Best S&M, Volume 3 (3 page)

“Yes. Yes, mistress.”

“You say that so I let you come?” She savored his chest hairs.

“No, please leave me unsatisfied. Let me prove myself.”

“Now you come!”

“No, please, mistress!”

Gerry’s bound body writhed. He grunted and groaned and tried to ease away from her, but she ground her hips harder and shoved her tongue deep in his ear. “Come now, fucking pig!” His orgasm blasted like a fire hose and the grunt from his throat seemed to shake the room. She couldn’t believe what she called him.

Gerry let out a deep, strange laugh. Ying giggled in reply.

They lay panting for a time until she whispered without the accent, “My name is Ying.”

“You’re fucking awesome, Ying!”

She stroked his face, and then released and embraced his warm, furry body.

Gerry was cupped to Ying’s back, the head of his hard cock fused to her tailbone, when she awoke. He gently stroked her upper arm. She slid beneath him and spread her legs. He kissed down her neck along her breasts. He dipped between her legs and ate her gently, very differently than she had instructed. It made her ascend more slowly, even so, for the second time in her life, she had an orgasm from a lover’s mouth.

He triumphantly crawled up between her legs and touched the tip of his cock to her pussy lips.

Ying nodded her approval and he descended into her.

Despite his bulk, Gerry moved delicately. He kissed her neck and she opened it so he could bite. She wanted to feel the full might that had punished her via remote control; Red’s rapture was something she coveted. He kissed more gently. She twirled one of the strands of twine, still tied on each corner of her bed, in her hand. “You know, I used to watch…Tuesdays and Fridays.”

He nodded. “I know. Um…good peripheral vision.”

Ying laughed and then tilted her head down subserviently. “Sometimes I want…”

His expression shifted immediately to the one she had seen in his last night with Red.

She stroked her hands delicately in his chest hair. “To be made love to gently.”

“Oh, of course.” He made love to her slowly, sweetly, reverently.

Tuesdays and Fridays Ying and Gerry shared meals in their respective bedrooms via remote control. Gerry the remote; Ying the control.

For dessert, Gerry dressed in various outfits before he crept over: thief, soldier, cop, even once he was a most convincing construction worker who hooted and hollered at Ying until she made him pay.

Ying dressed always in her precious white leather outfit, which was becoming more supple with wear, like Gerry. Ying found new ways to punish him: a cat of nine tails, a thick leather belt, a willow switch, clamps, a nasty long purple dildo she dubbed “the enforcer.” Gerry took everything she could deliver.

Mornings after were tender. Sometimes they made love; sometimes they sat cross-legged, nude on the bed, sipped tea and talked. They talked of childhood, of fears and frustrations, joys and jubilations. She even told him about G.I. Joe. The day he mounted a hook like the one in his bedroom on Ying’s ceiling, Gerry told that he was a young executive, very powerful, and struggled with the stresses of his job. “I’m a control freak, Ying.” “Doesn’t show,” she replied. He simply smiled at her. But the way he seemed to shrug her off when she said she truly understood his stresses was one of the rare things about him she did not like. As a matter of fact, the session after that, she tied him down face first and reamed him with “the enforcer” until he came on her satin sheets. She stood on his ass and made him lick up the mess.

He was a bottomless pit for punishment, and she became envious. She remembered how she felt as she took part in Red’s punishment. An urge grew like the need for sexual release after a month of complete abstention. This urge didn’t abate even when Gerry gave her seven strong orgasms on his knees, his hands bound behind his back, head tilted back so far that he had trouble straightening it up when she was done.

She wondered who was master and who was slave.

As she prepared for the next mealtime trappings, she recalled there was only one time where he seemed to have truly been beaten: ironically, the first time the thief had come.

She wondered if the true wall to dominance was a form of submission.

She delved into copious research.

It was clear in Gerry’s expression that he detected a change as she forced him to strip his thief outfit but did not punish him. She cuffed him and pulled him into the bedroom. A small table sat near the dangling hook with a burner and a jar warming on it. He looked down at his nude body with eyes wide. She pushed him toward the hook. “I own you.”

She had raised the hook and had to help him put his cuffed hands in it with the aid of a chair. He could barely keep steady.

She stirred the goop in the jar.

His eyes were like that first night. He remained so very still.

Ying started on his back, applying the warm goop to a small stretch. He had little hair back there, but grunted as she pressed on the muslin strips and yanked them methodically away.

After his back, she goosed his jaw like a snapdragon. Taking a kiss from her had become the symbol of his “surrender.” Despite the anger in his eyes, his mouth gaped for a kiss.

He didn’t yell out, the way he did when she whipped him, as she stripped his legs. She stroked his jaw and his mouth opened even more slowly. She kissed him even deeper, and then stood on the chair to strip his arms.

The anger had drained from his eyes. She wondered if she had gone too far. But he’d told her about “safe words” on their second outing. She traced his jaw and watched his mouth slowly open. He didn’t say the word. She stirred the wax and looked at his furry chest. He closed his eyes and accepted her tongue. She lingered on the kiss like a long goodbye.

His cock pointed at the ceiling as she fixed the first strip to him. His grunts were now just an explosion like a massive compressor releasing all its air. He yanked so hard she was sure she heard the studs above him groan. She stripped every last bit of chest hair, then finally looked at his crotch. He shook his head. She nodded. She stroked his cock, and then laced her fingers in the last frontier of his body hair.

 “Now you are truly mine.” It was the first time she’d deliberately eschewed her Chinese accent during the punishments.

He compressed his jaw. She stroked it, and it slowly opened. She applied the muslin above his cock. She gave him a deep, long kiss during which she ripped the last furry strips away. He was limp, quiet, resolved as this last vestige was removed. She curled her fingers around his furry scrotum and smiled. His eyes shocked wide, but he nodded and then opened his mouth. She shook her head and let go of his testicles. She helped him from the hook and led him to the shower. He braced to her and moved slowly. She methodically cleaned his smooth pink body with cool water and floral soap. His cock lifted toward the showerhead, and she took it deep in her mouth. Fellatio was another thing Gerry had refused to accept from her. Ying applied every trick she knew, and some she conjured on the spot. She nibbled the base, tongued his balls, and then settled on the head with a few deft twirls of her tongue. He writhed harder and harder, almost as if trying to escape, but he shot into the back of her throat. He had to grab her head to remain upright as he squirted ribbon after ribbon into her gullet.

She drank him, steadied him, dried his body and led him to bed.

Another first, he fell asleep before Ying. She cupped his back and ran her fingers through the long golden hair on his head. His silky skin felt bizarre.

The next morning, Ying awoke to feel Gerry’s big hands stroking every inch of her; it felt possessive. He eased her onto her back, pulled her knees to her chest, and compressed her. His big smooth arms surrounded her knees and folded arms. He pushed into her sharply, before she was wet and the friction was heaven. The way he bumped her cervix wasn’t, but she resisted even the slightest hint of a grimace. She smiled softly. He gripped the V of her pubic hair, squeezed her breasts a little extra tight, bit the nape of her neck. She flowed and her depths opened as he pumped her.

She went limp and bounced with his weight. She realized what he was giving her was just a fraction of his power, and it felt so very perfect.

She closed her eyes and dared to dream that he understood now.

The next night of mealtime trappings, Gerry’s room remained dark. Ying checked the clock. 8:05. She sighed, sat down, and took the first bite of her meal. She began to worry if indeed he did understand. She wondered if her taking him to total submission, and then servicing him, had broken some spell. She wondered if the powerful fuck the morning after and the sweet, long kiss at the door after breakfast was his goodbye.

It seemed forever until his light came on. Her stomach turned as she looked down at her new outfit again. She worried so much that she covered her chest in a display of modesty that seemed to be rare these days.

She felt dizzy for lack of air. When he appeared, Ying gasped. Her hands drained to her sides.

Jeremy was clad, shoulder to shank, in gleaming jet-black leather, a riding crop in his hand. He turned to the long neglected hook in his room and pushed it so it swung like Poe’s pendulum. Ying tugged the neck of her skin-tight black shirt and then grazed her hard nipples. Her pussy flowed like the Yangtze.

Ying looked side to side, as if trying to evade detection. Gerry briefly smiled, and then nodded. The two meals sat on their tables, destined to fall cold. The leather over Gerry’s groin could barely contain the bulge.

She hesitated at the corner of her apartment building, with a view of his windows as the last light was extinguished. Chills stroked her spine like fingers. She wondered how much it would take to make her truly surrender.

She trusted Gerry would be as diligent in his search as was her vow to resist.

Dreams from a Black Chrysalis

By

Jason Rubis

It moved a very little, and was breathing. When it opened its eyes Molly squeaked and jumped back, hissing, “Shit,
shit
!” But the eyes at least proved that it was a human being and not—as Molly had initially thought—some bizarre piece of sculpture Hachi had tucked away in her closet. It didn’t seem to be in any particular discomfort, but the breathing—a slow and steady rasping through its nostrils—seemed somehow plaintive.

“Are you okay? Hello?” Molly approached the closet door with some reluctance, as though afraid the bundle of person in there might suddenly lash out science fiction tentacles to seize her ankles. Molly used to love horror movies. She knew exactly how she would dig her nails into the carpet, shrieking as she was dragged into the closet, the door slamming shut on her with great finality. Later Hachi would go in the closet for something and find her bones.

The person didn’t answer or make any sign that it had heard her. The reason Molly could gather nothing of its gender or age was that it was encased in a costume of black latex. It was the sort of costume that extended—not unlike children’s pajamas—into gloves at the wrists and thick-soled boots at the ankles. A mask covered its head, with holes at the nostrils to allow that disturbing breathing, and two more holes at the eyes. Molly couldn’t see what color this person’s eyes were—she was leery of getting
too
close—though she could see that they were large and dark and sad.

The person was crouched on a row of shoes on the floor of Hachi’s closet, in what had to be a fantastically uncomfortable position: head down, ass up. Its wrists were bound at the small of its back with what appeared to be black rubber tubing. More tubing—and strips of black cloth—secured its ankles. It appeared to be trying to make itself as compact and as immobile as possible. Various outfits of Hachi’s—suits, raincoats, negligee—swung just above it, brilliant colors in stark contrast with the latex.

“Did Hachi...this is something you were doing with Hachi, right? Do you want me to untie you, or...?” Again, no answer but that creepy breathing. Molly retreated slowly, gnawing her thumb. Eventually she ran downstairs and fixed herself a large glass of iced vodka.

The situation was extremely uncomfortable. There was, of course, nothing preventing her from simply calling Hachi in London and demanding to know who this strange person in the closet was. It would have been extremely satisfying at that moment to inform Hachi—with suitable indignation, needless to say—that house-sitting, undertaken as a favor to a friend, did not normally include babysitting said friend’s sex-slaves.

The problem was that Molly had found Latex (as she found herself thinking of the bound person) while snooping in Hachi’s bedroom. There was no other way to put it. Though she loved to brag about her “friendship” with Hachiko Ozu, Molly was all too aware that the designer regarded her less as a friend than an amusing kind of puppy, to be petted and laughed at or ignored as the situation demanded. They had met at a club through mutual acquaintances (considerably higher-placed socially than Molly) and most of their encounters since had been at other clubs, totally at random, though Hachi did generally reply—dependably if rather dryly—to Molly’s emails.

Hachi was an androgynous Eurasian beauty, as well-known in the SM demimonde as she was in the fashion world. Hachi had a career and several houses in different cities in different countries. Molly was a twenty-three-year-old club-rat with a loft, a trust fund, and little else to recommend her beyond a certain bratty cuteness.

So when the chance to house-sit for Hachi had emerged, she’d jumped at it, figuring it would give her a nearly endless fund of bragging-currency. And the moment she knew Hachi’s plane was off the ground, Molly had begun a methodical exploration of her house, beginning in the kitchen. So far it had been incredibly disappointing. There had been no secret caches of bizarre/possibly illegal pornography, no diaries detailing orgies with the rich and famous, and no drugs beyond the overflowing liquor cabinet and half a pack of Gauloises she had found in one of the guest bathrooms. There was Hachi’s basement dungeon, of course, but everyone knew about
that
.