by Violet Blue
“Get back on your knees,” Kim hissed, “no one gave you permission to stand.”
Jack stumbled clumsily to the floor, confused at his enjoyment of the situation. As he reached the bed, having successfully managed not to burn his knees on the rough brown carpet, he rocked back onto his haunches, feeling rather like a faithful dog waiting for its mistress to give it permission to play.
As if reading his thoughts, Kim patted him on the head, feeling the spikes of his gelled hair against her palm. She spoke softly this time. “You’re a very naughty boy. Do you know why you’re being punished?”
He shook his head quickly, his eyes wide with an odd combination of expectation and unease.
Kim trailed a finger across his cheeks. “I didn’t think you did.” She walked over to his desk and picked up a long plastic ruler, flexing it slightly between her hands. A surge of pleasure shot down her spine as she witnessed a flicker of fear cross Jack’s face. “You see, I’ve been waiting for so long. That was your big mistake. Not really seeing me.”
Jack gulped against the gag. This felt like stalker territory. He should stand and run, but he felt hypnotized by the ruler Kim was flexing between her fingers.
“I’ve watched you bring them home, all your bottle blondes.” As she spoke, Kim’s eyes burned with the most all-consuming lust Jack had ever seen. “A long procession of disposable wasted sex. All that time I was next door, waiting for my turn; waiting with all the fucking you could ever need.”
Kim reached out a hand and gripped his cock, making Jack groan through the stocking as she squeezed him hard. Treating his dick like a dog lead, she pulled at it so Jack was forced to stumble to his feet. Kim ran her fingers up and down his length with one hand, and smacked the ruler against his already sore buttocks with the other. “Two more strokes for the last two tarts you serviced.”
Jack bit into the gag, the twin sensations shooting sparks of longing through his body. Then suddenly she stopped, pushed him back to his knees, and gently, as if now that his punishment was over all her anger had evaporated, engulfed his dick between her parted lips.
Alternating between light licks and grating nips, sucking lips and deep-throated pumps, Kim heard Jack whimper into his gag as the first flecks of precome salted her tongue. She pulled away, noticing the growing blush of red against his pale smooth chest. He was so close now.
Standing back up, Kim saw a look of frustrated disappointment cross his face. “You’d like me to do that again wouldn’t you?”
He nodded vehemently, all pride gone in the face of his need to feel her mouth against him.
She smiled at him wickedly, twirling her pigtails between her fingers, “Perhaps if you’re a good boy, I’ll do it again sometime.”
Her hands came to her basque, and Kim began to untie the laces that held her chest captive. Without saying a word, but keeping her eyes locked on to Jack’s, Kim freed her tits, rolling her nipples between her fingers. They grew beneath her touch as she changed from gentle fondling to hard kneading, making her pussy tingle and juice leak down her legs.
“Would you like to touch these?”
Again Jack nodded urgently, as she held her breasts up before his face.
Kim moved her hands down to her thighs and, sitting on the edge of the bed, deftly removed her knickers. Spreading her legs wide so he could clearly see her wet sex, Kim leaned back, displaying herself more effectively as with one hand she continued to massage her nipples and with the other, finger her clit, writhing herself to an orgasm.
Jack sat, transfixed by her performance, cowering pathetically and waiting for permission to move, silently wishing for some desperately needed attention of his own. He was so aroused by Kim’s display that he was worried he would come there and then, and never feel that luscious body next to his.
As the sighs of her second climax ebbed away, Kim rose to stare at her captive. “My word, aren’t you horny. Look at that dick; you’d like to put that in here wouldn’t you?”
Her crudeness as she pointed to her still-flushed sex made Jack even hotter as he nodded again; the nylon in his mouth was becoming increasingly sticky as he helplessly dribbled into it.
She laughed at him. “Well, my slave, I could be cruel. I could punish you longer for all those years of bodily neglect,” Kim flashed a cold glare at his pleading eyes, “but that would only be punishing me as well, and right now I badly want to feel that cock inside me.”
She signaled for him to lie down on the floor. Jack shook his bound arms in protest, but she dismissed the problem, “It’ll be a bit uncomfortable for you, but you’ll manage I’m sure.”
Jack clumsily lowered himself onto his back. Rapidly Kim sat astride him, impaling herself on the cock she’d fantasized about for so long. Doing his best to ignore his squashed hands and aching arms, Jack lifted his hips to try and jam up against her, but Kim slapped them hard. “I did not say you could move.”
Relishing the feel of his body trapped within and beneath her, Kim slipped a hand down to fondle his balls where they touched her body, smoothing and caressing Jack and herself at the point of conjunction. Jack gave a muffled moan as he watched her sitting victorious above him.
Then, as if every atom of self-control within her had snapped, Kim began to hammer herself against Jack’s prone body, screeching in ecstasy as he fired his spunk into her quivering body.
Lying flat on top of him, Kim yanked away the gag and fell on his mouth with a ferocious frenzy of kissing, nipping, and biting, which he hastily returned in kind. Struggling out of his stocking ties, Jack brought his arms around Kim, scratching and pinching her body and tugging at her pigtails as they rolled around his bedroom floor in a vicious orgy of activity.
As they attacked each other with an angry hunger of want and lust, Jack was consumed with the overwhelming urgency to make up for all that wasted time. Kim had been right; all those hours of passing sex now seemed so pointless—when he could have been right here being bruised, scratched, and deliciously humiliated by the quiet girl next door.
RITUAL SPACE
Janine Ashbless
“You think I’ll fit in there?” Hayden asked. He was grinning, but his eyes betrayed doubt. “Seriously, Alex. It’s not going to be a problem, is it?”
I glanced at the hole near our feet, a narrow slot about two feet wide and rather less high between the stone floor and the wall of the pit, and then I looked Hayden over, head to toe, just because for once I had a legitimate excuse to do so. “Are you claustrophobic?” I asked.
My team leader topped six feet, though he could otherwise pass for a local—at least until he spoke. Then he became American, and the vendors of tourist junk who’d ignored him before would come crowding round him too, just like they’d been doing round the rest of us. He was half Turkish and half Pennsylvania Dutch according to site gossip, and one-hundred-percent dark-eyed, disheveled, self-deprecating charm. I didn’t suppose I was the first female student on the dig to have a thing for him. Now we were alone together—and my body was horribly conscious of this fact. Everyone else was off hiding from the blaze of the Anatolian sun before the afternoon shift, but we had shade down here in the pit.
“Claustrophobic? Not normally.” He indicated our surroundings. We were twenty feet below ground-level, and the pit-chamber was bell shaped so that the walls hung in over us. A shaky aluminum ladder was our only connection to the world overhead, the sunlight and the parched earth and the ruined walls of the excavated town. If he’d been claustrophobic he’d have been panicking already.
“You’ll be fine,” I told him. “You’re not going to get stuck. Just go in feet first. There’s a short slope down to the chamber: it’s wider down there but not high enough to sit up in. And I can get on hands and knees but I’m not sure you’ll be able to.” I risked another gratuitously appraising glance, wishing I could tear off his ancient Nirvana T-shirt and his khakis. “To come back out you’ll have to roll over onto your stomach and crawl on your elbows.”
He blew out a breath. “Sounds…great. Hard hats?”
“They fall off the moment you lie flat. Just keep your head down.”
“Okay.”
“It’ll be worth it. I promise. You have to see this.” I was the only person who’d been down into that chamber, though there’d been several of us clearing out the ancient debris that choked the main pit. As the smallest, slenderest person on the site I’d volunteered to work in the cramped conditions of the lowest level and everyone else had been happy to let me do it—besides, there were mosaics to uncover only a few hundred yards away, and all the diggers wanted to be in on those. Mosaics were sexy; they looked good in newspaper articles and on the covers of important journals. Archaeologists get very excited over them. At first this hole in the floor of the Byzantine-era warehouse had been assumed to be a midden and of no importance except for the rubbish thrown into it. When it was found to be too deep and cut from solid bedrock the professors postulated a well-shaft or a grain-store. But my excavation of the subchamber was going to change all that. I was trembling inside.
“I hope you’re right,” said Hayden.
“I’ll go first and switch the lights on.” I sat on the rock floor, scooting my butt until my legs were swallowed by the hole. Hayden’s head above me was framed by a halo of perfectly blue sky. I had to clear my throat before I spoke again. “You’re going to love it,” I promised. Then I wriggled into the tunnel and slid down into darkness just as I had done so often before.
The chamber at the bottom met me with its chilly clasp. I rolled to my right and groped for the battery pack, switching on the lamp. Then I shuffled backward out of the way of the entrance.
“Lights on! Come on!”
Hayden came down with a great deal of scraping, his boots emerging first. Lying flat he filled the chamber end-to-end. The first thing he did was put his hands up against the roof, and the second was to try and bring his knees up; when the latter proved impossible he took deep breaths and ran his hands over his face. It was so quiet and we were scrunched in so close that I could hear the rasp as he rubbed his stubble.
“Okay?” I asked softly. I was used to the cramped conditions, but for the first time in my life I’d seen long legs and broad shoulders made a vulnerability, not an asset. He turned his face to mine and grinned, not entirely happily. We were as close as lovers lying in bed.
“Fine. How long did it take you to clear this?”
“About a week.”
“Christ!” He laughed. “You deserve a medal.” He bit his lip, eyes sparkling. “Well, I can guarantee Professor Czajkowski won’t be coming down here to check on your technique.”
Since the professor had such an ample girth that he had problems kneeling to dig, that thought was too much for me and I giggled, covering my mouth. “Don’t!”
“It’s…sorta cosy, Alex. Will it take long to show me round?”
“Hold on.” The lamp was on Hayden’s far side, and the bulk of his torso was casting deep shadows. I reached over him to grab the battery pack and bulb. My breasts squashed against his chest. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“Hey, don’t apologize.”
We grinned at each other, self-consciously. I was feeling giddy. I deposited the lamp between us. “Okay,” I said, my voice a little unsteady: “take a look. Artificial excavation—see the squared-off corners?”
“Uh-uh. A grave, d’you think?”
“No—or at least there’s no sign of human remains.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“It was just full of the same debris that choked the main pit. None of it older than late fourth century. Now take a look at this.” I moved the lamp to the side, throwing the texture of the rock ceiling into relief.
“Oh…yes!” hissed Hayden appreciatively. Carved over his head in high relief was a phallus, complete with bulging testes and a clearly defined glans. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a ritual object.”
“You’ll see that it’s polished smooth compared to the surrounding rock,” I said, reaching to run my hand gently along its considerable length.
Hayden made a noise in the back of his throat and I blushed, withdrawing my hand. Fingertip sweat can cause damage even to stone objects.
“Um. I think it’s been handled a lot by whoever came down here.”
“Fertility ritual,” he said hoarsely. “The virile member buried deep in the earth to make it fertile.” He scratched his throat, musing. “Or perhaps it’s nothing that obvious. In the pre-Christian Empire the phallus was a good-luck symbol of protection from evil—a fascinum.”
“I have a theory.” I was shy but determined. He turned his head to look me in the eye. We were both sweating a little and breathing quickly in the stuffy air. Only the chill of the stone kept this constricted and intimate space from growing too warm. “I think this is an oracle,” I said.
“Yes?” He actually sounded interested. It’s not often a student theory gets that far.
“Do you remember the description of the Oracle of Trophonius? It’s described as a pit with a narrow hole at the bottom into a deeper passage. Supplicants were pulled in feetfirst and granted information about the future though a vision or a voice. And they came out babbling and terrified.”
“Pausanias,” he said, nodding. “But that’s from the Description of Greece. This is Turkey.”
“Think about it: this place is identical to his description. And from the right era, though it was obviously abandoned and backfilled after the changeover to Christianity. I’m thinking it could be a cult with more than one site.”
“Maybe.” His eyes were all dark glitter. “And the visions?”
“This is ritual space: anything could happen here. The supplicants would be lying alone in the pitch dark. Keyed up. Hyperventilating because they’re scared and claustrophobic and horny and there’s not much air. Reaching out to touch the protective sigil above them. They’d be capable of seeing things even without priests prompting them.”
Hayden rolled carefully onto his side to face me, his shoulder nearly brushing the roof. “Horny?”
I shrugged, thinking that my words had run away with me. “Perceived peril makes people more aroused. It’s freshman psychology.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, thank god it’s not just me then.”
I laughed, mostly from tension, and he chuckled with me.
“So…Did it make you horny, working down here?” he wondered.
I blushed and ran my tongue across my lips. “Sometimes.” My voice sounded weak. “It’s the silence…”
“Did you ever do anything about it?”
Those eyes would not let me go. I bit my lip and nodded.
“Down here?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
He grinned, soft and slow. “I’m not sure that’s good archaeological practice.”
“No,” I admitted. Our voices were very low now.
His face moved closer to mine. “I want to know what you did, Alex…when you should have been working.”
“Why?”
“Professional curiosity.” But the sweep of his lips was a caress described on the air. My skin tingled.
“I…would sometimes touch myself.”
“Through your panties?”
“Sometimes. Or I would pull down my fly and…touch myself properly.”
“Ah. Were you wet before you started?”
“Usually.”
“Are you wet now?”
I nodded.
“Show me.” His eyes were shining. “Show me how you did it.”
For moment I just held my breath. Then, hardly daring to think, I lay back and pulled up my T-shirt, revealing a flat stomach glazed with sweat and speckled with grit. Hayden watched entranced as I thumbed open my fly button and tugged at my zip.
“Left-handed?”
“Uh-huh.” Pushing down my trousers and panties to my hips, I shimmied out of them far enough to reveal the tufts of hair at the crease of my sex
. Softly I touched myself. Hayden ran the tip of his tongue between his teeth. I could hear his breath coming fast and shallow. I could smell my own musk.
“Yes,” he sighed, then reached to draw my top up higher, taking my Lycra bra with it as he found the thicker fabric, pushing both layers right up to reveal my breasts. They felt cold beneath his warm hand. His fingers moved on my sweat-slicked skin, then withdrew. My nipples tightened, aching for the touch they’d known so briefly. “Go on.”
I pushed my fingertip into my own wetness, drawing the moisture up to my clit. I was wet with a fierce, boiling heat. I began to play with myself, watching him watching me, seeing how his eyes swept from my quivering tits to my tilted pussy and back to my face. Feasting on his hunger, on the rapt concentration I’d only ever seen him direct at newly discovered artifacts before this moment. Under his gaze I felt as if every inch of my skin was alive with significance. My fingertip rolled over my burning clit, back and forth. I didn’t want it to end, but I knew it wouldn’t take me long; I’d been building up a sexual charge since he joined me in the pit. I felt my orgasm heave deep within me, reaching toward the surface, and then he obliged by covering my working hand with his, cupping my fingers and my pubic mound and my wetness for a moment before sliding two fingers deep into me. Already on the edge, I came at once with that first electric clitoral climax; he felt my muscles clench on him, pulsing, as I arched my back and cried out.
The stone roof echoed my voice, distorting it strangely.
But he wouldn’t let me down afterward. Even as I slumped he pushed my finger out of the way with his thumb and went to work on my folds, my clit, and my open sex, the muscles of his arm bunching all the way to the shoulder. His hand was calloused from digging, but deft. And very strong.
“I want to touch the fascinum,” I moaned as his fingers scissored inside me.
“Go on then.”
With effort I rolled to face him and pressed my hand to his worn trouser fabric and the cock that strained beneath that. He was hard and heavy and thick with wanting that touch. He groaned and laughed.
