Best S&M, Volume 3 (22 page)

His cock pulsed, its stiffened shaft tapped insistently on his belly. He would have smiled, if he could, but he had much more important things on his mind. She’d shifted forward, cutting off his air. He knew he could move her, but he didn’t. He took her clit between his teeth and gnawed carefully on the nerve-filled morsel. He pushed his tongue into her, fucking her with it and hoping she’d cream before he had to breathe.

She shuddered wildly, coming, her thighs tensed, and then relaxed. She bounced, her ass flattening the giant mounds of his tits and driving the last of his breath out.

His mouth filled with her cream and he swallowed it all. Her spasms fed him, and the sight of her above him made his blood race.

She collapsed moments later, falling to her side on the bed. He lay gasping, trembling, and smiling like a fool.

“Thank you.” He looked at her, hair askew, face flushed and her eyes glazed.

She gazed back at him and smiled. “What?”

“Just, thank you.” He rolled onto his side, careful to keep his hands behind his head. “I never thought I’d be here, like this.” He looked down at himself. The smooth flesh was mottled, his nipples puckered and tight.

“Slut,” Susan murmured.

Tat smiled. “Yes, I’m a slut. Your slut.”

“Yes, you are.” She rolled closer and reached down. He felt her hand on him, sliding over his lower belly until it reached his prick. “A horny slut.”

“For you. Always.”

Her smile got bigger. “Yes, always.” She took his rampantly rigid erection in her hand and gave it a couple of slow easy strokes. “I think it’s time we talked about a collar, possibly another tattoo.”

“Collar?” he asked, secretly thrilled at the prospect.

“Yes, a collar.” Her hand tightened around his – her – shaft. “Maybe a small one that fits around this. You’re mine now, just as I’m yours. We belong together and I’ve got the resources to take care of us both.”

Tat smiled. He was home.

The Only One

By

M. Christian

The buzz was angry in her ear. She felt sad at that. The pain was hot and glorious, and she felt sadness that the only way her mind could relate to it was a bee – buzzing angrily in her ear. Dani tried to speak, from her ozone-level high of her endorphin rush, to tell Her that she wasn’t seeing faery lights, the godhead, cosmic strings, or hot leathersex and chrome. But the gag got in her way. She arched her back instead.

“Look, Bill, she likes it.”

The buzz worried her hip, at first an irritation, and then a burn. Dani was aflame. They were at the letters now, the typewriter blocks that were the heart and soul (and reason) behind the tat, behind being strapped (arms at sides, legs pressed together) on the hard, leather-covered bench. The letters being tattooed onto her were the all and the everything: PROPERTY OF MOE. RETURN POSTAGE GUARANTEED.

The letters were why she was there.

Stars danced in her eyes. With a little imagination the buzzing bee went back to its hive and her field of vision expanded out to became a ballroom, where she danced in the clouds of her euphoria. Dancing was something special and hidden; it made Dani soft and small again. The hardness of her skin, her attitude, and outward affect made the vision seem a lie, a tall-tale: a biker chick pretending to be Barbie. The unkempt hair, constant T-shirt, utility (not fashionable) jeans made her out hard and steel. But behind her eyes a much younger girl was dancing with her first boy. She was wet between the legs then too.

She was little Dani, dancing in her mind, lying on a hard, leather-covered board, being tattooed. She tried to smile but the rubber ball in her mouth made it difficult.

“I think she’s asleep.”

“Give her work,” recommended Bill, the tattooist.

The thought of the first voice’s owner made her extra warm. Her Goddess’s voice. Her owner’s voice.

Her mind, in its liquid endorphin ocean of pain and distance, slipped back to a hazy memory of their first contact; the day the Goddess smiled upon her and made her come.

The memory was distorted and frayed from too many replays, too many examinations. What had they really said? Had this strange woman who had suddenly started talking to her at the bus stop really smelled of boot polish and sweat? Had they then talked further, over hot, and then warm coffee, till they couldn’t stop touching one another? Had this strange woman, encased in leather like some ambulatory cocoon, calmly taken a single strand of her hair between red-lacquered nails and pulled Dani unprotesting into the fetid, sickly sweet garbage of a nearby alley? And once she was there had she been kissed deep and long? Had a shiny-red nail really dipped down below the belt-line of Dani’s jeans, and come up wet? Doubts and more doubts.

One thing was certain: hot love that afternoon. Love mixed with a stern voice, hard hand, and – like an insect mating call that leads to a frightening sting of revelation – handcuffs on her wrists, face between her legs, and a coming that had left her dizzy, raptured, and worshipful.

Soon after (Days? Weeks? Months? How long?), a simple request to her from out of one of those evangelical orgasms: “Do it for me.” A simple request. Compared to the scalpels she’d been introduced to, the flailing whips, and alligator clamps, the pain would be nothing – a breath of cool air on her hip, she was assured, and nothing more.

But now the pain was a flare on her side. The tattoo was burning. The pain starred her eyes suddenly, flicking her out of her memories, into the here (on the leather-covered table, in the upstairs of the tattoo parlor) and the now. Above her, a single bulb in a faded (once white, now cream) shade. The gag was snapped out of her mouth. The air of the parlor was thick with dust and smoke. She wanted to cough, but had forgotten how – all she could do was swallow the pain.

Through it, a slow eclipse. Then the shadow resolved itself, and her Goddess spoke, “Time to get to work.”

Above her, legs parted, and in between shiny desire (and the earthen smell of smoldering cunt), her Mistress spread her second lips, positioned herself carefully, and slowly sat.

A face, no matter how wide open or receptive, is not the best of seats. With her submissive’s nose pressed hard and pointed into the smooth channel between asshole and cunt, Moe twisted right and left to use the butterfly fluttering tongue to her best advantage. Early on, when the lips met face, the tongue had tried to probe for best effect. Moe quickly ended that with a practiced nod to Bill, the tattooist, to hold for a second, and then, gripping one of Dani’s little points, a nipple tight with excitement, between thumb and forefinger, Moe twisted.

Muffled by her ass and cunt, Dani’s squeal was suppressed. Then, beyond belief, a sharpness, a snake in her cunt. She’d been bitten. A smile crossed Moe’s face. The first time. The prize of having something different, unique, made her jingle like Christmas bells. The first time anyone had bitten her. Dani’s apologies were unspoken and earnest: a simple lapping of her juice. The twist had come as a surprise but the message had been clear:
I won’t try and please you, for that is presumptuous, so I will just lick and you will please yourself off my tongue.
Lesson learned.

Moving herself as best to use the tongue, Moe found herself coming, a hissing orgasm that made her legs turn to pudding. With a smile on her face, she pressed down hard (the tongue was deep in her wetness, clit forgotten), and blissfully rode the orgasm.

And, as she came, she thought: The first bite. The only one.

The cunt, the heavenly wetness, the sweet mask of her Goddess’s ass, lifted off Dani’s face. She blinked, licked her lips, and breathed deep. The breath was short; the needle started buzzing again.

She was so lucky, so special, to be here, to have this done. To join her Goddess, to have her Goddess joined to her. Moe had chosen her. Moe had picked her to be her slave – to be a prized possession, a glittering trinket on an empty shelf. The ego rush made Dani’s head swim against the pain. Then the needle really went to work. It tickled, it burned – the pain became central to her being, important to her. It swelled in her, pushing against her soul, making itself known, making demands. Making her unspeakably horny.

The pain played with the awful need of her cunt (when she arched her back, the suction her leaking pussy made held her tight). The experience of the burning needle and the hornies made her head ache, her stomach crawl. Madness or orgasm? She couldn’t make up her mind. Couldn’t they see, the tattooist and the Goddess, the way her clit was dancing. Couldn’t they see that little fleshy dancer, wiggling and writhing like a worm on a hook? Touch it, for God’s sake. Someone, please touch it!

She would’ve screamed, except the gag was back in her mouth. She arched her back, as much as she could (which wasn’t much as exhaustion, gravity, and finely crafted restraints pinned her butterfly to matt board).

Somewhere below her, beyond the gentle rise of her stomach, a beautifully trimmed silhouette, Moe dispensed justice. Her thunderbolt was a firm slap to her mons. The shock ran through the tissues of her pubis and reverberated against a glass-hard clit. Stars lit up Dani’s brain, water poured out of her (she was sure) as she drained in a torrential downpour of one long, steaming, fluid orgasm.

As consciousness slowly returned, as the dreamless fog rectified itself into that same damned lightbulb, a face, The Face, “You did good, Property.” Moe said to her, “You did good.”

Tucked in bed, bandage covering PROPERTY and the rest on her hip, the Biker-Barbie-doe was asleep on her ballroom floor. Dani was asleep under her comforter, the firm never-never land of sleep around her, face pressed into a futon, cheek wet with drool. The party was over, sleep was called for. She embraced the prescription for afterplay recovery.

But the needle wasn’t quiet, it didn’t sleep. Sitting on the leather bench, Moe got the addition to her tat in stern silence. Well, not too stern, for a smile twisted her Mona Lisa grin. She was thinking about the nip to her cunt (it still stung). The only one. The Only One.

Moe smiled as she got the tat – on the side of her head, just over her ear, under a small patch of hair (shaven by Bill, with quick, practiced waves with his chrome straight-razor). When the doe awoke, she’d see the bare skin, see the addition to the existing and know the truth. That was the fun, that was the glory. The thought of it made her loins tingle. Quietly, softly (she was being tattooed, for Christ’s sake), she started to masturbate.

Moe smiled. The Only One. And really, really smiled, as Bill turned four tick marks into five on the side of her head. The Only One.

She laughed at that.

Author Bios

Billierosie
lives in a pretty village in England. She doesn’t fit with village life, certainly not the Women’s Institute. This is Billierosie’s first published story. She loves the theatre, art, film, books, and all things eccentric. Billierosie plans to have fun and stay young, writing pornography.

M.Christian
is an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 300 stories in such anthologies as
Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica
, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites. He is the editor of 20 anthologies including the
Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures
, and others. He is the author of the collections
Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, Licks & Promises, Filthy, Love Without Gun Control
, and
Rude Mechanicals
; and the novels
Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes
, and
Painted Doll.

Mykola Dementiuk
is the author of the novels
Vienna Dolorosa
,
Holy Communion, Times Queer and others
. His novella, “My Father’s Semen” in
Cruising for Bad Boys
came out last June 2009. Also a sexual novella about
D Day
, “Dee Dee Day,” will be out this Christmas 2009 from eXtasy Books. See his web page for more information:

www.mykoladementiuk.com.

Shanna Germain
believes in dark, dirty sex that strips away our walls and turns us into windows. You can read her lust-filled work in places like
Best American Erotica, Best Bondage Erotica 2, Best Gay Bondage Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Gay Romance, Best Lesbian Erotica, Blood Fruit: Queer Horror, Dirty Girls, X: The Erotic Treasury
and at

http://yearofthebooks.wordpress.com.

Oatmeal Girl
is a submissive, Jewish, bisexual, feminist baby boomer, who regrets she can’t brag to her mother about having a story accepted for publication. “My daughter, the pornographer?” Not likely. This story was an assignment for her sadistic master, to whom it is dedicated. Poems, stories, and more at submissionandmetaphor.blogspot.com.

Ralph Greco, Jr.
is an internationally published author of short stories, plays, essays, button slogans, 800 number phone sex scripts, children’s songs and SEO copy. Ralph is also an ASCAP licensed songwriter/performer and Internet radio D.J. He lives in the wilds of suburban NJ, where he attempts to keep his ever-expanding ego in check.

Theda Hudson
burns up the pages with lust, leather, and latex, brims over with juicy bits in
Best Lesbian Erotica 2001, 2002 & 2006
,
Cthulhu Sex Magazine
, Amatory-Ink.com, lucreziamagazine.com,
Hot Blood XI: Fatal Attractions
,
Best of Women’s Erotica 2007
,
Who’s Your Daddy
,
Got a Minute?,
and
Hot Lesbian Erotica
. When she’s not hard or wet at the computer, she’s a factotum, artist, and intuitive.

Kane
was born in Bristol, England in 1981 and now lives with her partner and four cats in a big white house. Her stories are inspired by personal events, snatched conversations overheard on public transport, and pure imagination. She loves writing as the opportunity to create a world with words in which other people can be absorbed and excited.