
“Get on the bed, lie on your back.”
She moved awkwardly, the butt plug still buried deep inside her. I grabbed her ankles and placed her high heels at the very edge of the bed, forcing her knees up and apart at a sharp angle that lifted her ass. I put a pillow beneath her so that her cunt was tilted up toward me.
I took a small vibrator, twisted it on, and put it in her hand. She reached for me, but I caught her wrist – hard – and slowly pushed her hand away from me, down the length of her body, and between her legs. She blushed, but I held my hand over hers until the vibrator settled in against her clit. She drew a long breath, her embarrassment giving way to excitement.
I took my hand away and watched her pleasure herself, watched her slowly bring her other hand up to play with her stiff nipples, while she followed my every move. I stepped out of my clothes and her eyes widened when she saw that I was wearing a double dildo, one end of which had been deep inside my own throbbing cunt since I’d walked into the room. I lubed the other end of the dildo slowly, enjoying her fear at the size of it. She knew it was too late to tell me she had never been fucked before.
Still standing at the foot of the bed, I grabbed her hips and pulled her toward me, then took hold of the end of the dildo and used it to spread the lips of her cunt. Her hips bucked involuntarily, and the dildo slipped a little way inside her. For a moment, her hand, which was holding the vibrator, fell away, but I brought it back to press against her clit.
Slowly, I pushed the dildo into her, her tight pussy resisting every inch.
A cry of protest escaped from deep in her throat. I stopped, waiting to hear the word, but she shook her head and did not say it, her free hand clutching a fistful of the sheet so hard that her knuckles were white. I pushed deeper into her, and she bit hard on her lower lip, deeper still and she let out a shuddering moan, then I was all the way inside her, my cunt pressed against hers. Before she could take a breath, I pulled all the way out, then entered her again, a little less gently. She gasped and again I stopped and waited for the word from her, but instead she begged, “Please . . .” and I entered her roughly, thrusting into her over and over, as deep as I could go, my clit reverberating every time it slammed into hers.
She came hard. Every muscle in her body tightened and she let out a long, slow scream of release, her words barely intelligible, “Fuck . . . me . . . let . . . me . . . come . . .” And then cries of, “Please . . . please . . . please . . .” as successive waves of pleasure rolled over her.
When she was spent, she lay completely still, breathing heavily, eyes closed, a soft sheen of sweat covering her body. I put away all the toys, then lay down on the bed, pulling her into my arms. A few tears slipped from her eyes, slid down her cheek, and dripped onto my breast. I kissed her very softly, and told her she had been a very good girl. She nestled closer, as though every inch of her body had to be touching mine. I held her tight and she fell at once into sleep.
Sweet Revenge
Rebecca Henderson
Sara and I were on dessert – a luscious chocolate-kahlua mousse that we were splitting, passing one spoon back and forth – before we realized we were dating the same man. That isn’t as far-fetched as it sounds. Our town is pretty small, less than 25,000 people, and those that date do tend to get around. Apparently Michael did, anyway.
It was my turn with the spoon, and I took my time licking every bit of chocolate from it, sav
oring the knowledge that it had just been in Sara’s mouth as much as the taste of the kalhua-kissed chocolate. Just think, I thought, this could be my tongue sliding into her mouth instead of over the slick, cool stainless steel.
I opened my eyes and found her watching me intently. I blushed and handed her the spoon.
“Was it your understanding that you and he were in a monogamous relationship?” I asked, negotiating my way carefully through a subject that could be loaded, and more importantly to me, could impact my more lascivious intentions downright negatively. I wanted Sara to want me – not want me dead. As for my stake in the equation, Michael and I had an open relationship, so it wasn’t surprising or distressing to me that he was dating Sara. In fact I was applauding his taste in women right at that moment. Sara is a vivacious, plump, spiky-haired redhead with impossibly blue eyes, curves I would die for and the kind of flawless white skin sprinkled with freckles you only read about in books. Next to me, a pale, tomboyish blonde, she was as vibrant and warm as a tropical sunset in the Arctic. Oh, yes, I could definitely see what Michael liked about her.
“No,” she said slowly, frowning. “I guess not. I mean, we never really discussed it much. I just assumed—” She broke off and took a deep breath that pushed her lovely full breasts against the fabric of her silk blouse in a way that had me thinking still more lascivious thoughts, which I probably shouldn’t have been, since it looked like the girl I was hoping to seduce might be too straight – and too monogamous. “I just can’t believe he would go behind my back like that,” she finally said, looking at her hands, sounding miserable.
I felt sorry for her. Consensual non-monogamy is supposed to be just that: consensual, and by definition it couldn’t be if one side doesn’t know the other is being non-monogamous.
In the next instant it was him I felt sorry for.
“The bastard!” she said, raising her head. The old cliche about a woman being beautiful when she’s angry didn’t begin to do her justice. She was spectacular, eyes blazing and spots of colour in her cheeks. In that moment it crossed my mind that maybe I could use that passion to, well, further my own ends here. Revenge sex can be so good.
Just as quickly, I discarded that thought. I really liked this girl, liked her in a way I hadn’t liked anyone in a while. I didn’t want it to be a revenge fuck. Or at least not only that.
I took a swallow of my wine to give her time to calm herself. When I looked over at her again the anger had seemed to have gone out of her and she was watching me.
“You’re not upset about this, are you?” she asked. I took another sip of my drink, considering what to say. I wasn’t sure she’d made the connection between what he was doing – dating both of us – and what she and I were doing.
The first time I’d met Sara had been at the funeral of a mutual friend. Hardly an appropriate place to ask a girl on a date, but I’d noticed her, and thought I noticed her noticing me. The next time I saw her had been at a friend’s gallery opening in the Central West End. Apparently we had some of the same friends, besides Michael. That time I had asked her out, to the play we’d just attended. I’d felt we were hitting it off splendidly, although I’d been careful not to come on too strong. At the time I hadn’t been sure if she was straight, gay or bi, and although my interest in her was definitely more than friends, I also liked her enough not to want to scare her away as “just friends” material. Unfortunately, that was looking as if it may have been a good instinct on my part.
Then I thought about how her arm had brushed mine in the theatre, how she’d let her thigh rest against mine seemingly by accident; how she’d leaned over me to look out the window on the Metrolink on the way back to our cars, and all of a sudden I wasn’t so sure. I remembered the feel of her soft, heavy breasts against my arm, the scent of her hair and skin in my nose and the way her eyes had seemed to linger on my mouth as she turned her head to say something to me just before pulling away. I’d wanted to kiss her then, and couldn’t think now why I’d hesitated.
Damn, I wanted her. I’m not a saint. I wanted the fire her red hair hinted at, I wanted her anger; I wanted her pulling my hair and scratching me, even if it was just working out her rage at him. I wanted to turn that rage into another kind of heat, the kind that burned her from the inside out. I wanted to shove my fingers and my tongue and the sweet hard strap-on I had at home into her, to claim that fire and make it mine, to fuck her into insensibility, until she couldn’t think about Michael or anyone else.
“Allie?” she said, and I realized I had been silent too long.
“No, I’m not upset,” I said. What I was, was shaking. Shaking and flushed and ready to say anything if it’d make her come home with me.
I did the only thing I could under the circumstances. “I’ll be right back,” I said, standing abruptly, and fled to the restroom to cool off. I hoped she didn’t think I was insane.
I threw myself into one of the bathroom stalls and closed the door behind me. Get a grip, I told myself. It’d been a long time since I’d felt this kind of . . . lust, that was the only word for it . . . for anyone. But mixed with it was this bittersweet tenderness, too, this desire not to use her as I wanted to, this desire to protect her, to protect what I suddenly wanted to be more than a one-night stand. I really liked this girl.
“Allie?” Sara’s voice came through the stall door. “Are you all right?”
What could I say? “Sure, I’m fine, I just need to get away from you before I throw you over the table and kiss you until you can’t think straight?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just felt a little dizzy. Must be too much wine.”
“Oh,” she said, her voice doubtful. “Okay, then. If that’s all.” I heard the water turn on and then off; heard the door open, letting in the sound of Lucinda Williams singing “Steal Your Love” clearly for a moment before the door closed, muffling it once again.
“God,” I groaned. I wasn’t going to be able to do this.
I pushed the door open. Sara stood there, arms crossed over her chest. There was a look in her eyes I couldn’t name. “You like this song too, huh?” she asked. I stood there stupidly, waiting for her to move, but she only stepped closer. “Is that what you want, Allie? To ‘steal my love’?”
“Sara—” The word was a whisper, a plea, though I wasn’t sure what I was asking for.
“Shhh,” she said. She stepped closer still, until her mouth was a breath away from mine. Her breath was sweet, touched with kahlua and chocolate and wine. She brought her hands up and pulled my mouth down to hers, and I surrendered to her kiss, to the taste and scent of her, to the feel of her tongue sliding into my mouth, to the feel of her hands so soft and yet so insistent on my face and her warm softness pressing against me. Somehow she managed to manoeuvre me back against the sink. I ran my hands down her body, over the curve of her hips to cup her lovely round ass, pulling her into me, wanting to melt into her, wanting her to melt into me.
“Don’t do this because of Michael,” I managed, when we both came up for air.
She drew back to look me in the eyes. “What if I am?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “So what if I am? Does it matter?”
I stared down at her. Why not give her the excuse, if she needed one, to step over that line? Why not take what she wanted to give, even if it was just to get back at him?
I groaned again. “Yes,” I said, pulling away. I twisted away from her to face the sink and turned on the water. Cold water. “It matters. I want . . . damn, I want this, but not because of him. I want you to want this because of me.”
I watched her in the mirror watching me. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Michael,” she said. “I don’t even know him.”
I stopped soaping my hands. “What? But why?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was . . . stupid. A stupid idea. When I found out you were dating a guy, I got this crazy idea in my head. I thought, okay, maybe you were dating someone e
lse, but if you got mad at him, maybe . . .” She trailed off and looked away.
I stared at her. I was incredulous, appalled, amazed – and utterly enthralled. She looked miserable.
“You thought maybe I’d turn to you? That maybe I’d want to get back at him, by, say, fucking his girlfriend?” I couldn’t help it, I started laughing. “But you realized that wouldn’t work, when I told you I wasn’t upset about him dating you,” I continued. “So then you came in here, thinking you’d play the victim.”
She groaned. “God, I’m such an idiot!” she said. “I’m sorry . . . I just really wanted to be with you. I’m not I’m not good at this,” she finished. She was a bright red from her neck to her ears. A bright, adorable red.
Slowly, deliberately, letting her stew a while, I rinsed and dried my hands. Then I turned to her and pushed her back against the sink, where she’d had me only moments before. “You are an idiot,” I said, tangling my hands in her hair as I brought my mouth down to hers. “But you’re my idiot.”
And I found out that Sara didn’t need anger to heat her. She burned with a fire all her own.
Little Women
Rosemary Williams
Natasha stopped by the roadside because she could go no further. Unable to secure even a horse, she had walked for a day and a night, keeping, wherever possible, out of sight. Where she had come from had been the next best thing to slavery – luxury laced with imprisonment. She had woken as if from a sickly, dizzy dream, and left whilst the palace slept, in the first lavender hour of dawn. At every step she had expected the hoofbeats of the Tsar’s soldiers, come to bring her back, but so far she had met only farmers’ wives and the occasional hen. Now her boots were split and her shins were scratched and she felt her flight to be over.
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