Best S&M, Volume 3 Page 5

  She groaned and her ass lifted up against my crotch. My dick pressed against her. I pinched harder and she whimpered, beginning to make the high, thin little cry that came with tit play.

  When I allowed her to stand again, I lifted the moosehide and laid the deerhide in its place. The heft of it brought out a remembered rhythm. She would know this was the final preparation for the paddle and the moment we were building up to.

  I gave her sets of five and seven and nine, stopping between to stroke her flesh or run my hand up into her sex and knead that hard knob. She was sopping, begging for release, the first of as many as the sly harlot could get from her bottomless jar.

  I stood back to appreciate the even blush along her firm cheeks. I laid into them again along the midline. She danced, offering herself and accepting my touch, drinking in the heat, the sizzle between us. I could have swung all night.

  She was not going to ask. She moaned when I finally laid the flogger across her shoulder. I picked up the glass. Her eyes were glazed and she was limp in the cuffs. She always said she never remembered to ask for water because her soul sipped the ambrosia I served up.

  I made eye contact with Victor. He nodded, tipping his glass at me—a good show.

  The paddle was oak, thin, and lightly varnished. I tested it against my palm. She heard and sucked wind. She’d be glad of the warm-up when I used it on her. It was not too heavy, stingier than the thuddy paddle that precipitated her flight from me a year and a half before. That one had been bigger, heavier. I’d promised her seven and by three I could tell she didn’t like it. But she didn’t offer a word and I’d stubbornly refused to ask, trying to force her to own her power.

  This is where that refusal had brought her. A savage wave of anger washed over me.

  I aimed her straight for it again tonight. She would act in the scene and none of the last year and a half would matter, or I could put the whole thing to rest at last. My breath was hot on her neck and the paddle was cool on her ass as it slid around and around.

  “I’ll give you nine blows with this paddle. If, at any time, you wish to stop, you’ll say, ‘Oh, sir.’ Do you understand?”

  I knew why she was with Victor. It wouldn’t do any good to ask him to stop, to say to him, “I’ve had enough.” So she was relieved of the necessity with no need to fret about it. But that’s not a scene, that’s a free-for-all and I wouldn’t have it.

  “Do you understand?” I growled in her ear. “Answer me, now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The paddling would play out here and now in front of Victor, who understood nothing. The fire popped loudly. I jerked.

  “I understand, sir,” she said snippily. Those little sparks always flared in her eyes when she saw my humanity, the crack in her view of the perfect top.

  Or was it that she couldn’t express those feelings herself and it was too much when others could?

  “Very well, then. You will count. Carefully. No mistakes. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her tone signaled that she acknowledged the memory behind the question.

  “Then we’ll begin. Take the position.” She bent over, proffering her ass.

  The first hit was solid. A loud crack split the room. She sucked in breath and expelled it with an, “Owww,” and then, belatedly, “One.” It sounded sincere. Victor laughed. I stroked her ass gently and whispered in her ear, “Good Genevieve. Good, sweet bottom, no need to be brave now, dearest harlot, just be honest.”

  In answer she presented for the next stroke. Her hands clenched in the cuffs and the tendons stood out on the back of her thighs. She cried out at the next, which brought more laughter from Victor. “Two,” she said tightly. I took a breath, held it, as I considered her now scarlet ass.

  The third was a loud crack on the midline of her cheeks and she leaped forward. “Oh, three, ow, ow, ow,” she sobbed. I stepped in and stroked her ass. It was hot and tight under my hand. The fire was warm on my face.

  I gripped her arm tightly and spoke closely to her ear. “This is a scene, meant to be played, Genevieve, now enough of the theatrics, act.”

  Stepping to the other side, I laid the paddle on her ass. She moaned a little in anticipation and I lifted it, bringing it down solidly on the top of her cheeks. She would bear that mark for some time. “Oh, oh, four,” she wailed and I thought she would do it then, prayed for her to say it. I covered her flesh with my pants, put an arm around her tightly as I reached across to pull on the steel ring in her nipple.

  I drove my hips against her crimson ass and pinched her cunt lips together. She was still wet and her clit stood up under my fingers. She writhed under my touch and I let her bask in the knowledge of where I could take her. She was close to coming and I backed off to stroke her ass and remind her of where we were now.

  She barely had time to get into position before I gave her the next. Victor clapped his hands, impressed. “Five,” she said, sobbing.

  I had never asked for it. I’d always insisted she be the one to offer it. Could that be the key? That I had to require her to act, instead of expecting her to act on her own?

  I stepped back, swinging the paddle sharply behind her. The air whished and she sucked breath. I stepped in tight to her, coat rubbing roughly against her skin. “Yes, little slut, little bottom, this is what it does,” I whispered in her ear, my fingers tight on that nipple ring. “Genevieve,” I whispered urgently. “Meet me. Own your power. I require it.”

  We were frozen for a moment and I ran the paddle over that bruised flesh, the testament to our struggle. She groaned and offered herself to that gentle touch, dancing a little to tell me that she wanted this, asked for it, laid herself open to it and, by extension, me. But it wasn’t enough. It was only one side.

  My anger lifted the paddle and brought it down with all the weight of lost time. “Six, oh six, oh,” she cried and, “Oh six, oh, sir, six, oh, sir, oh, sir,” she kept repeating as if once said she could not stop.

  She’d acted and the bottomless void acquired edges and limits and I could know her, now, truly and in depth.

  I held her from behind, my cock driving against the hot, tender flesh of her ass. I took that nipple ring in my left hand and her clit in the other and brought her off in a gush that flowed over my hands and onto the carpet. She kept coming—all the months, the anguish, releasing, cleansing themselves in the hot flood of victory. I unhooked the leash and picked her up, made the few steps to the couch. The afghan that lay on the back enfolded her smoothly. I handed her the water.

  She sipped gratefully, her eyes never leaving my face as I undid the cuffs and laid them aside. I took the glass back and only then did she relax. I stood, dried my hands on the towel Victor offered me, and finished my wine.

  I let him lead me toward the door.

  “I’ve never seen her like that; even at the club.” He clapped me on the shoulder, caught between amazement and jealousy.

  “Well, Victor, I’d like to thank you. It’s been a very pleasurable evening.”

  “No, thank you. And if you know anybody else that might want those heads.”

  “Sure.” I shook his hand and nodded to Genevieve, now staring at me over the back of the couch.

  “Thank you.” I left, got to my car, and flipped open my phone. “Cleebourn,” I said, sitting back until he picked up.

  “Dalton,” he said, “why’re you calling? Is there a problem?”

  “No, no problem.”

  “Did he have them?”

  “Yes, all twenty.”

  “I knew that shit stole them.” Cleebourn paused. “So, again, why’re you calling?”

  “I want a favor.”

  “A favor? You’re already well paid. Why should I do you a favor?”

  “Because it’s small and I’ll give you a referral to make up for the inconvenience.”

  “Speak, I’m busy.”

  “There’s a woman named Genevieve there. I want her treated good and taken out.” Genevieve’s
old friend, Dame Vicky, would be happy to see her again until I had cleared my calendar.

  “What’s the referral?”

  “I have a buyer. Guy named Blake. He’s got money and a taste for antiquities that’s not so refined it needs clean provenance.”

  There was a pause. Cleebourn knew I was good. That’s why he retained me so often. It was no skin off his nose or his profit. “Okay. Anything else, Dalton?”

  I paused, remembering that marble head with its flattened cheekbones and the livid bruise on Genevieve’s face.

  “Tell him I don’t like his work.”

  There was silence. “Okay, I’ll make sure he knows before they’re finished with him. Go on, tell ’em whatever you want. I’m busy.” I dialed another number. A man answered.

  “It’s me, Dalton. There’s been a little change in plan.”

  I’d have time to gather the tools that delicate and subtle work demanded to fully smooth over the damage done. Then I’d explore Genevieve’s new shape.

  Down Below

  By

  Jean Roberta

  “Do your students like Poe?” asked my department head, Dr. Dorothy Kipperwell. She generally discouraged modern informality in the English Department, but she had asked me to call her Kip. “Do they understand the language?”

  “They do when I explain it to them,” I told her. “A lot of first-year students are still teenagers, Kip. They understand extreme emotions. Adolescence is a gothic period. Remember how it felt to be that age?”

  I knew that I was peeking through the keyhole of a locked door. Kip was almost butch enough to pass for a man (suave, witty, and middle-aged, but with plenty of controlled aggression) and she had told me enough about her life to let me know that her youth had been hell. The classic teenage whine that “nobody understands me” had been very true for her. Her lonely coming-of-age had made her tough, discreet, and determined to survive on her own terms. Beyond all reason, I wanted to be the one person on earth who could pierce her armor and learn her secrets.

  Kip smiled in a way that raised the fine hair on the back of my neck. I hoped my nipples weren’t poking up shamelessly under my low-cut red silk top, and I didn’t dare look down.

  Kip looked coolly professorial in a navy-blue sweater and pants. She also looked amused. “You like to revisit that period, don’t you, Athena?”

  I felt my face grow hot. I reminded myself that Kip wasn’t much older than I was (thirty-something), or much taller. She was slim and muscular, but I was slim too. She had read a lot, of course, but that went with the territory; the same could be said about me. Like me, she had dark brown hair and eyes, although her eyes were smaller and looked more knowing than mine. Her hair looked short enough for the military, while mine flowed halfway down my back on occasions like this when it wasn’t pinned up.

  When we first met, Kip already knew that I had been a faculty brat all my life. She had heard of my parents: the historian Abraham Chalkdust and the linguist Anna Parle Chalkdust. If my pedigree impressed her, she didn’t show it.

  The quality in Kip that made me weak in the knees (even though I was not a weak person, as I reminded myself) seemed beyond my power to analyze. Telling myself that she was just an academic dyke like me didn’t help me at all.

  I ignored her last comment and plunged on with a discussion of my students, as though I were being interviewed for a job.

  “They get the irony of the host’s concern for his friend’s health as the two men go deeper and deeper into the crypt of the family castle. Each time the host asks, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go back?’ the guest tells him to lead on. The guest ignores the cold, damp air of the place because he’s drunk and trusting and curious. And he’s dressed as a fool or jester, in a cap with bells. Students get it.”

  “It’s one of your favorite stories, isn’t it, Athena?” asked Kip, my boss. She was almost openly laughing at me. “This is interesting. What’s your favorite part?”

  I felt as if the answer must be written on my face, or maybe in the modest cleavage that showed above my neckline, the little valley that led directly to my heart. I knew that I couldn’t ignore her question this time.

  I nervously brushed the long hair out of my eyes and tossed it behind my shoulders before I realized how flirtatious this must look.

  “That moment when the host chains his friend to the wall,” I told her. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Kip’s gaze dropped to my small, perky breasts, and her smile widened. “It’s so intimate. He fastens his victim’s wrists to bolts in the wall that have been used to secure captured enemies for centuries. Then the host chains his victim’s waist. They must be physically close for that, and the fool doesn’t fight back at first because he trusts his friend. It’s only when he realizes that he’s not going to be released that he struggles. ‘For the love of God, Montresor!’ he begs, but he gets no mercy.”

  I shifted my butt on Kip’s sofa, and she looked down at my hips in sleek black pants.

  “It’s horrifying, of course,” I said, “but think about it: Montresor wants to keep his old friend there forever, with the bones of his own ancestors. No one makes commitments like that anymore.” I was trying to lighten the mood. I thought I sounded young and foolish.

  “So you think the story has a homosexual subtext?”

  “Yes,” I told her, forcing myself to look into her shrewd chocolate-colored eyes. “No one names it, but it’s there.”

  “And the act of chaining someone up seems erotic to you?” she demanded. “Or would you rather be the helpless victim? The one who gets shackled or fettered in a dungeon by one who lured you down there by offering you something special?”

  For the love of God! She had led me to this point in the conversation, and I had willingly followed. And now I couldn’t find a graceful way to go back or get away. “Uh,” I answered. “I’d like to be chained up.” There. I had said it. “Not permanently, of course! Just for awhile. By someone with better intentions than any of the maniacs in Poe’s stories! I’d like to be locked up or tied up by someone who wants me. Alive. Not someone who wants me dead.”

  “Gotcha,” grinned Kip. She didn’t seem shocked at all.

  Oh yes, I thought. You get me, you read me, and now you know you can have me any time you want. I was tempted to resign right then.

  Kip had more to say. “You tend to run away if you’re not tied down, don’t you, babe? I bet you’d like me to chase you into a corner and wrestle you to the floor. You can get what you want, my dear, but you have to ask for it. That’s the rule.”

  I really hadn’t seen this coming. Two weeks before, Kip had seemed unusually friendly when I was the last guest to leave her house after a department party that she had put on as an icebreaker at the beginning of the fall semester. Once we were alone, her strong, graceful hands punctuated her comments with taps on my shoulders. While I was making a point about the transvestite heroines in Shakespeare’s plays, she distracted me by stroking my hair. While showing me through her house, she led me by the hand. I secretly hoped that she was planning to throw me onto her vintage brass bed, but I couldn’t be sure I was reading the signs clearly.

  In any case, my common sense told me that getting sexual with my boss would be a really bad career move. My moist cunt was telling me other things.

  Kip offered me a brandy and I accepted, but nothing she said or did was a clear proposition. Finally, I thanked her for a lovely evening and stood up to leave. She followed me to her front hallway, where she calmly pulled me into her arms as though she wanted to dance. Before I could react, she tipped my head back slightly and pressed her lips to mine. When I didn’t resist, she slid her tongue into my mouth. Yes! I felt faint, but I didn’t mind.

  I could taste the wine she had drunk and the salty peanuts she had eaten. I could feel her heart beating beneath her small, hot breasts. I could feel my panties growing wetter, and I wondered if she could smell me. I breathed in her own clean but earthy smell as I mov
ed my hips, hoping she found me irresistible.

  Kip pulled her mouth away from mine, and smoothly pushed me away from her. “I’ll see you at school on Monday, Athena,” she smiled. I felt as if she had just poured icewater over me.

  “Goodnight. See ya,” I muttered. I grabbed my jacket and pulled it on while opening the front door, and rushed out to the darkness. I didn’t want Kip to know how disappointed I was.

  In the following weeks, I told myself that she had done the right thing, and that I should be glad to be working for someone who was ethical enough to protect me from my own reckless desire.

  But my dreams were so lurid and drastic that I remembered them clearly while showering, dressing, and preparing myself for my audience of students. A few scenes even jumped into my mind’s eye when I was driving to work or grading essays or exchanging small talk with a colleague: Kip beckoning me to kneel at her feet. Kip, dressed in black leather, pinching my bare nipples while discussing literature. Kip taking an old-fashioned wooden paddle off the wall of her office to use on my naked ass as I waited obediently on all fours. Kip approaching me with a scary grin that said that she wasn’t violating my rights, she was giving us both what we wanted.

  The best and worst scenes from the cinema of my imagination were full of restraining devices: Kip as a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (and very handsome in the red serge uniform), pulling my hands behind my back (not gently this time) and securing them in metal handcuffs before pushing me into the backseat of a police cruiser to await further attention. Kip as a vaguely Shakespearian guard locking me, a mischievous and disheveled maid, into wooden stocks in a public square. Kip as a kidnapper, tying me up with rope before covering my eyes with a blindfold and my mouth with a gag, the better to spirit me away to her secret lair.