Stay Vertical (15 page)

“What?” I whispered. That was the name of the marijuana I’d gotten for my mother. “What about it?”

“Safeword. If you ever feel I’m pushing your limits with anything I do, you can safeword.”

“Safeword.” I had the general gist what that meant. Besides, I was far too enamored with his sheer beauty. Before he got too carried away being all dommy or whatever it was they did, I seized this opportunity to yank the wifebeater over his head. I practically sat in his lap in order to feel his smooth, café au lait skin against my chest. “Lytton,” I whispered, just because I liked to hear the name, to test it in my mouth. I sashayed my boobs against him, knowing men were powerless in the face of big boobs.

I knew I loved him even back then. I was hopeless—that must be where they get “hopelessly in love” from, right? Just hopeless! All I could reasonably hope for was to keep my mouth somewhat shut, to not go spilling my girlish fangirl crush on him, to retain some of my dignity.

So what did I do? I got up and stepped out of my pants. I made a little sexy strip tease of it, but I kicked off my boots—black cowboy boots, with the presumption that I’d be riding two up on his pussy pad in the future—and I did a little teasing dance, sliding my pants down inch by inch.

Lytton just leaned back on his palms and enjoyed the show. His juicy, fat cock was nestled inside his 501s. With his legs crossed a nice package was created, and every time I did a rotation to face him my mouth watered for the taste of his prick. But my dance was working. He seemed absolutely riveted to my nakedness.

“You’re amazing, June. You must’ve danced like this with tribespeople out in the desert and now you’re giving me my own private show.”

One foot was out of the pants. I only had to kick them onto the plastic-covered stage now. “Yes, I did dance with tribespeople. Not with naked tits, though. Naked tits are for you only.” Standing like a genie with my arms over my head, hands forming a tent, I primly kicked the jeans. They flew farther than expected and landed on a plant, but Lytton wasn’t interested.

One hand fumbling in his back pocket, his other hand clamped around my nude waist and drew me to him. Some sort of chain jingled in his hand. Lytton flicked my erect nipple with his fingernail, each scrape sending spikes of lust directly into my clit. I was saturated with my own juices by the time Lytton took the tweezer of the nipple clamp, slid the black bead back, and positioned it on my nipple. I hissed in air and went all tense at the sudden powerful sensation. His gaze flickered over my face, but he was serious as a chemist applying the correct amount of tension.

The other nipple he diddled with the tip of his tongue before sliding the tweezer on. Every slight movement, every breath he took caused me to jump.

“You’re quite sensitive.” This seemed to be unusual.

I whimpered and rotated my hips as I clung to his shoulders. “I think so. I’ve been told so. I wouldn’t know, not having other women to compare myself to.”

“You’re so innocent and fresh, you’re giving me ideas.” Another item came from his back pocket—handcuffs with Velcro this time, so he wouldn’t have to MacGyver it. He’d cuffed me before, but with the clamps stimulating my nipples, the chain between them swaying with every tiny movement I made, now I felt more helpless, vulnerable, and frustrated than ever.

I felt beautiful and desirable. With Lytton’s admiring gaze on the chain that jiggled between my outthrust tits, then my hips flaring from my narrow waist, I could see myself through his eyes. And for once, I wasn’t disgusted. Sure, I knew I could stand to lose a few pounds. Who couldn’t? But it seemed that Lytton appreciated my curves as he eyeballed me professionally, and now he reached out to grab the chain between my boobs.

And with his other hand, he slapped them.

One by one, he struck my boobs with sharp, stinging slaps. Backhanded, openhanded, a flurry of tiny, arousing slaps fell on my tits. They jumped and jiggled attractively, and his look became more intense, more focused as he smacked me.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I had no idea if a “submissive” was supposed to, or allowed to, cry out.

In fact, Lytton frowned. “You should be gagged. You’re a newbie, and no one can hear you except me, and I like to hear your cries.”

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” Like Tobiah, my cries went higher in register with each smack. My tits were reddening, getting hot, sending pangs of desire straight to my clit. I kneeled with one knee on the plastic to balance myself, and Lytton took advantage of this opening.

Materializing a pair of scissors from behind a space bucket, in a flash Lytton had cut my flimsy thong panties clean off me.

And he slapped my clit.

He slapped so quickly it was like a snake striking. Then he swiped two long, brutal fingers down the length of my slit. My cries now were hollow, wracked cries for help.

“You
bastard
! Do it, why don’t you? You’re fucking
torturing
me!”

Finally, a smile. A sly smile that lifted one corner of his lush mouth.

“You’re getting the picture.”
Smack.

“Ow!
Do it
, you fucking bastard! Do it. Just make me come, but stop torturing me! Do you know how hot and juicy and ready for you I am?”

“That’s the idea. Clit torture wouldn’t be the same without—well, a bit of torture.” He alternately smacked and petted my clit, so I was never sure from one moment to the next how to respond. He even peppered some nibbles onto my straining nipples. That was like fingernails on a chalkboard. He was firmly in control, and I wasn’t. Each rung of control and power that Lytton gained was one that I lost.

Until I remembered.
I do have the power
. His bulging, pulsating cock stretched the jean fabric of his crotch, that’s how hot he was for me. I remembered that the more helpless I seemed, the more power I actually had, because
I was turning him on
. Every time I jumped and twitched and whinnied, Lytton got hornier and hornier for me. He became
helpless with lust
.

So I played it up. I sighed. I leaped. I shuddered my hips against his hand when he petted my engorged clit. I gasped, I hissed like a regular teapot. I could have safeworded, especially when out of sheer meanness he tweaked a nipple like dialing a radio. But I persevered. I said his name. “Oh, Lytton.” Then, when he slapped my clitoris, “Oh!! Lytton!!”

He stroked my clit only just enough to keep me teetering on the edge of orgasm. Every swipe of his fingers sent me higher, higher. My inner pussy walls were shuddering so mightily that my uterus was actually following suit, clenching and unclenching in anticipation of orgasm.

Not many men had ever given me one. I was more proficient with my BOB, the old battery-operated boyfriend. I didn’t expect Lytton to accomplish it, either. Doms weren’t widely known for that sort of behavior, and the encounter we’d had by his bog garden had told me he was your typical selfish lover, interested in his own orgasm alone.

So when Lytton growled, “Oh, lady,” I expected a cock down my throat. That was fine. Lytton had the most velvety cock, the fattest and longest cock I’d ever sucked, and I could do it all day. But now he pinched both of my swollen pussy lips together and rubbed. The crescendo of sheer bliss that shot through me was unexpected, and I uttered my highest whine so far.

“
Aaaaah!
Lytton! You fucking bastard!
Zaidi, Zaidi!” More, more!
“Do it! Do something!”

“Ah,” he purred, contentedly. “Watching you is my reward.”

“
Do something
, you mean pig! Or I’m going to use my safeword and I’ll finish myself off at home!”

That did the trick.

LYTTON

W
hen the sweet little one had her clit and nipples slapped, she turned into a regular tiger.

Lytton had underestimated how deranged, sensitive, and lusty she was. When he clamped her nipples she went every shade of pink. Those do-gooding Peace Corps or African boys must not have been very creative, because he knew right away she’d never had her nipples clamped before. The little nubbins stood out, begging to be teased into oblivion, and Lytton gave her what she demanded. Rather, what
he
wanted. Yes.

It was
he
who wanted to slap those titties, to smack that cunt. But he’d underestimated how aroused he’d become at the sight. She was so curvaceous, like someone had poured her out of an hourglass, like she’d been tight-lacing a corset for years. He knew, of course, she hadn’t, and that added to his arousal. She was too innocent for corsets or nipple clamps.

Her helplessness stiffened his cock. She couldn’t have been more helplessly stimulating than if she’d been shackled to the Saint Andrew’s cross. When he swiped his fingers across her snatch and the juice flowed over his hand, Lytton’s plan changed gears rapidly. Lytton found himself taking huge pleasure in June’s sensitive reactions.

It really stroked his ego to see he had such an effect on her. Not only did she look stunningly hot kneeling there with her uplifted tits clamped and reddened, it sent him over the moon every time he slapped her pussy and she jumped. When she started panting rapidly, shallowly like a woman practicing for childbirth, he knew he’d tortured her to the extreme limit. Every time he plunged two fingers up her slick cunt or scissored them across her throbbing clit, she opened her mouth in a silent scream.

He had never even
wanted
this before, a woman’s crescendo. Why would he want that? Why would he care? He had his slaves, and he rotated them when he got tired of them, but he was bored with being called Sir, Master. For once, he wanted to just be Lytton Driving Hawk, Pretendian, the sort of guy who cared very much about a woman’s orgasms.

When he began rubbing both extended lips of her outer labia as though feeling fine silk, June went apeshit.

“
Do something
, you mean pig! Or I’m going to use my safeword and I’ll finish myself off at home!”

Oh God, that was it. If she safeworded it’d be all over. He’d be forced to respect her time out and suddenly Lytton really, really wanted her to come.

He wanted to watch her face. He wanted to know he was responsible for her freak-out. So he rubbed the lips together faster, bent low, and dove on in nose first.

He wasn’t terribly experienced in eating women’s pussies. The subject just never came up when one was an experienced Dom. At first he tentatively tickled the little bud that peeked from between the lips. Rubbing the lips together, too, seemed to drive her insane. Soon he graduated to bolder strokes with the flat of his tongue. He worked her up the wall a little at a time, and her whines got higher and higher, like an approaching police siren.

He knew by the fine trembling in her thighs she was getting closer. He closed a hand over his straining erection but for once, he didn’t take it out. Instead, he spanked her bare ass, knowing that would heighten and enhance her impending orgasm.

She commenced to wailing, “Lytton! Lytton! Lytton!” in between the fast, shallow pants, the cries in what he assumed was Swahili. As much as he liked hearing his name called out in sex, he wanted the ego boost of giving her the ultimate gift.

So he slapped her harder and licked her harder, and just four or five flat strokes of his tongue and she was off like a cannon.

He stopped spanking her because he wanted to slide two fingers up that cunt. He wanted to feel the powerful contractions of her channel around him, and he was rewarded. He lapped steadily at the clit as she squirted, a little jet of tasteless liquid that filled his mouth.

It didn’t seem that she was breathing as her pussy clamped down around his fingers, strangling them. He could feel the ebb and flow of each contraction as he slowed his lapping. Her thighs vibrated like tuning forks and he worried he might break something.

She seemed to come for a long, long time. Lytton was ashamed he wasn’t too experienced with exactly how long a woman should come. He hadn’t even known they all—some?—squirted like that. He had fucked and entered into scenes with hundreds, thousands of women in his time, yet he’d always been mainly concerned with his own satisfaction. Now? He hadn’t even taken his own dick out.

This was a new source of pride for him as he slowed till he was lapping like a kitten at a milk bowl. Suddenly she breathed, like a drowning man given one last gasp at life. Her lungs painfully inhaled the searing air, shocking Lytton from his lapping. She breathed as though she’d swallowed a sword.

“What? What?” he whispered, holding her by the hips. “What’s wrong, little one?”

Her enormous ragged inhale sounded like a train wreck. “
Don’t. Stop.
”

Fuck! Bending again, Lytton returned to his lapping, but it only made her scream for real this time. He’d had some noisy subs before, and the ranch workers here were used to it, but this sound couldn’t possibly be good. June couldn’t possibly be enjoying this. He knew that if he kept fucking after coming, it sometimes hurt so good, as though he’d gotten greedy and tried to hog too much of a good thing, so he had to stop.