She takes her hand back and I open my eyes. Her hair brushes my cheek as she leans in, her warm breast settling against my chest. I’ve grown used to being the initiator of our kisses, and I have to ignore an urge to lead when her lips brush mine. She wastes no time in showing me she’s only too happy to steal the reins.
Her kisses are exciting—deep and confident. How long has she known how to kiss this way? How long have I gone not realizing, always so busy dictating?
The questions fade as her palm glides down my chest and belly to close over my cock, drawing a moan from my mouth into hers. She coaxes my thighs wider and I obey. Her touch roams, stroking, cupping, squeezing. My hips flex, wanting more. That firm hand pushes me flat to the mattress once more and I feel her smile through the kissing. A fond smile of amusement at my eagerness? Or the smirk of a woman keen to torture? Her hand closes around me and I lose the will to care.
Her strokes are slow and decadent, long pulls from the root to just below the crown. I feel spoiled. And measured. Taunted. I feel hard and needy and helpless, powerless and virile at once. A predator, fettered and hungry. When my hips rise again she allows it.
Faster,
I tell her, thrusting into her fist, willing it to tighten. But she only indulges me for a dozen beats, then her hand is gone, my arousal left to throb in the cool air. I’m abandoned next by her mouth as she sits up. I watch her tongue trace her lower lip, imagining her servicing my cock. She kisses differently when she’s in charge. What other tricks might that mouth reveal, if allowed to keep surveying its territory?
Alas, I’m not to find out. Not yet.
“Turn over. On your hands and knees.”
A shiver whisks through me. In part it’s the uncertainty, not knowing what she has planned. But more intimidating is that wide-open curtain, being made to look out across the rooftops and the glittering city.
I do as I’m told, getting to my knees and palms. The strap of the cuffs twists, drawing my wrists a bit closer, a bit tighter. Now I see the items she’s chosen for tonight’s reversal—the smooth glass dildo and the smallest of my paddles. The last time we used either,
my
hands wielded them. I’m no stranger to being their target, but the idea tenses me more than it normally might. The city is watching tonight. No human gaze could chance upon me, not in this dim light and not so high above most of the neighboring windows. But Paris is watching. That great brick bully’s twinkling eyes are on me, witnesses to my powerlessness.
My heart is a rock, my throat a length of cloth wrung dry and taut. A soft, slow hand strokes my back, and I sense Caroly reading my thoughts.
“It’s a beautiful city.”
“From afar, perhaps.”
“It’s your home,” she tells me.
No,
I think.
This building is my home.
These walls are my entire world some days, the flat my island nation, its rooms familiar provinces, all of it suspended in a cold, chaotic sea—Paris. Paris, with no up or down or left or right, where I’ll be swept away and lost if not tethered, where I’ll drown. My lust withers to limp shame with those electric eyes blinking, staring. Mocking.
That city is my jailer, but I love my cell so very much.
I fidget, needing to feel the leather around my wrists. Captivity is as soothing as a blanket to a mind like mine. Paris has a willing prisoner in me. It’s Caroly who keeps digging tunnels, keeps sawing through my bars and inviting me to make my escape. Always her hand, reaching out.
Everyone else is content simply to visit, to believe I’m happy as I am. To let me believe it. With their help I stayed locked inside for three years. With their help my tender feet grow blistered after two blocks’ journey, it’s been so long since I’ve laced them into shoes. Their love has turned me pale, left my eyes sensitive to the sunlight and made me forget what a garden smells like. They love my costume as much as I do. Only Caroly seems to prefer the naked actor trembling inside.
She loves me best, I realize. And all at once, I sink with perfect surrender into my body.
“Okay?” she asks.
“Yes, I’m okay.”
Take me out of my head,
I want to beg. Let me suffer this vulnerability in my body, where everything is simpler, where misgivings morph to kinks.
She shifts behind me, knees nudging my calves apart another inch or two. Her hands stroke my skin in perfect symmetry, seeming to memorize. The fins of my shoulder blades, the chute of my spine, muscles in my back that I can feel but never see. She kneads my hips, my thighs. The briefest, cruelest tease of a touch tells her my cock is still hard—some parts of me won’t be bullied by the disparaging nonsense that haunts my head, at least.
Her hands round my hips to my ass, circling my flesh, tracing my cleft. I sigh when she grazes that most intimate spot. My arms shake and I drop to my elbows.
“You like this, don’t you?” The cockiness has left her tone, and she wants reassurance she’s welcome to cross this line, and the next.
“I do.” Her fingertips stroke up and down between my cheeks. I’ve done this any number of times over the years, with a generous handful of clients. But it’s different tonight. Caroly’s going somewhere I know she never expected she would, and it makes the act feel new to me as well. Everything feels new with her.
“It’s intense,” I say, “but that’s good. It pulls me out of my head. Without numbing me, I mean.”
She doesn’t reply, just keeps drawing her fingers up and down.
Fuck me
, I think.
Dominate me. Push me so deep inside my own helplessness I find its pitch-black, frozen center; so deep it can’t hurt me anymore.
“I’d love for you to do that to me,” I whisper.
It’s the nudge she needed. She leaves me, shuffling to the other side of the bed, to the side table. I know that in a few breaths she’ll return with the mineral oil. The lover I’ve coaxed and molded these past few months, the one always so eager for my guidance… A novice no more. The master tonight.
Chapter Three
As Caroly sets the oil on the floor beside the bed, I hear her mutter the faintest, “Okay,” to herself, a breath’s pep talk.
A cool hand holds my hip then slippery fingertips glide between my cheeks. A shiver runs through me, chased by a fever.
At once I wish my hands were free. I wish I could brace myself higher, against the footboard, turn my head to watch. Instead I drop my forehead between my fists and submit to the powerlessness.
I moan each time she brushes my entrance, letting her know I want this. And that it’s okay if she wants it too, this act that used to furrow her brow with confusion…though she asked about it often, wanting to understand why other women would request it of me.
She preps me well, with more oil and the slow, thrilling ventures of a single fingertip. Circling to start, then inside, just a millimeter. Deeper, deeper, by the tiniest measures. My entire body is on edge, that exotic mix of excitement and shame I know well, dark and rich as caviar. I ache to know what she feels—if she’s nervous or turned-on, scandalized or fascinated. All I get are her heavy breaths behind me.
Then her finger is gone, and both hands. The dildo disappears from beside my elbow, and my arousal spikes in perfect counterbalance to my nerves.
As the tip glances me, a desperate, helpless sound falls from my lips. Caroly draws it over my entrance in short sweeps and the pleasure sharpens. It’s by no means my first time in this position, not my first time with my hands bound, even. But it’s been a long while, six months or more since I had a client request this. It’s never a natural sensation, not for either sex, but that’s what makes it exciting. That and the sinfulness of the inversion, of a man letting a woman penetrate the most intimate depths of his body.
The glass leaves me only to return in seconds, slippery with a fresh drizzle of oil. She doesn’t push yet, only strokes between my cheeks, the contact explicit and scary and forbidden.
There’s hesitance as she whispers, “You can give me instructions. If I do anything that doesn’t feel right.”
“Get me wet.” Such a female request—the words send a chill through me. “Get me ready, just as you are.” With that said, I suddenly don’t want my precious control. If we’re doing this, I want to submerge myself utterly. “Do as you want. I’ll say if it’s too much.” Though too much may feel perfect.
Pressure suddenly. My lids squeeze shut. I force myself to keep breathing, calm my body and invite this experience. I wish she could feel this moment as I can, when I sink inside her sex. All that slippery, tight heat wrapping itself around my flesh, sensations wasted on a rigid length of unfeeling glass.
“Oh.” The first surrender, that sudden, strangely gentle breaching.
She’s good—doesn’t press farther, just moves the dildo with subtle twists as my muscles adjust. I gasp again when the pressure suddenly leaves and when the glass returns, slick again with oil, I welcome it easily. The room feels so quiet though. My thoughts so loud.
“I want to hear what you’re thinking,” I tell her. Neither an order nor a plea, merely a request. She grants it.
“I’m just admiring your body.” She runs her free palm down my back. “All these little muscles that tense.”
Lovers’ Braille,
I think. She reads my body as I so often do hers. The notion flees as the pressure returns. I clamp like a fist but only for a breath, willing my body to calm. To peel open the violation and find the pleasure wrapped inside. She holds back until I’ve relaxed then puts her palm to my hip, and pushes.
I shudder, tiny hairs rising along my arms and back. The anxiety has finally fermented to excitement and I shift my hips, wanting more.
“Does it feel good?” she asks.
“Yes. It’s beginning to.”
“How does it feel, exactly?”
I take a moment to explore the question, settling into the intrusion. My muscles have adjusted and I find subtler sensations now, the smooth caress of the glass against those secret, private spots. I feel used and spoiled, resistant and eager. Should some stranger see us, I’d be flooded at once with shame and brazen pride. “It feels like many things. Dirty, above all else. Sinful.” I clear my sticky throat. “What does it make you feel, doing this to me?”
She eases out the dildo and I groan. She doesn’t reply until the head returns once more, cool from the air and the oil. It slips inside with only the briefest twinge, lighting up a million neglected nerve endings.
“It makes me feel…powerful, I think.” The dildo creeps deeper, another inch or more, its progress seeming to darken the room. My body wants this—faster than she’s giving. I roll my hips to show her, but she stills me with a firm hand.
“I’m driving, remember?” The confidence is back in her voice.
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you ever…” She trails off. I let her assemble the thought, lost for a few beats in her physical demands. My head’s grown light, my breathing fast and reedy.
“You’ve done this before,” she says.
“I have.”
“Do you ever think about… Do you ever imagine it’s a man doing this? You know. Not a dildo.”
“No. I don’t.”
It’s an obvious thought, a natural question to ask, but I’ve never been at ease around men. Certainly not ones in a position to make me feel weak. Imagining opening the most vulnerable realms of my body to their graceless, sweaty male appetites is the last thing that would have me panting this way.
“It’s far more exciting to me—and taboo enough—just being fucked by a woman.” I’d do anything for a lover, be anything she wanted. A hard cock to own her, a tight vessel to swallow her aggression. Just want me and I’m yours. Just look at me with hungry intention in your eyes and I’ll slip into any skin you hand me.
Caroly takes me deeper, deeper, so deep I feel the brush of her knuckle. She eases back and there’s the clink of the glass stopper of the oil bottle, the soft rustle of a towel. She fills me again, again, finding a pace. Every push, I gasp. Every withdrawal, I shudder. Every worry dissipates, swallowed in sensation.
“Oh. Fuck me.”
The strokes quicken as she learns to intuit how deep to go. Her free hand squeezes my cheek the way mine has done when I’ve taken her from behind, the way I’ve clasped her hip when she’s beneath me. I straighten my arms to rise and crane my neck, savoring a glance at her feminine body, the slender arm flexing as she takes me. I wish I could see the dildo in her hand, see the cock she’s wielding to make me feel this way. I shut my eyes and imagine it strapped about her hips, both hands free to grip my waist or pleasure my own cock, to feel her thighs touch mine as she took this role-reversal even further. I’d watch in the mirror. Watch that slender female body fucking my larger male one. The image draws a moan from my lungs.
She strokes my back. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“About watching you, doing this to me. How beautiful you’d look. How strong you’d look, owning my body.”
“Is it just you here with me, now?”
“Yes, just me.” I open my eyes, turning my head to meet her gaze. “Just us.” Just me, stripped of everything, stripped of my maleness, even.
The motions slow, turning deep and focused. “Good,” she murmurs. “You’re all I want.”
Her words caress me far deeper than any physical touch could. They cradle my heart in cupped hands. She can have that, that and so much more. Whatever she believes this malfunctioning man has to offer, it’s hers.
And I’ll tell her so. Soon.
Overwhelmed, I squeeze the strap tight. I feel even more exposed this way, weak and degraded, utterly naked. Each time the dildo slides deep, a fearful noise falls from my lips, chased by a groan as the glass caresses that electric, unseeable spot. My cock twitches with every pass.
Her palm circles my hip, then my cheek, a light caress but blazing with heat, coupled with the penetration.
Touch my cock,
I want to say. A plea or an order. A pull or squeeze or the whisper of her fingers. To drop my hips and feel the brush of the covers. Anything. The intrusion is sweet but so intense. If she’d only rub my hurting cock. I might come in a single stroke, but at least it would end this exquisite torture. I keep my wishes to myself, begging only with my moans. Suddenly she slows.
“I want…” She’s hesitant again. Shy.
“Whatever you want, just ask.”
“Can I use the paddle on you?”
Fuck yes.
“You can do anything to me.” I’ve let this woman take me outdoors, after all. There’s nowhere we can go inside this bedroom that will test my boundaries more.
The paddle disappears from my periphery and I feel the edge of the leather whisper along my thigh.
Hit me
. Punish me for liking this. Deepen the shame that has me panting like a dog.
Her hand stills, holding the dildo in place. “Show me how you want it.”
Edging my knees a bit wider, I ease my hips forward and back, the strokes growing longer and quicker as I master my thrusts. It’s the same motion as when I’m fucking, and the mechanics tighten that pleasurable knot in my belly, reminding my cock all the more acutely what it’s missing, how backward all of this is.
“That’s sexy,” she whispers.
The first night we met, she watched me masturbate. I conjure the memory of her gaze and her parted lips, of the curious, fretful woman who came to me in search of an initiation. I can’t see her face, but I know what her expression must look like. Just picturing it triggers a pang of arousal, clenching my body around the glass. I falter.
The paddle lands with a
whap.
My body bucks from surprise more than pain and I feel fire collect on the spot, seconds before the leather brands me again.
“
Oh
.”
“Keep going,” she says.
I do as I’m told, eager for everything—the sensation, the orders, the threat and correction if I fumble. The pleasure grows wild, too hot and frantic to control. My hips lose the beat and the second I take to recover is enough—
whap
.
My moan is a pure sound, encapsulating every contradictory thing I feel. I defy her just long enough to earn another slap of leather on my ass, then comply with the strike still stinging.
That burn on my skin. The trespass of smooth glass inside me. The fucking motion of my hips but with no warm flesh welcoming my cock. Too much. My thrusts are frantic, and the penetration in turn. I’m edging close to that most frustrating of mistakes—coming without my arousal even being touched. If she’d only stroke me, I’d die of pleasure. So intense I’d go blind, with the dildo filling me, if only she’d
touch me.
“I can’t…” I begin, but the words abandon me.
“You need to fuck?”
Yes yes yes.
“Please.”
“Okay.” So, so slowly, she eases the glass free. “You on top then.”
She’s read my mind. If I don’t get a turn to be the one doing, I’ll die. I’m sure of it. But I want the dildo, and that makes it tricky. She leans over me, hands shaking as she fumbles with my buckles. I hear her labored breathing. She’s excited and I haven’t so much as warmed her sex against my palm.
Who are you?
I want to demand, but discovering is more fun than being told.
Finally I’m free. “Lie down,” I say, sitting back on my heels.
I nearly come just getting the condom on and for once I’m grateful for the dulling latex. I’m clad and above her before she’s even got a pillow and settled herself.
“Keep your legs together.” I straddle her hips, guiding my cock between her thighs and finding her lips, pushing inside at a sharp angle. I have to ignore how she feels—hot and slick and snug. It’s not the easiest position, but this way she can still reach to give me what I want.
“Give me the glass.” It’s exciting to issue orders, to feel my aching flesh pulsing inside hers.
The arrangement has me spread wide open and the dildo slips inside, smooth and swift. I groan like a beast, the primal sound roaring from my lungs. I doubt I’ve ever worked so hard to suppress an orgasm. It’s a battering ram, every beat of my cock splintering my defenses anew. “Don’t move,” I mutter. “Don’t move.”
We’re frozen for a minute or more, as though posing for the most lecherous sculpture ever commissioned. I feel the climax inching back, control returning to me one breath at a time. “Okay. Just hold it still.”
She does.
But I’m back at the edge in an instant—one push and I’m losing it. My head swims. I can let go and fuck hard and come so fast and deep I scream. Or I can hold back for her sake. Try to ignore the ache and risk neutering one of the most violent climaxes of my life.
As lousy as I am at it, I have to be selfish.
I fuck. I fuck with every thrust, get fucked each time I pull out. Rampant and filthy. My appetites have left her with nothing but a clumsy left hand to pleasure her clit and too many tasks to bother, it seems. Even if she could, I won’t last. We’ve been teasing my body inside out for the better half of an hour.
Suddenly, fire—the mean scrape of her fingernails where the paddle stung my cheek.
“Fuck.”
My hips race. The climax is rising, rushing, boiling. Any second. Any second.