Lady Victoria Eclectic Pagan's blog: "Erotica (NSFW)"

I was seven years old when I got my first library card. I still remember the feel of the laminated plastic, my scrawled attempt at a cursive signature. It was like holding one of my grandmama's two week old poodle puppies in the palm of my hand - a world of possibilities.

That little card was punched until the corners resembled gummy pig tails. By then it was too late. I was hopelessly addicted to the smell, the feel, the wonder of all those books.

It was a craving for that feeling that called to me from an open door as I meandered along my favorite hippie block. The sign read: "The Real Look Bookstore, for independent book culture." Now that sounded like my kind of place. One mad dash against traffic later and the smell hit me like an insulted prizefighter - square between my eyes. Not much larger than an inner-city classroom, the small space had been transformed into an urban literary oasis. From floor to ceiling, the potential of every corner maximized for optimal storage, ease of access be damned. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and my senses reeled at the beauty of all those wonderful books a voice in the back of my mind said welcome.

The immediate high of that glorious book smell began to level off as I heard it again.

"Welcome."

It was no longer in my head but coming from my feet. With a frown I stared down at my tan wedge slippers half expecting to see them talk.

"Welcome to The Real Look."

Definitely not the sandals. They looked distinctly feminine while this voice was potently masculine. I turned in its direction to see a beautifully brown man crouched on his haunches studying me with undisguised amusement.

"I'm sorry. I didn't see...Well. Thank you."

I cringed at my artless response. What was the matter with me? I'm never flustered. Never. At least not for myself and certainly not by a man who, as he rose to his feet, stood only a couple inches taller than me.

There was that smile again. No, not quite a smile. More of a smirk with less arrogance - more awareness. He'd noticed me. That much I could tell. I'd come a long way from the chubby seven-year-old whose best friends lived within the confines of Young Adult Fiction. Maybe shorter than I'd like, my full breasts and hips had still managed to attract far more admirers than detractors. Tae-Bo and the occasional denial of my hunger pains kept my plumpness pleasant the way my kind of men like. I could tell he definitely liked.

But there was also something more than the aggressive appreciation I'd come to expect; his slight smile seemed to reach up through his eyes and right across the small expanse of cluttered floor space to the corners of my own mouth, enticing it into an equally engaging smirk. We stood there for several long moments smirking and wallowing in the smell of ink and genius.

It was only the entrance of another customer, a regular, I gathered from the way he called "chocolate wonder Ian", that moved me from the spot just inside the entrance. With a wave and a friendly reply he - Ian - never broke from my gaze. He seemed completely unselfconscious about his obvious interest, his immobility, his appreciation of me. I was not so lucky. Something about the gravitational pull of that smirk and those laughing brown eyes that seemed to marvel in my discomfort made me very uncomfortable. Stick with what you know. Thank god for the voices in my head.

"Is this your store?"

"Yes."

No more, no less. The brother apparently had no idea that he was. A brother, I mean. Brothers have "talk game." They come prepared with witty repartee, honed by playing with other brothers-in-training. Double entendre and sexual innuendo comes standard issue with every post-adolescent brother. Damn if Ian seemed to have missed the memo. He offered no more than what I asked...and that smile. And good Lord that chest. As my eyes searched for somewhere safe to land I could see it clearly now through the thin cotton tunic he wore. Through design or the frequent washings of a favorite garment - I couldn't know which - the fabric was so thin as to border on indecent. A muscled wall of chest, the sloping curve of hardened pecs, and the whisper of an etched stomach - I could see it all. And he knew it.

"How long have you been here?"

I'm reaching. He knows it and doesn't give me anything to cling to. Damn him.

"Just a few months."

"It's very nice."

"Hmmm."

A low moan of arousal or an innocuous response, either way the sound only caused his chest to shift beneath the see-through cotton. I couldn't help but watch every move.

"Ian. Is my special order in? The 48 Laws of Power?"

The call came from the back of the store from the guest I'd forgotten existed. Natty, white boy dreads hung from his head like overcooked pasta. But he was working the poor, anti-establishment bit to the hilt - Birkenstock sandals, rainbow hued hemp poncho, tattered cut off khaki shorts. He wanted to know about power? He should look at Ian.

I couldn't stop the thought. How the hell would I know something like that? Sexy? Yes. Powerful? Doubtful. He's just a nerd, like me; with iron cast abs and expressive eyes. Exactly. Keep repeating it.

That's just what I did as Ian broke our stare off to look for natty boy's map back into majority culture domination. With a shake of my head I took note of the shelves, the books on them, amazed by the variety in such a small store. Everything from best sellers to obscure classics lined the walls. I reached out to stroke the spines of Othello, Waiting to Exhale, The Bluest Eye knowing he was watching me. I didn't have to turn. I could hear him ringing up dread head's purchase, the modem dialing for credit card approval, the hum of meaningless small talk. But I also knew that somehow he saw me caressing the hardcovers; saw me leaning closer to inhale the scent each one gave off. I pretended not to notice.

I was standing in the self help section trying to decide if today was the day I wanted to live my best life or get my best body when natty boy walked out leaving me all alone with Ian. I almost called him back except I was 90 percent sure he wouldn't respond too well to "hey white boy" or "natty! Please don't go!"

So I stood there pretending to read. Somehow it never crossed my mind to leave. Why didn't it occur to me to leave?

"Looking to improve your life?"

Now he was standing behind me. For such a thick man he walked like a cat. I never heard him approach. He was just there. And he'd asked a question.

"Excuse me?"

Now I could actually hear the smirk.

"You don't strike me as the kind of woman who reads self help books."

A veiled insult. Now there was something I could grab hold of.

"Really? What kind of woman do I look like?"

Big talk from a punk too scared to face him as I said it.

"Don't you know?"

He said it in a whisper tinged with awe and a bit of ironic wonder. Like he knew me. Like I should know myself. How dare he?

"I have a name." I snapped. "Lisa."

Why did I do that? He didn't need to know my name.

"Don't you know...Lisa?"

God the man was insistent. And obviously immune to honey-laced venom. I knew what he wasn't immune to. With my own smirk masking the nerves jangling in my gut like spare change I turned to face him with breasts held high by the wonders of underwire and my ramrod-straight back. I could see the glint in his eyes spark brighter. There, take that, I thought with smug satisfaction.

"Maybe I'm aiming for my higher self."

"Only goes to my point. This is not the section you're looking for."

Backfire. The gleam in his eyes ensnared me, softening my spine, worrying my senses, aggravating my nerves. How did he do that?

"What am I looking for?"

I hadn't meant to exhale just then. It made me sound...breathless. More than a little needy. Aroused. Desperate. Searching. He'd heard it. It was in the way his spine lengthened, the way he adjusted the width of stance, bringing to mind a warrior in his prime. Except this was no battle. Was it?

"Let me show you."

That was definitely not a question, neither was it exactly a command. More like a foregone conclusion, like all manner of things had been determined from the moment I'd entered the store. With a spin on his heel too graceful to not be amazing he stalked towards the back of the store. It only took two of his pounding steps for my need to know to outweigh my desire to flee. Know what? I just knew I didn't want to be left behind. Not this time. Not by this man.

I refused to think too much as is my normal response to stimuli. Instead I allowed the vibrations of steps against the warped hardwood floor to lead my feet. The rest of me gladly followed, relieved someone had made a decision. We made our way by the small enclave that housed a computer, past the stacks of religion and philosophy, over the boxes of new inventory. It was all just a few steps. Such a small store. So many possibilities.

Possibilities. It hung in the echo of my last thought as Ian stopped short before a small closet that had been converted to squeeze in a few more books. Books. What had I expected?

Ian turned to face me. His smirk had deteriorated into a grimace but his eyes still shone bright and deep against his light complexion and dark lashes. For a moment I was glad of his height and the way it afforded me an unobstructed view of the emotions playing across his face. I'd always been particular about tall, lean men - basketball player types with sinewy muscles and graceful limbs. Ian stood barely 5"10 - taller than me but short for a man. With his broad shoulders and densely muscled physique he looked like a retired linebacker. Yet his eyes, with their brown warmth, softened a frame that could have been too intensely masculine. And he did own a bookstore. That had to be worth several inches alone. Inches. I swallowed. Hard. Why was I thinking inches?

"This is my private collection."

From anyone else it would have sounded cliché, but from Ian it rang true with the inflection of pride in his voice.

I stepped just inside the threshold as he pulled a cord and flooded the room with light. It was bigger than I'd first thought. Ummm...bigger. What was wrong with me?

Ian stood aside, silently inviting me to look my fill, to enter his private world.

Dante, Morrison, Socrates, Homer, Hurston, Baldwin - the books told me everything about him. He'd warred with the fragility of man, marveled at the potential of a human being, and warred with the concept of God and right and wrong. He found beauty in the struggle. He was a thinker. That explained his eyes. He was a revolutionary. That explained the force field of energy that even now was sucking me into an emotional vortex. He was almost brutally perfect.

As I moved along the walls deciphering his innermost secrets from titles I knew well, he stood quietly. Watching. He was always watching. And waiting. He was waiting for something.

He stood aside as I traveled along the final wall. I could feel his posture stiffen. My breathing echoed his discomfort, coming faster than I could explain. We were so close to...something.

I discovered a new row of books with my fingertips hearing the catch in his breath as I grazed the spines with my fingernails. It was here. Whatever "it" was, it was here. I just had to discover it. I had to look closely, so worn were the titles. One large leather volume in particular called to me. The gold lettering had long ago faded into impressions making its contents a secret, but somehow I could just feel the energy pulsing from this one. Between the harsh light and Ian's distracting presence my eyes struggled to make out the words.

"Marquis..de..."

"Sade. Marquis de Sade."

He sounded relieved. The name echoed in through my brain, touching on faint remembrances. I knew it was a name I should know.

"Have you ever confused pleasure with pain Lisa?"

In a flash I knew the story. All the stories. The debauchery, the debasement, the insanity. I knew the Marquis de Sade just as I knew Anne Rice, Laurell Hamilton, Lori Foster and Lora Leigh. I'd read them all - from the Story of O to Black Silk. What had began as a wayward search through hidden library stacks had blossomed into a private lusting for erotic literature. Too ashamed to check them out or to be found in 'that' aisle of the bookstore I'd wept with gratitude when the internet brought my favorite naughty habit into the privacy of my home.

Did I know them? Some of them I knew by heart, but he could have never known that.

"I knew when you walked in. I could smell it on you. I could see it in your eyes. You felt it, didn't you?"

He was standing closer as I still fingered the massive book. Paralyzed, I stood as he continued in a voice so low I had to focus all my senses on detecting his words.

"You have your own secret place for them."

Under the bed in my spare bedroom. I shuddered. He knew.

"You've dreamt of it - of the feelings in books like this."

Those muscled arms came around me then to grasp the book in my shaking hands. Long fingers, too long for his height, but perfect for so many things steadied mine as I watched.

"I can feel it coursing through you. Which is your favorite?"

His thumb stroked the soft webbing between my forefinger and its kin. His breathe blew at the bead of sweat trickling down the nape of my neck. How could I not answer?

"Age of Consent."

A tale of an inexperienced young woman molded, trained, shaped by an older, experienced, dominant lover. It was my favorite.

"Excellent choice."

Somehow Ian's praise lifted me. He took the now forgotten book from my hands and replaced it on the shelf. I waited for his arms to return, but instead he stepped back leaving me cold and violently alive.

"Turn around."

This voice was different. It wasn't laughing or cajoling. All the breathy desperation was gone and in its place was confidence that rattled me into gleeful submission. I turned.

"Good girl. This is going to go well isn't it, Lisa"

He said my name to taunt me. He was laughing at my earlier show of strength. I was the butt of the joke and I didn't care. It was going to go well. I nodded yes.

Pleasure at my acquiescence made his hands clench. He wanted to touch me. He was struggling with his control as much as I was struggling with my submission. The thought turned my flurry of nerves into a tingling of arousal. Please let him want me that bad.
I moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue knowing the contrast in color, the wetness it would leave behind would taunt him.

"Do it again."

That was definitely a growl. Of pleasure. He wanted me. I did it again, slower this time, tasting my lips as I went. He appreciated the effort.

"Come to me."

I wanted to scream with pleasure at the insane brilliance of his request. Of course I would come to him! I wanted to come to him! I stood before him on wobbly legs as he watched my chest rise and fall rapidly with each shallow breath.

"Are you scared?"

I nodded, too beyond myself to speak.

"But you like it? The fear. You like it."

He didn't need an answer but I nodded anyway.

"Good."

Before the word even left his mouth his hands were pulling my sensible, white scoop neck t-shirt from my jeans. I prayed it would be the last sensible thing I thought of. In a flash of sensation my shirt fell to the floor, followed by my bra. My large breasts drifted slightly lower without that trusty underwear.

"Beautiful."

One word and I knew I was acceptable. I sucked in a breathe hoping to entice him to touch and he did. He touched everything, everywhere at the same time. His lips touched mine as one hand molded a breast and yet another found the curve of my butt cheek. His knees brushed my thighs, his hips ground almost painfully against my pelvis. He touched me like his life depended on it and I couldn't help but to respond. The sensual pain blended with the sexual ecstasy turning me into a willing participant. My hands groped his strong, solid back as my tongue slid across his in response. I willed my nipple to grow harder, bigger, to caress his palm. I fought back against the iron of his hips with the softness of my own, making him groan.

"What do you need?"

He whispered against my mouth. No one had ever asked me that.

"Hard. Fast. Everything."

It was the truth. I realized it the moment I said it. I didn't need to be coddled or treasured. I needed to be wanted beyond reason. I wanted to be taken so that the memories I knew I would relive forever wouldn't wash me in guilt every time I recalled them. He understood, had understood me from the moment I walked in.

"Take them off."

I pulled away from the heat of his touch just long enough to break free of my jeans and sandals. I considered my panties only for a moment before the steel in his gaze demanded they go, too. Naked under the bright lights I knew he wouldn't turn off, I waited for his next command.

"Undress me."

I felt every inch of him grow impossibly larger and harder as I stripped him with trembling hands. The cotton shirt went up even as I began pushing his black linen pants down. He didn't wear any underwear. And he was impressive. The flat stomach I knew would be there had only hinted at the deeply etched V that pointed down to a thick thatch of dark hair and beautifully veined dick. It varied from shades of butterscotch to licorice. My mouth watered at the thought. He saw me swallow and read the request in my eyes.

"Yes."

In a flash I dropped down to honor the etchings of that deep V. He moaned as I laved him with my tongue and milked his dick in my hand. From one side to the other I traced a path, inhaling the musk of arousal as I went, unsure if it was his or mine. In my hand he jumped as I nipped the flesh at his pelvic bone. My nipples buzzed in response. The knowledge that both of us wanted it spurred me further down. I never did this. I didn't even know if I'd be able to do it right. Of course I'd seen it done...but he was big and I wasn't a professional.

"Do it."

The command freed me from my doubts. I started with a lick - just a tiny little swipe of tongue across the slit that leaked passionate tears as I went. I liked it. Almost too much. I licked again and again until the head turned almost purple under my teasing. Wondering at his ability to literally change colors I swallowed the head, moving my tongue in tight circles as my hand held him still against my lips.

"Suck harder."

He could have told me to roll over and play fetch and I would have done it. Everything I loved was in that room - books, beautiful words arranged erotically, the smell of pages, his deep V, his hard stomach, his colorful dick, his commands, and my pleasure. I tightened my grip; hollowing my cheeks I spurred him deeper into my mouth. I gave up on the pretense of breathing to take him faster, harder, deeper towards a throat that should not allow it, but did. I sucked furiously, watching his face for signs that I pleased him.

With a moan of regret Ian pulled his flailing cock from my mouth with a wet pop.

"Not yet" he panted. "More."

I stood, waiting, knowing more was coming. With a look of intense concentration and pleasure he pushed me against the only wall not covered by books. Lifting me onto my toes with a knee at my weeping crotch he arranged me to take him. I heard the rattle of the front door at the precise moment Ian plunged inside me in one smooth, practiced stroke.

I tried to speak. I tried to tell him we weren't alone.

"Don't say a word."

It was grunted in my ear and I obeyed. The visitors called out for help, asking if anyone was there. The walls of my pussy spasmed in response. Fear and lust became inseparable. Would they catch us? Did I care?

"No. It's just us. Just this."

He seemed to hear my questions. Amazing. Had I spoken aloud without knowing? The thought lasted only as long as Ian's next plunge. He was both long and thick and I was wetter than I had ever been. The flesh around his cock was swollen as he punctuated each thrust with a masterful roll of his hips. As his pelvic bone pressed against my distended clit I wanted to scream. I may have. I couldn't tell. My body was focused on where it met Ian's and my mind could still detect the rumblings of the store's guests.

"You will come. Do you understand?"

I was too afraid to speak. I wasn't sure if I would whisper or yell.

"Nod your head. Do you understand?"

I knocked my head against the wall I nodded so hard. Whatever he said, that's what I was going to do.

"Fuck. I should have bent you over first. I should have played with your clit. I could have sucked on you, but I couldn't wait."

A groan of dismay at his lack of control. My pussy wept.

"You like that. I can feel it. What if they walked in Lisa?"

Faster the wetness trickled now. I felt the first twitch of uncontrollable release.

"Just like I thought. What if they joined us? You'd like that, too, wouldn't you?"

A muffled cry. I was so fucking close. If he'd just tap my clit again or let me touch, let me scream, something.

"That's what I thought. Would you fuck them if I told you to?"

My eyes widened as an image of bodies writhing and stroking one another, mine at the center welcoming the feel of strange dicks and soft breasts and warm, intimate kisses flashed in my mind. The stiffening of my body wasn't lost on him.

"I'd only let them taste you. That's all. I'd let them lick at you, nibble on you, play with you. I might make you play with them. It sounds like a couple. You'd take them both. I'd watch you as a woman ate your pussy. For hours, Lisa. You'd...love...it."

Each hot whispered word was punctuated with his forceful thrusts. He knew I'd like it. He could tell from the way my legs clenched and my cervix opened to meet the tip of his dick. I couldn't find the words to say it aloud but the vibrations of my hungry pussy must have said it all. He knew I'd do it if he told me to.

"Not...until...you...come."

As the front door jingled to signal the customers exit my body bucked away from the wall, slamming uncontrollably against the unyielding flesh of Ian's. From a distance I heard the echo of his groan but it no longer mattered. I was gone. One more hard stroke, one more pass of his thumb across my nipple and my heart leapt into my throat as I flew.

Like a bird freed from a gilded cage I coasted on the pulsating waves of the orgasm racking my body, bowing my back. I ignored the cramp in my leg as Ian pulled violently free of me to spew the thickness of his satisfaction across my stomach. In slow motion every spurt seemed to jet in the space between us, pause momentarily and then land softly on my burning skin.

A loud rumble in my ears kept me from hearing the books that fell to the floor, just as the trembling muscles deep in the core of my passage blocked the sensation of us sliding to the floor.

Several minutes passed before my peripheral vision returned and the world began to right itself. Seeing myself as Ian must I refused to be ashamed. He'd told me to do every bit of it.

"I close at 8."

That smirk was back.

"So."

"So, I'll see you then. Won't I ...Lisa"

I never should have told him my name. The way he said it, all ominous and dark, intensified the once subsiding ripples of pleasure dancing along my spine. The suddenness of my response had me crumpling farther into the ground. Ian reached out to catch me. Tenderly he lifted me back up to face him.

"You'll be back."

Less cocky now, his voice matched the pleading in his warm brown eyes.

I nodded yes.

I would come...back and again.

Hell, who am I kidding? I do love a good book. And I could always say he told me to.

It was the heat that did it, she told herself later. She'd been riding home on the bus on one of those sweltering hot days that New York gets in August. Everyone else hated it - all she had heard all day was "It's a hot one, eh?" and "Hot enough for you?" But she loved the heat. She always felt sexy on a really hot day. It made her so much more aware of her body. It was sultry, it was tropical, it was steamy and humid and sensual.

The bus was crowded as usual and she hadn't gotten a seat. She'd lived here long enough to not expect anyone to give up a seat, and she was right, but today she didn't mind. The plastic seats just stuck to your skin anyway. She liked the feel of the air on her body.

She wrapped her hand in the strap and relaxed, letting her body sway easily with the motion of the bus. People were crowded close, but no one was actually touching her - New Yorkers' personal space was smaller, but just as carefully maintained.

She liked riding like this. All the windows were wide open, and the hot breeze flowed around her, fluttering her thin cotton dress pleasantly against her thighs. She felt a drop of sweat run down between her breasts, tickling her. Glancing down, she could see down the neck of her dress.

As usual in the summer, she was wearing no underwear, and the shining globes of her breasts jiggled and swayed freely beneath the thin material. The light coming through the bright tropical print cast moving pastel patterns on her moist skin. As she stood there swaying languorously, she imagined herself walking naked down a jungle path, the tropical sun burning down through the canopy to dapple her skin.

She felt like a tigress in heat, prowling through her jungle domain, searching for a mate. She wondered what tiger lovemaking would be like - lots of hissing and growling and some dangerously sharp biting, she imagined.

It sounded good to her. She imagined huge furry paws, magnificent in their gold and black power, reaching around from behind to crush those humid breasts. The claws would be retracted, of course, but still visible, their needle tips resting lightly on her skin, dimpling it slightly to remind her of their power and their danger.

God, thinking like that made her hotter than ever! She felt her nipples rise up hard, as they always did when she was very excited. Her dress was pulled tight across her breasts by her raised arm, accentuating them and the fact that she was braless, and her hard nipples looked like she had gum drops in there. Jeez, is this what men feel like when they get an erection in public?

She looked around to see if anyone else noticed, and looked straight into the eyes of a gorgeous man sitting opposite. He had obviously been watching her, and she had no doubt that he had observed her telltale condition. She blushed and looked quickly away, but her nipples just got harder at the thought of him sitting there watching her as she fantasized. A warm glow in the tips of her breasts flowed out across them, down her belly, and between her legs, contributing to the already moist conditions there.

After a few minutes she built up the nerve to meet his eyes again. He was still watching her. He was sitting in one of those back-to-the-wall seats, facing right toward her. He was a few years older than she, but lean and tan and fit. He wore a neat white tropical suit and he looked perfectly comfortable in the heat. His longish black hair was slicked severely back from his olive face, making him look like one of those sleek, Italian fashion-models one saw in the expensive ads in the New Yorker.

His dark eyes looked fixedly into hers, and she had the eerie sensation that he could see her every thought. She stood staring, lost in those black, unreadable eyes. They traveled slowly and unashamedly down her body. She saw them move from one breast to the other, then slide down her belly to her hips, the curve of her thighs, her bare legs, her feet; and then slowly all the way back up to her face, missing no detail of her figure.

Her body shivered and he saw, he understood. It sure wasn't the temperature. She had never been looked at quite that way before. It was not ogling, the usual furtive peeking; it was just a very thorough and appreciative appraisal. His face was nearly expressionless, but there was a barely discernible curl now at the corner of his mouth. Was he smiling? To himself or to her? In amusement or desire? Whatever it meant, it lit her fire. The tiger's paws became tan and muscular hands with long slim fingers that cupped and lifted her breasts. His hands.

The bus jerked to a stop and several people squeezed past her and got off. The crowd around her eased slightly, dividing the new space amongst themselves, but she stayed where she was, transfixed by his eyes. She stood directly in front of him, a foot or so from his knees, her back to the rear door of the bus.

The bus started off with another jerk. Several people grabbed seat backs to steady themselves, but she didn't want to move from where she was. She braced her legs wide apart for balance. With that same maddening self-assurance, his eyes roamed freely down her body again and locked directly on her crotch.

Freed from his hypnotic gaze, she glanced past him to her reflection in the window, and gasped. She realized now what he was looking at. She was naked!

The late afternoon sun was glinting blindingly from the windows of each car they passed, sending a brilliant glare through the full-length windows in the doors behind her. Each flash turned her pretty little summer dress as transparent as spring water, silhouetting her naked body beneath in exquisite detail. Her left breast, caught in profile, could be seen swaying heavily below her upraised arm. Even the erect nipple couldn't be missed, holding out a little tent of gossamer shadow from the curve of her breast.

Her narrow waist, the voluptuous swell of her hips, the smoothly tapering thighs, all drew the eye downward and inward, to where the light was the very brightest: the glowing chalice of light between her thighs.

With her legs braced wide apart, it was easy to see the crease between, perhaps even a hint of the protruding lips. With a rush of heat, she realized he could even see the shadow of a thin goatee where her hair, now matted with moisture, hung down in a little point.

After they had both studied the apparition for several long moments, she tried to think what she should do. She resisted her instinctive impulse to hide herself, a step or two to either side would have been sufficient. She found it tremendously exciting to be standing here on a crowded bus rattling down Fifth Avenue, almost toe-to-toe with this very attractive stranger, and knowing that he could see her as naked as if she had just shrugged out of her dress and let it fall to the floor.

She looked down at him again and found him watching her face. If he had grinned and looked away she would have moved away immediately. If he had been even the least bit furtive or sly, if there had been a hint of a leer, she would have been embarrassed and affronted. But he met her gaze evenly.

He had been watching her face when she caught her reflection, and he had seen her stiffen with alarm when she realized he could see her. He knew she knew, and she knew he knew why she didn't move away. A tacit agreement passed between them, each aware that they were both taking and giving pleasure. Though they had neither spoken nor touched, it was as if they were making love to each other in the midst of the crowd. She remained like that, swaying with the motion of the bus, every inch of her skin tingling as she felt his eyes roaming over her body like a warm caress. She was almost purring.

"'Scuse me, lady," said a loud Brooklyn accent in her ear, startling her from her reverie. A man was standing next to her, looking at her oddly, as if he wondered if she were deaf or simple-minded. She blinked at him in confusion.

"This is my stop, lady. Please." She stepped aside, bumping her hip awkwardly against the chrome pole next to her. The man squeezed past and went down the steps to the sidewalk. The bus started off again immediately.

Well, so much for that, she thought in disappointment. The incredible sexual tension of the situation was broken. The bus was rapidly emptying, and only two or three other people were still standing. She could hardly go back to stand in front of the door again. She couldn't even see her man's face now, for she had turned her back to him when she swung aside to let the other passenger off. She was intensely aware, however, that his head must be only inches from her hip; she stood leaning against the pole at the end of his seat.

Looking down, she saw his hand on the pole beside her thigh. She could see fine hairs glinting in the sun on the back of his hand. The sight of his tawny skin no more than an inch from her leg raised her temperature yet again.

Impulsively, she leaned slightly against the pole and pressed her thigh against his hand. He made no effort to remove it. She couldn't believe she was really doing this, but she didn't care; she just wanted to recover that silent, electric communion they'd been sharing.

She could feel the warmth of his hand against her thigh. Incredible that such a minuscule contact could arouse her so, but it was the mood she was in. She reveled in the touch. She leaned harder against the chrome pole, mashing it into the side of her left breast, savoring the hard impress of cool metal against her softness.

Then she felt his hand being withdrawn. The spell was broken again. She wondered suddenly if she'd been wrong all along, if he hadn't been sharing the wonderful experience with her, but only staring at her. Perhaps that subtle touch had not been as exciting for him as it had for her. Perhaps he hadn't even noticed it. What a foolish woman she was!

But then her racing thoughts were stilled as she felt a touch, light as down, on the back of her thigh. She caught her breath and waited, not knowing what else to do. Nothing else happened for several minutes. Had it been an accident? Perhaps he was only opening his paper, oblivious to her as she stood literally trembling before him. Then his hand slipped between her legs and closed around her bare thigh just above her right knee.

What should she do? Here was a strange man with his hand under her skirt. She knew nothing about him, not even his name. How did he dare to do such a thing? One didn't just grope strangers on a bus. How could he be so sure that she would let him? Should she pull away, pretend it hadn't happened? Should she confront him, slap his face? In the end she did exactly what he had known she would; what she wanted. She stood stock-still and closed her eyes, concentrating every ounce of her being on his touch.

His hand gently pressed and kneaded her thigh, then began to glide upwards. She felt her skirt move against her legs. She wondered if anyone else could see what he was doing. She dimly remembered someone sitting beside him, but had paid so little attention she didn't know if it was a man or a woman. Now she didn't dare to turn around to see. Either they weren't paying attention or the man was somehow concealing what he was doing.

His hand slid higher, onto that hypersensitive skin on the inside of her upper thigh. She mashed her breast even harder against the pole. Or perhaps he wasn't concealing what he was doing, she thought with a rush of heat to her face. He was so bold and arrogant he might just be leaning forward in his seat to openly fondle her. What did he care what she thought? She was making no effort to move away, was she? In any case, she was too far-gone now to care. She just didn't want it to stop.

His hand had nearly reached the top of her leg. The back of his hand was now brushing her left leg and she was sure he knew the wetness there was more than just sweat. Then the upper edge of his hand brushed her hair and stopped. She bit her lip and held her breath, waiting, dreading, begging for him to continue, but they remained like that minute after minute, both of them savoring the anticipation.

Finally, when she thought she couldn't stand it any more, he pressed the side of his hand hard up against her, directly on her slit. She shuddered at the touch and clutched the pole for balance, but neither of them made a sound.

Her position prevented him from moving very much, but he flexed his hand, working the side of his forefinger right between her lips. Totally engrossed in his touch and only half aware of where she was, she shifted her weight to her right leg and stepped forward slightly with her left. This opened her thighs just enough to give him free access, and incidentally brought her rigid nipple into direct contact with the cold steel pole. Every motion of the bus, of her trembling body, caused her nipple to flip back and forth across the smooth metal, keeping it in a high state of arousal. But she was hardly aware of it, so concentrated was she on what was going on between her legs.

Freed at last, his hand rocked to the left, sweeping his fingertips one by one across her mound, stroking her hair, dipping between her lips. His thumb insinuated itself between her cheeks to rest directly on the puckered ring of her ass. She instinctively arched her back, pressing her bottom back into the palm of his hand. He responded by cupping her pubis in his hand and bringing the tip of his middle finger down on the head of her clitoris.

Perfectly timed with the spasm of lust that swept through her at the touch, the loud honk of a taxi horn brought her back to where she was. She opened her eyes and glanced fearfully down her body to see if anything could be seen. To her horror, she saw that his knuckles made unmistakable moving bumps in the front of her dress. If anyone looked closely at her there, they couldn't help but see what was going on.

She was gathering her nerve to check the faces around her, when she saw the bump that marked his middle finger protrude still further, then both saw and felt it disappear inside her. It slid in effortlessly right to the knuckle, confirming her lubricious condition. Forgetting everything else, she closed her eyes to savor the sensation to the fullest.

She thought she would faint. Her knees were trembling as if they would collapse; she couldn't seem to get enough air. To keep from falling, she crushed her breast into the pole so hard it bulged out on either side, the nipple mercilessly mashed. The pain cleared her head.

What the hell was she doing? Here she was in a crowded bus, going down Fifth Avenue in broad daylight, and some complete stranger has his hand in her snatch. She had to put a stop to it - but how? Just walk away? Easier said than done. To coin a phrase, he had her by the short hairs. How could she get disentangled without a scene? Should she say something to him, ask him to stop? What would she say? "Excuse me, I know we haven't been introduced, but would you mind taking your finger out of my cunt?"

Before she could think of a proper response, her thoughts were scattered again as he began to wriggle his finger inside her. It squirmed in circles, alternating with smooth in-and-out strokes. The tip of his index finger massaged her throbbing clitoris. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Every muscle in her body was rigid as she tried to maintain both her balance and her composure. Try as she might, she couldn't help rocking her hips imperceptibly against his probing hand.

His hand tightened, and she felt the tip of his thumb force its way into her trembling ass. Her muscles were too watery to resist its advance, and soon she was doubly impaled. He squeezed his hand closed, as if trying to bring his thumb and finger together inside her.

It was a strange sensation. It felt as if he held the center of her in his hand, as if she could just relax and float up into the air, supported only by his hand in her vitals. She trembled with desire at the thought, and he must have felt it, for he immediately redoubled his stroking and kneading. Then she knew she had lost all control. Biting her lip to keep silent, she abandoned herself to the hot waves of lust rising in her belly. Reading her perfectly, he twiddled her clitoris furiously, and she came in one huge rush, clamping her legs together so hard that his hand must have been crushed.

Her orgasm was so total and so sudden that she moaned aloud. Oh, Goddess, now I've done it, she thought. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked straight into the face of a past-middle-aged woman in the seat opposite. The woman's mouth was open, her eyes wide, as she stared straight at the man's hand still buried in her crotch. There wasn't a doubt that she had seen everything that had happened.

A thrill of horror went through her, rather disconcertingly simultaneous with an aftershock of orgasm. Would the woman shout at her, make a commotion, denounce her to their fellow commuters? Then what? What would she do; what could she say?

Her mind raced, trying to think of something she could say to the woman. But then she noticed the peculiar glazed look in the woman's eyes, as if she were looking through her, focused on something more distant than the man's hand, now stroking and soothing her beneath her dress. For an instant she thought the woman might be blind. Then a slight motion caught her eye and she looked down at the woman's lap.

A large shopping bag lay across her legs, emblazoned with the name of an expensive department store. The woman's hands were tucked out of sight beneath it, but the bag was unobtrusively but clearly jiggling up and down. A warm bond of understanding came over her. Bless her heart, the old girl was frigging herself right along with them. As she watched, the woman shuddered, her eyes closing in blessed release.

Regaining herself, the woman looked up and their eyes met. The woman looked startled at first to realize she had been observed, but then she smiled. It was a wonderful smile, impossible to resist returning, and a secret womanly knowledge passed between them. Far from condemning her, the woman understood perfectly.

As she stood grinning down at her, she felt the man's hand slide damply down her thigh, and leave her. The spell was broken at last. She was sated.
Some internal alarm went off and she stooped to look out of the bus. They were just pulling up at her stop. Without a glance back at the man, she swung down the steps to the sweltering sidewalk. The bus moved off in a blue cloud of diesel fumes. She stood looking after it, thinking. Finally she turned toward her building. She felt relaxed and happy, with a warm feeling for those two strangers on the bus.

They all understood. It was the heat that did it.

Rainbow droplets formed prism puddles

while sunlight peeked through rainmist clouds

We slipped into our backyard garden

Bare feet on slippery grass

Giggling like children as we chased

each other in the rain

Hide and seek behind the trees

Losing clothing and inhibitions among the

lush leaves and dripping flowers

Rain soaked skin sleek and slippery

touching in the steamy air

Hungry kisses tasting of salt and rain

Thighs and petal lips parted

open wide to let him in

Passion plunging and penetrating

Drenched bodies joined in desire

The scent of sex mingled

with damp earth and rain

Seed spilled on wet soil

In a rain soaked garden

Pleasure bloomed

The pen waits patiently

ready to caress between the lines

It teases open the notebook

waiting for the muse to respond...

to the rhythm of the rambling pen

Dipping into her ink

inviting, urging, begging her to come

Penetrating the imagination

fantasies flowing onto paper

Words spilling on the page

Orgasmic inspiration

Steel is like ice, cold and unused. Bared in play, at the ready, it warms to the skin, as the flat is revealed and warmed by an expert. She laid the blade on his shoulder with the air and practice of years of knowledge. His pulse thumped in response to the knife. Inches from his neck, it bit with cold. "Can you feel how sharp it is?" She pulled the blade backward so the steel dragged along his skin. "The nip of its frost." His breath caught. Lifting the blade, she put it back where it began. He could feel the thick warmth reaching up for the knife. The thud as it surged, fighting its way up his blood stream. A horn blared outside. Startled him, and he jerked. The blade shifted. But his skin tried to reach for it, to lay itself open, the raw edge of razor sharp. "Easy, pet." Her voice was thick like syrup. The hammer of his heart didn't care, would not be still. The knife, cold and hard was warming, drawing the heat from his skin and he wanted it, that heat in him. His pulse sounded time with his need. She touched a finger to his cheek. Caught a drop of his sweat and brought it to her mouth. "Mmm, luscious." The blade stroked backward again, lifted and was reset. "I enjoy it when your emotion trickles in lickable lines." Leaning forward, she tongued him from jaw to temple, scoring the whiskers and making him shiver. He wanted it. Needed it. His cock so desperate it jutted pain that fairly split his control in two. Brushed her fingers over him. Looked intently into his eyes and she traced those same delectable caresses over her corset. He closed his eyes. Could barely stand it. He'd hardened, the minute she pulled the knife. Freed the stiletto. Tiny, barely two inches, set in a sheath sewn into her corset. Snuggled between her breasts and those nails dipped in blood-red polish had reached between Double Ds and freed a bona fide piece of hardcore delight. The stiletto's name was Honey. He practically came when she laid it against flesh, but she wouldn't allow it. Made him wait for it. Want it. Give her more. "Look at me." The command in her voice made his eyes fly open. She was angry, and the syrupy sound was strained. * * * Hell! He understood. He wanted it - this - the blade. But for a word, and the possibility of a new mark, each a sweet memory of deliverance, he would be doubly good, anything she wanted. Heat bellowed like a furnace through his body. Made his muscles need to move and pump. Push that warmth out and find the cool. The blade was hot, catching every rise in his temperature. The flat moved closer to his neck. The steel rubbed and teased his flesh. He sucked in breath between clenched teeth: Short, airy pants. It was drawn down his body. The blade lingered over sweet spots: heart, nipples, stomach and navel. When it reached the groin, he could barely breathe. His gut was sucked so far into his lungs, he dared not move. It was there. Right at the spot! The head of his cock, it shivered and swelled. How he wanted to spew! A trickle of cum pushed from the head. Gentle. Mindful. Yet still in control. "Mark me," a bare whisper of his voice. "You're not ready. You don't get it." She teased him, her voice as thick as his, that syrupy sound gaining heaviness. "I am. Please." Eyes bored into his. "As Mistress, I will say when, and if the time happens." Instantly, the knife was at shoulder. He resisted the urge to lean, to push it toward his throat and let the knife slice so deep there was no return. But he could not, never would, allow himself to lose everything for one second of sensation; so much better to have more, many more experiences of pure rush. Realization hit his consciousness like a ton of bricks: No return vs. the rush! He wasn't really thinking this. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Fuck! What was he doing? His nuts drew higher and tighter. Until pain and killer control gave his mouth a bitter wash. "Yes," she said. "That's it! Taste it: want and fear mingled. Fulfilled or denied." Her lips drew the words out slowly. "To mark you, or not, what shall I do?" "Please-" Heat laid a sheen on his body. Sweat a layer as thick as silk. It oozed up and out every pore and clothed the naked husk of his body. "Please what? Give me the craving..." Dry mouth made his tongue work. Swallowing did something to the vibration of his throat and he coughed. His body jerked, as he caught himself. She smiled. Fingers flexed. Knife slid, and set the slice. Mouth opened. Cum spurted. Covered her corset in a wash of wet. He watched. Saw the red line of drip seek its way down his body. Fear chilled him as desire pulsed. They leapt together, did their dance of sanctity, before ripping apart in a second spasm of disarray. Red lips, the color of his blood, smiled at him. She wiped the edges of the blade with expertise, against the bone farthest left on her corset. The smear was picturesque against the white backdrop. Honey in all its sharp glory was sheathed between those glorious double-Ds. Fingers sought his skin, where the stiletto had made its mark. His eyes rose to hers, the well of emotion too great to communicate. "Mistress. My gratitude." She stroked a finger down the trail on his skin. "Sweetly said, my slave. An expert knows how to deliver." Note: "This story was written for reader gratification." I am fascinated with mindset and what speaks to the individual. This story is FICTION and knife play is neither being advocated nor encouraged. Knifeplay is a vast topic, and information is available from experts, lectures, books, workshops, and guides for the person who wants to delve further. Please be thoughtful and aware.

Midnight. The night was dark, a typically bleak November night, the sky obscured by swiftly traveling clouds, no moon or stars to soften the gloom. Sheldon Black was sitting naked on the floor in the middle of his living room, his legs folded under him, flogging his back with a leather cat o' nine tails, looking out into the night through the large picture window at the front of his house. The house stood on a slight rise in the land, above a slowly meandering stream, affording him an unobstructed panoramic view of the countryside below. The living room was almost completely dark, mirroring the night outside, save for the faint flicker of a candle standing on a pedestal behind him. It cast eerily dancing shadows of his body and his constantly moving arm and whip on the floor in front of him. He was holding the thick leather grip firmly in his right hand, flinging the whip rhythmically over one shoulder, then over the other, back and forth. He wasn't whipping himself with too much force just yet, wanting to give his back a chance to get used to the flagellation. Yet his penis was already swollen and hard from the invigorating stimulation. His left hand, although perfectly still, was wrapped around the erection. The swishing of the whip and its thudding impact on his back were the only sounds in the room. Sheldon was thoroughly enjoying the game he was playing with himself. He found the rhythmic lashes of his whip strangely comforting, yet highly arousing at the same time. The sound of leather on skin was inspiring, the soft shimmer of the uncertain candle flame mysteriously enigmatic. He knew exactly how to whip himself in a way so as not to cause any serious harm to himself. However his strokes were forceful enough to provide him with the sexual agitation he desired. As he gradually worked himself up into a passion, the face of a young woman began to materialize in the windowpane. The face had a beautifully chiseled appearance, oval with high cheekbones, full red lips, and sparkling brown eyes, framed by a cascading wealth of black hair falling down over her shoulders. Then her luscious breasts appeared in the glass, full and proud with strutting nipples. He stared at them with unconcealed lust in his eyes, as they fully appeared. Finally a slender waist emerged, followed by full, well-rounded hips, a pronounced pubic mound, a clean-shaven pussy, and long legs. Her whole bearing was one of breathtaking beauty. She was all woman--and desirable beyond words. He knew her very well. She had been there many times before, and she belonged to the same dungeon he visited regularly. He was fascinated by her ghostly appearance in the window, yet throughout the spectacle he never missed a single beat with his whip. Concentrating on his castigation with one part of his mind and on the woman in the glass with the other, he moved closer to her until he stood directly in front of her, almost touching her. At his approach, she leaned back against a brick wall in the dimly lit room of their dungeon and spread her legs and arms for him, smiling encouragingly at him. At this time of the night, they were the only ones in the room, no one else was there to distract them from their activities. Sheldon picked up four straps of leather from a box on a table and tied her wrists and ankles to the rings mounted on the wall. Then he took two weighted nipple clamps from another box and attached them to her breasts. She cried out when the metal clasps closed around her sensitive nipples and started tugging them down. She stretched her body lusciously, like a content cat, reveling in the pain. He knew how to treat her well. They had learned much from each other since they met in the dungeon some time ago. Having prepared her properly, Sheldon reached for his whip and let the woven strands glide over her body. She whimpered and averted her eyes when the leather made contact with her skin, but she quickly caught herself, looked him straight in the eyes, and smiled invitingly. She was obviously ready for what was to come. She always reacted like that. It took her a moment to get used to the situation every time, but once she composed herself, she became the perfect target for his castigation. Her skin was alluringly white and smooth and her desire for pain was deeply ingrained in her psyche, her masochism an integral part of her personality. He always derived immense pleasure from being her tormentor, much more so than from any of the other women in their group. He spent a considerable time brushing her breasts with his whip, teasing her firm nipples, lifting and dropping the weights attached to them to let her know he could do whatever he felt like doing. He slapped her lightly at intervals until she moaned deeply and tugged at her restraints with her arms, wanting to participate, to share. He grinned triumphantly at her futile attempts to free herself. It made him feel powerful, larger than life, as it were, to be in control of her like that. Her whole body, her mind and soul, were at his mercy. She didn't utter a word the whole time, but she never stopped probing him with her deep eyes. After toying with her breasts and nipples for a while, he increased the strength and frequency of his strokes. This caused her to cry out and squirm with a mixture of pain and unconcealed pleasure. He was careful not to hit her breasts too forcefully so as not to cause any damage to the delicate tissue; but his strikes were still hard enough to provide her with the pain she desired. He knew very well that this was a game they were playing with each other and that there were definite rules to it just as there were with any game. If he happened to strike her too strongly or cause her any undue pain beyond what she expected and enjoyed, all she had to do was to let him know and he would stop. She'd never asked him to stop. "Harder," she cried out instead, voicing her pleasure for the first time. "Do it harder, please!" He willingly obliged, whipping her with increasingly forceful strokes until her breasts began to take on a roseate hue. Keeping his eyes on her tantalizing breasts, he gradually moved his whip down along her flank and over her belly, increasing the force of his lashes again until he reached her pubic mound. There he lingered for a while, taking his eyes off her breasts and concentrating on her pubic area, flogging her mound, then her pussy between her spread legs. She screamed with exhilaration and excitement. She could hardly contain herself in her shackles. "Harder," she cried again. "Harder, please!" Again he increased his strokes as she pushed her pelvis out from the wall and opened her thighs as wide as she could to give her aching pussy the greatest possible exposure. She kept whimpering and moaning all the while, lolling her head back and forth, straining against the leather straps that kept her immobilized against the wall. She was totally wrapped up in the torture, in the pain, and in the pleasure it afforded her deep down inside. As he kept whipping her between her legs and over her thighs, he was getting more and more aroused by his flagellation and by her reactions to his treatment. He felt an almost overwhelming temptation to start stroking and rubbing his penis, but he restrained himself and kept his hand perfectly still as he had from the beginning. He allowed himself a couple of squeezes, nothing very much, just a reminder that his penis was still waiting in his hand, throbbing more and more impatiently. But he forced himself to wait. "That's enough," he finally said, breathless from the exertion, speaking for the first time. He put the whip down, removed the nipple clamps, and grabbed her breasts with both hands. They were soft and pliant, their skin smooth and damp with perspiration. Focusing all his attention on her breasts now that he wasn't wielding his whip anymore, he fondled them to his heart's content, squeezing them and rubbing them while she pushed them into his hands and moaned with mounting excitement. He kneaded them and squeezed them until she winced. He took both of her nipples between his fingers and pinched them and tugged at them until she cried out with the renewed pain. She was squirming and bouncing her back against the wall so vehemently he thought she was going to rip her hands from the leather restraints. But she was securely fastened against the wall. He bent over and took one of her nipples between his lips, teasing it with his tongue, closing his teeth around it and tugging at it, sucking it, tasting it. She screamed with the pain of his teeth biting her nipples and with the exhilaration of his caresses. Keeping one hand on her breast, he reached for her pussy with the other, grabbed her swollen lips, grabbed them hard, and started to rub them forcefully. He went on to probing her deeper secrets, shoving a finger into her opening, then two, then three, causing her to yell from his invasion. Then he took to her clit, rubbing and stroking it with as much force as he could. She trembled with delight, moaning and groaning all the while. He went down on his knees in front of her and started fussing her pussy with his tongue, licking up her abundant juices, reveling in the medley of aromatic delights. Then he put his tongue on her clit and began to rub it and suck it with unconcealed fervor. He felt her body tense up and shiver as he brought her to a shuddering orgasm that buckled her knees. She could barely keep herself up on her shackled feet and was practically hanging from her wrists, overcome by the powerful waves rushing through her body. "Let me down," she pleaded, her voice barely audible in the cacophony of her ecstatic cries and moans. Sheldon untied her from the rings and she fell into his arms, exhausted and spent. He held her up and led her to a bench, helped her stretch out on it, and put a pillow under her head to make her more comfortable. He stroked her lightly and gently until her breathing slowed and she began to unwind. It was then that he allowed himself to stroke his penis. He resumed flogging his back harder and harder; the pain became deeper and more intense with every stroke he inflicted on himself. It didn't take him long to whip and stroke himself to his own shuddering orgasm and he sank against the bench, exhausted and ready for a reprieve. They stayed like that for quite some time, she with her arm around his neck, he with his hand on her breast, basking in the afterglow of their orgasms and enjoying each other's presence in the silence of the room. "That was absolutely wonderful," she finally said, running her fingers through his damp hair. "You're so good with me." "You're an excellent lover yourself," he said, smiling at her, losing himself in her deep eyes. He was grateful for having found her and having come to this point in their relationship where they could trust each other. He was grateful that they knew exactly how to torture and pleasure each other and make each other feel as good as they did. "Your turn," the woman broke the silence. He knew what to do and stretched himself out on a table face down. There were wooden pegs in the four corners of the table, and he braced himself against them with his hands and feet. Then he shut his eyes tightly, waiting for her whip to come down on him. She had a special single-strand leather whip of her own, and knew how to use it expertly. She cracked it in the air a couple of times for effect and to give him a moment to compose himself, then brought it down on his back. He winced. He was never quite prepared for the first lash, even though she always started with light strokes. His back was still throbbing with pain from his own flagellation and he cringed and screamed with every one of her lashes. Fortunately, she realized that it was getting to be too much for him and moved down to his buttocks. She kept lashing him rapidly and forcefully until his buttocks were bright red and he couldn't stand much more of her treatment. Yet he reveled in the pain her whip caused him, screaming at her to stop, no, to hit him harder, harder, not to stop. She complied readily by whipping his buttocks with increasingly forceful lashes. He felt his penis already getting hard again under him. "Over on your back," she commanded in a stern voice. He obeyed, spreading his arms and legs the way she had done against the wall. She took the four leather straps and tied his wrists and ankles to the four pegs, making sure he wasn't able to move. Then she took her whip into her hand again, cracked it in the air above him, and brought it down on his chest, lashing him again and again. The pain was absolutely delicious. She was very good at this, and always managed to hit just the right spots with her whip. Agonizing as the flagellation was, the pleasure he derived from being whipped by a woman he had just whipped himself far outweighed the discomfort it caused. And by a woman like her no less; this fact greatly increased the all-encompassing joy that flooded his tormented body. The woman moved down from his chest over his belly, down to his hard penis. Knowing exactly how to proceed, she stroked him lightly at first, letting the whip slide over his erection and over his balls. She then increased the strength of her strokes, just enough to provide him with the right amount of pain. At the same time, she was very careful not to cause him any injuries. It was the best part of the procedure for him, having his erection treated like that. He moaned and groaned deeply, reveling in the stimulating mixture of intense pleasure and intense pain. When the woman felt he had enough of the flagellation, she dropped the whip to the floor, reached for a candle in a box, and lit the wick. Standing right next to him, she held the burning candle over his body and tipped it to let the molten wax drip down on him. He screamed when the first droplets hit his skin like liquid fire, but then gradually absorbed the pain with his mind and switched his perception from agony to ecstasy. Again and again the hot wax dripped down on his chest, his belly, his thighs, driving him to distraction. The urge to shield himself with his hands grew stronger and more intense with every drop, and he tried in vain to free his hands from the pegs. The woman laughed gleefully when she saw his futile attempts. She was obviously enjoying herself thoroughly at his expense. But then, he had taken equally great pleasure in tormenting her when it was her turn. Now that the roles were reversed, she was entitled to her own pleasure as well. It was only fair. Much as he enjoyed his role when she was tied to the wall and he was in complete control of the proceedings, he found equally great pleasure in being the submissive one and letting her do everything to him. It relieved him of all responsibility. He didn't have to think about what to do. He didn't even have to do anything at all except lie there and let her do whatever she chose. Like all self-respecting members of the dungeon, he was Marquis de Sade and Leopold von Sacher-Masoch in one. Both sides of his personality thrived on enduring pain as well as dispensing it, and delighting in the passionate pleasure both variations brought with them. After some time of torturing him with the hot wax, the woman pulled a chair to the table, climbed up on it, and straddled him. Propping herself up on his chest and grabbing his nipples firmly with her fingers, she slowly, teasingly, lowered her pelvis until her pussy just touched his penis, titillating him until he squirmed in anticipation. Finally, she impaled herself on his throbbing staff, taking it inside herself as far as she possibly could. He groaned with pleasure as she started to move up and down on him, her breasts dangling above him, just out of reach. He involuntarily tugged at the leather straps again to reach for her breasts with his hands, but she had made sure he was securely tied to the pegs. The woman kept moving up and down on him, very slowly now to prolong the pleasure for both of them, squeezing and pinching his nipples to heighten his pleasure. After a while, she increased the speed of her movement and rode herself to another orgasm. Then she lowered her breasts so he could reach them with his mouth, and rode him to his own delicious orgasm. After he came deep inside of her, she let herself down on him, pressing her breasts against his chest, and keeping his penis inside of her. She stroked his head with her hand. When they emerged from their afterglow and caught their breath again, she disengaged herself from him and climbed off the table. She untied his hands and feet and he climbed off as well, took her into his arms, and hugged her affectionately. "Thank you," he said. "You were wonderful again, as always." "It was my pleasure entirely," the woman replied, snuggling up against him. Outside, the horizon was beginning to lighten, slowly bringing relief from the darkness of the night. Soon it would be morning again. Sheldon dropped his whip on the floor, then let himself slide down on the carpet, being careful not to touch his bruised back and buttocks to the floor. He curled up on the soft carpet, his hands between his knees, the candle burning itself out with a few final spurts. Then he fell asleep, satiated and totally satisfied with himself, the image of the woman still strong and vivid in his mind.

He used to love to watch her come. Not even touching her, just lying beside her, his attention wholly focused, watching the way she stroked her clit with her fingers, gently inserting one into her slick pussy from time to time as she arched her back and moaned and gasped. Then she’d come, thrashing and screaming his name, and automatically reach in his direction. He’d catch her hand in his and hold it to his lips, murmuring softly against her fingers as her frenzy culminated and then calmed. Thinking about it, she massaged her clit slowly, sliding her hand lower at times to feel the wetness she was creating. She moved her fingers faster, feeling her climax build. When it came, she reached out to her left where he used to lie. Her hand hit the bed with a quiet thud. She gripped the blanket, bunching it into a ball with her fist as the orgasm consumed her body. When it was done, she released the blanket and turned her head. He wasn't there. Her breath caught, even as her body twitched from the physical pleasure she’d just experienced. Turning in the other direction, she curled into a ball and closed her eyes. She kept them closed as she recalled the end of their final fight. It had happened on the phone, last week, two days before Valentine’s Day. She had known it was over, even though the idea of living without him seemed surreal to her. He’d finally said what she needed to hear to push her over, strike the depth of her self-preservation instinct enough that she made the final move. The conversation wasn’t finished, but quietly, completely, she had ended it then: "All right Brandon. I'll let you go." Each word had come out as if it were its own entity, slipping by the protective lump in her throat that desperately tried to keep the words contained. She knew he understood what she meant. Banishing the memory, she got up and wandered around the apartment, naked, lifting her hair off the back of her neck as she entered the dining room. Her eyes fell on the roses in the center of the table. She dropped her hair and went to them. Despite everything, he had sent her roses on Valentine’s Day, knowing it was her favorite holiday. She knew it was not an invitation, not a peace offering, not even an apology. It was simply a gesture, one that embodied the unique percipience that made him the man he was. She carried the roses, vase and all, to her bed, and resumed the curled-up position on her side. Holding the vase against her body, she inhaled slowly, dropping her head to the pillow as the scent of the red velvet petals enveloped her. The stark coolness of the vase against her skin made her nipples harden almost immediately. Though she held it carefully, the vase tipped as she cradled it; a threadlike stream of water slipped over its edge and landed on her breast. Not moving, she watched it roll slowly down to the very tip of her nipple. There, the droplet hovered, as if unsure what to do. After wavering for several seconds, it let go, falling to the bed and instantaneously disappearing from sight. Moving her hand across the smooth glass of the vase, she slowly turned onto her back, her breathing growing deeper as she thought, despite herself, about the way he used to take her after he finished watching her get off. Holding the vase absently on her stomach, she slid one hand down her body again and pictured the way he would push between her spread legs and press down on top of her, kissing her until she couldn’t breathe. Water splashed gently out of the vase onto her belly as she began writhing beneath her own stroking fingers again, remembering how he pounded her, his hard cock ramming into her while she grabbed his shoulders and screamed in ecstasy against his neck. Clumsily she reached over to set the roses on the nightstand. Her hand dripped water and she brought it back to her body and squeezed each breast, reaching down to flick her tongue over a nipple as she pushed two fingers into herself, moaning softly and biting her lip with pleasure. Soon she arched her back and bucked against her hand, soaking wet from her pussy, while the other hand, soaking wet from the roses’ water, slid down over her stomach and up across her nipples. She cried out, pleasure overtaking everything as her body shook beneath her own touch. Instinctively she reached out, eyes closed. She felt only the soft blanket beneath her fingers. She slowly brought her hand back to her body and lay still as her breathing evened.