Книга - Alison’s Wonderland

Alison's Wonderland
Alison Tyler


Over the past fifteen years, Alison Tyler has curated some of the genre's most sizzling collections of erotic fiction, proving herself to be the ultimate naughty librarian. With Alison's Wonderland, she has compiled a treasury of naughty tales based on fable and fairy tale, myth and legend: some ubiquitous, some obscure—all of them delightfully dirty. From a perverse prince to a vampire-esque Sleeping Beauty, the stars of these reimagined tales are—like the original protagonists—chafing at desire unfulfilled.From Cinderella to Sisyphus, mermaids to werewolves, this realm of fantasy is limitless and so very satisfying. Penned by such erotica luminaries as Shanna Germain, Rachel Kramer Bussel, N. T. Morley, Elspeth Potter, T. C. Calligari, Sommer Marsden, Portia Da Costa and Tsaurah Litzsky, these bawdy bedtime stories are sure to bring you (and a friend) to your own happily-ever-after.










Alison’s Wonderland


An Erotic Collection Edited By




Alison Tyler











www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk)




About the Author


Jacqueline Applebee is a black British woman, who breaks down barriers with smut. Jacqueline’s stories have appeared in various anthologies and on Web sites, including, Clean-sheets, Best Women’s Erotica 2008 and 2009, Ultimate Lesbian Erotica 2008 and 2009, and Best Lesbian Erotica 2008. Jacqueline’s favorite fairy tale is “Three Little Pigs” because she has a thing for adventurous bacon. Jacqueline’s Web site is http://www.writing-in-shadows.co.uk.

Janine Ashbless started her erotica career with her single-author collection of fairy and fantasy stories, Cruel Enchantment, published by Black Lace in 2000. Her follow-up collection, Dark Enchantment, appeared in 2009. In between came three erotic novels and various short stories, including one that made it into Best Women’s Erotica 2009. Her favorite fairy tales are “East of the Sun and West of the Moon” (which she retold as Bearskin in the novella collection Enchanted) and the horribly creepy “Mr. Fox.” She lives in the U.K. and blogs at www.janineashbless.blogspot.com where she enthuses about mythology, Victorian art and minotaurs.

Rachel Kramer Bussel (www.rachelkramerbussel.com) is an author, editor, blogger and reading-series host. She has edited more than twenty anthologies, including Tasting Him, Tasting Her, Spanked, Dirty Girls and Best Sex Writing 2008 and 2009. She is senior editor at Penthouse Variations, writes the “Dating Drama” column for the Frisky, and hosts In The Flesh Reading Series. Her writing has been published in more than a hundred anthologies, including Best American Erotica 2004 and 2006, as well as Cosmopolitan, Fresh Yarn, Huffington Post, Newsday, the New York Post, the San Francisco Chronicle, Time Out New York, the Village Voice and Zink, and she has appeared on NY1, The Berman and Berman Show and The Martha Stewart Show. Her favorite fairy tale is “Cinderella,” with whom she shares a shoe fetish (high heels especially), though she also envies Rapunzel’s long hair.

T. C. Calligari lives in British Columbia, writing in many worlds of what-if. She grew up reading fairy tales and fables from the children’s series My Book House. Her favorite though is “East of the Sun and West of the Moon,” a Norwegian fairy tale based on the Eros and Psyche myth where the woman must rescue her prince. T.C.’s stories have appeared in E Is for Exotic, B Is for Bondage, as well as Open for Business, Naughty or Nice and Guilty Pleasures. “Stocking Stuffers” is featured in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica.

Heidi Champa is a typical last-born child. Snarky, attention-seeking and rebellious, she chooses to write dirty stories to keep out of real trouble. Her work appears in Tasting Him and Frenzy. She has also steamed up the pages of Bust magazine. If you prefer your erotica in electronic form, look for her at Clean-Sheets, Ravenous Romance and The Erotic Woman. Despite her latent cynicism, her favorite fairy tale will always be “Beauty and the Beast.” Find her online at heidichampa.blogspot.com.

Portia Da Costa is a British author of romance, erotic romance and romantic fiction, specializing in intense, character-driven contemporary novels, and praised for the vivid emotional depth of her writing. Since 1990, she has had more than twenty titles published, as well as around a hundred short stories, and her work has been translated into many languages including German, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Norwegian and Japanese. Always a lover of fantasy and fairy tale, she adores the stories of “Cinderella” and “Sleeping Beauty.” Portia lives in West Yorkshire with her husband and her cats and she enjoys reading and watching television.

Andrea Dale’s stories have appeared in Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, Frenzy, the Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra and Dirty Girls, among many others. With coauthors, she has sold novels to Cheek Books (A Little Night Music, Sarah Dale) and Black Lace Books (Cat Scratch Fever, Sophie Mouette) and even more short stories. In other incarnations she writes SFF and media tie-in. A lover of fantasy, mythology and the fae folk since a young age, her favorite tale is that of Tam Lin, because the heroine rescues the hero for once. For more information, check out her Web site at www.cyvarwydd.com.

Bella Dean is new to the business of dirty stories. She still blushes when she types, but has no plans to give it up. Her work has appeared in Afternoon Delight. She lives with her small family in her small house in her small town. Her favorite fairy tale growing up was “Cinderella.” Even then she had a thing for shoes and hot men.

Once upon a time, a playwright scarred by her first lover’s betrayal and an actor who lost his love in the 9/11 conflagration came together in a shabby off-Broadway theater. Though this is not Erica DeQuaya’s background, it formed the backbone for her critically acclaimed first erotic romance novel, Backstage Affair. Five novels and many short stories later, Erica continues living her own happily-ever-after as she pens erotic and mainstream books (including her well-received hockey romance series) from her middle-class castle in Texas. Erica shares her royal surroundings with her beloved handsome prince and soul mate of more than two decades, a princeling of a son, two loyal, if somewhat neurotic, dogs and a collection of geckos in the backyard.

Benjamin Eliot is a stay-at-home dad and a WWII freak. He has a huge collection of memorabilia and books and has been known to trap unsuspecting people for impromptu historical lectures. He loves his wife, his kids and his old-piece-of-crap car. For the record, he can fix a toilet and even install a faucet. Benjamin was never one for fairy tales, but in college he found he could really get into a good meaty greek myth. Look for more of his work in the future. He’s just getting started with his storytelling.

A. D. R. Forte’s erotic short fiction appears in various anthologies including collections from Black Lace, Cleis Press and Circlet Press. Her favorite fairy tale, of course, is “Beauty and the Beast.” Visit her at www.adrforte.com.

Lana Fox’s erotic stories have appeared in anthologies by Xcite, and she also publishes literary fiction under a different name. She started writing erotica when she gave a reading and members of the audience came up afterward saying, “Your work is all about sex,” when she didn’t think it was! Her favorite fairy tale is “Little Red Riding Hood,” especially when it’s turned on its head and Red has a feisty side.

Shanna Germain’s work has appeared in places like Best American Erotica, Best Bondage Erotica, Best Gay Romance, Frenzy and Luscious. She’s obsessed with the wolf and the girl in the red cloak, and often sings a darker version of “Li’l Red Riding Hood,” by Sam the Sham. Visit her at www.shannagermain.com.

Bryn Haniver, a nature lover and sexy B-movie aficionado, writes fiction from islands and peninsulas whenever possible, and prefers fairy tales with menacing mermaids, like “The Mermaid and the Boy.” Bryn’s work has appeared in Red Hot Erotica and B Is for Bondage.

Georgia E. Jones graduated with an MFA from Mills College. Her stories have appeared in the Santa Barbara Review and the literary magazine Estero. She lives in northern California. Her favorite fairy tale is “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” because the heroine is smart and resourceful.

Tsaurah Litzky is an internationally known writer of erotica whose work has appeared in more than seventy-five publications, including Best American Erotica (eight times), Best International Erotica (twice), X: the Erotic Treasury, Penthouse, the New York Times, Sex For America, K is For Kinky, Got A Minute, The Merry XXXmas Book of Erotica, Politically Inspired, The Urban Bizarre, Dirty Girls, Evergreen Review 12. Simon & Schuster published her erotic novella, The Motion of the Ocean, as part of Three the Hard Way, a series of erotic novellas edited by Susie Bright. Tsaurah Litzky’s groundbreaking erotic writing class, Silk Sheets: Writing Erotica, is now in its eleventh year at the New School in Manhattan. Tsaurah believes that great sex often is inspired by a pair of shoes and that fairy tales do come true.

Kristina Lloyd is the author of three erotic novels, Darker Than Love, Asking for Trouble and Split, all published by Black Lace. Her short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines in both the U.K. and U.S., and her novels have been translated into German, Dutch and Japanese. She has a master’s degree in twentieth-century literature, and has been described as “a fresh literary talent” who “writes sex with a formidable force.” She lives in Brighton on the south coast of England and her favorite fairy tale is “Little Red Riding Hood” because it’s dark, sinister and short on princesses. For more, visit http://kristinalloyd.wordpress.com.

Nikki Magennis is a Scottish author of erotica and erotic romance. She grew up on fairy tales and has always loved “The Red Shoes.” Lily takes her name from a song on Kate Bush’s Red Shoes album. In folklore, lilies are used to break spells or enchantments. Nikki’s second novel, The New Rakes, is published by Black Lace, and you can find her work in many anthologies. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and could use a spot of lily juice to break her procrastination habit. Read more at: http://nikkimagennis.blogspot.com.

Sommer Marsden writes her naughty fiction from a small town near the Chesapeake Bay. Her work has appeared in dozens of print anthologies and magazines, and her stories haunt many Internet sites on a regular basis. When she was a little girl, she loved the tale of “The Princess and the Pea,” mostly because she is a complainer at heart. You can see what she’s up to at www.SmutGirl.blogspot.com.

N. T. Morley is the author of sixteen published novels of erotic dominance and submission, including The Visitor, The Nightclub, The Appointment and the trilogies The Castle, TheLibrary and The Office. Morley has also edited two anthologies, MASTER and slave, and has contributed to many erotic anthologies, including the Naughty Stories from A to Z series, the Sweet Life series, the Best New Erotica series, and many other anthologies. Morley’s favorite fairy tale is unquestionably Pretty Woman, though there’s something strangely hot about Leaving Las Vegas. That said, there’s lots to love about “Sleeping Beauty,” the Anne Rice version. Visit www.ntmorley.com for more information.

Elspeth Potter’s stories have appeared in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Periphery: Erotic Lesbian Futures, Best Lesbian Romance 2009, Best Lesbian Erotica and Best Women’s Erotica. Her erotic novel The Duchess, Her Maid, the Groom, and their Lover, by Victoria Janssen, was a 2008 release from Harlequin Spice. The Moonlight Mistress was released in December 2009. Her favorite fairy tale is “The Tinderbox.” Read more at www.victoriajanssen.com.

Thomas S. Roche is the author of more than two hundred published stories that fall into the horror, fantasy, crime, paranormal and erotica genres—frequently all at once. His books include His and Hers, two short-story collections written with Alison Tyler, and Dark Matter, a collection of his own stories, as well as four anthologies of fantasy/horror and three books of erotic crime stories. Roche has always had a love-hate relationship with fairy tales. He hated them as a child because there were rarely any spaceships in them. As an adult, he has adapted dozens of fairy tales for various projects, starting with a rewrite of A Midsummer Night’s Dream he did in the mid-1990s. He’s very fond of “The Little Match Girl,” probably due to his lingering goth damage from the eighties. He blogs about such topics as ghosts, aliens, sex and politics at www.thomasroche.com.

Donna George Storey is the author of Amorous Woman, a semi-autobiographical tale of an American’s steamy love affair with Japan. Her short fiction has been published in over ninety journals and anthologies, including X:The Erotic Treasury, Naughty or Nice, Frenzy, Best Women’s Erotica, and The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. Her favorite fairy tale is “The Twelve Dancing Princesses,” not only because she played the role of Angelica in a summer-theater production in high school, but because she can really relate to the story of girls who are perfect ladies by day sneaking off to a magical land every night to dance Freudian holes in their slippers with charming princes. Read more of her work at www.DonnaGeorgeStorey.com.

Sophia Valenti’s erotica has appeared in Afternoon Delight and Playing with Fire. She believes in happily-ever-afters, but thinks that sometimes fate needs a little push in the right direction. Her favorite fairy tale is “The Ugly Duckling” because coming into your own is as important as finding your place. Visit her at www.sophiavalenti.blogspot.com.

Saskia Walker loves to read and write stories where magic and passion are found in unexpected situations. Her favorite fairy tales reflect this, stories like “Cinderella,” and the tales of “Scheherazade” and the “Arabian Nights.” Saskia began writing in 1996 and her fiction has now been published in more than fifty anthologies. Her novel-length work spans from contemporary erotic romance to exotic fantasy. Saskia lives in the north of England on the windswept Yorkshire moors, where she happily spends her days spinning yarns. She has lots more stories to tell, so be sure to visit www.saskiawalker.co.uk.

Allison Wonderland has a B.A. in women’s studies, a weakness for lollipops and a fondness for rubber ducks. Her favorite sound is Fran Drescher’s voice, and her cocktail of choice is a Shirley Temple. On the fairy-tale front, she is quite fond of Jane Yolen’s collection, Not One Damsel in Distress. (She finds the dearth of distressed damsels very refreshing.) Allison has contributed to numerous anthologies, including Island Girls, Hurts So Good, Coming Together: At Last and Visible: A Femmethology. See what she’s up to at http://aisforallison.blogspot.com.


For Sam.




Introduction


Down the rabbit hole I go, in search of fractured fairy tales and manhandled myths, the type that would make Snow White blush Rose Red. Why fables and rhymes and stories of years gone by? Because the familiar cadence of these magical tales clings to us like the fabric of dreams. The once upon a time is already in place—the happily-ever-after is waiting for us. It’s the part in the middle that’s rich with promise, the sticky-sweet candy-colored goodness of a whole new type of “Hansel and Gretel” story.

The truth is that we all love a happy ending (traditional or otherwise), especially when the characters turn out to be kinky. To that end, I’ve compiled twenty-seven brand-spanking-new stories from such popular erotic writers as Thomas S. Roche, Tsaurah Litzky and Shanna Germain.

Many fables are immediately recognizable. Sommer Marsden’s “The Three Billys” is neatly spotted as a modern-day goat story, although the gruffest of the Billys has a far dirtier method of dealing with (Ms.) Troll than in the original tale. Kristina Lloyd’s “David” riffs on “Sleeping Beauty” in a myriad of ways. A surreal vampire yarn, her Beauty not only wakes up to her deep sexual submission, but she awakens her very own handsome prince. Bella Dean’s “Wolff’s Tavern” turns the tale of “Little Red Riding Hood” inside out—this Wolff comes to Ruby’s rescue. Sophia Valenti’s “The Cougar of Cobble Hill” is based firmly on the sole of “The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe,” while Jacqueline Applebee’s “Slutty Cinderella” features the only wannabe princess I know who needs a shave. T. C. Calligari spins the Grimms’ somewhat obscure fable “The Magic Table, the Golden Donkey and the Club in the Sack” into “A Taste for Treasure,” featuring a magical stick, crop and cot.

Several writers approached the same story, but with wickedly different results. “Fool’s Gold” by Shanna Germain retells “Rumpelstiltskin” from the point of view of a woman so tightly bound by her own desires she doesn’t know what she wants. Georgia E. Jones tackles the same fairy tale from more than five hundred years in the past, in the boisterous court of King Edward V. Ms. Jones’s story shows that no matter what the date, love is always in fashion. Nikki Magennis’s darkly beautiful “Red Shoes (Redux)” contrasts deliciously with Tsaurah Litzky’s “Dancing Shoes,” which features an older (but just as intriguing) protagonist, with a little bit of Cinderella for good measure.

Other creations in this collection are magical stories in their own right: Portia Da Costa’s “Unveiling His Muse” reads like a brand-new fairy tale, and Andrea Dale’s “The Broken Fiddle” has the cadence of an old Irish legend. In “The Midas F★ck,” Erica DeQuaya delves into what might happen if a woman’s secret wish came true. A. D. R. Forte’s “Moonset” begs the question “Is that a werewolf in my bed, or are you just happy to see me?” In “Managers and Mermen,” Donna George Storey’s fantasy mermaid lives only in her main character’s mind—or does she? In Lana Fox’s “Always Break the Spines,” a naughty coed learns that fairy tales can hurt. Literally. Her lover punishes her with a leather-bound book.

What ingredients are required to create a modern-day fairy tale? Sometimes all that’s needed is a little magic dust—and a bit of lube. Bryn Haniver’s ever-so-dirty “Mastering Their Dungeons” draws on a familiar game, but not everyone could turn a dorm room into a setting for a modern-day myth. Benjamin Eliot has conjured his own version of Sisyphus, with a protagonist forced to fix the same facility for what appears to be an eternity in “An Uphill Battle.” Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “Let Down Your Libido” features a completely different type of prison for a Rapunzel of the new millennium. And Thomas S. Roche’s “Cupid Has Signed Off” takes us from sex play in the online universe to a sizzling scenario IRL (in real life). My own “Rings on My Fingers” features dusky Los Angeles, a shy bookstore clerk and the universal desire for a happy ending, even with a tattooed prince.

Three wishes are all one girl requires when offered to choose in Saskia Walker’s “Kiss It.” What exactly does the protagonist kiss? Well, he’s definitely not a frog. Janine Ashbless’s “Gold, On Snow” tackles “Snow White” from the queen’s point of view. Allison Wonderland’s “Sleeping with Beauty” delves into the bubblegum-pink universe of two princesses who forgo princes (and frogs) in favor of each other. And what if one of those handsome fairy-tale studs liked men?

Are the endings always happy? That’s for the reader to decide. “The Clean-Shaven Type” by N. T. Morley, is a version of “Beauty and the Beast” with quite unexpected results for the Beast. “After the Happily-Ever-After,” by Heidi Champa, describes what happens to poor Cinderella once the sparkle fades from her fairy-tale wedding. The collection rides off into the sunset with a fairy tale told in a hundred words. If you don’t think that’s possible, check out Elspeth Potter’s “The Princess.”

With a combination of retold tales and brand-new fables, Alison’s Wonderland is the perfect naughty bedtime storybook to share with a partner (or enjoy solo style) for your own X-rated Happily-Ever-After.



XXX,

Alison Tyler




Epigraph


It is only possible to live happily ever after on a day-to-day basis.

—Margaret Bonnano

…don’t forget about what happened to the man who got everything he ever wanted.

He lived happily ever after.

—Roald Dahl




The Red Shoes (Redux)

Nikki Magennis


Lily had walked past the shoe shop a hundred times. On her way to work at the flower shop early every morning, wearing shabby jeans and baseball boots that were worn the same color as the pavement, she’d walk fast and barely glance at the shiny, chichi window display. She didn’t need to see heartbreaker heels and designer bags that would cost her a month’s wages.

For the past six weeks, though, she’d found herself swiveling on her heel and turning to look at a particular display.

The window stretched high above her head, the plate glass polished so bright it reflected her image like a mirror. But Lily wasn’t looking at herself. Her gaze was totally transfixed on the shoes. Glossy, cherry-red, skyscraper-high, patent-leather fuck-me shoes that made her heart beat faster just looking at them. They had deep curves and a dangerous heel and they stood center stage on a podium by themselves, proud, shockingly beautiful and insanely unaffordable. They made Lily’s mouth water. She could almost taste the red of them.

Once, she’d approached the door, got close enough to feel the cool hum of air-conditioned air on her face. And then she’d checked herself. Girls with ratty hair and dirt under their chipped-varnish nails didn’t enter shops like that. Not without a motorcycle helmet and a package under their arm. Not in a million years.

While she was at work, emptying buckets of stinking slime-water and slicing the stems of stargazer lilies, Lily let her imagination wander. In those shoes, she’d be able to walk anywhere—up red carpets and through gilded palaces, across Hollywood Boulevard and down the Champs-Élysées. She’d be a shameless scarlet bombshell, and take no shit from anyone. Her hips would swing and her lips would pout and men would fall at her feet.

And then her boss, Margie, yelled at her for daydreaming, and Lily snapped out of it and got on with the cold, dirty, green-stained work of the day.

It was the first Saturday in May. The city was full of mist that crawled lazily up the streets and muffled the edges of the morning. Dragging herself reluctantly to work, Lily walked past the siren-red shine of the shoes, and drifted to the window to gaze at her unreachable dreams through half an inch of bulletproof glass.

“You like them.”

Lily nearly fell on her ass. A man had appeared, silently, in the shop doorway. He wore a black shirt and trousers the color of champagne. His face was taut and unlined, and his smile barely tweaked the corners of his mouth.

“I was just looking,” Lily said, backing away.

“I see you,” the man continued, fixing her with fathomless gray eyes, “every morning. You look at my shoes like you’re starving.”

“Your shoes?”

“I design them,” he said.

“No shit,” said Lily.

“For women,” he said, “like you.”

“Oh,” Lily said, and looked down at her faded, raggedy Ramones T-shirt.

A smile snaked across the man’s face.

“It’s what’s underneath that matters,” he said, his eyes hooking on Lily’s chest.

If Lily had seen herself in the plate glass, she’d have seen her cheeks flare as red as the shoes. She looked down at the paving slabs and tried to think of a witty comeback.

“Come in,” the man said, pushing the door open.

Lily’s eyes flicked from the shoes to the man and back again. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the flower shop’s shutters rolling open and Margie cursing the empty street. And then, although she knew it was crazy and although she couldn’t afford to get fired from another job and although everything about the man made her feel she had sleepwalked into some surreal stage play, she followed him into the cool, palatial interior.

The whole place must have been polished by an army of women on their hands and knees, Lily thought. Every damn surface shone like a mirror. Even the light shafts that fell across the room looked glossy. The air smelt faintly of a sweet, spicy perfume, and the shop was silent. There was no sound other than the click of the man’s shoes as he walked across the marble floor to the window display.

He lifted the shoes by the straps and brought them to Lily, dangling them from his hand like a bunch of grapes he didn’t want to bruise.

“See,” he said. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

But as Lily reached out, he swung the shoes away and shook his head. He gave her a smile that made her feel dizzy.

“Not yet. You can wear them tonight. When I take you out.”



When Lily finally turned up to work half an hour late, she was clumsy and preoccupied. She knocked over a display and broke an orchid stem, gave the delivery driver a funeral wreath instead of a get-well-soon bouquet and ruined a hundred silk roses by dropping them in water.

“What is going on?” Margie bellowed. “Lily Spink, get a hold of yourself!”

By six o’clock, Lily was wired. She stood by the door of the shop, stepping from foot to foot anxiously while she waited for Hans. That was his name—the shoe man. It was about all she knew. But she’d guessed he was rich. She had an inkling he’d take her somewhere fancy, and so she’d stripped down to her spaghetti-strap vest and tried to scrub the green stains off her jeans. Her outfit wasn’t Chanel, but it was the best she could do at short notice.

When his car pulled up outside, dark, sleek and quiet, Lily whistled under her breath. It looked like a cruise ship.

“Hold on!”

Lily rolled her eyes as Margie’s foghorn voice called her back. Her boss nodded at her. “Take this, honey.”

She pressed something into Lily’s hand—a sprig of little bell-shaped white flowers nodding on a stem, tied in ribbon—and gave a tight smile.

“Lily of the valley. Your namesake.”



He drove straight to a club downtown, tucked behind the old merchants’ quarter. Hans climbed out of the car and walked around to Lily’s door to open it. When she swung her feet out, he bent forward and stilled her with one hand on her knee. Lily swallowed. Hans crouched at the curb. His hands slid down her calves and looped around her ankles. Slowly, almost daintily, he unlaced her baseball boots. When he tossed the battered boots in the gutter, Lily nearly cried out, but then she saw the hot glimmer of the red shoes and caught her breath.

Hans laid them at her feet.

“Put them on.”

As she stepped, at last, into the arched shoes, they clasped her feet like the hands of a lover, and Lily knew she was beautiful. When she climbed out of the car, her spine unrolled and her hips tipped forward, until her body was an S that leaned toward Hans. Even in her frayed old jeans and with her hair loose and tangled, Lily felt like a queen.

She’d tied Margie’s posy to the strap of her vest, and Hans’s eye caught on it as they climbed the steps.

He raised an eyebrow. “An unusual corsage.”

Lily didn’t answer. She felt a bit dazzled.

They entered the club arm in arm. Every head turned to look at them. The men’s faces were lustful and the women looked as if they’d sucked sour plums. Damn, Lily thought. These shoes work. She swayed across the marble floor, hanging from Hans’s arm. The shoes were so high they gave her vertigo, but there was also a zing and a shiver creeping through her veins. Lily’s tits tingled like they had lithium batteries attached to the nipples.

Hans led her past the jealous crowd and through a pair of long velvet curtains at the back of the club. They entered a dark, cavelike room with black walls and black marble floors, a vast glittering chandelier hanging overhead the only decor.

“Want something to drink?” Hans said, his lips brushing her ear, and Lily shivered. Everything he said made her feel as though she were swimming in syrup.

“Or shall we dance?” Hans slipped an arm around her and let his hand trip over the curve of her buttocks. Lily’s heartbeat seemed to follow his touch, and she had to force herself to breathe out. When he pulled her onto the edge of the dance floor, her feet started to twitch. Lily was restless. Antsy. She felt like there was a swarm of bees in her belly, and it was part sweet torture, part agony as the thrills spilled over and trickled through her veins.

Hans watched her. His gaze stroked down her curves, and Lily felt as though she were being wrapped in hot, wet silk. Delicious shivers ran up and down her legs, and she twisted from side to side to let the tingles travel right to the end of her fingertips. What was going on? She dropped her eyes to her feet. Was it some kind of weird acupuncture?

“Oh, God,” she said. “These shoes—these shoes are…fantastic.”

Hans circled her, still observing her body with intense interest. As she pointed her toes and flexed, like a cat trying to shake an itch out of its fur, he put his mouth to her ear.

“Dance,” he whispered, and gave her a sharp slap on the rounded cheek of her ass. The sting made her leap, and Lily whirled around, her mouth open wide in surprise. Before she could say a word, though, her attention was distracted by a low, pulsing sound. It could have been her heartbeat thumping in her ears or it could have been music, but whatever it was, the rhythm spoke directly to her body, to her hips and belly and the sweet wetness gathering between her legs.

Lily danced. She rolled back and forth and stroked herself, balancing on her tiptoes in the towering shoes. As Hans watched, she danced for him and toward him, winding around his body and rocking against him. The complex, noiseless music continued and grew louder as she ground into his crotch, lifted up tall enough on the shoes to meet the stiff length of his cock as it pressed against her, hot even through the layers of their clothes.

Deep in Lily’s thoughts, a glimmer of apprehension flared. Weren’t there any waiters, any other people wandering into the hidden ballroom? She hunted the dark corners of the room, but found nothing in the shadows except more shadows, deep and thickly layered, and the sensation she was floating underwater, drifting down beyond the depths to a place where no light would reach her. She felt caressed by the dark, just as Hans gently stroked her hips and slid his long fingers inside the waistband of her jeans, reaching down to tickle the top of her ass.

When he kissed her, it was like drinking very fine brandy—smooth and strong and dark gold. Lily smelled the perfume on his neck—civet and patchouli, something dense and elusive—as he deftly unbuttoned and pushed her jeans to her knees. Any shame she might have felt evaporated like smoke, and she closed her eyes as his swaying movements helped them dance closer to each other, until there was nothing between their skin but heat and a damp slick of perspiration.

Perhaps he slid his trousers aside as swiftly as he’d undressed her, or perhaps his clothes somehow melted away, because now Lily felt Hans’s cock, hot and hard, slide between her thighs and nudge at the seam of her pussy. She was molten wax, all liquid heat, and Hans was flowing into her like a knife into butter.

His hands circled her hips and held her fast as he pinned her on his prick, pulling her down slowly until he filled her right. But Lily couldn’t stop moving, like the beat wouldn’t leave her alone, and she squirmed against him, working herself closer and closer.

She no longer knew if she was trying to dance or fuck or swim. Her feet slid around to get purchase on the floor as he took her and lifted her up with each stroke. Lily heard moans, and wondered if they came from her mouth. Her body was wildly restless, insatiable even as she felt the blissful ache of his cock thrumming inside her.

As they worked against each other, his hands moved everywhere at once—cupping her breast, slipping over the fuzz of her pussy, pinching her clit and molding her ass. Gripped in his rough embrace and tugged and dazzled by whatever the shoes were doing to her, Lily’s head started to spin.

“You like that?” he asked, and she heard a dark thread of menace running in his voice.

“Don’t want me to stop, do you?” he asked, while his fingers strummed and rubbed and tweaked at her. She crawled upward, like she was trying to climb his body.

A voice in her head chanted a mantra she was only half aware of. More, more, more. Lily didn’t know what she wanted more of—his cock, his fingers, his voice slithering into her ear like a trance, the brandy kiss or the wet shine of the shoes that clung to her feet. The feeling, the thick, dark, urgent and sweet feeling. The beat of the music rolling into her. Everything, everything.

Lily started to shiver. Hans fucked her steadily, decisively. She had to fight to breathe. The polished floor was slippery under her feet and she felt herself tumbling, slipping, falling as the burn of orgasm rose up through her body.

It started in her feet, red flares of sensation that burned in her veins and swarmed around her thighs, a hot crush inside her that uncurled and licked over her clit, clutched at her heart and sparked in her nipples as the man pinched them tightly. And then it was everywhere.

She closed her eyes and saw crimson, opened her mouth and screamed scarlet, felt the red crash over her and through her and shake her until there was no world anymore, no ballroom, no Lily.

The red splashed across her heart and sizzled in her fingertips.

The waves rocked her back and forth, swaying her until she was seasick. Lily unraveled and spun out like a ribbon caught in the ocean’s deep currents. She was limp, her body shaky. Ready to climb down now, to find air, to break the surface.

But Hans’s arms circled her waist and the shoes were tight on her feet. Although she was flinching, oversensitive, the cock inside her was harder and stronger than ever and her body wouldn’t stop moving against it.

“Hans,” she said, almost ready to beg for a moment’s pause. She was ignored. He rubbed relentlessly at her aching nipples, making her flinch as the too-strong sensation shot through her. She was bathed in sweat, cooling now and slick over the surface of her skin.

She tried to pull away. But she found herself tugged toward Hans, as though there were a strong magnet in her stomach. And her hips—though they ached, they kept on moving. Her body seemed possessed—though she frowned and blinked she couldn’t seem to see clearly.

“Yes,” Hans said, and his smile curdled. “Dance with me.”

“Oh,” Lily said. Her voice was faint. “I think I need a glass of water.”

Hans put his mouth to her ear.

“All you need is this. All you need is me.”

He nodded his head.

“You’re mine.”

Lily’s heart lurched. The music had become dark and hard now, it beat against her skull. Hans let his eyes drop to her shoes. He smiled, and the skin pulled taut over his cheekbones.

“The shoes belong to me. And now you belong to the shoes.”

Lily’s feet twitched and throbbed, and she realized in a split second that she was bewitched. The shoes were a poisoned chalice, a glittering prison, two seductive traps that she’d walked straight into. She pushed Hans away and dropped to a crouch, tugging at the straps on her ankles. It was as though the buckles were soldered shut. Her feet were burning now, and her breath was fighting in her throat. She looked up at Hans and saw twin fires in his eyes, a terrible, cold desire. The tip of his tongue flickered over his lips.

“Mine,” he said.

Desperate and confused, Lily reached to her throat. Her hand brushed the wilted corsage pinned to her breast, and she clutched at the stems. A burst of sweet, green perfume floated from it. Hardly aware of what she was doing, Lily gripped hold of the flowers and held on to them tight. Her head hurt. Her eyes were bleary. With fingers wet from sap, she rubbed at her eyelids.

It was like the sky opened up. A fresh breeze cut through the thick atmosphere of the ballroom, smelling of cut grass and brine and newly dug earth. Lily looked around.

Hans was a few feet from her, but he seemed to shrink as she looked at him. Her eyes were clear. There was dandruff on his shoulder and dust on the chandelier. The music faded. Lily felt an insistent pain in her feet, and looked down at the red shoes. Irritated, she kicked a shoe across the dance floor, and stepped lightly out of the other.

The floor was dusty and small pieces of grit dug into the soles of her feet, but it felt good. She flexed her toes. Lily heaved a deep sigh.

“Well, Hans, you know that was fun, but I think it’s time I got going.”

He didn’t answer, but instead made a hissing sound, like a balloon when the air is let out of it.

“No, don’t fuss, I don’t need a ride home,” Lily continued, rubbing mascara from under her eyes. “It’s been a great night. Really interesting. Although—” Lily leaned toward Hans and whispered loudly across the empty dance floor, “You might want to lay off the Viagra. Too much of a good thing, you know?”

With that, she blew him a light kiss off the end of her fingertips, turned and left.




Fool’s Gold

Shanna Germain


Spin a Yarn

It was a random boast. Too many gin and tonics, too aware of how my ass looked in a new pair of dark jeans. Far too aware of how he’d been watching me across the loud space of a bar table all night, long fingers reaching up to push a few strands of dark hair away from his blue eyes. Not a close friend, but still a friend. And for long enough you’d think I’d have noticed him that way before. But sometimes that’s how it happens, a flip switches, and the guy at the edge slips into the center. He is suddenly all you can see.

This flip was the conversation that turned from usual drunken rants to sex. Specifically to bondage sex. After a few minutes of the boys around the table laughing and the girls not really saying much, I pushed the lime into my gin and tonic with the end of my stir stick. “I don’t know what the big deal is.” I imagined being stuck somewhere, seat-belted in, unable to reach the drink holders or turn the knobs on the dashboard. “I like to move when I have sex. Why be tied down?”

Suddenly, the quiet man that I mostly knew from group nights out was leaning across the table, creating near-perfect paper strips from the bar napkin, talking about ropes and twine and knots in a power voice, a low light flickering in his eyes. He wasn’t talking to me, not specifically, but his gaze flicked to my wrists as he talked. “There’s freedom in constraints.”

I curled my hands around my glass, the bones feeling exposed, the pulse thump-thumping beneath the skin. “There’s constraint in constraints.” My words had made more sense in my head.

He followed the movement of my hand with his eyes, tearing another near-perfect strip from the edge of his napkin as he waved my comment away. “But it’s not really about what you use to tie someone down. At least, not the physical thing you use to tie someone.”

He laid the thin strip of torn napkin over my wrist, holding the edges with a few fingers to the table, as though paper and pressure was enough to keep me there.

“It’s other things. Isn’t it, Elly?” His eyes settled on mine. Such intense blue, like a weight all their own, trying to keep me against the overly warm bar seat.

I dropped my gaze to watch the lime floating in my drink, raising both shoulders in a shrug, my wrist slipping along beneath the paper. “You’re asking the wrong girl,” I said, when I could finally meet his eyes again.

He arched a brow, the low bar lights flaring in his gaze as he shifted his head. “Am I?”

“Yes.” The others faded away. Did they grow quiet on their own or just slip into the edges of my vision, sliding into the place he’d occupied so recently? “I’ve never been bound to anything. Man or bed or chair. And I don’t intend to be.”

He stood suddenly, the lean movement of predator, still holding the napkin strip across my wrist with one hand. His other hand snaked forward to tighten into the length of my blond hair, fisting his fingers at the nape of my neck to pull my head back slightly. My mouth gasped open—I couldn’t help it—and then I was looking up at those blue eyes. Darkening to near black on the edges. “No?”

A single word. A challenge. Something that I would have ignored most times. If not for the drinks. Or for the fact that his fingers were still on either side of my wrist, tightening in, capturing my skin between them. If not for the way my body suddenly responded, a dizzy spin of want that left me hollow and wet.

“No.” Fingers digging into my head, holding me. I tugged my head forward, but his grip only tightened. So tight I saw threads of black and gold through my vision, and still the blue of his eyes through it all.

“You’ve never…” I didn’t know if the others could hear him, even though he was leaning down slightly, the press of his fingers keeping me there. “…called someone master?”

I pulled my body away although my hand, inexplicably, didn’t follow. I was sure I’d meant it to. “Hell, no. And I never will.”

“Shall we bet on that?” he asked. I was sure the others could hear him now, as well as my own bitten-back moan in response. What was my body doing to me? Betrayer.

Still, I suddenly and desperately wanted to prove this man wrong. I didn’t know if it was to knock his ego a notch or soothe my own pulse, which was thumping hard beneath my skin.

I took a deep, unsteady inhale. “What do I get if I win?”

“You won’t,” he said.

“Then there’s no reason to bet, is there?”

He laughed and let go of my hair, touching a single finger to the corner of my mouth as he bent and said softly, his lips whispering along the curve of my ear, “What’s my name, Elly?”

I’m sure I looked at him like he was stupid. How long had we been friends? Of course I knew his name.

“Jackson,” I said. At the same time, I pulled my wrist up, breaking the napkin.

As the paper split, releasing my wrist, he bowed down again to drag his teeth along the curve of my ear. “That’s one.”



Spinning Round

Time goes, as it does. I didn’t see him for nearly six months. I’m sure I didn’t think of him. Or his bet. Or the way I sometimes thought I felt his fingers in my hair, tangling me up.

And then, at a wedding, there he was. Tuxed up in a way that changed him once again. Prince maybe. Or young king, before he leans old and weary. He turned, halfway through the ceremony, looked into me with those blue eyes, and I forgot his name. Forgot my own. I had an image of my wrist held to the table with no more than a paper strip, remembered his fingers threaded in my hair. The heat that filled my cheeks—I knew I was turning the same color as the blood-red dress I wore, and I dropped my head, my blond hair falling forward around me. Closing my eyes for so long, I missed the bride coming up the aisle.

At the reception, he stepped beside me near the dance floor, keeping a careful distance. He touched me lightly on the inside of my arm. Even his voice was soft.

“Come and dance?”

Soft hands, safe hands around my back, careful how he touched me. He brushed a few strands of my hair from my face, his fingertips barely touching my skin, soft as silk. I looked in his eyes, waiting for him to say something like he did before.

“How have you been?” is what he asked.

So formal, so regal and considerate, I wanted to scream. I wanted to arch my hips against him and beg him for…what? I didn’t know. I wanted to see what he would do with a paper napkin, a wedding streamer, the straps of my dress, the bride’s veil.

I bit my lip instead, answered with the one word I could find. “Fine.”

I couldn’t think how to turn the conversation, so I danced with him, aching. I draped my wrists along his shoulders, turning them softly, just to see. I let my long blond hair brush his shoulders. My eyes on him, silent desire, but he merely tucked my cheek to his chest lightly, swayed to the bad music without touching his hips to mine. Every touch so soft, I couldn’t help but bend my body toward it. By the end of the song, I decided I must have confused that night. Or his comments. He’d been drunk. So had I. Perhaps our conversation had been something for only the dark of a backlit bar. Perhaps he’d forgotten our bet.

Besides, I told myself as he maneuvered me around the floor, I hadn’t wanted that, right? No bondage. No stupid calling someone master. Why did I care? I chalked it up to the soft whisper of fabric as his hips edged along mine and to the feel of his breath along my cheek.

As the dance ended, he stepped away with a gentle smile. The quiet press of his hand to my shoulder was so formal that I again thought of kings and royalty. Then he reached and curled a hand to the back of my neck, the blue of his gaze hardening as his eyes settled on mine. His hold was so strong and sudden that I yanked my head forward, pulling it from his grip. Too late, I realized what I’d done.

He dropped his head, mouth edging to the curl of my ear as he laughed quietly along my skin. “What’s my name, sweet Elly?”

“Prick,” I sputtered, so in want and confused that I was sure the dance floor was swaying beneath me.

He winked at me before he pulled away and left me standing in the middle of the floor by myself, only his words remaining. “That’s two.”



Spun to Gold

I spent two weeks arguing with myself. Wearing my seat belt extra tight in the car to remind myself why I didn’t want it. Didn’t want him. But all I could see were his blue eyes reflected in the sky of my windshield.

I called him. Some faltering tone in my voice about dinner, or drinks. I looked at my wrists while I held the phone, their fine bones, the thin length of them. I bent my head forward and touched a few fingers to the nape of my neck.

“Tell me where you live,” he said, and I did.

I slipped into jeans. Then a sundress. Then a T-shirt and a soft yellow skirt that swirled around my thighs. I paced, touching things, asking myself what I wanted. Unable to say the answer aloud.

When he got there, I opened the door, unsure whether I’d find predator or king. Or perhaps just the man I’d known for so long, before that night at the bar.

He was neither. And all three. Leaning against my door frame in jeans and a shirt that fit his wide shoulders. Arms crossed, those long fingers hidden from view, he slid in through the door finally, gesturing to the couch without a word.

I sat, fiddling with my skirt. Wishing I was anywhere else.

“Hold still,” he said, reaching for my head.

The pain was small and short, the backward prick of a needle, and then he was holding one of my long hairs in his fingers. “Golden thread,” he said, “to bind you with.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The sound eased the nervousness in my stomach and made me feel sick and stupid at the same time. “That? A hair?”

Without saying anything, he pushed the coffee table out of the way, then pressed both hands to my shoulders, easing me back. Scooting my hips forward as though I was a mannequin. With just his fingertips, he pushed my shirt up, then laid the hair across my stomach, the thinnest of gold threads. A breath would blow it away.

Down on his knees, he looked up at me, sending me swimming in blue. “Last chance, Elly,” he said, and his teeth were big when he smiled. “You decide.”

He didn’t wait, just curled his fingers beneath my skirt and hooked them into my panties, began to ease them down my thighs with tiny pulls. Bit by bit, until he caught them and pulled them over my knees. His tongue curled along the inside of my thighs, meaningless circles that echoed the turns of my stomach, the spinning ache that made me want to push my hips up from the couch.

With the very tips of his fingers, he pushed the fabric of the skirt up along my thighs, watching me with every inch of skin he exposed. Until I was naked and he was dipping his head between my thighs, glossing his tongue along the heated space between. And still I let him do all these things. I wanted him to do all these things. Only a thread, a hair, nearly invisible, holding me still.

“Wait…” I said. But he didn’t. He dragged his tongue like a cat along me until I was panting, the hair across my stomach rising and falling with each breath. So much as a movement would send it curling and spinning, off into nowhere.

His eyes stayed on the hair even as he slipped a finger inside me, then two, curling them upward, pulling me forward with that small gesture that made me cry out and reach forward to thread my fingers lightly into his hair. I breathed and breathed, careful not to aim my exhales at the hair that lay across my stomach. His thumb touched my clit, and I rose and jerked, the hair slipping just a bit. Settling into a slow, rhythmic circle, his thumb made me want to call his name, to beg him not to stop. I bit the sound back, my teeth hard over my lips.

He laughed, the sound vibrating along my skin. He lapped me between words, until each draw of his tongue sounded like language and each sound felt his tongue. “Don’t…move…”

I didn’t. I couldn’t. Trapped and yet not. My outside still enough that the inside was all I could feel, the pleasure that wove itself through me with its golden promise of release.

“Please…” I begged. I wasn’t ashamed. I wasn’t caught. I arched my body—not the outside, not my skin and bones, but the desire that rose in me, uncoiled itself into a long thread of pleasure. Asking for more, keeping my stomach perfectly still beneath the length of golden hair, while the rest of me spun and spun and spun.

“My name, Elly,” he said.

“Oh…” I clenched my teeth, trying to keep my movements still. “Please…”

He began to pull his thumb away from me, slowing his circles. Sliding his fingers from me. His retreat left me already empty. I wanted to shove myself over him, then sink his fingers inside me with a fast, hard pierce. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Name,” he said softly, flicking his thumbnail along the hardened point of me until my breath caught in my throat.

“M-master,” I called out, my rasped voice rising in the air between us.

He grinned that dangerous grin of his, making me want to take it back, but it was too late. He was tightening his thumb back to my skin, cocking his fingers inside, his tongue curling over and over my skin until I was sure I was melting beneath the soft spin of his touch, turning liquid, turning gold.




The Three Billys

Sommer Marsden


“Philomena Fitzpatrick Troll,” she said. She said it louder than necessary because they stood there with their buckets, tarps and ladders looking like a ragtag bunch if there ever was one. And they had dirt on their boots. Dirt that crumbled into little brown piles on her perfect black-and-white tiles. What had Harry been thinking? They were a wreck. All three of them. And what kind of name was Three Billys Building anyway?

“Nice to meet you, but we just need to get access to the second floor and—”

“I understand,” Philomena interrupted. Rude but necessary. The big one did the talking. He had the beginnings of a goatee, which almost made her laugh because she was thinking of the fairy tale. Instead, she smoothed her brown dress and squared her shoulders. “In the future, please use the service entrance so as not to…” She let the sentence trail off as she raked a disapproving gaze over her now-marred floor.

“Sorry about that. First day and all. We weren’t sure, Philomena.”

“Ms. Troll.”

“How unfortunate,” he thrust.

“How clever,” she parried.

He grinned. This big Billy. Philomena felt a blush start at her cheekbones and burn a blazing trail well south of her cheeks. “This way,” she said. She took off at a smart pace before he could see her face coloring and her breath quicken. The big one was going to be a problem. Staggeringly tall and broad with nearly black hair, and eyes that flashed an emerald-green. Philomena had noticed those eyes right off the bat. A bad sign for her.

Usually, she could focus at work. It took an act of God to pull her from her head librarian duties. More than a few men had come along thinking she would be some fantasy, like in the music videos and movies. They flirted and waited for her to come undone for them and turn into a bookish wet dream. But Philomena kept her focus. When she was at work, she was all about work. And these days, work rated number one with a bullet in her life. Because she didn’t have much more.

Now he pinned her with those haunting green eyes and she had to put more swagger in her walk than she felt. They clomped behind her. Oafish and messy. Oh, she could just picture the debris sifting from their boots and that horrible paint-splattered ladder leaving gouges in her impeccable walls. It did not occur to her until halfway up the staircase that three pairs of male eyes were now pinned to her swaying bottom. The thought almost felled her, nearly brought her down like a dry tree in a February ice storm. She stilled and someone chuckled, a small knowing laugh. Had she been a betting woman, Philomena would have laid easy money on the big Billy. She closed her eyes, wrangled a deep breath and forced her sensible square-toed work heels to continue.

At the second floor, she surveyed the water damage. The rugs had already been torn up by maintenance. A pipe had ruptured in the ceiling, the water raining down from overhead, not from the sprinklers, but from the water pipes that ran under the third floor. She tried to remind herself (yet again) that the situation could have been worse. There could have been damage to the third floor—the archival floor. She blew out a sigh and indicated the mess. “Here we are, gentlemen.”

“The man who hired us,” said the middle one, “where’s he?”

“Harry is off today. He’ll be here tomorrow. As, I trust, will you.” Philomena had nightmares about contractors who showed once and then never came back. She’d heard horror stories.

“Bummer. He’s a nice one.” The small one was a bit shifty. He had a nervous thing he did with his chin. Thrusting it forward like he was chewing cud. She found the tic mesmerizing in a completely inappropriate way.

“Now,” she hurried on, trying to focus, “as you can see, there’s some damage to the wall over here. And down at the checkout counter where you came in.” She walked to the far wall. The floor above the checkout was metal gridwork. Wrought iron and fancy. Meant to let the patron look down to the level below. If she put her head back, she could see the domed ceiling above in the archives.

She turned, and the biggest man was right on her heels. Those gorgeous green eyes took a lazy tour of her chocolate-brown wrap dress and her sensible heels. Damn it all if she didn’t start blushing all over again. He leaned in and then past her, but she felt the soft dark brush of his warm breath across her bare neck. “So the water just ran right over the edge and down the wall. And this all happened after closing time?” He turned his head but kept his body angled, his generous mouth a bare two inches from hers.

In her mind’s eye, Philomena could see those big dusty hands with the ragged nails settle on her hips. She could see the busted knuckles flex as big bad Billy’s powerful palms hauled her in and pulled her flush to his hard angles. She imagined with bizarre clarity what those full pink lips would feel like crushing down on hers and how hot his tongue would be working past her own swollen lips. The raspy sound his calluses would make as he pushed her dress up, dragging his work-abused hands up her stockings until—

“Right?”

“Calluses,” she blurted, and then bit her tongue so hard her eyes blurred. How asinine. “I meant ‘correct.’ That is correct. The mess sat all night long. And it was during a heat wave. The water shorted the air-conditioning unit, creating mold and mess and more water.” Her tongue tripped over the words as if it had never formed such things before.

The towering Billy touched her forearm and the sensation of his skin on hers made her shiver like she was cold. “You okay?”

“I am fine, Mr.…um, Billy…”

“Benjamin.”

“I thought you said your names were all Billy,” Philomena squeaked.

“Billy Benjamin. The little one is Billy Samuels and then there’s Billy Midlin.”

“Ah. Thank you for the introductions. Now, about the floor.”

His breath stroked her skin again as he leaned in to hear. Philomena felt her mouth sag open just a little, her heart did a little flip-flop in her chest and she felt intense moisture between her legs. This was the point where men started doing math in their heads, she thought. What did women do?

“What about it? This seems to be the only part of the floor up here unharmed.”

“What I am trying to say is, during operating hours, people will be passing through on the first floor. Please refrain from walking over this section during work hours. There might be…” She pointed to his shoes.

Billy Benjamin laughed and clomped his chunky boot on the floor until a small chunk of mud flaked off. Why? She wanted to grab him and shake him and demand to know why! But then her gaze returned to his mouth and her mind turned from mud to mush. And her insides turned molten hot and her pussy followed suit. Work. She was at work.

“You have a thing about dirt, don’t you?”

Philomena could only nod. The other two men were placing drop cloths and making a horrible racket. Big Billy—Billy Benjamin—had eyes only for her. He moved in farther and Philomena took a staggering step back as her heel went to war with the wrought iron gridwork. It gave him an excuse. He reached out, his hands latching on to her forearms. No. Swallowing her forearms right up.

“I do.” Her voice was strangled and not at all as authoritative as she wanted. Even though her mind went down a verdant dirty path the moment he touched her, she tried to hold on to her head librarian persona. “I also have a thing about being manhandled. Please let me go and keep yourself and your men from walking over this section during patron hours. Thank you.”

He leaned in, his mouth so close. He smelled of cinnamon and mint and coffee. A very yummy, very warm smell. “No problem, boss lady Troll.”

“Yes. Right.” From below came the ding, ding, ding of someone pressing the red button for assistance. Saved by the bell. Literally. “I’d better go answer that.”

“Hurry, scary boss lady. Get back down below.” He winked when he said it and the wink sent a fireball of attraction rushing from the deepest pit of her stomach to the warmest recesses of her body. She straightened her spine so hard her whole body clenched. Bad move. The clenching made the desire run amok and she nearly, nearly, mind you, leaned in and kissed him before her brain could even think it over. Thank goodness, she managed not to do that.

Thank goodness. Right?

“I would suggest you get to work now, Big Billy.”

Time stood still then. Everything froze, including her unstably beating heart. Had she just called this colossal, handsome, green-eyed man…Big Billy? To his face?

He barked laughter, green eyes dancing, narrowing and darkening a bit with predatory glee. He looked her over and the gaze itself was like strong fingers sliding over her skin.

“Big Billy?”

Yes. Yes, she had said it out loud.

“Sorry. My apologies,” she choked out, and ran on her unsteady heels from the scene of the crime. On the first floor, safe behind her library counter, Philomena prayed for death. It did not come.



Right after lunch as she was checking out a gentleman with a substantial stack of books on the practice of Wicca, the first dirt shower came. A small clod rested on The Layman’s Grimoire, then a faint sifting decorated Everyone Witchcraft. Philomena steeled herself, looked up and got a nice piece of silt in her eye for her efforts. “Please, Billy! Please, I asked you three not to walk over me during patron hours.”

She mumbled her apologies and wiped the books clean and got the somewhat bemused customer on his way. Then she threw her head back, hands on hips, blood boiling as the boots did another pass overhead. It was the little Billy. The jaw thruster. But damn, what was his name? “Helloooo! Do you hear me?”

He paused, looked down into her eyes, grinned, jaw moving a mile a minute. “Sorry. Billy. Big Billy told me to hit the switch and the switch plate is over there, lady.”

“Ms. Troll,” she corrected.

“Right.”

Philomena bit her lip and steamed. She couldn’t argue, though. The switch plate for the main bank of lights was on the far wall. Which meant walking over her. “Fine. But that’s it. Please!”

“I’ll give it my best. Otherwise, take it up with Benjamin.”

“Ri-ight,” Philomena growled and wiped down her counter with some cleaner and a paper towel. This would not do. Not at all. But she knew that she would just have to soldier on. The more hours the three Billys could get during the day, the faster they would be done. And then they would be out. Them and their mess!

Next was a regular, and Philomena knew exactly what would be in his stack when he started self-checkout. Second World War, civil war, Korean War. War buff. Mr. Sinclair was his name, and he flirted shamelessly, but was 110 percent harmless. “Are they getting the upstairs all squared away then, Ms. Troll?” His voice was a mellifluous balm after the rattle and racket from the second floor.

“Not soon enough, Mr. Sinclair.”

He slid his stack over her way and cleaned his glasses with his shirttail. “I can tell you’re a wee bit worked up over the upheaval.”

Some insistent buzzing thump came from above her head and she cringed. “Yes, well…” More dirt! Right into her keyboard and right on top of Mr. Sinclair’s bald pate. A rage of blush fired her cheeks and she bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Still, Philomena threw back her head and though she tried not to, she howled, “Why are you walking over my head, Billy…the middle one!”

The middle Billy—dark blond hair with snowy-blue eyes—stopped and squatted. He gazed down at her, a mischievous grin split his rugged features. “Sorry, there, Philomena.”

“Ms. Troll!” The words ripped out so fiercely that her throat hurt. Mr. Sinclair’s watery brown eyes flew wide. The dirt on his scalp slid to the left. “So sorry, Mr. Sinclair. My deepest apologies.”

“Ms. Troll, I was told to plug in the sander, and the three-pronged outlet is right under the switch plate. So…” He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. If it’s a problem, I can send Billy. Big Billy.” He chuckled, stood and his boots threw off more ick as he went. She dodged, and Mr. Sinclair scuttled off with his goods.

What could she say? Nothing. And she most certainly did not want to deal with Big Billy any more than necessary since he seemed to scramble her brain faster than a martini. Philomena wasn’t much of a drinker, and she didn’t seem to be much in the way of handling big handsome contractors with flashing green eyes.

Again with the cleaner and towels. Philomena kept looking up. She felt watched. Maybe it was simply the bizarre and overtly steamy mental movie playing in her head that had her on edge. No matter how hard she scrubbed the counter, she could imagine kissing him. That big, huge, irritating man. Kissing him on the lips and down over the stubbly jut of his jaw. Biting just below where his pulse jumped in a steady beat and down along his broad throat. Over the swell of his Adam’s apple, and then her kisses, in her head at least, went due south and she had to take a deep breath to steady herself. She could shut her eyes and feel the heat of his mouth closing over her nipple, tracing her hipbone and then lower still. Parting her legs and then feeling his lips, so close to where she wanted him, kissing the very top of her thighs. How would it feel to have his lips on her clit, probing her? How would his kisses feel when his heat closed over her willing pussy and licked her until she clutched the bedsheets in her trembling hands and—

Something hit Philomena on the head. Something hard. Definitely not dirt. Her eyes flew wide. “What the hell!” The words slipped out before she could stop herself. She ran her fingers over her scalp. Then she spotted the weapon. A blue ballpoint pen on the floor. “Simon! Simon?” One of the assistants came scuttling out.

“Yes, Ms. Troll?”

“Watch the counter.” Her eyes had found him. Over her. Hovering. Smiling!

“Oops! Sorry, Ms. Troll. I had to hook up the—”

Big Billy. The main man. The head honcho. The thorn in her side. The burr in her ass. Philomena pointed a finger at him and glared. “Stay. Right. There. Mr. Benjamin, I am coming.”

“I look forward to it.”

She blinked and her body responded with a warm flickering wave of excitement. “Do not be crude! Do. Not. Move.”

Simon looked as if he wanted to die on the spot. Instead, he wiped the counter again. Hers would be the cleanest counter in the land when all was said and done. Philomena stormed up the wide, stone steps, trying so hard to force aside the mental images that had her melting hot so that the anger that had her equally hot could emerge.

He had listened. There he stood, poised on the intricate floor, dirty work boots in a defiant stance. He held an industrial yellow three-pronged plug in one hand. His beat-up, faded jeans slung low on his hips and his cocky smile spread on his lips. “Mr. Benjamin!”

“Ma’am?”

“I…” Philomena blinked. What? You must work but you cannot plug that in? How dare you try for electricity? A grounded outlet? What?

“Yes?” He took a step toward her just as one of the other Billys, unseen at this point, fired some big machine in the rear of the stacks.

“I…I am very concerned because…” Damn. There she went again, trailing off. Her mind taking a right turn and putting her on her back with this big, dusty, cocky man climbing on top of her. Somewhere in the mental scenario he had lost his shirt. How had that happened? And a hard ridge of male excitement pressed the faded cotton of his fly.

“Because I didn’t obey?”

“Well, yes. I am the—”

“The boss. You are the boss. You’re used to being the boss, aren’t you, Troll?” He took three big steps and there he was again, in her personal space. Invading her turf. Setting her on edge. But in the most bizarre way. Her nose tingled with the dark and spicy scent of him. Her nipples peaked, and between her legs she went hot and wet in the blink of an eye. Her hands turned to fists and her heart felt as though it would pound its way right out of her chest.

“I…I…”

Billy Benjamin leaned in so that only the smallest slice of air rested between their lips. “You might write the checks, but you are not the boss of me, Troll.”

“Ms. Troll.”

He leaned in farther still and Philomena heard her heart over all of it. Over what sounded like a sander and someone hammering and the rain on the skylight in the archives above them. Thunder boomed outside, and inside the cage of her chest.

“I…” She smacked him. That fast, out of nowhere. Her hand landed and they both made surprised noises at once. His low and guttural, hers high and breathy. “Oh, my God. I am so, so very sor—”

He didn’t let her finish. He grabbed both of her fluttering wrists in his harsh grip and dropped the thick yellow snake of cord. “You think you rule the world down there under the fancy floor. Barking up orders and making our job that much harder. You think you are so scary, Philomena. But you’re not. My God, look how small you are! And you do a piss-poor job of handling sexual tension.”

He pushed her into a small storage room and shut the door. Philomena did her best to bark out a sarcastic laugh as if to say, You don’t scare me, you dirty labor person! Instead, the noise became some kind of sultry sigh that made even Billy Benjamin pause. She caught herself then. “There is no sexual tension. You are clearly insane.”

“Yeah?” He stepped into her then. His belly to hers. The fly of his jeans to the skirt of her dress. His broad hard chest to her wildly struggling breast. Her body tried so hard to suck in air, but all she managed to take in was more and more of the scent of him.

“Mr. Benjamin—” That was as far as she got when his hands clamped down on her hips. Without thinking, Philomena pushed her pelvis to his pelvis. She slid her body against his, feeling his hard cock between her legs. Wishing she was feeling it sans fabric and panties. He seemed to read her mind, because his hands bunched the fabric of her dress in his hands, hiking it up, drawing the dress up slowly like a curtain. Then he lost his patience and shoved his hands under the hem. Fingers on her hosiery. She started to wiggle to help them down, but Billy had other plans. The sound of her nylons tearing filled the teeny, tiny closet.

“Those were new!” She said the words with wild displeasure, but her legs fell open for him and she shivered with fresh whorish delight.

“Tough shit. I’ll buy you another pair,” he responded, his mouth buried between her breasts. His tongue darting into her cleavage until she held his head to her chest like she was drowning. “I can’t breathe,” he said.

“Right. Sorry.” She let him go as he dropped to his knees, growling and grumbling about her bitchy nature all the way down. Her fingers flitted over his soft flannel shirt as he put his mouth to her thigh and began kissing. It was as if all her dirty fantasies had come true. “You smell nice and sweet for such a bossy prude,” he growled, and put his mouth over her small satin panties. The heat of his mouth bled into the fabric like a stain.

“I’m not a prude,” she managed to say, plucking at his wide shoulders.

“Yeah?”

She nodded, silent but gasping for air. He tugged her panties and she arched her hips for him. Would her heart give out before his mouth finally touched her? No. Because there it was. On her pussy, licking and pushing at her until she threw her head back and let him eat her any way he pleased. This was better than being in control.

“You don’t scare me.” He pushed his fingers deep inside her and curled them. The room swayed a bit.

“I know.”

“You’re bossy but not scary. At least to me.” Curl, curl, curl went his fingers. Flick, flick, flick went her cunt. Heat flooded her limbs, her hair swished.

Close. So very close.

“You don’t need to be that way so much. Calm down a little. Unwind.” Oh, she would unwind, all right. Right here. Right now.

“Yes, you’re right. Yes, yes, yes!” Philomena cried. She did not need to be so rigid. Looser and more relaxed could be good.

She tugged this big Billy up and attacked his zipper. “Look, I’m not a closet sex person.”

He nodded. Helped her trembling hands.

“But you…You are…what? Magical? Brave? Maddening? Whatever. I’ve been having dirty fantasies about you, and now…” The pants were down and she took him in hand. Big, hard, warm.

“And now what?”

“Now let’s do this.”

He laughed softly and kissed her again. His mouth tasted like vanilla and mint and her. He moved between her thighs, pushed at her, hooked her leg around his waist. Slid in effortlessly and started to move. Philomena had to grit her teeth not to come right there. “See how soft you can be?” He pushed into her harder.

“Yes.”

“See how flexible you can be?” He thrust higher, faster, holding her bottom in his big hands. He angled her, and the head of his cock bumped her G-spot perfectly. Philomena was grateful for his size, because her knees sagged and he held her up.

“Yes, I can be. I do see. I need to…”

“What?”

“…ask you…”

“What?” His mouth settled on her—kissed her, bit her just a bit too hard and in the perfect way.

“Can you fuck me harder?”

“That I can do, Ms. Troll.” And he did. Harder, faster. He drove into her until she scratched at flannel and stubble and man and came hard. Again. Heart racing, lips kissing.

“Philomena,” she said.

Philomena did not care that her dress was crooked or her hose were ruined when she left the closet. She did not care when a clod of dirt fell on Mrs. Tasselmeyer and her knitting books. She did not care when Small Billy walked over her. Or Middle Billy. Or Big Billy, who stopped to smile down at her and wink. Tapped his watch. A few hours and they’d go out for drinks. And then maybe food at her place. Or him at her place.

When they started the sander directly overhead and her patrons complained, Philomena just smiled her secret smile, because she might not be scary and she might be small, but big had definitely been the right word for Billy. Big Billy.




David

Kristina Lloyd


It’s hot today. I have a problem with the heat because I sweat and my sweat is pink. Pink sweat attracts notice, forcing me to flee to another town to preserve my secret. But damn it, I like this place and I want to stay.

When I was mortal over forty years ago, I was a woman who lived for parties, sunshine and attention. I would dance barefoot on beaches on warm summer evenings, and late at night I’d still be there, laughing around a campfire with my beautiful friends, hippies in beads hoping to save the world through sex, love, peace and hashish. I look at my generation now and wonder if we couldn’t have tried a little harder.

But no matter. They’re not my generation anymore.

My sweat is pink and it’s a problem.

A passerby tosses a coin onto the cloth at my feet. Quite a pile I’m getting today. It’s the sun, you see. It brings people out, makes them loose with their cash. And this loose cash is making me feel loose with my morals.

I stare blankly ahead. I’m coated in white body paint and wreathed in a toga, my hair coiled high and dyed a bright chemical pink. My arms are held in an elegant curve, chin angled to the left. I am a busker, a living statue, and I’m very good at my job. Crowds gather. They stare and smile. A few will move tentatively closer. “It’s like she isn’t even breathing,” they’ll whisper.

And of course, I’m not. I am dead.

My hairline starts to prickle. If it weren’t for my pink sweat, I’d still adore the sun, though I realize that makes me atypical. The heat clings like memories, taking me back to those sticky nights of tangled sheets when my cunt would throb with lust for another. Oh, to be vital again! To be fucking someone for the sake of fuck alone, not fucking them with thoughts of their blood in my throat. Or, best of all, to have someone fucking me, to have them holding me down, fearless, brutal and strong.

Because, to my shame, that’s what I crave: a man to overpower me. Once when I was alive, I asked a boyfriend to act as my kidnapper. “Tie me up and gag me,” I explained. “Use me as your plaything. Take no notice of my screams.” But he said he couldn’t do that because sexual expression through violence contravened his pacifism and he viewed our lovemaking as a cosmic union of souls and in this I was his sister. Sister? If you ask me, that’s far worse than what I was suggesting.

A bead of sweat trickles down my back. That’s fine. They can’t see under my robes. To my right, I hear the soft click of a camera. More money clinks into the collection. Two hundred seconds later (Christ, it’s boring being on a pedestal), I twist my shoulders and turn my head several degrees. A murmur of delight ripples across the crowd.

He’s mesmerized as if my stillness is infectious. He’s big, beautiful and rough looking, an arrogant young bruiser with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He’s wearing a suit, but he’s no businessman. His tie is askew and he clearly doesn’t care about preserving any neat lines of tailoring. He watches, fascinated, contempt curling his lip as if he’s thinking of all the sordid things he could do to me, irrespective of my wishes.

I cast him a glance, wondering if I can snare him. Unfortunately, I attract the wrong sort of guy. Maybe that’s inevitable. I know my place in popular culture and the assumption goes because I’m a monster, I must also be an aggressor and a sadist. But the truth is, I’m a sexually submissive vampire and, if you’ll forgive the pun, that sucks.

It sucks because I feel I’m letting the team down. My kind are predators and they tend to be on the toppy side. But it’s not as if I was ever going to fit in anyway. Ever since my sweat turned pink, I’ve been shunned by my peers. I was once an ordinary monster, happy to get along, but then something went wrong inside me. When I feed, I can’t use all the blood. It seeps out through my pores, making me a liability, a freak in danger of exposing the community. I’ve no choice but to be itinerant, keeping my head low, because there are many who would rather see me dead. Truly dead, not undeaddead.

But being submissive sucks mainly because I’m just not getting any. I guess I come across as scary, and I’m aware my inability to form lasting relationships has engendered a certain aloofness. Maybe that’s why I’m often propositioned by men who offer money to call me Mistress. Or maybe it’s because I earn my living from being bored on a pedestal. Perhaps they see their proposal as promotion.

But being on top leaves me cold. I want a man who’ll bring me down, do terrible things to me and take away my power. I want him to debase me, bind me, fuck my face and force me into sex, perhaps with a little help from his friends. And if this ever happened and I were to kill them all afterward, I can honestly say, hand on my unbeating heart, it would be done in a spirit of regret not revenge.

Because I can’t help who I am. I need blood to survive. Perhaps there’s a murderous streak sparkling in my eyes. Whatever the reason, I don’t get the right guys and for too many years, my submission has lain dormant, existing purely in my own warped fantasies. It’s not enough. I want to play passive. I want a man who’ll bring my dark desires to life again.

I lay a hand below my throat in an attitude of piety or mild shock. He’s still watching me, that rapt and cunning expression on his face. Gazing beyond my audience, I focus on a faux-Victorian lamppost in the shopping plaza. A droplet of sweat dribbles past my ear. No one will see that, I’m sure. But it’s only a matter of time and before long, I feel moisture stippling my painted face. I’m corpse-white already, so the paint is merely for texture and sunblock. It can’t hide perspiration. A single bead of sweat slides down my forehead and, horrified, I picture it as an enormous globule of shimmering liquid, pink as a strawberry milk shake. They’re all staring. Seconds later, the droplet spills and splashes from the ledge of a white-coated eyebrow.

Nothing happens. There’s no muttering or shifting among my audience. I reckon I’ve got away with it. But then a second droplet emerges from my hairline, a third and fourth. I don’t like to come alive when the crowds are large. I prefer to let the numbers dwindle, but it’s too hot today. This isn’t going to work. My secret isn’t safe.

“Oi!” calls a voice. “Yer wig’s melting!”

Their laughter is nasty. Sweat is running freely down my face now. A patch of uncertain applause lifts and dies and coins clatter brightly at my feet.

“How does she do it?”

“Ugh, that’s well creepy.”

“My God, she looks rotten. She was so pretty before.”

Droplets trickle toward my eyes, making me weep pale red tears. I stand like a parodic Jesus Christ, my candy-pink hair my crown of thorns, my face streaked with sweat that has the taint of death.

Money tumbles and cameras click. Carefully, I step down from my pedestal. I keep my head low, my movements soft. I bend and crouch then I lie on my money, curling into a ball. The money smells bitter. Some people walk away. All I want to do is stay here till it’s pitch-black, the shops have shut and everyone’s gone home. Moments later, a shadow falls across my face. He squats and clasps me by the wrist, making my arm twist awkwardly. Jewelry glints on his hand.

“I’ll look after you,” he says, and his voice is laced with threat.

His hair is shorn, his eyes are hard and a small graze on a cheekbone hints at ruby-red blood. He has the corrupted beauty of a handsome man who’s too fond of danger. I wonder if he’s a dealer or a pimp. He jerks my arm, urging me to stand.

“Thank you,” I reply, and I know I have him: my victim, my prince.

I leave my pedestal and cash in a locker at the train station and, as the light fades, we walk through town. I pat my sweat dry but don’t bother changing. I’ve loosened my hair and it tumbles past my shoulders in crazy pink tails. I hook the drapes of my toga over one arm and walk barefoot. My soles are as tough as old boots, a legacy from my hippie days, and I shun shoes whenever I can. I look like a cerise Medusa and beside me is David, worthy of Michelangelo, eating a burger from a polystyrene tray.

“There are more lucrative ways to earn money on the streets,” he says through a mouthful of food. “I could show you where to start. Pretty girl like you is wasted as a statue. Plenty of men who’d appreciate your charms. Trust me, you could make a fortune.”

“Are you trying to make me your sex slave?” I ask hopefully.

David laughs, throws his burger box into a bin and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. A chunky wristwatch peeps from the sleeve of his suit. He’s very flash.

“Because I’d like that,” I continue. “I’d like to be your whore.” Saying the words is easier than I’d anticipated. I’ve kept my desires to myself for so long that voicing them is a leap of faith, but once I’ve started, the words simply flow. “You could do whatever you want to me,” I say. “Let other men use me, as well. But I’ve never been a whore before. I might need some practice.”

“Nah, it’s a doddle,” says David. “All you have to do is open your legs.”

I don’t think he’s quite understood. “I think you should give me a test run,” I reply. “Make sure I’m good enough. And I think I should know what it’s like to meet a punter who wants to do terrible things to me.”

“Uh-huh? What sort of terrible things?”

“Call me names,” I say. “And, um, maybe I need to know how it is to go with a guy who gets off on kidnapping women, someone who wants to tie me up and gag me, who wants to use me as his plaything. A guy who won’t take any notice of my screams. A guy—”

David swings to face me, grabs me around the arms, then bundles me backward into an alley. A few people glance our way, but nobody intervenes. Given that I’m chalk-white in a toga and David’s in a suit, they probably think we’re performance artists or actors. He slams me up against the wall, a hand clamped to my mouth. He glares at me, eyes full of glee.

“Dirty little bitch,” he says, and he shoves a hand between my legs, bunching up the folds of my toga. “Gagging for it, aren’t you?” He rubs the cotton hard against my cunt. “Aren’t you, slut?”

And I moan that I am, while thinking how times have changed since the sixties.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll give you a test run.” He grabs a fistful of my hair and frog-marches me deeper into the alley. He turns left, and I stumble ahead of him into a wider backstreet bordered by higgledy-piggledy buildings with narrow fire escapes zigzagging up their brickwork. Small, grimy windows cast smudges of light into the dusk of evening, steam plumes from vents, and clanging saucepans and barked orders punctuate the seedy calm of this hidden street. We are behind a stretch of restaurants and cheap hotels, stumbling through the grubby reality that feeds and fuels the tourist trade.

It’s quieter here. David seems to know where he’s going and that makes me nervous. I start to wonder if this is what I really want. Oh, I know I’ll win, I always do, but as David shoves me into a recess, I have to ask myself: At what cost? I’ll escape with my life—if you can call it that—but what might this do to my mind?

In the recess is a fire door partially blocked by a stack of wooden pallets, and the lilac of a UV insect zapper glows from a small, wire-mesh window. David presses me against a narrow wall, his forearm across my neck, pushing my chin high. He’s breathing fast, his eyes are wild, and that faint scab on his cheekbone gleams in the purplish half-light.

“Test run, eh?” He covers my breast with his free hand, pummeling through my toga. “You like that?” he asks. “You like it when guys touch you there?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

David grins and I note he has excellent teeth. “Well, listen up,” he says. “It’s not about what you want. You’re a whore, see? Just a cheap little whore, so no one gives a fuck whether you like it or not.” His eyes are fixed on mine and he fluffs up the skirts of my gown, pinning the folds back with a thigh until he can reach between my legs. “Okay?”

I nod. David rubs briskly at my underwear, fingers sawing before he pushes the fabric deeper into my wet split, separating me there. His forearm leans harder against my neck and he moves his face closer to mine as if to better gauge my response. I feel weak in every limb, so aroused I might melt to the floor. After all those hours on my pedestal, a remote and frozen beauty, untouchable and on display, it’s wonderful to know the hot press of desire in a dingy backstreet. It feels like the closest thing to life—life in all its murky, messy, furtive glory—that I’ve known for such a long time.

Sweat prickles under my arms and I hope I don’t turn too pink too soon. When I groan my pleasure, David slips two thick fingers past my underwear. “You’re not meant to be enjoying this,” he says, and he hooks his fingers inside me, rubbing so perfectly I can’t help but groan again. “Hot little slut,” he says approvingly.

He steps back, releasing me with his hands but not his eyes. He whips off his tie, his gaze never once leaving mine. Sneering, he cracks the strip of cloth in the air, clearly relishing his own brutal purpose. I can see strength flex in his torso beneath his shirt and his sweat smells good and manly.

“Turn around,” he says. His voice is scarily tender. For decades I’ve wanted someone to talk to me like that.

“No,” I whisper.

In the small silence that follows, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. If I had a living heart, it would be thumping in fear and excitement right now. Anger darkens his brow and I know I said the right thing because he doesn’t tell me again. Instead, he spins me around, hissing that it wasn’t a fucking question, it was an order. He twists my arm, pushing me face forward over the stack of pallets. His thighs press against mine, holding me still as he clasps my wrists behind my back. I wriggle and kick, knowing it’s futile.

“Get off me!” I say as I feel his looped tie tightening on my wrists. He tugs, binds and knots, deftly trapping my hands. Grabbing a bunch of my hair, he arches my neck backward.

“It wasn’t a fucking question,” he says again, and I hear the rasp of him unzipping. With one hand, he pushes my toga up, then yanks my underwear down, exposing my cunt and cheeks. The tip of his cock is stout at my entrance, then he surges in, packing my wetness with his solidity. His thrusts are ruthless. “Not. A fucking. Question,” he snarls, pumping away at me.

I protest and he immediately makes a gag of my hair, ramming pink snaky lengths across my mouth. He pulls as if my hair’s a bridle and I splutter and cry, hating the texture and the taste.

“Shut up,” he hisses. “No one’s gonna take any notice of your screams.”

And I come so hard, my clit nudging at a hump of fabric as decades of wanting shiver and clutch. I’m left feeling as limp as a rag doll, and all I want to do is take it as he rams on and on into my soft swollen hole. I let him come—I think it’s only fair—then I do what I always do: kill.

Or at least, that’s my intention. As my strength swells, I break free of my bondage and whirl around, attacking so fast he barely sees it. I slam him against the wall, my toga unraveling, and latch on to his neck. It’s bristly with stubble and when I puncture his skin, that familiar coppery warmth floods my mouth. I’m almost lost to joy until sanity pricks my greed: the sex was incredible, I want more from him.

So as his pulse fades in my veins, I snick my wrist and press the wound to his lips, giving him a new kind of life. I don’t know if his sweat will be pink, but if it is, so what? We will unite, defective or not, and in our monstrous limbo, we’ll face the world together. When I take away my wrist, David smiles, the pallor of death already lightening his skin. And I know at once how we’ll survive. He will join me as a living statue, David in a fig leaf, the beautiful brute I turned to stone.




Managers and Mermen

Donna George Storey


“Do you want to go for a ride?”

Her liquid warble makes it sound like an invitation, but the glint in her green eyes tells me it’s really an order.

There will be consequences if I don’t obey.

And so I straddle her tail at the widest part—where a human girl’s hips would be—and squeeze my thighs around her. It’s not so different from riding bareback, except her scales aren’t warm like horseflesh. They’re cool and slippery and they tickle my tender parts through the crotch of my swimsuit. I wriggle a bit, trying to get comfortable, but it only makes the tingling sensation more intense.

“Hold on tight,” she warns, and immediately shoots off through the water. My upper body rocks like a broncobuster’s as we speed through the swaying seaweed. I have to grip her with all my might to stay on. My legs are aching and I can feel the powerful muscles of her tail rippling between my thighs. Soon her once-cool skin is plumped and warm, pulsing faintly. Or is it just me?

She swoops into a grotto and rears up to a stop. I fall forward and clutch her shoulders, panting. My veins sing with adrenaline.

In one swift movement, she twists around to face me. The slick twirl of her tail between my legs sends electric jolts through my body.

“Keep those pretty legs squeezed tight,” she says, her eyes boring into me. “You don’t want our ride to end yet, do you?”

I shake my head. What else can I do? She has me trapped in her lair, under her spell. I watch, enchanted, as she hooks her fingers under the kelp straps of her seashell bra and rips them away to expose her full breasts. Her skin is creamy, like a human girl’s, but the nipples are strange—a luminous jadegreen.

“Kiss them,” she commands, lifting her breasts in offering. Again, I have no choice. This is her realm, her laws.

I bend forward and take one shimmering nipple between my lips. The salty tang of nori fills my mouth. Suddenly I’m ravenously hungry. I tug on her, harder, as if I can satisfy the growing ache in my belly that way.

“That’s lovely, keep up the good work,” she sighs, but then her voice takes on a sterner tone. “Except it’s not really work for you, is it? I can feel what’s going on down there. Your secret muscles are all fluttery and you’re wet inside, too. You like playing with another girl’s breasts, don’t you?”

Still suckling, I nod. I must always agree, always do her bidding. But she’s telling the truth, too. I do like this.

“You are a naughty girl, but you’re making me all fluttery, too.”

Indeed, her tail is gyrating gently, pressing up against my clit, then circling away. I can tell from the way her eyes glow that she’s enjoying every second.

What comes next takes me completely by surprise.

I hear it before I feel it, her leathery tail fin landing a perfect blow on my ass cheeks. I stiffen and cry out.

She smiles.

The second time is more of a caress, as she slides the tip of her fin under my swimsuit and tears it smoothly away from my flesh.

My jaw still gaping in shock, I meet her gaze. Her eyes seem to reach down inside me. I feel a tugging deep in my belly, rising up my spine as if she’s sucking down all my soft, secret parts like an oyster. As my body grows lighter, she seems to take on more substance. Her cheeks grow rounder and ruddy, her lips plump and full. I realize it is not my flesh that nourishes her. She is feasting on my mind, every dirty fantasy that has ever floated through my brain. She knows me. No other being has ever known me so well.

“That’s right, I do know what you want,” she says, her voice echoing through the water. “You want to suck my tits while I spank your ass until your cheeks are all red and tingly. You want me to spank you until you come.”

I’m so weak with lust that I can’t even manage a nod in reply. But a moan seems to suffice as I bend to take her nipple in my mouth again. I grope for her other breast with one hand and cup my own with the other, my thumb flicking the tip, already sensitive and tingly from the salt water.

I’m ready. Now.

Smack.

I swallow down a yelp as her stiff paddle meets my buttocks. My bare cunt skids over her scaly skin, and the prickling sensation ignites into a steady burn.

She punishes me again. And again. The fin makes an obscene slurping sound as it strikes, like a pussy being fingered fast and hard. I grind my clit into her, my whole body shaking, a sob rising in my throat. I’m close. Very close. The next one will take me over the edge. I know it. She knows it.

Which is why she pauses at that very moment. I’ll have to beg for it. I always do.

Suddenly a car door slams in the driveway right outside the bedroom window.

I freeze, a bullet of fear piercing my belly. A moment later, I hear a key in the lock of the front door.

Fuck, it must be Anton, even though he’s not due back from work until six or seven. It’s either my husband or a burglar, and in my panic I almost wish it were a break-in. I wouldn’t owe a criminal any explanation for why I spent the afternoon with my hand down my pants while he had to sit through endless seminars on effective management techniques at his new company.

My chest heaving like a fish out of water, I yank up my shorts and pull my T-shirt chastely over my breasts. Too late to hook my bra or do the zipper. The footsteps have reached the bedroom door.

I stretch and sigh, feigning the yawn of a woman just waking from a nap.

“Ah, the lazy life of a masseuse.” Anton bends over me for a quick kiss. He fishes his wallet and keys from his trousers and tosses them on his dresser, then takes off his watch, the things he does every day when he comes home from work. He has no clue that his wife has spent the last hour cavorting with a piscine dominatrix.

I exhale with relief. I might just get away with my little afternoon infidelity.

“Shiatsu classes don’t start for three weeks,” I remind him. “Until then my only job is to be your love slave, right?”

It’s a risky move, but I’m feeling bold. And horny. If he has to come and interrupt me just when things are getting hot, the least he can do is help finish the job.

He pauses, fingers at his shirt buttons, eyebrows lifted hopefully. “Love slave, huh? As a matter of fact, that is my preferred job description for you. Lucky for us the seminar finished early today. The facilitator had that Friday-afternoon golfer’s gleam in his eye.” Anton’s eyes gleam, too, as he looks down at me.

I’m expecting he’ll go into the walk-in closet to hang up his suit, so I can at least zip my shorts, but unfortunately, my come-on line was a little too successful. He undresses quickly, draping his suit and shirt on the armchair, then peels off his briefs. I can’t stop staring at his hard-on, a thick, red baton, floating in air as if by magic. My mouth starts to water. On summer days his dick tastes saltier, like a big pretzel stick.

He slips into bed beside me, and I press myself against him, hoping he’ll be too distracted to notice I’m already partially undressed.

It seems, however, that my luck has run out.

He’s already reached under my T-shirt. “Hey, what’s with your bra?”

“I unhook it when I nap,” I answer quickly. “It’s less constrictive.”

His hand drops to my shorts and slithers through the gaping fly. I know my panties are damp. Sopping, actually. And there’s no mistaking that briny fragrance of aroused female.

“Okay, Stef, what were you really doing when I got home?”

My stomach clenches with guilt and a touch of fear. Which is stupid because he knows I masturbate when he goes on business trips. He certainly wanks when he’s away. But it’s different to be caught in the act with no excuse except the old saying “Idle hands do the devil’s work.”

“I was just doing what you do in those hotel rooms while you’re watching porn movies,” I say, trying my best to sound cool.

“Actually, I don’t waste money on stupid movies. There’s plenty of good stuff for free on the Internet.”

Anton laughs and I join in, a touch too heartily.

Then I ask shyly, “Do you mind?”

I’m not sure why I feel so guilty about this. As if I’d actually cheated on him with another woman.

“Not at all. I’m sorry I missed the show.”

“I think we can put on a better one together,” I whisper as I turn toward him. I cup his balls and walk my fingers back to the sensitive strip of flesh between his legs. Stroking him there always stops any conversation short.

He sighs and his thighs ease open. “So, what were you thinking about when you were doing it?”

My fingertips pause on their journey back to tease his ass crack—which would surely have distracted him from unwanted questions. What do I say now? Of course, I’ve shared a few fantasies with him before. Crushes on movie stars. Doing it on the beach. But getting an ass-searing spanking from a lesbian mermaid was something else altogether. Besides, Anton was a swimmer in high school—his team came in third in the state finals. If he knew his doggie-paddling wife had nautical yearnings, he’d probably laugh himself silly.

“I wasn’t thinking about anything,” I say. Even I know it sounds unconvincing.

“Come on.”

“It’s true.”

Anton closes his legs, forcing me to pull my hand away. “You know, we had a presentation about people like you in the seminar today.”

His tone is playful, but I feel my body tense. “What do you mean?”

“Difficult employees. They’re a challenge. And I have to say your performance as my love slave leaves a lot to be desired right now. But the facilitator explained that each employee has a different working style and if the manager modifies his communication tactics to meet those needs, the result can be a mutually beneficial outcome.”

I can’t restrain a derisive snort. “You’ve lost me there, honey. Can you put that in words your more simpleminded workers can understand?”

What happens next catches me totally unawares. Anton plants a nice smarting slap right on my ass. Which is not nearly as surprising as what follows: an embarrassing gush of wetness between my legs and my involuntary cry of pure arousal.

I swallow hard and look away, struggling to pull myself together. “Is this what they’re teaching you in that seminar?” It’s meant as a clever comeback, but my voice is husky and my heart is pounding.

Anton tilts my chin up. Our gazes lock. He knows. My whole body blushes with arousal and shame.

“Were you thinking about having sex with someone else?”

It’s my chance to confess and come clean, but perversely, I shake my head.

He slaps my ass again.

“Tell me the truth.”

I wonder, fleetingly, if this new managerial tone will have the same effect on his employees as it has on me. By now I’m so aroused I can barely breathe.

“I…can’t do that,” I stutter.

“Then,” he replies, his voice calm, “we can both agree that you need serious disciplinary measures. Pull down your pants and lie on your stomach.”

I’m his love slave, I have to obey. Hands shaking, I struggle out of my shorts and panties and position myself as instructed. He reaches under my T-shirt and takes my nipple between his fingers. In a perfectly timed motion, he tweaks my nipple just as the first smack lands square on my ass.

I grind my pelvis into the mattress and groan.

He spanks me again. A wave of heat rolls from my cunt to my nipple and back again. The bed is already soaked and my ass cheeks burn, as if they’ve been baked under the glowing orange coils of a toaster oven.

Instinctively I push my buttocks up for another.

“Forget it,” Anton says. “No more until you tell me what you were thinking about while you were fingering your pussy. In detail.”

I gulp. I’m too worked up to think of a good lie now. But what would he do if he knew what really went on in my head?

“It’s kind of…kinky.”

“All the more reason I should know. Girls who think about kinky things need a spanking to teach them a lesson,” he insists.

Well, if he’s going to put it that way, what else can I do?

“It was sort of a lesbian fantasy.”

“You were doing it with another girl?” His tone is even, utterly professional. I have no clue what his real reaction is.

“Not a girl exactly. A mermaid. And she made me wrap my legs around her slippery hips and suck her nipples while she…she…”

“Spit it out, Stef.”

“She spanked me with her tail and…she said she wouldn’t stop until I came.”

He sucks in his breath. “Well, I think we already know the appropriate method to deal with a fantasy like that. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. That’s key for good manager-employee relations. Do you know what I’m going to do next?”

“Spank me?” I whisper.

“Yes. More specifically, I will spank you while you straddle me just like you did with your girlfriend. But of course, instead of a fish tail, I’ve got a very hard cock here and I have to figure out what to do with it. Do you have any ideas?”

“Fuck me?”

Anton chuckles. “You know, honey, you’re turning into a very cooperative worker after all. Climb on.”

I swing a leg over him and settle onto him. My flesh makes a soft sucking sound as he slides in. His thick cock feels so good pressing against my swollen walls that in spite of my hunger for new and sharper pleasures, I start to ride him in the usual way, with quick thrusts of my hips.

But things quickly take an unusual turn. He aims his first slap right into my sensitive ass crack.

I cry out, my muscles gripping him convulsively.

He makes a low grunt of approval. “Good work. Let’s try that again.”

The next blow is harder, driving my clit against the rough hairs on his belly. I grit my teeth and clutch him tighter.

“Did you suck her nipples while you rubbed your cunt on her?”

“Yes,” I admit breathlessly.

Smack.

“Bad girl. You deserve to have your ass spanked until you come.”

I feel no shame now. With each slap, I grind my clit on him and then push my ass out again for another sweet shot of that intoxicating cocktail of pleasure and pain.

“Do you like this? Is it as good as it was with her?”

“It’s better,” I confess. And it’s the truth.

Anton grins up at me. “Well, that’s the response I was looking for. I guess I can stop spanking you now.”

“No, don’t stop,” I plead before I’m really aware of what I’m saying.

“Oh? You mean, you want me to keep spanking your ass?”

I nod.

“Then beg me.”

Back in my other life, I’m too proud to beg for anything, but all the rules are different now. I’m different. In this slipsliding underworld of lust, I’ll do anything to feel the delicious sting of his hand stoking the fire in my flesh.

“Please, Anton, spank my ass while you fuck me.” I’m almost crying, and my pussy, too, is weeping, the juices pooling on his belly.

Anton starts bucking, a butterfly-stroke dolphin kick, mattress style. “Say it again. Tell me how much you want it,” he orders, his voice hoarse and thick.

“Please spank me. I need it. I’ll die without it. Please, boss, please.”

With those magic words, I finally earn my employee bonus, a flurry of slaps on the ass that drive me up and over the edge. A voice screams, “God, I’m coming”—I think it’s mine—and another, lower one joins in with a “Fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck,” and I have to grip my thighs as tightly as I can to stay on as he empties himself into me.

Afterward we snuggle, wrapped around each other like fronds of seaweed, not even bothering to mop up the sticky wetness.

“Do you think I’m a pervert?” I say softly, into his shoulder.

“I think you’re hot,” he replies, stroking my hair.

I smile. “So what do you like to think about when you…you know…?”

Anton laughs. “Funny you should ask. One of my old favorites is that I’m spying on two sexy women doing it in a pool and they catch me and beg me to fuck them.”

I laugh, too, with pleasure and relief. “Really? Do you spank them?”

“No, but I will next time.”

He tilts my chin up. Our eyes meet. His are green and liquid and seem to reach down inside me to touch all my soft, secret places. I hear a voice, too, echoing faintly in my head—his or mine, I’m not quite sure.

Thanks for the ride.




The Clean-Shaven Type

N.T. Morley


Belle arrived at the castle at midnight, soaked through to the bone. The rain had been pouring down amid lightning and howling winds for hours, turning the road into mud and making the mountain passes all but impassable. It was a miracle that she made it through—even more of a miracle given that the carriage she rode in did not have a driver, but was steered in and of itself, or perhaps by forces unseen—while Belle shivered and stewed in the velvet-furnished compartment.

Belle’s carriage was greeted by a tall handsome servant dressed in short breeches and a close-fitting top, a muscular man with a handsome face. He helped Belle down from the carriage with a chivalric hand and a respectful gaze.

“It is a pleasure to welcome you to the castle, Madame Belle.” That title sounded strange to Belle’s ears; she was not used to being called Madame. “I am Andrew, the majordomo. All the castle’s servants are pleased to be at your disposal, Ma’am. Please say the word and anything you wish will be yours.”

Dripping, Belle followed Andrew down long corridors and up great sweeping spiral staircases. The castle was cold and dark, this being well after midnight; wall sconces held candles that lit as they passed, but the chill was oppressive. As soon as Belle entered her chambers, the warmth comforted her; a fire burned, creating a comfortable and cozy temperature. The room was enormous and lavishly furnished, with divans of silk and a great four-poster bed fitted with luxurious bedding and silk sheets that had already been turned down. The fixtures of the room were of gold and silver and even more precious metals, and a small table had already been set with glittering dinnerware and a meal of cold turkey and fruit, with great flagons of wine.

“Shall I help you out of your things, Madame Belle?”

Standing before the fire, Belle turned and looked him up and down, puzzled.

“Isn’t there a maidservant?” she asked haughtily.

“I’m afraid not,” said Andrew.

A pool of rainwater was growing around her as she dripped.

“May I help you get undressed, Madame Belle?” Andrew asked again after a pause.

The honorific reminded Belle that she was not here to serve; she was here for another reason entirely. Her old life on her knees was through, at least until she accepted the Beast’s proposal.

Belle nodded imperiously.

Andrew knelt behind her and unlaced Belle’s corset. She took a series of deep heaving breaths as her aching back relaxed. Andrew unfastened the laces down the rear of Belle’s dress and she shrugged the thing off, covering her bare breasts with her arms. Her flesh was goose-bumped and her nipples almost painfully erect. Still on his knees, Andrew obediently slipped Belle’s dress over her hips and the garment fell around her feet. She stepped out of the fabric and turned and stood facing Andrew, nude but for her knee-high, spike-heeled boots.

“Are my clothes being sent up?”

“No, Ma’am.” Andrew did not elaborate, which irritated her.

She took a step closer to him, savoring his evident discomfort as he attempted to position his body to conceal from her his still-growing erection.

“Put your shoulders back.”

Andrew flushed still deeper. “I’m sorry?”

“I said, put your shoulders back,” Belle repeated, lifting the toe of one pointy boot and deftly placing it on the kneeling Andrew’s shoulder, pushing. This was not easy given Andrew’s stature, but Belle was a tall and flexible woman. Doing so placed her sex in close proximity to Andrew’s face, which caused him to draw a sharp breath as he went slipping back at the pressure of Belle’s toe. Catching himself on his hands, Andrew remained there looking up at Belle, his face level with her sex. The position was awkward for Andrew, requiring him to support his body with the muscles of his arms and thighs and ass. She could see his chest rising as the scent of her intoxicated him and the effort to maintain the posture grew.

His cock was quite evident in his pants.

“May I help you off with your boots, Madame Belle?” asked Andrew suddenly. In the culture that had born both Andrew and Belle, such a suggestion was a colloquial way of suggesting intimate relations, the implication being, of course, that people fucked with their boots off—something that was very rarely true in Belle’s experience.

Belle realized that upon uttering this rude innuendo, Andrew had inclined his head slightly, as if to present his face to her, all but begging for her to slap him.

Belle was unfamiliar with having the power to slap someone. She was surprised to find that it excited her immensely to see Andrew on his knees, offering his face to be slapped. And such a pretty face it was.

This was exactly what made Belle go wet and hot inside when she was the one on her knees, in Andrew’s position. But she was really more interested in other pleasures at that particular moment, and in fact was quite eager to have Andrew “remove her boots.”

Instead of slapping him, Belle caressed his beautiful pink cheeks with her fingers and said, “What did you ask me?”

“I asked if I could remove your boots,” Andrew said brashly, all but daring her to slap him. “Madame Belle, may I please remove your boots? I would love to remove them and…take them all the way off.”

“Hold that thought,” she said. “And don’t move.”

Belle stalked to the table, where cold turkey and wine awaited her. She sat at the table nude except for her boots and, at her leisure, she took slim savory morsels of turkey and poured herself a glass of wine.

“May I serve you?” asked Andrew.

“No, you may not,” she said absently, without looking back at him. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in a dozen years of sleeping with men—” she laughed “—it’s how to serve myself.”

She could not see him, but she could feel the sting of her words.

“As you wish, Madame.”

Belle could also hear the strain in Andrew’s voice; it was becoming hard for him to hold that position, resting with his hands back on his ankles and his cock bulging forth. She did not glance behind her to see the stress in his body; just knowing it was there made her meal that much sweeter.

Belle took her time eating. The turkey was delicious and the wine was excellent. She had several pieces of fruit, including a few varieties she’d never tasted before—they did not have them in her region.

Belle rose and walked back to Andrew, who was biting his lower lip quite fetchingly, struggling to maintain his posture.

Belle stood before him, taking a long minute to lick her fingers—which were greasy with turkey and sugary with fruit—and her lips, red with wine. Her order not to move, which by now had caused intense pain to the muscles of Andrew’s arms and thighs and ass, had not diminished his erection. Belle could relate.

She licked her fruit-sweet fingers as she spoke. “Andrew, I think you asked me something,” she said innocently.

Andrew spoke with great effort, his brow moist with the tension in his muscles.

“I asked if I could remove your boots, Mistress,” he said, his voice conveying a great humility. “It was impolite for me to ask. I apologize.”

Belle reached out and ran her slick fingers across Andrew’s throat, teasing him. She leaned close.

“They’re the most beautiful boots I’ve ever seen,” he blurted.

He looked up at her, his eyes succulent with adoration of her for the ordeal she’d just put him through, and particularly for the obvious pleasure she’d taken in it. Belle looked down into those gorgeous eyes and laughed.

“My boots are filthy from the ride. I wouldn’t wish you to remove them until you’ve cleaned them—very well.”

Belle turned and stalked the few feet to a large armchair, feeling the soft silk embrace her bare body as she sat down. She stretched her legs out and presented her high-heeled, pointy-toed black leather boots, which were soaked through and muddy.

Andrew crawled to her and lowered his face to her filthy boots. Belle caught him before his mouth met the muddy leather. Her hand went into his long blond hair and she pulled.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” she said. “Is that fair, Andrew?”

“No, Madame,” he said. She released his hair. He went to get up as he reached for the fastening of his breeches; again, Belle shook her head.

With some difficulty, Andrew undressed on his knees, kicking off his own footwear first and then removing his breeches to reveal his ample erection, which was even larger than Belle had first thought. When Andrew’s tight top finally made it over his head, he discovered that Madame Belle’s knees were now folded neatly over the great pillowed arms of the chair, her thighs spread wide and her sex blatantly revealed, the smooth flesh pink with want and the center of her glistening and aromatic. Struggling to contain his hunger, Andrew bent sideways toward one of Madame Belle’s muddy boots.

“Please,” she said, slipping her hand into his hair again. “Please don’t play dumb. You know what you were asking—oh!” She guided his mouth to her sex and pulled his hair firmly as, obediently, Andrew began to lick.

He serviced Belle’s sex ably, licking from the sweet center of her opening up to the swollen bud of her clitoris, which drew great sighing moans from her, and later great shuddering gasps, as his tongue skillfully caressed it. His lips closed gently around her clitoris and he worked it eagerly with his tongue as her pleasure mounted.

“I wonder if you think you’re going to get that thing inside me?” she panted as she neared her orgasm. “I’ve never had a boy to play with before. I’ve always been on the bottom, Andrew. Do you think I’m still dying to get fucked, boy? Andrew, I asked you a question.”

She had timed it right, so that his mouth’s withdrawal from her sex to answer bought her several more seconds of pleasure. She did not want to climax too quickly; to do so would be to all but waste the subtle caresses of a very submissive man. Belle had never enjoyed such things before, and planned to savor them as long as she could.

“I believe Madame will do what she wishes,” said Andrew obediently. His mouth returned to its ministrations on her clitoris, and Belle pushed him back.

“Of course,” said Belle. “But do you think I want to get fucked? Andrew! I asked you a fucking question.”

Andrew drew back, his mouth dripping with Belle’s juices.

“Yes, Madame. I believe you do want to get fucked.”

“Mmmmmm.” Belle sighed. She laughed. “Just like a man…He thinks his cock rules the universe. Get me off, boy.” She was very close at that moment, and almost no malfeasance on Andrew’s part could have prevented an intense orgasm by Belle, but it gave her pleasure to order him to finish her. So often, as a bottom, she had been denied orgasm at the last minute. It invigorated her, now, to take as she wished.

Andrew obediently returned his mouth to her sex, and Belle relaxed into the strokes of his tongue as he serviced her clit. She pushed off her climax as long as she could, savoring the pleasure, but finally Andrew’s skills were more than she could resist. She came fiercely. One hand clawed her own thighs until she left great pink furrows; the other went snaking into Andrew’s hair and gripped him, forcing his head roughly against her sex as her pleasure mounted and her hips started to move. Andrew continued his service as the Madame, essentially, used him. Belle had never fucked a man’s face like that before. She came harder than she ever had.

As she relaxed into the succulent, warm afterglow of her orgasm, Belle was surprised to discover that Andrew continued servicing her, his tongue working even as the pleasure in her clitoris turned to a sudden ache. The pleasure mounted to discomfort momentarily and then, as Andrew slowed his strokes and gave her a minute to recover, it merged back into pleasure, and Belle felt a new sensation growing.

For all her unexpected lust for domination, Belle was still naive in many things.

“Why aren’t you stopping?” she panted.

Andrew only drew his tongue away from her for a moment.

“You did not instruct me to,” he said, and returned to licking her clit.

Belle went slack into the deep armchair, her eyes glassy with unexpected pleasure. Once, Belle had been bound over a Master’s lap as he used a vibrator on her until she succumbed to the onrushing pleasure-pain of a second and a third orgasm. But usually, when she was fucked, she was allowed one—if she was lucky enough to be allowed that at all. This was wholly different, the pleasure mounting as stimulation continued; she felt a momentary flash of guilt, feeling she should instruct Andrew to stop. She was very close to her second orgasm, unexpectedly shuddering all over with increasing pleasure, when, quite to her own surprise, she blurted: “You don’t have to.”

Andrew looked up at Belle in confusion, the expression on his face going from rapt excitement and pleasured acceptance to something akin to panic. It was the first time Belle had ever seen the ecstasy of total submission on the face of another person. It gave her, simultaneously, a thundering sensation of happiness and the sharp taste of guilt for her own doubts.

“Madame?”

“You don’t have to stop when I come,” she said quickly, making her voice as sarcastic as possible. “You men always want to finish after you get us off a couple of times. I’m going to come till I’m finished, do you understand?”

“Of course,” said Andrew breathlessly. “I would never stop until ordered to, Madame.” His eyes went hot as he looked up at her. “If I did, you’d be well within your rights to punish me.”

Belle’s breath was coming short; she felt the buzzing high of power. Andrew was depending on her; as much as she desired to be bent and stretched and spread on her Master’s lap and bed and rack, Andrew wished to be here on his knees, servicing her until he was ordered to stop.

She brought her leg down and tucked it between Andrew’s legs, pushing hard on his erect cock with her muddy spike heel.

“I’ll already be punishing you,” she growled. “For enjoying yourself too much. Now, get me off again, boy, I’m far from finished with you.” To hear her own voice uttering such aggressive statements was unfamiliar and deeply erotic to Belle, and she realized perhaps for the first time that she was no longer a sexual servant, as she had been for some years, but something else entirely—or becoming something else, with every stroke of Andrew’s tongue.

“Yes, Madame,” he said breathlessly, and lowered his face back to her sex.

Belle cried out as she came for a second time, and a third. Only then did she let him enact the ritual of cleaning her boots, from top to toe to spike heel, before he removed them. And then, with her appetite whetted, Madame Belle took her servant to bed.

As it turned out, she did let Andrew’s cock inside her—and a mammoth thing it was, sliding into her at a variety of angles as she instructed him to raise and lower himself for her exact satisfaction based not on his desires, or his pleasure or even his physical capacity—she pushed his thigh muscles almost to the breaking point, multiple times—but on the angle at which Madame most eagerly wished to enjoy Andrew’s cock.

Good Lord, she discovered, she really did have a G-spot! And Andrew’s cock hit it perfectly, provided he stood at the edge of the four-poster bed with one foot on the mattress and one on the floor, and Belle reclined with one leg over his shoulder. She used him that way, commanding him not to come, until his face went red and his thigh muscles rubbery. Only then, when she’d exhausted both herself and her slave, did Madame Belle relax alongside her servant, relishing the feel of his naked body against her and the hardness of his cock, still moist from her, in her hand. She stroked it rhythmically and caressed it with her long, slender fingers.

Perhaps it was the very late hour and the long journey and her own physical satisfaction that made her feel so drunk with excitement.

Or perhaps it was the pleasure of power over her servant that made Madame Belle say to Andrew: “I could let you come.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, his voice thick with hunger and weak with submission. “If you wished to do so.”

She stroked her fingers up and down his wet cock, alternately caressing and gripping it, showing the extensive skills at manual pleasuring she had gained from her long, long time on her knees. So many times she’d been engaged to pleasure a man with her hands, and she knew Andrew was very, very close. Her habit was, unquestionably, to satisfy the man immediately, per her role in life. But now she felt differently. It would have taken a few firm strokes of her hand, or the permission for Andrew to mount her again and fuck her for his pleasure, or a few quick slurps of her mouth—which was even now watering. She could even just issue a dismissive word that would allow Andrew to satisfy himself: “Stroke,” or “Jerk,” or “Finish” or, most simply, “Come.”

But she did not say any of these words, or pump Andrew’s cock with her hand, or order him back into her or go down to suck him, though she very badly wanted to. It was the first time she had ever been with a man without going down on him. It would be the first time, she decided, that she had ever been with a man when he did not come.

Belle sighed and laughed musically. She removed her hand from Andrew’s cock and stretched her naked body out across the great expanse of the bed. She’d like it all to herself, she decided, and as delicious as Andrew was, she was finished with him.

“I don’t think so,” she told him. “Go now. Wake me in the morning.”

“Yes, Madame,” said Andrew. “May I kiss you goodbye?”

She looked at him pleasantly.

“No,” she said.

“Yes, Madame.” He got out of her bed and stood beside her, his cock erect and pink with effort, still glistening with her. Belle yawned and closed her eyes.

“May I ask a question?”

“What is it?” said Belle flatly, without opening her eyes.

“Did Madame enjoy herself?”

Belle’s eyes popped open; she looked Andrew up and down.

She had enjoyed herself very much; she was almost terrified by the pleasure. She’d had more orgasms than she’d ever been allowed during any other tryst throughout her long life as a submissive, or before, when she’d gone to bed with men on equal footing, when she’d had, in fact, very few orgasms. But the vast physical pleasure she’d experienced was as nothing compared to the overwhelming intoxication of power. She felt ecstatic over the fact that she was being asked—and could answer as she wished, something she’d never been able to do the dozens of times she’d been asked before she became kinky, when she’d always said yes out of politeness, often elaborating with great vigor despite being vaguely dissatisfied.

Now, her body soft and relaxed with many orgasms, her satisfaction overpowering, she could answer as it pleased her to do so, and she realized she did not know how best to use this new tool for her amusement.

“Not nearly enough,” said Belle coldly. “You’ll have to try harder next time.” She felt a surge of excitement at the look of deep submission on Andrew’s face. His cock remained hard. She closed her eyes.

“Madame, am I allowed to masturbate?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to ask, “Is that my decision to make?” but stopped herself before she uttered the question.

Instead, she looked at him pleasantly, so she could feel the hot wave of his submission when she told him:

“No. You may not masturbate. And have my clothes sent up.”

“They’ve been confiscated,” said Andrew.

Belle frowned.

“Then clean my boots,” she said. “For real this time.”

“Thank you, Madame. I shall wake you in the morning.”

“Just try.” Belle laughed, and went to sleep.



Belle slept deep and long, and refused to be roused when Andrew came to wake her in the morning.

“The Master wishes to lunch with you, Madame,” said Andrew.

Belle sighed, yawned and cast aside the blankets. She slipped her legs over the edge of the bed, spread her legs and crooked a finger at Andrew.

“Madame, he’s waiting.”

“Let him wait,” she said, and grabbed Andrew’s hair. She pulled him onto her, then threw him on his back, riding him with excruciating slowness. Each time he bit his lip and struggled not to come, it made Belle’s excitement sore higher.

Three hours later, she still had not granted Andrew leave, and she laughed as she bade the poor man lace her boots up, seeing his trembling from head to toe as his desperate sexual need pulsed through him.

“Just a stroke or two of my hand, wouldn’t it?”

“Madame?”

“That’s all it would take.” She sighed. “Just a soft little stroke, and I could give you everything you ever wanted. Or maybe—” she bent down low and ran her fingers over the back of Andrew’s neck “—I could use my mouth. Would you like to come in my mouth, Andrew?”

The servant let out a faint, desperate squealing noise before he finally managed to rasp, “As…Madame…wishes.”

Belle laughed.

When she finally let Andrew lead her into the banquet hall, it was very late in the day. Sitting at the head of the table was the man whom submissives from France to Russia called the Beast, his face red with anger.

Entering the room ahead of Belle, Andrew announced her. Then he said, “I’m sorry for the delay, sir, Madame Belle—”

The Beast cut him off with a savage wordless growl and slammed his fist down on the table. Andrew paled and stood stock-still. But then Beast rose as Belle entered the room, and his face was transformed into an expression of gentleness.

He hurried to greet Belle, going down on one knee and kissing her hand as she extended it. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame Belle,” said the man they called the Beast. He was not a bad-looking man, though Belle had always preferred those without the long bushy beard the Beast favored. Her own Master was clean-shaven. In just the last twelve hours, she’d come to very much appreciate the long hair of Andrew—it provided quite a useful handhold when she wished to direct the location of his mouth. Beast had the same long hair, though he was not nearly as blond—gray shot through his hair even more than through his beard.

Belle took a long moment to savor the Beast on his knees; were she to remain here, it would be the last time she saw it for quite a while. She did not withdraw her hand or respond for a time, and the Beast remained on one knee looking up at her in growing irritation.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Master. Your servant has been showing me quite evident hospitality.”

She saw the color come quickly to Beast’s face, and felt a sudden charge. She took her seat and the Beast returned to his, his eyes shifting nervously back and forth, as if he were stealing glances at Belle’s naked body. Certainly a Master like him had to be quite accustomed to taking his pleasure with a slave, both visually and otherwise. But here, before the final negotiation had taken place, the Beast was like a sneaky schoolboy, stealing clandestine looks at Belle’s perfect tits. Not a week before she was nothing more than a slave whose breasts were on display whenever her Master wished them to be; now, this Beast seemed almost ashamed to look at them.





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