by Violet Blue
It ended as quickly as it had begun. The extreme burn which had spread across my ass was tingling as my brain slowly registered that the pain had stopped. The hands which had been pressing into me slipped under my arms and pulled me upright. My head spun as my stiff body became accustomed to standing, and for a moment I rested heavily on my captor’s arms.
They brought me before Becky, and I watched as the boss took over from Miss Harriet, who had clearly been driving Becky to distraction by alternatively slapping her distended tits and rubbing her nipples with a silk handkerchief. The tears which had been silently pouring from Becky’s face had dried, and she collected herself for whatever was to follow. I wanted to remind her that she started this, but all I could do was look at her.
The boss took one long, hard swipe at her engorged nipples with the belt he had so recently used on me. I couldn’t decide if the scream that left Becky’s lips was one of relief, sheer frustration, or pain.
He released her feet and wrists before taking the leather cord which hung across her chest and pulling her out of the closet. He gave the cord to me and said to us, “She’s all yours. One hour only.” He left then, grabbing a couple of chains before pushing Miss Harriet rather too roughly toward his office door.
I didn’t move. Becky and I were still naked, but no one else was. The silence lasted for about thirty seconds until the spell was broken and the men who had been holding me down snapped to attention. Both ran to the open closet and grabbed what they wanted. Before I could think, the biting claws of a pair of cruel silver nipple clamps were making Becky cry out in agony as her tortured breasts flushed in response. Her arms were held while the others watched, fascinated, as canes, whips, and paddles were grabbed from their hooks. Becky’s eyes were wide. She began to suffer an assault that was evidently the result of months of pent-up frustration from my fellow workers. Her breasts, arms, thighs, and buttocks all took a simultaneous lashing as she stood there. She screamed and yelled, but her eyes clearly shouted Don’t stop! and she relished every stroke. Sticky liquid was seeping out of her wet snatch as I watched, transfixed by this amazing creature. She looked at me beseechingly and I could not deny her. I let go of the cord, pushed past one of my colleagues who was pinching the underside of her swollen breasts, and kissed her. I had never kissed anyone like that. It was as if I was saving her, taking her beyond the agony of her deliciously pain-racked body. Her anguish was silenced by my hungry lips, and I moaned into her as the lashes began to crack across me as well.
An hour later, I gently removed the clamps, kissing the damaged nipples to make them better, and slipped her crumpled blouse back over her warmed chest.
Then we all returned to our desks to work.
There was never any question that I would go home with her. How I didn’t come as we simply held hands on the walk to her flat I shall never know.
No sooner had we got through the door than our clothes were in a heap and Becky pulled me into her bedroom. She laid me down on her soft coffee-colored duvet and pulled a large battered suitcase from the corner of the room. It was full of every type of sex toy I had ever seen. Even our boss would have been envious of such a collection.
As I allowed myself to be gagged and bound by this pale beauty, I finally understood why I had been unable to talk her out of applying for the job. This was what she had desired from the very beginning, and for that I will be eternally grateful.
ELECTRIC RAZOR
Irma Wimple
She discovered it while shaving her legs.
She paused, letting the electric razor rest against her thigh. The sensations that traveled to her delicates from the vibrating razor captivated her. She stopped shaving and moved the butt end of the razor higher and higher, until the resonating device was nestled against her womanhood, pressed close and high, as she closed her legs tightly. Her head tipped back and she lost herself in the sensations.
Slowly the iris of her awareness shrank down to the warmth beating between her legs. The sounds of the stereo, the draining bath, the traffic, the feeling of the cold ceramic tile under her feet, the rush of air from the furnace all faded. She knew only the interaction of the razor’s buzz and her own heartbeat, which she could feel more strongly now in her clitoris than in her chest. She held still for a long time, holding the razor against herself. She felt the need to move, and made tiny pelvic thrusts, holding the razor still. The tiniest movements felt so good to her, and escalated her incrementally each time—finally, to a place she had only known in dreams.
With no warning she crested the hill, fell over the edge, and strong throbbing contractions bloomed from deep under her clitoris, threatening her focus on the hand holding the razor. In ever-spreading ripples, the intense orgasm throbbed countless beats, sending warm pleasure daggers into her entire body. It was almost too much to bear.
She was silent and still—anyone watching her would only see her catch and hold her breath. No one would witness the red heat pulsing within her before it subsided, and she took a deep quavering breath, and a dreamy beatific smile was left upon her face.
She left the razor where it was and soon climaxed two more times; smaller throbbing aftershocks that threatened to overload her pleasure centers. Afterward, she stumbled to the living room in her terry-cloth robe, curled up in a beanbag chair, and fell profoundly asleep in a sunbeam.
She found other things in her flat which produced similar effects when used unconventionally. Her tiny food processor, pureeing spinach or beans, could release her with a quick shotgun orgasm after a day of speed and tension. She had to practice pressing against it in exactly the right position; reaching her orgasm required navigating a narrow channel of sensation. If she deviated too much, she was swept around it in an eddy and it passed her by, leaving her sweaty, itchy, and frustrated. Placing the processor on a kitchen chair and standing against it, knees bent, worked remarkably once she had awkwardly discovered it.
She began to eat a lot of processed food and soups.
Sitting on the vacuum cleaner took a long time, but the orgasms came from deep within her and lasted and lasted, until she had to fall, squirming and sighing, off her perch on the base of the machine. She humped the floor then, or her John Lennon pillow, until the tiny clutching aftershocks came and came, erasing her identity, collapsed and carpet-burned until morning.
She acquired the habit of hanging around the laundry room and sitting on the washer pretending to read a book during the spin cycle. The other tenement denizens suspected nothing—only watching her eyes becoming fixed on the text, and the clutching and holding of her breath would give away her booming squeezing laundry-room climaxes. She would sit, her undies feeling tighter and tighter, a swelling thumping rising from below until she thought she would pee her pants. Then the silent invisible wave would squeeze and squeeze her hot throbbing sex until she nearly fell over.
She had an old drill which was slightly off-center, and when she turned it outward and held the butt of the drill against her mound, she rapidly climbed through the sensations to a short, flutteringly rapid and intense orgasm. She could repeat these by reapplying the machine as soon as she could again control her hand, until she was exhausted and felt her entire abdominal area cramp as it would during her period. She would not be horny for days after one of these, but a bit sore and bruised.
She began to shop at home-and-kitchen-supply stores during off-hours, so she could turn on the appliances and feel their motors. She acquired an ability to predict the type of orgasm from the feel of the machine in the store. She bought a breadmaker, whose kneading paddles set her throbbing but left her unsatisfied, and she had to go use the electric razor to bring herself off. The razor always gave her the longest, most satisfying, and most multiple climaxes. She turned back to it when the other machines didn’t have the depth, the focus that the tiny rechargeable razor gave her.
She bought a cordless electric screwdriver that she would hold between her legs with no head attached while she was sitting at the computer. An
hour would go by and she would forget it was there, as its charge started running out, and suddenly she would need to get off the chair, clasp something soft between her legs, and squeeze and squeeze until a tiny, soft, clutching orgasm reached up to her from the depths. The magnitude of these was low, but the duration was high, and they left her smiling and sleepy.
Summer came, and she found that she could lean against the frame of her boxy window fan, pressing the rounded corner into her pubic mound through her clothes. She pushed against the vibrating fan, very carefully, getting the vibrations in exactly the right place. The climax would come without warning, again, lofting her over the unseen barrier, and she slid, throbbing, down, down, down into hot red squeezing pulsing oblivion.
She rarely made any outward show of passion during these machine-driven orgasms. The entire torrent, the pulsing flood of sensation, was so internal and private that little escaped to the outside world. She did not need to moan and fling herself about. The quieter she was, the more intensely she felt the sensations. Her eyes were always closed to keep her focus narrow, within her, avoiding distractions and stimuli from outside.
This new world of oblivion in climax fascinated her, and she wanted to explore all corners and depths of feeling she could attain. She had only slept with one man, her inept and distant high school boyfriend, and never once achieved anything near her electric razor orgasm. She owned dozens of electric, cordless, and windup machines, and became very skilled at creating a climax to suit her mood.
But she was lonely.
One day she went down to the laundry room to empty the dryer. There was a man there, lanky black hair still wet from a shower, unshaven, in a tight V-neck white T-shirt and jeans, barefoot. He was reading a book, sitting on her favorite washer, on spin cycle.
She smiled.
JUST WORDS
Donna George Storey
I told him words wouldn’t do it.
Not X-rated e-mails.
Or sizzling phone sex.
Or “You know how much I love you, babe.”
And certainly not “I’m sorry I have to give up three weeks of great sex with you to go to Europe to kiss client ass for my fat boss who will pocket all the profit and maybe if I’m lucky give me a measly bonus at the end of the fiscal year”—although a little honesty about what’s really going on here with his new job would be a step in the right direction.
What I needed was flesh. Heat. The music of his moans in my ear. His sturdy hands stroking my breasts. His finger teasing my asshole. His cock buried so deep inside my red, grasping mouth of a cunt, I didn’t feel hungry anymore.
He couldn’t take me there with just words.
To his credit, he did deliver the goods the evening before he left for London. It was just like the early days, when we spent whole weekends tangled together in the sheets, staggering out of bed only to get another bottle of wine or pay the pizza delivery guy. He made me come five times, twice riding his cock, twice on his tongue and once as he pinched my nipples and spanked my ass while I “secretly” rubbed my pussy against the mattress. I treated him to a postprandial crème de menthe blow job, along with my usual repertory of tricks to tease his tender parts. I liked the way he groaned and called out my name, but I really hoped our fuckfest would make him say other words.
Such as: “Fuck them, I’m staying with you.”
Instead, he stumbled off to the airport, with a bleary-eyed wink and a promise he’d e-mail every morning and night, and we’d have a nice long phone call—on the company’s dollar—every Saturday afternoon.
Still floating in the afterglow, I convinced myself that it was enough, that we could make it through three weeks apart with just words.
Until I got his first e-mail.
He wrote that he was really looking forward to our “date” on Saturday, but in the meantime he wanted me to refrain from any self-pleasuring activity—he actually used that lady-librarian expression—for the rest of the week. To make it all the hotter when he finally brought me off over the phone.
Yeah, right.
I gave a nasty little laugh, pulled my nightgown up to my waist, and jilled off right in front of the computer. Now and then I’d take a break and type a few more sentences of my reply.
Hey, lover boy. I think it’s time for a little confession. When you’re gone I keep myself plenty satisfied with the help of two tireless lovers. At night they take turns: One strokes my nipples into hard little points, while the other goes down to do the slip-slide in my wet pussy. Every morning, I wake up with a tight ache between my legs—don’t kid yourself, girls don’t rise at dawn, it’s just hidden away inside. So me and my fuck buddies do it then, too, and I’m feeling so sexy from my morning quickie I put on a short skirt and boots, or the jeans that push right up in my crotch to go to work at the bookstore. You’d never let me out of the apartment dressed that way, but you aren’t here to stop me, are you? I get so itchy I can’t help but shake my butt when I guide the gray-haired married men over to the finance section. And I always make sure the cute young guys need a book from the lowest shelf, so I can bend over and give them an eyeful of ass or cleavage, depending on the angle. Yesterday, I snuck off to the alcove by the poetry journals, where I let lover number one climb under my skirt, while number two yanked my sweater over my tits and tweaked and pinched them until I came so hard my head practically blew off. Moments after I straightened my clothes, a really hot guy—one of those ponytailed literary types—walked in and gave me a long, knowing look. I’m sure he knew what I’d been doing. He could probably smell me, too. The idea got me so turned on I had another encounter in the ladies’ room. But maybe next time I’ll just fuck the guy against the bookshelf. The truth is, I’m having such a wild time I don’t miss you at all. Why would I give up all this fun for an hour of yakety-yak phone sex with you?
Think again, buddy.
I clicked the Send icon, spread my legs wider around the chair, and climaxed right then and there on my dancing finger. Loudly.
Sure, maybe I was taunting him, but it served him right. Besides, a lot of what I wrote was true. I did get turned on when I was working at the bookstore. I wouldn’t admit it to him, but it wasn’t so much the customers as the words that excited me, especially when they were packaged between the covers of a new book. I loved to stroke its crisp pages, then spread it open wide and bend to breathe in the perfume of fresh paper and ink. I rarely started reading it at the beginning—I wanted to take a book by surprise, slip right inside its soft middle. The good ones always got under my skin to lift me, transport me, to another time, another place, another body. A steamy sex scene would always send me straight to the staff ladies’ room for relief.
And when he was away, I usually did soothe myself to sleep with some action between my legs, then woke up horny and took the necessary steps to quench that fire, too. But busy as they were, my hands never quite stilled the longing deep in my belly the way he could do with his fingers, tongue, and cock.
And so, I had to admit, the last part of the e-mail was a bald-faced lie. I did miss him. Bad.
When I saw his reply in my in-box the next morning, I felt a twinge of worry that I’d gone too far with the insatiable-slut revenge fantasy. But he didn’t seem mad. In fact he apologized and agreed he had no right to put limits on my private activities, especially since he couldn’t help jacking off after he read the part about me playing with myself in the poetry annex. While he stroked his cock, he imagined he’d been the one to catch me with my hand up my skirt and pictured all the ways he’d “punish” me for it.
But, he suggested again with all due respect, for my own enjoyment I might consider abstaining on Friday night and Saturday morning. He’d come up with some new ideas for our date, and he was pretty sure I’d agree they were worth waiting for. He promised to send instructions on how to prepare myself by Saturday morning.
I had to laugh again. While he’d certainly picked up on my intention to make him jealous with the public mast
urbation scene, he was apparently slow to grasp my broader message of female autonomy.
Still, I had to admit the word instructions made me tingle a little down there. I even took a little vacation from tickling the clam as the weekend drew near.
Of course, I got up extra early to check my e-mail Saturday morning. As promised, my instructions were waiting:I’ll call you at noon on Saturday, your time. Exactly ten minutes beforehand, I want you to do the following:
1. Take off all your clothes and put on the Hello Kitty thong I brought from Japan last month. If you’re cold, you may cover yourself with your bathrobe, but nothing else.
2. Place your hairbrush and hand mirror in the middle of the bed.
3. Lie down beside them and wait, hands at your side, until the phone rings. Then you may answer it.
That was it. A bossy to-do list. No loving endearments. No “can’t wait to hear your sexy voice.” None of the things a truly caring lover should say to his long-suffering and very horny girlfriend.
So why was my heart going pitter-patter in my chest?
Of course, I told myself, no man gave me “instructions.” I’d play along because I had nothing better to do—for the moment. At the appointed time, I stripped and put on the thong, a black silk triangle on a string with a silly, beribboned kitty face on the front. I’d gotten a giggle out of it when he gave it to me after his last trip, but I hadn’t worn it yet. It was a wise choice for overseas foreplay—definitely snug in all the right places.
But the mirror and the brush stumped me. Was he planning some kind of weird naked makeover session? I suddenly remembered some amateur porn pictures I’d seen on the Internet of a woman stroking her pubic hair with her hairbrush. She had this dreamy expression as if it were the most fascinating activity on earth, although at the time I suspected she was faking it for the photographer boyfriend.
