“I will now release your other restraints,” she said, coming back around to face him. “You could run then, you could be uncooperative, but where could you go in this state? You understand?”
Brian nodded meekly. “Yes.”
“Or you could do as I say and perhaps be rewarded with the satisfaction you need.”
“Please, yes,” he whispered.
She smiled, and he read nothing in that smile other than pleasure at his compliance, she crouched before him and began to remove the straps from his chest and waist, his arms and thighs and feet.
“This way,” she said, rising and drawing him with her, tugging on the chain which linked his wrists to coax him to his feet.
She led him across the room, from that chair which had been so uncomfortable to the bed which seemed so inviting. Only a foot or so away from the soft mattress, though, she gave a harsh tug on his cuffs, turned him from it towards the cage which he had mistaken for a cot.
“No! Not there?” he said, as she raised the top.
“If you want your orgasm you’ll step inside!” she barked at him. “It’s your choice! In or not?”
The tips of her fingers lightly brushing his balls left him with no option but to comply and obediently Brian stepped inside the cold steel cage.
“On your back, hands above your head,” she directed him, and he squeezed himself into its narrow confines as best he could, his knees raised since it was too cramped to take his full length.
As the top fell on the cage with an ominous clang she threaded a chain through it and the cuffs, locking his hands in place as before.
“Don’t want you playing with yourself, do we?” she chuckled. “Your orgasm is my privilege and mine alone. Now, so I can get to that aching cock of yours will you please oblige me by spreading your legs a little wider?”
His knees chafed the top of the cage as he stretched his feet out as far as he could and he felt leather circle his ankles, heard the click of more locks fastening them to each corner of the cage.
“There, all done,” she said, standing, and as he craned his head to follow her he saw her climbing on to the bed.
“But—!”
“But what?” she chuckled, sprawling out among the soft sheets and plump pillows, her white body stark against the midnight blue of the bedding. “Didn’t I tell you I was a cruel heartless bitch?” she reminded him, one foot dangling over the side of the bed, working its way through the bars of the cage to brush his face.
And very good at it, Brian was coming to learn.
She slept before he did, her situation more comfortable, her state more satisfied, but would wake at intervals throughout the night – usually when Brian felt that he might at last find some sleep himself – and resume caressing him with her foot, maintaining his restlessness, a time or two getting out of bed to squat beside his cage, working her hand between the bars to fondle his cock or caress his balls.
Her body was so close then, but denied him by the steel bars which separated them, and as much as he wanted to bury his face between her breasts, kiss her flat belly or feel her strong arms enfold him, all he could do was press his cheeks against the cage to show her how much he needed these things.
Whatever hour of the morning it was when she finally released him he was unable to say, there was only one long narrow window high on the wall in that basement room and a heavy velvet curtain covered it. In any case her treatment of him throughout the night, the repeated deprivation of sleep, had made any notion of time too confused.
Whatever the hour, finally Brian’s hands were freed and the lid of the cage lifted, his feet released from their restraints and a hand offered him, helping him to rise.
His limbs ached from being held immobile for so long and he rose like an arthritic old man, flexing his muscles to try to bring some feeling back to them, stood unsteadily on tottering feet as he stepped out of the cage.
Stumbling, he fell into her arms and, though it was more support than an embrace which she offered him, it felt so wonderful, a warmth and a comfort such as he had never known in the arms of a woman.
Slowly she turned him, as if they were dancing, backed him towards the bed and let him fall on to it.
However many hours before, when he had first set eyes on that woman, Brian had pictured himself fucking her like a stallion, rutting like a wild beast, pounding away on her body beneath him. Now all he could do was lay there and gaze up at her as she lifted first one knee and then the other on to the bed, straddling him.
One hand circled his cock, as she lowered herself on to him, and he thought he might come just to feel her touch.
“Don’t you dare!” she cautioned, reading the thoughts which had his eyes rolling behind closed lids. “Don’t you dare come!” she said, taking him inside her, the lips of her cunt still soft and moist, as if all her dreams had been wet ones.
Her weight settled on him, her cunt flexed to grip him firmly, and when she was satisfied that he was deep enough inside her she began to rise and fall on top of him. Her movements were slow at first, as if her intention was to make him harder still, but then she picked up the tempo, driving harder, faster, her hands on his chest as much to keep him pinned as to support herself.
Her eyes were closed, she made no sound, her mouth set in a grimace as she concentrated on her own pleasure; he might have been nothing more than a wanking machine as far as she was concerned.
Then the instant before he might have been about to come, as if she could read his body’s responses so well, her eyes snapped open and flashed at him, she rose on her knees and froze, carefully withdrawing his cock from her cunt.
“No, no, no,” she said softly, climbing from the bed, her fingers clamping around his balls as if this was the surest way of preventing his ejaculation.
She tugged, painfully enough to bring a cry from him, insistently enough that he was brought to his feet, drawn after her and across the room to the stool.
“Face down over it,” she told him, and he knelt before the stool, stretched across it, feeling the leather padding warm against his belly as straps of less supple leather bound his thighs to two of its legs.
His cuffed hands hung over the other side, his head between them, his cock like a pendulum swinging free between his legs.
A slap across the buttocks told him to be still, a light caress across them promised rewards if he obeyed, and so he kept his head down, seeing nothing more than the rug before his face, his knuckles grazing it, the polished steel which linked his cuffed wrists.
Then her bare feet came into view, as erotic as they had been when in high heels, the pale skin contrasted by the dark red lacquer of the nails.
“Look,” she said, and when he found it difficult to lift his head her fingers clenched in his hair, tilting his face up.
In her free hand she held a rubber dildo, one end long and curved like a scimitar, the other thick and stubby. As he watched, as her grip on his hair insisted he watch, she worked this shorter end into her cunt, first stroking it back and forth against her wet lips to lubricate it, then screwing it deep inside.
“Kiss,” she said, her hips thrusting forward to offer it to his mouth when she felt it was seated firmly enough.
Pouting his lips, Brian touched them to its wicked bulb, seeing her labia swollen around its root where it was buried inside her.
“Now lick, for if it is not to cause you too much pain it needs to be moister,” she continued, pressing the weapon against his lips until they parted.
His tongue licked at the rubber until it was forced aside as she bucked her hips again, inserting an inch of the thing inside him, then another inch, until he was choking on it, salivating over it.
“Good enough, I think,” she decided, finally withdrawing it, and in the brief moment he was allowed to catch his breath she had moved around and behind him, was on her knees and pressing it against his arse.
“No! Please don’t!” he begged, on feeling that first contact, but her
body bearing down on him, her breasts flattened against his chest would allow him no escape.
“You expect pity from a cruel heartless bitch? Silly man!” she laughed.
There was no subtlety about the way she inserted the dildo into his arse, she simply forced it forward, slowly but with determination, not seeming to care whether it entered him or rended him in two.
Fortunately it filled him rather than ripped him, though this in itself was still painful enough, inch after inch entering him until he knew – and she guessed – that he could take no more.
“Enough?” she asked.
“Enough!” he answered, his reply little more than a sob.
“Then now you will feel what it is to be fucked by a cruel heartless bitch,” she promised, pulling back a little and then pressing forward once more, back again and then forward, her movements short and shallow at first but then becoming more extreme until she was not so much pressing into him as thrusting into him, her hips slapping against his buttocks.
His body rocked against the stool, it was only her body pinning his that kept the thing upright on its four legs, and as excruciating as the pain was he marvelled that his erection sustained itself, his rigid cock straining against the underside of the stool.
One of her hands worked its way down to grip him, to squeeze him, her nails dug into him and then her fist formed itself around the swollen gland, encouraging his ejaculation at the same time that she seemed intent on preventing it.
“Yes? No? Which?” she laughed, her lips to his ear, and his body was wracked with both pain and delight, the dildo torturing his arse as it stretched him cruelly, her grip on his cock so abrasive that it burned, so exciting that it made his balls ache.
He screamed then, closed his eyes as he forced the ejaculation which she was fighting to contain, spitting it out so fiercely that it spurted between the fingers of her clenched fist.
Never mind that she might make him lick those fingers clean, take a cane to him as punishment or slap his balls with the flat of her hand until they smarted.
For that single orgasm he was willing to give the cruel heartless bitch anything.
* * *
Business took Brian back to that city some two months later, his contacts were established and his meetings conducted more quickly on this occasion so that he made the time to return to that pub with the brass plaques above the bar.
She smiled at him sadly, and then more sadly still as he drank pint after pint of her beer; he stayed there from mid afternoon, when the place was as busy as she said it could be, until early evening when it was as quiet as he remembered it.
His last memory, as he returned to his hotel, was of a man seated at the bar where he had once sat, gazing up at those brass plaques, his lips were moving silently as he took in the portentous legend – “I may be a cruel heartless bitch”.
Brian was aware of her following him along the bar, the heavy bunch of keys in her hand, and so he paused to rest his hand lightly on the man’s shoulder.
“Pretentious piffle, take no notice, it will only fuck up your mind,” Brian told him, his words a little slurred, and with shoulders hunched he shuffled from the pub, as if his feet were shackled together and his nuts in a knot.
Pierced
Alison Tyler
“I want to get my clit pierced.”
She stared down at the marred counter rather than up into his dark eyes. “My clitoris,” she stammered after. Maybe “clit” was too colloquial. What was the proper way to ask for what she wanted? She quickly scanned the walls of the tattoo parlor/piercing studio, landing on an image of an impish Devil Girl with a spiked tail stuffed violently up the ass of an innocent-looking Angel Girl. Maybe “clit” was okay.
“You’re not ready.”
When she looked at his face, she saw that he was grinning – the lines deepening around his eyes. He liked her. She could tell. She’d guessed that when he’d pierced her ear, his breath on her skin so she could feel the heat. The flash of pain had been over in a second – far too quickly – the whole experience taking less than ten minutes from the time she handed him her neatly folded cash to when she walked out the door on to the glittery grit of Melrose Avenue.
Afterwards, she’d spent hours sitting on the fire escape of her apartment, touching the silver hoop in the middle of her right ear, twirling the metal, holding it. She had the usual ear piercings from when she was a teenager, but this one, high up on her ear, felt different. Somehow the new hoop there had made her life the tiniest bit less lonely.
Weeks had passed before she’d had the nerve to go back. She was a good girl, after all, with a respectable job and a decent salary. She wore sensible clothes, low-heeled pumps, suitable for work in an accounting office on the Miracle Mile. Piercing/tattoo studios weren’t places her friends visited, or discussed, or fantasized about. Nor were the boys who worked there. Tattooed boys who made her heart race. She requested nipple piercings next, standing in front of the counter wearing a white T-shirt and a white bra, chinos from Talbots, glossy brown penny loafers. He gave her a hard look this time, as if he didn’t believe what she’d said. Not someone as normal – or in her mind, boring – as she was. Embarrassingly normal. The freckles on her pale skin. The sleek dark hair that would not hold a curl. Slim-hipped body. Hardly any curves.
“You’re sure?” he’d asked once he’d taken her into the private room, and she had tried to look brave as she removed her shirt and sat down, flinching when the sticky plastic coating on the chair met her skin.
Her breasts were extremely sensitive. Wearing the right – or wrong – bra would create such pleasurable friction she could almost climax. So when he rolled her dark pink nipples between his gloved fingers, she’d had to stifle a moan. Her eyes were closed the whole time. If she stared at him, she might say something. Something she’d regret? Perhaps.
Something she wished she’d said now?
When he’d told her to prepare herself, she’d licked her bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth, something she did when she was scared.
“You’re sure?” he’d asked again, right before sliding the needle through, and she’d simply said, “Yes. Please.”
For a month, a solid month after her nipples had healed, she’d been able to make herself come by tugging on the sterling rings adorning her tits. Just a little tug to start, working harder, imagining him pulling them with his mouth, biting into her. On weekends, she’d started wearing tight T-shirts without bras, loving the way her decorated breasts looked beneath the stretchy fabric. Yet soon the ache started up again. That and the loneliness.
Her belly button was next. She didn’t have to get naked this time. She lifted her shirt, let him see her nearly concave stomach. His breath there made her clench her thighs together under her knee-length plaid skirt.
“Breathe, baby.”
She looked down at him, startled. Had he called her baby?
But he didn’t repeat the word. Didn’t act as if he’d said anything unusual at all. She wondered if he understood the big picture – they were working down her body in a silver-studded game of musical parts. If he did, he kept quiet, professional in every sense. She watched his head bent over her, and thought of telling him that at night, she envisioned him fucking her asshole, the gloves, the lube. The tears that would streak her face when he thrust in deep.
He’d only touched her with gloves so far, and somehow they existed in her fantasies. Every last one.
There weren’t many places left. She could have gone with her nether lips. But why wait? She was going to have her clit done, and she knew exactly how it would feel. She’d done the research online, understood the procedure.
How many times had she imagined watching him slip on the rubber gloves? Smelling that sweet sickly scent of antiseptic. The sensation of him touching her through that barrier, coaxing her clit to attention before slipping on the clamp.
“Not your clit,” he said, looking at her. “The lips first.”
&nb
sp; Her eyes widened as he slid a photo album forward. Here were close-up shots of women, bejeweled parts on display, and she blushed immediately, even though she’d been fantasizing about this moment endlessly. Each time she went to the studio, she’d meant to ask for this, but had failed herself again and again. What else would she have to pierce to make him understand?
“The clit’s extreme,” he said.
But she knew, she wanted to say. She knew what it would be like: the needle. The slow thrust forward. The pain shot with ribbons of pleasure. She was going to come when he did it.
“You’re not ready.”
She hadn’t been expecting this. The customer was always right, after all. She had the money. She had the nerve. But then she realized – her clit would be the finale. The end game, and she nodded – fine, let him decide. He led her back to the private room once more, and this time, for the first time, he seemed to really see her.
The door was shut. He came forward, slid his hands up under her skirt, pulled down her simple white panties. Her throat was tight. He turned her sideways, unzipped the skirt, let the fabric fall. Now she was half naked, and that felt wrong. He understood, pulled the T-shirt up over her head. This was better. Totally naked, with her silver-ringed tits on display, her belly button decorated, her body so pale and pretty. Jesus, pretty. For the first time ever, that’s how she felt.
He sat her in the chair, spread her thighs, handed her a mirror. “Like this,” he said, “we could pierce you here,” and she trembled all over. “Or here.” The shivers wouldn’t stop. Her teeth were chattering. She couldn’t speak.
“You have to hold still.”
She looked at him, her eyes wide, breath hitching. And then he bent forward and licked the ring on her right breast, then the one on her left. He kissed his way down, pausing to tug on the barbell adorning her belly button. Fucking god, he was – he was kissing her. Licking her. His soft hair tickled her naked skin. She shifted her hips, lifted her hips. He was there, between her legs, spreading open her lips, kissing between.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 10 Page 34
