Authors: Violet Blue
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors), #Erotica, #Romance, #Contemporary
Sweet Danger (19 page)
You, too. Maybe it’s the feel of my hot jizz mingling with the gun oil, or maybe it’s the click of the .44 inside you as I pull the trigger, the hammer falling on filled-in cylinders. Either way, we both explode and I come so hard I feel liquid shooting onto my chest, look down as it soaks through your drool-spattered top. Crying, you writhe under me as I feel the .44 twitching with the spasms of your body.
Gently, I ease the gun out. I toss it on the pillow next to you.
The fact that neither gun is real didn’t do anything to lessen our excitement. Because that’s who you are, whether you’re begging me to fuck you with a .44 Magnum or tempting all the rednecks down at the gun shop. You’re dangerous—you’re a living, breathing, flirting, dripping edge scene. Whether you’re jerking me off onto your tits or cuddled up in my arms, fake guns strewn across the bed.
Cocked and loaded, baby, that’s you.
Evening Class
J. HADLEIGH ALEX
The end of the office day draws near. He phones home. It rings three times.
She answers. “Is there anything you want to ask me?” Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper.
“Yes,” he says. Her mouth is close to the phone. He listens to her breath—measured, deep, with a hint of a tremble. After a pause, he asks, “Have you done your homework?”
A sigh. “Most of it,” she says.
“Make sure it’s done by the time I’m home,” he says, and hangs up. He’s made the decision, now it’s just a matter of time. Come five he takes his coat from the stand and puts it on, lifts his briefcase—already packed and shut—and, like a ghost, slips unnoticed from the office.
The house door clicks shut behind him. He drops his keys into the pocket of his coat as he hangs it up—one of many ritual reversals that punctuate the day.
The house is dark, though the welcoming aroma of a spicy supper wafts toward him, and soft, yellow light spills around the study door. He takes five steps toward it, pushing the door wide in front of him as he enters.
She’s sitting at the desk, head bowed over an open book, but she looks up as he fills the doorway. She makes to rise, but he waves his hand in a circle to tell her to stay seated. He walks to her desk, stands to one side, peers at what she’s reading.
Her long hair, straight and black, tumbles onto the pages, and he can’t read the words. He places one hand on her shoulder and eases her back from the studious hunch she’s adopted. As he does so, his gaze takes in the view down the front of her blouse—her generous bosom revealed in the deep
V
-shape of her unbuttoned collar. No tie this evening; is that mere fashionable variation, or rebellion? No matter, this he will decide later.
V
-shape of her unbuttoned collar. No tie this evening; is that mere fashionable variation, or rebellion? No matter, this he will decide later.
He takes her chin in his hand, lifting her face up so that he can see her eyes. Her soft skin is warm against his fingertips. He repeats his earlier question.
“Have you done your homework?”
She blinks, and he feels the rippling tension in her neck as she swallows. “Most of it,” she says, in an echo of her previous response.
“That’s what you said when last I asked you,” he says. “Have you done no more?”
She blinks again, and makes to shake her head, but still he grips her chin, and he feels rather than sees the movement.
“My dear,” he says, letting her face fall. “You know that isn’t good enough.”
She nods, and her black tresses brush the book once more, like curtains at an open window. She doesn’t look at him, but stares at the floor.
“You know, as well…” he continues, walking over to the clear expanse of his rosewood bureau, “ …what this means, don’t you?” He opens a drawer.
Her hands grip each side of her desk as she stands up. “Yes, sir. I do.”
He hears the catch in her throat.
He looks at her. The writing surface hides her legs, but not the gray, pleated skirt curving around the contours of her hips. It’s short enough to reveal a flash of thigh above the desk’s varnished, ink-stained wood.
“Come here, girl.” He points to his bureau, immaculate and clear, an embossed leather inlay its only decoration.
She sighs, shuffles sideways from her desk and walks slowly toward him. Her legs are bare. No stockings, not even white ankle-socks, hide the lissome sweep of her calves, or the subtle promise of her thighs soaring up behind the hem of her skirt. On her feet, patent-leather high heels accentuate the wily provocation of her walk.
He shakes his head. Will she never learn? How much discipline do such lessons take? He
tut-tuts
to himself and moves his hand above the bureau. “You know the procedure,” he says.
tut-tuts
to himself and moves his hand above the bureau. “You know the procedure,” he says.
She looks at him across the vast leather and rosewood expanse, then her gaze drops to its surface. She nods. She places her hands on the dark, polished wood, then leans forward, letting her palms slide toward him as she lowers her body to the bureau. When her hands have almost reached his side of it, he grasps her wrists and pulls them toward him; she lets out a gasp as he yanks them so that she can grip the edge of the desk. The tails of her blouse pull free of her skirt’s waistband, revealing the pale skin of her lower back.
Now that she’s stretched out across the leather, he reaches into the bureau drawer and removes a transparent plastic ruler. He brings it down with a crack, just millimeters from her face, and she flinches at its resounding proximity.
“Homework not done. Not wearing a tie. Nonregulation shoes.” With each recitation of her misdemeanors he slaps the ruler down. “You know that means extra punishment.” Her head twitches with the slightest nod.
He walks round to her side of the bureau and stands behind her. She’s bent across the surface but her legs are straight, the gray fabric of her skirt barely covering her rear.
With finger and thumb he takes the hem of her skirt and pulls it up, high above her waist, revealing her backside. An involuntary whistle escapes his lips at the sight: this timid girl is wearing a sheer, lace thong. The pastel pink fabric, tailored to a tiny triangle below the small of her back, disappears between her cheeks, the twin globes of her bare buttocks presenting a perfect target for her imminent chastisement.
“Not a word, now,” he says, letting the wide plastic blade oscillate in the air as he takes aim. And then he strikes; the ruler swishes down, catching her exposed cheeks full and flat with a satisfying smack, sending ripples radiating down her thighs.
“Ow!” Her cry is gasped out, then stifled almost before it’s audible.
“Silence!” He bends close to her head and speaks into her ear. “You know the rules.” Only strokes received without a murmur will count toward her punishment. Her transgressions this evening have already mounted up; she can ill afford to add to her tally.
The second stroke is harder than the first, but precisely registered, and though she takes it without crying out he can tell it’s an effort. Her body shudders in response to the blow, and she screws her eyes shut. The third and fourth strokes follow in quick succession, and each time she convulses her reaction, but in silence. Her cheeks are now beginning to respond, lighting the ruler’s path in ruby neon.
The fifth blow he delivers from a greater height; she hears the hiss of air as it descends, and tenses up, clenching her cheeks in anticipation. But this serves only to harden the ruler’s target, the plastic making firmer contact, sharpening the pain.
She’s breathing heavily now, and despite the movements of her bottom as she squirms her body in acute discomfort, he lands the sixth stroke with confirmed accuracy, bringing her protesting cheeks to a rosy glow. Her scorched backside radiates a satisfying heat into his palm as he holds it close, testing his handiwork.
“Good girl,” he says, and she relaxes into the surface of the bureau. “But now we must take account of certain facts.” He sees her body jerk with renewed tension as she realizes her punishment isn’t over. “This underwear,” he says, tracing his finger along the edge of the lacy fabric where it plunges between her cheeks, “is entirely out of order, and must be removed.”
He stands behind her bent body and tucks the fingers of both hands behind the waistband of the thong; he crouches, pulling the thong downward, letting the narrow string slip over her reddened flesh. The string pulls out from its snug captivity deep between her buttocks, the waistband rolling itself into a thin cord as it travels down to her ankles.
He stands, and takes the waist of her pleated skirt in one hand, and with the other unzips it at the side and pulls it away. He pauses for a moment over the sight of her naked rear, then walks once more to his side of the bureau, where her hands still grip the edge, stretching her body across the leather.
“It’s time we saw precisely what we’re at,” he says, leaning forward to reach over her head and grasp the tails of her blouse. With a fluid motion he pulls the white cotton up her back toward her shoulders, and the front of it rides up between her chest and the bureau’s leather inlay. His insistent pull causes the garment to catch on her breasts as they press into the leather, but he continues the rough divestment until the fabric has gone over her head and traveled to her wrists. On his guidance she releases her grip, hand by hand, and he peels the blouse away.
She now stretches naked across the leather, her hair pulled up by the removal of the blouse, revealing a pale-skinned back narrowing to a slim waist, and hips that broaden to a pair of luscious, rounded buttocks streaked in angry red.
For the second time he reaches into the drawer, and removes a long, narrow cane. In his hand it feels light, but sharp, as he whips it around above the girl’s prone form. She moans at its hissing passage through the air. This won’t be the first time her skin has felt the sharp crack of the cane, and her body tenses at the memory, anticipating its relentless scourge.
He takes aim, eyeing up his target—her reddening cheeks drawing his gaze to the epicenter of her shapely form. He raises his hand high, pauses for accuracy, and with one quick swish brings the cane down in a precise slash, to land squarely on one buttock. The resounding smack echoes through the room as the painful jolt radiates from the point of contact, rippling across her skin—the natural vibration combining with an involuntary muscle spasm.
He can see the pain. She strains to keep it within her, screwing her eyes shut, as if opening them would let the sensation stream out of her in agony. But while she holds it in, he wastes no time and brings the cane down on the other cheek, making a harsh red line to mirror the first. Once more she shudders her resistance in agonized silence, letting a rush of breath escape her open mouth.
He looks her over, sees the sheen of sweat on her skin and the droplets forming on her spine, running together, gathering in a tiny pool in the small of her back. On the bureau, the leather is moist where her perspiring skin moves against it.
He returns his attention to her crisscrossed backside, and readies himself for his next strokes. The cane is a precise instrument, its surface texture just right for its purpose. He must judge the force to use on her—a swinging blow, as powerful as possible, without actually breaking the skin. This is what he gives her, landing a precise inch away from the cane’s first strike. She jolts in agony once more, and he knows she can hardly bear it. But the regularity of her punishment cannot be interrupted. She must lie there, willing to receive the just rewards for her transgressions.
The air above her snaps in two as he brings the cane down again, completing the second pair of stripes. Once more he surveys the damage. Her red cheeks stand out in contrast to the sober study decor, and the pale flesh of her back and legs quiver in time with her snatched, shallow breathing. It’s clear that she’s reacting to the severity of her chastisement, and that she’s only a couple of strokes away from completing penance for her sins.
And so he administers the first of the final strokes, swishing the cane down from high above his head, to land perpendicular across the first two strokes on one buttock.
She convulses as it hits. The bite of the cane is precise, raising a further welt across her cheek, with a bright spot at each of the stroke’s intersections with its two predecessors.
The final stroke sends an equal spasm through her as it bites into the other cheek, finalizing the scarlet symmetry.
She’s done. She’s paid her price. Her backside’s patterned lines bear witness to her ordeal. He lays the cane down on the bureau, and gently places his palms on those neon-striped globes. The heat from them is unbelievable. He squeezes the soft flesh, allowing his thumbs to slide into the welcoming crevice between her cheeks.
He spreads her. She moans as he exposes the hidden recesses within, pressing one hand deep into her. His fingers find her moist, and swollen. He removes his hand, lifts it to his face, smelling her heavy scent. It’s time. She’s ready.
He steps back from the welted redness of her tortured butt and quickly undresses, and in a moment he has his heavy, expectant organ pressing between her buttocks’ soft flesh. He can feel her heat on him. He leans into her, grasping her waist in his hands, gripping her yielding body. His hands slide up between the bureau’s sweat-smeared leather and her hot skin, and her breasts succumb to his caresses, her nipples hard between his fingers and thumbs.
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