“Carol mewled quietly as she sat with me hidden beneath her.
‘Work!’ I hissed the command, and beamed with silent satisfaction as I heard her fingers strike at the computer keyboard.
Manoeuvring myself within the cramped space, I poked a finger into her wet opening and licked at her pussy, inhaling the wonderful aroma of secret sex. I could hear Carol struggle not to cry out as I worked on her body.
Suddenly the telephone rang. Carol froze.
‘Answer it,’ I ordered, slowing my licks down as I heard her speak into the mouth piece. As she talked, her tone strained while she arranged some future meeting, I sped up my attention again, posting my finger in and out of her as I kissed her cunt with renewed impetus. I took a perverse pleasure in hearing Carol fight to keep her voice level as she attempted to politely end her conversation with the unknown caller...”
My body tensed as a slim finger slid between my waiting legs, and I started to talk faster...
“As Carol slammed the phone down, her climax hit her, and I had to grasp the secretary’s legs firmly as she squirmed and sighed on the leather chair, until, at last, she was still.
I rolled the chair back, and unfolded myself from the small gap, stretching my muscles after their brief confinement.
I said nothing as I observed Carol’s dishevelled state, but walked over to my abandoned coffee, drinking it quickly to disguise the smell of sex that hung around my mouth.
The intercom buzzed, and a rather over-cultured accent announced, ‘Carol, I can see Miss Cooper now.’
Carol looked at me, her eyes blazing eager heat. ‘Will I be appearing in your next book then?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘But I didn’t have the chance to make you come.’
I grinned at her, a pleasant tingle of anticipation running down my spine. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure Miss Philips gives me the servicing I need.’”
As I ended the story, Lauren held me tighter, pumping her hand against me like a woman possessed, an action I quickly copied. Almost instantly, I was rewarded with the sound of a groaning gasp, as I felt her wet pussy suckle my fingers.
“Good story?” I breathed the words into my girl’s ear, enjoying the weight of her as she rolled on top of me to deepen the penetration of her finger fuck.
“Oh honey, you could say that it was…” But Lauren never did finish her sentence because, if you’ll excuse the cliché, we became preoccupied with all the other, more interesting things we could do to each other.
The Corner Chair
Laila Blake
There was nothing extraordinary about the chair. It was simple, narrow and unpadded, light wood with a stark and rectangular back. It stood in a corner of a spacious loft—the lonely corner, as it were: with no bookshelves, cabinets, plants or curtains, pictures on the wall or a rug on the floor. Two naked walls—one exposed brick, one white wall-paper—met at a right angle and a simple, unadorned chair had been pushed into the space between them, its back towards the corner but not quite touching either of the walls.
To call it unadorned, of course, was not currently correct, although most of the time it was just that. Looking over into that corner at this point in time, even the most distracted observer couldn’t help but notice the living, breathing ornament kneeling on the chair.
Her knees pressed tightly together to fit onto the narrow surface and her loosely tied hands resting on the back, a woman perched on the chair. She was naked except for a simple leather collar, almost hidden by her long tumbling hair, and a small anklet glittering in the light that cast through the open window: a string of silver with a tiny amulet in the shape of the letter C, my initial.
Claire, nice to meet you. Don’t worry, you can shake my hand—she might get messy sometimes, but I haven’t touched her yet.
In fact, I was hardly paying attention to her at all. That was the point. She was a flighty little kitten of a woman, impatient, needy, all too desiring of attention even at the most inopportune of times. This was not punishment, no. She didn’t do anything wrong, she just needed to learn. And some lessons are harder to bring home than others. This too, is not entirely true as I am sure you guessed: it is exactly that cuddly quality, the need to be touched and admired at all times that I found quite so irresistible about her and I had no intentions of breaking it out of her. That’s not the kind of woman I am. But I enjoyed preying on her weaknesses; I still do—and so does she. Just ignore the pout, it’s always a lie, another ploy for attention from my needy little kitten.
While I was doing the dishes, read
The Times
on my iPad, had some breakfast and coffee and responded to a few emails that stacked up during the week, my kitten spent her slow Saturday morning on that corner chair. Silent. From time to time she uttered tiny noises of discomfort, of course, but that was to be expected. She did not once break my orders: she knew punishment would start and escalate from there. Although I should mention, that it was rarely fear of punishment and far more likely the hope of reward and the joy in making me happy that kept her motionless and quiet.
She is not a cringing, cowardly creature. She does not fear anything, I think, but she adores praise like nothing else, even just a satisfied glance can make her chest swell with pride. Which is, of course, why she was kneeling there for near three hours—her hair matted with sweat, face red and tense, the muscles of her thighs shaking with exhaustion: because she adores being given the opportunity to earn my praise.
I had been watching her silently from across the room for the last ten minutes or so. She was beautiful. I know I sometimes forget to mention that because, to me, it is so utterly clear and obvious that it almost seems trivial and silly to try and put it into words. But let me be clear: my kitten is utterly beautiful—with her huge, shining eyes, the wild red hair and the freckles that spread all over her light, almost pink skin, down her face, her breasts, her shoulders and all the way down, only petering out in the small of her back, over the dimpled cheeks of her ass. She carries just enough weight and gravity to make her soft and plump like a ripe fig, ready to feast upon.
Maybe it was cruel, but I want to try and explain it if you have never been in this situation before. You know that she is perching there, in pain, every second stretching into infinity, waiting, always waiting for a word, a gesture of yours that would end the struggle. She wasn’t tied to the chair at all and—albeit with some struggle to make her stiff and aching muscles move—she could have gotten off the chair at any moment. But she didn’t, because of you. Because of me. Watching her fight to keep her shaking muscles in line, forcing her body to ignore every rational reaction to the stimulus of pain it could come up with, was more than a testament to power. Far more. Power means nothing in the face of all that longing, that desire, the knowledge that every stretching second, she is imagining your face, your cunt, the taste of your tongue.
It would also be fallacious to assume that the power dynamic was tilted all the way in my direction, just because I was sitting comfortably over a bowl of cereal with strawberries and she was kneeling, loosely bound, sweating and aching. Not yet. It would have tipped if she’d given up, but as it was, her refusal to give into this most base desire of her body to avoid pain, the power was perfectly balanced. I watched her, thought of her in every stretching second, too. My strong, my stubborn, my brilliant kitten.
So when I finally walked over, my naked feet smacking softly against the hardwood floor, it was I who made a power concession. Just for a second, for as long as it took me to cross the room, she had won and we both knew it. I watched her back straighten in silent triumph and felt myself grow wetter, warmer. Gathering her hair in one hand, I pulled back her head and her eyes sparkled up at me wide, proud and beautiful.
“Stay,” I whispered and for the most fleeting of moments, I thought her face fell, flickering in a flash of dismay. I wanted to leave her in that state of uncertainty but power was a more complicated arrangement than it ever appeared to the outside. It was in the nobility of her suffering, in the pout of her lips, in the aching in her eyes and I brushed my lips over her forehead with a reassuring smile. The knots in her temples dissolved.
Tearing myself away from her, my fingers ached to touch her more with every step that took me further away. My light dressing gown fluttered at my sides as I walked into the bathroom. I found the harness drying on a rack by the shower. The plastic cock still attached to it was the sweeter, softer one: pinkishly flesh-coloured and soft to the touch. I had her massage essential oils into the rubber surface for so many hours, it smelled like jasmine and not the stark and biting scent of industrial plastic. It didn’t feel right that day and I pulled it from the leather apparatus, gently depositing it on the rack where we kept the toys that were frequently in need of washing.
I chose by instinct when my fingers closed around one of the rubber cocks, glossy black, huge and dangerous. The head and veining so realistic it tended to make her uncomfortable—my kitten always preferred the cute ones, pink or blue and with a design that removed them far from the association with male genitalia. I never minded, but kitten is particular. This is why I chose it that day.
It fitted snugly through the leather loop, large and impressive as I fixed it around my hips and thighs. I liked the way it peeked out from down there in the space between the swells of my breasts. Fingers encircling the black rubber, I ran them up and down the shaft and let that familiar aching shiver run down my spine. This one still did smell acrid and rubbery. Kitten doesn’t like touching it with her small, soft, lesbian hands and she must have neglected it far more than the cute ones.
It wasn’t a cute cock kind of day.
Almost as an after-thought, I reached for a small washcloth, too, drenched it in cold water and then wrung it out over the sink.
A cock rising in eternal rubber erection puts a different kind of swing in my step, it bobs a little with the gravity of it and I tend to start walking like a cowboy, a crooked smile on my face as though I’d chewed on one too many dry stalks of grass. I even tried spitting once, but that was a humiliating failure that had kitten double over in giggles. None of that, now.
She didn’t turn around when she heard me approach—still such a good little kitten. I stood behind her, watched her shiver, fight her every instinct to look, to move. With puckered lips, I blew and stirred the air that hung over her back. Little kitten mewls filled the room.
Gently, I brushed the mass of curls over one shoulder, freeing the line of her spine. Her skin there was glinting with sweat. When I brought the washcloth to the sensitive patch of skin between her shoulders, she jumped so hard, I worried about the chair. Her moan was instantaneous, her back curled and she was breathing hard. The cold had to feel good after so long. Carefully, I ran it all over her back, then kissed the moist skin.
“What a pretty little kitten you are,” I whispered and already her spine seemed to straighten with pleasure. As my fingers encircled the black cock, I brushed it down the crack of her ass. Little kitten wriggled, so needy.
The height wasn’t quite right though, and neither was the chair sturdy and safe enough for what I had in mind for her later. Instead, I walked to her flank, gently petting her face.
“Turn around to me,” I whispered and carefully, she managed the ninety degree turn. The effort in the simple movement was obvious. She winced as she placed her knees into the new location. Picking up the sponge again, I ran it over her forehead and her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she breathed, eyes wide and sparkling. How beautiful she was. Whatever plans I might have had, in that moment, I simply tilted up her face and brought my lips to hers. She still tasted like toothpaste from this morning. My poor little kitten—I would feed her later, maybe bathe her and treat her to a massage. My tongue met hers and she moaned into my mouth as I balled my hand to a fist in her hair.
“Scoot back.”
She looked at me uncomprehendingly and I raised my brows. There was a watery note of uncertainty in her eyes, but she moved back until I told her to stop, knees resting just at the far edge of the surface.
“Hands here,” I continued, patting the other edge, the one closest to me. She swallowed and leaned over, shaking a little until I put a hand on the back of the chair, steadying it. Her face was now directly in front of my huge, shiny cock. I could see her wrinkle her nose at the smell, and the note of embarrassed chagrin in her eyes.
“I want you to lick it.”
She blushed. Fuck, that was adorable. I petted her cheek and she looked up at me as I brushed the cock over her lips. She knew better than to show her distaste over this particular one today. She opened up, lips parting with a tiny pop and her sweet, pink tongue started to encircle the rubber head. There was a moment in which I could almost imagine what it had to feel like to do this with the real thing. I pushed it into her mouth. She choked a little, fingers clawing into the edge of the chair but she took it well, slurping and moving in with each stroke. When I told her to touch herself, I had to hold her shoulders to steady her, but her moans made the long morning of waiting worth it. The wet, spluttering whimpers around a rubber cock, like a symphony of undervalued instruments. I was just trying to decide what to take next, her ass or her cunt, when suddenly she uttered a gurgling cry and the cock slipped in so deep it cut off her air-supply.
I pulled out. Panting, she rubbed her face against my naked stomach. Feeling magnanimous and far too turned on, I forgave her for coming without permission and pulled her close. I helped her off the chair and half-lifted, half-dragged her to the bed. Her knees shook like leaves in the wind.