Best S&M, Volume 3 Page 4

  Sweet Pea. I purple: gentle, dainty taunt. If I could spit it, those words – not my hair – would be on the floor, ground into the grimy vinyl.

  Gen bows me. Clippers devour vanity in jagged arcs, tears canyon between cheeks and nose. Then she sits to watch.

  Ella stalks up, jacks my skirt to my hips, lifts Gen’s shears, with a flick she fillets my panties, tosses the scissors and pries me apart. Scooping my severed braid from the floor, she fans it up my thighs, tickling it against my pulsing cunt, bristles sharp and soft – too light. I jut toward the tease.

  Laughter. “What, no tears now?” Ella feeds the dark shock inside me, brown ponytail swirling my cunt, silken ends whisper at pussy lips. I strain at the restraints, loose a whimper. She snakes it out, glistening with creme, smears my cheeks, chin, nose with my reek. Lazing, she puts the twist between her teeth, sucking like a cigar. Nods to Gen, “Tastes like a cunt.”

  Then Gen’s back, cutting relentless. Wielding a razor, scrapes my scalp.

  The scratching distracts me as Ella throws my damp hank in my lap, releases a wrist. “Unbraid it,” she says. Shaking, my fingers finish, she reclasps the wrist.

  She licks her lips to suck the end again, flicks her Zippo, flames the tip. Brunette spider’s threads curl quick like spent filament. She drops it in a chipped glass dish as it opens into charred gray dust.

  I sit transfixed till Gen spins me, holding a second mirror behind. The front’s still a blunt cut, but from nape to crown the back’s a quarter-inch except the stark letters carved to the skin, not even stubble there: E L L A ’ S. I quiver as Ella uncuffs me to run my hands over her name. Over and over and over. ELLA’S. Over and over.

  Flipping Gen ten bills, Ella grins, “Get lost for twenty.” Pumps the chair low, unzips her jeans to unleash her dick, my mouth. I reach, one hand finds her cock, the other fingers my scalp, and suck her: heaven. Now I know, Samson should’ve kissed Delilah’s dick.

  Tight and hot I blow till her stained fingers push mine away. She rakes me with blunt nails and I feel her brand – the razor burn.

  In the Skin

  Ella recuffs and gags me, frees my feet, flags a cab, herds me onto vinyl. Dizzy with possession, I rock, thighs squeezed, rubbing my scalp against the seat, reading it like inverted Braille. Vise-grips my wrist, she snarls low so the driver’s not wise, “Trying to get off?” Slicks two fingers under my skirt and into me. I gasp, arch to get her deeper.

  Slap, slap, she smacks the Plexi. “Next Seven-Eleven.”

  Cab swings wide, and Ella jerks out of me and cab. My yelp muffled, I shiver in the empty. Back, she cradles cherry soda and yogurt, releases my mouth, strawing the drink. “Suck like it’s mine,” she squeezes her crotch. I gulp the sweet while she tumbles the yogurt. “How would you eat yourself?” I lap the spoon.

  Low, “You’re too in your head. I’m getting into your body.” I moan. “Know why it’s all cherry? Cuz I’m gonna bust yours all day, Sweet Pea.”

  The dairy sours. I choke it down, open for the gag. “Good.” Then, “Here!” She hollers. Cabbie jams to the side, Ella’s pulling me out before I read the signs. Inside, walls crawl with arms, backs, necks, lined, linked, inked. I skitter back, but Ella’s palming my skull. “What do you say?” She rubs: ELLA’S.

  “Tina!” She belts.

  A juicy olive femme dances in, hands her a drawing. “Beauty, eh?”

  Ella pats her ass. “Perfect.”

  Tina swings to her table. “Hop up!” she caresses it. Ella hoists me.

  Tina smiles, lays paper in my lap, talking as she traces a lithe stem branching up, delicate fronds unfurling. “These two little blossoms will be white,” the tattooist points a red-tipped finger. “The leaves, stem, and pod will all be green of course. Sweet, eh?”

  They turn to me. I freeze. All I see: that tender vine.

  “So,” Tina lays down her pen. “Read and sign this – consent, liability, notice of safety practices, etcetera.” I see the exit, my chance.

  Ella rises, steps toward it.

  I scribble, fitful, my signature illegible. Ella pivots, flashes “lay down.” Casual, she flicks my skirt back, baring me. “It will fit?”

  Crimson, I cringe. Tina frowns, “Don’t you want this?” Motions to my mouth. “Better take that out.”

  I look down, try to catch Ella’s eye, but she’s turned, tracing her name in caps on a scrap, a big apostrophe “S,” gaze lazing to the door.

  Tina touches my face with a lacquered nail. “Hon, you’re the one who’ll wear it. You gotta love it.” I swallow the lump, nod, let myself fall limp as Ella walks over again.

  Tina unwraps gel and razors. “Great,” beaming. “The stem’ll start here,” a red-tipped finger touches above my thigh, “avoid the crease, leaves and flowers curling up . . .” Finger arcs my mound. “A pod hanging on each labia majora.”

  Ella sits to the side, I press my head into the table to feel the empty places, tasting pools of magic cherry Kool-Aid in my mind. Watch her watching Tina shave me smooth, transfer the pattern. I slip into the slick, slick, slick and Ella’s eyes.

  Then a million burning needles break my skin. The stabbing switches on and off with soothing swipes. Lidocaine cream, I learn later, makes it such a pure pain, tides of cool and hot rocking me. A minute, ten, a hundred, endless – wipe, burn, wipe, burn, holding still, exposed, exquisite. The searing juices my cunt, heat rising pungent past Tina’s needles.

  Four hours gone: I’m drunk on pain, Ella’s triumph, Tina’s rhythmic swipe, sting, swipe, sting, as she wipes away black and green and white – and red so beautiful, can’t believe I’m setting it free.

  I’m desperate for Ella’s dick, tongue, thumb, touch. Finally, Tina flashes glass at me. In the mirror, I’m transformed: Ella’s tender cunt.

  Through the Skin

  Aftercare words blur as Ella pays, pushes me into to a back room chair, sits on its counter. Blissed, I eye Ella’s dick, try to tickle my clit. Slaps my hand – “Lucille!” she bellows.

  Billy-Idol dyke ambles in, gleaming metal beads.

  Another paper. I sigh, sign, smiling. Unbutton my top, finger a nipple.

  “She tweaking?” Cille frowns.

  “Nah – endorphins. New tat,” Ella lifts my skirt. I squirm forward, giving blondy a good look. She chuckles.

  “You’ll oversee aftercare?”

  “What do you think?” Ella jaws.

  “A’ight,” Cille raises palms in surrender. “But take that out.”

  Ella scowls, releases my mouth. “Lean back, Sweat Pea,” sotto voce. Ceiling swirls. She motions to Cille.

  “Here,” Ella touches my uninked, inside labia.

  “Oh,” I tilt toward it.

  “And here.”

  “Aye-ah,” I wriggle.

  Lucille shakes her head, looking down at me. “I can’t do this if you don’t hold still.”

  “Ella touched me,” I explain.

  “Christ.” Lucille slops coffee on her T.

  Ella looms. “I’m chaining you. Don’t move.”

  I nod, peaceful.

  Astringent tingles my clit hood. Fantastic lights dance, but I statue. Purple pen dots, Ella and Cille eyeball angles, tilt, peer.

  Then red-hot pinwheels fire left, clean pain – just a taste – the pulling, fishing-line fine, until the tug, when I think I might come, but it’s not enough. Again the pierce, this time right, I bite back my cry. Sweet hurt, tickle, tug. Tightening, fastening clasps, that pinching has my hands gripping, Ella’s tongue circles her lip.

  Hand glass held below my open lap. “Here.” Two tiny steel hoops, each gold-beaded, gold links hanging between. My pearl, pulsing pink, draped in gold.

  Ella stealths to me, slipping her littlest finger under, tugs feathery. My eyes roll.

  From her pocket Ella spins a new ring: thick gold band, a long strand dangles a clasp. “You’ll heal, then who owns you, Sweet Pea?”

  I make my mouth an “O.” Ella slips the ring betw
een my lips. Kingly, she holds her hand out to be kissed. I slide the ring down her fourth finger like unrolling a rubber, tasting the metal tang, licking her underside’s wrinkles.

  We kiss. Ella takes me home.

  Shaping Genevieve

  By

  Theda Hudson

  The head had been worked over really good. The face was curiously flat, making her look completely out of place for 400 BCE Greece. She was probably closer to 500 BCE by the way her hair had been redone into a thickly coiled halo. It was not unheard of; statues broke and people, then and now, reworked them.

  Turning, I saw Genevieve on the chaise. She’d been worked over pretty good too. A livid bruise spread over her cheekbone and up across her eye. She was still wearing emerald, her favorite color, and eighteen months went poof! just like that. She met my gaze coolly, not a twitch saying she knew me. I could tell by the tightness around her eyes, the color in her cheeks. Oh, yes, poof.

  My heart lurched, remembering what a delicate and subtle beauty Genevieve was. I looked to Victor Sadarno, the swarthy man I’d come to see about the head. He was in his early forties, overweight, and, I suspected, just a petty thief riding Lady Luck, completely ignorant of what he had.

  “Here, Dalton.” Victor handed the marble to me. A client, Timothy Blake, was interested in buying the heads. I was here to authenticate them. It was grayish interspersed with flecks of pure white light. Her nose had probably been broken and some artisan had shaved off layers until that grace and lightness was flattened, coarsened.

  I changed position, seeking better light and glanced discretely at Genevieve. She had a tattoo ringing her left middle finger. Essex Club was one direction I’d never searched. And there she’d been, property. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  I looked back to Victor and handed him the sculpture. “She’s quite a piece.”

  “You like her? I’ll show you some others.” I followed him to the study where six other heads sat on pedestals. They were all from Cyprus and the western Italian coast, dating about 500 BCE. That fit.

  “Yes, yes, this is all quite good, excellent.” I smiled affably.

  “I have others.”

  “How many?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Good, good.” That fit too. I smiled again, and then paused. “Why’d you pick that one?”

  “I just picked one up. Why, is it special?”

  I thought of that flattened face, that thick halo, Genevieve on the couch.

  “Yes, yes, she’s special,” to have suffered at such inept, ignorant hands, I finished to myself. This would be a pleasure.

  Victor smiled. “Then you’ll tell Mr. Blake?”

  “Yes.”

  Victor, pleased at the good day’s work he’d done, was magnanimous.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  We drank companionably for a few moments.

  “I noticed the woman’s ring,” I said, showing I knew the rules.

  “Yes,” he said with pride. “Her name is Genevieve. Do you want to use her?”

  Use her. “It would be a nice perk. But I must rely on your generosity for toys.”

  Letting me use her lent him a certain amount of cachet and gave us other connections. “Of course. I haven’t got many toys myself, though.”

  I shrugged; he preferred a blunter approach.

  “Go back in,” he said. “I’ll bring my case.”

  “Thank you very much, Victor.”

  I paused in the entry to the living room. Genevieve was posed on the chaise lounge facing me. I could see lines on her face, around those precious lips, so soft and yielding when she became my bottom three years ago.

  How much was it worth to try again? Was there enough left to refashion, like that marble head? Did she even want me to try, knowing the unyielding price?

  “Answer yes or no,” I said as I went to her. “Do you understand?” It came out harsher than I’d intended.

  “Yes,” she whispered, dropping her eyes.

  “This is not about that tattoo on your finger, this is about you and me and the scene we have yet to finish.” I swore I was boring holes straight into her. I wanted to be.

  “Yes,” she said, clearly remembering that unfinished moment eighteen months ago.

  “Then do exactly as you are told,” I continued. “Do you understand?” Do you trust me?

  “Yes.” She still didn’t look at me and I let it go for now. Either she would act or it would be over, and I would do whatever it took to be numb again.

  “What do you want, Genevieve?”

  Tears were bright in her eyes. Swallowing tightly, she said, “To completely and abjectly offer myself to whatever you’ll have of me.”

  I growled. It was not enough; such a shapeless and unformed offer had no appeal for me.

  “Insufficient, but I accept it for this moment. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  I could barely hear her.

  Victor came back. “Well, here you are.”

  He handed me a black leather case, barely as long as the crop and the short canes. Not a lot but was all quality work. I pulled out two floggers, a paddle, and a decent set of cuffs. Not fur lined. I looked to her again.

  Poor thing. She’d so loved her fur. It was typical of the Essex Club. Everything was sensational and coarse, skimming the power trip, missing the sacred place of the white light where people like Genevieve danced.

  I hefted the black leather cuffs and winked at Victor.

  Victor laughed. “May I watch?”

  I bowed. “By all means.”

  Victor took a seat in the easy chair to the side.

  I motioned and Genevieve stood. Her hand was cold as I led her to the fireplace. The embers were warm.

  “Let us begin. Show me what you have.” She looked down as the emerald green caftan slipped off. Her body was milk white, marred now by more than three moles and my cutting. There were several old scars and burns. She was pierced too on her cunt lips and left nipple. I wasn’t sure if I was more angry at the abuse or pleased to find a little seasoning.

  I gestured her to turn. Her waist still rode the rising swell of her hips. That last night I had lined up the paddle on her ass and she had whimpered. The moment the paddle lifted she moaned, turning it into a great cry when it landed on her red flesh. She liked me to make her count. She would forget so I kept starting over.

  I was angry with her for bringing me to this. I lifted a cuff. She proffered her hand and I placed the leather around her wrist. There was a scar there now, bad rub.

  I had searched where I could, pulled in what favors I had. Nothing. I let it lie then, figuring she hadn’t wanted to be found. But there was always that question, did I do enough? And now knowing where she’d been … I was the first to drop my eyes.

  I gestured roughly with the other cuff and she obliged with a triumphant tilt of her head because I had looked away first. I buckled the cuff and snapped the two together with a decisive click. I shook them a little and looked to her, smiling. Yes? Is it like that?

  I snapped the leash onto the other end of the clip, ran the leather through the carving on the mantle, and snapped it back to the other end. The cuffs weren’t really necessary. It was all part of the symbolism, the trappings of the scene, rife with meaning, heavy with the weight of shared understanding.

  I nudged her legs apart with my foot and allowed my coat to brush against her back. She shivered and I smiled. She loved wool.

  “Keep your legs spread just like this,” I said for Victor’s benefit. “Say, ‘Oh, sir,’ if you become fatigued or require. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her voice was hoarse. This too was the same. I was angry when I turned to Victor. “May I have water?”

  He got up. “Sure, sure.” I’d reinforced his belief in the value of the sculptures and was now doing the same for his harlot. He poured a glass from the bar and placed it on the table.


  I picked up both floggers. The deerhide was thirty or so half-inch wide falls for a total lashing power of about nothing, too soft for much more than a tactile toy. Genevieve’d always loved those toys. I could spank her crimson and she’d moan and offer her ass up for the heaviest blows I could muster as long as some softness stroked her periodically.

  The moosehide flogger though, by her own admission, was like being hit by a two-by-four. Very thuddy, very good. I would warm her up with a thorough taste of it as a prelude for the paddle and the moment waiting for us. I slid the heavy flogger over her back, lightly flicking the thick fall of tails across her back, her thighs, her ass. When she began to sway, I hooked it around her neck. She groaned and I ran my hand down her side and stepped away.

  She took the glass when I handed it to her. “I will flog you,” I said. “You’ll show me where you desire the strokes by how you offer yourself. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she replied, handing it back. Behind us, Victor grunted.

  I lingered, letting her immerse herself in the ritual we were going to enact together. When the wind and the kinetic energy snicked out of the lashes next to her, she froze. The falls snapped in a fury around her, gauging weight and aim. I paused and rolled my neck on my shoulders. There was a series of pops and that tension rose up and out the top of my head.

  The first stroke landed exactly across the center of those perfect apples. She hissed and I laughed. I followed up with a volley of light strokes designed to reacquaint us.

  Dancing lightly on the balls of her feet, her hips swayed. My dick was rock hard and my feet remembered the rhythm of their dance. She offered her ass to me. When it dropped, I stepped in and stroked those smooth, hot cheeks, whispering, “Good little bottom, good, good Genevieve.”

  She moaned deeply, almost sobbing. I moved back, beginning to flog her in earnest with the deer hide. I chastised her back, flailed down her thighs, up the inside, and pressed the stock up between her legs. She moaned, riding it extravagantly.

  She’d always been a fine slut. It made public play such a pleasure. I leaned in on her now. She pressed her tender ass against the wool of my pants. When I reached around, I discovered the glow of the fire had made the nipple ring warm. My hands remembered her beautiful, small, tight breasts and my fingers slid up to pinch the pegs of her nipples.