K is for Kinky (11 page)

She turned to me, and smiled. I froze. Suddenly, I was embarrassed at the images in my head. I briefly panicked as if she could read my mind and see the depravity I was mentally conjuring. It was so vivid that I wouldn't have been surprised if I'd had a thought bubble over my head for everyone in the bar to see.

“You do realize that if you weren't so good looking, I'd punch you for coming up with a line like that? But, as it is, you get a chance to buy me a drink. Assuming that your conversation isn't limited to trite compliments?”

It took me a while to register what she'd said, and when I did, I felt intimidated at her confidence—but still drawn to her. And painfully aroused. Her voice was cigarette tainted, with a slight break in it, her inflection somehow suffused with an underlying giggle.

“It wasn't meant to be trite,” I said. “It just slipped out. I never usually…”

“Whatever,” she said, waving away my apologies. “A bottle of Budweiser, please. And I'll be watching you so don't even think of spiking it.”

As I went to the bar, my movements were hampered by the insistent erection that, although it had briefly subsided when she'd turned to challenge me, had swollen back to its former glory when she spoke. Something she noticed when I returned with her drink. She just glanced at my groin then raised an eyebrow. “Thanks for the drink. So, going to top your opening line then?”

Talk about pressure. I figured the only way to deal with her was to give as good as I got.

“Yes. You don't have a great arse. It's bloody incredible.”

“Have you got an entirely one-track mind? You realize I don't have to listen to this?”

“You're right. You don't. But you are.”

“In the hope that first impressions were deceptive. Anyway, I can't walk away—I know you'll be ogling me. At least when I'm facing you, you can't eye me up.”

“Impeccable logic. So you're going to continue talking to me, even though you find me loathsome, just so I can't look at your arse?”

“Precisely,” she said, smiling—it was obvious that she was bantering with me. “In fact, to make double sure…” She moved to a nearby table and perched on the bar stool.

“You mean I've actually got to talk to you now? But what if you're boring?”

“That's a risk you'll have to take….”

 

Three hours later, the risk was paying off. Despite my less than perfect start, it turned out that her arse wasn't the only thing I liked about her. She had an evil sense of humor, a natural confidence and knowing eyes, but there was a hint of vulnerability about her too. Just the occasional mannerism or thing she said made me think she was less bulletproof than she first appeared. It was only the occasional flash though, and I wasn't surprised when she was the one to ask me back to hers. Well, I was
slightly
surprised. I couldn't believe my luck. But it seemed perfectly in character for her. Of course, I wasn't going to say
no. Even before I gave her an affectionate pat on the arse as we left the bar and swore I heard her moan under her breath.

Back at her flat, she got us both a beer, and sat next to me on the sofa. Away from the smoky air-conditioned bar, I could smell her properly for the first time. She had a delicate scent, albeit suffused with cigarettes and beer. But it was the musky base of her pheromones that really filled my senses: she smelled of sex. Although I was enjoying talking to her, from the second her aroma filled my nostrils, my mind was only half on her words. The rest of me was occupied with thoughts of bending her over the sofa, pushing up her skirt, ripping down her knickers and slamming my cock into her. I imagined her pushing back to meet my thrusts, my stomach slapping against her arse as I pounded her hard, unable to resist the urge to slap her bum as she begged me to go harder, faster, her muscles clenching tightly around my cock when I shot inside her.

God! I was drifting away too much. I dragged myself reluctantly back to reality. She was changing the CD and I tried to focus on what she was saying but her stereo was on the floor, so she was bending in front of me on all fours, offering me an exquisite view. I could feel my erection painfully constricted by my jeans.

“Like the view?” she said to me, looking over her shoulder. Bitch! She knew exactly what she was doing. It took every bit of willpower I had not to get on the floor and bury my face in her.

“You know I do,” I said.

“How about now?” She pushed her skirt up, bunching it around her waist to reveal pale thighs clad in black hold-ups, a tiny thong all that was protecting her modesty.

I nodded, unable to trust my voice to remain steady.

“And this?” She took one of her fingers and sucked it into her mouth, keeping eye contact with me as she did so.

“If you don't stop, you're going to get what's coming to you.”

“And what would that be?” She removed the finger from between her lips and, sliding her thong to the side with her other hand, pushed her finger slowly inside herself.

There's only so much a man can take and by now, it was obvious I wasn't misreading any signals.

“This,” I said, and slid to the floor, pushing my face into her dripping folds. She tasted divine: sharp but with a slight sweetness too. I ran my tongue gently between her lips toward her clit, deliberately keeping the pressure light. Two could play at teasing. She pushed her arse back into my face but I kept pulling just far enough away that I was in control of how much pressure she could feel. No matter how much she wriggled, she wasn't going to get any more than I chose to give her.

“I want you,” she moaned. I briefly pulled my wet face away from her.

“How much?”

“Totally. I need you inside me.”

Tempting as the offer was, I was going to pay her back for her earlier game playing first.

“What would you do to have me inside you?”

“Anything.”

I recognized the tone in her voice. She was at that state of arousal when nothing else matters.

“Even if I was to give you a spanking for being such a tease earlier?”

Now, there was no doubt about it. She gave a definite moan.

“God, yes. Spank me then fuck me.”

 

Seeing her on all fours in front of me, arching her back and pushing her arse toward me, her fingers now moving over her clit, I decided to give her what she wanted. Call me a gentleman. I started with a gentle slap but, as I saw her buttocks start to get pink and felt her juices begin to run down my hand, I slapped harder, making her emit mewling cries of pleasure. Her arousal was making her inner thighs and arse sticky, and my fingers almost slipped into her center of their own accord. When I started to work my finger inside her, flicking her G-spot hard and slamming into her fast, I could feel her start to shake and knew her orgasm was imminent.

“Fuck me,” she begged. “I want to feel you coming in me when I come.”

My cock was aching for release so, after a few more thrusts of my fingers, I put the head of my cock at her entrance and pushed slowly into her. Every nerve in my body was screaming to slam it into her, but I wanted her to feel every inch of that first thrust, to know exactly how much she was taking and, just when she thought she'd taken me all, I'd start fucking her in earnest.

Her hips bucked back against me but I kept control, giving her my cock so slowly she was almost crying for me to hammer it into her by the time I finally buried my full length inside her. After that, all bets were off, and I began to pound her, enjoying her going wild on my
cock, her muscles clenching and her entire body jerking back in an effort to take me as deep as she could. I could see her pinching her nipples as I gave her the hardest seeing-to I could remember administering in a long time. And, as I felt her telltale muscular rippling, I shot inside her, and was rewarded by her screaming in orgasm and spurting her juices onto my balls.

I stayed inside her for a while, recovering from the intensity of the orgasm, enjoying the occasional pulse that shot through her body. Then she pulled away slowly, clearly as reluctant as I was to end the fuck. She turned round and looked me in the eyes.

“Not a bad start, I guess,” she said, giving me a peck on the lips.

And as she moved down my body and started to lick my wet balls, I knew the night was still young.

SHANNA GERMAIN

 

 

 

 

 

K
ICKED TO THE CURB. That's how I feel. I've been in my cage at the rescue center for what seems like forever. But I know it's just been a day. I can't see the clock on the wall from here, but I can hear it ticking.
Tick-tick,
counting the minutes off that I'm alone, unowned. Counting the time since my master dumped me here. Traded me out for another kitty.

My neck feels bare without its collar. My throat hurts. I tell myself it's just the air in here, all the fur flying, but I know that's not the truth. I gave him four years. I wore his collar and showed off for his friends and lapped his cream. I went on kitty playdates and never minded when he decided to pet another pussy. But I would not, could not, handle it when he brought another kitty home to live with us. I tried, I did. I kept to myself, I avoided her, I tried to pretend I was just fine with it. In the end, I turned into a prissy bitch. Every time he touched
her, I'd sulk in the corner. His new girl and I fought, tooth and nail, as they say, and here I am.

The front door clicks open and we all sit at attention, dogs and cats alike, as best we can in our small cages. It's a girl in black spandex, her red hair bobbed at her neck. She looks only at the kitties, poking her red nails between the bars in front of a few. When she gets to my cage, she stops. Her eyes are intensely green, catlike in their own way. I shrink to the back of my cage, feeling the wires pressed into my bare spine. She scares me, although I can't say why.

“Pretty kitty,” she says, her voice a low purr. She dangles two red-tipped fingers inside the cage. “Come here, pretty kitty.”

I don't want to obey—I've never had a girl master—but I don't want to be in this cage anymore either. Maybe she'll take me home, put a collar back on me. Maybe this hard-looking girl is better than another night in this cage. Better than another night alone.

I lean my head forward, just enough that she can stroke my hair. “Good girl,” she says, pressing her thumb to my cheek. A shiver runs down my spine, and I feel a surprising surge of desire.

She takes her fingers out of my hair and flips up the tag on the front of my cage to read it.

“
Callie, long-haired female,
” she reads. “
Housebroken,
that's good.
Playful, loves lap time. Not good with dogs.”

“Oh,” she says. “It says you don't play well with other pussies either.” Her eyes are back on me, that intense green, and I wonder if she's the other cat and not the master after all. “That's too bad…” She hesitates a second, as though I might correct her. But I don't. I can't. It's true. And besides, I may be a stray, I may be uncollared at the
moment, but I'm not about to break rules and speak.

And then she's gone, down the row, to look at the other kitties, kitties who play well with others. I want to say something, to call her back to me, to rub up against her fingers and lick her palm. To let her know that maybe I could be okay with other pussies, to ask her to reconsider. But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Not even a kitten-squeak. Just silence, and the reminder that my throat aches with the kind of lonely pain that not even this green-eyed girl can fill.

I hear her talking down the row, but I can't see her from where I sit. And, before long, I have to watch while she leads another kitty, a short-haired blonde, down the aisle. They both turn to look at me, and I close my eyes.

 

I'm curled up on the shelter blanket, wrapped in dreams of my last master, when I hear the voices outside my cage.

“Came in last night,” says a voice that I recognize. It's the woman who checked me into the shelter. “I'm surprised someone hasn't snapped her up.” She lowers her voice until it's a whisper. “Someone just dumped her on our doorstep, this gorgeous girl. Can you believe it?”

“That is hard to believe,” says a voice. Very male. Somehow very in control. The sound alone sends a shiver through me.

I crack one eye open, to see who's talking. All I can see are a broad pair of shoulders and a wide chest, wrapped up in a white button-down. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing off muscled forearms and wrists. No jewelry. He talks with his hands, fluid and confident dips and rolls.

“What's wrong with her?” the hands ask.

“Nothing as far as I can see,” the woman says, her voice getting lower with each word until I can hardly hear her. “Her former master wanted another kitty in the house, it seems.”

“Imagine that,” he says. “I find a pussy does best if it's given undivided attention.” My own pussy twitches when he says it. His fingers play along the bars of the cage, but don't enter.

I wonder if he can see me. I always thought I was pretty—my last master reassured me of that in so many ways—but now I'm not certain. Still, I want to show off my best parts, so I stretch out on the blanket, curve my hips and ass up and out. I rest my head on my hands and open my eyes, so he can see them if he looks in—I've got Siamese eyes, that blue-blue.

“Does she come when she's called?”

“Most kitties don't,” she says.

“I knew there was a reason I preferred dogs.” But his laugh says he doesn't mean it.