“Mine,” she said.
I felt this compulsion to answer her, but I didn’t say anything, my mouth opening and then closing as I stared at her breasts. That sweet, clean smoky scent came to me again, flooded me. I thought, I can’t bear this. I have to have her. She is using some altogether new weapon on me. I can’t be tormented like this, in this silent bedroom, this is too much.
“Back up, there to the center of the room,” she said in a low monotone, advancing as she spoke, her fingers still pressing and pulling at my nipples, pinching them hard suddenly so that I gritted my teeth.
“Oh, we are sensitive, aren’t we?” she said. And our eyes met again, the heat blazing in hers, her red lips just parted to show the barest flash of white teeth.
I almost begged her, said “please.” My heart was skipping as if I’d been running. I was on the very edge of bolting, just backing off from her—I didn’t know what exactly—trying to shatter her power. Yet there wasn’t the remotest possibility that I would or could.
She rose on tiptoe in front of me. I could see she had hold of something above me, and I glanced up to see the pair of white leather handcuffs with buckles dangling at the end of the white leather chain.
That I had forgotten about that stuff seemed a fatal error. But what did it matter, after all?
“Lift your hands,” she said. “No, not too high, my tall beauty. Just over your head a little where I can still reach them. Fine.”
I heard myself shudder. Little symphony of stressful admissions. I think I was shaking my head.
The leather went round my left wrist first, buckled very tight, and then around the right. My wrists were crossed, bound together. And as I stood as helplessly as if six men were holding me there, she went to the far wall, and pressed a button that silently made the leather chain above me retract into the ceiling, causing the cuffs to pull my wrists up well above my head before it stopped.
“It’s very strong,” she said, coming towards me again, her grace perfect in the spike heels. “Would you like to try to break loose?” The little petticoat slid up on her thighs, the little nest of hair prickling under the white cloth.
I shook my head. I knew she was going to touch me again. I couldn’t stand the tension.
“You’re impertinent, Elliott,” she said, her breasts almost grazing me. Her fingers were spread out flat on my chest. “It is ‘No, Madam’ and ‘Yes, Madam,’ when you speak to me.”
“Yes, Madam,” I said. The sweat had broken out all over me. Her fingers moved down over my belly, her right forefinger pressing into my navel. I couldn’t keep quiet. Quickly, she dropped her hand to touch my cock.
I moved my hips back away from her. And her left hand went up behind my neck. She moved to my side, her right hand pinching the loose skin of my scrotum very hard, the fingernails biting into it. I tried not to grimace. “Kiss me, Elliott,” she said.
I turned my head towards her, and her lips nudged at my mouth, opening it, and that electric shock came again. My mouth locked tight on her. I kissed her like I wanted to swallow her. I kissed her like I had her on a hook. I could hold her that way, no matter how helpless she had me, that’s how strong the current was. I could lift her by the sheer power of it, draw her out of herself, and when through this delirium I felt her breasts against my side, I knew I’d done it, that I had her. And the kissing was wet and luscious and sweet. Her nails pinched the flesh around my scrotum harder, but the pain mingled with the force passing out of me into her. She was up on tiptoe with her whole weight against my side, her left fingers clasping my neck, and I was feasting on her, my tongue inside of her, and my wrists ground into the leather cuffs trying to break loose beyond my control.
She pulled away, and I closed my eyes. “God,” I whispered.
And I felt her wet sucking mouth on my underarm, pulling at the hair so hard that I winced. I was moaning out loud. She’d gathered my balls up in her right hand, was massaging them, gently, ever so gently, her lips sucking on the skin of the underarm and I thought I’d go mad. My skin, all over, had come alive. She bit into the flesh, licked at it.
My body went rigid, my teeth gritted. I could feel her fingers letting go of my balls, and closing around the shaft of my penis, and stroking it upwards. “I can’t . . . I can’t . . .” I said between my gritted teeth. I danced backwards, straining not to come, and she let go, tugging my face around and kissing me again, her tongue going into my mouth.
“It’s worse than being whipped, isn’t it,” she purred under the kisses, “being tortured with pleasure?”
I broke away this time, pulling free of her, and then I kissed her all over her face, sucking at her cheeks and her eyelids. I turned and thrust my cock at her, against the thin cotton of her slip. The feel of her through the cotton was too exquisite.
“No, you don’t!” she drew back with a low, sinister laugh, and smacked my cock with the flat of her right hand. “And you never do that, until I tell you that you can do it.” She slapped my cock again, and again.
“God, stop it,” I whispered. My cock was pumping, hardening with each slap.
“You want me to gag you?”
“Yes, gag me. Do it with your tits or your tongue!” I said. I was shaking all over, and without meaning to, I yanked on the leather handcuffs as if I meant to try to break loose.
She laughed a low, vibrant laugh.
“You bad boy,” she said. And there came those taunting, punishing slaps again. She brought her nail across the glans, and then pinched it shut. Yeah, just a rotten kid, I wanted to say, but I swallowed it. I ground my forehead into my forearm, deliberately turning away from her. But she took my face in her hand and pulled it around.
“You want me, don’t you?”
“Like to fuck the shit out of you,” I whispered. In a quick darting motion, I caught her mouth again and drew on it before she could get away. I pumped at her again. Backing away, she walloped my cock again with a broad sweep of her hand.
She drew back, silently, across the carpet.
About six feet away she stood just looking at me, one hand out on the dresser, her hair fallen down around her face, partially covering her breasts. She looked moist and fragile, her cheeks beating with a deep flush, and the same flush on her breasts and her throat. I couldn’t catch my breath. If I’d ever been this hard before I couldn’t remember it. If I had ever been teased to this point before, I’d blotted it out.
I think I hated her. And yet out of the corner of my eye I was eating her up, her pink thighs, the arches of her feet in the white satin, spike-heeled slippers, the way her breasts swelled under the cotton lace, even the way she wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand.
She’d picked up something from the dresser. It looked at first glance like a pair of flesh-colored, leather-clad horns. I opened my eyes to see it clearly. It was a dildo in the form of two penises joined at the base with a single scrotum, so damned lifelike the cocks seemed to be moving of their own volition as she squeezed the soft massive scrotum the way a child would squeeze a rubber toy.
She brought it closer, holding it up in both hands like it was a sort of offering. It was marvelously well defined, both cocks oiled and gleaming, each with carefully delineated tips. For all I knew there was some fluid in the big scrotal sac that would come through the tiny openings in both of the cocks when she gave them the right twist.
“Ever been fucked by a woman, Elliott?” she whispered, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. Her face was moist, eyes large and glazed.
I made some faint protesting sound, unable to control it. “Don’t do that to me . . .” I said.
She gave another one of those low, smoldering laughs. She went back for a small padded stool that stood beside the dresser and she brought it with her and set it down behind my back.
I pivoted to face her, staring at that thing like it was a knife.
“Don’t push me,” she said cruelly, her eyes narrowing. And her hand flew up and smacked my face.
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I turned a little, weathering the stinging shock of the slap.
“Yes, you’d better cower,” she whispered.
“I’m not cowering, cutie,” I answered. There came the slap again, amazingly hard, my face throbbing.
“Shall I whip you first, really whip you?”
I didn’t answer her but I couldn’t make my breathing quiet, couldn’t stop my body from shuddering.
Then I felt her lips on my cheek, right where she had slapped it, her fingers stroking my neck, and a low, thumping feeling rolled through me, intensifying the sensation in my cock. Soft, silky kiss, and the knot in my penis doubled, and in my head something snapped.
“You love me, Elliott?”
Some protective membrane had been ruptured. My mind couldn’t catch up with it. My eyes were wet.
“Open your eyes, and look at me,” she said.
She had stepped up on the little stool, and she was only inches from me, and she held the double phallus in her left hand, while with her right she lifted the lace hem of her slip.
I saw her dark curly hair there, tiny curling wisps against the pink skin, and shy, delicate pubic lips, the kind that are almost demurely hidden by the hair. She lowered the phallus and pushed one end of it up and into herself, her whole body moving in a graceful undulation to receive it, the other end curving outwards, and towards me just exactly as if she were a woman with an erect cock.
The image was stunning: her delicate form and the gleaming cock rising so perfectly from the tangled curly hair, her face so seemingly fragile, her mouth so deeply rose red. I hardly saw her hands move, or reach up, until I felt her thumbs pressed into my underarms, her face very close to mine as she said, “Turn around.”
I was making some soft angry and helpless noise. I couldn’t move. Yet I was doing exactly what she said.
I felt the cock push against me, and I stiffened, pulling away.
“Stand still, Elliott,” she whispered. “Don’t make it a rape.”
Then came that exquisite feeling of penetration, of being opened, that gorgeous violation as the oiled cock went in.
Too gentle, too delicious, up to the hilt, and then rocking back and forth, and a low buzzing pleasure coursing through all my limbs from that one heated little mouth. God, if she had only rammed it, made it a damned rape. No, she was fucking me. Which was even worse. She worked it like it was part of her, the soft rubber scrotum warm against me, just like her hot naked belly and her hot little thighs.
My legs had spread out. There was that overpowering sensation of being filled, being skewered, and yet that rich, exquisite friction. I hated her. And I was loving it. I couldn’t stop it.
Her arms went round me, her breasts against my back, her fingers finding my nipples again and pressing them hard.
“I loathe you,” I whispered, “you little bitch.”
“Sure you do, Elliott,” she whispered back.
She knew where she was driving it, rocking it. I was going to come, jerk right into the air. I was saying all kinds of little curses under my breath. Harder, she pushed, moving me forward, slapping me a little with her hips, then faster, ramming me, her fingers stretching my nipples, her lips open and sucking on the back of my neck.
It was building, and building, and I was making low, stuttering sounds, thinking she can’t come like this, against me, with me not coming, and the thrusts started slamming me, almost knocking me off balance, and then she went rigid with a pure woman-in-ecstasy cry. The heat of her breasts beat like a heart against me, her hair falling over my shoulder, her hands holding tight to me as if she’d fall if she let go.
I stood paralyzed with desire and rage. I was locked out of her, and she was inside me. But abruptly, I felt the phallus slip out with a kind of searing sensation, and the soft, hot weight of her body move away.
But she was still very close to me. And unexpectedly, I felt her hands on the leather cuffs above. She unbuckled the cuffs, and released my wrists and laid my hands down at my sides.
I glanced over my shoulder. She had backed away from me. And when I turned I saw her standing at the foot of the bed. She didn’t have the phallus in her anymore. Just that little slip barely covering her sex. Her face was rosy and her eyes glittering against all the whiteness. And her hair was a beautiful mess.
I could feel myself ripping off the little slip, pulling the hair of her head back with my left hand . . .
She turned her back to me, one strap of the little slip falling down over her shoulder, and parting the light cotton bed curtains, she climbed on the bed so that I saw her naked bottom and her tiny pink vaginal lips. Then she turned towards me, drawing her knees to one side almost demurely, her hair hanging down over her face, and she said, “Come here.”
I was on her before I knew what I was doing.
I scooped her up in my right arm and lifted her up on the nest of pillows, and I drove into her instantly, impaling her, and slamming her as she had me.
The blood flush came over her face and neck instantly, the deceptive look on her face of tragedy, pain. Her arms flung out and she bounced against the mess of lace ruffles like a rag doll.
She was so tight, so wet and hot it astonished me, the sheath of convulsing flesh feeling almost virginal, driving me right up to the edge. I ripped at the slip, tore it over her head and threw it off the bed. And in some mad moment it seemed she had me again, this time with her glove-tight little vagina, and her naked belly and breasts sealed against me, and I was her prisoner, her slave. But I wasn’t going to come until she came. I wasn’t going to spend until I saw her shuddering and helpless, and I drew up, lifting her bottom with my left arm, lifting her and forcing her down on me, then slamming her under the full weight of my body, grabbing at her mouth with my mouth, kissing her, and making her face be still under mine. When I caught her like that, slamming her and kissing her, she exploded inside, the blood flush going dark, her heart stopping, full throttle into “the little death,” her moans animalian, raw. And holding back nothing, I went on fucking her, spending into her, fucking her harder than I ever fucked anything or anyone—male or female, whore or hustler, or powerless phantom of the imagination—in my life.
ELLIOTT
Chapter 13
Leather and Perfume
I tried not to sleep, but it was useless. I drifted in and out for a while, feeling this odd anxiety, looking right at her soft profile against the billow of the curtains as she slept. Lovely woman, flawless up close, and menacing in sleep as she’d been awake.
How could she sleep after that? How could she be so sure I wouldn’t jump up and drag her all over the room by her hair? I had a near irresistible desire to start kissing her again and fucking her again, and yet I wanted to get the hell out of the room. I folded her against me, giving it all up in an inevitable drowsiness, caressing her breasts and her wet sex very gently, and then dreaming, really slipping away, as if I were knocked out.
When I woke up, it was dark in the room, and she was saying my name. The little danger alarm went off in my head. If she sent me off now, goddamn it, I’d go mad.
There was one distant lamp on the dresser, throwing a yellow light on the hard, angular features of the sculptures and the masks, and gleaming on the brass of the bed. And I was lying flat on the smooth cotton sheets, the spreads and pillows gone, and the curtains had been tied back. It was the familiar feel of leather closing around my left wrist that brought me fully around. She had already tightened the buckle and now, bending over me, her knees against me, she buckled the cuff at the right.
She’s going to whip me, I thought. She’s not through with me. Quick simmer of excitement. And I really asked for it, didn’t I, saying those things, so it’s going to be hard. And she’d do it if I didn’t ask for it. Did I think that fucking her would stop her? Scared. Slow boil.
I gave a tug to the straps just to test the strength, and realized I couldn’t possibly pull loose. My left foot was quickly manacled to the bedpost. And then th
e right. All this had happened before, it wasn’t the worst. In fact, it was the most comfortable kind of whipping. So why the panic inside? Because it was she? Because never before had I ever had one of them who tormented me, not the way I’d had her. Beautiful! And all I could think about, in spite of this, was a line out of a bad Romans and Christians movie, where some slave says to the decadent patrician master, “Whip me but don’t send me away.”
I twisted, pulled at the straps, my cock rubbing the sheets, but I didn’t even strain the heavy brass frame.
And she was watching me, standing on my right.
Her back was to the lamp. Her skin looked almost incandescent in the shadows, as if the heat in her had alchemized into light.
I thought of her under me again, her toughness and her softness, and that she was going to whip me, and the boil was rolling. I wanted to say something to her suddenly, pierce the tension. But I didn’t dare. And I didn’t know exactly what it was I wanted to say. She had a black leather strap in her hand and this was going to be bad. And why the hell would she care if I did say something to her? What did I want to say?
She was dressed all in black now the way all the trainers dress, except for the lace blouse. Piquant, she looked, chic, a tight little leather vest and skirt snug around her body, her high-heeled boots laced to her knees. If I’d seen her sitting in a sidewalk café looking like that I would have come in my pants.
As it was, I was almost coming against the cotton sheet.
She moved towards me, holding the strap at her right side.
Now I pay for it, not just the smart cracks, but having her. That’s it, isn’t it? I almost cringed. After all, the whipping never feels good. No matter how much you want it or love it, it hurts. And she’d know how to do it; she was the boss.
She came closer. She bent over, the frills of her blouse brushing against my shoulder, and she kissed my cheek. Perfume and silken hair. I shifted against the sheet, thinking I can’t come like a school kid from her kissing me, that’s nuts.