Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica (23 page)

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Authors: Sinclair Sexsmith,Miriam Zoila Perez,Wendi Kali,Rachel Kramer Bussel,Gigi Frost,BB Rydell,Amelia Thornton,Dilo Keith,Vie La Guerre,Anna Watson

BOOK: Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica
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Sinking into thud roots me, pulls me deep into myself. Using my whole body helps me reestablish, find my footing. He’s not the only one who needs to put himself back together, and he knows it. Knows that this is for both of us, that I need this as much as he does, and his job is to feed the energy back to me, to help keep it cycling between us.
I moved up closer to him, pulled on my SAP gloves, and pounded his pecs. Steady. Repeated. Relentless. Lead shot hammering his chest. Holding his gaze.
“Take it for me, boy.”
It was intense for him. I knew it. His breath became more ragged, his jaw clenched. I could see the determination in his eyes. I just kept ramming my fist into him, watching him closely.
He is so strong. I know what it is to endure this, to stay standing through it, to face my own limits and keep pushing them. He awes me.
“That’s my boy,” I said as I hit him. “Show me how tough you are. Take it for me.”
He did. Not a sound. He stood still and took it for me, his jaw clenched down on it, his hands fisted, frustration clear in his eyes as tears slid down his cheeks. We both ignored them. They were meaningless, as unimportant as the people quietly watching us. What was important was that he stood still and took it, for me. He made me proud, and I let it show in my face.
I pulled out my knife and stroked his throat with it, teased it against his lips, and grinned at the sight of his tongue snaking out to lick the blade, his lips opening to it, his hand slipping up to hold my hand steady, begging in his eyes. I nodded and allowed his hand to clasp over mine, holding the knife, watching his mouth engulf it, his eyes wicked and triumphant. Sucking off a knife takes talent, practice, love, and deep respect for a sharp blade. My boy was very good. It was a delicious sight, and I savored it, groaning, my dick throbbing.
“That’s my good boy,” I whispered roughly.
I put my hand on his chin and held him, easing the blade out of his mouth, wiping it on his shirt, and putting it away. I pulled out my baton and flipped him over, slamming him into the wall with my weight. I kicked his feet apart and slid the baton between his thighs, teasing it against his asshole until he moaned. I pressed him up against the wall and growled in his ear.
“Mine.”
I stepped back and began to pound into his ass with the baton. There is something about that deep thud, right there, that feels like you are getting fucked. He groaned, leaning against the wall, offering his ass to me, luscious sounds leaving his lips with each strike of the baton. I stepped toward him and ground my cock into his ass, pulling him away from the wall.
“Stand up for me, boy. Take it.”
I began to pound his biceps with the baton, watching the bruises blossom. He growled and stomped his feet as the blows continued, struggling to take it. As it went on, first one bicep, then the other, he shook his head and clenched his hands, eventually pounding his fists into his own sore thighs. I did not stop until his arms began to tremble.
When he’s my boy, he doesn’t want me to fuck around. He wants to be pushed to his physical limits, again and again. To constantly prove to himself (and to me) that he is tough enough, strong enough. That he can stand up and take anything I can dish out.
I set the baton down and pulled my belt from my jeans, snapping it.
“How many months have you been mine, boy?”
“Forty-two, Sir.”
“That’s right. Forty-two strokes it is. Count em for me.”
“Yes, Sir.”
My belt is serious business. It is always the last toy I pick up because it inspires my most intense sadism. The counting is as much for me as for him. This tool, more than any other, finds me wanting never to stop.
I grinned as the leather bit into his back, and went after his traps first. He was counting steadily as I hurled the belt at him, with a red haze around me and a metallic scent on his skin. I growled, driving the belt into his back, my cock throbbing, his voice grounding me. I stepped forward to rest my cheek against his back, heat rushing off his skin in waves, his adrenaline-soaked sweat setting off a sharp tang in the back of my throat. I snarled and rained fire onto his back with my belt in roaring relentless flames, no time between strokes, just one long maelstrom of energy building between us.
Some small part of my brain registered we were at thirty-seven. I stopped, wanting to savor the last five strokes. His breath was ragged, and he was shaking. I breathed in slowly, tasting the pain steaming off him, and sliced into him with all of my strength. Thirty-eight. Drove my hunger into him, raw and ravenous. Thirty-nine. Forty made him scream, sound pouring from him, rendering him unable to count.
“Take it for me, boy. Show me your strength. I know you can do it.”
“Forty, Sir,” he said shakily.
I growled the word “mine” as I ripped into him with my belt. Forty-one. I carved into his back, the full force of my weight behind the last blow. Forty-two. I wrapped the belt around the back of his neck, lifting it to his lips to kiss, as I pressed him into the wall, breathing him in.
“That’s my boy. I am so proud you are mine,” I whispered.
I unbuckled his belt and slid down his pants, letting him step out of them and lean against the wall in his jock.
“Stay right there, boy.”
I pulled a chair over and sat in it, turning him to face me. I pulled out my cock, suited it up, and stroked on the lube. I placed his hands on the back of the chair and pulled his hips toward me, easing into his ass, his boots firmly planted on the floor. Damn, did he feel so fucking good.
“Stand up and ride my dick,” I growled. He did, growling right back, jamming his ass onto me, riding my cock. He is a delicious fuck, and I told him so, a stream of obscenity pouring from my mouth and egging him on. He rammed his ass onto my cock so hard I began to close my eyes, my cheek resting on his shoulder, my nails gripping him, delighting in the feel of him riding me.
“That’s it, boy. Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how strong you are. Give me the ride of my life.”
He was magic, my boy. Pulsing with intensity, his eyes locked onto mine, his jaw clenched as he worked his ass onto my cock, taking it into him, growling groans getting louder and louder.
“Mine,” I snarled. “Mine. My boy. Hold your breath, clench down onto my cock, and come for me, boy.”
I grabbed his hips and jammed him onto me as I came, feeling him shudder, pouring into him, feeling it build and build as he clamped down on my cock, clamped down on his breath. I held my own breath as long as I could until I released us both, holding his eyes and watching him explode when I ordered him to let it all go. He trembled from head to toe. His eyes held fireworks, feeding me, his hips riding me like there was no way to stop. It went on forever.
We slowly floated back into ourselves. I began to stroke his skin. It felt so amazing. I grinned into his eyes, hugging him close to me.
“You sure are strong, boy,” I said, laughing delightedly. He grinned back at me. We breathed together, settling back into our own skin. I whispered praise in his ear as I stroked him, easing him off my cock gently and standing up to gather him close into a deep, wide-set hug that lasted a good long time.
UNWORTHY AS I AM
 
Elizabeth Thorne
 
 
 
 
 
 
I
waited for her on my knees, because I knew it would make her happy.
I waited naked and vulnerable, but also strong and certain, because I knew that I was precisely where I was meant to be.
I’d never been in love before—not like that. I might have thought I’d been, or lived a different color of emotion, but I’d never been able to warm my heart on just the thought of someone’s name. It was the first time I’d fallen for someone so truly that even in my darkest hours, her existence was a beacon of light.
It terrified me.
I wanted to give her everything, and I had no idea how much she’d be willing to take.
Waiting wasn’t a skill of mine. I could sit and work, still and silent with no regard for time, but to kneel and wait with nothing but her on which to muse was hard. I had to resist the urge to rise from my knees and pace. I had to fight the desire to jump to my feet every time I heard a car drive down the street. I felt like a dog waiting for her mistress, I was so anxious to see her again.
Use me
—
but as you would your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me; only give me leave to follow you…
Suddenly Helena’s motivation made a lot more sense.
The more you beat me, the more I will fawn on you
indeed. I wondered if there was any way for me to use that insight in my next book.
When I heard her footsteps on the stairs, it felt like I’d been waiting for years, and I took a deep breath and tried to find the quiet place she’d sculpted in my heart. I thought to myself,
this is for her,
and suddenly it blossomed. I let out my breath and with it the worries of the week. In my submission, I had finally found my patience.
My head bowed as she opened the door, and when I looked up I tried to let her see how I felt shining out of my eyes. It must have worked, because before even putting her satchel down, she took my chin in her hand and said, “Beautiful girl, I love you too.”
After kissing me, quickly, and stroking her hand across my head, she put up her hand as though to tell me to stay. Then she put her bag down on the table by the front door and stepped out of my sight.
It felt odd to be so content simply because she was there. She made it home, although I’d lived there for almost a decade before we’d ever met—restless, discontent, successful, and alone. Then Karin had come into my life, and suddenly everything changed.
 
I will never forget the first night we met. We had both been attending one of
those
parties, her with some friends, me on my own. After an exceptionally stressful week of faculty meetings and final exams, I’d been hoping to pick someone up for a nice, lighthearted beating. Then I saw her.
She wasn’t beautiful, but she was striking. Her short dark hair was cut in a masculine style, but she wore glittery earrings with her tailored suit, and she had a laugh like a glass of fine red wine—full-bodied and capable of knocking you under the table when you weren’t paying attention. There was just something about her that drew me, although I had no idea who she was.
I went and found my best friend, Sam, the party’s host, pointed out my mystery woman, and started pestering Sam for information. “What’s her name? Is she a top?”
“Damned if I’d know,” she said, “She’s someone’s plus one. I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
When, fifteen minutes later, Karin took off a woman’s dress and, with her enthusiastic consent, used a single tail on her until she bled, I watched, breathless, and nearly bit through my lip with longing and sorrow. Then, when the bottom’s lover came up, kissed her happy partner deeply, and thanked my mystery woman for her help, I almost laughed in relief. All I could think was,
perhaps I have a chance with her after all.
It made me uncomfortable to be so drawn to someone I didn’t know, and instead of speaking with her when she looked up and caught my eye as she was putting away her toys, I fled to the kitchen to engage myself in the preparation of a proper cup of tea. When I glanced up from my detailed measurements, I realized she’d followed me.
“I saw you watching me,” she said.
“It was a beautiful scene,” I replied, staring intently at the print of a cat that was hanging on the wall behind her, unwilling to meet her eyes.
Suddenly I felt a touch on my chin and looked up to find sea green eyes staring down into mine. “You wanted it to be you.”
I blushed and nodded.
“Next time, it could be,” she said and then, handing me her card, turned and walked out to rejoin the party.
I stared at her card in my hand. It was simple, but surprisingly elegant for something that was mostly black text on a white background. It had her name—Karin—a phone number, an e-mail address, and a stylized sketch of a woman holding a whip.
Karin
, I thought,
I can remember that,
and then I slipped the card into one of my knee-high boots and headed back out to the party.
Half an hour later, the ebb and flow of conversation had landed us in the same group. She’d walked up just as Sam was commenting on a piercing scene I’d bottomed to at her last party, and Karin immediately raised one eyebrow at me and said, “Oh! I love needles.”
Remembering my earlier interest, Sam had unashamedly taken advantage of my blush and uncharacteristic silence to say, “You two should totally do a scene!” and then dragged the rest of the conversation off to another corner of the room.
“Good friend of yours?” Karin had asked me, smiling as she watched Sam and the other women walk away.
“Good…evil…” I smiled ruefully at my best friend’s retreating form. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. I’m Emily.”

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