Best S&M, Volume 3 (5 page)

Blade, Ink, Steel

By

Sharon Wachsler

To the Skin

Too early, no sleep, on Ella’s arm, all’s black. Buzzed on java shots, skittering heels stick in cracked linoleum, I stumble, catch a wheezing laugh far left. Ella shoves me onto a chair, quick unlocks one cuff, yanks my wrist to the armrest.
Click, click, click
it closes, and swift she does the other. Seat clanks up like a dentist chair. Ankle shackles ratcheted to a bar below.

Ella jerks off my blindfold. In sudden flickering fluorescence, dented metal mirror exposes my waxy skin, red-lined eyes. Ella drops into a rocker, nods to coughing tough crushing out her cig in the dim. Tar-fingered stranger slouches over, scissors in one hand, clippers in the other, fists the chestnut hank hanging from my nape to ass. “Nuh!” I toss my head, sick rises at the
snick, snick, snick
of quick blades.

“Good we’ve got that ball gag in, eh, Sweet Pea?” Ella smirks. “I’d be so disappointed if you didn’t appreciate Gen’s work.”

Sweet Pea.
I purple: gentle, dainty taunt. If I could spit it, those words – not my hair – would be on the floor, ground into the grimy vinyl.

Gen bows me. Clippers devour vanity in jagged arcs, tears canyon between cheeks and nose. Then she sits to watch.

Ella stalks up, jacks my skirt to my hips, lifts Gen’s shears, with a flick she fillets my panties, tosses the scissors and pries me apart. Scooping my severed braid from the floor, she fans it up my thighs, tickling it against my pulsing cunt, bristles sharp and soft – too light. I jut toward the tease.

Laughter. “What, no tears now?” Ella feeds the dark shock inside me, brown ponytail swirling my cunt, silken ends whisper at pussy lips. I strain at the restraints, loose a whimper. She snakes it out, glistening with creme, smears my cheeks, chin, nose with my reek. Lazing, she puts the twist between her teeth, sucking like a cigar. Nods to Gen, “Tastes like a cunt.”

Then Gen’s back, cutting relentless. Wielding a razor, scrapes my scalp.

The scratching distracts me as Ella throws my damp hank in my lap, releases a wrist. “Unbraid it,” she says. Shaking, my fingers finish, she reclasps the wrist.

She licks her lips to suck the end again, flicks her Zippo, flames the tip. Brunette spider’s threads curl quick like spent filament. She drops it in a chipped glass dish as it opens into charred gray dust.

I sit transfixed till Gen spins me, holding a second mirror behind. The front’s still a blunt cut, but from nape to crown the back’s a quarter-inch except the stark letters carved to the skin, not even stubble there:
E L L A ’ S
. I quiver as Ella uncuffs me to run my hands over her name. Over and over and over. ELLA’S. Over and over.

Flipping Gen ten bills, Ella grins, “Get lost for twenty.” Pumps the chair low, unzips her jeans to unleash her dick, my mouth. I reach, one hand finds her cock, the other fingers my scalp, and suck her: heaven. Now I know, Samson should’ve kissed Delilah’s dick.

Tight and hot I blow till her stained fingers push mine away. She rakes me with blunt nails and I feel her brand – the razor burn.

In the Skin

Ella recuffs and gags me, frees my feet, flags a cab, herds me onto vinyl. Dizzy with possession, I rock, thighs squeezed, rubbing my scalp against the seat, reading it like inverted Braille. Vise-grips my wrist, she snarls low so the driver’s not wise, “Trying to get off?” Slicks two fingers under my skirt and into me. I gasp, arch to get her deeper.

Slap, slap,
she smacks the Plexi. “Next Seven-Eleven.”

Cab swings wide, and Ella jerks out of me and cab. My yelp muffled, I shiver in the empty. Back, she cradles cherry soda and yogurt, releases my mouth, strawing the drink. “Suck like it’s mine,” she squeezes her crotch. I gulp the sweet while she tumbles the yogurt. “How would you eat yourself?” I lap the spoon.

Low, “You’re too in your head. I’m getting into your body.” I moan. “Know why it’s all cherry? Cuz I’m gonna bust yours all day, Sweet Pea.”

The dairy sours. I choke it down, open for the gag. “Good.” Then, “Here!” She hollers. Cabbie jams to the side, Ella’s pulling me out before I read the signs. Inside, walls crawl with arms, backs, necks, lined, linked, inked. I skitter back, but Ella’s palming my skull. “What do you say?” She rubs:
ELLA’S.

“Tina!” She belts.

A juicy olive femme dances in, hands her a drawing. “Beauty, eh?”

Ella pats her ass. “Perfect.”

Tina swings to her table. “Hop up!” she caresses it. Ella hoists me.

Tina smiles, lays paper in my lap, talking as she traces a lithe stem branching up, delicate fronds unfurling. “These two little blossoms will be white,” the tattooist points a red-tipped finger. “The leaves, stem, and pod will all be green of course. Sweet, eh?”

They turn to me. I freeze. All I see: that tender vine.

“So,” Tina lays down her pen. “Read and sign this – consent, liability, notice of safety practices, etcetera.” I see the exit, my chance.

Ella rises, steps toward it.

I scribble, fitful, my signature illegible. Ella pivots, flashes “lay down.” Casual, she flicks my skirt back, baring me. “It will fit?”

Crimson, I cringe. Tina frowns, “Don’t you want this?” Motions to my mouth. “Better take that out.”

I look down, try to catch Ella’s eye, but she’s turned, tracing her name in caps on a scrap, a big apostrophe “S,” gaze lazing to the door.

Tina touches my face with a lacquered nail. “Hon, you’re the one who’ll wear it. You gotta love it.” I swallow the lump, nod, let myself fall limp as Ella walks over again.

Tina unwraps gel and razors. “Great,” beaming. “The stem’ll start here,” a red-tipped finger touches above my thigh, “avoid the crease, leaves and flowers curling up . . .” Finger arcs my mound. “A pod hanging on each
labia majora.”

Ella sits to the side, I press my head into the table to feel the empty places, tasting pools of magic cherry Kool-Aid in my mind. Watch her watching Tina shave me smooth, transfer the pattern. I slip into the
slick, slick, slick
and Ella’s eyes.

Then a million burning needles break my skin. The stabbing switches on and off with soothing swipes. Lidocaine cream, I learn later, makes it such a pure pain, tides of cool and hot rocking me. A minute, ten, a hundred, endless – wipe, burn, wipe, burn, holding still, exposed, exquisite. The searing juices my cunt, heat rising pungent past Tina’s needles.

Four hours gone: I’m drunk on pain, Ella’s triumph, Tina’s rhythmic
swipe, sting, swipe, sting,
as she wipes away black and green and white – and red so beautiful, can’t believe I’m setting it free.

I’m desperate for Ella’s dick, tongue, thumb, touch. Finally, Tina flashes glass at me. In the mirror, I’m transformed: Ella’s tender cunt.

Through the Skin

Aftercare words blur as Ella pays, pushes me into to a back room chair, sits on its counter. Blissed, I eye Ella’s dick, try to tickle my clit. Slaps my hand – “Lucille!” she bellows.

Billy-Idol dyke ambles in, gleaming metal beads.

Another paper. I sigh, sign, smiling. Unbutton my top, finger a nipple.

“She tweaking?” Cille frowns.

“Nah – endorphins. New tat,” Ella lifts my skirt. I squirm forward, giving blondy a good look. She chuckles.

“You’ll oversee aftercare?”

“What do you think?” Ella jaws.

“A’ight,” Cille raises palms in surrender. “But take
that
out.”

Ella scowls, releases my mouth. “Lean back, Sweat Pea,”
sotto voce.
Ceiling swirls. She motions to Cille.

“Here,” Ella touches my uninked, inside labia.

“Oh,” I tilt toward it.

“And here.”

“Aye-ah,” I wriggle.

Lucille shakes her head, looking down at me. “I can’t do this if you don’t hold still.”

“Ella touched me,” I explain.

“Christ.” Lucille slops coffee on her T.

Ella looms. “I’m chaining you. Don’t move.”

I nod, peaceful.

Astringent tingles my clit hood. Fantastic lights dance, but I statue. Purple pen dots, Ella and Cille eyeball angles, tilt, peer.

Then red-hot pinwheels fire left, clean pain – just a taste – the pulling, fishing-line fine, until the tug, when I think I might come, but it’s not enough. Again the pierce, this time right, I bite back my cry. Sweet hurt, tickle, tug. Tightening, fastening clasps, that pinching has my hands gripping, Ella’s tongue circles her lip.

Hand glass held below my open lap. “Here.” Two tiny steel hoops, each gold-beaded, gold links hanging between. My pearl, pulsing pink, draped in gold.

Ella stealths to me, slipping her littlest finger under, tugs feathery. My eyes roll.

From her pocket Ella spins a new ring: thick gold band, a long strand dangles a clasp. “You’ll heal, then who owns you, Sweet Pea?”

I make my mouth an “O.” Ella slips the ring between my lips. Kingly, she holds her hand out to be kissed. I slide the ring down her fourth finger like unrolling a rubber, tasting the metal tang, licking her underside’s wrinkles.

We kiss. Ella takes me home.

Shaping Genevieve

By

Theda Hudson

The head had been worked over really good. The face was curiously flat, making her look completely out of place for 400 BCE Greece. She was probably closer to 500 BCE by the way her hair had been redone into a thickly coiled halo. It was not unheard of; statues broke and people, then and now, reworked them.

Turning, I saw Genevieve on the chaise. She’d been worked over pretty good too. A livid bruise spread over her cheekbone and up across her eye. She was still wearing emerald, her favorite color, and eighteen months went
poof!
just like that. She met my gaze coolly, not a twitch saying she knew me. I could tell by the tightness around her eyes, the color in her cheeks. Oh, yes,
poof
.

My heart lurched, remembering what a delicate and subtle beauty Genevieve was. I looked to Victor Sadarno, the swarthy man I’d come to see about the head. He was in his early forties, overweight, and, I suspected, just a petty thief riding Lady Luck, completely ignorant of what he had.

“Here, Dalton.” Victor handed the marble to me. A client, Timothy Blake, was interested in buying the heads. I was here to authenticate them. It was grayish interspersed with flecks of pure white light. Her nose had probably been broken and some artisan had shaved off layers until that grace and lightness was flattened, coarsened.

I changed position, seeking better light and glanced discretely at Genevieve. She had a tattoo ringing her left middle finger.
Essex Club
was one direction I’d never searched. And there she’d been, property. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I looked back to Victor and handed him the sculpture. “She’s quite a piece.”

“You like her? I’ll show you some others.” I followed him to the study where six other heads sat on pedestals. They were all from Cyprus and the western Italian coast, dating about 500 BCE. That fit.

“Yes, yes, this is all quite good, excellent.” I smiled affably.

“I have others.”

“How many?”

“Twenty.”

“Good, good.” That fit too. I smiled again, and then paused. “Why’d you pick that one?”

“I just picked one up. Why, is it special?”

I thought of that flattened face, that thick halo, Genevieve on the couch.

“Yes, yes, she’s special,” to have suffered at such inept, ignorant hands, I finished to myself. This would be a pleasure.

Victor smiled. “Then you’ll tell Mr. Blake?”

“Yes.”

Victor, pleased at the good day’s work he’d done, was magnanimous.

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Yes, thanks.”

We drank companionably for a few moments.

“I noticed the woman’s ring,” I said, showing I knew the rules.

“Yes,” he said with pride. “Her name is Genevieve. Do you want to use her?”

Use her. “It would be a nice perk. But I must rely on your generosity for toys.”

Letting me use her lent him a certain amount of cachet and gave us other connections. “Of course. I haven’t got many toys myself, though.”

I shrugged; he preferred a blunter approach.

“Go back in,” he said. “I’ll bring my case.”

“Thank you very much, Victor.”

I paused in the entry to the living room. Genevieve was posed on the chaise lounge facing me. I could see lines on her face, around those precious lips, so soft and yielding when she became my bottom three years ago.

How much was it worth to try again? Was there enough left to refashion, like that marble head? Did she even want me to try, knowing the unyielding price?

“Answer yes or no,” I said as I went to her. “Do you understand?” It came out harsher than I’d intended.

“Yes,” she whispered, dropping her eyes.

“This is not about that tattoo on your finger,
this
is about you and me and the scene we have yet to finish.” I swore I was boring holes straight into her. I wanted to be.

“Yes,” she said, clearly remembering that unfinished moment eighteen months ago.

“Then do exactly as you are told,” I continued. “Do you understand?”
Do you trust me?

“Yes.” She still didn’t look at me and I let it go for now. Either she would act or it would be over, and I would do whatever it took to be numb again.

“What do you want, Genevieve?”

Tears were bright in her eyes. Swallowing tightly, she said, “To completely and abjectly offer myself to whatever you’ll have of me.”

I growled. It was not enough; such a shapeless and unformed offer had no appeal for me.

“Insufficient, but I accept it
for this moment
. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I could barely hear her.

Victor came back. “Well, here you are.”

He handed me a black leather case, barely as long as the crop and the short canes. Not a lot but was all quality work. I pulled out two floggers, a paddle, and a decent set of cuffs. Not fur lined. I looked to her again.