by Lynn, KT
Only when I notice Jiro gazing at me does my shame fade away. He says nothing but I can see the desire in his eyes and the fact that he approves of what he sees, the fact that he wants me makes me forget all else. I only long to be his.
To my disappointment, he leaves my side and in his absence, my head clears and I wonder what has happened to him, why he is still alive when the rumors said he had fallen. I come up with no answers and when he returns, I find that he has several coils of thin, red rope with him. My fear returns.
“You have been a bad girl, Kasumi,” he says, calling me by my first name. “For that, I will have to punish you.”
He takes the ropes and begins tying them all over me, not randomly but in intricate criss-crossing patterns punctuated by tight knots. One of the strands goes above my breasts while another goes under them, pushing them out. Another strand runs between my legs with a knot right above my sensitive place. He gives an experimental tug and immediately, I cry out as I feel pleasure course through my veins. I long for him to touch me, to truly touch me instead of just brushing against my skin but I dare not ask. When he is finished, he steps back to admire his work. He smirks in satisfaction, then leaves again.
Alone, I stay still, knowing every movement I make will only cause the ropes to rub against my skin, including my most sensitive places.
I am not entirely alone, though. While most of the men have left along with Jiro, there are still some around, staring at me. A few, not content just to stare, approach me. One of them holds my chin and sticks his tongue into my mouth and I dare not bite it for fear of the consequences though the taste, which has traces of sake, nearly makes my stomach churn. Another cups my breast, squeezing it before tugging the nipple between his teeth, making me tremble in pleasure, while another man, perhaps having seen my reaction earlier, tugs at the bottom ropes, causing me to whimper. He lets it go only to tug it again and repeats the action over and over until the friction is too much. Just as I feel like I am about to reach my climax, the mouths, the hands and the friction disappear all too quickly and I see Jiro standing in front of me, furious.
He loosens the rope around my wrists and pushes me down so that I am kneeling on the ground, the movement causing my ropes to feel tighter, especially the one between my legs. He removes his obi and lowers his hakama then takes his cock out of his fundoshi. To my surprise, it is hard and larger than I have ever imagined.
He steps forward so that the tip of his cock touches my cheek and grips my hair, and I understand what he asks of me. I stick out my tongue, licking around the crown of his tongue where a salty moisture has gathered, then I take him into my mouth. It is Jiro’s cock and so I savor it.
As I suck his cock, doing my best not to gag at its size, he reaches down to tug at the ropes. I feel the friction against my breasts and against my clit, which is now dripping wet, but I can do nothing. I can only surrender to the pleasure.
Just as I feel myself nearing the brink of pleasure again, Jiro lets go of the ropes. Seconds later, he pulls me off him as he releases, his cum landing on my face, my hair and on top of my breasts. A drop lands on my lips and I lick it, relishing the unusual yet not at all unpleasant taste. He grins in approval.
Taking his tanto, he cuts the ropes around my body but his eyes tell me his punishment is not over yet. He frees my wrists only to tie them again after he pulls me to my feet and turns me around. Then, he bends me over and begins to fondle my breast as he spanks me.
The slaps on my buttocks are not all too painful, though I knew they would leave a reddish mark, but the humiliation was almost unbearable, especially when I thought that this was the childhood friend I had admired and loved spanking me in public and when I thought of all the men jeering around me. The worst part, though, was that even though my mind protested, my body was indulging itself in the pleasure. With each slap, I could feel my cunt tingling, dripping, asking for more while my nipples had hardened into pebbles, and my voice betrayed it all, changing from moans of complaint and discomfort to moans of pleasure.
Suddenly, he stopped. Moments later, I felt his hands on my hips and the tip of his cock at my drenched opening. Without warning, he pushed himself in but wet as I was, I did not feel any pain, only a mild discomfort that ebbed away as he started thrusting in and out, making my nipples shake with each movement. With just a few hard thrusts, the pleasure that had been building inside of me like a storm blew up and I came, clamping down on his hot, large cock and breaking into small shudders. Jiro, however, did not stop. His thrusts only became deeper and faster and when he reached around to play with my clit, I came again, this time, with a scream of his name, and moments later, I felt him reach his own climax again, his cum spilling into me. As he pulled out, some of it trickled down my thighs but I was too tired to care. I collapsed on the ground and allowed my exhaustion to sweep me away to unconsciousness.
Waking up, I find myself inside a room with Jiro hunched over a desk in the corner, scribbling something under the candlelight. Hearing me sitting up, he stands and comes to my side.
“Are you alright, Kasumi?” he asks, his voice as tender as I remembered.
I only nod, still dazed, but he jolts me out of it as he suddenly takes me into his arms.
“I’m so sorry, Kasumi,” Jiro tells me. “I did not want to hurt you but I had no choice. I still have something left to accomplish here and if I allowed you to escape after what you had done, they would have killed me.”
“I understand,” I tell him. “I killed Lord Funabashi to avenge you and if I had ended up getting you killed, then everything would have been for nothing.”
“I’m really sorry, Kasumi,” he repeats. “I thought it was for the best that everyone thought I was dead since it is dishonorable for a samurai to serve another lord just because he was afraid of dying.”
I shake my head. “I am glad you are alive.”
In spite of what he had done to me, I could not bring myself to hate him even in the slightest.
Suddenly, he lifts my chin and kisses me. It is our first kiss and it is sweet and tender, our tongues entangling, sending fresh bolts of pleasure all over my body. After releasing my lips, he kisses the side of my neck and my shoulders, then kisses the trails that the ropes have left in apology.
When he reaches my navel, he gently pushes me down on the futon. He positions himself between my legs and licks around my belly button, then he moves even lower. When I his tongue against my most sensitive spot, my first reaction is to try to push him away and close my legs but he spreads them apart and continues licking and with each swipe of his tongue, I am getting wetter and wetter.
His tongue is so skillful that the pleasure inside me erupts as I thrash my head against the pillow. When I have recovered, I look into his eyes and feel myself grow even more feverish at the desire I see there, along with something even more tender. My heart starts pounding even faster.
Still gazing into my eyes, he gently pushes his cock, which he must have taken out while I was trying to recover from my high, inside me. This time, he does so inch by inch until he has buried himself entirely inside me and I feel full to the brim.
He pulls himself out completely only to thrust back in and he repeats this, slowly at first, and then faster, gripping my thighs.
He is still watching me and I find myself equally enraptured by his expression. He bends down to kiss me, this time, more passionate than before and as his tongue explores my mouth, I feel my climax coming at me. I clutch at the back of his neck as I allow myself to be swept away, breaking the kiss so I could scream his name and catch my breath.
Nearly bending me in half, he thrusts into me a few more times before he spills himself inside me, his eyebrows furrowing in exertion and his eyes squeezing shut as he throws his head back. He stops to catch his breath before pulling out. Lying down beside me, he takes me into his arms once again and kisses my shoulder.
The next morning, when I wake up, he is gone and all that is left are a pile of f
resh clothes, my two swords, and a note with directions for my escape, along with a wish for me to take care of myself. I press the note to my chest, then I change into my clothes and put on my swords.
Following his directions, I reach the gap in the wall I had previously considered escaping through and once outside, I find a horse waiting for me. Riding it, I leave the area, not once stopping to look back.
I only stop when I reach the hill at the edge of town, from which I could see the keep. I utter a silent prayer, hoping that he is well, and that one day, the man I love would return to our village safely.
I will wait patiently for his return.
Rough Trade
by KT Lynn
Themes: BDSM; threesome; dubious consent
Even after four months, walking through the marble and stainless steel atrium thrilled me every single morning. With so many recent grads still hunting for work and being passed over, having a trader's desk at Wellborn and Sand was a real coup. I made sure to look the part, even if it ate up a good chunk of my fat check making sure I didn't wear the same outfit twice. Even if I'd been out until three the night before, I was a slave to my alarm and always set it to have enough time to make sure I'd not have a hair out of place. You could smell the money and power in that place, and I wanted that world so badly I could taste it.
The interview had been grueling. Not only had Mark and Kent Wellborn asked me a series of increasingly challenging questions at warp speed, alternating like cops in an interrogation room, they'd actually sat me down at a desk and had me make practice trades on a dummy account for an hour before making their decision. When I got the call, I knew it meant I was one of the best. They could afford the best. They'd made that clear.
The Wellborn brothers were something of a legend. Their initial stake had come from Daddy, and how exactly Daddy had come by his pile was debated in some circles--some shady doings were more than hinted at--but no one could argue the fact that Wellborn and Sand was consistently making news and breaking records.
Their Midas touch only fueled the hunger of the paparazzi and the rumor mongers, who panted after any gossip concerning the “Brothers W.” Both unmarried in their thirties, they had an air of mystery and unconcern about them that simply fueled the fire. Occasionally, one or the other would be spotted at some society thing. Mark was a supporter of good causes, Kent was fond of skydiving and scuba.
Generally, though, they flew under the radar--the tabloids had never unearthed even the whiff of a scandal, which made them practically reclusive by modern standards. And on the business pages, it had been noted that they ran W and S with iron hands on the reins. In the bars and cafes where traders gathered, they had a reputation as exacting employers, fair but ice-cold when displeased.
I told myself it was the greatest--having this job--that at twenty-three, I'd finally Grown Up. But when I was honest with myself (who has time for that, these days?), I had to admit that a big part of the thrill in my belly when I walked through that ultramodern atrium was sheer terror. One screw up, the talk went, and you were history here--and people would hear of it. Screw ups with W&S seemed to wind up disappearing from the Street entirely; rumor had it that one particular insurance brokerage in South Jersey had become something of a post mortem Limbo where several exiles had gone and spent coffee breaks bemoaning their lost glory.
Besides the fat checks and feeling of being bathed in reflected glory, getting to know Elena had been the only real bright spot. She was a lot more like me than most women our age. Neither of us wanted to find Mr. Perfect and have him spoil us rotten. Both of us wanted to be Ms. Perfect ourselves, building up piles and piles of lovely fuck-you money of our very own so that no man could trade us in for a new trophy and leave us scrambling.
Neither of us wanted to think about what would happen if we ever had to compete for the same prize--Elena was the only woman I knew who was just as driven and ambitious as I was. Since we weren't competing directly, it was a friendship made in paradise. That was, until yesterday, when I had found Elena sobbing in the powder room lounge.
I'd nearly fainted. She'd jumped like a startled deer when the door opened, and my presence forced her to pull herself together enough to choke out an explanation. “I'm done,” she'd said. “I screwed up, Lori. Big time. It's going to hurt their bottom line.”
“But Mark likes you,” I offered, trying to be hopeful. “Not after this,” she insisted. My attempted words of comfort did ring a bit hollow in light of the firm's atmosphere and reputation. Mark was the “good cop” half of the pair, but only as long as an employee was an asset did that factor come into play. Stumble, and you were in Kent's cross hairs--and then, presumably, in South Jersey.
And today, it would seem, Elena's execution had come to pass. I made up a reason to walk through her division--not that anyone asked why I was there; they were all glued to their monitors looking busy as hard as they could--and her desk was empty. Blank. Anonymous, as if she'd never been. No one raised their eyes to meet mine.
The icy rock of terror in my abdomen grew and began to throb. And once I returned to my own cubicle, the columns of swiftly moving data that, just yesterday morning, had danced at my command and fit neatly into my calculations seemed to blur, to shimmer. I had to force myself to think. I had Elena's cell number, and on my first break, I tried it but got only the recording. Not available. No further information.
I pictured her wandering, despondent. I knew how much this job had meant to her. She'd made a sardonic joke yesterday about her future as a bag lady, but I knew she'd throw herself on the train tracks first. My mind was spinning in trapped circles.
Suddenly I got the distinct feeling I was being watched. I glanced around and saw that Kent Chapman, GQ elegant and expressionless as ever, was gazing straight at me from the doorway with a slight frown. Flustered, I let my eyes meet his. Aside from not looking happy, his expression was unreadable. His gesture was crystal clear, though, when he raised his chin and jerked his head toward the corner suite where his office lay. I was summoned, and somehow I doubted the news would be good.
By the time I got up from my chair, Kent had vaporized. To my horror, I realized that the knot of apprehension in my gut had been joined by a new and astonishing sensation--a shiver of heat that tingled right between my legs. I tried desperately to think it away, but the only effect that had was that my mind was all the more intensely focused there as I entered the insanely posh executive suite.
There was a seating arrangement obviously intended for friendlier gatherings, with a buttery leather couch and glass-topped table, but I knew damn well that wasn't where I was supposed to go. Another head gesture directed me to the simple straight chair directly in front of Kent's vast and gleaming desk.
“Lori,” he said, his voice ice. “We aren't paying you to keep your chair warm. You haven't made an actual trade all morning.”
“I was- um- I have a-”
“You have a fiduciary and ethical duty to this firm that was made explicit in the hiring process. I could not be less interested in the reasons for your nonperformance. I called you in here simply to inform you of the changes that will take place after lunch.”
Oh man. I was toast. History. Put me on a PATH train, I was Jersey bound. “D-d-do you want me to clean out my desk now?” I stuttered.
“No,” he said shortly. “Everything will be attended to. But when you come back from lunch, you won't be coming back here. Take the elevator all the way up and wait for further instruction. Now, if you'll excuse me.” This was a statement, not a question, reinforced as he turned away from me and opened his phone.
My cheeks felt as though they were flame-red and my knees were weak. I barely knew how but found myself back in the corridor. Why even have me come back from lunch at all? It would have been so much kinder to let me creep off into oblivion.
I couldn't eat, of course. I bought a pack of Parliaments for the first time in a year and smoked three, sitting on a bench and staring blankly. W
rapped in fifteen hundred dollars worth of next month's hottest fashion, manicure and makeup, I already felt my inner bag lady whispering her gibberish.
At one thirty, I slunk back across the vast marble floor and pushed the “P” button on the elevator. I was numb. I was sure that my dreams, my goals, my very vision of myself, were already ruined--this was simply one final ordeal to get through. After I got through it, then...well...I pictured a drink. Or maybe five.
The elevator door opened into a surprisingly small chamber, fitted out with three chairs around a low table, modest and simple compared to the grandiose spaces downstairs. It didn't need to be impressive in itself, though. It contained both the Wellborns.
“Lori,” said Mark, sounding sad. “Sit down, Lori. I'm sorry it's come to this.” Infuriatingly, I found his quiet deep voice was sparking the same reaction in my groin that his brother's arrogant head gesture had inspired that morning. I was tingling. My panties felt a size too small. I was suddenly very aware of myself as a woman, underneath all the trimmings; it was not a feeling that inspired confidence at this moment. I despaired. If there was a game that could be won here, surely it involved being ice cold, not oozing pussy-juice onto my stockings.
