Lesbian BDSM Mega Bundle

by Ella Ford

  “How are you both? My two pretty little naked muses. Are you ready for the next stage yet?” purred The Artist, her hand tightly gripping my head.

  “Yes,” we replied in unison, our deep need for release evident in the heavy tones of our voices. It was the first time I’d heard the other girl speak out loud, and her words triggered a rush of something inside me. Desire? Longing? Recognition…?

  Before I could follow the thought, The Artist spoke again. “I’ve been planning this piece for a long time, but I needed to find two suitable models. It is my greatest work yet,” she said. “I hope you’ll agree with me that it is quite stunning.” Her voice was calm and steady, with a hint of mischief behind her honey words.

  She released my hair and moved her hand up to grip the soft satin blindfold wrapped over my eyes. I held my breath, a strange sense of precognition filling me with dread and fear at what was about to happen.

  “I call the piece, simply, ‘Friendship’,” she said and quickly pulled at the blindfold, causing it to fall from my face to the table on which we kneeled.

  My eyes slammed shut, shocked by the sudden influx of light and sensation. I gasped, and the girl I was bound to did the same. After several seconds, I slowly lifted my eyelids, driven by a strong urge to see what The Artist so obviously wanted us to see, but terrified by what I might find.

  The room swam back into sharp focus, crystallizing into perfect clarity around me, the endless detail of The Artist’s studio flooding my senses with its sordid intricacy. But I could have been floating in the void of space for all that my surroundings mattered to me in that endlessly lengthened second of realization as I set eyes on the face of the girl I’d been bound to. The girl who I’d kissed and probed with my tongue, who’d nibbled my neck and licked my ears, the girl who’s hot body had moved against mine in an endless quest for release.

  I cried out, “No!” and pulled against the tight ropes around my wrists.

  The girl was Sam! My best friend, the one who had taken me to The Artist’s exhibition, the one who had introduced me to the strange world of bondage as art. The realization shocked me into sudden motion.

  I felt myself begin to panic, felt my stomach begin to churn, felt light-headed and dizzy. Suddenly, I had to be out of the there, had to be away from this place and the perverted woman who brought me here. Meanwhile, Sam was going through her own realization, reacting in much the same way. I felt her hands twist at the base of my spine, pulling at the tight ropes. I felt her pull back on the cord around our necks, a desperate attempt to free herself. Neither of us said anything, both mortified with the implications of our actions, both shocked by the revelation of The Artist’s masterwork.

  The older woman let us struggle, stepping back and studying us as we twisted and writhed. Distantly, I realized that she wanted, more than anything else, this brief moment of uncontrolled emotion. The panic, the helplessness, the revulsion. She lived for this twisted reaction, it was more arousing to her than our naked bodies or the hours of slow buildup to this shocking reveal.

  After seconds of futile tugging and pulling at the tight ropes, Sam and I fell still, breathing heavily against each other. I looked at her with calm eyes, and she gazed back at me. There was something in her eyes - apology? Yes, but something else, something deeper. I peered into those deep green pools and studied her. The way her chest rose and fell with each sighed breath. The way her lips were parted, lipstick smeared around her mouth by hours of kissing. The heavy look in her eyes, lustful and wanting, her revulsion and shock only partially replacing the hours of pent up desire that our bodies had generated. Then I realized that I must look the same, the perfect mirror of my best friend. I realized then that I still wanted her, though it felt wrong to do so. For all that I needed to escape from The Artist’s bondage, I realized with a certainty that could not be ignored that we had to finish what we started, we had to find our way to that shining pinnacle of climax. My pussy began to ache anew, fresh desire sweeping through my body, provoking my body to breathe deeply and draw Sam’s ravishing scent into myself.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her, couldn’t look away from her hypnotic green eyes, couldn’t bare to see anything other than this girl I’d known for countless years. I felt her move against me again, body lifting and falling, brushing her breasts against mine.

  “P-please,” I breathed, turning to The Artist, my intent evident in the sultry tone of my voice, “please…”

  The Artist gazed at the pair of us, a wistful look of regret sweeping over her body. I wondered what she was feeling, what she was seeing. Was it regret that her fleeting moment of glorious creation was gone now, replaced by something that she has no control over? Was it disappointment that our revulsion and struggle had lasted only as long as it had taken our desires to resurface? I couldn’t know, would never know.

  The older woman sighed and moved over to the bench, then fussed and fiddled around us, allowing the tight ropes to fall away, freeing our aching limbs and tired bodies. But still we clung together, bound by something that was stronger than rope, the unbreakable force of strong desire.

  I felt Sam begin to move, slowly shifting her hands to roam up my back. I did the same, allowing my fingers to crawl over her soft, damp skin. I felt her body against mine, provoking my nipples to aching rigidity with the motion of her breasts over my breasts. Then our mouths met, a lazy kiss at first, lips barely touching as though tasting each other for the first time. I felt hot and excited, driven by wild instincts that I’d never felt before, simultaneously terrified and aroused in equal measure. With every passing second, our passions grew, gathering pace, picking up speed as we explored our bodies. The kiss deepened, tongues finding each other, dancing in the air between our mouths. She tasted unbelievable, sweeter even than when we were kissing blind, her subtle tang sharpened by the forbidden nature of the clinch.

  Then she pulled back, pushing me away from her with a breathless sigh. I gasped, but before I could protest, she’d pushed me back onto the bench, lowering me down with her hand cradling my neck. I gazed up at her and watched as she prowled over my naked body like a tigress, studying my slick flesh with greedy eyes, probing fingers pawing at me, exploring me, finding their way to my aching pussy and lightly caressing me there.

  I cried out. “Ah, ah, ah!” I wanted more, demanded that she explore me further, pleaded with her to find the nexus of my pleasure and release that bottomless well of sensation.

  She heard my cry and turned to me, a hot look of sultry longing heavy on her pretty face. I’d never seen her like this, never seen that sparkle in her eye or the lustful pout of her lips.

  Then she swung her body around, long legs straddling me and pinning my arms in place, her back to my face, pert bottom and plump pussy inches from my mouth. In that second, I knew what she wanted, what was going to happen. I knew how we were going to find our way to that glorious release. My mind soared with excited anticipation, fearing and needing this in equal measure, trapped by her young body and the weight of our passion.

  When she lowered her pussy onto my face, I took it without a single hint of resistance, plunging my tongue into her dripping folds with an intense ferocity that surprised even me. I’d never tasted another woman before, never explored this complex geography, yet I knew what to do, driven by instinct and the knowledge of my own body. My tongue began to work, licking up through her wet labia, sucking mouthfuls of slick flesh between my lips, pressing down on her clit and finding her tight hole. She howled above me, crying out with every insistent probing of my hungry tongue. Then she reached down and placed her hands on my knees, parting my legs with a single motion and bending her body at the waist.

  The first touch of her tongue was sensational, and overwhelming rush of warm desire ricocheting around my body like a stray bullet. I froze in place, unable to concentrate on my sensual exploration. Every hot sweep of her tongue made my body quake with desire, electric pulses of raw energy rippling along my arms and legs. I stru
ggled against the urge to come there and then, knowing distantly that I had work to do. I slid my arms free from her legs and curled them around her thighs, sinking my fingers into the firm flesh of her ass, pulling her cheeks apart. Then I lifted my head and began to tongue her asshole, not knowing what sordid instinct was driving me then, knowing only that I simply had to taste it.

  Sam wailed and moaned at this new feeling, quickening her tongue on my clit, pushing down into my tight hole with slender fingers.

  Our bodies became as one, an endless loop of pleasure and feedback. The action of one mouth provoking the reaction of the other, in turn causing a new intensity and a new escalation. My mouth flicked back to her pussy, greedily devouring her, finding her clit and moving my tongue around it in tight swirls. Then she locked her mouth on my pussy, smothering it with attention, soaking it with her tongue, hot and warm and relentless. We both began to cry out, a mounting chorus of desperate voices, a harmony of intense pleasure and utter ecstasy.

  Inside me, I felt a familiar presence make itself known. A looming, lurking presence, the pulsating ball of my climax. Yet distant, it nevertheless pulsed and grew with every hungry touch of Sam’s mouth, becoming impossible to ignore as it rose from my pussy. I tried to ignore it, tried to push it away and concentrate on the exquisite taste of Sam’s dripping cunt. But it was too much, a constant, relentless buzz that sang through my nerves and inflamed my senses. I felt Sam’s body become locked in its own struggle, her legs tightened around my head, locking me in place on her pussy with her thighs. Her arms curled around my legs, holding me with a cobra’s grip. She began to shudder and pant, intensifying the motion of her tongue on my clit as though provoking me to surrender before she did.

  But I knew that I must hold on. Knew with an instinct that I couldn’t yet identify that the orgasm was not mine to take. Instead, it was The Artist’s to give, and I must wait for her command. This was her work, her art, her creation. Our pleasure had sprung out of her inspiration and it should be her will that released its full intensity. So I buckled down, pushing away the strong, overwhelming need to embrace the orgasm and instead focused on Sam’s tight little pussy, smothering myself in the exquisite complexity of her labia, trying to ignore the furious sensations in my body.

  From a billion miles away, I sensed The Artist move over to our hot embrace, felt her hand tease down my body and Sam’s, provoking hot shivers on my tortured skin. Then she stepped away and I felt the weight of her gaze on my body, senses heightened by the intolerable intensity of Sam’s attention. I willed her to speak, will her to issue her sordid command, cursing inwardly with every passing second that the orgasm remained locked away inside me.

  “Come for me.”

  Her words hung in the air, exotic and thick with desire. Then I felt Sam push her face against my pussy, moving her tongue frantically on my clit. I responded without thinking, attacking her with renewed vigor, pressing her and massaging her throbbing nub with hungry intent. The raging storm within me swept forward. No longer held back by my strong resolve, it expanded until it occupied my consciousness. I turned into the maelstrom, offered myself to it as roared over me. My pussy sang out, a hot chorus of glorious relief, the culmination of hours of buildup and suffocating tension. Above me, I felt Sam’s body clench as her own orgasm took her, felt her muscles tense and her grip on me increase. It felt as though we were merging together, becoming one entity that existed only for pleasure. The white noise of our orgasms seemed to blur the line between us, her mouth on my pussy, my mouth on hers. I screamed out, no longer able to contain the energy inside me, then Sam joined me. We began to shake and rock, bodies touching at multiple points provoking new bursts of sensation with each fleeting friction. I became overwhelmed by it, senses overloaded by the relentless roar from my pussy, the feeling of being smothered by her wet lips, her continued presence between my legs. I felt myself begin to black-out, a feeling of falling, of being rendered insensate by the relentless orgasm.

  And then it ended. The deafening roar stopped like a departing storm, leaving only devastation in its wake. I felt my body deflate, no longer possessing the animating energy that had driven it, I collapsed limp to the bench. Above me, Sam slumped down, her slender weight resting on my body, skin slick with sweat sliding against mine. We both breathed deeply, a synchronized inhale and exhale as the intensity of our orgasms faded to the memory of sensation.

  As the last light of my consciousness faded and I drifted into a light doze, I marvelled at where I was. Trapped here beneath the naked, sweaty body of my best friend. My mouth still close enough to her pussy that I could taste the rich musk of her passion on my tongue. And above us both, the enigmatic, controlling presence of The Artist, basking in the radiated glory of her finest work, her most erotic creation.

  Friendship.

  THE END

  Used

  by Ella Ford

  Prologue

  Countless hot tongues lashed against her body, a hard rain of unrelenting attention. She felt hands on her, clutching and grabbing, sensual and rough and frantic. Her skin burned with every touch, scalding supernovas of sensation provoked by contact and the thrill of caress. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, debilitating. She felt herself drowning in the waves of pleasure that washed over her.

  Unable to see, blinded by the rough material over her eyes, hands bound tightly with a length of dirty rope, she collapsed back to her secondary senses. The musky smell of sweat and sex, faintly colored with cheap perfume and black leather. The chorus of female voices, grunts and moans and sighs and cries, somehow feminine despite the rough nature of her degradation. The sensation of clutching fingers on slick skin, body against body, tender nipples provoked to hard rigidity by countless wet kisses.

  She felt herself lifted, body gripped by the coordinated action of several pairs of hands, raised from the bed and dragged forward. Hands on her shoulders, on her arms, on her ass, flipping her over, setting her down on her knees on the filthy floor of the motel room. A hard shove on her back, a sudden and insistent motion that caused her hips to strike the bed and her body to bend at the waist. Face down now, mouth held against the dirty sheets by a strong hand on her neck, forced to breathe the dusty, sweaty air of the old bed.

  Her point of awareness seemed to drift from her body, lifting out of her head and rising up to the low ceiling, hovering there and observing the scene of her degradation. From her imagined vantage point, her pale, flawless skin was barely visible beneath the tangle of limbs and bodies, tattooed flesh and denim, grasping, clawing, striking. An anonymous figure moved to her rear, kicking apart her knees with an insistent swipe of her boot. Using an instinct developed in recent days, she realized with certainty that the presence belonged to her, the gang leader, the architect of her new life. She could almost feel the weight of her authority. She marvelled at how easily she succumbed, how quickly she obeyed. Her naked body seemed like a ragdoll, a simple toy with only one purpose, no will or mind of its own. The thought thrilled and terrified her.

  The figure at her rear gripped her ass, clawed hands kneading soft flesh, nails digging into tender skin, causing her to cry out with pain and ecstasy. Then something else, a cold, hard insinuation on her pussy, gentle and teasing, the first light gust of the storm that was to come.

  She held her breath, knowing what was about to happen, knowing what to expect but fearing it all the same. Around her, naked figures writhed and snaked, an uncoiling of limbs and a reorientation of mouths. She sensed a presence before her, a looming twin of the dark figure at her rear. She felt a long leg sweep over her, a light sigh of musky desire like a lover’s kiss. She felt hands in her hair, gripping her head and pulling her face up, lifting her off the dirty bed.

  Behind her, the rigid length slipped into her body like a slow bullet, forcing her open and filling her totally. She gasped, breathing in and tasting the rich aroma of the pussy before her with a distant recognition. Then her head was pushed down, forcing her mouth onto the
slick mass of complex folds. She forced herself to focus, trying to ignore the feeling of unrelenting penetration at her rear, the maddening, debilitating waves of sensation raging up from her pussy with every piston-like entry. Her tongue pushed forward, blindly finding its way around a familiar geography, seeking out the triggers that she knew so well.

  Her floating observer gazed down at her body, held tight between the driving strap-on and the wet cunt of the unseen woman. She found herself trying to parse the sensations from her mouth, trying to identify the girl before her, trying to recognize the taste, the smell, the unique texture of her dripping pussy, trying to place which member of the gang was using her tongue. But her concentration faltered, derailed by a sharp slap on her bottom and a hard penetration in her aching pussy. She felt herself slipping away, drifting into that dark space between rationality and release, a sea of pleasure that overwhelmed her senses with its inescapable intensity.

  Her final thought before she gave in to the blank oblivion of sweet capitulation was to wonder how… How had it come to this? How had she, of all people, come to this place, this dirty, dilapidated place? How had she fallen into this life that felt so alien and so right at the same time? A life that saw her used by women, like a tool for pleasure, passed around like a pack of smokes, no will of her own other than the will to please and serve. And then she drifted away as the debilitating force of orgasm swept over her...

  Chapter 1

  Abigail Monroe was such a bitch. Everyone knew it, she knew it, and she didn’t seem to care a single bit. So it wasn’t a huge surprise when she started drunkenly shouting at me in the crowded bar that strange night when my life changed forever.

  “Brett never liked you, you dumb skank!” she spat from somewhere behind me.