The Mammoth Book of Erotica Presents The Best of Saskia Walker (5 page)

I wanted to go home and think about it, savor the strange sense of euphoria that had overcome me back there. But if I left now, would I ever see him again? Unsure how far I wanted to go along this path, I headed for the door and out into the street. It had rained and the street was different from when I had gone inside. So was I. I ran up the hill, passing underneath the railway arches toward the station. When I heard his footsteps echoing under the arches behind me, I knew it was him. I stopped and turned back to look at him.

He held up his hands in a sign of peace. “I wasn’t going to come after you, but something made me.”

I nodded. I wasn’t afraid of him; I realized it was me that I was afraid of. The unknown me who had risen up so quickly, so unexpectedly. My inner vixen, as I would later identify her.

“You were so good,” he whispered and reached to stroke my arm affectionately.

“Why did you come over to me?”

“I could tell you wanted to play. You did, didn’t you?”

He was right, but he had known and I hadn’t. That was unnerving. He was still stroking my arms. I noticed that we felt like equals now. In fact, his seductive movement against my skin felt as if he was taking charge of me. Uncertainty reigned. “I have to go.”

“Don’t go. Don’t deny it.” He smiled hopefully, but I saw a flicker of regret in his eyes. He thought I was leaving.

“I’ve never done this before,” I confessed, needing him to know that.

He stared at me, and then after a moment he stepped closer, that mischievous smile of his surfacing. With his hands around my upper arms I felt strangely secure, and yet curious and aching for more. A complete stranger had this effect on me? It was because he recognized his opposite in me. The thought crossed my mind, and I didn’t reject it.

“Did you want to do it again? Did you want to do more? Somewhere private, perhaps?”

Images flashed through my mind; images brought on by that suggestion, images of fantasies I hadn’t ever recognized that I had, but were suddenly growing fast and multiplying in my mind, assailing me with their erotic potential, their absolute promise of pleasure.

“Maybe,” I murmured.

We stood there in the gloom of the damp tunnel, with the sound of cars driving down the rainy streets surrounding us. There was no need to say more. When his head dipped and his lips brushed over mine, my inner vixen whispered to me:
Don’t turn away
.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

And so here we are, months later, and I am so glad I didn’t turn away that night. Reaching down, I unbind him before I grab the whip. The mark of my heel on his back is like the center of a bull’s-eye. I use it to focus me, because whipping him gives me such a rush that I need that anchor. When I’m done and he’s shuddering with need, I step in front of him.

His forehead rests against my pussy. “Thank you, Mistress.”

I feel his breath on my skin, the brush of his forehead across my naked mons. I want him to fill me, physically, as he has filled me emotionally and spiritually. “Lie down,” I instruct.

He rolls onto his back, opening his fly, knowing what I want, never once breaking eye contact with me. His cock bounces free, long and hard, oozing. Climbing over him, I lift and lower, taking him inside, my sex hungrily eating him up while my boots bite into his flanks. Looking down at him, I know that what Daniel saw in me may never have been revealed by anyone else, and that makes me snatch at him, my nails driving into his shoulders as I grind down onto his cock. He recognized her in me before I did. He told me he could see her, showing me the real me.

I make love to him fast and hard. Taking him, using him, devouring everything he gives, until his body bucks up under me. He spurts inside me and then I come, with loud and determined force, reveling in the sense of power and release. The inner vixen, risen and reigning supreme.

Kind of weird, that’s how Molly thought of herself. She told guys that, but mostly they thought she was referring to her attitude or her dress sense, both of which were also kind of weird. She was skittish and wayward, punky, yet quiet and thoughtful. And it wasn’t just that. The thing that got Molly off sexually was pretty unusual too, and she felt it was only fair to let potential lovers know what she needed, up front. The only way to do that was to show them how it worked. Mostly, they didn’t take her seriously. That is, not until Doug came along.

Doug had a spark of curiosity in his bright blue eyes, and a warm, subtle sense of humor. He was intuitive. She liked the way he looked, had done since the day he first walked into her workplace. He had cropped and spiked black hair, and smiled slow and long, kind of like Mickey Rourke. He ran the secondhand music exchange down the street, and he chose quiet times to come and collect his dry cleaning from the outlet where she worked, times when he remembered that she’d be working her shift – and was just about to shut up shop. He brought her black Nubuck leather jeans, and a multitude of cool Dragonfly shirts, shirts he wouldn’t trust to his beat-up old washing machine – or so he said. She’d already warmed to him when he began to chat her up more purposefully.

“You know, Molly,” he said, leaning over the countertop to close the gap between them, “we get on so well. Maybe we could go for a drink sometime.” He smiled that drawn-out smile, and it made something inside her tick hopefully.

She put her pen down on the countertop between them, making a line in the space there, and nodded. “Okay.”

“Great. Give me your number and we can work out a time.” He picked up the pen and flipped over his till receipt, ready to write on the back of it.

Molly stared at the pen in his hand, immediately aroused and self-aware. The key to her kink was right there in his hand. She liked to be written on – in fact it aroused her to the point where she could come from that act alone. This was the time to show him; then she could see how he would react.

She took a deep breath. “Tell you what . . .” Her voice sounded shaky, and she hated that. She didn’t want this to go wrong. She wanted him. Badly. “Why don’t you give me your number? It’ll be better that way. Really, I promise.”

Before he could question her, or show doubt about why she’d said that, she shoved her forearm out across the counter between them, pulling up the sleeve of her top. She ran her finger up and down the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of her forearm. “Write it . . . here. Please.”

Would he laugh at her? One corner of his mouth was still lifted and stayed that way. He toyed with the pen, his eyes assessing. Her breath was trapped in her throat. A moment later, he slowly moved one hand and held her wrist down on the counter with it, while he began to write on the spot she had indicated with the other.

His hand around her wrist was warm and strong and sure. And then – oh. The pressure he applied through the ballpoint on her skin made her nerves leap, the sensation chasing itself up her arm and through her body, flooding her with arousal. She bit her lip.

He looked up from the place he was writing and back at her. She could tell he’d sensed this wasn’t just about exchanging numbers. A needy moan escaped her lips.

He stared; one eyebrow lifted, the pen, also. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” She could barely get that one small word out, and when she did, it was with a breathless, relieved sigh. She shrugged. “I’m wired weird. I just wanted you to know. Up front.”

She snatched her arm away, bracing herself for the disbelieving laughter, the snide remark. Tension hung in the air between them, seemingly endless. Then he looked down at the countertop. What was he thinking?

He glanced up. “Kinky girl, huh?”

She stared him directly in the eye, her heart beating fast as she braced herself for rejection. “Does it bother you?”

“Quite the opposite,” he replied, and flashed her a grin. “If I know what turns you on, it gives me power . . . and it just so happens I like to be in charge.”

Oh, that made her hot. It was so far from what she had expected him to say, so direct. And then he moved. In a heartbeat, he levered himself over the counter, jumping lithely down onto her side of it. For the first time, he had breached the physical divide between them – and he’d brought the pen with him. Holding it raised in his hand, he put his free hand on her shoulder and walked her through the rails of plastic-covered clothes, backing her toward the wall behind those rails, out of sight of the shop front. He cornered her up against the wall.

Her body pulsed with the thrill of his actions.

He grasped her two hands easily in one of his, and lifted her chin with the pen under her jaw, an action that shot sensation down her neck and chest, right into her hardening nipples. She gasped for breath, her eyes closing and her head moving back to lean against the wall.

“Oh yes, it really does it for you, doesn’t it? How bad is it?”

He still had the pen under her jaw, controlling the position of her head and where she could look. Could she tell him? Her eyes were shut and she kept them that way. “I need it.” Her voice was a mere murmur. “I can’t come any other way, not the way I do if . . .”

When her voice trailed off, he moved the pen just enough to apply pressure to the sensitive flesh beneath her jaw. Her eyes flashed open.

“Is this making you wet?”

“Yes.” He was close, staring at her, his eyes bright and focused. The curiosity she had sensed in him had multiplied. He was aroused by her responses, his body shifting close against hers, one knee pressed against the wall at the side of her body.

He gave a soft chuckle. “You know, Molly, I used to wonder about you. I liked the way you looked, very pretty but different, and always thinking . . . always with the sexy eyes. There was something else though, wasn’t there? You were always playing with your pen, always sucking on the end of it. Couldn’t just be ready for the next customer, I figured. Couldn’t quite work out what it was, but it made me hard just watching you play with the damn thing.” His voice turned husky, right at the end there.

“Are you hard now?” She flashed her eyes, her responses rolling out readily.

His grip on her wrists tightened and he moved the back of her contained hands against the zipper on his jeans. “Well, what do you think?”

Beneath the black denim he wore, his cock was rigid.

Her skin tingled with awareness when he brushed it over that spot. She nodded. He moved the pen, lifting it from beneath her jaw and taking it down to the hem of her miniskirt. Putting it under the fabric and between her thighs, he tapped it from side to side then up and down, making her thighs tremble with the need for a deeper mark, the pressure, and the stain – the written evidence on her body.

He let go of her wrists, and lifted her skirt right up, exposing her. “Ooh, white cotton panties. Just like a blank page.”

She stepped from one foot to the other, wired. “You’re torturing me,” she breathed.

“Maybe this will help.” He ran the pen down the front of her panties, pushing both pen and fabric into the groove of her pussy.

Her flesh blazed under that touch. She glanced down to look at the solid line he had drawn, but he was still moving the pen, pressing deeper into her groove, rolling over her clit. When she gave a sudden gasp, he paused and concentrated on the same spot, drawing back and forth over it. A jaggedy blue scribble was forming right over the spot.

“You like that?”

Her clit was swollen and pounding, the direct stimulation hitting her hard. She nodded. “Very much.”

He did it some more.

Her hands and head were flat to the wall, her hips jutting out toward him. “Oh yes, yes,” she said, pounding the palm of one hand against the wall as she came, her free hand reaching out for his shoulder to steady herself.

She was about to speak, to say thank you, to say something, when she heard the door opening in the shop front, and hurriedly pulled her skirt straight. He stepped to one side, pointing down with the pen he held, possessively. “I want those panties, you better keep them for me.”

“Maybe.” She smiled. She wanted them, too. “You only gave me half of your number,” she added, concerned that he might leave now.

He spanked her on the behind playfully, smiling that smile of his. “Fuck that. You’re coming home with me tonight.”

A month later, Molly’s foible had been well and truly exploited. Before Doug, she’d fretted about her route to sexual pleasure. Doug had all but mended that in her, and now he was adding his own spin. He was fascinated with her odd little needs, and he’d written on just about every part of her body, watching her, enjoying her – wanking with one hand or fucking her hard while he gave her exactly what she wanted. Afterward, he tended her carefully, bathing her and massaging away the telltale signs of her kink.

That made her feel cherished, safe.

He asked her to move in with him. She said she’d think about it. He didn’t press her on the subject. Instead, he showed her that those kind-of-weird needs of hers would never be forgotten.

That night he took her back to his place and told her he was going to kick it up a notch. The way he said it scared her and thrilled her at the same time.