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“Painful,” Julia replied. The table he indicated was a table saw. The blade was twelve inches across and curved teeth curled around the rim like waves in a Hokusai print of the sea. He flipped a lever and the blade sank out of sight. He picked up the cord and held it. Julia walked to where he stood. Closer, she could see the dark flush staining his cheekbones, evidence that he was not as calm as he seemed. This was not a date. She did not have to play by those rules. This was not an assignation, something her ex-husband was very much in favor of. She did not know what this was. The man next to her had not moved except to gauge her height and make another adjustment to the table and now he waited, not speaking. A fall, Julia decided. A jump from a precipice. But the ground was a long way off.
She expected him to taunt her. Scared? Can’t make up your mind? Run away, little girl. He touched her again, running a calloused fingertip from the hollow of her throat to her nipple, surprisingly gentle. The nipple pebbled anyway, making her shudder. She had been married on her twenty-first birthday and she was thirty-two. The number of decisions she made every day was appalling. She sometimes tried to avoid making any, but then there were more the next day, piled up on her doormat like unopened mail. To be tied down? To have someone else make the decisions, even for half an hour? She was delirious from the thought. “On or off?” She gestured to her top.
“Like this.” He pulled it up until her breasts were exposed, but left it on. He bent and sucked her nipples until her legs gave out, then he bent her over the saw. He tied one hand with the cord, looping it over her wrist several times and knotting it to the leg. The other hand he tied with duct tape. She felt the adhesive on the fine hairs of her wrist. He tugged, and she felt an answering throb in her pussy. He spread her legs, putting her feet where he wanted them. He peeled down her running tights, leaving the material bunched below her hips. Everything was hard—the table, the floor, the walls, the man behind her, her memories (how do you say you love someone for ten years and wake up one day and not like what you see?)—except her flesh, pale and yielding. His breathing roughened. “Every day I thought of this,” he said, opening her with his hands. “Every time I saw your ass twitch by, I imagined this.”
She was wet already, drenched. “I thought you were busy,” Julia said.
“Not that busy,” he countered.
If she turned her head she could find the view, but she didn’t want it. She wanted the dark and the waiting; and the feeling, when it came, pulled an inhuman sound from her throat.
“Go ahead,” he told her. “There’s no one to hear.” He pushed into her with one hard, sure thrust. It bore no resemblance to the inept fumblings of men who needed permission to start and praise when it was over. The table threatened to roll with the force of his thrusts and he flipped a switch to stop it. The wheels locked in place. Julia turned her face against the cold metal, her nipples rubbing on the fine corrugations of the surface. Her hands strained against the bonds; her right had enough room to twist and hold the table leg. Her left, held fast in the tape, flexed and fisted on air. It went on for a long time. He was strong and big and he pushed her through the first heady spasms of desire. He felt the instant her body surrendered to the hard work of fucking; he dragged her from there to a place where, even as she tensed to take him, again and again, her body went liquid and hot and she couldn’t control her limbs so he did it for her.
By the time he pushed her to her toes and slid a hand beneath her belly, slippery with sweat, she had forgotten about her clit. There was only the friction of his cock pounding into her body, and that was all she wanted, but he made her remember her clit. It was too much. She howled against it, but he made her feel that, too. She came. She came and felt the heat of her blood everywhere in her body, but mostly where he was touching her.
He untied the cord. He got a knife and cut through the tape, pulling it away from her skin without mercy. He pulled her top down and her tights up and, since standing on her own legs proved to be unsuccessful, he carried her into the kitchen. He set her down on the counter where she remained upright, barely. He fetched the bourbon, good Kentucky bourbon. It was his house. The first thing he had done when there were counters and cabinets was to put a coffee pot on the counter and bourbon in the cabinet.
She came back into herself, enough to watch him with curious eyes. The first sip he took in his own mouth and with a hand on the nape of her neck, let it trickle into hers. That was the first time he kissed her. They drank the bourbon slowly. They watched the headlights making rivers through the stars, fixed and burning, below them.
LOVE TO HATE
Molly Moore
The cuffs are tight on my wrists and ankles, and when I pull on them I can hear the distinctive sound of chains. The room is silent but for that, and I lie there behind the dark of the blindfold playing with my own bonds. Pulling and twisting, making them talk to me. Their voice fits perfectly into my darkness, and despite knowing I’m here in this room, my mind slips to dungeons, guards and an evil captivity.
I’m happy here in this place, naked, vulnerable and blind. I wait for you, knowing you will come for me. For now my mind draws pictures for me, of who you are, and why you have me here like this. I know I should be scared of the unknown and ashamed of my nakedness, but then I have never been very good at what I should be; why should chains and darkness and an electric fear change that now?
My body aches. I am glad of the moment’s respite from your abuse and yet I miss you already. My playful toying with the chains soon turns to a restful impatience. I hate waiting, I hate being left. I hate not knowing. I hate being played with. I live for this hate and the way you make me face my darkness. I love my hate. It is a passion.
The sound of the whip still rings. My body twitches at the memory of the split ends trailing their evil kisses across my breasts leaving bright red welts in their wake. I moan at the memory, and I crave more. I know the heat between my thighs betrays my love of the hate.
You’re silent in your approach, and I’m so lost in my own body and mind that it’s not until I feel the bed shift under your weight that I know you’re back. Without a thought of the consequences words of admonishment spit from my mouth....
“Don’t leave me like this. Just do what you want with—”
The rest is muffled by your hand, words of venom and anger lost into your grip and silenced completely by your soft gentle, “Shhhh.” My tongue flicks out, tasting your palm; tentative at first, then with increasing greed until I am suckling on the soft flesh at the base of your thumb. I feast on you, my mouth consuming anything that you’re willing to give.
When you move your hand away, my mouth feels desolately empty, pleading noises fill the back of my throat and like a little bird in the nest, or a hungry baby at the breast, my mouth searches anxiously for you.
I hate you even more. You’re playing with me, like a cat plays with a wounded mouse until it’s so broken all it can do is give itself up to the monster that has captured it. The hate charges through my body, sending pulses of electric desire into my cunt, making me throb with agonizing need.
Your fingers curl into my hair, twisting it round until you have a firm grasp. Your cock is hard and hot against my lips, and I willingly open my mouth. I don’t care who you are anymore. I just want you to fill me up and consume what is left of my rage. Your grip tightens in my hair as you use my mouth to pleasure yourself, gliding your cock in and out, slowly but firmly, each time a little bit deeper than the time before. I know I’m dribbling, I can feel it running down my cheek and pooling beside my face. My fingers tingle with the need to reach between my thighs and rub at my throbbing clit. You ignore my choking sobs. Or at least that is how it feels to me, but then I can’t see you. I can’t see the delicious grin that plays across your lips as you watch me struggle against my bonds. I can’t see you clenching your teeth as you fight to control the urge to come in my mouth, and I can’t see your other hand holding something small and round reaching between my legs.
The cold against the heat of my thighs makes me moan against your cock, and then the vibrations start. On my thigh, then down into the line of my groin making my hips dance as I try to guide your hand into my cunt. My thrashing is futile, my bonds are too tight to allow me that pleasure and as you roll the powerful vibrator all around the edge of my throbbing pussy, I growl with a deep guttural noise of rage and lust.
You play on, ignoring my cries, filling my mouth with slow purposeful strokes, making my jaw ache and my lips sting. Between my thighs you tease and torture, letting the vibe glide over my clit, causing my hips to buck and tremble before you move away. Each pass brings me closer toward release and yet each pass builds the painful ache within. My mouth and cunt slowly blend together. As one is plundered and used by you the other pulses and twitches in a jealous desperation.
Anger boils through my veins at my body’s traitorous lust. Whoever you are, you have stolen my lust and used it against me. Your come is hot and thick inside my mouth. It coats my tongue and runs down my lips, but I barely notice it as you cruelly press the vibe against my clit, cupping your hand over my cunt and holding me firmly beneath you. Now my orgasm tears through my body. My legs thrash and my back arches as my cunt releases its juices. Behind the blindfold, tears gather and roll down my cheeks.
Stripping the blindfold from my face you brush my tears aside, and at last I can see you.
“Have I mentioned how much I hate you?” I grumble.
“Often,” you laughingly reply, “but I don’t believe a word of it.”
DRY SPELL
Kristina Lloyd
