It’s unseasonably warm, and people have left their coats and jackets indoors and are basking in the spring sunshine. As I wait to cross the road, I find myself, as always, watching the women who pass by, checking them out to see if they bear some subtle mark of ownership. I can spot the signs by now: the discreet tattoo on the ankle or shoulder blade; the black velvet choker or thick silver band around the neck that is rather more than just a fashionable piece of jewelry.
There are scenes being played out all around us every day, as seemingly mundane yet undeniably kinky as the one between Michael and me. Sometimes, you can walk into one without even realizing it. We were shopping in town the other week, and he came in the changing rooms with me as I went to try on a dress. As we made our way down the row of cubicles to find one that was vacant, a curtain was suddenly whisked aside by the man who stood outside it. He made some casual enquiry to his wife about the bathing suit she was squeezing into, as though he hadn’t noticed we were there, and all the time he was giving us a perfect view of her body, tits and pussy blatantly on display and the sky blue fabric of the swimsuit bunched around her knees. Her face was blushing red, and yet I saw in her eyes the thrill she was getting from her exposure and humiliation. This was what got the two of them off, and I was sure that when Michael and I had gone, he would pin her up against the cubicle partition and fuck her to a standstill as they teased each other about what they had just done.
It worked for them, just as my lunchtime ritual works for me, this setting of a so-simple rule that marks the level of trust between Michael and me.
For once there’s no queue in the sandwich bar, and I give my order to the young man behind the counter, one of the extended family of Turks who own the place. He’s chatty as always, but I’m not listening to a word he’s saying, just nodding when he holds up the pepper mill, muttering a token word of thanks as he hands the sandwich, wrapped in a paper bag, to me. All I’m thinking about is the fruit bowl next to the till, and the slender, underripe banana I reach out and take from it. As I hand over my money to the girl behind the till, I think I see her glance at the banana and smile. Does she realize what I’m going to do with it? Is it really as obvious to everyone as I feel it must be? My cheeks flush scarlet, and then she says something in Turkish and I realize she’s responding to some conversation in the kitchen, nothing to do with me at all. Chastened, I pocket my change without checking it and make my way back to the office on autopilot, the last ordinary act of this extraordinary lunch hour.
I don’t even unwrap the sandwich; I have no appetite for food, just a nervous fluttering in my stomach and an answering pulse between my legs. The door to my office doesn’t lock, so I jam the wastepaper basket up against it. Anyone tries to come in and I’ll hear the rattle and stop what I’m doing—assuming I’m not too far gone to stop, that is.
Quickly, inelegantly, I reach up under my skirt and yank down my knickers. I haven’t even touched myself yet and they are already sticky with my juice. Michael’s orders and my own imagination have got me this excited, and I only wish he was here to watch me.
Making myself as comfortable as I can in my chair, I push my skirt up and spread my legs. I can feel the fabric of the seat cover, rough and prickly against my bare arse. I’m trying to remember every sensation, every detail, because I suspect that when I get home, I will be asked to describe it to my husband, reliving every deliciously dirty moment of what I’m about to do.
The banana is firm in my hand, and feels cool to the touch as I run the blunt head along the length of my sex. If Michael were here, he would want me to take my time, make sure I’m wet and open enough to take this unorthodox toy, just as he likes it when I spend long, lazy moments fingering my clit and gently teasing my hole, getting it ready for my favorite dildo or the hot length of his cock. But time is the one thing I don’t have, not when the boys in the advertising department could be back, loud and boisterous, from their liquid lunch at any moment. If this was a fantasy that I was spinning for Michael, of course, they would blunder in and catch me, force me to continue as I tried to cover myself up, make me bare my tits for them, maybe even queue up to fuck me in turn over the desk, ramming their cocks into my pussy as the flesh of the banana oozed out around their thrusts. But this is real life—however skewed—and all I have are my own busily working fingers to stroke me and stretch me open.
It doesn’t take long before I know I’m ready to be filled. Eyes closed, breathing hard, I press the banana home, feeling the strange, hard ridges sliding against my soft flesh. I know this is the most perverse, most risky, most potentially careerthreatening thing I have ever done. And yet I do it gladly. I do it because Michael asks it of me, and when he asks, I answer with my obedience. I do it to show my submission to this man I love so very much.
My feet are up on the desk now, the wheels of my chair squeaking rhythmically on the floor as I fuck myself with a piece of fruit. There could be a whole crowd watching me at play, and I wouldn’t know. And if I knew, I wouldn’t care. As he wanted, as he instructed, I am thinking of him—and only him—as the steady thrusting of the banana and the delicate pressure of my finger on my clit pushes me over the edge.
When my head clears and my knees are steady enough that I can stand up without trembling, I wrap the ruined banana in one of the napkins that came with my sandwich. It will still be there at the end of the day, just as the receipt for Michael’s suit will still be in my drawer. I really should remember to collect that dry cleaning, but I’m prepared to suffer the consequences. After all, who knows what I might be having for lunch tomorrow?
SCHOOLGIRL AND ANGEL
Thomas S. Roche
S
he stood there at the very edge of my swing space, watching with evident rapture and squirming her ass back and forth in her tight little schoolgirl’s skirt. This section of the dungeon was brighter than the rest, because it’s where the heavy punishment took place. Therefore, it was easy for me to see her in the long line of mirrors behind the St. Andrew’s cross.
I’ve always bitched about those mirrors at The Sanctuary—an accident with a singletail could shatter one of them in an instant—but at the moment, I was happy they were there, if only because she looked so good in the skirt. The fact that she wasn’t wearing anything but a skimpy white bra on top added to the pleasure of it. Her tits were magnificent, and the mesh bra was mostly see-through. Her nipples stood pink and erect through the thin fabric.
Her hair was black, obviously dyed. I could tell from the cut of her pretty face that she was well into the time of life when that hair was probably gray under its artificial coloring. She had the look of the early-forty-something latecomer to the dungeon—eyes wide and fascination obvious with everything she saw. I had watched her sauntering around the dungeon, turning down come-ons from an endless line of leather-clad Daddy types; despite this, her arousal was evident.
Perhaps a half hour ago she had brushed by me in the crowded dungeon, and the scent of her had been enough to make my cock hard in my blue jeans.
Angel was squirming, too, not least because of the hot line of stripes I was placing across her beautiful ass with my newest flogger. After a warm-up with my hands and the lightest flogger I had, she had counted to twelve, obediently, each time saying, “Thank you, Sir, may I have another?” which was her own particular turn-on, not mine.
She was reaching her limit, though. The reddening of her ass didn’t tell me that, but the tug of her body against the chains of the St. Andrew’s cross did.
“Just a little punishment,” she’d told me, and I’d pursed my lips trying to hide my disappointment. With Angel, delicious as she is, “a little punishment” means half a spank and a minimal tweak of the nipples. Then, without fail, she was ready to fuck.
Now, as I laid on strokes thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, she began to add “Ow!” and “Eeech!” sounds to every “Thank you, Sir,” and I felt the pulse in my muscles that made me want to lay it on thicker—and the torture in my nice-guy soul that made me hold back.
Now, the older woman was creeping closer, leaning in to the bubble of play, invading my swing space in a way that I could hardly hold against her, since I kept inching back.
“Care to take a swing?” I asked her, turning and holding out the butt of the flogger. Angel and I had a curious kind of agreement—when she’s tied up, anyone I wish can hit her, provided they don’t hit her too hard.
The older woman gave the most girlish of giggles, hiding her pinkening face behind her hand. Her green eyes danced.
“Oh, God no,” she said, her flirting obvious. “I could never hit another woman.”
I smiled. “It’s fun,” I said.
Her eyes brightened slightly, a wicked smile playing across her red-painted lips.
“I’m sure she’s having more fun than you are.”
Angel had started to squirm some more, so I gave her three more blows in rapid succession without giving her a chance to thank me. She said “Ow! Ow! Ow!” emphatically rather than doing so, and I felt a rush of top’s guilt.
I came up behind Angel, put my hand tenderly on her ass, feeling it squirm under my fingers.
“Too much?”
She shrugged, an odd gesture when one is strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross. “Maybe I’m just not in the mood for a flogging. You mind?”
“Not at all,” I said, reaching for the restraints. “Need a cool down?”
“Nah, I’m good,” she said with a casualness that made it seem like I had asked if she wanted another beer.
“I’ll let you down, then.” I kissed Angel on the side of the neck.
“What’s with Demi Moore?” whispered Angel when my face came close.
It took me a minute to figure out what she was talking about. There was no resemblance, really, but the woman in the schoolgirl outfit did have the sultry look of the over-forty sexpot. Angel is always making snarky comments about the older women in the scene—and since she’s the same age as me, twenty-three, to her that’s pretty much all of them.
I shrugged. Lips close to Angel’s ear, I said, “I don’t know. She’s watching.”
“So, ask her to play!” hissed Angel. “She’s obviously into you!”
I glanced back at the schoolgirl, who was staring at us with big, wide eyes.
“I think she’s into
you,
” I said bitterly. With her bleached, close-cropped hair and pierced nipples, Angel’s the one who invariably draws the ladies.
“Bullshit,” Angel whispered. “She’s
such
a bottom.” I finished with Angel’s wrists and bent down to unfasten her ankle restraints. When I came back up she turned, kissed me, and growled, “I’m going to have one of those apple fritters, and when I come back if she’s not at the very least strapped to this fucking thing, if not polishing your knob, I’m going to be very unhappy.”
I cocked my head down at her. “You serious?”
Angel looked over at the schoolgirl and smiled. The schoolgirl simply smiled back.
“Oh yeah,” Angel said. “If ever a look said ‘fuck me bowlegged,’ that’s the look. Just know I’ll be watching. After the fritter.”
Angel bent down and retrieved her thong from the base of the cross. She stepped into it, then walked away, glancing over her shoulder to wink at me.
Angel and I had drawn a small crowd, pressing close in a sea of leather and flesh. The schoolgirl was closest, the only one to break the bubble and be slightly inside the line of blue tape on the cheap industrial carpet.
I held up the flogger and gestured at the cross. “Ladies? Gentlemen? We have a free cross. Anyone? Anyone?”
No one stepped up or made a sound, except for a faint rustling as the spectators seemed to shrink back slightly.
All except the schoolgirl.
I have never been good with picking up strange women at play parties. In fact, if Angel wasn’t a particularly aggressive woman, I probably would never get anywhere. But now, my heart pounding, I managed to make an inviting gesture to the schoolgirl. I raised my eyebrows at her; she only stared with those fiery green eyes.
“Whips? Chains? Carefully calculated agony? Sexual degradation before a slavering crowd?”
The schoolgirl giggled.
“Is that your pick-up line?”
“I’m afraid it’s the best I can do,” I said. “I’m not much of a flirt.”
Her gaze slid like butter over my legs, my cock, my face, and then came down to rest hungrily on the flogger in my hand.
“Can you hit any harder than you hit her?”
I put my hand over my heart.
“It wounds me that you’d need to ask!”
“Mmmm,” she said, moving toward the cross. “Then I’m game. I like it on the pussy, though—mind if I’m facing out?”
“Uh,” I said. “S-sure. Uh…how hard?”
She giggled, covering her mouth with her hands in that coquettish gesture that made my cock shudder. Her eyes had lowered to the bulge in my jeans.
“As hard as that?” she asked, and we both knew what we meant.