Categories
Fiction

Chair Pose

He kicks my legs apart, positioning my ankles at the binding sites of the spreader bar. I talk about my previous Dom as he straps me in the cuffs. 

“Old, childless bachelor, sitting on all that money, and still he insisted on sending me this cheap crap. The clips on the cuffs are already broken, see?”

“I see it,” he answers as he ties the bar to the chair’s back legs. 

With my ankles locked in place, he sets about tying the bar to the chair legs before drawing the rope between the legs and under to bind my wrists at the far edge of the seat. 

I go on with my complaining, slipping into memory. “He told me to set up wish lists for any kinky toys I wanted. I only picked out things on Etsy, but he ignored it all and sent me whatever Amazon garbage he wanted me to use. Then he made me perform with it on cam for him. I did as he ordered, but it never felt right.”

Mister clucks his tongue as he listens, my voice a little muffled now with my head flipped upside down, my face pinned between the chair back and my upstretched arm. He doesn’t share the disdain that I hold for the first Dominant to train me— I think he feels bad for the guy, imagining himself in the place of the resented ex. “Pity for him he never figured you out.”

“His loss, right, Mister? I’m not that difficult, am I? You understand me. You know how to work me.”

“Figuring you out,” he answers, tugging at the knots around each wrist to check for tightness, “is no mean feat.”

He steps back, surveying his work. If I tip my neck as far as it will reach and dig my chin into my shoulder I can see him, holding his jaw as he appraises my form, bound and spread and ready to be used however he desires. Exploring the limits of my range of motion in this pose, I arch an invitation through my back. He steps up behind me, too close now for me to see. I drop my head and study the hem of his boxers around the edge of the chair back. 

His touch lands abruptly, storming the most delicate part of me. 

“Wait! I’m not wet yet!”

“You are,” he says, squelching a finger against the pucker of my opening to make his point. “Hear it?” 

I do. It’s loud, a pot of mac n’ cheese just at the thickening point. He swipes the wet fingertip across my thigh to drive the point home. 

“That’s you.” 

“But it doesn’t feel wet, Mister…” I whine. “I’m not ready yet, I need…”

He cuts across me, teasing, pretending to be stern. “What makes you think anybody plans to use your pussy now?”

He steps away from me again and, this time, I close my eyes, not wanting to see. What will come will come, and when it does I will take it, whatever it is. 

“Besides,” he continues, his voice reaching me from the corner of the room where his play-equipment bag lies open on the floor, “we know how to get you wetter, don’t we?”

We do. He speaks of fear, of pain. These peculiar limbic stimuli that drench me for reasons that I still don’t understand. 

“Don’t we, Bunny?” he asks again, this time in a growl. Before I can answer, one rough finger shoves inside me to the hilt. My whole body starts at the shock of it, and I cry out. That was not supposed to feel good. Forceful opening: a punishment for my failure to answer the first time.

“We do, Sir.” 

With a slurp, he pulls the finger out, wiping it this time across my lower back. 

“Now then,” he says, and the next moment I feel his breath on my cheek as he bends to press his face to mine. “What’s your safeword?”

I gulp, but do not hesitate to answer. “May Day.”

“That’s right,” he says, pulling away, and all I hear after is the rush of the cane as it slices, ruthless, through the air.


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Categories
Poetry

What Good Luck

CONTENT WARNING: Sexually explicit content. BDSM and bondage, may be unsuitable to some readers. 18+ only.

He leans, resting his forehead 
into mine. He is unable 
to slap me; force abandons 
his hand until he’s cradling 
my face in one palm. 
His calculating look 
softens into feeling
and his words 
grow simple– 
“You’re a good girl,” and 
“I’m lucky.”


I drop under. 
In the third hotel 
I hit a threshold dose. 
It isn’t sex 
that does it, not exactly, 
but once I cum for him, 
hog-tied with his cock 
soft in my mouth 
he lifts my chin, 
he takes my gaze, 
he asks me what 
just happened. He tells me, 
in an instant, I have changed. 

Thank you to Wayne Crest for the photo and the inspiration. ❤️ 

Categories
Fiction

The Walk to Water (Part 1)

CONTENT WARNING: Sexually explicit, 18+. All characters are consenting adults.

Arley is outside waiting when XianSheng pulls up for her. 

She has dressed carefully, the day’s activities and XianSheng’s tastes on her mind. Her shorts are shorter than will be comfortable once the day heats up and the sweat of climbing makes thighs grab at each other. It’s a sacrifice she makes not just willingly, but gladly. The continual rub, rub, rub of flesh on flesh, spanning the hours of the climb, will introduce an element of pain beyond the soreness of muscle, closer to her center than the blister that may form at the back of an ankle.

She’d go for a tee-shirt for any other day out on the trail, but she’d rather not test XianSheng’s benevolence. He’s already allowing her to wear flat shoes– a first, but non-negotiable today. They have plans for today that they don’t want to miss out on, sitting in the ER waiting on care for an ankle sprain. Hiking boots, he’d agreed, were a necessity. “But you’ll make up for it elsewhere, won’t you, little girl?” he’d asked, more of a warning than a question, and she’d agreed without hesitation. 

So there she stands, the sun already growing hot at its low angle, in shorts that more resemble a pair of denim panties and a lace-trimmed camisole, her freckled shoulders and the tops of her tits coated in two layers of sunblock. Waiting, with her ID crammed into her tiny back pocket and two full canteens of water, one in each hand. 

He pulls up and she slides in, the fabric seats, the dusty buildup in the center console familiar. He drives a Toyota even though he could afford something flashier. But XianSheng is not given to flash. He moves unassuming, and for good reason. There is a wife back home, a woman he loves too much to expose her to the darkest ruminations of his need. There are two children who are no longer children, but are nevertheless at home and will expect their father around six o’clock for dinner. In all his years of creeping at the corners of the nearby city, of adding a day onto the back end of every business trip, he has never let them down. 

Arley slides a hand over XianSheng’s knee as she leans over for a kiss.

“Good morning,” she murmurs into his neck in a voice still full of sleepy gravel. “Thanks for coming to get me.” She settles back into her seat as he shifts into gear and pulls off from the curb. He’s quiet today, she notices, returning her greetings with a stiffness that she’s never felt from him before. Their dates usually begin with him pulling her against him the moment the hotel room door closes behind her, his kisses hungry, his cock already standing firm to greet her. Maybe it’s the absence of those walls that normally contain them. It’s been a year, true, but this is their first time venturing together out into the open world. She looks over at his lap and confirms that, no, he isn’t hard. Today is going to be different, in more ways than one. 

The man has a name, surely. But the fake name that he gave her was gaudy and Western, a poor fit. She couldn’t call him “Hugh” and keep her face straight. Instead, she’s used the honorific since before they spoke out loud to one another, the deference of it ushering them both into the first toe-dips of what would grow into a clear dynamic, a power exchange. It was perfect, crystal clear over text, but in person she pronounces it so poorly that half the time it translates to “rope” or “braided cord”. Not inappropriate, considering. If her butchering the Mandarin bothers him he shows no sign, indulging her with a smile as he corrects her, explaining again that he is not the rope and would she please present her wrists so that he may remind her of the difference?

Arley knows the man beside her in ways that are invisible to everyone else who knows him, his desires a dance that she rehearses, countless images of his secrets tucked away in her PC. But in this one way, she is even more of a stranger to him than are his lab mates, his overseas collaborators, fellow members of his HOA. Arley will never know his name. 

She doesn’t mind it, the contortions of their strange intimacy. She knows him as he is to her. Her master. Her teacher. Her XianSheng, and that’s enough. 

The pair roll through the last of the narrow one-ways of her Bella Vista neighborhood, having exchanged little more than the perfunctory greetings. He runs a redlight, his hands spasming on the wheel as he realizes his mistake. She castigates herself silently and quickly as a voice from her childhood slips into her head, brothers and their teenage friends with stupid jokes about Asian men and driving. She shakes her head a little to clear the thought, and he looks over. 

“How many bottles so far?” he asks.

She blinks, plunging suddenly back into the jitters of the morning’s preparations. His question cues her attention towards the lower of her belly, the seatbelt pressing against the little bulge beginning to swell above her hips. 

“Two,” she answers, turning to look into his face and meeting his resolute ear instead. 

What hovers between them today that causes her to feel awkward? They have been seeing one another nearly a year, sporadic dates interspersed with heavy bouts of late night texting. They have spent full days together while he is ostensibly at work but is actually in a day-use hotel room two towns over, and they have never run out of conversation. She listens about the parents who are dead and the sisters left behind, the inner workings of mechanical parts he has designed, the taciturn son who was twelve when he took apart the family computer, and he listens to her feminist screeds in between telling her that she’s a pretty little slut, and will be good for her XianSheng, won’t she? 

But today the thirty-minute drive looms ahead of them, and Arley begins to feel sweat sliding between her thighs that has nothing to do with the warm morning. She wants today to be perfect. Like a fantasy, not some stilted litany of forbidden acts. She is suddenly desperate for something to fill her mouth besides talk, so she reaches over and unzips him. Both his hands remain on the wheel as she works hers through his fly and under the waistband of the cotton shorts below, freeing his soft cock for her mouth to take as she bends over him. 

He is utterly silent, eyes committed to the road ahead as he merges on I-95 and accelerates to exactly five miles per hour above the speed limit. His is not the silence of a held-back moan. He is concentrating on the drive, hardening slowly in her mouth, unyielding to the distraction of her working him with her cheeks and tongue. XianSheng is a careful man (his mind forever running through potentialities and how he might explain them to his wife), and road head might not be his thing, but he does not stop her. The submission of the act, at least, must satisfy him, her quiet, determined ministrations to his pleasure. He allows one hand to leave the wheel and brings it to the back of her neck, where he twists gently at the fine strands of strawberry-blonde.

To be continued…

Check back for more of Arley and Xiansheng’s illicit adventure in the days to come! 😘

Categories
Fiction

The Walk to Water (teaser)

Arley is outside waiting when Xiansheng pulls up for her. 

She has dressed carefully, the day’s activities and Xiansheng’s tastes on her mind. Her shorts are shorter than will be comfortable once the day heats up and the sweat of climbing makes thighs grab at each other. It’s a sacrifice she makes not just willingly, but gladly. The continual rub, rub, rub of flesh on flesh, spanning the hours of the climb, will introduce an element of pain beyond the soreness of muscle, closer to her center than the blister that may form at the back of an ankle.

She’d go for a tee-shirt for any other day out on the trail, but she’d rather not test Xiansheng’s benevolence. He’s already allowing her to wear flat shoes– a first, but non-negotiable today. They have plans for today that they don’t want to miss out on, sitting in the ER waiting on care for an ankle sprain. Hiking boots, he’d agreed, were a necessity. “But you’ll make up for it elsewhere, won’t you, little girl?” he’d asked, more of a warning than a question, and she’d agreed without hesitation. 

So there she stands, the sun already growing hot at its low angle, in shorts that more resemble a pair of denim panties and a lace-trimmed camisole, her freckled shoulders and the tops of her tits coated in two layers of sunblock.

To be continued…