Page 10 of Hurts So Good
“This is your punishment,” she cooed, bending close to him, moving her legs to envelop him and letting her smooth thighs caress the sides of his face as she coaxed him closer. He grabbed the struts of the barstool and hung on for dear life. As she leaned forward, her breasts popped out of her corset, and she grabbed the back of his hair to force his head back. She began to draw a circle around his face with one hard nipple, then the other, while she looked down into his face and savored the fear. “You want me to punish you, don’t you?” she asked in a voice as rich as chocolate. “After all, I don’t even know you and you asked me if you could suck my pussy. That’s very rude, isn’t it? I should punish you for it, shouldn’t I? That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
He swallowed hard; his eyes flickered to the baton, and she held his head against her belly as she reached down to prod his balls with it.
“Say ‘Please punish me, Mistress,’” she purred, and oh, how guilty she should have felt that it was the reluctance she hoped for in his voice that made her so fucking wet. But she didn’t feel guilty, just horny, and once she heard him say it, his words hesitant and trembling, she pulled him close, pinning his face against her breasts and his body between her thighs. She leaned down, discovering that with a tall guy like this, the baton barely reached where she wanted it to.
“Pull down your panties, bitch,” she purred. “Show me what I’m hurting.”
She’d been a bit worried he’d change his mind, but then, it was that possibility that excited her. Though he didn’t. He pulled his jockey shorts down to mid-thigh, exposing an ass so perfect she desperately wished she could see it better. But it was worth it to have him pinned against her, surging and quivering, as she leaned over, reached the baton down and caressed his bubble butt.
Normally, she would have warmed him up, but how long did they have until they got kicked out of the bar? Not long, probably, so there was no time to fuck around.
She swatted. His body jumped against hers. She sighed with pleasure and struck him again. It really took some doing with a tool like the baton—hit even a muscular ass like this at the wrong angle and she could really hurt the little fucker. But hit him obliquely, with great care, and—oh, yes, that’s the thing. She began swatting him regularly as he writhed and trembled in her grasp, his ass going red as she drew him closer. She picked up speed. He squirmed. He let out a pathetic little whimper. His cock made a clanging sound against the metal strut of the barstool. He jumped back from the impact. She swatted him again. His back arched; he gripped the barstool firmly and tried to suppress his cries as she punished his ass.
When he opened his mouth, she silenced him with her breast—if he really made some noise, he’d get the monitors over here from the dungeon, and nobody wanted that. Claire pulled his face hard against her, and he began to obediently pleasure her nipple with his mouth and tongue. “There, there, let Mama make it better,” she cooed, and grabbed his hair to shove his face between her legs.
She almost lost it as she felt his tongue against her clit. It had been too fucking long since she’d had a guy down there; all this sadist and masochist shit had her totally distracted by hurting people, and most guys who offered to service her were less like eager little suck slaves and more like beard-burn nightmares drooling on her snatch. She’d been meaning to find the right submissive boy to properly train, but so far none of them had seemed worth the effort.
This time, she forgot all about the training; there were a few moments, sure, toward the beginning, when she was opening her mouth momentarily to give pointers, but each time all that came out was a girly sound of pleasure, so she stopped that right away. And before he’d started, she had it all planned out, how he was going to do a pathetic job, and she’d bend over and give him another ten or twenty hard smacks on the ass, getting hotter as she punished him until maybe she could even let him get her close.
That ended up not happening, because there was no beard-burn, there was just this…tongue, doing things that made her eyes roll back in her head. He did not dive right in to the clit; sure, she’d given him shit earlier about using the term “lick pussy,” which would have been the perfect excuse to punish the poor fucker when he did exactly that—except that it felt good enough that she didn’t want him to stop. There were long lush minutes of him teasing her from top to bottom, majora to minora, upper thigh to entrance, all tangled up beautifully with a little clit, a little more clit, still more clit, surging slowly as he built her to her breaking point.
Then he was on her clit, at exactly the right moment, when she couldn’t stand waiting and didn’t want any more teasing, just the slow steady surge of his tongue against her clit as she rocked back and forth on the barstool.
For Claire, there were two kinds of tongue jobs; the first was the familiar experience of being in the hands of a guy who could take direction and help her get off; that she knew, but it was exceedingly rare. Then there was this, which was pretty much entirely new; this guy seemed to know how to get her off himself, almost without her participation, which seemed disgustingly untoppy, but who really gave a fuck?
People were watching now, all around her, keeping a respectful distance—barely—as she crossed her legs behind his head and spread her arms out Christ-style to steady herself against the bar.
As his tongue seethed against her, she realized she was actually going to come, which simultaneously gave her a feeling of surrender and a thrill of overriding dominance—she had never done it before, not in this way, and she was as powerless as she was powerful, powerless to stop it and powerful enough to let it happen.
She came, pleasure coursing through her body. She writhed shamelessly, moaning evidently, grinding her hips up and down and fucking her pussy against his face, not caring that people were crowded tight around her and everyone in the bar seemed to be cheering. She’d popped all the way out of her corset, and she realized she was probably breaking about thirty liquor laws. But even Dylan had the grace to wait until she’d finished and had pushed the submissive’s head out of her crotch before leaning over the bar and saying, “Claire, do you and Shawn mind taking it to the play space?”
Her eyes took a moment to focus; the submissive knelt before her, panting, his cock still sticking out hard and his face glistening with drool and her juices.
Claire laughed, looked at Dylan, looked at the no longer nameless submissive, and said “Yeah, or maybe my apartment.”
Dylan spread his hands in good-natured surrender. “Girlfriend, that’s up to you.”
She knew she was fairly insane for even considering it, but the guy really had a way with that tongue.
Claire eyed the sub, whose name was apparently Shawn. She raised one eyebrow, read the expression on his face. She squared herself on the barstool and nudged his cock with the tip of her boot. It was harder than ever.
She bent forward and caressed his face. “Put your dick away, stranger,” she said. “Let’s cab it.”
“Lucky bastard,” she heard someone say. She gazed down at her new pet and couldn’t agree more.
TESTING THE WATER
Teresa Noelle Roberts
The conversation over dinner had been light, amusing, ordinary—first-date stuff but a promising first date. As long as they were in the restaurant, neither Serena nor Jack said a word about the subject that was on both their minds, the subject they’d been IM-ing about the past week, ever since Jack had made some joke about kinky sex and Serena had joked back, and then they’d had the ah-ha moment of realizing that the jokes weren’t jokes at all, but a way of testing the water.
Turned out that Jack was more than a little bit kinky, and more than happy to learn his old friend had certain fantasies she’d love to explore.
But knowing that and actually making it happen were two different things.
They’d made it through dinner without saying a word about spanking, whips and chains, head games, any of the fascinating things they’d teased each other with so freely when they weren’t face to face. Almost disappointingly ordinary, a typical “first date” between two people who’d been friends for awhile and had decided to take the plunge into something more, but weren’t quite sure how to be romantic with each other.
Still, somehow, by the time they finished dessert, Serena had no question in her mind that she’d end up at Jack’s place.