Thursday, August 13, 2009

? & M

"I'm not a sadist, you know."

He says it periodically, like he wants to remind me.

The first time he said it I actually thought he was joking. On our first date, after all, he'd been the one who had pulled and twisted my nipples, harder and harder, until he could no longer interpret the noises I was making.

"I'm not really sure where your pain/pleasure line is, here," he'd said, still mauling me.

"Neither am I," I panted, "but keep going."

By the time he had his fingers inside me I was begging him to smack my ass.

That was a great first date.

The next time he told me ("I'm not into pain games"), I thought he must mean he didn't want to anymore. But we'd stand in his living room necking, too impatient to make it to the bed, and he'd hurt me and then slide his hand into my panties and feel how wet I was.

"You," he'd murmur, "are what they call a pain slut."

"I am?" He'd pinch, and I'd gasp.

Clearly, he wasn't quitting.

So the next time he brought it up, I know I looked at him funny, and finally he spelled it out for me.

"I don't get off on causing you pain," he said as he wrapped his fist in my hair and pulled. "I get off on getting you off."

And then he bit me. So fucking sweetly.

I don't care what you call it, baby, just don't stop.

[written for Alison Tyler's S&M contest]

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Vesti la Giubba

It's stupid how fast he turns me on. Even fully clothed. When he grabbed my ass and told me to wear the gloves, just like that I was hot for him. Elegant on the outside, maybe, but underneath? Just another weak-kneed, wet-pantied girl, aching to be fucked.

He knew it, too. He slipped the usher a twenty to stand watch, then closed the curtains to our private box. The music began and so did he, smooth and slow so as not to draw attention. The zipper was easy. Shimmying out of the dress was tougher, but soon I was sitting there without a stitch on. -- Wait, I'm lying. I still wore the gloves.

I kept my eyes forward, prayed no one would look over. I was shaking: aroused, ashamed, my nipples hard, pulsing like twin beacons in the dark.

He waited until the applause to grip the back of my neck and pull me down face-first into his crotch, and when he forced his cock between my lips I could feel it in my cunt. Suddenly blissfully mindless, I slipped off the seat, knelt in front of him.

All at once, his come was hitting the back of my throat and somebody was slamming into my pussy from behind. I bit back a moan before he clapped his hand over my mouth. I twisted in pleasure, came so hard it was like I'd been punched in the gut.


Then wanted more.


He snickered, pinched a nipple, commanded, "Encore."

[written for Alison Tyler's pin-up girls contest]

[The cover girl that inspired the piece is here.]

Sunday, July 5, 2009

The Iceman Cometh

When I stumbled over the skate lace and went down, I should have rolled. Instead I landed straight on my butt. So undignified.

He skated toward me smoothly, totally in control. He looked concerned, but was that also the hint of a smile? He hoisted me up and said I should ice it right away.

In the office he retrieved the first-aid kit and handed over a disposable ice pack. I pressed it gingerly to the sore spot. His eyes lingered on my ass. My face burned and I struggled out of my parka. Instead of helping, he took the ice pack and held it to me. His touch made me shudder shamelessly. What can I say - it'd been a while, and he was so handsome.

"Lose these." He jerked my jeans halfway down my thighs, his hands groping my ass like he had every right to do so. Bending me over the desk, he slipped his fingers between my legs until my head spun and my pussy flooded. "Please," I begged. He grabbed my hips and buried his cock deep, drove into me mercilessly, mauling my ass to create a mirror image of the original bruise. When he pulled up my sweater and twisted my nipples, I came with a groan, convulsing uncontrollably.

When Dan gets home from his trip tomorrow he'll discover the marks, deliver me a whole new set for being such a desperate slut.

Next time I might fall again, on purpose, dizzy with desire.

[written for Alison Tyler's laces contest]

Thursday, June 25, 2009


I've been angling for hints all day, but you're obstinate. I know you have a plan. You always have a plan.

I don't know if you're going to bring me to a shadowy stairwell, push me against the wall and grope me until I'm wet and panting, then up to a chaotic rooftop party where nobody minds when you spread my legs and thrust your fingers into me, hard and deep...

Or if you're going to dress me up and take me out, pulling me down dark alleys on every block, teasing me (vibe nestled against my clit, pretty jeweled plug in my asshole, clamp on each nipple) until I can barely walk, and on a crowded, brightly-lit corner I have to beg you to take me home and fuck me, passers-by staring...

Or if you're going to lie to a bar full of strangers that it's my birthday, bend me over a barstool and spank the hell out of me, inviting them to help, hiking up my skirt to expose my panties and then my bare skin, and when I groan, all those hands mauling my ass and swollen pussy, you shove your cock into my mouth to shut me up, and we'll get kicked out, arrested maybe, but I won't stop you (or whoever it is that's started pounding into my aching cunt)...

Funny, you always call me your naughty girl, your dirty slut, but you're the one with the ideas. Me? I'm just along for the ride.

[written for Alison Tyler's naughty contest]

Thursday, June 11, 2009

The Divorcee Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even

"Greedy," they call her. One year since her husband left and this is what her new lovers call her. She had loved him, fiercely, but now that it's over she can admit they'd always been mismatched in bed. Ten years of her sex life gone. No wonder she's so hungry now. Famished. She always wants more.

It's a mystery where most fantasies begin, but this one she remembers. Flipping through some magazine and oh. That picture. Nothing was showing, even, but her imagination seized upon it. How it would feel to have that many hands on her. The cocks, the mouths. She'd stopped breathing, thinking about it.

Tonight isn't going to be quite like that, she knows. She isn't lithe and untarnished anymore, and neither are they. But the details still inspire. The arch of her back, his thigh solid against her. Strong fingers stroking her jaw and working their way down the back of her jeans. Soon he'll lift his head and suck on her nipple, bite down. In a moment his hardness will nudge her lips apart and slide home. She will be laid bare, spread open, pinioned, stretched. She will take him in, and him, and him.

Does it count as being taken when you give yourself so freely? She wonders how many it would take to quiet the clamor inside her. She doesn't want oblivion. She just wants to be here, now. She wants to wake up. She wants those years back. She wants, she wants.

[written for Alison Tyler's three guys & a girl contest]

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Written on the Body

I guess I'd misunderstood him over the caterwaul of the espresso machine. I thought he'd asked if he could draw me, and I'd blushed as I thought about undressing in front of him. He was so young. I thought he'd be disappointed.

But I said yes anyway.

I'd been wrong, I realized the first day. He didn't want to draw me at all. He wanted to draw *on* me. He started slow, inked a city skyline across my inner arm with a fine metal nib. I tried not to twitch. It almost hurt, but not quite. It was innocuous; I couldn't understand why I was so turned on.

Next meeting: A landscape, vast plains between my shoulder blades, watercolor felt-tips that were really more like brushes. His breath on my skin gave me goosebumps, and I was glad he couldn't see how my nipples hardened with each slow lick of the pen.

The last session. I wasn't prepared for the bold strokes of black. This time I couldn't hide my arousal from him as he marked me from breasts to thighs. I was embarrassingly wet, dizzy with want. He grinned, bent his head, and drew the moisture from me with his lips, his tongue. He loomed above me and I finally drew his cock deep inside. He stretched me, pinned me down, fucked his living canvas with abandon, his visions now made flesh. And then he drew the orgasm from me, sweat and ink and come staining our bodies, indelible.

[written for Alison Tyler's tattoo contest]