I Order One Drink, Then I Drink the Flood

Sometimes I write fictional smut. 

The red bottom heels are so very high, 4 inches. She’s clearly teetering on them, held up mostly by the fact that she’s leaning on the load bearing post between the kitchen and the living room. The shoes are the only thing she’s wearing, depending on whether or not you count a ball gag as an article of clothing. Twenty minutes ago, she was standing up straight, hair neatly in place, chest rising and falling with the deep breaths she was trying to take through her nose.

Now she’s a fucking mess. Hair a fluffy cloud around her face, trying desperately to pant with her mouth blocked, mascara streaked down her cheeks. I know she buys shitty mascara just for this purpose, to play up the image of ruined plaything. I like it. I don’t start taking pictures until that point, save the one I took at the beginning. It shows that I started with a prim little doll and fucked her up.

When I started, after locking her wrist cuffs together behind her around the post, I told her she was so very pretty. So doll-like. Such nice shoes.

“You’d almost think you were the real article, instead of a cheap knock-off.” I laughed. “But I know you can’t afford real Louboutins. Did you order them from overseas? Hoping they’d be good enough to fool anyone who didn’t look closely?”

She gasped a little then, letting me know I’d scored. I’d played with her a little, teasing her cunt as well as pinching and slapping her breasts, before proclaiming myself bored, and walking over to the couch to flop down on it.

“You look so uncomfortable. I guess you have to work really hard just to prove you’re a cute little doll.” I commented while rubbing a hand over my cozy flannel pajama pants. “I don’t think it’s enough though. I’m going to need more than that.”

I beckoned to my sweetheart, who has been sitting in an armchair, quietly watching. He rose and walked over to me, to take the Hitachi I had in my hands by the time he crossed the floor. It’s not exactly a great mystery of the ages what I meant for him to do after I gestured towards her.

God, I love the way he kicks her feet to indicate she should spread them, not bothering to speak to her. He places one hand on her neck, pressing her back against the post as he clicks on the Hitachi and presses it to her cunt. Watching him move her around as if she were only an unwieldy object, hearing her moan and try not to lose her balance as the vibrations rumble through her, I had difficulty keeping my hands out of my pants. The moment was so overwhelmingly erotic that I didn’t think I could keep from coming for very long, and I wanted to hang on to the lightheaded fever pitch for as long as I could, to savor it like a rich cigar.

One, two, three… I eventually lose count of her orgasms as I rocked against the couch, clenching my cunt and enjoying the heightened awareness of the muscles and my throbbing clit.

Eventually, I called out for him to stop. He clicks off the Hitachi and looks over at me with a smirk.

And here we are, with a toy that hasn’t been played with nicely. She looks so relieved. I suspect she’s thinking that maybe I’ll let her off her feet now.

“Do you think you’ve had enough, dolly?” She catches herself before nodding, the motion started just enough for me to see it. Can she still feel the memory of the welts I left on her ass the last time she told me she’d had enough when I asked? I respect a safeword, but when we’re not at that point, I decide if my toys are done being played with. “No answer? Well, I’ll be kind. Just one more.”

There’s something intimate about the way my sweetheart presses his body against hers when she sags, holding her up as he tears one more machine-assisted orgasm out of her. She’s choking on sobs now, as her endorphin depleted body processes it as pain, as it has been for the last few.

“Bring her.” I say to him, and he unbuckles her hands, walks her to me, and dumps her somewhat unceremoniously into my lap. I stroke her hair, brushing it out of her face, and gently kiss her forehead. As I unbuckle the ballgag, I say “Look at you, pretty dolly. You haven’t even mussed up your lipstick in all that fuss. Well, we’ll have to fix that. Don’t you think you should thank my boy for helping you get off?”

Sniffling, she nods. Smiling, I turn to him where he is still standing next to me awaiting my whim. He takes off his boxers after I give the waistband a quick tug. “Why don’t you work on making that lipstick match?”

The sight of my toys interlocked, his hands in her hair, her using her hands and tongue to do the best job possible, is too much for me. I slide my hand down to my clit and rock forward to press against my fingers. I’m matching his rhythm briefly, and then going faster. The sounds the two of them are making as I pull her body close to me are pushing me closer and closer as much as the feel of my own touch. I see the tale-tell signs of my darling trying not to orgasm without my permission and I look up into his eyes. “Go ahead and come.”

I come before he does, feeling my head full of electric pops and snaps as my body floods with warmth. I hear him moan, and slowly open my eyes to see her cleaning him up with her tongue, careful to be sure I won’t find her thank you wanting.

Looking at them, I know I’m going to be playing variations on this little game for a long while.

Advertisements

It’s not so easy, no it’s not so easy to wait

unsatisfied with all my writing about real life, I offer you this fictional fantasy.

She’s more beautiful than I am; shining hair and sleek curves that always draw my eyes like blinking neon signs. I’m supposed to be above such things, I think, but taking such beauty makes me feel powerful, as if I’ve committed a daring art heist. As does the fact that I am abusing my position of power over her. There’s a school of thought that says that being her superior means she cannot choose to be here free of coercion. There’s also a school of thought that I favor, that says I do not give one single solitary fuck.

She’s looking up at me with wide eyes. “Please, ma’am…?”

I found it charmingly old fashioned that she referred to me that way, when she started here. Now, she understands without me even having specified, that I prefer it. I’ve no idea what she’s asking for; I have the notion that neither does she.

It’s rare these days that she enters my office at all. I speak to her no more than necessary, some even whispering behind her back that she’s out of favor. It’s endlessly amusing to me, as her work is in fact quite good, and I’m possibly more objectively fair to her than others simply because I know eyes are on us. However, tonight I found myself working past normal office hours, but with too little work to even consider taking home to spoil my entire night. I was surprised when I looked up at my open door, shards of words meant to tell the cleaning crew to skip my office catching in my mouth. She looks like a pinup. The clothing is entirely work appropriate, but too well framed to her figure, too flattering in color and perfectly groomed; the only thing worse for a woman than being not well-appointed enough is to carry off a look perfectly.

It was cinematic, the way she poured to the floor, dropping purse and coat on her way down, splashes of bright color against the grey carpet. There’s room for her, as I removed the chairs that had been sitting on the outside of the desk, to make any visitors stand before me, and preferably get the fuck out quickly. On her knees, palms down on the floor, she was breathing rapidly and trying so hard not to. Poor, poor thing. I pushed my chair back and stood up behind my desk, my own palms down on the surface while I looked at her, how her face wasn’t lowered, but still turned away, eyes closed. I stood back from the desk, looked down at my feet. A pity, that I have always been a Woman in Sensible Shoes in more ways than one. I kicked off my flats under the desk and walked around it, stopping in front of her. She looked down at my feet and slowly inched one hand over my right foot, petting it as gingerly as a wild beast that might turn on her. The light from my desk lamp was now blocked by me, the sudden darkness perhaps becoming the stimulus that made her look up at me.

Never, never would I tell anyone what her dark eyes do to me. It’s frankly undignified. Nor am I certain I could accurately describe it in words. I can only say that when she opens her mouth and quietly pleads with me that it’s like the sudden weightlessness of a roller coaster drop. Her hair is so soft in my hand when I reach down and stroke my fingers through it, so fine as it pulls through my fingers like sand leaking through the gaps. So taut when I close my hand around a fistful and push her down. She resists initially. For just a split second. It’s confusing, I imagine. Instead of my flat hand on her head, there’s a balled up fist both pulling on her hair and spiking knuckles into her scalp to force her down. After the hesitation, she goes down like expensive whiskey, like cheap sweet wine, deceptively mellow.

Her lips touch the top of my foot. Such gentle kisses, not just gentle but genteel. Reserved. Her hair is still in my hand, and I flex it, pulling until I know it hurts. She whimpers, and I can only laugh that it sounds slightly surprised, even now. I can feel from the tension radiating from her that she’s even more confused, is she supposed to do something? Nothing?

To be perfectly honest, I don’t know in the moment. I wasn’t expecting her here, now. I’ve gotten so used to, so spoiled by, messages from a kik account, that I would ignore or respond to at my leisure. There isn’t too much risk in her being here now, though any risk is so grave. So very serious, to threaten her livelihood for this. To threaten mine.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, shooting for as close to a growl as my voice will go without breaking.

“I came back for my phone. I got halfway across town before I realized it was still in my desk. And you’re here…” she trails off uncertainly. I hold her gaze, and her hair, until she breathes deeply and barrels on. “I just. I just missed you missed this I need it please please you haven’t called.”

It nearly gives me the giggles and spoils the mood. There’s something about that sweet note of desperation that gives me better ideas than any amount of free time to riff on masturbatory fantasy.

I let go of her, turning around in the same motion, secretly a little impressed with how well I execute the move. “Stand up. Strip. Then lock the door.”

She’s smart. She has to be because I have no patience, no amount of beauty could be attractive enough to excuse witlessness. I know she catches the way I increase the risk before mitigating it.

I know that’s why she’s here. Without turning around, I know that she’s looking at me in distress, knowing that I’ll pull her up short on any rearrangement of the order I’ve set out. There are several heartbeats of silence before I hear movement. The sound of clothes rustling, of muted hurry.  I’m dying to turn around and watch her. I softly bite my tongue, just enough that I can concentrate on the feeling and push back the need we both pretend I don’t feel.

The longer I stand there, the more I feel the sparks arcing up my spine, the more I feel heat in my face. I close my eyes, and indulge myself in the visual of turning around, grabbing her and shoving her down. I can feel myself grabbing her arm too hard. I’m hurting her for no reason, for the best reason. I love it when she squeaks in pain and swallows it, tries to take it for me. The wave of physical arousal that washes through me when I think about biting until she bleeds is almost enough to knock me out of my poise. She’s a fucking Waterhouse painting, ruddy cheeks and intense gaze and I want to shake her out of her frame.

Thankfully, the bolt in my door’s locking mechanism is a heavy thing, and clacks loudly against the muted electronic hum of a sleeping office block. As I turn around, she’s back in the middle of the small room. God, those fucking thighs. I want to bend her over and fuck her with any number of terrible mundane objects I have at hand, for daring to make me feel so out of control.

“You goddamn reckless slut” I hiss. I sound angry, even to my own ears. “Foolish, foolish…” I mutter audibly, as I’m reaching over and rummaging through the bottom of my purse. After finding what I’m searching for, I look her in the eye and point to my desk chair. “Sit.” The caution with which she eyes my closed hand, gripping something unknown, almost makes me have to turn away to hide a smile.

The sound of the chair squeaking when she sits down, the unease in her posture as she looks back up at me, the deepening confusion when I hold my hand palm up to show her a shiny metal coin… I’m breathing it in like pulling a hit of drug laced fumes.

“My grandmother, god rest her bitter, starched soul…” I begin coldly, pausing to roll the coin into place between my thumb and forefinger “… had advice for girls like you.”

I hold the coin out. She’s frozen, a rabbit that’s not sure if the hawk has seen it.

“She would say that stupid reckless sluts would be much improved if only they could learn to hold a dime between their knees.”

There’s a long pause, the sort where every breath seems like it should be as visible as a winter’s day exhalation. It feels inevitable that she reaches out and takes the coin from my hand, that she accepts whatever I have to give her. I find it extremely hard to maintain my poker face when she finally does so, for even expected victory is always sweet. Even so, she’s still moving in slow motion as she delicately tucks it in between her knees and looks up at me with an expression that mixes hurt and confusion.

I stand back, unzip my pants and slide them down over my hips. I can’t help but smile when they actually fall and puddle at my feet so that I can just step out of them. Had I had to bend and peel them off, I’d have missed the slow replacing of hurt with a gentle sunrise of hope on her face.

“Don’t move.”

Her hands are so delicate. Trying to follow my order to the letter, they’re limp as I pick them up, put them on the chair arms and curl the fingers under. I feel her muscles tense just before I let go, her making sure they stay exactly put when I lift my own hands away.

I don’t get to watch her this time, as I wiggle out of panties that would have been far less utilitarian had I expected this. Using my free hand to pull her hair, to pull her head back, my balled up panties are shoved just far enough into her mouth that she has to bite down to hold them in place. She knows better than to let them fall.

The chair is small, and I briefly worry as I lower myself onto her legs. I’m not sure I could salvage my dignity or the night if it broke under us. Shoved back against the desk, it seems sturdy enough as I slide across her thighs, centering myself over the left leg. As soon as I feel settled enough in place, I put a hand back in her hair, jerking her head back. I lean forward, pressing against her, my breath warm on her ear.

“She might have been right about that, but it’s a shame to see a slut not used for all they’re good for.”

Her responding whimper, barely audible, is the final thing I need, and I begin to grind my clit against her, making tiny rocking motions with my hips and feeling how she flexes her thigh muscles to meet me.

She’s panting and I pull her head back a little further, making her grimace and squeak. I desperately want to slap her face, to hear the sound of it ringing through the empty building, but I’m already making too much noise, squeaking the chair as I slide across her increasingly slick thigh.

“Dirty girl.” I exhale the words into her ear as I reach up and twist one of her nipples. “Just look at you.”

I’m so close. So fucking close. I just need. I just. I need.

I lean over to the desk again, still trying to rock against her, fumbling against papers and nearly knocking a mug off the side.

She gasps, loud even as muffled as she is, and then I see her bite down harder on my panties, as I catch her nipple in a binder clip. I see tears starting to collect in her eyes and I’m seeing stars. Oh god. Oh god.

“Just look at you, and look at how you like it.

A tear rolls down her cheek as I pull on the clip, and I’m thinking about how I’m going to hurt her when I get her where I don’t have to be so careful, so quiet. In my mind’s eye, she’s already spilling more tears and I’m there now, rocking harder, hand on her neck, oh god. Going to hurt her. Oh god.

I come with a hiss, bucking and clawing fingernails into her neck.

She’s stiff, holding me up as much as holding still, until I creakily get off her. I take the panties from her mouth and toss them in my purse.

“Go to the chinese place around the corner. Get the usual order. I’ll see you at my house.”

 

Something So Trivial

“Hold still.” I reach over and pluck a pine needle from his hair, showing it to him on my open palm with a little flourish.

He shakes his head and laughs. “Didn’t I take that damn thing out a week ago? And we’ve vacuumed at least twice?”

I assure him that we’ll be finding pine needles until February, and that’s why I’ve banished tinsel from the house. It’s Friday night, and we’ve got books and a cheese plate that have required our utmost attention, but I’m starting to get a cramp in my leg from sitting in the same position for too long.

“Rub my legs”

“mmm…?” He looks up from his book, where he’d quickly gotten caught up in reading again. I feel a tiny twinge over disturbing him, but that’s easily dismissed. I swing my legs up into his lap and lay back against the arm of the couch.

“My legs. They’re cramping.”

Obedient as ever, he rubs his hands over my legs, cautiously working the muscles in my calves and thighs before picking the leg up and pushing it towards my body in a fetal position. I wince as my knees and cramped muscles register their complaints. Helping me sit up after, he asks if I want anything else. “Your tea must be cold. I could get you another?”

“Please. And put the cheese away.”

I watch him walk away, the sight of his shirtless back inviting me to run my hands over it. My thoughts on watching him bend over to put the cheese in the refrigerator would have sent Thomas Bowdler into a frenzy of inking and cutting until nothing was left. My book was seeming less and less interesting. You’d think watching someone wrap leftovers and get tea down from the cabinet would hardly be a better option, but I have always loved observing him in small moments. There’s something fascinating about the way he holds himself, the small gestures of his hands, when he thinks no one’s watching.

It takes long enough for the water to boil that I manage to have gone to the bedroom to retrieve a few small items and be back watching him by the time he’s pouring it over my tea bag. He brings my cup carefully to the coffee table, setting it down before he looks up at me. I can see his eyes flicker with a momentary recognition as he sees that on the hand I’m resting my chin on, I’ve put on my metal claws.

We look each other in the eyes before he smiles and asks “Are you a kitty? Does the kitty want to play then?”

I turn my face away from him and meow disdainfully.

He’s in the middle of asking me “What? What does the kitt…” when I lean over and swipe, knocking the handful of candy canes that have survived the season, from the table to the floor. He sighs in mock annoyance and crouches to pick them up. “Well, if kitty doesn’t want them, I don’t, so I guess I’ll toss them.”

I snatch one from his hand. “You don’t like peppermint, do you?” I ask, peeling it and licking the curved end.

“Not much, no.” He’s still now, waiting to see what it is I’m planning. I hold his gaze and listen to him breathing, I reach out and trace a claw over the outline of his collarbone. I’m gentle at first, using only one hand, then place the candy cane between my teeth and trail downwards to press harder over the fleshier parts of his chest. He flinches slightly, but tries to maintain his posture in the awkward position.

I motion for him to get on his knees in a sitting position, and he looks briefly grateful. The look doesn’t last, as I go back to scratching him hard enough to leave long red marks that don’t fade after a few breaths, and he starts wincing and hissing as I leave some of the deeper furrows.

I take the candy cane from my mouth and wave it in a little flourish before I mock pout at him. “That’s not a very good scratching post. Let’s give you a little… help. Open your mouth.”

His look is pleading, though I’m not sure for what, as he follows my order. I place the candy cane in his mouth, turned so that the crook is wedged between the roof of his mouth and tongue.

“Hold that for me, my love.” I purr. I flex a clawed hand at him before walking around behind him. “Now we can get started.”