He helps her to stand, and then she hears him lie back down on the bed. The room around her feels too large, too empty, too alone, even though she knows it isn’t. She fights the urge to reach out for something, anything—the dresser, the edge of the bed, the closet door—and instead reaches down to find the tie of her robe. She unties it slowly, then slides it off her shoulders and lets it fall to the ground. Then, she takes a deep breath, and pulls her tank top slowly over her head and throws it over her shoulder. Her nipples are erect from the excitement and the cold air makes them pucker even more. Then she leans down, drops her panties down over her feet, and stands back up.
She hears Derek sigh, and tries to imagine where he is in the room, what he’s doing. Then his hands are on her, trailing down her hips and across her thighs, and she realizes he’s sitting on the bed and she must be standing right in front of him. He takes her ass in his hands and pulls her toward him, them runs his tongue across her belly button, down her thighs.
“Lie down,” he says, and it doesn’t even sound like his voice. It’s gruffer somehow, more forceful. “Put your arms up,” he says, and she does, feeling his strength as he holds both her hands above her with one of his own. Then she feels him slide the cuffs around her wrists, their furry softness caressing her skin, and then tightening and pulling them just enough so that she can’t slide out. He hooks them to something—she’s not sure what—and suddenly she can’t move.
“Okay?” he asks tenderly, and she can’t do anything but nod. She’s not sure what she feels—excitement, anticipation, fear, desire—she wants him to do whatever he wants to her. She would say yes to anything he asked.
She realizes there is silence all around her. She can’t hear or feel Derek anywhere. Her skin comes alive, and she imagines this is what it’s like to be in a horror movie, where you know something’s coming for you, but you don’t know what it is or where it’s going to come from. Or like being prey—every nerve, every muscle twitching, ready to react with a flight or fight response. “Derek?” she whispers. She’s afraid to break the silence, but she feels like she has to do something. “Derek?”
She doesn’t hear anything. A pull on the cuffs only seems to draw them tighter around her wrists. Is he sitting there watching her? Did he leave her here? What if he’s taping her? She knows, of course, that he would never do any of these things, but the longer she waits the more the fear creeps in.
Then, finally, she hears a noise. She pricks her ears in that direction, feeling like a wild animal. Is that him? Is it the cat?
She can’t tell. Her senses are deceiving her. Something cold brushes against her stomach, and she has a moment of near panic—she’s ready to rip the cuffs right off—but then she feels Derek’s tongue too, next to the coldness, and hears him crunching something in his teeth.
He runs his tongue, along with the ice, up her stomach, leaving a tingling trail of heat and cold, until he reaches her chest and the ice melts. Her stomach does somersaults as he winds his cool tongue around one nipple and presses his palm firmly between her legs. She presses against the flat of his hand, willing him to touch her, stroke her, enter her. She has forgotten she is handcuffed to the bed, that she cannot see. All of her senses are focused on just one spot—she feels that if he doesn’t split her open soon she will explode.
“Please…,” she whispers, “Please….”
“Please what?” Derek asks as he enters the bedroom. She didn’t even hear him come in, and her face flushes with embarrassment. She thinks about pretending she was asleep, then thinks better of it and hands the catalog over to him.
“Please…please buy me these,” she says softly, pointing to the silk bonds with one tired, trembling finger.
Buckle Fucker
Rakelle Valencia
I had been sucked down into the chute jerking my head up in desperation, searching for help, to find that she was all business. Her hands clawed my thick, protective vest with the same tenacity as the others. Hands that lifted me upright, back onto the bronc, and I had wished I could feel them on my skin. Her hands were strong, professional, serious, determined. I knew this in seconds as they gripped my thick, Kevlar vest. And I thought I knew what kind of woman she would be just by her hands.
Those long fingers had instantly intrigued me. The digits led to muscular yet feminine hands with veins pulsing in excitement. The pointer finger on her right was crooked with a thin, white scar marking flesh from nail to knuckle. A woman’s working hands fascinated me so. I wanted to run my tongue along that scar, caress it, follow its trail, draw the marred appendage into my hungry mouth. And I had chastised myself because my brain was in the wrong game at that moment.
Shaking my Stetson-covered head, I tried to get back into
my ride, envisioning how the bucking horse would twist and writhe beneath me, this one first going to the left away from my hand then knowing to slam right when I began to overcompensate. Of course I wasn’t planning to overcompensate. I had been planning to walk the edge and get her to buck out straight and strong, picking up points by stroking long, dotted lines with my spur rowels.
The mare was hot and fresh, not yet used hard at this level, which meant she was a wild card, not consistent. I’d ridden her before, and she was an honest bucker with a few tricks up her sleeve that would become known as her routine romp when she worked more.
The red mare tossed her tangled mane in angst then lathered into a captured frenzy, banging the steel panels, making me need support once again to keep from falling underneath those large hooves. A cowboy down in the chute is dead, or at least hurtin’ enough not to be makin’ any rides at that rodeo. I stabbed my toes on the rails and wiggled behind a bit, out of the sweet spot, until the horse settled. Hands were all over me still, keeping me safe, voices urging me on.
Our eyes met. The rugged, lady cowboy on the chute crew had greenish-brown eyes that just about melted my watery blues, and I had hoped she knew that I was thanking her for her help, for her hands. She smiled with only half of her face, a cockeyed grin. I was careful not to nod as that would throw the gate open.
I’d been riding horses since I was a kid and only recently had I given myself over to trying the bred broncs, bred for bucking. I’m not too sure that the whole idea sits well with what I like. I mean, where I come from, we ride horses to gentle ’em, to get ’em good and broke. But hell, this rodeo deal gets me laid.
Unfortunately, I was thinkin’ on that and not on the ride under me as I scooted into my rigging, pressing the smooth,
tight, bulging crotch of my Wrangler jeans against my hand, wiggling into the sweet spot once again. I stretched out good, having contact, spurs to silky shoulders, for when I came out of the chute. I nodded, tucked my chin and threw my upper body back, lining out from the point of shoulders with both rowels.
I remember that it was a terrific start, very classic for a hop or two. I remember that I had forgotten who I was on, searching my head for a name when my brain went elsewhere, remembering that I hadn’t caught the woman’s name, the chute crew, lady cowboy’s. But I shouldn’t have been thinking about her.
I got too lost in daydreaming like a moon-eyed schoolboy over that cowgirl, and couldn’t come up with any thoughts on this particular horse’s routine. I’d had it at the forefront of my mind once. Now there was nothing. Right when I needed to know this horse the most…
Well, that red, bucking mare switched on me. I promptly caught air between my denim-clad ass and the red, hairy carnival ride, and I knew immediately what that meant. When the stadium audience viewed sunlight betwixt me and a bronc, I’d be gettin’ off fast. Sure enough, that bucking mare asked me to leave, hard.
I didn’t make the buzzer. In fact, I had barely made four and a half seconds. It wasn’t the hang time that hurt, it was the landing. There wasn’t going to be any trophy buckle for anyone to polish off of me tonight. Might as well collect my rigging and head out.
Climbing the chutes to exit the arena, I was thinking on how much I would be missing that weight strapped to the front of my midsection, moving with me, yet causing just enough friction for me not to forget it was there, all the while trying to remember the damn name of that red mare.
“Maria,” she said, that chute crew, lady cowboy breaking into my thoughts.
“Nope. Wasn’t anything as pretty as that. More like Buckle Fucker,” I replied in a frump, dragging my rigging over the stock rails, landing on the pleasure side of the fence, the business aspect left behind in four and a half seconds.
“Well that’s a new one. I don’t believe I’ve ever been called that before. At least not to my face.” She shuffled and pretended to huff with that slanted grin. “The mare’s name was Two Steppin’. Do you dance?”
My gritted, stubbed fingernails picked at the tape securing the rosin-pasted glove. “Only in the arena with a four-legged partner.” What I should have said was “yah, sure, any time, anywhere,” but I was pretty soured with myself, not to mention embarrassed at that point.
Watching my struggle in unraveling the tape, she reached to unzip the shock-absorbing armor engulfing my torso and ran her hands over my chest, one down my stomach and past my belt, ever-so-slowly. Stiff batwing chaps hit the cement aisle of the grandstands, tottering on their own to remain erect, before giving up and collapsing in an expensive heap of multicolored hide. My glove dropped to join them as this Maria twisted her long, thin, strong fingers into the front of my striped Cinch shirt, popping several of the pearly snaps.
When her lips touched mine I was still dazed. My hands went to either side of her waist feeling the thick, tooled leather that I trailed with clammy digits to an engraved hubcap the size to fit a sports car. I jerked the silver plate like opening a can of tonic. Instead of the fizz I heard the roar of the crowd, reminding me that we were center-stage of the stands.
I felt my ears get hot, knowing that my face must have reddened brighter than that flaming mare I had just come off of. Lust welled within my head and grew within my Wranglers but I hitched her buckle back up and bent to grab my gear.
“Where ya going, cowboy?” she asked.
“Back to the hotel, ma’am.” I tipped my hat in the most gentlemanly manner.
“Can I come?”
A grin ripped my face apart to a crease greater than a river gorge through the Grand Canyon. “As many times as you want,” I replied and chauffeured her to my dented pickup truck, making doubly-sure that the door had latched properly closed.
She was forward. I liked that. And she was no road whore. I’d seen some that were battle weary—you know, rode hard and put away wet. I stayed clear of those.
I’d seen Maria around many of the rodeos. She came from good, hard-working class, blue collar. My guess would have been that daddy was a stock contractor. How else would a lady have been working behind the chutes?
In my room, I dropped my gear and popped her buckle again, sliding the leather from its keeper. She stared me in the eyes, capturing my stubbled jaw in her palms to drag me in for a kiss. My tongue was trying to probe hers when she shoved my shoulders downward with insistence, directing me to my knees.
The hubcap was real. This lady was a team roper from what I could read of the engraving blurred in my vision, being too close to the end of my nose. She was a header I guessed. Maria unsnapped the fancy silver plate the rest of the way and peeled it from the leather strap, dropping it with a clink upon my rigging. Her slender fingers entangled snakelike into my short, brown hair, knocking my Stetson to the worn rug, shoving my face to the copper-colored button of her jeans.
The smell of wash-detergent and horses and leather and musk appealed to my nostrils as if baiting me in. I reached for the riveted button with a jerk of both hands and had the gritty, little zipper down before she clasped my wrists and hog-tied them by the leather strap of her belt. When I looked,
I knew my eyes had begged of her. She wavered, releasing her hold, the two of us peeling her slim-fit Wranglers to stack higher on her boot tops.
I felt her fingers in my hair again, smashing my face to her shaved, trimmed pubic strip. Maria jutted her pelvis forward, opening her lower lips along with her long legs, flattening my nose into her silky flesh. My tongue stabbed out at her, rewarded by a squeak then a low, rumbling groan. I lapped at her slit like it was an ice cream cone on a hot, muggy July day, clawing between her legs with my wrists still bound at her full asscheeks.
She started riding me as if she were at a jog on a hot-blooded quarter horse. My face was the seat of her saddle, my hair was the mane of her gelding or the horn of the pommel she held on to. And I could so go with that scenario because what I really wanted were those clenching thighs hugging my ears to finish the scene.
I tugged at her captured boots, jeans wringing the leather uppers to create manacles that I fought against in her behalf. My insistence and the awkwardness of my trapped wrists tripped her, throwing us both off balance, Maria landing without injury upon the late ’60s, early ’70s avocado-colored bed covering.
It was fortunate that my recent meager rodeo winnings did not allow for a large suite. The rundown hotel sported rooms no bigger than a box stall, the bed, with its well-bleached, well-starched sheets, demanding most of this space. All of this made it easier to remain on my knees, no floor length to cover as I crouched by the side of the bed throwing long, naked, white, smooth legs over my shoulders.
I love the smell of women. I love the taste of them, the feel of them. I love to please them, especially when I can hear their whispered thanks, their moans and groans of appreciation, their grunts of gratitude. I love women, all types, shapes, sizes.
All women. The mere sounds of Maria panting and squirming in delight made me reach for my swollen crotch. Dust-covered, sweaty jeans stood sentinel against calloused palms, resisting my haste to stroke myself to a quick, spewing cum. I struggled, ripping and pulling at pants and jockstrap to spring my throbbing hard-on.