Flash Fiction Friday 1-13-12: "Reflected Desire"

(Image provided by David; artist, Helmut Newton, title unknown)

There were no restraints, no checks on her motion. Just the sure and certain knowledge that if she moved so much as an inch, he'd be gone like smoke. “Be still” he'd said, and he meant it.

With nowhere to turn, she gazed at her reflected form. Her arms ached. Her legs burned from the strain of holding herself so erect. The heels were killing her...but damn if they didn't sculpt the hell out of her calves. Her skin gleamed, pale and pearlescent. Her frame was spare and taut, muscles drawn in sharp relief. Her breasts stood tall and proud, nipples pointy, hard with excitement. She felt her breath quicken as she realized that she was maddeningly desirable. Her mouth watered, and she felt herself getting wetter by the second.

And she realized: This. This is what he was waiting for.

In a cracked and failing voice, she breathed, “Take me now...please?”

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 85-188 words. Additionally, I provided a key phrase I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...cracked and failing..."

Nobody's checking word counts, or for the key phrase, but you're only cheating yourself if you break the rules. Unless you're doing it to earn a spanking (in which case, see me after class).

Special Bonus Director's Commentary Track:

I hope everyone enjoyed their holiday break. My own was a mix of business and pleasure, with more of the latter than the former, fortunately.

This little vignette was almost effortless for me, with my fingers racing on the keyboard to catch the words before they escaped. It makes me happy when it's that simple. Then again, a picture like this truly is worth a thousand words. To me, she looks a bit strained from holding that position, but I think there's also a fair amount of excitement and anticipation. Let's see if any of you think the same! 

If you are playing along this week, please leave your link below using the widget. It will appear in the text of the post itself, not in the comments, so everyone that's playing will be listed here. This frees me from having to chase people down to find out if they're playing or update the Friday post several times for late entries. Your cooperation is appreciated.

In any case, the participants list is below. Go check them out, and thanks to all who played along.



Check back here on Monday for the next challenge! And if you have any photos or artwork you'd like to see in a future challenge, please send them my way. Thanks to David for providing this week's photo.

-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday 3-4-11: "A Learning Experience"

(Image source: "Schlampenfieber" by Ben Marcato; all websites I have found for Ben are currently down)

“Please, Mistress,” he begged. “I can't.......breathe.......”

“Shut up!” she snarled. Her thighs were burning, straining to hold this ridiculous position. He was paying her for this?

She slapped his face, realizing simultaneously that she was starting to slip. She lost her balance and slid forward. There was a sharp crack and suddenly his head dangled loosely, lifeless.

Shit. Apparently being a domme really wasn't for her.

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 40-70 words. Additionally, I provided a key phrase I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...a sharp crack..."

Nobody's checking word counts, or for the key phrase, but you're only cheating yourself if you break the rules. Unless you're doing it to earn a spanking (in which case, see me after class).

Special Bonus Director's Commentary Track: 

Surprise! There's more to being a domme than one would guess, I imagine. Never having been into the whole pain vs. pleasure thing, I can nevertheless appreciate that you've got someone else's body in your care, and possibly their life as well if you're playing around with binding or erotic asphyxiation or anything else that presents real danger. I have no doubt that there are plenty of doms (and dommes) out there that know what they're doing, and take plenty of care with their victims. But what would happen, I wondered, if a housewife was trying to indulge her fantasies and discovered that she wasn't very good at it?

Naturally, from there it was just a quick jump from "she's not very good at this and she's not enjoying it" to "she screws up big-time and the guy pays the price". I don't know, maybe I've got a pessimistic outlook on life. Okay, I tell a lie, I already know I do.

Next week's offering will be more cheerful, I promise. At least the photo will be more bright and sunny. Flying Spaghetti Monster only knows where I might go with even a bright and sunny photo these days....

Please note that this week, as for the past few weeks, I am trying something different with the participants list. If you are playing along this week, please leave your link below. It will appear in the text of the post itself, not in the comments, so everyone that's playing will be listed here. This frees me from having to chase people down to find out if they're playing or update the Friday post several times for late entries. We'll see how this works out.

In any case, the participants list is below. Go check them out, and thanks to all who played along.



Check back here on Monday for the next challenge! And if you have any photos or artwork you'd like to see in a future challenge, please send them my way. 

-- PB

You Infuriate Me

You infuriate me. You really do.

It's unfair -- criminal, almost -- that any one woman should have a body like that. Legs that go approximately up to your chin, hips that swing like they're on ball bearings, an ass that strains the fabric of your tight jeans, breasts so perfect in their marveled rondure that poets write epics about them. Full lips, sparkling mischievous eyes, a pert nose, windblown tousled hair that begs me to wind my fingers through it. And, damn it all, you know it well, and take full advantage of it. You snap your fingers and I dance. You whistle and I come when you call, panting like a dog. Your merest touch commands obedience, even though I hate myself with every fiber of my being for being so weak.

I rage. I rage against the icy eyes that hold me captive, the slight, slight smile that makes my knees go wobbly and my brain turn to tapioca, the low sultry voice that gets me hard by reading the telephone book. I rage against the failings in my character that let you control me so easily, against my damnable lack of anything resembling willpower. I rage against my distinct lack of experience, the product of too many years spent in solitude, the fact that your amazing femininity in and of itself gives you the puppet strings you need to make me jerk and dance about in spastic twitches.

You infuriate me. Running a finger along my lips, feeling me tremble under your touch. Running your hands along my back and neck softly, fingers caressing, stroking my hair. I shiver and gulp under your touch, knowing the whole while that it's the touch of a mistress caressing her dog, helpless to resist, not even knowing if I want to when even that slight touch sends such sparks, flaming desire dancing along every nerve ending.

How many times? How many times have you tormented and teased me? How many times have I gone home with balls aching, rod straining my jeans, hoping desperately that I could get home before spilling my desire? How many times have I failed miserably, gone off hair-trigger, under your slight caresses, wet spot forming in my jeans as I buck and snap like a shrimp on a dock, my essence spraying not into your warmth, but into the cotton prison of my underwear? How many times have you looked at me with amusement dancing in those eyes, stroking the ridge in my jeans till I forgot myself and reached for you, to be met with a stinging slap that crossed my eyes and rang carillon bells in my head?

Upon my oath, I'm not a violent man. But I tire of being your pet. One day the tables will turn. One day I will see fear in those eyes. Will see you back against the wall as I advance, rage burning low in me, burning, burning, till it's a tossup which is more intense -- the dull heat at my groin or the rage flaming at my core.

There will be violence then, yes -- but not hands-and-fists violence. Only the violence of rent clothing, of being slammed against the wall hard enough to bruise your back, of my mouth on yours, stubble rasping, scratching your tender skin. The violence of buttons flying, pinging off the lampshade nearby, of my hands plundering your breasts, squeezing and mauling them till you cry out with pain and humiliation. The violence of ripped panties, of jeans around your ankles, of being bent over the couch, ass raised, legs thrust rudely apart. Of a hand between your legs, feeling the awakened heat, a chuckle torn from my throat gone raw with suppressed lust.

Because this is what you wanted, isn't it? You'd played me like a master violinist, tightened my strings till I nearly snapped from the pressure -- but "nearly" being the key word. Had raised my passions and ignited my rages till I gave you what you needed -- a dominating, hard fury that finally tore away any semblance of control and propriety in your too-tight life and let you surrender to its dark wash. You wanted this more than anything else -- wanted to be taken, possessed, used roughly and brutally till there was nothing left in your world but pure, raw sensation.

And I'll take it, too. Driving hard and fast, taking what's been mine all along, had I but known it. Plunging deep, plunging hard, angry steel merging with your liquid center. Screams of anticipation, of rage, of fear and shame and delight. Of ecstasy. Invading you, battering, leaving marks on your flesh, scarring and searing your soul with rippling flames, binding you to me now and forevermore.

Fire cleanses, fire destroys. But only in the fires of a forge is the strongest steel made. Links that can never be broken.

-- PB

Group Post: "Make Me"

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Flash Fiction Friday 4-2-10: "Six Short Words"

She fought, biting and clawing, then finally using every ounce of strength to resist that inexorable pull. Tendons stretched and muscles strained as her head was forced closer and closer to his lap. From her: soft effortful grunts, short whimpers. From him: mostly dead silence.

“Open your mouth, goddammit,” he hissed, wrenching her up and towards him again. “It's not going to bite you.”

“But what if I bite it?” she snarled, twisting, turning.

The pull stopped, his arm went rigid. His cock, however, did just the opposite. She smiled grimly.

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above (supplied this week by Diable Incarne -- thanks, DI!) and write a flash fiction of 88 to 94 words. Nobody's checking word counts, but you're only cheating yourself if you break the rules. Unless you're doing it to earn a spanking (in which case, see me after class).

The following people are participating this week. Why not go check out their take on this FFF?

Luna Mauvaise:  http://lunamauvaise.blogspot.com/
Curvaceous Dee:  http://curvaceousdee.com/
Spring Flower:  http://agirlsgottahaveoptions.blogspot.com/
Nilla:  http://vanillamom.wordpress.com/
Lila:  http://que-sinverguenza.blogspot.com/   (everybody please stop by and welcome Lila to FFF, this is her first time joining us!)
Katia:  http://katiaswritings.blogspot.com/ 
Diable Incarne:  http://conningdevil.blogspot.com/
Snow:  http://snow9.wordpress.com/

Check back here on Monday for the next challenge! 

-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday #20: "Assume the Position"

“And now, a very special lot,” the auctioneer announced. “For your consideration, Mastery Acquisitions is proud to present this very lovely young lady” – he gestured to the block – “in service as slave and slut.”

His voice dropped to a low, oily smoothness, dark and inviting. “Is she not exquisite? Surely, my lords, you have never seen a body like this.” He ran his hand up the inside of her legs. “Note the alabaster whiteness of her skin, the taut play of her muscles, the curves of her form. Oh, truly she is a fine creation.”

He patted her ass and left his hand there as he stepped to the rear of the block. “Now. Who'll start the bidding at one hundred thousand?”


(With Spanky still on hiatus, Flash Fiction Friday is leaderless. Nilla provided the pic this week and Luna put out the challenge -- well, Nilla provided challenge details originally too, but the post has now disappeared. I seem to recall something about 100 to 250 words length, so that's what I provided; if you want to play too, go see Luna.)

-- PB

Late Arrival: An Airport Encounter

(A note to anyone stopping by via e[Lust] -- welcome! I hope you like what you see here. Drop in anytime.  -- PB)

Most airports are chaotic, disorganized masses of humanity even at the best times. During holiday seasons, however, they become something to stagger the imagination. It's normally my policy to spend lots of time people-watching when I'm stuck at an airport for one reason or another, but I was far too distracted for that this time. Part of it was the unfamiliarity aspect, as I pushed my way through crowds of folk on the slideway taking me closer and closer to my destination; strange airports are interesting places, but not good if your nerves are already strung to the breaking point.

As they were now. God knew, I'd spent enough time emailing her, flirting with her, leaving risque comments on her journal and chatting with her into the wee hours. I figured we knew each other pretty well after the details and photos we'd shared, and the filthy things we'd told each other we'd commit upon the other's person. But to fly halfway across the country just for a meeting like this....was I out of my fucking mind?

Then my eyes lit on her, waiting at the point where we deplaning passengers get disgorged into the flow of outside humanity, and my doubts dissolved, swept away in a tide of lust. Obedient to my brazen demands, she'd dressed in thigh-high boots, a black miniskirt, and a green sweater-top. Impish delight danced in her eyes, glinting from behind her glasses....and oh, yes....she'd worn the collar. Its black leather was a stark contrast to the chrome rings spaced here and there around it. Perfect for snapping something onto.

Perfect, yes. I reached into my travel bag as I drew closer to her and pulled out a silver chain leash. Our gaze locked for a second -- I swear sparks flew -- and then her eyes slid away, to the chain I was holding up. She stiffened and then relaxed again, so quickly I could only wonder if I'd really seen that glimpse of fear. And then she shivered all over and slowly, deliberately, closed her eyes.

I waited, but they remained closed. I stepped closer, close enough to take in her scent -- a heady mix, the leather of the collar, a hint of jasmine, and a stranger scent that I identified, much later, as old, dusty paper -- and placed a hand on her shoulder experimentally. She shivered again but held still. Her lips parted and I heard a faint whisper: "Yes."

That one simple word broke a dam somewhere inside me. The dark raging current that poured through swept all rational thought away. It didn't matter anymore that this was my first time meeting her. It didn't matter that we were starting to draw strange looks from passersby. It didn't even matter that we were in the midst of a crowded airport with no privacy to be found anywhere. All that mattered was that she wanted this as much as I did, and that she belonged to me utterly.

No time like the present to claim the prize. I grasped her by the throat, lifting her chin, and snapped the leash onto one of the trailing rings from her collar. Her eyes flew open at the nearly-inaudible "clink"; there was something dark and wild dancing in their depths. I released her throat and she sighed softly and nodded....no, bowed. She was bowing her head in an attitude of deference.

Oh, I like this. That dark tide was still sweeping me along. My pulse throbbed. My vision was dimming. My entire body was tingling. My cock was painfully hard in my jeans -- when had that happened? It was all going so fast, so fast. My head whirled. All I knew was one thing...that I had to have her.

Now.

Her head was still bowed, but it jerked up quickly, wild and proud, when I pulled on the leash and began leading her along. She came with me eagerly, pressing close, barely even requiring a tug here and there to indicate my will. I kept sneaking glances at her exquisite body, moving and flexing alongside me; curve of hip, sideswell of breast, globe of rounded ass. I could feel the heat from her, could still smell that scent, could sense the electricity crackling between us. This was all woman.

And all mine. I saw a possible haven ahead: a pilot disappearing into the pilots' lounge. I could think of nowhere else that would offer us even a modicum of privacy. Time to brazen it out. With her still walking obediently alongside, I pushed my way into the lounge. Three pilots looked up, eyebrows raising into the stratosphere as they saw her, collared and chained, at my side -- but then their normal arrogance began to assert itself. "Who are you?" one of them demanded. "This lounge is reserved for pilots only. You'd better...." His voice died away, however, at something in my gaze, and I could see he was uncharacteristically flustered.

Still carried along by that dark river, I jerked my head towards the door. "Out. All of you." Two of them bolted almost at once, hearing something that brooked no argument in my voice. The first hesitated, then left as well, but fired a parting shot as he did so: "I'm calling Security."

Once they were gone, I slammed the door and locked it, dismissing them from my head, sweeping the first stirrings of panic away into a closet and slamming the door. Time enough later to deal with that. She was more important. She was all that mattered. Filling my head, racing through my bloodstream, filling my cock to bursting -- she might be utterly mine, but in a way I was utterly hers as well. Time to do something about that.

"We've little time," I said rapidly. "This would have been better suited for privacy, for a hotel room, but it's too late. It was already too late when I first saw you. So: no dissembling, no equivocations. Are you Mine?"

She nodded once. No hesitation. That dark gaze again, burning, searing.

"Do you want it? Now?" I shook the leash, gently, for emphasis.

Again the nod. "Yes. More than anything."

And the last vestiges of control were swept away. I slammed her against the wall, crushing her mouth with my own. Her hips thudded against my crotch, her hands clutched at my ass, pulling me against her. Her tongue was hot, seeking, twining insistently against mine. I pulled back a bit and felt her hands working at my belt buckle and the snap on my jeans; great minds think alike, I thought, as I yanked her miniskirt up. Oh, bliss; she'd anticipated my wants enough to go commando today, and her bare pussy was only inches away. My fingers explored, pushed deep, no time for niceties; her wetness gushed over my hand. She was dripping.

I wanted her mouth on my shaft, wanted to feel her hands encircling the base and playing with my sack as she took me deep, wanted to feel my balls tighten as I spurted into her eagerly sucking mouth. But both of us were too far gone, maybe had been from that first electric contact, hand on shoulder. My jeans slid down my legs, her fingers grasping my hardness firmly, squeezing, stroking. She hiked up one leg and hooked it around my ass and her other arm went round my neck. "Now," she whispered, those burning eyes still locked with my own.

I drove in hard and deep, groaning with the sheer pleasure of it. Her head came down on my shoulder and she bit deep to stifle a scream. Then she was bucking against me, hips thudding forward to meet my thrusts, arms clenching, fingernails digging into my back, gaze once again locked with mine. Primal delight, primal urges, pure unbridled sexuality; she was dripping with it like her cunt was dripping with her girl gloss. Burned by the flame, but loving it, I thrust harder and harder into her, lifting her further off the ground each time, legs and calves straining with effort, one hand on her thigh helping spread and lift her, the other one sliding up further, still gripping the chain locked to her collar, pressing against it and pinning her in place. A grin rippled across her face and was gone, replaced with that same intense look of -- what? concentration? Lust?

Perhaps "capture" was the word, I thought dimly as I kept slamming into her, her body flexing against mine, rising to meet me. Every time I met her eyes, they captured me. But it wasn't an ownership thing; or at least not in the sense of her owning me; instead they seemed to be saying "Yes. Take me, I'm Yours. I belong to You." If there was any other message hidden there, it was hidden well; all I could see was desire thrumming along every nerve, something pure and clean, a strange contrast to the dirty things we were doing to each other.

Minutes. Short, delicious minutes, but only a few. I felt her pussy clenching around me; a sharp "uh!" was her only sound, but the look in her eyes and the heat of her pussy left me no doubt she'd just cum hard. My balls drew tight; my cock swelled; my breath caught; my hips slammed forward almost of their own volition. Without warning, the fire burst through me everywhere, sweeping over me and pouring out of my cock as I erupted into her, thickly, forcefully, and seemingly endlessly, spurting and spurting as if I was trying to hose down the burning heat at her core with my own burning seed.

But flame only begets more flame. I pulled back and out of her after long seconds, those dark eyes still locked with my own. With trembling hands I pulled my jeans up, and with shaking hands she pulled her miniskirt down. Still we stood there, still staring, neither of us sure what to say.

I was first to break the silence. "Mine," I whispered. And "yes" she whispered back.

"We'd better get out of here," I managed, voice still hoarse with pent-up desire. "Come on." I pulled on the leash and she followed close by my side; we left the lounge at a dead run, as if the hounds of hell were at our heels, and maybe they were. Still, one thing was definite: this visit wasn't anywhere near finished. Oh, no.

There were things we still needed to do. Urgently.

-- PB

Microfantasy Monday: "Role Reversal"

The air was heavy and thick, redolent with citrus and jasmine scents. Candles glowed from corners of the room and Miles Davis drifted from the stereo, trumpet sounds weaving between their entangled bodies. Neither of them was listening.

"Want to try something different tonight?" she inquired, kissing her way down his chest, licking and biting as she went. Her hands were busily massaging his cock, bringing it to pulsating, granite life.

"Sure," he sighed, gasping at a particularly effective stroke on his shaft. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Well..........." she purred softly, "how about a little role reversal?"

"Oh, you want to be on top this time?" he smiled. "Sure, that sounds like fun."

Her hands left off caressing his cock and went under the covers. His eyes widened when he saw what she brought out: a thick, heavily veined strap-on dildo, at least ten inches long, and a bottle of lube.

"That wasn't quite what I had in mind, my dear," she grinned, her voice all velvet and steel. Her eyes twinkled, but there was something dangerous smoldering there as well.

He hadn't thought it was possible, but his cock got even harder at the very thought.

"Oh yes," he heard himself saying from very far away. "That will do just fine....Mistress."



(Microfantasy Monday is the brainchild of Ang, the Sweltering Celt. Go see her if you want to play too!)

-- PB

Blinded and Bound

(A few weeks back I asked what you fine folk would like to see here. Spring Flower requested a story on blindfolds and binding, so without further ado....)


God, I can't believe the cliches, she thought. Heart fluttering like a bird trapped in a cage -- check. Blood rushing to my face -- check. Trembling like a leaf in the wind -- check. Wetness trickling down my thighs -- definitely check. Why is it this is affecting me so much?

Maybe it has something to do with the shock of it all. I wanted him to surprise me the next time he was feeling frisky, but didn't expect anything like this!

"This" was a dead-eyed, austere husband, who met her at the door after a long day at work. "This" was him ordering her coldly to "get those fucking clothes off, now." "This" was him ripping the shirt off her back and using a knife to cut her panties free when she wasn't fast enough to suit him. "This" was him snapping a dog collar round her neck, pulling her by its chain to the bedroom, and looping the chain through a ringbolt in the wall over the bed.

"This" was him locking two fur-lined handcuffs around her wrists and shackling those to the bed's headboard. "This" was him pulling her legs rudely apart, and more shackles around her ankles; shackles that went to the corner bedposts.

"This" was him standing there, observing her clinically, drinking in her mingled fear and delight -- how far, precisely, would he take things? "This" was him reaching into the bedside drawer and bringing forth a soft velvet cloth, then lifting her head gently, sweetly, but relentlessly. "This" was him wrapping the cloth twice round her head, over eyes and ears, cutting off most sound and all light and vision.

"This" was her breath coming hard and fast. "This" was her tongue, moving nervously over suddenly dry lips. "This" was the slow hot pulse between her legs, the throbbing beat which was already increasing in intensity. "This" was the beads of sweat forming on her shivering skin. "This" was the growing wet spot beneath her as her excitement trickled down the insides of her thighs and soaked the bed below.

"This" was her voice, begging in a cracked and broken tone she'd never heard from herself before. "This" was his own cold tone in response, faded through the muffling cloth, moving around the bed, taunting her as her blinded head whipped back and forth, trying to follow him. "This" was the epithets he was using on her, scoring her psyche as surely as if he were cutting her with a flechette: Slut. Whore. Cunt. Tramp. "This" was the flood of emotion those words brought forth -- the expected rush of guilt and shame, but also a dirty pleasure, a secret pride at being so well and truly Named.

"This" was him trailing his fingers over her trembling body, whisperlight caresses at odds with his harsh words. Playing gentle circles over her belly, her nipples, her breasts. Tangling in her hair for a quick, sharp pull that brought tears to her eyes, then soothing the hurt away with more caresses on her face. "This" was her suckling eagerly at his fingers as they crossed her lips; "this" was him admonishing her "no" with a gentle smack on her cheek; "this" was him leaning in to place soft kisses and licks all over her writhing body.

"This" was him suddenly invading her cunt with his fingers, thrusting hard, rudely, with no finesse. "This" was his thumb dancing gently on her clit, somehow perfectly in tune with the throbbing of her pussy, at odds with the seemingly untutored fingers. "This" was her gasping and shuddering, wracked with pleasure, moaning his name. "This" was her hips bucking upward to meet his plundering hand, traitor body awakened by his ministrations. "This" was his mouth now replacing his thumb, his tongue lashing over her clit relentlessly, driving her hard and fast towards orgasm.

"This" was the disappointment she felt when he halted suddenly, fingers yanked free, mouth and tongue pulling back just short of tipping her over. "This" was the howl of anguish that burst from her till her throat was raw. "This" was him covering her mouth with his own, stubble rasping against her, bruising her with the savagery of his assault. "This" was his body weight coming down hard upon her, denim shirt brushing roughly against her hard nipples, making her moan into his mouth. "This" was him driving upward, forward, into her, stretching and filling her till her eyes rolled and turned helplessly beneath the stifling blindfold.

"This" was a relentless, hard rhythm. "This" was sensation so pure it made her brain burn and her soul sear. "This" was him biting at her nipples, lightly at first, then harder when she whimpered and thrust her tits harder into his mouth. "This" was their bellies smacking hard against each other in a quickening beat. "This" was her silent cry as her cunt clamped around him in clenching approval. "This" was his animalistic grunting as he fucked her harder and harder. "This" was him sitting up, grabbing her thighs tightly enough to leave marks, using them to pull her against him. "This" was her monotonous chant of "yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah" as he plundered her. "This" was her orgasm exploding through her like a bomb, a nova rushing outward from her liquid center all the way to her tingling fingertips and toes. "This" was him pounding into her, longer, faster, harder still. "This" was him pulling back, out of her, then working his cock feverishly, splattering jets of his cum all over her sweaty body: belly, tits, chest, neck, one or two droplets even on her face.

"This" was her breathing hard and heavy when at last he'd finished coating her. "This" was him disappearing for a long minute, then returning with a soft towel. "This" was her whispered "thank you", seemingly unheard as he cleansed her with the towel and caressed her body's curves lovingly.

"This" was a benediction, a coda, as he pulled the blindfold free and unlocked her shackles, but left the collar round her neck. "You're welcome, my love," he murmured against her throat as he lay close, enfolding her in warmth, brushing away the tears that were starting to flow now.

-- PB

Microfantasy Monday: "Etiquette"

(Edited 12-5-09: I've just discovered that this entry was selected for Fleshbot's "best of " sex blog roundup for the week. Thanks, folks! To anyone who's dropping by via that link, welcome! Look around and stay a while. I think you'll find I'm a very pleasant host.) 

The sound of the zipper was a loud purr in the silence. The only other sound was her panting breath as she worked herself into a state of excitement. Soon she'd have him in her mouth....

"No." Curt, impersonal, he cut her off and slapped her hand away. "Not like that."

"B-but......I don't understand," she heard herself whining.

"There are rules about this, you know," he declaimed, in a pedantic tone, knowing it always drove her wild when he lectured. "I'm your teacher, and this sort of thing is explicitly forbidden by the school's charter and rules of conduct, and parTICularly the teacher's code of behavior."

More stillness, broken by her small voice, drops of water in a pond. "........so what do I do, then?"

He grinned wolfishly. "You say, 'Teacher, may I please suck your cock?' "

"TeachermayIpleasesuckyourcock?" It spilled out of her so fast the words ran together, not drops this time but a deluge, a torrent.

"Again, please. And let's have that enunciation improved this time."

"Teacher, may I please suck your cock?"

He shook his head. "Again. I'm not hearing the proper attitude of deference and respect."

"Oh, teacher, may I please suck your big fat cock?" She was whimpering now, her head spinning. How long was he going to make her do this?

"That will be adequate, I suppose," he acknowledged. "You may begin.......now."

And her hands darted eagerly to his zipper again, yanking it down, setting him free with unseemly haste. He shook his head mentally. Such loss of control. He'd have to teach her more decorum and restraint. But.....some other time.



(This is my contribution for this week's Microfantasy Monday, hosted as always by Ang, the Sweltering Celt. Care to join in? Go check out Ang's place for the details.)

-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday Challenge #13: "A Domme's Work is Never Done"

She sat down slowly, aching muscles creaking, joints pleasantly warm and loose. She stretched lazily and her breasts pulled tight, spilling out of the corset. It had been a good couple of sessions. Images drifted slowly across her brainspace, sending evil tingles through her. No matter how hard she came when disciplining her disciples, there always seemed to be room for more later on, when she was remembering.....

As she was now. In her mind's eye she saw the flickering crack of the lash across his back, painting precise patterns over his flesh, a study in crimson. Saw the arch of his body, not cringing to escape the next blow, but rising high to meet it. Saw him throw his head back, a soundless cry ringing voicelessly from lips gone red and puffy with lust. Saw her own hand tightening around the handle of the flogger, then pausing to determine where best to place the next blow. Saw him writhing from side to side, tantalizing glimpses of his hard cock twitching and jerking as he fought to keep from spraying his excitement everywhere.

It really was an art, she thought, pulling herself free of the dreamhaze and returning reluctantly to the present. The wetness running down her thighs cried for more action, and her hand went between legs and began stroking, slowly, slowly, building the fire...

“Mistress?” A hesitant voice from the doorway. She snapped alert, her hand going instantly to the flogger at her belt. He never learned.....


(This is my entry for Flash Fiction Friday Challenge #13: 250 words on the photo shown above. FFF is usually hosted by Spanky, but he's taking some time off so the lovely Sephani Paige has stepped in to host this week. Want to play too? Then stop by and check out the guidelines.)

-- PB

To Do List

This is my to-do list for today:

You

That's right. You're on my to-do list; are, in fact, the sum total of said list. I will be pursuing you with singleminded determination and efficiency. If all goes as planned, I will be done with my list, and with you, by noon today.

First I'll call in sick to work. It's easy to do when you take so few personal days off; being married to your work is sometimes a good thing. That will free me up for the rest of my more important tasks for the day.

Next, I'll hop in my car and drive to your office. Oh, yes....I know where you work. You've been keen to keep all professional references out of your scathingly hot journal entries, but a smart man, a methodical man, can put the pieces together and come up with a definite after some calculation and elimination. So I'll drive to your workplace, dressed to the nines in a smart suit, and stroll up to the receptionist.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Oh, I think you can," I'll say, and tell her that I have an appointment with you.

"I.......didn't think she had any appointments this morning, sir. Can I have your name, please?"

"Surely. You can tell her that P. Bjørne Thørsen is here to see her."

"P. Bjørne Thørsen," she'll repeat slowly, and turn to her phone.

This is the one crucial spot. Will you recognize the name? Will your mind go winnowing through the recesses of your memory, connecting half-remembered email flirtations and salacious comments with a casually-tossed-off suggestion that I join you for "coffee" some day? Will you connect Mr. P. Bjørne Thørsen with me? And if you do....will you succumb to temptation?

Of course you will. I know you very well, you see.

And so the receptionist will inform me that you're ready to see me, and lead me down the hallway (passing curious co-workers who don't recognize me; "is he a new contact?" "Who's the sales guy?" "Anybody want the last donut?" -- well, maybe that last one wasn't about me) until we reach your own expansive office.

"Mr. Thorsen," she'll announce me, and then I'll close the door quietly, and it'll be just the two of us.

A long silence will fall, an electric silence, a tangible silence. It'll be the kind of silence that's thick with unspoken invitations, with possibilities. But you'll break first, as I knew you would. "You're a brazen bastard, aren't you?" you'll inquire, trying to sound angry.

Of course, I won't reply to that, simply staring at you, eyes scanning your body slowly, insolently, until you flush under the insistent heat of my gaze, and drop your own eyes to the carpet.

"That's better," I'll say. "You knew I'd come for you one day. It was only a matter of time."

Slowly, slowly, I'll sidle towards you, easing around your desk. Your eyes will follow me but you won't make a move, won't even turn to face me as I circle around behind you. My hands will go to your waist and press there, deliberately, firmly, but I won't touch you anywhere else -- not yet. A tiny shiver will be your only reaction so far. I'll bend forward to sniff along the back of your neck -- an animal scenting prey. I'll plant a trail of kisses along your neck -- a fine thing, these business dresses for women; they still leave a fine expanse of neck and shoulder free for the rest of us to admire -- and be rewarded with a breathy little sigh.

I'll pull you against me, allow you to feel the weight of my thickening erection against the softness of that magnificent ass of yours. My hands will run up your front now and find the buttons of your dress, where I'll begin unbuttoning them very slowly. I'll resume the kisses on your neck and throat, now being interspersed with light nibbles on the particularly tasty bits, and will listen with amusement to your deepening breathing, the sharp intakes of air when I do something you particularly like.

For example, when I get your dress unbuttoned far enough to expose your bra, and then unhook that to let your tits spill out. How nice of you -- you wore a bra that unhooks in the front, just for me. I'll run my hands over your globes, palms and fingertips making slow circles around your nipples and spiraling inward, tweaking them, making them stand out, standing up just for me. You'll be moaning deep in your throat right now, but your need for decorum will still be battling with your need to be fucked, so you'll be trying to keep it quiet despite the rising tide of sensations.

Abruptly I'll spin you around to face me and pull you hard against me for a fast and savage kiss. Invading, brutalizing, sandpaper of stubble rasping against your lips, contrasting with the eager heat and wetness of your tongue tangling with mine. I'll pull back from you with a moist parting sound and gaze down at you intently. There it'll be -- the fire kindled in your eyes, the heat that says "dominate me", the flame that's burning away the vestiges of your caution.

Accepting the flame, I'll push you down on the desk on your back, sweeping papers, office supplies and computer equipment off with a rustling, clattering crash. "No," you'll gasp, "the door. It's not locked." And of course I'll reply, "You knew it wasn't locked from the start and you didn't say anything. Too late to change your mind now," and punctuate the now by hiking the dress up past your waist.

Then, of course, I'll see that you aren't wearing panties, and chuckle, "My, you are a naughty girl today. Let's take care of that," and unzip my slacks. I'll chuckle some more at feeling your eager fingers helping free my cock from its confinement, and gasp softly when they wrap around me, drawing me closer. You'll be on the edge of regaining a modicum of control, but I can't have that, so I'll slam your wrists down on each side of you on the desk, pinning you beneath me, and thrust hard, upward, forward, into you.

Heat. God, the heat. I've fantasized about it for months, but never dreamed it'd be so. fucking. hot. inside you. But you'll be hot, all right, hot and wet, and tight as well, clenching around me as I batter my way into you. I'll be doing you hard and heavy, silencing your moans and gasps by covering your mouth with my own, slamming into you hard enough to leave imprints from the desk edge on the backs of your thighs.

Then, after a few minutes of banging, just when you're getting really into it, I'll stop completely, long enough for your eyes to fly open in shock and stare at me. I'll stare back at you, devouring you with my eyes, cock still buried deep in your cunt but utterly motionless. What a sight: to have you splayed on your desk, pinned and at my mercy, helpless before anything I might choose to do to you.

"Please....." I'll hear you whisper, afraid to raise your voice any more.

"Please what?" I'll inquire languidly, as if I hadn't been fucking you without mercy seconds before.

"Oh, God, do I have to beg for it?"

I'll pretend to consider, but in truth, this is what you love. You want to be dominated, to be taken, told what to do and how. So of course I'll say, "Yes, I think you do."

A flash of gratitude whirls across your expression and is gone. Then, "Please, fuck me. Take me. I'm yours. Do me hard and fast. Do me here on this desk, I don't care if anyone hears anymore. Slam me. Ram me. Give me that cock and fuck me hard. I'm begging you."

"It's....unseemly....for a woman.....to beg," I'll gasp out, punctuating each phrase by thrusting hard. You'll moan under the renewed assault, lifting your hips up to meet me each time. Soon we'll be back into a hard and fast rhythm again, bodies calling to each other, flesh meeting flesh with a flat, authoritative smacking sound, wet juicy sounds coming from your pussy as I pound you hard. I'll be mauling your tits by this time, with lips and tongue and teeth, trying to cram as much of you into my mouth as I can, feeling you arch underneath me to push your tits into my face.

Still I'll be fucking you, jamming into you harder and faster with every second. You'll be yelping and crying out now, past the point of caring, and me as well. I'll growl, "Cum for me, woman," and be rewarded by a cry of ecstasy, strangely quiet compared to how loud we've gotten. I'll emit a low moan of my own as your cunt clamps down on my cock, milking my own cum out to splatter your insides in pulsing jets. Then I'll subside, still panting.

It'll be long minutes before I soften and slip out of you, and I'll be spending the whole time caressing you, brushing your hair out of your face, planting soft kisses on your exposed skin from navel to forehead. Then, with a grin, I'll pull out my cell phone and take a picture of your new freshly-fucked look, before you can cover up or turn your face away.

"Blackmail material?" you'll ask, bitterly, as I pull back and begin tucking myself away.

"Of course not," I'll answer. "Just for my own enjoyment. You may be the president of the company, but I own you. I don't have any need for blackmail. And you know it."

You'll shiver, not entirely from the chill of the air conditioning, and straighten up, my cum already dripping down your legs. "I.......guess I do," you'll say.

I'll leave you to get cleaned up and head for the door. With a soft "click" I'll unlock it, and turn the knob.

"Wait!" I'll hear from behind me. "It....it was locked after all?"

"Naturally," I'll grin over my shoulder. "But next time, it won't be........"

-- PB