I take my time as I dress for you. Black thigh-high hose with red patent stilettos, red satin panties and bra. I love the way the stockings hug my legs, making me so aware of my body. I love the feel of my thighs swishing against each other, the slick nylon making little whispery sounds. My nipples are hard by the time I finish putting the bra on. I pick up the collar, black patent with Swarovski crystals, fasten it around my throat and clip the chain to it. I experiment, letting the chain run down my back, the cold links slithering down my spine and between the cheeks of my ass. I look in the mirror to admire my work, and decide that the chain would look better down the front, so I carefully twist the collar around. Now the chain falls gently down my chest, down my tummy, lightly brushing my panties. Already it is picking up the heat from my body. Yes, I like this. I play with it, letting the silvery links brush against my nipples through the lace of my bra. I want to touch myself, but I don’t. Tonight my pleasure is not for me to take; rather, it is my gift to you.
Now that I am properly attired, I settle myself on the couch, smoothly waxed legs folded beneath me. I wrap the chain around my wrists so my hands are bound in front of me at chest level. I will receive no pleasure until you allow me to. I close my eyes and wait.
I hear your keys at the door and my eyes fly open. I smile at you, a little shyly. Your shocked expression changes to a grin as I get to my feet, trying to keep my balance in the high-heeled shoes. I present my bound hands to you, your gift to unwrap if you so choose. Suddenly you grab the chain at my neck and pull me to you, bracing me with your body as I stumble forward. You force my mouth open with your tongue, dropping the chain to rub at my crotch through the fabric of my underwear. I squirm and whimper, and you laugh at the heat you feel through the thin satin.
You tell me to go upstairs, and I turn and carefully mount the stairs. I have to go slowly to maintain my balance, bound as I am. But I know you are watching me, wanting me, and for now I am the one with the power. So I walk slowly and seductively, putting everything I have into it.
I reach the bedroom and feel you come up behind me. Your arms go around me, crushing me to you, and you pinch my nipples just hard enough to be painful. Your hands wander lower to my hips, pulling me back against your erection as your mouth bites at my neck. You push me forward onto the bed and pull my panties and bra off. You grab my legs and pull me to the edge of the bed, and I expect you to fuck me now, but instead you flip me onto my back and kneel between my legs. Your hands caress my legs through the silky smoothness of the nylons, sliding up and down my thighs, and I gasp as you take my rigid cock into your mouth. I moan as your finger, a little too rough, finds my ass. I cry out and beg you to stop, but I am secretly disappointed when you do.
You stand and pull me up off the bed. I taste my precome on your tongue as you kiss me deeply then force me to my knees. I barely have time to breathe before you push between my lips. I have no choice but to comply as you fuck my mouth. I work you as best I can, but it’s difficult not being able to use my hands. My cock is painfully hard, and I can feel the slick drops oozing from the tip. I wonder if you will come in my mouth, letting me swallow your salty seed, or spurt it onto my face, but you stop.
You raise me up again and unhook the chain, freeing my wrists, then wrap it completely around me. My arms are pressed down against my sides, the warm metal snug around my waist. I am bound again as you lay me back, helpless again, and I wonder what is next.
You bend over me, sucking hard on my nipples, and I cry out and thrust my hips up at you, too proud to beg, not knowing what it is I would beg for. I ache from your touch and from my own need. Finally, you kneel over me and lower your cock into my mouth, even as you tease my erection with your kisses. I try to wrap my legs around you to pull you down, I buck and thrust in an effort to make you suck on me. I try to beg, but I can barely breathe around your cock in my mouth. My frustration gives way to pleasure as you finally relent, and soon we are deep-throating each other. You can tell by the urgent noises I am making that I am getting close, but you climb off of me before I can come.
Startled, I open my eyes as you roll me onto my stomach and once again pull me to the edge of the bed. I feel your tongue on my ass, licking first and then plunging, making me tremble. Your fingers come next, widening, demanding. Then you swiftly enter me, thrusting so deeply that I cry out in shock and pain. You take me mercilessly, setting a bruising pace, forcing my breath out in a sharp cry. I want to protest, stop you from hurting me, but my body betrays me. Denied its pleasure once, it catches your rhythm and responds, but all I can do is frantically rub myself on the bed beneath me. Finally your hands reach under me to grab my cock, slick with precome, and you work it in time to your frenzied thrusting. We are both crying out now, and I know you are trying to hang on until I climax before you release your own. The thought of that pushes me over the edge, and my body shakes as my hot, sticky come floods your hands. You can feel my ass contract around your thick cock, and you fuck me wildly, forcing my climax to endure, until you match it with your own spasms, pushing deep into me with each release of your seed. Finally, you collapse on top of me, breathing hard. You kiss me softly and gently, and I giggle uncontrollably.
We have one hell of a mess to clean up.
BY THE BEAT
T. Fox Dunham
Play the piano, Ms. Peacock. Beat the keys hard for me. Break your fingers on the ivory. Then touch me.”
He gazed at her behind his furry wolf mask with wild eyes. She looked back with peacock-feather eyes. They’d promised to hide their faces until they were sure.
Ms. Peacock played her chords, flowing through her song. She’d composed it in her head last night when Mr. Wolf had her bent over the bed, arms lashed to the posts with long guitar strings slicing into her wrists. He drove into her, her juices smearing down his thighs, building. She moaned in melody, writing the song. The song built, crescendo, weaving with her moans. They built together, and he grabbed her hips, forcing his shaft in deep. He groaned as he filled her, clutching her lower back. Her song stopped, orgasm slipping away, dying. She sighed, sweat glistening down her back. He plucked her damp, auburn curls.
Mr. Wolf slit the guitar strings and cut her down. She tumbled onto the crimson sheets and curled into a ball. He lay next to her, stroking her spine, playing at the musical-note tattoo on her shoulder. He nipped it. She hummed to sleep, and he pulled her body to his—the flesh so recently filled with his come, which was dripping out along her thigh. Their sweat cooled in the bedroom air, and they shivered in their sleep.
In the morning, she sat in her little cutoff boy panties on the piano bench, breasts wrapped tight in a silk bra, a blue ribbon dangling at her sternum. She’d not brushed her hair, and the curls tangled and frayed. She played the keys, beating the taut strings into melody. She paused and set the metronome ticking. The thin arm swayed pendulously to the right, renewing to the left, keeping time. She still wore her peacock eyes. The green feathers glittered in the dawn sunlight.
Mr. Wolf walked out of the bedroom, a bedsheet wrapped around his slim torso. He adjusted his wolf mask. They’d met online two years ago, when Ms. Peacock was still married. Finally, she could take no more of her need, so she bought a plane ticket and flew to live with him three weeks ago. They’d made love several times, and each time she’d failed to climax, just like she had throughout her life.
She played the chords.
“I should leave,” she said. “I’m an illusion. I’m not what you thought I’d be, what you wanted.”
Mr. Wolf grabbed her shoulders. She tensed up, playing her song faster, slipping her fingers along the keys. She cried out.
“I get close when I sing,” she said. “When I compose in my head.”
Mr. Wolf reached over and slowed the tempo of the metronome. It flowed in time to their pulse. He kissed down her neck and reached to her sternum, releasing the clasp. Her breasts flowed out and opened like wings. He reached down along her chest, smoothing the curve then touching her brown
nipple, brushing it with his fingertip. She felt herself soak through her panties, wetting the piano bench.
“I just lose the beat,” she said between sighs.
Mr. Wolf moved his hands down her breast, feeling her ribs, pacing his motions to the tempo. He slipped down to her thighs, brushed his fingers along inside the hip. She squirmed on the seat and stopped playing.
“Play!”
Trembling, swallowing against a lump in her throat, she continued to play, finding a song to match the tempo. She found herself improvising, composing a new melody as he reached under her panties, feeling along her wet cunt. He rubbed her juices along her belly, and she shuddered. He brought his hands to her face, and she licked down his palms, tasting herself.
“Feel the beat,” he whispered.
He grabbed her hips and lifted her off the bench. She played. He ripped the seat away. It hit the marble fireplace, chipping the stone, snapping free a leg. He reached and increased the tempo on the metronome. She matched the beat.
He tore the elastic band on her panties, ripping them apart. He tossed the soaked shreds and reached between her legs, petting her cunt, stroking the pert pink lips then slipping a finger deep within the juicy mound. He stroked inside her, reaching to her G-spot, rubbing it to the tempo of her song. She squealed, lifting her hands away, losing her concentration. He pushed her forward, leaning her down to the keys, lifting her ass higher into the air, making it easier to stroke. He set the metronome faster, and she matched the beat.
He stroked her faster, and she moaned to the song, beating the piano until her fingers numbed. Her orgasm built, growing from the song she played, kept in time by his hard finger stroking her cunt.
“It will be one. Synchronized. Match the beat of my body.”
“I’m losing it,” she said. She clawed at the piano. The climax built so close. She drowned his hand with her juices. They dripped down her leg, staining the carpet. She moaned, thrashing her head, so close, just on the edge. He let the sheet fall, and he rubbed his cock, touching along her ass, along the hip. He dribbled precome on her skin and smeared it with his cock’s head.
He grabbed the metronome and set the arm to turn faster. She kept playing, scared to stop, to let go. He’d leave. She’d remain broken. He aimed the point of the thin wooden pyramid between her legs, rubbing it along her clit. She sensed each tick strumming her tiny strawberry, the vibration so light, matching to his finger rubbing her G-spot.
“Play to the rhythm,” he said. “Think only of the beat. Fill your flesh with it.”
The orgasm swelled closer, just on the edge. Her cunt twitched in pleasure shocks, ready to burst. He slipped his finger on her clit and rubbed it in time to the song. Then he shifted the metronome and drove the tip between her lips and deep into her cunt. She groaned as it spread her wide, pushing her apart. It stroked the outside of her cunt, and the knocking vibration pulsed up inside her. He matched his finger to it.
She played, and the song merged with the beat, with the pulse of the metronome stroking her. Her cunt clenched the smooth wood, gripping it tight. He let go, and she held the pyramid with her pussy contracted, suckling it, pulling it in tighter. The song burst, filling her with waves of pleasure, nerves tingling, traveling up her spine. She howled. Her body quaked. He shot hot come down her thigh and the curve of her ass as he pumped his rod.
She collapsed, and he slipped the metronome out of her. Then he laid her on the floor. In the final moment, she pulled away his furry wolf mask. He took away her peacock eyes.
ICING ON THE CAKE
Lula Lisbon
I knew she had something devilish planned, but I couldn’t imagine what it might be. It was my birthday, and she’d baked me cupcakes; I was to report to her on my knees at her door as per usual. She loved to toy with my orgasms, denying them, forcing them, coming up with any number of ways to make them humiliating for me and exciting for her. For two full weeks she’d denied me release, and it had been hard—very hard. Teasing me, testing me, she’d sent me pictures of her body, described in detail what she wanted to do to me, how she wanted me to please her. I wasn’t allowed to touch my cock, because she wanted me ready to celebrate my birthday.
I’d unintentionally disobeyed her around the one-week mark. In a vivid dream, she fucked my ass hard with her purple strap-on, something she only did as a reward when I’d been very good. Her fingernails dug into my hips, and when I felt her starting to come inside me, screaming her delight, I couldn’t hold myself back.
When I opened my eyes, still feeling the delicious pulsing in my balls, there was a pool of creamy come on my abs and chest. My heart sank. I wanted to call her and immediately confess, but I already knew what her orders would be. Filled with guilt, I dipped my fingers in, a kid stealing a taste from the mixing bowl, once, twice, again, until it was all gone. It was salty and a little bitter, but at her insistence I’d developed a taste for it.
I did confess, that night. Her eyes turned to ice, and she yanked me by the arm across her lap, pulled my pants down, and spanked me mercilessly. Tears of pain ran down my cheeks and I tried not to struggle, even as my cock throbbed against her leg with every blow. I might have come again like that, her bad little boy, but she knew, and pushed me off onto the floor without ceremony before I could.
She spread her legs, and she didn’t need to tell me how else to make it up to her. Her pussy was naked under her skirt, and I dove into her like a starving man at a banquet. She was already dripping, and her taste was peach honey, sea salt, sweet musk. I needed her all over my face, to have her mark me as hers. I slid two fingers inside, my cock jealous of the hot slickness they found deep within her. My tongue wrote love letters on her clit, and my fingers beckoned her, pleaded with her. Soon I felt her body tensing, then rewarding me with the flood of her pleasure. It gushed hard into my face, and I pulled back to catch it all in my hungry mouth. I missed some, and I felt it dripping down my stomach, the shaft of my cock, my balls, and into the cleft of my ass; the torture of it was exquisite.
Since that night, she’d denied me everything. When at last my birthday came, when at last I was on my knees for her, she greeted me with a smile, wearing a ruffled apron and heels—and nothing else. My eyes followed the swaying of her round ass as she led me into the kitchen, the delicious scent of chocolate cake fresh from the oven almost as tantalizing as her luscious body.
“Your cupcakes are waiting,” she told me, a naughty smile playing on her candy-red lips. But I saw there was no icing on the petite chocolate cakes, and I love icing. I looked at her quizzically, trying to hide my disappointment. She caught my thought and laughed. “Oh, I didn’t forget. I thought I’d let you have the fun of helping ice them instead. Have you been a good boy?” she demanded abruptly. “No more little accidents?” I nodded, feeling myself blush. My cock twitched eagerly as if on command, and my blush deepened. “Well,” she continued, “I’m afraid I made them a little too dry, but you can help amend that. Strip now, sweet birthday boy.”
I obeyed, watching as she set the cupcake pan on the floor, sat down and spread her legs. I moaned, my cock rock hard; I knew what she had in mind now, and I loved her for it. She lifted the ruffled hem of her apron delicately with a red-lacquered thumb and forefinger. I admired the beauty of the deep pink petals of her cunt, like a honey-dipped rose, before I kissed her softly. From between her thighs, my eyes met hers, and I ached to tell her. Instead, I painted my love on her sweet pussy, taking my time with her, enjoying her little whimpers and sighs as my tongue flicked against her hard little clit. I delighted in pleasing her, tasting her sweetness, always putting her before me—as it should be. I thrust into her; her taste was darker and more pungent inside.
My fingers followed my tongue, joined, replaced; her hips quivered as my hot tongue wrote lengthy devotions on her delicious clit. Fingers digging into my hair, she ground her cunt on my face, a moan in each gasping breath. When her pussy clamped down on my fingers, I knew what was coming. This tim
e, instead of catching her come in my mouth, I moved quickly aside to see her squirt across the smooth, shining tops of the little cakes. I watched her essence soaking into the confections, possessing them, infusing them with the most secret part of her, and I felt a sense of communion with them. I knew what it was like to be so deliciously full of her.
I withdrew my fingers and leaned forward to kiss her there, but her stiletto heel caught me on the chest and pushed me back. She arched a haughty eyebrow at me.
“Have you forgotten they still need icing?” Sitting back to watch, she slipped one hand beneath her apron.
My cock throbbed in reply, eager to obey her. I stroked it with the same hand that had been inside her, her wetness ample lube for the task. My own bitter musk, the sweet chocolate and her intoxicating lust combined in my nostrils, an unusual and irresistible aphrodisiac. Her apron fluttered as she played with her cunt, her eyes intent on my glistening cock. My strokes got faster, harder, and though I wanted to make it last, the sight of her, the sound of her, the scent of her was too much. I cried out, and my cock exploded, sending pearly strands of icing across my birthday cupcakes. My whole body shuddered, again and again; there was more than I would have thought possible. Distantly, I heard her cries of ecstasy joining mine, an intimate gift I cherished.
I opened my eyes to see her offering a newly decorated cupcake to me. I took it, and she whispered, “Happy Birthday,” in my ear as I took my first delicious bite.
THE MASSAGE
Lady Cheeky
I found him on Craigslist. It was difficult not to think about the week of Nancy Grace shows I would undoubtedly be featured on should this man be a sociopathic, sexual sadist. The Craigslist ad had seemed very perfunctory and the ensuing email exchange quite professional. Yet for this Type-A personality, the website seemed the only option to find a “special massage.” I quelled my paranoia with the reassurance that most sociopathic, sexual sadists would not couch their special services with phrases like “yoni worship” and “sensual release,” but I knew I was just rationalizing.
The Big Book of Orgasms Page 13
