Alison's Wonderland (15 page)

She rolled an eighteen. Again, I had mixed feelings. Under different circumstances, I would be delighted to let her fuck me, but I really was in dominant mode. I didn’t have to think about it long though, because she asked, “Can I fuck Dave instead?”

“What!” said Dave, his voice a bit hysterical. “No way!”

Flora was looking from me to him, her face defiant. There was obviously something between these two. I wondered if he was abusing his power as dungeon master. Did she like him? Or was this her way of getting some payback? Whatever it was, I wanted to make it happen.

“Sure,” I said. “You can take my turn.” Dave was shaking his head. “I’ll jerk you as she does it,” I offered. “C’mon, Dominus—two women? You can’t resist that.”

He looked confused. “Well, yeah, but…”

I grinned. “You won’t have to tell it exactly the way it happened,” I said, walking right in front of him. My nipples were stiffening. I was digging the idea of watching Flora fuck this guy. Dave’s eyes went straight to my breasts and he looked mesmerized.

I unbuckled the harness and handed it to Flora. “A three-
some with two babes in college,” I said huskily, thumbing my nipples. “You’ll be telling this story for decades.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw a grinning Raven helping Flora attach the dildo.

Dave seemed paralyzed as I undid his jeans. “Well, yeah, but…” he whispered.

“Drop ’em and lean over,” I said.

I felt a different sort of power as I held him in place while Flora got behind him. I positioned him right against the table that their game was on—his upper body sprawled across the map. Flora yanked his underwear down just enough—his jeans stayed pooled around his feet. Raven, still grinning, squirted some lube onto the dildo for her. She guided it to Dave’s opening and he whimpered but kept still when I tightened my grip.

Slowly, firmly, she pushed.

“No,” he said, squirming. “It won’t fit. I can’t…”

“Relax,” I told him. I was feeling very strong, and held him fast. “Don’t fight it. Push back, let her in.”

He stopped moving, but his knuckles were white on the table. Flora kept pushing.

Dave’s voice came in guttural gasps. “Careful—gently—slow—wait, oh, Christ,” he said as she moved deeper and deeper.

When her hips met his ass, she stopped and said, “Who’s the master now?”

“Shut up,” he said, but I could see him stiffening. He changed position a bit, settling more of his weight onto the table. He moaned as she began to withdraw, but was silent as she thrust back in. Slowly, Flora picked up the pace.

It wasn’t long before she was really going for it. Her eyes were intense, and she had him by the hips now, pumping hard. From his expression, he was lost somewhere in the foggy land between pain, pleasure and shame, and not sure how to get
out. Little wizards and elves were bouncing onto the floor from the cluttered table. I squeezed some of the lube into my hand and reached underneath the two of them, finding his half-erect cock.

I got the rhythm pretty quick, matching my strokes to Flora’s thrusts. In my fingers, Dominus Dave got harder and harder—I slowed down when I realized he was going to come.

Dave didn’t look so pained or shamed anymore—he just looked blissed out. I put one hand on Flora’s ass, stopping her. Moving the other slowly over his dick, I said, “Tell her you want it.”

He shook his head and I squeezed, grinning as I watched Flora lick her lips. There was a sheen of sweat on her face, and her chest was flushed from the effort, but she held still.

“Tell her,” I said, “and we’ll finish you.” To make the point, I ran my slippery fingers down the length of him, and there was considerable length now that she had stopped—he was huge and throbbing. I moved the other hand between Flora’s cheeks and pressed a finger into her sopping folds. She twitched, and Dave moaned.

“I want it,” he said, his voice husky.

Flora let out a low growl, grabbed his hips firmly and began to thrust. Like a traffic cop in a busy intersection, I kept a hand on each of them, directing the action. Dave came first, spurting all over the floor before collapsing onto the table. I moved behind Flora and stuck two fingers into her. She ground her clit against the base of the dildo as she fucked Dave, who had become completely passive and was making soft O sounds with each thrust. When I bent my fingers just the right way Flora came, shuddering down across Dave’s back.

I stepped back to survey my handiwork. Their game table was leaning precariously underneath them, and there were
books, figurines, dice and bits of paper everywhere. The room smelled of fresh sweat and a whole lot of passionate body fluids. I was very pleased with my contribution to their fantasy world.

I heard Gabriel step up beside me. “Awesome,” he said, and I nodded happily. When he had recovered enough to stand, Dave ended up rolling a nine, but didn’t seem to mind.

Does power corrupt? It turned out a hot cheerleader with the right attitude could do amazing things to a group of lesser mortals. I left that gathering feeling quite impressed with myself. Of course, neither cheerleading nor youthful beauty last forever, and I learned a whole lot more sobering life lessons shortly after I graduated. Still, that was a hell of a time.

I was an active woman, I still am, so I never did get into fantasy-role-playing games, at least not the kind with dice and dungeon masters. But good sex can be more powerful than a cheerleader even, and my little power trip ended up having quite an impact. More than twenty years later I’m still having good sex with Raven, though his long hair is long gone and I call him Gabriel, or dear, or Dad if the kids are in the room. We still get together with Flora and Dave, usually for dinner and a game of cards. Just the cards, no hanky-panky.

Sometimes, when the game is going my way, I’ll catch all three of them looking at me, their eyes distant. I like to think they’re remembering me wearing only a dildo and a pair of wet panties, rolling their colorful dice to see who’s next.

There once was a tailor whose only treasures were his three sons and the nanny goat that had been his long-dead wife’s. The goat was fed well because it supplied the family with milk.

The eldest son, a tall lad with raven-dark hair often took the goat to pasture. James was known for his good-humored tricks and many called him Jimbo. One day Jimbo and the goat strolled to a meadow ringed with daisies, and air so crisp it nearly chimed. After grazing all day, Jimbo gathered his crook and the goat, saying, “Well, goat, have you fed enough?”

The goat answered, “Enough, enough, I’m very well stuffed. Meh, meh,” and shook its silvery head.

James looked for one of his brothers pulling a trick, but when he found none he led the goat home.

When they arrived, his father looked up. “Well, son, has the goat fed well?”

James smiled. “Indeed, Father, she has.”

The tailor smiled at his goat, their white beards nearly matching. “Ah, goat, you have fed well.”

The goat gave a little leap, replying with its gravelly voice,
“I am not stuffed. The leaves and grass were far too rough. Meh, meh…”

The tailor glared at James and grabbed up a willow switch. “Liar!” he roared. “You would let her starve.” In a rage, he beat his son and drove him from the house.

The next day, the second son, a stout lad with auburn hair and eyes that mirrored a placid lake, took the goat to feed. Jon strolled, never one to hurry, and eventually spied the same lovely meadow with the daisy circle. He led the goat within and took a long nap.

But on return, the enchanted goat proved to be as ornery and the tailor drove his second son from his home.

The next day, quite alone, the youngest son led the goat in search of a verdant pasture. Eric had hair as bright as a coin. Where the girls had teased Jimbo and laughed at Jon, they shyly eyed Eric for he was broad shouldered with green eyes that flared like emeralds and shards of topaz.

He led the goat to the same enchanted glade and watched astutely. But it was as before and Eric, too, was ousted from his home.

Jimbo traveled far and wide, taking work with a carpenter. When he was done with his apprenticeship, his master gave him a magic stick.

Jon wandered a few long miles and took work with a rancher, herding cattle and horses and learning their care. When he left, the rancher gave him a magic riding crop.

Eric traveled the farthest of all three, meeting a wiry, gray-haired tinker along the way who taught him to repair items from pots to wheels, to whittle wood, sing and play, spot a good deal from a dishonest one and many other tidbits of knowledge. When Eric reluctantly left, the tinker patted his shoulder and said, “Most of the treasures you need are in your head. But I’ll give you this enchanted cot, for it may serve you well along the road.”

Many folk compared Lorilei to fire. Her luxuriant coils of hair caught the russet and burnished gold tones of autumn and held them. Lorilei was a season, when the best of summer’s abundance is still evident, colors growing rich and deep, bleeding together, with a hint of change hidden beneath the firmament. Any weary wayfarer sitting in her inn perked up at the scents of cinnamon and apples that seemed as much a part of her as her rich laugh. Her azure eyes reflected the nearby alpine lake, and a spray of red freckles over her nose and cheeks gave her impish charm. Many a man eyed the sensuous sweep of her hips and luscious bosom, commenting that she was meant to be loved.

Those few who knew her for more than an innkeeper saw her as far more than fire. Flame is one element, a simple dimension in itself, but Lorilei was like the earth. At times she became as tumultuous as a volcano or as unsettling as an earthquake. Yet she could be as gentle as the tender shoot lifting its head to the sun.

Traffic steadily crossed the little inn between two mountain passes. Lorilei had her pick of lovers, and had once even bedded a prince, curious to see how he compared to shepherds and farmers. When it came down to sweat and flesh there was little difference. He had pleaded with her to be his princess or at least his mistress, but Lorilei knew she was better suited to the country than a court built on coyness and demeanor. She loved hearing news from travelers passing through her small domain.

Beyond all else, Lorilei loved magic. The rarest of treasures, it was elusive in a world where few still believed and fewer found it. Her charms fulfilled most men’s desires and were so memorable that with little coaxing she often gained enchanted items.

She possessed a carved ruby bird that sang in sunlight, a fan
that whisked soft breezes when commanded, a magic pillow always scented with fresh-cut lavender and an enchanted rooster crowing only at the hour she wished. There were other small trinkets: a peculiar painting of a mermaid that was always wet in the morning, and one or two pieces of unknown use. Lorilei pulled them out from time to time, to gaze upon their mysteries. She grew quiet and introspective when magic became scarce and even the most handsome man might go unnoticed.

One day, Lorilei washed the linens, humming as swallows swooped over the inn. She saw a young man striding up the path, carrying a small pack. He bowed gallantly when he saw her, his sensual mouth holding a smile that reflected a humorous glint in his eyes.

“Greetings, fair lady,” said Jimbo, brushing back the wings of his black hair. “I am on my way to visit my father and need a room for the night.”

Like a bloodhound, Lorilei sniffed the air, sensing something different, and replied, “Come right in. I’ll fix dinner soon and you can tell me of your adventures. Two ales on the house if you do.”

In no time Jimbo settled in at a table with a few locals in the lanterns’ golden glow. His tales had everyone laughing or giving him a friendly slap on the back. Then Lorilei quivered, alert as a hare under an eagle’s glare, when Jimbo said, “When I took my leave of the carpenter, he gave me a magic stick and told me to say, ‘Stick, stick, show me your tricks.’ I’ve tried it and although the stick takes on an interesting texture and shape, I find little use for it.”

Lorilei passed around some free ale, and when the last local staggered home, she closed up and was upstairs before Jimbo made it back from the privy.

Using her master key, Lorilei quietly slipped into Jimbo’s room, leaving a small lamp burning by his bed. She quickly
unlaced her emerald corset, pulling it, her skirt, blouse and chemise off. She draped herself over the sheets where the light’s amber tongue licked along her curves.

Presently, Jimbo stumbled into the room, singing haphazardly, his hair mussed into curls. He was half-undressed, his shirt in his hands when he noticed Lorilei in his bed. “One of us has the wrong room,” he slurred.

Lorilei smiled, running a hand over her hip. “There are rare occasions that I like to give my customers preferential treatment.”

Jimbo laughed, plunking down on the bed to struggle off his pants. “I think it’s wasted here.”

She kneeled behind him, stroking his back and chest, thinking he was too drunk. “I’m very good at building appetites.”

Jimbo fell backward, crooning, “I only want to make my fortune and return to the arms of my love.”

Lorilei knew that loves often were forgotten when a man glimpsed her charms. “I’m sure she would not mind for you to gain some experience.”

“My love is no woman, but my adoring Richard.” Jimbo smiled goofily.

Lorilei rolled her eyes. Indeed, her charms would be wasted. How then to get the magic stick? She looked down at Jimbo as a snore erupted from him. After climbing over him, Lorilei pulled Jimbo’s legs onto the bed and covered him up. Then she found the worn leather pack and a plain brown stick about a foot long and an inch in diameter. She wasn’t fooled by its bland appearance and took both the stick and her clothes back to her room.

Standing beside her bed, she held the stick before her and said, “Stick, stick, show me your tricks.”

It warmed in her hand, slowly thickening, becoming a
browny pink. The end rounded, taking on a bulbish appearance until Lorilei gasped. In her hand, she held a rather well-endowed, life-size phallus. Her muscles clenched from groin to stomach and a flush spread through her, giving a rosy glow to her skin. Then the phallus began to vibrate.

Experimentally, Lorilei turned the thrumming tip toward her pussy and touched it to her labia. The vibration sent a delicious thrill through her, wetting her with desire. Falling back on her bed, she moved the penis back and forth, rubbing it around her clit, deliciously spreading her wet lips. The thing leaped in her hands. “Oh,” she squeaked out as it pushed into her, just a bit, then withdrew. Her hips moved back and forth, following the building waves of pleasure.

Lorilei thought she didn’t guide the phallus, but of its own it pushed into her so that her muscular walls clamped down, drawing it farther in. Even when buried all the way in her cunt, there were still a good five inches to hang on to, but it sat for a moment, letting the thrum build through her body. Just as she thought she could stand no more, the phallus withdrew to all but the ridged knob. Then it proceeded to plunge in and out, building speed. The wooden penis gave her a good fucking until she cried out, tsunami pleasure squeezing, rolling, overlapping pulses. Five minutes went by when the toy jumped to life again and kept Lorilei heartily entertained for half the night before she gasped out, “Stick, stick, no more tricks,” and fell into an exhausted slumber.

The next morning, Lorilei dragged herself from her bed, putting on a simple russet gown. Before she left the room, she looked at the stick on her bed. If only she could find a man like that.

Three people, including Jimbo sat in the tavern. They drank mulled cider and chatted quietly. When Lorilei walked in, they smiled knowingly.

Lorilei hummed as she cooked up eggs and bacon and cut
huge slabs of brown, seedy bread. How would she get the stick from Jimbo? For have it she must.

When she brought the food over and plunked it down on the sturdy oak table, everyone dug in. She sat down with a ceramic mug of cider across from the tall man who looked a tad hungover. “Your tales were of such charm and wit last night that I will not charge you for your lodgings.”

Jimbo smiled and said, “And you obviously have found a better use for that magic stick than I. Keep it as payment.”

Lorilei blushed but smiled and shook his hand.

A few months later, Jon wandered along. Though handsome, he had little grace, and no penchant for storytelling. Still, Lorilei asked enough questions as she served up carrots, stewed chicken and dumplings, and ample ale to find that Jon, in his training, had been given a magic riding crop by his master.

“I will see what becomes of that when I return home,” Jon said around a mouthful of dumpling. He said and drank little. Lorilei closed up the kitchen and larder and went up to her room and waited. She wanted to see what the magic crop did.

When an hour had passed since Jon had gone to bed, she crept to his room in just her nightgown. She quietly opened the door. A short candle flickered on his bedside dresser and Jon’s back was turned away. As Lorilei moved closer, she peered into the shadows, searching for the pack. She carefully pulled open a drawer, when Jon rolled over, his pale eyes open and watching her.

“Look what the mice have brought in.”

Lorilei decided truth was best. “I came to check that your candle was out and truth be told, I was curious to see your magic crop.”

Jon smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “Oh, I can show you that, but first you must remove your gown.”

She eyed his bare chest and the sheet tucked around his frame. His body was sturdy and young and a man was what suited her best. She shrugged and pulled the gown over her head, her russet curls dancing as she shook her head.

Jon’s gaze moved from her slender neck, over her full breasts, to her waist and along the slope of her hips. Then he said, “Crop, crop, give a fine beating until I yell stop.”

The pack rustled and a long, slender brown crop wriggled loose. It shot into the air and then began to slap at Lorilei’s behind. She turned from it but it kept shooting around to smack her ever harder. Squealing at the mounting pain, she tried to dodge it and ran about the room. Once she hunkered down, but then it whacked her on the back or breasts, which was worse. Jon laughed, doubling over in his bed as she scooted left and right.

Angry and beginning to hurt a great deal, Lorilei gritted her teeth and decided to take the punishment standing still. But the blows increased and drove her to her knees. Her ass, stinging fiercely, hot as a furnace, had her gripping the edge of the bed where Jon peered down at her, smiling. Gasping from the searing pain, Lorilei groaned, “Please, make it stop.”

Jon gave the words and the crop stopped. Lorilei leaned her head against the bed frame, catching her breath. Then she arched back, gasping as Jon’s cool hand slid over her butt. The contrast was extreme with the heat of her ass, and her nerves flared at every touch. His fingers slid down her butt until they burrowed between her pussy lips. She moaned, realizing that she was oddly turned on. He stroked her, spreading her silky wetness, and then said, “I have something to help you.”

Lorilei looked up and saw him lying naked, his cock standing stiff and straight.

He smiled and said, “Take a ride on that.”

Shivers of pain raced through Lorilei’s body. The only way
to tamp it down was to bring equal levels of pleasure. She crawled onto the bed and straddled Jon’s hips. He grinned at her arrogantly, and reached to squeeze one of her breasts. She hovered above Jon’s cock for a moment, but knew she’d derive as much from this as he would. Plunging down onto his cock, she felt a slight resistance before he filled her. His cool hands continued to caress her ass cheeks, squeezing and pulling them apart. She moved at her pace, up and down, as delicious tremors overtook her, not letting Jon speed up. As she reached her crescendo, she stretched out her hand and mercilessly tweaked his nipples. He shouted, arching up as she slammed down onto him, writhing and moaning.