The Mercy of Strange Men: Erotic Stories (6 page)

After we
finished our coffees, I asked him, point blank, if he wanted to
come back to my house. His hands shook a little as he said yes.
He'd driven to our meeting place and I took note of the way he took
directions easily, open to listening.

I tied him to
the bed with silk, as I am a sensualist at heart. As the last knot
closed against his skin, a nearly visible change took place; I felt
him relax into the edge of subspace. I stroked his face and
murmured sweet nothings; he nuzzled my hand like a calf. I trailed
my fingers down his chest, stroking gently, until I came to his
nipples. I gave a tiny, playful pinch, and watched his cock jerk in
response.

‘Do you like
that?’

‘Yes.’

I pinched
harder. ‘Yes what?’

‘Yes
ma'am.’

His cock jolted
to full attention as I gave a sharp twist, and he let out a little
moan.

I climbed up to
his face and straddled him, holding myself up so that my pussy sat
above his face. Looking down, past my tits, I saw him staring at it
with hunger. I lowered myself onto his face and locked my thighs
around his head, feeling his ears press into the soft flesh of my
inner thighs. He licked me, nuzzling his nose and cheeks against my
cunt, and I sent a silent sinner's prayer of thanks that he knew
what he was doing; his tongue explored me expertly, flicking in and
out of me as I rode his face, feeling my orgasm mounting. My
muscles began to pulse, signalling something more powerful than my
average orgasm. As I rocked against his face, I watched his hands
clench into fists and strain against his restraints, his
unconscious urge to grab me betraying him.

I paused, and
whispered, ‘I see what you're doing there, naughty boy. Do you want
me to stop? Because I will. I can take my orgasms from any filthy
boy I like.’

He moaned, and
his fists dropped back against the pillows. I resumed riding him as
he lapped me, and soon my muscles gave one last clench.

With a gush, I
came, spraying my juices over his face. I felt him gasp, and moved
off him, lest I choke him with my arousal.

I looked down
at his face, which was dreamy, cuntstruck.

‘You're a
gusher,’ he murmured, like one might wonderingly remark on the
presence of a heretofore-unknown species.

‘Yes,’ I said,
wiping my come off his face and pushing my fingers into his mouth.
He sucked at them as I moved them in and out, miming the thrusting
of a cock. He made a little noise, half whimper half moan, and I
smirked to myself.
I'm going to have fun with this one.

3.

He slips
anonymously through other contexts. Here, and with me, he
shines.

Sometimes when
we are out together, I notice fleeting approving looks from other
people, usually men. To a conventional eye, we make a fine couple.
Enough of an age difference to look deliberate but not enough to
look creepy to those who'd take offense. Even dressed casually, he
clothes himself like someone used to power and fine things, like
someone used to being looked at, but also looked to for approval.
His personal style is understated, but ebbs quality and assurance.
I, admittedly, dress like a uni student. This is enough to fool the
untrained eye, and looks like the kind of power differential that
even completely straight people approve of, even if they do so
unconsciously. This is the story we are used to. Women, and
especially attractive young women, are meant to be attracted to
power. We're meant to be the reason why men who make no effort to
please anyone but themselves bemoan their lack of ability to get
the women they feel they deserve. We're supposed to accept status
and money in exchange for being dominated.

Some of us know
that's not the only narrative.

I figured out I
was dominant pretty early on, when I used to like to chase the boys
playing kiss chasy in the school yard. Freed from having to be the
ones always in pursuit, they would flee and squeal and flap as I
would run them down, tackling them into the dirt, fighting with
them until I felt that precise moment when their brains told their
bodies to stop the struggle. Then I would look down at them, smile,
and climb off. I rarely kissed them. That wasn't what I was
after.

I took an
inordinate interest in being the cop in cops and robbers, and felt
a smug sense of achievement when my victims were unable to get out
of the knots I tied around their hands and feet. If I was feeling
particularly unkind, I'd find something to gag them with, and watch
as a range of possible emotions coloured their cheeks first pink,
then red.

At that age, it
wasn't exciting, just...obvious. It was what I did. Other people
existed for a range of reasons but sometimes the reason was so I
could hunt them down and/or tie them up.

It wasn't until
hormones were added to the mix that tying boys up and occasionally
making them cry became something far more interesting and complex
than my childhood games could ever have hinted at.

And, of course,
it's men like him that benefit. While most of the world looks at us
and sees a story about a dashing older man seducing a younger
woman, people in the know see that there are other stories at play;
other ways for our narrative to get from beginning to end via all
the interesting stops in between.

He's at the
podium, leaning against it with elbows locked, thrusting his weight
against it as he gives these first years the Machiavelli 101
lecture that he must have delivered at least a dozen times by
now.

I like to think
that Machiavelli, with his intricate knowledge of power play and
sardonic wit, would have been a kinkster himself. Or at least would
have appreciated what it is I do.

5.

I take him to
my favourite club, and all the way there I can sense his fear. What
if he is recognized? What if something happens to out him? What if
what if what if?

Underneath the
fear, lurking in the basement of the Escher-house of his emotions,
is excitement. What if he is recognized? What if something happens
to out him? What if what if what if?

I let him
socialize as normal for a while; I haven't collared him tonight,
and he comes across as harmless enough that even the shy newbies
find themselves drawn into conversation with him.

I wait until I
see that Xin has arrived. Xin and I dated briefly, but it didn't
work out; we're both tops, and both volatile personalities. Topping
helps me find equilibrium, brings a dynamic to a relationship that
allows me to relax into things. I like to know where I stand with
the person I'm fucking or playing with, and I like them to know
where I stand, which sexually speaking is over them, and usually
holding something used to inflict pain. Xin and I fucked like we
wanted to destroy each other. That can be hot for a while, but it
gets a little tiring. Neither of us were switches in any way. The
way we've learned to use our dynamic, our energy, is out at clubs,
a tag team of pain-bringing and psychological fuckery.

I leave him
talking about some TV series I haven’t seen to another sub, a sweet
woman who, unfortunately for me, shows no signs of bisexuality
whatsoever. Walking over to Xin, I watch him turn to watch me, one
eyebrow rising as he takes in my step. Xin knows me well enough to
know what my mood is by my walk. I feel my lips curve into a smirk
as his eyes meet mine.

‘You've got a
new toy, haven't you?’

‘Not so much
new, at least to me, but yes, I've got a good toy to play with
tonight. New to here. New to most of the things we could probably
think of for him to do.’

‘Excellent.
What do you have in mind?’

‘Nothing that
will make him wish he'd never been born. Maybe enough to make him,
very briefly, wish he hadn't met me. He doesn't know much about
pain at the moment. I thought maybe that's where you could come
in.’

‘Well, it is
what I do.’

‘It's what you
do best.’

‘I know
it.’

The flogger
dances across his back, a ballet of pain and lust. I watch the set
of his shoulders as I work, can almost feel the gasping breaths he
takes to work his way through the pain, working through his urge to
beg me to stop, wanting to make me proud. We amass an audience, and
I find myself tamping down my urge to perform; the theatre of the
public scene has always drawn me in, but I try not to let it draw
me in too heavily.

He cannot help
but arch his back out to me; his desire to be spanked has
transcended consciousness. If I stopped the scene right now and
told him to stop presenting his ass unless he wanted a finger up
it, he'd probably deny he was doing it, and from his perspective,
he’d be telling the truth.

Keeping the
flogger going, I beckon Xin over.

‘How do you
feel about administering a spanking?’

‘I feel pretty
good about it. You think he can take one? You know how I give
them.’

‘I think he can
take it.’

I slow the
flogger down to let him know there's going to be a change, and stop
it completely.

‘Xin is going
to take over from me for a bit. Are you going to be a good boy for
him?’

He nods, and I
take his chin in my hand and turn his face to me. I stare into the
embodiment of happy subspace; his eyes are dreamy, and a faint,
goofy smile plays across his face. I kiss his forehead, and he
murmurs a thank you.

Xin nods as I
move away, and steps in. He whispers something in his ear, and I
see him give a faint nod. Xin begins to stroke his buttocks, then
warms them up with quick, light spanks.

The sound of
the first hard slap ricochets between the bodies gathered watching
the scene; I see a few people who are familiar with Xin's work
wince, and I allow myself a smirk of pride.

They don't have much time to recover, however, as Xin's work
happens thick and fast. My man is a trooper, and presents himself
for the onslaught. His ass pinkens, then reddens, and I can see him
bracing himself. Xin works harder and faster than I could, is an
entirely different type of top. Soon I can hear him gasping, his
breath coming out in little convulsions as his brain tries to deal
with the onslaught of pain signals and their accompanying, contrary
pleasure. The physical manifestations of this psychological drama
are some of my favourite things to watch. The sub's dilemma:
one more slap, and I will call the safeword and
stop this. One more. One more. One more
.
And one more, until the idea of the safeword becomes
unconscionable, as the pain and lust and joy merge into an
all-encompassing world of sensation.

I can see that
Xin is enjoying himself immensely. His pain lust supersedes any
gender-based sexual orientation; his erection strains against his
pants. I alternate my gaze between Xin’s crotch and his work, and
feel myself get slick.

His ass is red,
and the grunts coming forth are growing louder, and less for show.
I give Xin time to finish up, he notes my nod and slows things
down, moves back to tenderly stroking his ass cheeks. He leans in,
at his back, and speaks again; I see a nod. And then Xin is
bringing him over to me, laying him across my lap to inspect his
handiwork, and stepping away for us to reconnect as domme and
sub.

‘You're mine,’
I breathe, as he sobs and convulses across my lap, both sets of
cheeks red, shaken and reborn. I mused on the aftertaste of those
words in my mouth. I have never said them to anyone before. I am
surprised to find I mean them.

6.

I wait. I don't
want to make my presence known yet, not enough to intrude on his
space.

As the students
begin to pack up and ramble slowly out of the theatre, I watch him
watch them, taking in the extent of his audience with a mild,
benevolent gaze. If he feels any contempt toward them, any boredom
at running through the same lecture and being asked the same
questions again and again, he does not show it. He is every inch
the twinkle-eyed, leather-patched professor.

The theatre is
still a good quarter full when his gaze finally finds mine. I stare
him down, and watch him freeze, eyes widening, posture stiffening
slightly, like a hunted creature who's just sensed a predator.
Holding his gaze, I throw my legs over the seat in front of me so
that he can see that I've worn my boots, the ones that he likes,
the ones that bite so hard into his skin. I watch him take in the
challenge in my eyes. A few remaining students stare at me as they
walk past on their way out, most with no real curiosity, some
probably wondering who the random goth is and why I don't have
black hair or pale makeup. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one
girl twig what is happening, staring first at me, then him, then
turning to her friend to whisper. No doubt she thinks that I'm
seeking power, or a better grade. She is wrong.

I stand up,
taller than usual in the boots. The cotton ruffles of my skirt
swish against the bare skin of my thighs. I lift my skirt and show
him, show everyone, that there is nothing underneath it. He is not
the only one who has frozen now; all eyes are on the girl holding
her skirt up around her waist, the girl who has no knickers. I can
hear little intakes of breath; feel scorn and amazement and
disbelief. And I turn and leave the theatre.

I count under
my breath as I walk down the corridor, then smirk to myself as I
hear his footsteps behind me.

Alone in her bedroom, Cecilia strips
naked. Despite the long, mundane and seemingly endless week, she is
horny, prowling through both her bedroom and her mind like a hungry
tigress, searching for some inspiration – any inspiration – to
feast off.

She stalks to
the window and shoves the curtains apart, feeling a vicious thrill
as they nearly tear from their rings. She unlocks the window and
flings it wide open, letting the world in and exposing herself to
the warm night air that surrounds her body. Her nipples harden and
she marvels at how the breeze almost seems to suckle at her
breasts. The air could be her lover; it moves across her naked form
like a hundred tongues, exploring with delight the topography of
her body, coaxing her skin into gooseflesh and letting her allow
herself to tremble openly from its ministrations. The wind is her
most shameless of lovers, worshipping her and wanting to selfishly
posses her all at once.