K is for Kinky (2 page)

“Maybe.” She smiled. She wanted them, too. “You only gave me half of your number,” she added, concerned that he might leave now.

He spanked her on the behind playfully, smiling that smile of his. “Fuck that. You're coming home with me tonight.”

 

A month later, Molly's foible had been well and truly exploited. Before Doug, she'd fretted about her route to sexual pleasure. Doug had all but mended that in her, and now he was adding his own spin. He was fascinated with her odd little needs, and he'd written on just about every part of her body, watching her, enjoying her—wanking with one hand or fucking her hard while he gave her exactly what she wanted. Afterward, he tended her carefully, bathing her and massaging away the telltale signs of her kink.

That made her feel cherished, safe.

He asked her to move in with him. She said she'd think about it. He didn't press her on the subject. Instead, he showed her that those kind-of-weird needs of hers would never be forgotten.

 

That night he took her back to his place and told her he was going to kick it up a notch. The way he said it scared her and thrilled her at the same time.

Shortly after, she found herself naked and blindfolded, standing with her back against the wall, her hands splayed either side of her—just as he had instructed. Keyed up to the max, she shifted anxiously, unable to stay still. She'd never been blindfolded before, but the velvet covering her eyes was soft as a sigh, a shield that raised the awareness of her every other sense. Her body ached for contact, for pleasure and relief.

She could sense him moving.

The room was silent and the air was still, but she knew he was treading softly, watching her and making a plan. That was his way. Maybe she'd sensed that in him when she'd watched him across the counter. It was his curiosity, and his intensity, that had spiked her interest. Rightly so, as it turned out.

She heard a click and a fan whirred into action. A moment later the air brushed over her alert skin, tantalizingly. A whimper escaped her.

He began to hum under his breath, then he sang to her huskily. A song she loved. A song from ages ago. Breathless, aroused laughter escaped her; she felt delirious under his spell. “Dougie, please, you're playing with me.”

“Always, sweetheart, but you love that.”

He was so right. She squeezed her thighs together, scared to say more, and scared to ruin this.

“Will it drive you mad, not being able to see where I choose to write on you?”

“I don't know.” She swallowed. “Maybe.” She turned her face away, desperate with longing for that first touch, the pressure she craved—her skin was crawling with the need for it. Watching him write on her was half the pleasure, she thought. Not seeing it was an unknown quantity. But Doug knew and understood that, and—now—so did she.

Slowly, he drew a line around each wrist.

Her arms trembled with the sheer intensity of sensation that shot along the surface of her skin, and deeper.

“Shackles.” His voice was a murmur close to her. “Because I want you to be mine.” He kissed her throat and then, slowly, with great deliberation, he signed his name right across her breastbone.

“Oh. Oh, oh,” she cried. The intense sensation shot beneath her skin, wiring her whole body into the experience. Her nipples were hard and hurting. She shuddered with arousal, her toes curling under, her heart thudding against the wall of her chest.

His next move came out of nowhere. He drew along the crease at the top of one thigh, then the other. The sudden deep stimulation in a place so sensitive primed her for release. She longed to see his marks on her.

“The insides of your thighs are wet, right down to here.” There was admiration in his voice. Restraint, too. He touched her with the pen, briefly, between her thighs, and it made her squirm up against the wall.

“Face the wall,” he instructed, his voice husky.

She turned.

His cock brushed against her buttock. “There's a box to your left, step onto it.”

She moved her foot, felt her way. He guided her up onto the box.

“Offer yourself to me.”

Understanding hit her; he was going to fuck her there up against the wall, while she stood there on a box, blindfolded. This was Doug; this is how he liked to have her, to be in charge of her. Hands braced against the wall, she spread her feet, angling her bottom up and out.

“Oh yes, I like you this way, on a pedestal, all ready for me.” His cock moved between her thighs.

The box put her right at the height he needed to glide up into her. Anticipation had her in its grip. She was breathing so fast she felt dizzy. Picturing the shackles he had drawn on her wrists, she splayed her fingers on the wall, knowing she'd need to anchor herself—he got kind of wild when he was inside her. He was humming again now, and she wondered what he'd done with the pen. Was it in his mouth while he arranged her to his satisfaction?

He stroked her pussy, opening her up. His fingers moved with ease, slick, sliding in against her wetness. With two digits, he opened her up to his cock. The intensity of being felt, held, and displayed that way on a pedestal all at once took her breath away. With one hand around her hips, he thrust the thick shaft of his erection inside her.

Where is his other hand?
The thought echoed around her mind frantically.

Then she found out.

Even as he thrust into her, in shallow quick maneuvers, keeping her in place, he began to write down her spine with his free hand.

It was almost too much. Her shoulders wriggled and her pussy twitched on his shaft. Her stomach flipped and sweat broke out on her skin. She would have staggered, if he hadn't got her pinned by his cock. She panted out loud, her mouth opening, her body clenching on him rhythmically.

“Oh yes, that's good,” he said, keeping the pen moving in around her spine, working his way down her back. “This makes you so wild, you're going to squeeze my cock until I come.”

“Can't control it,” she whispered, head hanging down.

“That's the way I like it,” he grunted.

By the time the pen reached her tailbone, she was a panting wreck on the verge of climax. He drew a wobbly heart there at the base of her spine, following the shape around and around with his pen. The action and her response were mesmerizing, and when her climax hit it lasted long, easing off only to return in a rush when he grew rigid and jerked, coming deep inside her.

They stayed that way until his cock finally slid free, and then he untied the blindfold and lifted her into his arms, carrying her toward the bathroom.

She squinted up at him, clinging to him. Kissing his shoulder, his throat, and when he turned toward her, his mouth, she felt grateful to have found her perfect opposite. She was still trembling from the intensity of her release.

“This is one of my favorite parts, scrubbing you down afterward, my dirty girl.”

“It gets you going again,” she teased, smiling at him.

“You're not wrong there.”

Inside the bathroom, he stood her on the bath mat, and reached for the taps. While the bath filled, he traced his finger across her chest, following the line of his name that he had written there earlier. “So, you'll move in with me?”

She shivered, an echo of her orgasm tingling from the core of her body to the tip of her spine. “Yes.”

“Good,” he replied, nonchalantly. “Ever thought about having a tattoo?”

She saw the humor in his eyes. He hadn't made a big deal of her moving in, just as he hadn't made a big deal about her kink that first day. He'd come to understand her, very quickly. “Having a tattoo would probably kill me, and you know it,” she replied.

“Hell of a way to go, though,” he mused, as he lifted her into the bath.

The warm water moved in and around her legs and hips, melting her. After he scrubbed her down, he would climb in with her. That was one of her favorite parts.

He kneeled down beside the bath and reached for the sponge. “If you ever do have a tattoo, I want to be the one who is inside you while you're having it done. Is that a deal?”

She reached her hand around his head, drawing him in for a kiss. “It's a deal,” she whispered.

DONNA GEORGE STOREY

 

 

 

 

 

K
NOWING WHAT I DO NOW about Mark and his tricks, it's ironic that his shoulders were what first got my attention. They were a luscious pair of deltoids, firm and curvy and all wrapped up in smooth bronzed skin. He was wearing swim trunks—we met at my friend Diana's pool party—and I quickly noticed the rest of him was easy on the eye as well.

I snagged Diana as she was passing with a tray of margaritas. “So, who's Mr. Muscles?” I asked coolly, not letting on that my bathing suit was already a little damp
down there
and I hadn't even dipped a toe in the water.

“The guy by the diving board? He's my personal trainer, Mark Jarrett. He owns Make Your Mark Fitness on Piedmont.” She gave me a knowing smile. “I'd definitely go for it, Sophie. Believe me, Mark knows his stuff.”

“I'm not his type. His upper body bulges are so much bigger than mine.”

Diana snorted. “You've been too busy gawking at him to notice Mark's been giving you the eye, too. I'm going to put you two on barbecue duty together. If you want to get better acquainted with his shish kebab later, that's up to you.” She wiggled her eyebrows and sashayed on to the next group of guests.

I sipped my second margarita as I considered my options. Diana seemed quite knowledgeable about Mark's bedroom talents. Not that it should interfere with my own scheme—this wouldn't be the first time she and I had done a share-and-compare with a cute guy.

The bigger problem was that he truly wasn't my type. I went for troubled intellectuals who got me all caught up in their mind games. I was still recovering from an affair with a religious studies professor who liked me to paddle him in his office while he cried and confessed his sins. Before that was a reedy poet who only got hard when we did it standing up in semipublic places. This Mark guy was so clean-cut and superficial. He was basically nothing more than a glorified gym teacher.

But maybe a quick bite of all-American boy meat was just what I needed. I'd snatch one night of selfish pleasure, then walk away. There'd be no attachments, no regrets. I'd make damn sure Mr. Muscles wouldn't make his mark on me.

I was grinning at my own joke when Mark himself happened to glance in my direction. He smiled back, his brown eyes glittering. If I didn't know better, I'd have said his expression was almost sly, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking and took it as a personal challenge.

I felt a little flutter in my belly, pure lust mingled with a different kind of excitement. I liked games. Especially this kind, where I made the rules and was sure to win.

 

I woke up to the whir of a blender and the scent of mango drifting from the kitchen. Where the hell was I? With my first yawn it came back to me: this was Mark's place, his rumpled futon, his condom lying in the wastebasket next to me. I remembered laughing with him as we basted the kebabs, then dancing at a club until the wee hours. Later somehow we were sinking onto his futon, and Mark was pulling me on top of him and whispering that I should do whatever felt good for me, because it all felt so good for him. And after that, I recalled—I blushed a little to think of it—my moans as I climaxed on his cock.

I smiled into the pillow, reveling in the victory. Although I rarely came the first time with a guy, something about straddling Mark's toned belly and riding him just the way I liked had done the trick. In fact, the sex had been everything I wanted: selfish, purely physical, and very satisfying.

“Hey, Sophie, you're up. Would you like to try my special mango smoothie? All my clients say it's a great way to start the day.”

I was beginning to wonder exactly what sort of personal training Mark was in the business of providing, but his smile was so sweet I could hardly refuse. I wasn't so sure about his next offer though—a wake-up massage. At this point in the game I was supposed to be heading home to carve a notch on my bedpost and forget this all happened.

Mark seemed to sense the cause of my hesitation. “Come on, it's just a back massage. It doesn't have to lead to anything more.”

I shrugged and turned over on my stomach. It was Sunday, I didn't have any plans, why not let the guy service me in a different way? Mark popped open a bottle of coconut oil and within moments I was floating in an island paradise.

To his credit, he was doing a serious, professional job. No surreptitious butt groping, no tickling fingers creeping around to my breasts. And yet, the power in his hands, the knowing way he kneaded and stroked my flesh, was turning me on more than if he had tried to cop a few cheap feels. It would still count as a one-night stand if I added in a quick morning-after fuck, right?

I turned on my back and gave him a seductive smile.

He smiled back, those amber eyes melting into me.

Shit, I think this guy actually likes me
.

This wasn't part of the plan at all, but I wasn't going to panic. I hooked my hand around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. The rest would follow naturally. We'd fuck, say thanks, and go our separate ways.

But Mark had other ideas.

Just when I'd settled on top of him, he put his hands on my hips and tilted me back to an upright position so my ass was resting on his thighs. “Have you ever tried the Princess Position? It's a nice variation for ladies who like to be on top.”