Best S&M, Volume 3 (11 page)

Mr. Blue reached out and with genuine affection helped Miss Violet rise from the rocker on which she’d been seated. She wobbled momentarily before regaining her balance, stiff from having sat for so long in a single unchanging position.

“Kneel down,” Mr. Blue said, “and put your hands behind you.”

Mr. Blue then wrapped the wine glass snug inside the towel and placed it on the floor in front of the obedient Miss Violet. Without hesitation, he stomped it under his heavy boot with all the force he could muster. The muffled sound of exploding glass was like the burst of a miniature grenade.

With great care, Mr. Blue unwrapped the towel. Splinters of broken glass lay upon it all in a jumble, each razor-sharp sliver glinting like a tiny treacherous diamond.

Miss Violet didn’t have to be told to remain as she was while Mr. Blue left the room to gather what was needed to proceed.

“Bend over,” Mr. Blue instructed when he returned. “Hold your arms straight out to the sides, elbows locked, and keep your palms turned downward.” She looked like a beautiful diver perched on the edge of a high board ready to soar into the inscrutable unknown. Except that her face was positioned eighteen inches from the floor, directly over a menacing pile of broken glass.

Mr. Blue placed a small shot glass on the back of each of Miss Violet’s outstretched hands. He filled each glass nearly to the brim with a rich amber-colored liquid.

“This is my favorite ale,” he said. “It’s brewed within the walls of a Trappist monastery under the strict control of Trappist monks. It’s very expensive and very difficult to find in stores and this is my very last bottle. So if you spill it, even a drop, I’m going to push your face down into the glass.”

Miss Violet kept her trap shut and her thoughts to herself, concentrating with all her might on maintaining equilibrium and balancing the nearly overflowing shot glasses.

Mr. Blue picked up a stick of butter and unwrapped it from its paper casing.

“The package says this is 100% pure sweet cream butter,” he said as he smeared a thick greasy coat onto the fingers of his right hand. “With no artificial ingredients added. And that makes it even more delicious. Now that’s good because I know you don’t really like to take things up your butt all that much and I do want this to be as delicious for you as possible. Well, here goes.”

With a single motion, Mr. Blue slid his index finger into Miss Violet’s tender asshole. It went in to the hilt without a trace of resistance. He wiggled it around for a while and soon Miss Violet’s breathing began to grow more labored. Her outstretched arms, however, remained rigid as steel beams.

“That was easy as pie,” Mr. Blue said. “So let’s go for two.” The supple rim of Miss Violet’s ripe hole expanded to accommodate the second digit. There was the faint beginning of a quiver in her outspread arms. The surface of the tawny liquid in the shot glasses was no longer flat and smooth.

“Now let’s really have some fun,” Mr. Blue said. “But remember what happens if you spill, even a drop.” He inserted his ring finger into Miss Violet’s compliant and increasingly distended backside, which had begun to sway to and fro like a pendulum. She was making a muted but steady humming sound, almost as if she was singing a lullaby inside her head to soothe herself.

“That’s three,” Mr. Blue said, twisting his hand in a corkscrew motion. “Three musketeers. All for one and one for all. Must be getting kind of crowded in there. See what you can accomplish when you set your mind to it.”

Mr. Blue could see the beads of sweat which popped out like boils all along Miss Violet’s silken haunches. Her face had become a contorted mask of intense concentration. The hum which issued from her parted lips had undergone a metamorphosis too. Just as the shaggy caterpillar emerges from its cocoon an exquisite butterfly, Miss Violet’s song had changed in form and structure into something quite different, more reminiscent of a chant or prayer … mercy, compassion, hope, strength, faith, absolution, a state of grace. What was this new music? We don’t have a name for it.

Miss Violet’s arms felt heavy as stone. The shot glasses shuddered and jumped around like a pair of excited jitterbuggers at a hot summer dance. Awful dollops of ale surged over the sides of both glasses simultaneously and, as if in slow motion, cascaded to the floor with sucking splats.

At this very instant, Mr. Blue grabbed Miss Violet forcefully by her hair. But rather than smash her handsome face down into the waiting glass, he yanked her head in the opposite direction and kissed her violently on the mouth.

Lucky

By

Xan West

I need to be forced to name my desires. I need to look them in the eye and accept them for mine. I need to travel that long journey through shame into pride. I am lucky to have someone willing to give that to me, who can go to those scary places with me. I am lucky to have Sir.

Sir knows me. Knows what I want. Knows where the edges are, and how to take me there. We go for intensity, and it is glorious, and scary, and cathartic. It would not work between strangers. It would not work if Sir didn’t communicate my worth (and her love for me) in small daily ways.

At the leather conference, Sir dressed me in the morning. I knelt and she wrapped my wrists in cuffs. She had me wiggle into a garter belt, and then sit on the bed, as she slowly rolled fishnet stockings up my legs, and attached the garters, her fingers teasing my thighs. She pulled me to my feet, produced a skirt, and slid it up my legs, smiling with satisfaction when it barely covered my ass, leaving just enough bare thigh to show off the garters.

She removed the A-line shirt she wore the day before and through the night, and slipped it over my head, tugging it down my large frame. It smelled like her, of sweat and cologne and that musky scent that is Sir. She pulled out a deep-red lipstick, painted my lips with it carefully, and then smiled wickedly and wrote something in lipstick on the shirt. She handed me my Frye boots and ordered me to polish them and put them on. She was in and out of the shower before I was done, and pulling on her socks just as I finished. Her boots were gleaming, polished first thing that morning, and I helped her into them, my eyes lingering on the sight.

She unzipped her fly and pulled out her cock, saying huskily, “C’mere, slut,” as she grabbed me by the hair and thrust my mouth onto her cock. I shuddered, feeling her deep in my throat, her hands fisted in my hair, fucking my mouth. She reached into me and named that core truth I rail against. I am a slut. I was helpless to ignore it with her dick in my mouth, and that was the point. I spend so much time resisting my own desire; those moments are when I can surrender to it, because she loves it, because it is safe, because I ache to so badly.

“That’s my slut. I know how much you love getting your mouth fucked by me. This is who you are, slut. A hole aching to be fucked.”

She thrust into my mouth quickly, grunting her pleasure, and then yanked my mouth off by the hair.

“Plant yourself on my boot, slut. Get it nice and wet.”

My eyes lifted and begged her not to make me do this.

“Get to it, slut,” she said gruffly, no mercy in her eyes.

I spread my legs and wrapped them around her boot, my cunt spasming as it contacted the leather. I was so ashamed that this turned me on. And so grateful that she made me face it.

“Ride that boot for me.”

I thrust onto her boot, tears forming, pleading whimpers sliding out of my mouth.

“That’s my good slut. That’s it, ride out your pleasure on my boot. Don’t stop riding it, baby. Open your eyes, let me see. You love this, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You love being my good little boot slut. You can’t stop until you cum for me. I want your cum on my boot all day, just waiting for your tongue to lick it up tonight.”

Incoherent begging sounds emerged from my throat as I rode her boot. I knew the rules but I couldn’t form the words. I couldn’t stop fighting this. I battle in my head, every time. That’s the point.

“That’s my good slut. You love fucking yourself on my boot, don’t you? I can smell you, slut. All day I’m going to smell you on my boot, and know you are mine.”

My clit jolted, my cunt ached to be filled. Tears rolled down my face. I was ashamed and aroused and so fucking helpless. There was only one way to end this.

“Please Sir. Please may I cum for you, Sir?”

“I need you to say it, slut. Tell me you are my slut, and you may cum.”

I could feel my eyes get huge. There was a lump in my throat. She gripped me by the hair tightly and her voice was ferocious as she said over my whimpers, “Tell me. Tell me who you are.”

“I am your slut,” I whispered, and her hands released me as I came for her, writhing on her boot, tears rolling down my face, my cunt throbbing. There is no release like tears and orgasm combined, and she doesn’t forget that. She lifted me to my knees and gently licked the tears from my cheeks.

“Look at yourself,” she said warmly, lifting and turning me to face the mirror. My eyes were wide, face flushed, hair wild. My lipstick showed I’d been sucking cock. The A-line shirt was stretched taut over my large tits and belly, and was so thin you could see my nipples clearly, “slut” written across my chest in red. My skirt had ridden up and my cunt peeked out, glistening. The fishnets had ripped, and the tough boots made me look decidedly queer. She had marked me, her scent enveloping me, her name for me emblazoned on my chest, her cock still on my lips. I am not just a slut, I am her slut, and her actions crystallized that fact. Being her slut makes me powerful.

She tugged my skirt down slightly and stood behind me, pulling the lock out of her pocket and locking my cuffs together behind my back. I stood tall, and followed her out of the room, strutting, my shoulders back, my boots loud, my head high. I was proud to be seen with her, my handsome butch in leather.

All day she showed me off. The attention made me dizzy. A tall gorgeous man with chocolate-brown skin, broad shoulders, predatory eyes, and fangs peeking out from his wicked smile, admired my tits and growled in my ear, making my cunt spasm. A gorgeous Asian femme dyke eyed my legs as she talked to Sir quietly. Her boy, a short, square-framed Latina butch, licked her lips and winked at me. Sir kept a hand on me all day, tugging my arms back by the cuffs to push my tits out further, stroking the back of my neck, resting her boot on my thigh as I sat at her feet. Her touch casually claimed me, keeping my arousal high.

Late in the day, she brought me over to watch a pale redheaded trans-boy black the boots of a gorgeous bear of a man with pale skin, covered in gray fur. She unclipped my wrists, massaged my arms, and locked them together in front of me, sitting me down to watch as she approached the bear to whisper in his ear. He nodded, gesturing to the boy, and they continued to talk, the bear’s eyes grazing my mouth, my thighs, my boots. I was mesmerized by them, watching the boy’s hands work, and when he lay on his belly to lick the bear’s boots, my cunt jolted and my breathing stopped. Sir returned to stand behind me, leaning in to my ear as she pinched my nipples.

“Cum,” she growled.

I did, trying to be quiet, my eyes locked on the boy tonguing those boots as I writhed in my chair.

“That’s my good slut,” she said. “I’m going to enjoy giving you away tonight.”

My eyes widened. I imagined being given to the bear in front of me, my ass pounded by his cock. Or maybe his boy, using those strong hands to open me up. I could almost feel the vampiric man sinking his teeth into me as he rammed me with his cock. I could see that femme top holding me down for her boy, her nails raking my skin as her boy fisted me. I writhed in the chair, my cunt throbbing. I was trembling, my mind racing from one image to the next, until they all blended together and I met Sir’s eyes, whimpering.

“Yes, slut. I’m going to offer you around. I’m going to make sure everyone knows how much you need to be fucked. You will be displayed for all to see. Everyone will know what a slut you are.”

I was going to be displayed, naked in my desire. I shuddered, lowering my gaze. My clit was pulsing, my skin hot and flushed with shame.

Fear built through dinner. She sat next to me at a crowded table, as I awkwardly attempted to eat with my wrists locked together, watching my face as I thought about saying no, calling it off. I was not sure I could do it. I barely tasted the food, and sat quietly as the table ordered coffee, my hands resting in my lap. Sir leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“Stroke your clit for me, slut. You may cum as many times as you like, just do not make a sound.”

I could feel the blush begin, heat racing up my skin as I reached for my clit under the table. I was sure everyone could hear the rings on my cuffs moving as I stroked myself. I gritted my teeth as I came, and could feel tears form as I continued to stroke helplessly. I came two more times before coffee had been drunk, and she told me to stop, dinner was over.

I was so hungry to be fucked I would have gladly bent over in the lobby just to feel something inside me. Sir took me to the public play space and detached my cuffs so she could put me in the sling. She clipped the cuffs to the sling and there I was, exposed. My skirt had ridden up, and I was spread wide, aching to be plundered. I felt so empty. She stepped back to look at me and shook her head, pulling out her pocket knife. She cut off the shirt, exposing my tits and belly, and then stepped back. It still wasn’t right. She pulled out that very same lipstick and wrote across my broad belly. I couldn’t see it, and I was stuck, there was no way for me to maneuver to read it.

She pulled her belt from her pants and stepped back, laying sting in waves along my upper thighs. She tapped my cunt with the belt and I yelped. Sir reached for something from her bag, fumbling with it, and then placed it at the mouth of my cunt.

“Please, Sir,” I whimpered.

“My slut wants to get fucked, mmm? Not just yet. Don’t you want to know what’s written across that gorgeous big belly of yours?”

I nodded.