Once loosed, I humped at the quilt hanging from the side of the bed, grinding against the firm mattress and the seam where it met the box spring. I needed something more than my own dry, bound hands, but my body was stuck in place, my mouth refused to give up its territory on a whim.
As my prick jumped on its own accord, I thrust two fingers into Maria, and her hole gave in warm wetness, dribbling creamy slickness down her crack toward a puckered, darkened anus which kissed at wandering fingertips as delicately and deliberately as she had kissed my lips at the rodeo.
Maria shrieked in spasms and sat bolt upright, yanking me from between her moistened legs by my ears. Her hands shredded through my striped Cinch shirt; the snapping, almost cracking of those little pearly white closures rang like firecrackers, and satiny legs fell free from my shoulders.
Gooseflesh rose over my chest with the caress of her strong hands. My body was unaccustomed to the touch of a forward woman, a muscle-laden, ranch-hardened, determined woman. Maria’s hands took what they wanted, much like the woman herself. And I had known, somehow, that she would be like that. But that was no solace for my aching, rigid prick.
She tweaked at my nipples, nearly sending me flat to the floor, and sucked my mouth earnestly. Maria wrapped firm fingers around my engorged dick and plied me with strokes of friction, skin moving alive and hot in her palm over and separate from the blood-filled tissues inside.
My body collapsed away from her touch, my cheek slapping the flesh of her lap, my lungs gasping for air, stomach
concave, jerking my erection from her grip. It was too much, way too much. Her powerful hands dominated my entire being and I would have to waive control to take the ride.
Maria clasped both sides of my head like a vise and licked her tongue about my lips as she rocked backward, flat to the bed, dragging me with her. Legs engulfed me. Knees hooked onto my hips. Ankles crossed over my back. My elbows at her ears. With one massive hug, Maria had my cock lined up and driven into her.
Wind whistled through her pouty, swollen, sensuous mouth as if she had just dipped into the water of a soaking, soothing bath. I ground my teeth and grunted much as I had when I hit the arena dirt with a dull thud of pain and frustration. I couldn’t do this, although I told myself that I could in my head. I mean, I could, but the whole thing was going to be over quick. I probably wouldn’t even make four and a half seconds.
I was barely holding on, thinking of anything else that I could to make this ride last when my ass rang out with the slap of her hand. I pulled back in reaction, putting air between me and the saddle. I knew it was over. Time to get off.
One of Maria’s hands clawed into the back of my neck, the other smacked my tense, undulating buttocks again, and again.
My throat growled until it was raw with fire, my body pumped uncontrollably with wave after wave of jism unloading into her, into Maria. It wasn’t my dick that came, it was my entire rugged, worn body pounding and riding to a motion not of my making.
I knew my asscheeks were reddened. I could feel the warmth of their glow. No matter how many years they had been hardened in the saddle I knew that there was always that ride that would sore them up. For me, that ride was Maria.
Noticing too late that her hands had both descended to my
hips as her legs fell open, the toughened cowgirl marked me with fingernails to my shoulders as if spurs were rolling over a bucking horse. At the same time, her pussy clamped on to my softening prick threatening with contracting strength to cut it off. I drove into her. Maria let out a cry that made sweat trickle the rain gutter between my shoulder blades and she writhed and twisted in carnal pleasure beneath me.
In the morning she was gone. I rolled out of bed to unceremoniously fall in a heap on the threadbare rug, rubbing first one chafed wrist then the other, surprised by the feeling of being rode hard and put away wet. Shaking my head into focus, my vision was teased by the shiny, hubcap-sized buckle holding down a little note torn from the bedside hotel pad: GOOD RIDE. YOU EARNED IT. Grabbing the buckle I read the engraving: CHAMPION HEADER.
It Ain’t Always Easy
Tom Piccirilli
This is where things get a little funky.
She reaches into the nightstand drawer and finds the handcuffs. You know what’s coming but it’s already in motion, and despite the sharp prodding under your heart you realize you’ve got to ride it out.
So, okay—
She lets loose with a low gurgling noise that’s supposed to make her sound like a shocked Sunday school teacher. Actually it sounds like something LeeLee the computer-literate gorilla at the San Diego Zoo makes when she’s in a hot mood and typing out FUCKME FUCKME FUCKME on her little palm pad while chasing the handlers around her cage.
LeeLee’s a monkey of strong wants. She’s been on the news every night this week, with zoo officials promising to fly in a mate for her from the central highlands of Zaire. The nervous handlers look violated and in need of extensive therapy.
The window’s open just enough that the car alarms, shouts, sirens, and other midsummer street noise draw your attention. The breeze circles the room and pats the nape of your neck
like the soft hand of your last lover.
Actually, she never patted you there and didn’t love you and didn’t have soft hands, but you compensate with a vivid imagination and maudlin sentimentality.
This one, her name’s Kathleen. You know her from the neighborhood and you’ve scoped each other in the bar scene before, but tonight something clicked. The right amount of liquor, the lack of choice in the crowd.
So—she’s got the handcuffs and she’s twirling them around on the chain, eyebrows arched like she’s expecting you to explain yourself.
Like you’ll say, Hey, I’m into the bondage scene, baby!
Like you’ll say, Those old things? I’ve got a pair of fur-lined restraints in the closet!
Like you’ll say anything except, Those cuffs, they were my father’s. He was a cop. He died on the job. Heart attack, not like he was shot trying to stop a bank robbery. I keep them around for reasons I don’t comprehend. I didn’t much like the man, and he probably thought less of me. His badge is in there too. It’s not gold, he never made detective.
You keep a tight lip and try to grin at her. It doesn’t really work. Your charm is lacking more and more these days.
Instead, she’s waiting and losing patience. You stare at each other for a few more seconds. As if it was all rehearsed many times before and you’ve missed your cue, she makes the horny gorilla noise again.
You might have your hang-ups but you need some affection too, and the craving is on you in a rush and you reach for her. This one, she moves aside and gives you a wide leering smile. You jumped too fast and now she knows she’s in charge. It never comes down to who’s strongest, but who’s weakest.
She tells you to roll over on your back.
You can either buck the situation or go with it. You’ve
gone with so little over the years that abruptly you feel like doing something you’ve been told to do.
Fine. You roll onto your back and you see that she doesn’t really know what she’s doing either. She frowns like she’s trying to figure things out step by step, and tells you to take your clothes off.
So now you’ve gotta get up, get naked, and then get back on the bed and roll over on your back. When you’re a square wedge of vanilla, this shit ain’t as easy as it looks on the videos.
Kathleen, she puts one cuff on your right wrist and then notices that you don’t have a wrought-iron headboard she can just stick the chain through. Either she closes the other cuff on your left wrist, which really isn’t doing too much in the foreplay department, or she has to improvise.
You’ve got to give it to her, she’s making a valiant effort. She tells you to get off the bed and lie on the floor.
Whatever. You sit on the throw rug and she orders you to scoot.
Scoot? Which way?
This way, she says, so you scoot this way.
Further, she says, and there’s an odd tremble of frustration in her voice, as she realizes this takes a little practice. Time to figure out how to use these props, play the game right. You scoot more and more, getting rug burns on your ass. Some folks would think that adds to the ambience, but it just stings.
Scoot!
I am!
More!
Jesus Christ, lady, the fuck you want me?
There, she says, and you get the picture. You slide down to the radiator and she snaps the other cuff in place.
It looks more fun when they do it on the nasty-sex cable channels. There, everybody is greasy and laughing and
raring to go. Here, it feels like you’ve been kidnapped by the Sandinista rebels.
Kathleen does a slow striptease act, humming to herself like she’s on stage, but slightly embarrassed by her own grin. You know the feeling. You’re both acting roles that weren’t exactly designed for you, but what else is there to do in the city on a Sunday night at 3:00 a.m. except give it a whirl?
She’s pretty good actually, taking her time and moving around the room with authority, giving you a peek here and there. Flashing the undersides of her tits, the hint of an inner thigh. You like what you see. You’re aroused and sort of surprised about it. You’d think the harsh pressure of the radiator vents digging into your back might be too annoying, but now it’s pretty much all right. So long as nobody puts the heat on.
You’re supposed to be the submissive here, the one who takes orders. The pawn, the tool, the toy who waits, but to hell with all that.
You start giving her the mastering gaze. It usually doesn’t work. You try to influence your will upon the world like everyone else. This one, she sidles closer doing a baby-girl pout, and drops her clothes with an air of virginal please-don’t-hurt-me.
You’d think that being shackled to ninety-year-old piping might be a giveaway to helplessness, but it’s not. You arch your hips a little, pressing your cock forward. She squats above and eases onto your shaft.
She’s still giving you the baby bottom lip but instead of thrusting up into her for all you’re worth, you slip your free hand to the side of her face, move to nuzzle her neck. She sinks another inch into your lap. You both grunt but there’s almost something sweet about it now. This bondage thing, it’s for the pros. You try this shit without reading a study guide or two and you might hurt yourself.
Except for the naked woman slamming on your groin,
you’re in somewhat the same position as everybody your father ever arrested. You try to hold her in place but you’ve only got the one hand to do it with. She grunts deep in her chest, and it’s a noise that tickles your nuts.
There’s an animal inside all these modern sensitive-man neuroses that keep your analyst’s kids in college while you try to figure out why you feel guilty for a normal mortal’s sins.
The atmosphere shifts some as she lets out a laugh. You can’t help yourself and you do the same. It feels good, sort of. Kathleen’s bouncing around faster and faster, and you’re digging the feeling but it’s still rough going. You’re just doing your best not to pop your shoulder out of the socket. Every time she zigs left you’ve got to zig with her or you’ll tear your rotator cuff. It happened once during college football and probably cost you a very minor career.
It’s hard to shake off the absurdity of yourself in the moment, but when she grinds into you like this, leaning over to whisper in your ear, you can nearly let go. It’s nice enough. She’s got the rhythm down just right and her voice is sufficiently sweet to make you think this might not be just a one-night stand.
That’s gotten more important as you’ve grown older, though maybe it shouldn’t have. You suck on her nipples and thrust into her, moaning in a whiny way that doesn’t befit a man. She doesn’t seem to mind, and that’s all it takes to bring you to the edge.
But you’ve got your duties, so you hold off and wait until she’s shuddering, leaning forward to perch herself against the wall. She slips and clonks the radiator and the vibration races through the cuff and rattles your teeth.
She’s banging away like crazy and you’re really hoping she’s getting off because you’re patient, but you can’t sit on this fence forever. She screams, Now, which may or may not be a order.
It doesn’t matter much. She’s hit the spot and you fire off like you’re getting paid for it.
You both take a couple minutes to wind down, catch your breath. Now that it’s over, you can see she’s a little worried. Your wrist is bleeding and your elbow’s scraped and bruised. There’s a price to pay for every damn thing you do.
Where’s the key? Kathleen asks.
You blink a few times to get the sweat out of your eyes.
Hey, you tell her, that there, that’s a good question.
You think it might be in the nightstand.
She rummages around and says she can’t find it.
You have visions of the landlord coming in with the plumber discovering you here like this, the guy screaming about how the radiator is dented. How it’s going to come out of your deposit. The plumber just standing there and laughing, saying it’s the third time this month he’s found some schmuck cuffed to the piping.
Wait, wait, she goes, here it is, I’ve got it.
She lets you loose and leads you to the bathroom and swabs your cuts with witch hazel and gives you two aspirin. Even she knows you’re going to hurt in the morning. She washes up beside you and dresses carefully.
Before she applies a new coat of lipstick she hugs you to her and plants one on your mouth. The moment lengthens and becomes more tender, and then she’s out of your arms.
She’s pulled out a pad and pen from the drawer and written her phone number on it. Her full name beneath. No smiley faces or happy hearts with wings. Nothing cutie-pie about it, you’re already past that. Which is encouraging, all things considered.