Black Lace Quickies 3

by Kerri Sharpe

  ‘Just so we’re clear,’ he said, ‘I’m playing with you now, not the other way around.’

  I felt my face flush and my skin prickle as I considered the notion of simply being his toy, passive and vulnerable. The thought was not one that appealed. I couldn’t suppress a sigh as I contemplated the fact that I thought I’d given up unsatisfactory sex years ago. What was the point in this?

  His hands delicately traced their way across the small of my back and over my hips before coming together to meet on the swell of my buttocks. Then they skimmed downwards until they came to rest on the back of my thighs. He stroked across the fabric of my skirt and then ventured lower. I felt his fingers glide across my stockinged legs as he dived under my skirt, his touch gentle but insistent. I frowned, hating the fact that he was touching me while I couldn’t touch him and knowing that there was nothing I could do about it. My skirt hitched as his hand pushed higher, locating the very tops of my stockings. He lingered there, rubbing his fingertips across the coarseness of the lace trim. An unmistakable sigh escaped from his lips as he touched the bare skin of my thighs. Perhaps I had overestimated his control. A smile twitched at the corners of my mouth. This would be easier than I had expected.

  ‘You like that?’ I teased and I leaned back a little so that my bound hands just about made contact with his crotch.

  He moved back at once. ‘Do you like this?’ he asked and tugged the tie, making my upper body jerk backwards.

  I cried out in surprise and felt ashamed of myself for reacting so pitifully. But then the silk fell away from my wrists and I turned to face him, smiling triumphantly. I had known that he wouldn’t be able to hold out on me for long.

  He flashed a broad smile, which caught me off-guard, and the next thing I knew he’d grasped my hands again and was tying them in front of me.

  ‘You can’t be trusted, I see,’ he said, raising my hands slightly so that my arms were outstretched. He stepped forward, turning my body as he moved so that I was facing the gate again, and then he reached forward and deftly fastened the end of the tie to the rails. I went to speak – to object – but then thought better of it. The last thing I wanted was for him to think he had ruffled me. So I stood with my head resting on my hands against the railings, determined not to give anything away.

  His hand moved up my legs and then hovered between my thighs. Despite my good intentions to stay in control, I was aroused and, when his fingers at last made contact with the place that yearned for it most, it took an unbelievable amount of effort to remain silent. I bit down on my lip as his fingers began to tease; back and forth they slid across the soft cotton, and then I felt cool air rush across my skin as my knickers were eased down and pooled at my feet. I took a deep breath. This hadn’t been what I’d intended when I’d set off for work but I couldn’t deny that I was excited.

  ‘You like that?’ he asked.

  I shrugged, determined not to reveal the unexpected effect he was having on me.

  He chuckled. ‘You don’t want to answer me?’

  I cleared my throat and then shook my head.

  The shock of his flattened palm making contact with my bare arse threw me off-balance and I momentarily swung a little on the short length of tie that was slackly holding me to the rail. I managed to steady myself quickly but the turn of events had taken me completely by surprise. Apart from anything else, I was shocked by his confidence, his boldness.

  A second smack followed, and then another. He barely paused between smacks and I shut my eyes tight, my ears ringing with the sounds of skin-to-skin contact. I gasped with the suddenness each time – the sound, the force, the way it made my body jolt – and I determined to focus on the pain that was spreading across my arse. Well, not so much pain as heat. And, between my legs, fire raged.

  I felt him move behind me, then his hands gently held my bottom. His breath cooled my burning skin and my body froze as I stood exposed. Seconds later, his tongue pressed against my tender flesh, tracing along the marks I imagined he must have left on my body. The sensation was excruciatingly sublime as the wetness from his mouth sent chills through my hot skin. My head swirled. Part of my brain still willed me not to give in but my body hummed and all I could think about was how much I wanted to come. I needed to. I hadn’t been this desperate for months. But I just couldn’t let myself.

  ‘Stop it,’ I whispered, breathless. I closed my eyes. ‘You have to stop.’

  His hands remained on my arse and when he spoke, his lips brushed against my sensitive flesh. ‘You want me to stop?’ he asked, and then the tip of his tongue zigzagged down my lower back before coming to a stop at the cleft between my buttocks.

  I held my breath.

  ‘Are you sure you want me to stop?’

  I murmured an indecipherable sound and his tongue returned to my body, gliding its wetness along my centre, making me shiver. Before I knew what I was doing I had instinctively leaned further forward, exposing myself to him completely. He didn’t waste a second. He held my thighs wider apart and then pushed his face between them. I moaned as his tongue lapped at my entrance and bent lower allowing him to tickle my clit with the softest motions. I gripped the railings as my thighs began to tremble and he pressed his whole mouth against me, stimulating me with his chin, nose, mouth, everything. I squirmed against him as my orgasm built. And then, nothing, his presence between my legs, gone.

  ‘No,’ I whispered, turning around to look at him over my shoulder. He was standing upright now, grinning at me.

  ‘I decided you were right,’ he said. ‘You know, when you said about stopping.’

  I stared at him in amazement. The muscles in my arms, I now realised, were burning having been held up for so long, and my arse was sore from the spanking. But my pussy was pounding. ‘Is this payback?’ I asked at last.

  ‘I thought you needed teaching a lesson,’ he said, stepping closer. ‘How not to be a bad girl to men on trains.’ He smiled. ‘But you obviously can’t take it …’

  ‘Of course I can take it,’ I said indignantly. Although, of course, I couldn’t.

  ‘Really?’ He stood directly behind me and reached for my clit. I gasped despite myself and writhed against his hand as he teased and rubbed for a few brief moments before stopping again.

  ‘Please,’ I said in frustration.

  ‘Please what?’ He stood so closely to me that I could feel his breath on my skin. And for the first time, I felt his rock-hard cock straining against my leg.

  I bit down on my lip. God, I was desperate.

  ‘Hmm?’ He dipped a finger inside me, coating it with my wetness, and groaned as he began to slowly finger-fuck me. ‘Please what?’ My muscles tightened around him drawing him deeper. ‘If your pussy is anything to go by,’ he said slowly, ‘I’d say you were losing your resolve.’

  I couldn’t help but smile then. ‘And you’re not?’ I asked as another finger pushed deep inside me. ‘Because something tells me this wasn’t meant to happen.’ I pushed my leg back slightly, nudging his hardness. ‘I think you brought me down here to tease me a bit and then leave me wanting. But you haven’t left,’ I said feeling suddenly bold. He began to thrust his fingers harder. ‘Oh.’ I tried to concentrate on what I was saying. ‘And you haven’t left,’ I said, bucking slightly to meet his thrust, because you want to fuck me.’

  ‘I want to fuck you?’ He withdrew my fingers and I panicked for a moment until I felt his fingers circling my clit.

  I closed my eyes. I was so close but, now I’d said it, I wanted it so badly. ‘Yes,’ I hissed.

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Mmm.’ I was starting to feel light-headed.

  ‘And is that what you want?’ I heard his zip ease down.

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘God, please, fuck me.’

  His whole length was inside me in an instant. He grabbed my left hip with one hand as he drove into me with long, smooth strokes and his other hand returned to my clit. My bound hands gripped the rail
until the knuckles faded to white and I pushed myself back forcefully against him, meeting every one of his powerful thrusts. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so positively taken. He slammed into me harder, all the while rubbing and pinching my clit until it felt ready to burst. I could feel his muscles quivering and his breathing quickened as he began to thrust more rapidly. Then he reached forward and covered my hand with his, an action that, along with his fingers on my clit and his hardness inside me, pushed me over the edge. I came hard, my legs suddenly weak, my wrists shaking against the silk that held me in place; and, shortly afterwards, he climaxed too, burying himself deeper inside me and shouting out close to my ear.

  I leaned heavily against the gate and closed my eyes as I waited for my breathing to steady. I could hear him adjusting his clothes and smelled a waft of his scent as he moved closer to me. My wrists began to tingle and I realised that they had been untied. I slowly straightened up and let my arms drop heavily to my sides. They ached and I stretched while clenching and unclenching my fingers in an attempt to loosen them up.

  ‘They’ve gone a bit numb,’ I said, but I knew as I said the words that they were unnecessary. And sure enough, when I turned around, he had gone.

  Cal Jago’s short stories have appeared in numerous Wicked Words collections.

  Number 1 Candy Wong

  THERE WAS A sharp vegetable tang to the room: dirt-caked boots, she thought, and damp clothes crushed to the bottom of nylon kit-bags and left to fester for another week. It was always the same, the smell, and yet for ever strange to her, unpleasant and yet attractive in some way she couldn’t put her finger on, arousing something primal in her. Kneeling forwards, she tied her laces with two brisk tugs, then clutched her stick across her chest and left the room.

  The cold spanked her across the face, but the contrast with the overheated changing room was invigorating. She inhaled deeply and set off for the patch of green behind the line of trees to the right of the building. On the field she could see a few figures already limbering up, smudges of black against the blank white sky.

  She was almost level with the shed when the girls appeared at her shoulders, like dark angels. One of them – she wasn’t sure if it was pin-thin Julie with her lank tawny hair or the more rounded Jane with her frizzy halo of strawberry-blonde curls – shot out an elbow that caught her in the ribs and made her yell out.

  ‘Oi! Goalie,’ quipped Jane with a sardonic smile. ‘Seen lover boy yet? He in there?’

  Tamara hazarded a glance at the shed. The door swung open on its hinges but no one was inside among the massed ranks of gardening tools and little pots of seedlings.

  But Jane had barely paused for a reply before adding, ‘Oh no, you won’t have, will you? He’ll be out there already, waiting for you.’ She turned to Julie triumphantly, and the pair snickered conspiratorially.

  Tamara chewed her lip and looked back towards the playing field. She hoped her collegemate was wrong, but feared that too. His presence embarrassed her, and more so the longer it went on, but if he wasn’t there today then something would have changed in some obscure way that she wouldn’t be able to fathom because she didn’t know why he was there to begin with, and why he looked at her the way he did.

  At first she’d tried to tell herself that it wasn’t her, that he was watching all of them. But then the others – and not just spite-filled Jane and Julie – had started to make remarks, and she’d had to admit to herself that she was why he came, drove his spade hard into the earth and folded his arm over the handle as he followed her about the pitch with his small black eyes.

  They were almost at the field now and she could hear the other girls tittering behind her as they made him out at the other end of the field, immobile, taking deep drags on a cigarette and blowing smoke out into the freezing air.

  ‘What would dear old Trissy say,’ called Julie, ‘if he knew about your secret admirer? Your bit of rough? He wouldn’t be too thrilled about it, I’m sure.’

  Tamara ignored the tacit threat; she’d long since concluded that to rise to Jane and Julie would only encourage them, let them think they had some kind of hold over her. Which they didn’t. She didn’t give a stuff what they said to her or about her. Or what they said to other people, least of all Tristan. She reached the halfway line and began to bend and stretch.

  Gradually the remaining players filtered on to the pitch and Mrs Wass blew her whistle for the two centres to bully off. There followed an hour of fairly uninspired play, with lots of dribbling up and down the field by the wings but few shots at either end. Tamara far preferred the cut and thrust of real games to these practice sessions, which lacked any feeling of aggression or risk, especially as the last game of the campaign had been played. This training session had a pointless, empty feeling to it. A bit like Tristan, she thought, and giggled quietly at her own cruelty.

  Her position in the team meant that, when she wasn’t required to actively defend her goal, there really wasn’t much for her to do, and that in turn increased her self-consciousness. Throughout the game she was aware of the man at the limits of her vision, always there, like a fault on her retina, and she was haunted by the danger of inadvertently meeting his gaze. So she was glad whenever she did see a little action, when she got the chance to hurl her body at oncoming balls, savouring the feel of the cold mud as it slicked across her knees and thighs.

  Afterwards, as she peeled off her kit in the changing room with its misted-up windows, its radiators steaming with sweaty socks and its almost cloacal smell, she found herself thinking about him, really thinking, for the first time. She didn’t know what he looked like, not from close up, or even how old he was, not to mention what was going through his mind as he watched her leap and dive, brandishing her stick like some kind of weapon. His scrutiny had affected her though. She felt dizzy, thickened in the throat as if she had been embarrassed in front of her fellow players. She was warm and tingling in places that she really ought not to be, especially on such a chilly day.

  Pulling her sports bra up over her head, enjoying the brief chafe of rough cotton against her nipples, she became aware that stick-insect Julie, with her slightly bulging, reptilian eyes and her small tight mean mouth, was staring at her across the room. They’d been mates once, the three of them, and then, out of the blue, the other two had turned on her. She’d never understood why. Now, as she saw how Julie’s gaze flickered over her planes and curves, lingering for one barely perceptible moment on her breasts with their mocha areolae, she thought she knew why. The gardener wasn’t the only one who thought Tamara had a beautiful body. Well, let them admire her. She arched her body as she reached into her locker for the shampoo, aware of how her breasts would rise and separate, her tummy become taut, perhaps even bring a little of her bush into view above the waistband of her shorts. She pretended to be distracted by some minuscule piece of grit on her chest and swept it away, careful to brush her fingers over the stiffened flesh of her left breast, which jiggled in just the way she wanted.

  She glanced at Julie as she made her way to the showers. Her erstwhile friend was red in the face, trying to keep a towel around her own nudity, which wasn’t as bad as her clumsy attempts at modesty suggested. She was thin, sure, and her ribs were painfully visible, but she had perky boobs with generous, rude pink nipples and a good curve to her hips. Her bum was firm and round. Tamara almost laughed out loud. Being leched over on a hockey pitch seemed to be all she needed to get her in a froth to the extent that she could begin having fantasies about her teammates.

  In the shower, camouflaged by steam, she soaped her breasts for a long time, paying more attention than was necessary to the nipples, which felt so hard under her fingers that she thought they would never again turn soft. But as much as she wanted to she couldn’t bring herself to rub her pussy. Not yet. Not when so many things about her body, about sex, about Tristan, were still so uncertain. She noticed other girls spending inordinate amounts of time with loofahs or flannels or b
are fingers, bent over, mashing them against the soft flesh of their pussies. She heard the squishing of thick lather and the low sighs barely audible above the hissing showerheads. She wished for some of their daring. As she stepped from the shower she smelt the unmistakeable aroma of female sex and wondered why it was that, no matter how much she dabbed the towel against her sex, she could not get it dry.

  Back home, alone in the house, she tried to finish some coursework as she waited for Tristan to arrive. But her thoughts kept returning to the figure lurking at the end of the hockey pitch, to that face barely visible beneath the hood of his ample jacket, pulled up against the wind and rain, to those eyes trained on her. When the doorbell rang, she started as if from a trance.

  ‘Hi Tam,’ said Tristan, blustering in in his tracksuit.

  She returned his kiss briefly, then led him into the kitchen, where a pot of pasta and sauce spat and bubbled on the hob. After ladling some into two large white bowls, she sprinkled them with grated Parmesan from a packet and set them down on the breakfast bar, at which Tristan was by now seated.

  She barely spoke, mechanically taking in forkfuls of pasta and letting his talk of student-union politics and rowing victories wash over her. She looked at his smooth face, at his skin, unblemished, almost supernaturally clean, at his ash-blond hair and thought again of those words of her mother – ‘If I were twenty years younger, God almighty …’ The look on her face as she had said it – Tamara would never forget that. Tristan was, by anyone’s standards, the university catch. The face of an angel with the physique of a Greek god. The golden boy. Who could resist?

  He needed to be gone by seven, he told her as he rejected the brownie she offered him. That gave them an hour to kill. His perfect white teeth flashed at her as he grinned. She let the dishes clatter into the sink, wiped her hands on some kitchen roll and followed him into her bedroom.