“No, no,” she wanted to yell, but Anna was not intending to penetrate her that way. Instead she slid the whip forwards. And upwards. And inside, scraping Emma’s delicate skin until it filled her. As soon as she was full, she was empty again, with a great feeling of warm, wet loss.
Then Anna was around front, kissing her on the mouth, incredibly opening hers so the other side of the ball was in her mouth and their lips met around it. Emma had never had that done before. It was a very erotic experience. To be repeated, she hoped.
Emma relaxed. She was warm and she was being kissed. She loved being kissed.
In their own way, Emma was being loved, too, though if you didn’t understand it, well . . . you wouldn’t understand it. She was in the hands of her lover. Anna’s property. Anna’s thing. She felt protected and safe. The whip’s sting was merely a mark of love.
Then it was back round behind her for another crack of the whip, across Emma’s shoulders this time and burning like hell. Predictably the whip’s handle pressed into her again, filling her long enough to need it to stay and to suffer the agony of lust when Anna denied her again. She didn’t bother to wonder what she’d done to deserve this, because she hadn’t done anything. Anna was whipping her because she wanted to and because she knew Emma wanted her to. The pattern set in. One of her incredible kisses round the gag, then behind again for the whip, each time picking a different spot to scar: her back, bottom, shoulders, thighs and even the back of her neck, tucking her hair into the gag’s strap so it wouldn’t cushion the whip’s sting. And after each time, the whip’s handle filled her to the brink but was never left there long enough to actually take her closer to what she now craved – release. Not in the bondage sense, the ropes could stay, but in the orgasmic sense.
Anna gave Emma eight or ten (who was counting?) around the back before she kissed her again and stayed round the front.
“Four more,” she said, drawing back.
The first was across Emma’s belly. It was like slow motion again, reminding her of the first time she’d experienced that euphoric other-worldliness of what they call subspace. She realized in that instant that she was all but back there. The barn was huge and growing larger as she watched. Emma grew smaller in its confines until she thought she could disappear altogether. She felt the sting of the whip on her skin but almost welcomed it, looking down as it struck and seeing the spectrum of change from normal skin tone (before Anna struck) to nearly white (immediately after she struck) then pink (moments later). It would need time to gradually turn to the duller red of a whip’s memory and even longer to fade back to normal.
Anna kissed her again and she surrendered to the bliss of the kiss and her leather invader, now visibly coated in her own intimate fluids.
“Ready?” Anna knew exactly that she was.
Emma nodded. Slow-motion Anna drew a line across each of her thighs with her sharp, long-nailed finger to show Emma her target before backing off slightly, drawing the whip back, waiting, waiting . . . then striking, exactly where her finger had drawn its lines.
Another kiss. Another repeat, this time tweaking and kissing Emma’s nipples before drawing her fingernail lines across the fullest part of her breasts. She stared into Emma’s eyes, raising her own eyebrows in a gesture of “Shall I do this?”
Emma slowly nodded. Anna knew she would.
This distortion of time was happening to Emma but at the same moment she was desperately trying to consider it all, to try to watch her suffering as if she were her own spectator so as to give her a deeper understanding of what was happening. Anna, always aware of her mind’s analytical needs, pulled Emma’s thoughts back to her.
“Forget the analysis, Emma,” she said. “Just concentrate on me. I’m the one with the whip. I’m the one who is going to whip your tits. You’re mine, Emma. Totally mine. Focus on me.”
OK.
Emma maintained eye contact as Anna tensed the whip again. The waiting was killing her. No wonder the French call an orgasm a petit mort – a little death. Emma could identify with that and she was nowhere near her climax. Or was she? Would one of Anna’s whip strokes take her over the edge without her even knowing she was near it?
The strike and the pain were inevitable. Unavoidable. Reassuring. Anna wouldn’t back off and they both knew it. In truth, Emma wouldn’t have wanted her to. The only single question in the world that mattered was when? And that was totally up to her; Emma had no way (and perhaps no desire) to influence it, to decide the right moment, to delay or to advance. She watched Anna choose her moment, knowing from her change of expression when that moment had arrived. In the cold light of a day, she could probably have tensed in readiness, but she didn’t. Abject and total surrender.
You choose, Anna, my love. You choose. I trust you.
She was right. It hurt like hell. But she didn’t scream.
Emma watched the stripes change again, surprised when a tear dripped onto her right breast when she had no idea she was crying. Anna saw it too and came forwards, putting out her tongue to catch it and to let Emma see it melt away into her mouth. She licked her lips and licked more from Emma’s cheeks while she waited for her reward kiss.
“Last one,” Anna whispered as she stood slightly back. “A hard one this time. Really hard. You may pass out.”
Anna dropped to her knees, the bliss of her tongue searing Emma to the depth of her soul, and getting itself coated with tears of an entirely different kind.
Then the finger, scratching slowly through her pubic bush, half an inch above where Anna’s tongue had teased out her clitoris. Hopefully that, at least, was impossible for her whip to reach.
Emma stood, proud and content, waiting for Anna’s gift of pain. And Anna made her wait too, playing a game of eye contact that only the two of them would understand. Words had become superfluous. They were two metres apart yet joined at the eye. And joined at the heart. Soon they would be joined by a long cruel snake of leather and an echoing, flat sound.
Anna looked down at Emma’s pubis as she tensed the whip, then deliberately back into Emma’s eyes. They both waited again: Anna because she wanted to and Emma because she had no choice. She idly wondered what she would do if she did have a choice. What if she were free of these ropes? What if she could just walk away and avoid this instrument of torture, this moment of blissful agony? Would she go or would she stay?
No contest. A power much more compelling than ropes kept her in position.
Anna twisted half a turn towards Emma as she sent the tail her way. It cut into Emma’s skin so much she felt sure it would have drawn blood, but, at that moment, she wouldn’t have minded. It would have been a sign – a badge – of what was happening, of her surrender and her acceptance.
Emma gasped as the heat from the whip invaded her loins. The heat was palpable; she could feel it. The whip had gone away but its effects were still advancing on her, spreading out yet still moving to her centre. Her legs were no longer her own and she sagged into the ropes. Anna stepped forwards, turning the whip round again so the pommel came at Emma first, pressing it between her thighs and upwards. Had she ordered Emma not to climax, Emma would have disobeyed; there was no way to stop it. Anna had her to her peak in a second, maybe two, and she convulsed along the shaft of that whip, still the only physical thing that joined them.
Emma sagged lower, depleted of any strength, the ropes and her own dead weight stretching her arms. Anna turned the whip vertically and pushed it up inside her one final time, filling her, occupying her, possessing her.
“Who helped you?” Emma managed to gasp out.
“Guess.”
“Jayne . . .” she tried.
“Very good. But who else? Answer carefully.”
“Seana,” she decided.
“Oh, dear,” Anna told her ruefully. “Wrong. It’s Carmen. Carmen will be very upset that you thought she was Seana. When I tell her, I expect she’ll want to punish you for that. Keep the whip warm, won’t you?”
> One final kiss and Anna walked out.
Anna walked out and Emma passed out.
SEX SHOP DEAL OF THE DAY
Chris Westlake
She knew that they were strangers, two individuals who happened to be in the same shop at the same time. Nothing appeared untoward. Two ladies casually browsed the clothes on display, seemingly oblivious to each other. But she just knew. She hid behind the clothes stand – pretended to be engrossed by the latest offers – and watched; watched as a hand discreetly – casually – slipped inside the flimsy flannel skirt. Shoppers passed, ignorant to the (almost) silent moans. Her nipples stiffened, her loins stirred; she longed to be the girl – to be fondled and caressed, right there, in the middle of the shop. She had never been touched by another girl before – only in her wildest fantasies – but now the idea was fixed in her mind, ready to grow into a dark, but delicious, fantasy.
Today was Rose’s birthday. She was forty-six. Not much to celebrate, she thought. Yes, her husband, Raymond, would give her an expensive present. He always did – which was part of the problem, really. Rose did not need any more expensive presents from her husband.
“Why don’t you spend a relaxing day at the shops?” Raymond asked, putting on his suit jacket. He had bought her a stunning Tiffany diamond ring. That was his good husband role fulfilled, it seemed.
“Where are you going?” Rose asked. She was not sure why she bothered asking. She already knew the answer.
Raymond kissed her on the temple. “I have to work, darling. I tried to get the day off, but you know how it is.” Yes, she knew all too well. “Why don’t you buy yourself something nice?” he suggested, already halfway out of the door.
He always promised to get the day off. He never did. Last year she went to the shops, bought something nice. Oh, and the year before, too. Her friends had been so jealous. She was so lucky, they cooed. Yeah, yeah, she thought. How come then, she did not feel very lucky?
This birthday, however, the idea of strolling around the shops was a little more enticing. A new store had opened in the centre. But then, new stores opened in the centre all the time. It sold her favourite designer brands. But then, a dozen or so shops sold her favourite brands. What made the store interesting was its other side. The adult section, stocked with wonderful lingerie, naughty outfits and toys.
And, it was where she had caught the two women only weeks earlier.
The memory dominated her thoughts. The incident had been so discreet, and yet so very public. Anybody could have seen. Rose had left the shop in a hurry, her face flushed scarlet, her thoughts racing out of control. She headed straight to the nearest public toilets and frantically snatched at her panties, which were absolutely drenched. Raising her knees, pressing her heels against the wooden door, she fingered herself, right in the middle of the tiny cubicle. Women came in and out of the toilet. Rose did her best not to be heard. The strong scent of hot sex filled the room. She stifled her moans by pressing a skirt she had purchased against her mouth. Otherwise, she would have screamed the room down.
Now, two weeks later, she was back in the shop, and her heart was racing. It was Thursday morning, and the store was quiet. Rose pretended to browse the expensive brands. They bored her. Slowly, casually, almost accidentally (on purpose, of course) she edged closer to the adult section. The stock was amazing. It opened up so many possibilities. And yet, she mused, who was she kidding? She had nobody to appreciate it, to share with. Really, she had no idea why she was even there.
“Wow, now that would look just amazing on you.”
Rose turned around, startled. She had hardly noticed that her right hand was on an item of lingerie. The young shop assistant, however, presumably had. Full lips developed into a wide, beaming smile. Blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. Maybe, considered Rose, with just a touch of irritation, the girl had spotted a potential sale.
“You so need to try it on!” she enthused.
“I’m allowed to?” Rose asked. It was a genuine question. She was sure that you were not allowed to sample lingerie in this sort of shop.
“Well,” the assistant said, winking cheekily. “Rules are meant to be broken. And—” she giggled, removing the garment from the hanger “—I’m sure that once you’ve seen yourself in this, you’ll absolutely not want to give it back!”
Rose obediently followed her into a cubicle. The wooden door was shut tight, the metal lock pulled across. There was plenty of room to manoeuvre. The walls were painted a brilliant white. The focal point – a mirror – stretched from the tiled floor to the high ceiling.
“Can’t wait to see how good you look in this!” The girl giggled. The strange thing was that she seemed to mean it.
Rose could not understand why the girl was even there. Usually, the assistants waited outside, all prim and professional. Her enthusiasm, however, was infectious. Rose was quite excited herself, even though she had no real idea what it was she was trying on. She had been daydreaming when the assistant gained her attention.
First she had to remove her clothes. She knew that it all had to come off, even her panties. Only her husband had seen her naked in over twenty years, and even he had not shown any real interest. Her fingers trembled as she kicked off her heels, pulled down her skirt and unbuttoned her blouse. Rose momentarily caught her naked reflection in the mirror. She could not wait to put the lingerie on, if only to cover her own nudity. What must this girl think of her, her with a young, slender body? And yet, when Rose caught her reflection, she saw that she was watching, staring, even. The girl made no attempt to divert her gaze. The blue eyes looked big, they looked interested. Rose hurriedly slipped into the garment, adjusted the strapping and then looked at herself in the mirror.
What she saw took her breath away.
“Oh my God!” the girl exclaimed. “I never thought that you would look this amazing!”
Rose had never before worn anything so openly outrageous. The black lace body had two tiny straps from the cup down to the pants. Only the pants were crotchless, and the cut-outs in the cup exposed pink, prominent nipples. Rose felt exposed. She felt ridiculous. But, she also felt ridiculously sexy.
Rose eyed the girl. The beautiful blue eyes darted all over her fleshy, curvaceous body. And she stood really close; her slip of a body pressed against her from behind. She could feel her soft gentle breathing against the smooth of her neck. Rose’s nipples were becoming more evident, stiffening with excitement. She hoped that the girl would not notice. But then, she hoped that maybe she would.
“The great thing about this outfit is that it is sexy, and yet so very, very naughty,” the girl said. “I think that it suits you, one hundred per cent.” She giggled, not for a moment moving her gaze in the mirror. “And,” she continued, “it allows such very easy access. Let me, within my customer service responsibilities of course, demonstrate.”
The girl did not wait for Rose to respond, to give the go-ahead. Her hands cupped and squeezed Rose’s large, milky breasts; then the tips of her fingers circled and massaged the pointy nipples. “Would you like me to demonstrate to you the full range of easy access that this product offers?” she whispered.
Rose nodded her head. Customers came and went in the communal area outside. She wondered whether they could hear her, smell her. The wonderful young hands brushed down her midriff, over her wide hips, between the smooth thighs. The legs were parted. The girl gazed at Rose in the mirror. Rose did not dare to lose eye contact. A bead of sweat trickled down her cheek. She did not have the strength to wipe it away with her forearm.
The nimble, wandering fingers slipped inside the thighs, right where her modesty should at least have been partly covered. The fingers traced the outskirts of her exposed, fleshy sex, and then slipped inside. The left hand stroked, tweaked and pinched her nipple. The right hand fingered and fucked. She stretched out her arms, pressed her hands against the walls of the cubicle in a vain attempt to keep her balance. Her knees were trembling.
“I can
see that you are a very happy customer,” the young girl teased. “At Tornado we want you to keep coming back, but today I just want you to come – and really hard. Are you going to do that for me?”
“Ye-yes,” Rose replied, taking hold of the girl’s wrist and pushing the fingers deeper inside. She stared straight at her reflection in the mirror. She looked so different – so sluttish, and yet, incredibly, unbelievably, sexy. The fingers thrust in and out, faster and harder. She blinked the sweat out of her eyes. Hot juices trickled down her thighs, probably staining the tiled floor. Her eyes looked big and unrecognizable. “Ye-yes, I’m going to come!” The girl pressed her spare hand over Rose’s mouth to stifle the wild, animalistic moans. Rose dug her teeth into the slender fingers. The moans were muffled. Her passion was not. As wave after wave of pleasure overcame her shuddering body, Rose looked at her reflection in the mirror and it was as if a different being altogether stared back at her.
The girl let Rose regain her senses. She still looked unflustered, professional. The girl would go back onto the shop floor and there would be no questions asked. “See, I said that once you try the item on, you absolutely would not want to give it back!” She smiled. “If you bring it up to the checkout, I’ll put it through the till for you.”
Rose felt little guilt. She knew that if her husband had shown her any sort of attention (besides the monetary kind) both in and out of the bedroom, then it would not have happened. It had been a cheap meaningless thrill, albeit, an incredible one. Rose was high for days, walking around in almost a daze. She knew that no harm had been done, that she could easily return back to her normal, predictable life, that nothing would change.
The problem was, she wanted – or possibly needed – more.
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Stories Page 20
