Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica (16 page)

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Authors: Sinclair Sexsmith,Miriam Zoila Perez,Wendi Kali,Rachel Kramer Bussel,Gigi Frost,BB Rydell,Amelia Thornton,Dilo Keith,Vie La Guerre,Anna Watson

BOOK: Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica
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Last time, it was on the fly. I was naked but for my harness and cock, sitting on the edge of a bed in the historic wing of San Francisco’s Westin St. Francis hotel. You were topless and on your knees in front of me. You moved your head up and down my cock. I placed my hand on your head and played with your hair. It was getting a little long, long enough for me to be able to pull it: the perfect length for a butch cut. I played with your hair gently for a short while, and then, deciding breathing was way too easy a task for you to perform, I grabbed your hair tightly, and I rammed your head down.
After a few seconds, you pulled away to catch your breath. Once you did, you returned. You began to lick the head of my cock. You wrapped your lips around it, and I put you through the motions.
You are used to me getting off on your discomfort. And everything that comes with it: hearing how happy you make me; what a good girl you are; how I love to see my little slut’s holes filled with my cock; how badly I wish I could shoot cum down your throat while holding your head against me, forcing you to take in the full length of my cock until I’m done force-feeding you my load. That night I did not offer you any such encouragement.
I held your nose, and I shoved deep. You began to gag a few times before you stood up and ran to the bathroom.
I listened to you vomiting. I didn’t follow after you.
 
I was conflicted after that night, but it was a long while before I said anything to you about it. You seemed fine, like you had a good time. I felt silly needing top aftercare, needing reassurance that you wanted it, even though you didn’t know it was coming.
It was months before I brought it up, before I told you I had difficulty with the fact it was not planned. I was afraid it had meant I had lost control. You assured me that it actually meant I was quickly shoving my cock in and out of your throat. And that’s what happens when I do such things. You quite enjoyed it, you told me.
“I can stop you at any time, you know. You’ve been worried about this for this long? I will stop you if I need or want to. And, the fact that you think about these things so much? It’s just further proof, to me, that I am safe with you.”
 
I get up, and I put on my harness. I fasten my cock inside it. While I’m getting a condom, I tell you I’m going to sit on the chair, the one barely a foot away from the bathroom. You wait for me to sit before you bring a pillow over, place it in front of me, and get on your knees.
I hand you the condom and tell you to put it on me. It’s a banana condom. You hate banana condoms, and I packed them for just that reason. You’ll suck on it, but you won’t like it, nor me. I’m not asking for you to like anything.
“With my mouth?” you ask me.
“Yes, put it on with your mouth.” You know I do not like when you use your hands while you blow me. I want to be able to see how much of my cock is in your mouth at all times.
When you begin, you are slow. You suck on my head. You lick it. You lick me from my shaft up; you pause to look up at my eyes. You’ve told me that the look on my face at this time is always the same—it always says,
this is good, for now
. You swallow more and more of my cock. I keep my hands to myself. I want you warmed up before I start controlling your head movements.
You insert my entire cock into your mouth on your own. I can see none of it when I look down at you.
You are showing off for me, and you start to gag in the process. I think it’s time I offered my assistance; I place my hand on your head. I wait for the next time your lips touch the base of my dick, and I hold you there. Just for a little while, and then I let you go. I do this a few times. And then I hold you for longer. I ignore your signs of discomfort: your face is red; your eyes open wide or close tight; I can hear your reflexes going into action.
You place your hand on my cock along with your lips now. Your gag reflex is giving in. You are going to move soon, or you are going to vomit on the floor, which is more than you signed up for.
I let you go, and I remain seated. You keep the bathroom door open because you have no time to close it. I listen to you vomit, and then to the flush. You take a few moments to get yourself together, and you crawl back to me. You wrap your lips around my cock again.
I become more forceful. You are back at the toilet in no time. This time I follow you. It’s time to strip away the dignity you kept when you were without an audience. This time—after you flush—you place your head on the toilet paper holder inches away from the toilet seat. I stand behind you.
Something in you has changed. You are not returning to me as you did last time. You are not moving at all. Instead, you wait there, for instruction. I can sense that you are no longer going to act without being explicitly told to. You have entered a place in submission where you cease to make any decision for yourself. You get what game we are playing now: this is not going to end until you fully surrender.
“Get back here. You’re not done.” I pull you back to me by your collar. You have never felt this light. I can’t tell you if it is your submission that makes you lighter, or if it is a peak in my dominance that makes me stronger. I suspect it is a little of both, that you push as I pull. But right now you let me take the credit—you let me feel powerful.
There is always a moment that strikes like lightning when I am suddenly flying. When our energies have created winds strong enough to push us to our opposing sides of the dominant-submissive scale.
This is that moment.
I look at you, and I check in. “Are you okay?” I want to know before I bring this home. You look up at me, and you nod.
Bring it.
 
The third and final time you don’t flush. You rest your head down on the toilet seat, and you don’t move.
I come over to you and place my hand between your legs. Your juices run down my fingers and past my wrist. “You like this, you dirty fucking whore.”
“Of course you do,” I add. “I’m done with you now. Get cleaned up.”
You slowly stand and walk toward the sink, the only other thing in this small half-bath besides the toilet. I see you begin to brush your teeth with toothpaste and your finger, and I tell you that I’m going to get your toothbrush from the other bathroom. I hurry there and back.
I give you your toothbrush.
I get on my knees to clean up the mess.
A PUBLIC SPECTACLE
 
D. L. King
 
 
 
 
 
 
“
J
anice, enter the circle of light and disrobe.”
Janice walks into the spotlight. It isn’t very bright, but since the rest of the room is fairly dark, it serves to make her the focus of attention. She’s nondescript. You might call her “medium”—medium height, medium-to-slightly-heavy weight, medium brown hair of a medium length. Her age is indeterminate—somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-nine. Medium age. Her clothes aren’t flashy. Actually, she looks like she has come to the spotlight directly from teaching a tenth-grade English class.
She obeys. She steps out of her low-heeled brown pumps and places them against the wall, out of the circle of light. Reaching behind her, she unzips her summer-weight cotton print knee-length dress and steps out of it. She folds it and places it with her shoes. She steps out of her white nylon half-slip and is left in her white cotton nondescript bra and the seemingly out-of-character black cotton thong. The slip goes the way of the dress and shoes. She stops and turns to the sound of my voice.
“Bra, Janice. Leave the panties on.”
Looking straight ahead, she swallows. She can hear the watchers but can’t see them, in the circle of light, as she is. Janice reaches behind her back, unhooks her bra, slips it off her shoulders, and pulls it away from her body. She tosses it in the general direction of her other clothes and stands with her hands clasped in front of her.
“Careless. Place the bra neatly with the rest of your clothing.”
Janice walks out of the light, then returns. Once again, she stands as before. Her breasts are not large, but they are large enough to sag just a bit. Her waist is a little thicker than it appears in clothes, and her thighs rub together just below her sex. The dim light picks up the shadows of a few bruises, one on her thigh and another on the side of her breast.
I love her breasts—the feel of them in my hands.
“Come here, Janice.”
Once again, Janice walks out of the circle of light and over to me. I buckle on her leather wrist and ankle cuffs, the heavy ones with the steel rings, and then I hold up her heavy leather collar. It matches her cuffs and has the same utilitarian steel ring. Janice opens her mouth and licks her lips. She nods slightly, giving her assent, and I buckle the collar around her neck.
After her collar is fastened, I let my hands trail down her shoulders and arms. I feel her shiver slightly. Her eyes begin to lose focus, but only for a moment. The act of fastening my collar around her neck always has that effect on her.
“Ready?” Janice nods her little nod. “Climb up on the horse, girl.”
My girl walks back into the light and, rather indelicately, climbs onto the black leather spanking horse in the center of the spotlight. She rests her feet and hands on leather-covered bars that run down the sides of the horse, for her comfort. I follow her into the spot and clip one ankle to a ring on the side of the horse and move up toward her head. I clip her wrist, then make my way around the front of her and follow suit with her other wrist and ankle.
I pause to admire her spread cheeks, with the black thong bisecting them, bottom slightly raised. I run my hand over an ass cheek and slide a finger under the T at the top of the thong, bringing it down all the way to the mound of her pussy, but no farther. I slide my finger back up and smooth the thong back against her spread cheeks. I give one a little smack. Working my way back up again, I take a handful of hair and lift her head, enabling me to attach the snap hook to her collar, and then to the ring at the head of the horse. “Make me proud,” I say—only for her ears.
It’s at this point, when I finish fastening her to whatever piece of furniture I wish to start with, I feel the low buzz of electricity. It starts in my chest and begins to spread. It spreads up to my head and down to my clit and puts me in the proper frame of mind for the game ahead.
My girl is beautiful in her submission. Fastened, as she is, in this posture, she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She will be even more beautiful and desirable as we go on. I can sense people around us. I know they have felt the transformation too. They have seen the plain Jane you wouldn’t look twice at on the street transformed into an object of desire. As her submission deepens, she will become even more desirable, and I will become even more desirous of her.
There’s something about public play that does it for me. When I hear the watchers breathing, becoming a bit restless, waiting for my play to begin, my feeling of power jumps to the next level. I know once I get started, I will cease to notice the crowd, but for now, for the beginning, it’s a powerful aphrodisiac.
I walk out of the light, to the bench where my toy bag waits. Something to wake up the skin. Something easy. The suede flogger.
I run it between her legs, following the curve of her bottom, and over her back, and hear a gentle sigh. The sigh is only for me. It is not loud enough for the others. I work her back, flogging her over and over, and slowly make my way down to her buttocks. I have a rhythm going and it stays constant. Down the back, over the ass, down the thigh, back over the buttocks, down the other thigh, back over the buttocks, and up the back. Over and over. The same rhythm and pattern. Her flesh is awake now; it tingles. If we were home, in better light, you could see an obvious rosy glow, a happy glow. This light is dim. Are you awake, girl? I am.
Enough with the flogger. I switch to the crop. Time to tenderize. I begin gently—slowly. She doesn’t make a sound. The only sound is the leather of the crop slapping her ass. The smacks begin to sting. I can tell by the sound. I am not yet breaking a sweat, but she is. I can smell her.
Putting the crop away, I come back to her. Run my hand down her punished ass—between the separation—over the panties. They’re wet. Good girl.
“Good girl.”
The leather strap hurts her. I love the leather strap. The sound it makes is clean, sharp. Even in this light, I can see the stripes I lay on her ass. Each time I make contact, her ass jumps a bit, but she doesn’t make a sound. One final smack—this one produces a yelp. That’s all—one yelp. I check on her. Quietly, “Everything as it should be?”
“Mmmmm,” she says.
Slowly walking back to her rear, I run my fingers over the welts I’ve raised. Little juices begin to tease my cunt lips. My arousal is not for public consumption—hers is. Ah, but I am definitely aroused.
If I let her come, if I give her permission, she can climax. She can climax over and over—if I let her. She is not to that point yet. We have plenty of time.
I use my palm to smack her bottom. It won’t do to let her cool down now. I scratch her welts and feel her respiration speed up. She is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Neither of us has entered that particular headspace we strive for yet. I walk back to my bag and return the strap and pull out the heavy leather flogger.

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