The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (25 page)

“Good girl,” he says, stroking my hair once more. Then he steps away, takes off his boots and his clothes. I watch him, want to touch him, taste his skin. He’s too far away and
I whimper again, not realizing I have.

He laughs softly. “Do you want something?” and I blush, glance down at the carpet. “Look at me,” he reminds me and I look up slowly. He’s a step closer now.
“Do you want something?”

I nod slowly, whisper, “Yes, sir.”

He takes another step closer. I could reach out and touch him and my hands tremble with the effort to keep them against my thighs. “What?”

I
want to taste your cock. I want your mouth against my cunt. I want to feel you inside of me.
I open my mouth but can’t make the words come out. My throat closes around them
and I whimper, flushed and embarrassed.

He presses his lips together and shakes his head slowly and the fear that I’ve disappointed him burns in my belly. If I could say the words, I would, but I can’t. “If you
can’t tell me what you want, you can’t have it.”

I whimper again. He strokes my hair. “Come here.” He walks to the bed, pats it and I crawl over, climb onto the bed beside him, gasping and whimpering as the clips tug at my breasts.
“On all fours,” he tells me and he arranges me so my legs are spread, my hands are out in front of me and my back arched so the ends of the clothespins drag against the bed when I move.
Or when he does.

“Now we’re going to play a game. Twenty questions. I will ask you a question that requires something more than ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir’; you will give me an
answer. Every question you answer right gives you a point. I will ask three times. Every wrong answer, I get a point.” He trails his fingertips down my spine, along the crack of my ass. He
draws his hand away then brings it down sharply against my arse. “And I’m going to do that every time you don’t answer.” My ass still stings. “Do you
understand?”

I nod. “Yes, sir.” I can still feel the hot shape of his hand on my skin.

“If you win, I’ll take these off.” He drags his fingers over the clips on my breast and I whimper, shudder. “If I win, I’ll add more.” His hand strokes down
my arse, brushes between my thighs, teasing touch in the place he intends to add them. There’s the incentive to win, then.

“I’ll make the first question easy.” He holds a red satin handkerchief in front of my face. “What colour is it?” and he’s toying with me. I either answer the
question and this ends, or I don’t and he swats my ass again. I bite my lip and his hand comes down, sharp and stinging. “What colour is it, Flora?”

I squeeze my eyes closed tightly.

“You want to tell me, don’t you?” he whispers against my ear.

“Yes, sir.” Which is truth as much as it is a lie. I want to answer the question. I don’t want this to end.

“So what colour is it?”

I keep my mouth shut, lips pressed together tightly. His hand comes down against my ass again, harder this time and I yelp, muscles tensing.

“That’s three points for me,” he says and I hear the smile in his voice.

It goes on like this. Sometimes he takes pity on me and asks me a question I can answer, a question I will answer. At some point, he’s traded swats with his hand for stinging strokes of
the rubber slapper and the shape of the fire and ache is different. I’m whimpering and mewling, arching, struggling. My fingers grip the bed tightly and my arms tremble as the questions
continue. He trades questions I can answer with questions like, “What colour is a fire truck?” and “What colour are strawberries?” Questions I refuse to answer because I
don’t want this to end. He teases me after each of those, asks me, “Are you trying to lose?” and I shake my head, whisper, “No, sir,” and wish that those questions
counted in the twenty he’s threatened me with, but they don’t.

Eventually, he gets back to the question he asked before the game started. “What do you want, Flora?”

My arse and the backs of my thighs are hot and stinging. If I concentrate, I can picture the shape of the welts from the slapper. One there, one there, another there at a little bit more of an
angle, one that caught the sensitive place where the back of my thigh and arse meet.

What do I want?
I want so much. I want this to stop, I want it to continue. I want you to let me suck you, want you to fuck me. I want to come, I want to be denied the same thing.
I want
to be able to say this. I open my mouth, breath a ragged, “I . . .” and again the words get caught in my throat.

“You?” And he waits a moment to see if I’ll say more. When I can only whimper, he brings the slapper down again. Harder this time, over one of the fresh welts and I arch,
clench my jaw tightly to keep back a scream that is pain and frustration and desire braided together. My fingers ache from how tightly I’m gripping the sheets.

“What do you want, Flora?” His breath is hot against my ear and he nips my earlobe.

I want to tell him. “Please,” I whimper. “Please, I . . .” I can beg, but I can’t seem to beg for what I want.

“Tell me what you want, Flora.”

I pull at the sheets, nearly sob and he sighs, brings the slapper down in the same place again and I bury my face against the bed, eyes closed, shivering and panting.

“What do you want, Flora?” And this is my last chance. I don’t know what happens if I don’t say it, but it doesn’t matter because the words start pouring out,
surrounded by “please” and “sir”. I’m begging him to let me suck him, to fuck me and hurt me and kiss me. Please, kiss me. “Please, kitten,” And he takes
hold of my hair, makes me look up from the bed. “No,” he says. “I’m not your kitten tonight.” And I whimper, almost incoherent with want and ache. “I’m
sorry, sir.”

He strokes his hand over my arse and I flinch, pull at the sheets. Somewhere in the part of my mind that’s still clinging to the world, I know I’m going to be bruised tomorrow.
“Forty-four to six,” he tells me. “I won.” He drags his fingers down between my legs, long slow teasing touch, and I mewl, arch, sheets tugging at the clothespins on my
nipples.

There’s the same plastic rattling sound from before. It hardly registers in my head because, at the same time, he presses a finger into me. I go still, afraid I’m imagining it,
afraid if I move he’ll stop. “Please,” I whimper. He curls his finger inside of me and drags it slowly out, tells me, “Not yet,” then he catches my outer labia,
pinches it and closes a clothespin onto it. I bite at the sheets and squirm. He swats my arse and tells me to stay still, but it’s so hard.

Three clothespins on each labia and he tells me to roll over, knowing I’m going to have to put my legs together at least a little bit to do so. I’m panting as I roll over and he rubs
his finger against my lips, wetting them, then lets me suckle the tip of it.

“You can’t have
everything
you want, you know.” He tells me this as he strokes his fingertip against the roof of my mouth and my breath catches at that touch. At his
words. And my eyes are closing again. For a moment I struggle to keep them open, but he keeps stroking his finger against the roof of my mouth and I give in, close my eyes. Then open them and
nearly scream when he starts pulling the clips on my right breast. They drag and snap off and I arch my back. He slides his finger out of my mouth and plays it against my trapped nipple before
tugging the clothespin off and once again I’m gripping the sheets painfully tight, trying not to scream.

Then the other breast and both nipples ache again as blood rushes back into them. “Such a good girl,” he says, stroking my nipples softly, cupping my breasts, kissing one and then
the other.

His hands move down between my legs again. “Tell me if you’re going to come, Flora.” His fingers play against my clit, against the two barbells piercing my inner labia. Every
movement of his hand makes the clothespins bounce, makes me gasp.

As I get close, I whimper, “I . . . I’m going to . . .” and he shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says as his fingers leave my clit and he yanks one clothespin off my
labia. My whole back arches and I forget to breathe. He reminds me, tells me to take a slow deep breath. Let it out. And when I’m breathing normally again, his fingers go back to work.

Six clothespins, six reminders to breathe. And then he’s on top of me, pressing into me. “Open your eyes, Flora.” I cling to him as he makes love to me, lightheaded,
breathless, eyes half open, lips parted. “Please,” I beg raggedly.

“Please what, Flora? What do you want?”

“Please let me come,” I whisper, arching against him.

“Good girl.” And his thumb nestles against my clit, rubbing it as he presses into me. I close my eyes tightly, nails dragging down his back as I orgasm. And even in this he
won’t let me off so easily, his thumb still circling and stroking until I come again and he’s not far behind this one.

I curl up against him, sobbing with the intensity of my release, tears rolling down my cheeks. He holds me, whispers soothing words and the words aren’t nearly as important as the sound of
his voice and the warmth of his skin against mine.

“You can’t have everything you want, not all in one night. And you can’t have anything at all if you can’t say it.” He strokes my hair and kisses my forehead.

“Will you kiss me?” I ask breathlessly, forgetting myself, hazy with pleasure and pain.

He kisses me, lips tender and hungry against mine, and I think even time stops then and it starts again when he draws back.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, Flora.”

I’m exhausted and aching, but content as he holds me anchored to the world by nothing more than his arms around me and the beating of his heart.

Justine (London, UK)

We are at a party. The room is full of people elegantly dressed. I look up and he is standing there, a little in the distance, watching me. In his face is blind abstraction, a
mixture of pregnant desire and embarrassed self consciousness, his face detained by an emotion that his mind has not yet named. He is tall, always tall, and his eyes are blue, bright cornflower
blue. There is something distinguished about him, the drape of his clothes, the length of his neck; always height and length and, above all, elegance in his demeanour, yet not perfection. It is his
desire for elegance that pleases me, that focuses my response to his desire. Once registered, I enjoy the minor imperfections; the energetic curl of hair that will not be combed into submission,
the disproportionate scale of his slender hands to their thickened wrists, the lopsided charm of a smile that begs to complete itself in happiness.

At first, I look away. But I can still feel the warmth of his stare on my cheek. My eyes steal back to his. I witness confusion. He barely sees me. It is only desire that he is registering.
Briefly, I have become a hieroglyph for his private emotion. Only when I get up to move does the self absorption of his desire shutter, falling through his eyes like a pack of playing cards. Then,
suddenly, his desire becomes twofold, both actual and imagined. A strange pragmatism intervenes. His feet paw the carpet like a horse. He does not know how to cope with the distance between us. We
are in a room filled with people, and yet we might as well be alone.

We know each other, but distantly. We have never made love. As well as liking, there is a fat seam of anger between us. As I turn my gaze openly to his, he scans my face for evidence of desire.
My longing for him is less raw than his for me. It manifests itself as receptivity, trust. He threads his way through the crowd to reach me. He is wearing a long, loose overcoat; in its touch,
cashmere. His head and neck rise from its cape of darkness, like a piece of intricate jewellery. His eyes never desert mine; they crease greedily, giddily into a smile. He takes my hand in his and
I feel the supple strength, the firm possessive reassurance of his hand in mine. I lean towards him, like an arabesque, my body open to and anticipating every nuance of his. He kisses me on my
cheek, then throws back his body full height to again devour me with his eyes; as he does so, he runs both his hands up and down my outstretched arm, kneading my flesh into an expectation, a
promise of intimacy. Eyes still locked, we unconsciously manoeuvre ourselves, almost unnoticed, to the edge of the crowd, where gold-framed mirrors alternate with brocade curtains as heavy and as
unwieldy as carpets. I catch sight of myself in one of the mirrors; the image startles me. I look like a woman in love; my eyes dance to the blue tune in his. My mouth is wreathed in smiles.

Someone detaches himself from the crowd to approach us, but finds himself repelled by the intensity of our exchange and retreats again, like a leaf, carelessly fallen. I lose my balance
slightly, tangling briefly with the curtain. The dull red brocade emits a smell of accumulated dust. His hand moves swiftly to steady me. As he does so, he pulls me towards him and, briefly, I
vanish into the ample embrace of his overcoat. As I raise my eyes to his, he rests his forehead against mine. It is a moment of the purest intimacy. My hands are still held in his; his fingers
continue to explore my flesh with the press of his energetic fingers. He smiles a shower of cornflower blue into my eyes, then bends his cheek close to mine, to whisper in my ear, grazing the
stubble of his chin against the long sweep of my hair, in order that I should hear better.

“I just want to touch you,” he whispers. “Nothing else. I just want to know the truth of you.”

I stand before him, docile, only half understanding. With one fierce movement, he persuades my hand against the small of my back. The wings of his dark coat protect us. Unseen by the crowd, he
lifts the hem of my skirt an inch or two. I look up. The dancing lights of a chandelier dazzle my eyes. Beyond the smooth hose at my knees and thighs are stocking tops secured by broad band ribbons
of black silk, stretching, yearning for my knees as they secure the black gossamer nylons to the opulent line of my thighs. His fingers feel persistent, determined against my flesh, with the
authority and sureness of touch that only true desire can bring.