Read Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica Online
Authors: Sinclair Sexsmith,Miriam Zoila Perez,Wendi Kali,Rachel Kramer Bussel,Gigi Frost,BB Rydell,Amelia Thornton,Dilo Keith,Vie La Guerre,Anna Watson
Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica (4 page)
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“It’s not ready?” Her face is taking on a dark expression, clouding over the jovial-husband act. But underneath all that is a wisp of a smile. I have to be careful not to laugh. The whole thing is so scripted, so trite. But these tired lines are a key to our desire, another path to having each other in exactly the way we need.
I hold on to my nervous expression and look at my feet. “I burned the garlic the first time, and the potatoes took forever. It will be done in a minute. I’ll bring you the paper, okay?” Again, her expression wavers. Not trusting herself to speak, she grunts and hands me her bag and coat, turning toward the living room. I hang her coat in the bedroom and leave her bag at the foot of the bed.
As we sit down at the table, the silence is electric between us. We’ve both been working all day and we need to eat, but we want to get on with this. I take a few bites, push food around my plate, make a show of nervous conversation, twirl my hair around my fingers.
She slides her plate away and stands suddenly. “Come with me. You can clean this up later.”
“Can I make you another drink?”
“You heard what I said.” Her deliberate, harsh tone fills me with dread and anticipation. I follow her. She sits on the couch, martini glass on the coffee table before her, and pats the seat next to her. “This isn’t the first time.”
“The first time what?”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve been late with dinner. In fact, it’s more like the fourth or fifth.”
“I’m sorry, I’m trying—” I begin, but she interrupts, her hand on my shoulder.
“Listen to me. I work hard all day so I can take care of you. Aren’t you happy? Don’t I give you everything you want? I don’t ask much from you. All I want is for dinner to be ready when I get home. Is that so hard?”
“No, but I—”
“Is it going to happen again?”
“No, I’ll make sure it doesn’t.”
“I don’t believe you. We’ve talked about this before, and look what just happened. But I have a way to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Please, sweetheart, I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“No, I said
I’m
going to be sure it doesn’t happen again.”
I’m
going to be sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Stand up.” I look her in the eyes and obey, slowly. I am so wet, both because I know what’s about to happen and because it’s so hot to pretend I have no idea. “Lift your dress up.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m making sure you remember to have dinner ready on time. Come here.” I edge closer and she bends me over her lap. She caresses my ass. “Do you know what I’m going to do?”
“You can’t do this.”
“I can and I will. You’re my wife and I have every right to teach you a lesson.” She pauses. “I’m going to hit you ten times.”
The thrill of wanting to be spanked and the dissonance of pretending I don’t, the pull of my garters against my ass, the hardness of her cock. She’s not hitting me as hard as she could, but I know she wants me to struggle. And this character I’m playing would struggle, so I moan and kick.
I imagine this woman, this young wife. I’ve been thinking about her all day. When my mind turns to consent, misogyny, how fucked up this fantasy is, I push those thoughts aside and remember how hot this makes me. We live in this society every day, breathing in misogyny and homophobia and gender policing with the very air. The least we can do is get off on it.
So I imagine myself nervous, in love, resentful of this new direction my husband is taking. Surprised at how this is turning me on. Excited and revolted by her cock as it hardens against my thigh.
She tells me to stand, moves me onto an armchair, my face toward the wall, on my knees. She arranges my dress above my waist, draped over the chair. “I’m going to leave you here to think about what you’ve learned tonight. Then I’m going to come back and see if you’ve learned your lesson. Don’t move.”
I give a slight nod and breathe in sharply. She pats my ass and I hear her in the kitchen, piling up plates and pans, wiping down the table.
When I hear her approach, I don’t move, but I feel the charge between us, like air pressure dropping before a storm. She comes close and I flinch. She slides her hands up my thighs, between my labia.
“Why are you wet?”
“I…I don’t know. I think I’m wet because you spanked me.”
“I’m going to punish you for this. Get on your knees.”
I stand, ungraceful in my heels, and kneel.
“Take off my belt.”
I fumble again. All my poise vanished hours ago in a turned-on haze.
“Give me your hands.” She wraps the belt around them, then takes out her cock and pulls my head in. “You’re going to suck my cock now. You’re going to show me how much you want me. You’re going to show me how grateful you are that I taught you a lesson.”
I love this. And, just a little, I hate it. Hate how unyielding her cock is, hate how I can’t quite manage to swallow it. And just when I’m getting the hang of it, just when my mouth and gag reflex are surrendering to her, it’s over. She’s pulling out, untwisting her belt from my wrists, and throwing me on the floor. I grind my hips against the cold wood, my clit burning. I’m so turned on that I barely register the blows from her belt as pain. I feel burning, sharp caresses, from the top of my ass to my thighs. This is all I want. I could take this forever, but she stops and tells me to get on my hands and knees.
She fucks me like I don’t matter, like I really am her property, her chattel, there for her pleasure and nothing else. And this fucking ultimately makes me come like nothing else can, it’s better than anything more comfortable or tender or aligned with what I might ask for if given a chance.
She pulls out and I collapse on the floor. This is the moment when I can roll over, smile sweetly, and reach my arms up to her, my stern top, my fantasy husband, my handsome gentle girlfriend. But she’s pushed me so far, I don’t want to leave this submissive place just yet.
Last night, lying with my head on her shoulder, she told me about her childhood fantasies, rescuing princesses and then ravishing them.
“The princess really wants you to fuck her, but you sort of have to make her,” she said.
I love being her princess.
She’s kneeling behind me still, breathing hard, putting her cock back into her briefs.
“Thank you, sir. Please, sir, I need more. Please fuck my ass, sir.”
She reaches around for my nipple and twists. “You dirty slut. You need me to fuck you in the ass? Go lie down on the bed.”
She follows me into the room with lube and water, offers it to me; I smile and drink but keep my head bowed. I’ve gone so deep I don’t even want the interval of equality and real life that sometimes comes with a break for water.
“If you want your ass fucked, you’re going to have to take more. You still need to be punished for moving your hips earlier. Did you think I missed you grinding your dirty little clit into the floor? Slut.”
“Yes sir, I’m sorry, sir. Please punish me, sir.”
“Get over my lap.”
“I’m going to spank you again, but first I’m going to put this in your ass. You need to remember that all your holes belong to me.” We’ve left the housewife scenario behind us, I realize, as she lubes up the plug and opens me, leaving me squirming and begging for another spanking, for her to pinch my nipples again, for as much pain and humiliation as she wants to give me.
The spanking is almost too much on top of the strapping I received earlier, but I can tell she wants to give it to me, and her hot breath, her need to take me, carry me up and over and I come under her hand.
CALL ME SIR: A SMUTTY PULP FICTION TALE
BB Rydell
I
stare at my fingertips while Jake Six chats me up. She’s been riding my jock with her yap for nearly twenty minutes now. Crowing on about the string of former heartthrobs she’s seduced in the past year. The firefighter who lived upstairs and undressed with the curtains open, the intrepid photographer with a bent for threesomes, the femme who made no apology for her incessant addiction to speed.
stare at my fingertips while Jake Six chats me up. She’s been riding my jock with her yap for nearly twenty minutes now. Crowing on about the string of former heartthrobs she’s seduced in the past year. The firefighter who lived upstairs and undressed with the curtains open, the intrepid photographer with a bent for threesomes, the femme who made no apology for her incessant addiction to speed.
I motion to Martha for another bottle of Red Stripe and lean in closer to Jake. I’m looking at a carbon copy of myself ten years ago: the dyke who likes to use popularity as armor and bait simultaneously. I don’t blame her. There is crazy drama in small queer communities. All of us are searching for ways to protect our soft hearts. Martha drops the beer by my hand. A sizz of sparkle escapes the pressurized cap when she opens it. I take a long drink and set it back down. Jake bends the black cocktail straw between her fingers; I watch a drop of whiskey bead onto her finger from the tip of the straw. I watch Jake lick the tip of her finger while she’s watching me.
I rub my hand over the back of my shaved head. At least they left a little bit of hair on top, enough to grab. That’s my rule.
The glittery red bar stool squeaks as I shift my weight and look toward the door: 11:46 p.m. My friends must be running late. It was their idea to meet here first before heading over to the Cuff. Where are they? I drop a napkin on the floor and lean over to pick it up so I can get a good look around the bar just in case they’re lurking about. I don’t need another pair of eyes on me tonight. Then again, my swipe at privacy is probably futile. You can’t keep anything a secret in this bar.
“You’re Jake, right?” I say, climbing back onto the stool. Jake shims the glass in her hands. Lazily eyes the amber liquid tracing over sweaty ice cubes.
I take another long swig of beer. “Nine-to-one odds you get what you want, don’t you?”
“Oh yeah?” she rumbles. “Would you like to find out for yourself?” She unbuttons the top two buttons of her tight pea-green polo T-shirt and pushes up the sleeves.
“Nice ink,” I say.
She’s smirking again, cracking her knuckles one by one. I watch her hands and try to hold back a smile.
“Should I be afraid?” I say ruefully, carefully shedding the clammy label with my blunt fingernail.
She shifts her eyes to her shoulder. “I’ve got my uncle’s brass knuckles permanently tattooed on my arm.” Her voice rises, a coy smile covering her demeanor. She leans toward me and flirts. “Don’t mess with me unless…”
I cut her off mid-sentence, push the bottle away, and thrust my hand out to grab her shirt. “Unless what? You wanna fight me, freshman?” I pull her closer. She swallows nervously, raises her eyebrows, tilts her head down, and smiles without showing teeth. “Go ahead,” I growl cunningly. “All of your posturing, flexing, fucking around—that’s not what you want. I don’t care how many cocky smiles you’ve got hidden behind that grin.”
She swallows again. I loosen my grip. A breath escapes her throat. Releasing my grip completely, I settle back into my stool. I choke the neck of my nearly drained beer, tilt it back to my throat, and watch her watching me swallow.
“I know what you want.” I reach over to straighten out her shirt. “Thing is, you’re going to have to be a good
boy
and learn some respect before anyone is going to give it to you.” Jake swallows again while staring at my mouth. My friends walk through the door. I see them mingling in the corner.
boy
and learn some respect before anyone is going to give it to you.” Jake swallows again while staring at my mouth. My friends walk through the door. I see them mingling in the corner.
I run my tongue over my lower lip and smile. She drops her gaze. “My friends are here. I have to get going. Tomorrow night, I’ll be by around seven o’clock to give it to you. This is a onetime offer.”
Rolling her eyes to focus on my mouth, she cocks her chin again and, with an I’m-gonna-knock-you-out expression of defiance, says, “Why the fuck not?”
The following night I show up at Jake’s apartment, ready to teach her a lesson from my “finishing school.” After a few knocks the door swings open. Jake is wearing a bright orange T-shirt snaking into retro faded gray low-rider jeans.
“I just got home from ‘volunteering’ downtown,” she says with air quotes.
I read about the queer bashing in the Seattle
Stranger
last year. She punched out the attacker so her friends she was with could get away. That’s what earned her all of those orange-shirted community service hours. The queer hater was set free.
Stranger
last year. She punched out the attacker so her friends she was with could get away. That’s what earned her all of those orange-shirted community service hours. The queer hater was set free.
She leads me to the living room. It’s lit with candles. Pine-scented incense masks an underlying musty basement smell tickling my nostrils.
“I’ll just go and change first.” I block her path with my body.
Jake pushes my shoulders, “C’mon, let me by.”
I hold her back.
“Orange becomes you,” I say. She feigns boredom as I lean into her chest and scan the room for space. “Why don’t you grab my toy bag over there and put it in the living room?” Rolling her eyes, she makes a
W
with her hands and mouths, “Whatever.”
W
with her hands and mouths, “Whatever.”
Struts over to the door, slings the bag over her right shoulder and lugs it over. I notice her bicep flexing under the weight.
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