Best S&M, Volume 3 (8 page)

“I’d like to please you, Ma’am,” I confessed. She smiled.

Kip wasn’t finished. She pulled out a metal bar with velvet-lined cuffs at each end.
Fetters for my feet!
She locked one onto each of my ankles so that my legs were held apart. I could only guess why she didn’t want me to close them. She stood back to admire her work, and decided that something else was needed.

“Chains,” she said, as if to herself. She walked to a corner of the room, and pulled a length of chain from a large canvas bag. Standing in front of me, she was able to wrap one end around my neck, and wrapped the rest down over my neck, several times around my waist, over my sensitive belly, and between my legs. Then she held her design in place by running two little padlocks through the links at my neck and belly.

The cold metal on my skin made me shiver, but the more I moved, the more it rubbed against my skin. Kip clearly enjoyed my dilemma, watching me discover the limits of my freedom. I didn’t want to risk knocking over the wooden stand because then I would be suspended from my wrists. I couldn’t move very much without making things worse for myself.

“Get comfortable, my dear,” grinned Kip. “You’ll be here a long time.” Panic raced through me before I reminded myself that she couldn’t really keep me in her basement for days, weeks, or months. Someone would ask where I was. Wouldn’t they?

“You need the cap and bells of a fool,” she told me. “I interpret the word ‘cap’ somewhat loosely. Not that they won’t fit tightly.” Suddenly she had two nipple-clips in her hands, and she was reaching in between the length of chain over my chest to squeeze them onto my nipples. Each clip had three little bells dangling from it, and they jingled cheerfully with each breath I took.

Kip stepped back to admire her work. “Now,” she addressed me seriously. “I won’t gag you because I want you to talk. And I won’t blindfold you because I want you to see. You should be grateful.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” The nipple-clips were sending a message straight to my cunt. I felt as if my juice must be dripping onto the wooden stand, forming a puddle.

“Are you attracted to me, Athena?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”
Duh
.
She just wants to rub it in
, I thought.

“Then why did you leave my house so rudely and abruptly last time?”

“You drove me away!” I protested. “You said ‘I’ll see you at work on Monday.’ What could that mean except ‘It’s time to leave’?”

“Obviously, Athena,” she pointed out mildly, “I expected to see you at school during the week regardless of what might happen between us in private on the weekend. You weren’t planning to disappear into thin air, were you? If you wanted me, why didn’t you say so?”

“I couldn’t invite myself to spend the night with you!” I felt as if I could dissolve into tears like some doomed character in Greek mythology.

“Why not?”

“Because you could reject me, you could tell me how pushy and immature and unprofessional I was, you could tell me I wasn’t worthy. You could even fire me on the spot. I didn’t want to risk all that.”

“Ah. But you, and women like you, expect me to make the first move and the last move and all the moves in between. With no risk or effort on your part. And you want to reserve the privilege of reporting me to the authorities any time you can’t take the heat of your own desire. Yours, not mine. You don’t want to risk losing your teaching career because it’s what you love, but you’d be willing to force me out for life, and call me a monster, a Grendel from the lake of unwanted knowledge, to protect yourself. Wouldn’t you?”

Kip really looked angry.
Shit
.

Tears stung my eyes, overflowed, and trickled down my cheeks. There was nothing I could do to stop them. “Oh, Kip, Ma’am, I really don’t want to backstab you.”
Liar
, I thought to myself. “I just didn’t want you to turn me down. I couldn’t stand it. I’d have to see you every day in the halls after that, and I just couldn’t stand it. I would have to find a new job somewhere else, maybe not in a tenure track. You have to understand.”

Kip looked coldly into my eyes. “Good start, girl. In earlier times, prisoners were usually tortured to get thorough confessions out of them. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. Very few people will tell it all if they’re not under pressure.”

She turned away from me, and walked into another room. In the split-second after she disappeared from my sight, I realized that I would rather be physically hurt than left to languish down here alone until she might remember me, and decide to let me go.

Seconds and minutes ticked by as I heard muffled movements from another part of the basement.

After what I guessed was a twenty-minute absence, Kip came back to me. This time, she was wearing black leather pants, a black T-shirt, and a black leather hood like a medieval executioner. And then I saw that she was holding a coiled bullwhip, a long and vicious leather snake.

I felt my blood actually running cold.

“Watch,” she told me. She backed up, taking measured steps, and then pulled the whip back over her head, and aimed it at the opposite wall. The whip cracked in the air before falling harmlessly to the floor. I was relieved that she hadn’t knocked over the flickering lamp, but I was afraid my relief might be short-lived.

“Please,” I babbled, “please, Ma’am, don’t hurt me with that thing. Or anything else you might have. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but most people don’t want the whole truth, you know?”

Kip smiled at me, and she looked beautifully at peace. “True enough, Athena, most people don’t. This time, I think we’ll just resolve the homosexual tension that appeals to you in Poe. Would you like that?”

My cunt felt like the inside of a volcano, if a volcano could want to be penetrated down to its lava-filled core. “Will you fuck me, Ma’am, please?” I begged.

“Gladly, my little slut. What would you like me to use?”

“Just your fingers this time, Ma’am. I want to feel you inside me.”

Kip dropped the whip and strolled up to me, as though studying an exhibit in a museum. Without warning, she reached up and pulled the clips off my nipples. “Oh!” I burst out, as the bells jingled a wild tune.

And then she pressed her mouth against my wet, pungent bush and sent her tongue on a scouting trip to find my clit. She sucked hard as two of her fingers slid into me with the greatest of ease. She tickled my cervix and stroked my inner folds and harassed my G-spot until I felt as if I might explode. “Come, baby,” she told me. “I want you to come for me.”

“Ohhh!” The sound of my own voice bounced off the basement walls as I breathed in the smell of kerosene and reveled in the feeling of cool metal sliding over my skin.

“Good girl,” purred Kip. “I’ll let you down now, so I can hold you close to me. But you have to promise not to sneak away.”

That was probably the easiest promise I ever made.

A Mountain Man in Drag

By

PM White

The shoes were killing him. With toes like Hondo’s, fat as overstuffed sausages and nowhere near as attractive, girl shoes were torture. It was like trying to stuff a watermelon into a damn tube sock. He got them on anyway. The pumps were black and shiny with little heels on the end and his chubby feet jammed inside them.

He sported black stockings, too, which pricked the thick black hair on his legs as if there were little tweaser-carrying gremlins woven into the fabric. With a black dress and leather coat, and a heavy glob of lipstick, powder, eyeliner, and God only knows what else, his wife declared him nearly done. No way would she let Hondo leave the house without the wig on his head. The thing was like a bowl of yellow spaghetti turned upside down – some kind of Halloween leftover she unearthed in the closet.

“You’re not leaving without it on top of your head, Buster,” Amber told him. “If you’re gonna do this you’re gonna do it right.”

“Where’s my flask?” Hondo reached for the nearby dresser, wincing at the pain in his feet, marveling at the heaviness of his face, as he sat patiently in a chair while his woman put the finishing touches to his face. He got hold of the flask and brought it up to his lips, deftly flipping the lid with a swift flick of his thumb. He usually chugged down at work while he checked the oil on a tourist’s Benz, never in a black dress that made the bulge at his crotch stand out like a beacon fire at midnight. Except for occasional trips to the bar with old school buddies and those times when he bitched out tourists at the grocery store, Hondo did not go out in public. Habit and routine suited his world fine.

Everybody in town would bear witness to the bulge in his dress, he figured. He drank a hearty swig while Amber plunked the wig over his graying black hair. He sighed as the sweet burn of Seagram’s raced down his throat.

Amber sure spotted the swell in his clothing. When she finally got the hairpiece adjusted, she yanked the skirt to his waist, rubbing his white cotton briefs with one hand while shoving the skirt to his hips with the other. His bulge pulsed into a meaty erection. Amber wasted no time slipping his cock out and jamming it in her mouth. Hondo repositioned her hair over her ears and observed the woman’s face as it bobbed up and down on dick.

She unbuttoned her blue flannel shirt, leaving the bottom two buttons in place, and hauled her large breasts out of her bra. She jerked him off, sucking at the same time, while polishing her pink nipples into hard points. A moment later she pulled her mouth off his dick, a glistening line of saliva dangling from her lips, and put her tits to work. Wrapping them around his cock, Amber began to pump up and down until Hondo shot his load. It sure came fast. Cum splattered her tits and face.

“Maybe that will keep the lump satisfied,” Amber smirked, wiping cum from her tits with her fingers and sucking them clean. “I don’t want that to be the only thing people see tonight. Not after all the work I put into your makeup.”

“The way things look right now, you’re the man. Anything you say.”

Amber helped him into the couple’s beat-up blue Chevy as Hondo kept tripping over himself. She drove the beast, which was rare. Hondo had a thing for being in control. He simply could not do it in heels, that was all.

They roared down Route 66, into the few blocks of the downtown area, toward Fixpound Park. Anyone who fancied a long drive would have to head to Flagstaff to get one. Hondo would have preferred a long drive. There was no such thing as a long drive within the city limits of Trapper.

Crowds flocked the downtown sidewalks. Try as he might, he could see no sign of a local among the mob of tourists. One or two would undoubtedly be found inside some of the restaurants.
The owners, at least; they’re locals
.

Hondo wondered if anyone could identify him in a dress, with balled-up tissue paper forming a well-endowed pair of tits. Within minutes they negotiated the three blocks of the downtown area and maneuvered into the muddy parking lot at Fixpound Park.

“I bet you’d give anything to be wearing your skins, huh?” Amber asked with a crooked grin.

“Where’s my smokes?” Hondo reached inside his small purse. The girlish accessory had a picture of a smiling bunny on the side with the words, “I’m cuter than you. Deal with it,” written over its ears. He came across his unfiltered generics and planted one on his ruby-red lips. Amber usually complained when he lit up, but she kept her mouth locked about it tonight.

“Your flask is in there too.” She got out of the truck and sloshed through the mud to the passenger side. His wife wore a pair of hiking boots, tight jeans that showed all her curves, and the blue flannel shirt, buttoned low enough to exhibit her full cleavage, which still showed a few red splotches where his cum had irritated her skin.

The Mountain Man liked tomboys, as he often told his old high school buddies at the Sultana Bar after shots of tequila.

Hondo considered his skins, hanging inside a plastic dustcover in the closet back at home.
Those are men’s clothes, those skins
. Made from beaver, coyote, and other wild animals, the skins symbolized a time in the world when life and death struggles against nature transpired daily.

Hondo was a member of the Trapper Mountain Men; he had been grandfathered into the group. His daddy was a founding member. The same was true for the family gas station at the end of Route 66. Hondo got possession after his dad passed on. Group activities never got his rocks off, but he was partial to the Mountain Men.

The group formed in the 1950s as a way to beget interest in the small rural community. By honoring famed mountain men, trappers, and buck skinners, the group wished to smack the city’s namesake on the lips of voyagers across the nation. The scheme worked remarkably well in the 1950s. People liked Marlboro men back then; kids wore Lone Ranger masks and dreamt of riding horseback through the sagebrush hounding outlaws while their parents read western novels and bought cigarettes at places with wooden Indians out front.

Hondo had been one of those Lone Ranger toddlers, but in the 1960s. He loved westerns, loved the horses and the stout women who domesticated the men of the Wild West. He convened in the back of the gas station after school each day, glued to the family’s small black and white television and absorbed as many cowboy movies as he could, even if it meant skipping on his homework that day.

In a few short years the Trapper Mountain Men became one of the trendiest groups in the entire state of Arizona. People lined up to sign on. Membership in the club became as fashionable as a membership in the Mile High Club, if not more so. The group got to ride in Washington, DC; they got to shake hands with the president, and even became Arizona State Ambassadors.

They were real men
.

If only Hondo’s daddy could set his eyes on him now.

The other dudes lined up on a stage. Men like Hondo, a couple not like him, but all dressed in girl’s clothes, stood dumbfounded on a rickety wooden stage. No one said anything about a stage.

“I didn’t think you’d come if I told you that you’d have to get up on stage.” Amber smirked, hiding a snicker of laughter.