Read Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica Online

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

Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica (22 page)

BOOK: Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica
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While catching yourself in a whimper, you slowly said from your position against the bricks, “I want you to fuck me, Daddy.”
And how does a punk boy like you think that he deserves my cock inside him? I pressed my panties-clad hard-on against your asshole, and your boy back shuddered once. “Please, Daddy,” you said clearly into the cold air.
I turned you around and pressed my hand on your cock, exposed and slick with excitement. I slid my small fingers along the length of it, looking up into your lusty eyes, and said, “Good boy.” I pulled back into myself, patted my hair, and picked up my bag, swaggering down the long alleyway.
You stayed there as instructed, awaiting my next move.
STRONG
 
Xan West
 
 
 
 
 
 
for A., who said it deserved its own tale
 
F
or both of us, gender is both complex identity and elaborate sex toy. But not just that. It is not easy to grow up breaking the gender rules, to live lives visibly nonconforming. Gender is a dangerous and delicious edge in which we play, knowing that we may inadvertently step on the minefields of our gendered histories and present struggles. Part of the thrill is that danger. We push gender to its own edges, play its sharpness against our throats, fear in our mouths, ache in our guts, building armor against becoming what we fear.
Gender is the core. It drives our relationship. As a transgender butch, playing with gender is an edgy and necessary thing. For my genderqueer submissive, whose gender ebbs and flows in life and in play, the conscious choice to play with gender confirms self, breaks boundaries, allows catharsis. My submissive is both my girl and my boy. Tonight she was going to be one and then the other.
When she is my girl, I always start by fucking her throat. It is the most personal hole, and I claim her there first, make sure she knows she is helpless to stop me. Her job is to open to me, give to me, feed me with her eyes. I begin by placing the cuffs on her wrists, locking them together, and forcing her to her knees. My hands grip her hair, and I force her mouth onto my cock. This is how we start, every time.
Beginning this way every time gives us both a way to go deeper into ourselves, to sink into what we are doing, find ground for the genders we are playing in. My cock in her throat honors how she wants to do girlness, how much we both want her to be open and vulnerable and raw. Her eyes looking up at me and her mouth wrapped around my dick reflect back the masculinity I want to do with her, how much we want me to be cruel and invasive and dominant. I need to see that she wants this, all the way through, and she knows how much I run on adrenaline when we play this way, how it reaches into my core and twists.
I need to start fast, and hard, almost dare myself into it, because this scares the shit out of me, and that’s the only way to get over the mountain of fear that builds in me as I know we are going there. The more fear there is, the rougher and faster I need it. I was especially rough that night, ignoring the gagging, groaning as I forced tears from her eyes.
“That’s right, choke on my cock,” I said gruffly.
There was rushing in my ears as I watched her choke, tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyes locked on mine, soft, reassuring. I rammed myself into her, cracking her open, thrusting my way inside. I got taller as I fucked her face, wrenching her hair, relentless. I could tell when she started to float, weightless, rapt. I pulled out of her mouth, looking coldly down at her as she took ragged, sobbing breaths and offered herself to me.
I lifted her up from her knees, unlocked her cuffs, and seated her in the bondage chair, clipping the cuffs to it and attaching her ankles. I put her in this chair when she’s a girl. It reminds her to keep her legs spread for me.
It’s a rule of mine. When she’s my girl, she is required to keep her thighs apart. They never touch in my presence. It makes her constantly aware of her body, the position she’s in. She is always conscious of her cunt. I want it to feel exposed, even behind layers of clothing. Exposed just by her own awareness. With this one simple rule, I claim ownership of her body, her cunt, her focus. From across the room I am inside her, spreading her thighs, exposing her cunt, deep inside her head.
The chair is an intensification of the rule. More than that, it takes a private thing and makes it public. I always choose to put her in the chair that faces the crowd, the chair that is the most public. I display her body, spread her thighs for all to see.
It was crowded that night. By the time I had her bound to the chair, there was a circle of voyeurs behind us, devouring her exposure. Dozens of eyes were on her skin. She was trembling. I wanted to intensify the exposure, use their gaze to push her further, ride the wave of that. I pulled out my knife and slid it along her cheek, her throat. I began to cut off her clothes. The knife bared her flesh to the room, ripping through fabric, revealing her as she struggled to remain utterly still, biting her lip, eyes closed. I teased the knife along her thighs, taking advantage of her closed eyes to pull something out of my bag and get it ready. The knife edged its way closer to her cunt. I spread her to it, teasing it against her, and then rammed my baton into her cunt in one stroke, pulling the knife away. She trembled openly, stuffed full, her eyes begging.
“Come for me,” I said, pulling her hair.
She did, her body contracting, trying to push the baton out even as I held it there, forcing her to take it. Her eyes were wide and dark. I released her hair and removed the baton, wanting her to be aware she was empty and aching. More than anything, when she is my girl, she needs to be exposed and penetrated, made aware of her cunt and the eyes of others.
“The whole room just saw you come, girl. They know your cunt is dripping, aching to be stuffed full. Their eyes are on you, watching. You can’t hide now, girl. We can see you. You are naked to us.”
She is so strong. I can’t imagine seeking this level of exposure, this level of vulnerability. She awes me.
I pulled out my clover clamps and attached them to her nipples. She hissed when I put them on. I let the chain fall and tugged on it, watching her squirm for me. I wanted her aware of her skin, feeling me penetrate it with pinches and bites. I leaned in to bite her shoulder, tugging the chain, and felt her writhe, her pulse beating under my tongue, my teeth grinding into her.
I lifted my head and placed the chain between her teeth. She would feel a steady, relentless pull on her nipples and have something to bite down on. She was going to need it.
I pulled out my favorite cane. It is rattan, thin and whippy. Her thighs were exposed perfectly for it. This was no slow, even buildup. It was about opening her up, ripping her open, and that was clear from the start. I drove the cane into her, relishing the sounds it forced from her, slicing into her thighs. The more I drove it into her flesh, the larger I grew. This was more than just dominance. When I take my masculinity and rub it against her girlness, I feel gigantic, and she is so fragile in comparison. This is one of the lines we ride with this kind of play, and one of the many risks inherent in it is that it might actually reduce her in her own eyes, or in mine. That I, or she, might actually be unable to see how strong she is. Part of the intensity comes with the risk. At that moment I stepped outside myself just a bit to check in with myself, read her a bit closer, before sinking back into it.
I began to breathe with her, building, ramping up the pain, barely pausing between strokes. I rained fire onto her, purple welts forming. Her eyes were closed tight, her teeth gripping the chain, her face contorted in pain, and she finally began to try to get away. Of course she couldn’t. That was the point. She was trapped, her legs spread wide, attached to the chair by ankles and wrists, her cunt exposed to all, and those naked vulnerable sensitive thighs sliced into, relentlessly, no matter what she did. She began to shake her head, not caring about the pain it caused in her nipples. But she did not say her safeword, did not do the one thing in her power that might free her. Then it happened. The invasive pain spilled through her and out her eyes, tears streaming down her face.
“That’s right, cry for me. It will only make me want to beat you and fuck you harder, girl.”
I struck harder, repeatedly, watching it sink in. That she was helpless, exposed, vulnerable. That I would take it all from her. That she was free to move all the way through it and out the other side. It took me a long time to get her to a place where she was willing to cry. Before me, she had not met a top who didn’t stop the second the tears started flowing. She still didn’t quite trust it, needed me to show her, again and again, that I would keep going, that she could be that strong, give that much, let me see her tears.
The pain moved through her in waves, pouring out her eyes, and I could see the joy spread over her face. She was beautiful in that moment, and I savored it, pouring pain into her and watching it flow through her, riding that. It was time. I set down the cane and took my cock out of my jeans, pulling on a condom. I slid in slowly, luxuriating in every inch of penetration, watching her eyes. I leaned in and licked the tears from her cheeks as I felt her let go. I began to fuck her, my hips ramming into her sore thighs, making her scream as the chain fell from her mouth.
I growled, “Mine,” in her ear as I slammed into her, feeling her body begin to shake as the sensations overwhelmed her. I removed a clamp, ordering her to come for me. She began to sob as she came, my cock driving into her, pain racking her body, her senses on overload. It felt like perfection to claim her.
“Mine,” I snarled as I removed the other clamp, watching her body move, struggling against her bonds, tears streaming down her face. I leaned in and bit her as I fucked her, pounding into her with my cock, driving into her with my teeth, opening her up for my pleasure. I growled into her skin as I bit, my hips slamming into her rapidly, my hands fisted in her hair.
She was sobbing loudly, and it felt so damn good to hear it, the sound reaching right down and stroking my cock in a long velvet caress. I lifted my head and grabbed her eyes with mine.
“You are mine. My girl. Come for me, loud.”
She began to shudder and moan, her cunt contracting so hard on my cock, tears pouring out of her eyes.
“My girl,” I growled as I came, my hands gripping her hair as I spurted inside her cunt. I closed my eyes and held her, just held her for a long time, savoring the feel of being inside her to the hilt. I carefully pulled out and discarded the condom, cleaned her off gently, and gave her some water. I got her down from the chair and brought her over to the couch, seating her at my feet and stroking her hair.
She laid her head on my thigh, holding on tightly to my boot, and trembled for a good long time. Then she was quiet and still, her hands on my boot slowly easing. She lifted her head to look up at me.
“Sir?” she said.
“Yes?”
“May I please clean up the space and go change?”
“You may,” I said, smiling, stroking her cheek, and then watching her as she cleaned the chair and then walked away. She once told me, “Being a girl is like being without armor. Sometimes like being without skin, even. Your power is in your vulnerability and openness. Most of the time, girl is not a safe thing to be. That’s why I treasure being your girl, it’s a safe place to touch that danger and roll around with it. But sometimes, when I’m putting myself together after you rip me open and poke my soft spots, what I really need is armor. That’s one of the best times to be your boy.” That’s what we had planned tonight. He asked specifically for that, said he wanted to walk out tough and strong and wearing his armor.
He moved differently when he was my boy. His center of gravity was lower, and he swaggered. He strutted over to me that night, grinning, stopping to stand crisply before me, hands locked on wrists behind him. I eyed him slowly. He was looking sharp in BDUs, tight enough to show the dick he was packing, black ribbed undershirts three layers deep, and shiny black Corcs, his hair slicked back. I love a boy in an A-line shirt.
“Grab my bag, boy,” I said, and stalked off to claim a semiprivate space. I found a perfect corner, where the light was dim and there was no equipment. When he’s my boy, I want him standing. He’s tough. He can hold himself up. I pulled on my leather gloves and backed him into the wall.
“That’s it, boy. Just you and me and a wall. Show me how strong you are, boy.”
I started steady, pounding him with my fists, going after his muscles. We breathed together, slow and easy. Ramming into his pecs, his biceps. Going after his quads. Rhythmic, even pounding setting the stage. This was about strength, endurance. Mine, and his.
“Show me what you can take, boy. What you’re made of.”
I slammed him into the wall with my bulk, reminded him that I have a hundred pounds on him. He stuck out his chin, just a bit. I slammed into him again, propelling my weight into him. Again, taking his breath with my girth. Again. His eyes started to get glossy. I stepped back and began to kick. I drove my boots into his thigh muscles, delighting in the sound of him grunting with each blow. I used my knee to strike his thigh, watching his eyes get darker.
BOOK: Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica
5.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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