Call from the Past

Less than three weeks left till the election.

I am phone-banking again. I started a few weeks ago.

The location has changed from two years ago. People around me have changed. I  changed a lot too, I think. Not just  because I have lost weight or have cut off my long hair. I am more vocal, I am not limiting myself to the kitchen tasks. I am up front with the computers and phones, donning the headset and making call after call.

I am not trying to change minds,  I am trying to change apathy. I am trying to get people to care.

I feel aged, far more than the two years that elapsed from the last election. I can feel the wounds of many defeats since the last including the latest battle for the court. However, I do not feel defeated.

No Tyrone this time. Even with the weight of elections pressing my heart down I could not help but think about him. The evenings and weekends I come in, I hoped I would run into him. As I work the phones I wished he’d see the new brave me. It does not matter.

Did I say I feel aged?

I am not defeated. I am here to fight

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Space and Time

I feel suffocated,

Even the kindest and most generous thoughts showered on me in twitter leave be gasping for air.

Perhaps, it is the unadulterated and unconditional support that make me wonder if I deserve any of your kindness.

I feel limited in my ability to give back.

Other times the playful games of tagging feel Sisyphean.

Did I binge on twitter?

I came on twitter to get a peek of what my life could be if I lived out to my true self.

Far from it.

And then the flirting, mostly initiated by me but also from other super nice people. I felt giddy, elated and super wanted. And spend hours on end on DM talking sex and talking doing sex.

Not sure I can handle this nonstop.

Space and time warped and made me feel I was stuck in singularity every day.

Space and time, what I need right now.

I am going to try to use this medium to communicate.

Mostly one way.

Collection of My Space Haikus

I love the complexity of our Universe. I am amazed by every new discovery humanity makes about our Universe. Here are some of my attempts to capture that beauty and overlay it with our daily lives. I tried to weave in another layer beneath the science. I hope you find it.

I call them Space Haikus, perhaps they are blank space Haikus, you fill in what it means to you.

Moon

New, Full, and Gibbous

I do not change one sliver

Your filters do

Gravity

I am untethered

You bend the fabric I float

Let me go big mass

 

Gravity

I have no big mass

How can I get you to slide

In my flat time space

 

Eclipse

I show all of me

Blocking shiny distraction

Yet it is all you

 

Singularity

Hey, Girl with sharp eyes

Be my singularity

Tear my time space veil

 

Duality

I reach to touch you

You are not where your light said

Bent by that Big Mass

 

Speed of Light

How unchanged you are

Near, far, still or in motion

Light in empty space

 

Blackhole

Time space warped as one

As I fall in a black hole

I’m a hologram

 

Big Bang

Velvety darkness

Time did not flow before you

Singularity

So Bitter It Is Sweet

This you may see as a short or semi-autobiographical piece on my coffee outing with Maria. This is told from the perspective of the imaginary (is she?) barista. 

My shift began just an hour ago. I like the afternoon shift even though the tips are not that much. There is a clear difference between the grab and go morning rush for caffeine and the relaxed stay a while crowd of afternoons. Crowd is not the right word unless you can call the four people scattered in the different nooks of the coffee shop as a crowd.

I get long breaks between making the cappuccinos and scooping gelato. For that reason, I am usually the only one handling this shift. I take the order, ring them in, take my time to brew a good cup, foam the milk and clean the cups. I adjust my wristband I have been wearing to easy my carpal tunnel syndrome. The cups are washed and stacked, the customers are in their own world, I will come back to them in a minute.

There is nothing much to do. This is not Starbucks and it is not in a busy shopping center. Time flowed like frozen honey oozing out of squeeze bottle. The coffee shop is tucked away amongst a residential condominium complex. I am not one of those millennials with eyes glued to my phone. Pushing fifty I do not see a point telling strangers and facebook friends about my made up life. I stand with my elbows resting on the counter watching the four people and trying to imagine their life.

Seems pretty boring to me. A Caucasian man in his forties in buttoned-down shirt and slacks focused on his laptop.  Two college-age boys with no facial hair, god I have more facial hair than them, huddled together staring at the same laptop. Is there a college closer? I cannot think of one. Perhaps I am so old they look like college kids. The other woman walked out just when I shifted my gaze towards her. Let me see how I can make their life interesting by making things up.

Then I see her walk in.

An Indian, there are so many of them in this area. She looks about thirtyish. She is dressed like one of those GAP commercial women, light blue shirt, navy blue jacket, not expensive wool but stylish slim cut synthetic, and sleek pants with a scarf wrapped around her neck. She tap-taps in short heels. Her shoulder length straight hair hung loose. Once it was likely cut in some trendy style but the uneven growth has erased all but a semblance of it and created a whole new look that nicely framed her face. She has her phone out and a clutch which should really be called a long wallet.

“Hi what can I get you?”

She answers without making eye contact. She wants to wait. She is waiting for someone. She eyed the two-seater sofa at the quiet corner but chooses the barstool near the entrance. That vantage position is great to get a very good view of the entrance all the way to the walkway from the parking lot. Does she not know how the other party looks like or does she need considerable lead time noticing them enter so she can do her last minute preparation?

Without realizing I started writing the backstory of this woman. Some people just have the stories swirling about them. Maybe it is their eyes that telegraphed a thousand stories swirling about them. She definitely had at least a story. I wonder how far off my story is from her real one. One story I can rule out is one of those coffee interviews. She is not overdressed and seems comfortable in the jacket which makes her the executive kind.  So she is not here to interview with someone. Since she came early before the other party she is also not the interviewer because the classic power move is to be late.

That leaves out a friend or a casual acquaintance she wants to stay in touch with. Neither seems to fit her choice of seating. In either case, one would pick the most comfortable seating instead of scouting the entrance. That leaves the only possible option, she is meeting someone new over coffee. Someone she had communicated with but has not spent time with. She is keeping a watchful eye on the entrance so she can be ready with an opening line.

Even that scenario seems to lack legs. I have time. While she kept looking back and forth between her phone and the door I try to decipher her. She seems to have erected a wall between her and the rest of the coffee shop else she would have seen me intently staring at her.  Is there a ring? I remember reading rings do not signal marital status of Indian women. There is a gold chain. She has very little makeup on except for some eyeliners. So she is most likely married.

A married woman meeting a man. That makes it all the more interesting. Now I am glued to the door. I want to see the guy she is meeting.

An older gentleman walks in, he is a regular here so I quickly dismiss him as the guy. I know his order and the routine. I give all my attention to him not worried about missing the secret date guy, after all, they will come to me to order. Besides, I have a crush on this guy, his thick wedding band be damned. Someone my age cohort, so refined and a reader. I try my usual banter, laugh aloud for his answers. Well, all I get is him picking 25% tip button on the cash register iPad. Fine, I will get you another day.

As he picks his usual spot I make all the standard noise of making his cappuccino. We make it a point in this coffee shop to slow things down. I take my time running hot water through the espresso, cleaning the foam sprout and finally brewing a cup. I take pride in my froth design, the nice crema on top holds the design longer. I usually call names to get them to come to me, for Bob I take it to him. I linger asking him about the book in his hand, run my hands through my straight dark and silvery hair. What a dense fellow.

Back to the counter. Back to observing. God, time really flows slowly here. How long has this woman been waiting? She sure should dump this guy if he is late for coffee or he better be extraordinary in bed. Bob settled into his book, no point prodding him again. Hope this girl’s paramour arrives soon, I can only clean and stack up so many cups here.

After what felt like a long time I see the woman stir and smooth her hair. Definitely a coffee date. I reflexively turn to the door. Well, this is even more interesting. I see a tall Hispanic woman wearing a red blouse, jeans and knee boots walking up the ramp. Her large sunglasses covered a good part of her face, she pushed it up over her head. She was not carrying any purse, or she left that in her car in her hurry. She was tall and made long strides that showed an apology for tardiness. She was not deliberately late, I can tell, she is likely the kind that loses track of time everywhere. Her curly brown hair was loose and brushed back.

I shift my eyes to the one who is waiting. I did not see this coming. You here to see a woman, sweetie? I think about reviving my just a friend or casual acquaintance scenarios. The expectation and excitement I see in the two do not add up to show something less than amorous between the two. The Indian girl stands, steps outside the stool, leaving enough room in front of her, clearly getting in position for the hug. She must have been practicing.

I am not going to stop snooping now.

I see the two go for the hug. The new girl very lively, outstretched arms, apologizing loudly in an accented voice, a voice that is impossible to get mad at. She could be delivering the end of the world message in that voice and you still will feel everything is going to be okay. The Indian girl extends her arms like the T-Rex, correction just one arm with the other frozen by her side. What kind of hug is that?

After the pleasantries exchanged the two walk over to me.

“What can I get you lovely ladies?”

I see the two blush and steal a glance at the other.

“I will take a cappuccino”, the first brown girl.

“I will have what she is having”, the second.

I try to suppress my quip but it escapes me, “Like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally”.

The second girl gets the arcane reference and found it funny. She laughs aloud and adds, “I hope no one is yelling Yes, Yes, Yes”.

She is definitely putting on the work to woo the other. She also does not make an attempt to pay, she lets the first girl treat her. As I turn the Square card reader forward I take a good look at them. I can see what each found in the other attractive. Both so alike and yet so different. One refined looking in her attire and reserved behavior and the other the flowing energy ball that might start dancing any minute.

15% tip. Well okay, I will take it.

“Can I get a name?”, I could let them settle in and take the cups to them but I want to run an experiment to see which one or both came to pick up their cappuccino.

“I will give her name, it is easier to say than mine. Maria”, says the first girl, trying to roll the R.  I assume she is testing and tasting the name in her mouth.

“It is not difficult at all. Your name is beautiful”, laughs Maria, while her hand reaching out to touch. She must be the type that cleans up all women in a bar. Smooth. She uses her whole body to let her long hair in front, something she could have achieved with the simple use of hands but this move was such a joy to watch. I see the two yellow butterflies floating in her crown, trying to keep down the wave.

Then the big act of picking a seat. Are they going to pick the high table with seats facing each other or the two-seater at the back? The two-seater it is with the walnut coffee table in front. Maria on left and the nameless first girl on right with each slightly turned towards the other. I would not have picked it if I were meeting Bob or another guy for a tryst. These two must have their reasons.

I take my time making their drinks. My view behind the DeLonghi machine is not so good. I do not see how they are settling into it. The first few minutes are important. Who breaks the ice? What topics they browse before settling on one for a deep dive.

Two beautiful espresso cups are ready, the crema shining like gold. Before I add the froth I call out for Maria,

“Maria, two cappuccinos”.

The experiment is unleashed. I wait to see the dance of how they agree on who will pick up. Maria stands up before her partner, does elaborate hand gestures, and presses her partner on her shoulders to make her sit.

Maria walks over. Seeing her in her knee boots I imagine her as one of those South Western girls in line dancing rooms.  I wait for Maria to reach me and then show off my foam design skills by creating a fern leaf on the cup. Her eyes widen, like a child.

“Oh, my gawd, so00 beautiful. How you do that?”, that accented voice again. So sweet.

Before I add foam to the other cup she stops me and calls out to her friend by name. Wow, that is a hard name to say for me, yet Maria says it with such ease. I could only sense it must be spelled with an S and had hard consonants in it. I cannot pronounce it just after hearing it once, I will stick to calling her in my mind as Ms. S.

“You need to come see this. You will love this. Come over.”

Such a childish joy in her voice. The excitement of discovery, an unbounded appreciation for simple beauty, and the big heart to share it with Ms. S. Maria claps her hand without making sound and waits with joyous impatience for Ms. S to join her.

Well, there goes my experiment. Now Ms. S comes over, with no hesitation. She is not as excited as Maria but definitely smiling big as she walks over. What is the point Maria of you offering to pick up if you make her come over as well? Perhaps she expected her to come with her anyway?

Maria helps S by pulling her right hand as if she would otherwise lose her way in the last two feet to the counter.

Time for another experiment.

I now do a heart design with foamed milk.

S breaks a tiny smile but holds it back. Maria tries to dig it out and makes up for both in her enthusiasm.

So who will get the heart cup?

Maria offers the heart design to S.

“Do you think the two will taste different?”, Maria.

“They sure do”, I add another reagent to the experiment.

“Then we will have to taste and see.”

“What if the flavor changes after our first sip?”, says S. That is some nuanced statement posed as a question. How is this complex girl going to make it with super speed open book Maria? Is she going to peel off her layers and scrape of the cruds to let Maria reach her? Does Maria realize the girl buried beneath layers? Maria’s personality is definitely bunker busting kind, the question is if she has the patience.

The two walk back to their seat.

I suddenly feel I was invading their private space. Partly my foreboding that this not going anywhere. I should not care but it is easier for me to get off the train now before I get attached to them. I decide to look away from them as they continue to talk. My occasional glances show animated Maria and smiling but subdued S. I do not expect Maria to get through many layers today.

Over an hour I watch a few changes in S. She reaches out and touches Maria’s hands more frequently. The two are now almost turned towards each other, so close their knees touching. Maybe this is not as bad.

Maria exclaims loudly at the time, stating how late she is. Seems she is usually late to every appointment. Such a free spirit that is constrained by the clock.

The two get up and leave without noticing me. I look for their goodbyes.  They hug. This time S found her other arm and realized they can extend fully. Maria might have gotten through at least one layer. She gives a full hug. Maria goes for a kiss on each cheek.

The two walk out the door but linger for few more seconds. One more hug. They are gone.

Maria floating away like she owned the world.

S walking fast, is that a little bounce in her step?

I return to planning my next move with Bob.

So This Happened

“”

Yes.

This happened yesterday when I least expected.

On an impulse, I initiated it after the lull in dealings with a certain cute Maria.

Before I dug into leftover pasta I had packed for lunch I decided to give it a try. I wanted i so desperately see her.

Hence the text and the ensuing meet up or coffee date .

It is unavoidable to look at how clumsy my opening line was. No greetings just straight up asking if she had dome with her lunch. It did signal my intention clearly though.

But then began the longest wait period. Eight minutes before the response arrived. The simple Hello.

And I again sent two responses and was already typing the third when her cute reply arrives. Yes those simple words look cute to me.

Come on look at the response, it was a step beyond yes with a suggestion for a day.

Giggling crazy.

So we are meeting Thursday due to our schedules for afternoon coffee 

If you are looking for me I will be floating and freaking out.

In Deference To The Queen

Note: This is some beautiful fem-fem BDSM erotica by Hana Jynn Whitefield (pseudonym). She is one of the amazing members of the twitter writing community and is so kind and generous to guest post her writing on my blog. I enjoyed this a lot. First, you are struck by the elegance of her writing then the erotica hits you like slow release poison, except it is far virulent than any poison. Enjoy. Twice. Or Thrice. NSFW and all Mature flags apply.

In Deference to the Queen

Hana Jynn Whitefield

You are stunning, in a pale pink saree with golden trim, golden bangles on your wrists, your thick hair loose around your shoulders. I feel underdressed in a plum-colored v-neck blouse and hip-hugging black slacks.

“Kavitha, you look ravishing tonight…my Queen.”

Your soft brown eyes sparkle at my use of our Go word, and a small, seductive smile tugs the corners of your lips. “The Queen is here, Elise.” You extend your hand, palm down, and I drop to one knee and cradle it in my own. Warm. Soft. An electric spark at your touch. I brush my lips against the back of your hand, but you pull it away swiftly before I can linger. “Did I give you permission to kiss?”

“No, my Queen,” I say. Your hand comes to rest on the crown of my bowed head. You do not stroke or caress. You let it lie there, heavy. Symbolic. “My apologies.”

“Rise.”

I stand and take a step back, watching you. You seem to be thinking it over, deciding your next move. We’ve only ever talked about what we would do, how we would play the roles. This is our first time turning the fantasy to reality. I think neither of us know quite what to expect.

“What is your pleasure, my—“

“Shush.” You cut me off, a finger to my lips, a spark of playful fury in your eyes. “Silence.” I nod, and you slap my cheek lightly. “If you forget, you will be punished.”

A rebellious thrill. I want to test your threat. I want your punishment. “Yes, my Qu—“

Your hand comes against my cheek again. Harder. Stinging this time. I feel the blood rush to the surface. “Silence!” You take a step back, and sit gracefully on the edge of the mattress, crossing your legs. I stand still, awaiting your command.

“Take off your shirt.”

I do as you ask, crossing my arms and pulling the blouse over my head in one swift motion. When I drop it to the ground, you say, “No. Bring it to me.”

I stoop and retrieve it, approach you, and place it in your outstretched hand. You put it to your face, close your eyes, and bury your nose into the fabric. Your chest expands, breathing deeply of the mingled scents of Tide laundry detergent, shea butter lotion, body spray of lemongrass and honeysuckle, and the faint, unmistakable, unique essence of my skin.

“Mmm.” Your eyes come open, and I see the longing in them. But you’ll hold back. You’ll make both of us wait. “Pants off too.”

My fingers slip the button free, draw the zipper down slowly. Thumbs hook under the waistband and ease them down over my hips. This time, when they fall to the floor, you don’t say a word. Your eyes roam over my body, the lacy black bra, my bare midriff, the lack of panties. Trimmed, neat hair, and shaved folds hidden between my thighs.

When you catch me watching, my eyes on your face, you shake your head and reach into a fold in your saree. Your hand comes back out, and between your fingers you hold the elastic band of a sleep mask. Black satin, with the word “Bitch” stitched in hot-pink embroidery across the top. “Put this on, bitch. And if I catch you peeking, your punishment will be worse than a slap.”

I take it from you, slip it over my head and fit it across my eyes. I will not peek. This time, I will obey your order.

I’m waiting for you to give a command, to lead me to the bed, to touch me. But as I stand there, you do none of those things. My senses are heightened. I hear fabric rustling. Are you undressing? Pulling down the covers of the bed? Preparing something for me to wear? I cannot tell, but my mind runs wild, and I feel the wetness of desire start to flow. A metallic click, and then another. And then I feel my bra unclasped. You do not allow your fingertips to graze my skin, I feel only the sensation of the article removed, my breasts freed.

You take my hand, and the feel of you makes my breath catch. You pull me forward, and I step blindly, putting my trust in you. When my thighs hit the mattress, you say, “Get onto the bed, and lie down on your back.”

I crawl up, feeling for the pillow, and when I find it I roll onto my back and lay my head down. You have pulled back the covers, and I feel the cool, crisp linen beneath me.

You pull my right arm away from my side, and something encircles the wrist, tightens, clicks. A fur-lined handcuff. I start to tremble with anticipation. You take my other arm and bind it as well. Then my ankles are bound in Velcro restraints, one by one, my legs splayed slightly apart, so I can feel the chill of the air against the wet heat between my thighs.

“Comfortable?” you ask.

My mind is swimming, my nerves tingling. I forget myself. “Yes, My Queen.”

“Bitch, did I give you permission to speak?” A smack on my hip, bristles pricking the skin. Your hairbrush.

I bite my lip. Shake my head.

“That’s right. Make no sound.”

The mattress bows beside me. I sense your presence. Hear your breaths. Feel the heat in the space between us. I’m yearning to touch you. My desire is a wild animal clawing to escape these shackles, but I resist the urge to pull against my restraints. It would do no good and only serve to anger you.

Your breathing quickens. With my sight blinded, my hearing sharpens, and I think I can almost hear your heart beating faster. Where are you looking? My breasts? Lying like this, without the dragging force of gravity, they must be round, full, plump. Just thinking about your eyes on them makes the nipples harden. Are you looking at my cunt, wet and glistening? The thought makes me ache, and I feel myself swelling, rising. You’re breathing faster, heavier. A sigh. Are you touching yourself? I want to see…oh God, I want to see you. I want to feel you.

And then, a soft brush across my cheek. Too material to be breath, too solid to be a feather, too ethereal to be a fingertip. It can only be a lock of your hair. My chest rises and falls, my body flushing hot as you run the silky hair down my neck, slowly, teasing. It tickles. I bite the inside of my cheek to fight a giggle. You bring it to my left nipple, draw it around in circles, slow at first, then faster. Then the right nipple. And then…oh then, it’s not just one little lock of hair. A cascading curtain falls over my body. Starts at my face, draws down over my breasts, my stomach. Beneath the hair, I feel the heat of your face, your breath. I think you are headed for my cunt. I think you will kiss me there. I want you to do it. I need you. A little moan rises and rumbles in my throat.

You stop and move away. The hair disappears. Another hairbrush slap. “Shut up, bitch,” you say. “Shut the fuck up.”

I feel you leave the bed. Your closeness evaporates, the sensation of your nearness is gone, leaving only a hollow emptiness in the pit of my stomach. I want you back. I’m sorry for making noise, but I can’t apologize, for I’m not allowed to speak. Please, come back.

But when you speak again, there’s no anger or annoyance in your tone. Your voice is throaty and hoarse, charged with excitement. “Fire or ice?”

I do not respond.

“You have permission to speak. Only to answer my question.”

“Fire, please,” I say. “My Queen.”

“Very well,” you say, and I hear the smile in your voice. “Fire it is.”

I smell a whiff of sulfur, hear the sizzle of a match struck. Then all is quiet and still. Slowly, the scent of a candle fills the room. It’s a heady, musky scent, the kind that a candle store might label “Moonlight Walk,” or “Midnight in Paris.” Sexy. Irresistible.

You come near to me, standing at the side of the bed. I feel the warmth of your bare thigh press against my restrained hand, and my fingers twitch and then clutch for you, squeezing, digging my nails into your flesh. The tacit permission to touch sends little jolts of pleasure into my fingertips, through my chest, and down into my wet, pulsing cunt.

And then you pull away, cool air instead of sweaty skin against my palm, and I exhale a sigh.

The first drip of wax comes without warning, while my mind is still on the feel of you in my hand. It falls above my left breast, over my heart. A searing heat. It catches me off-guard, and I draw a sharp involuntary gasp, hissing through my teeth. My fists clench. My mind falls through a jumble of simultaneous contradictions: It hurts. It feels good. I want more.

“Permission to speak,” you say. Your tone is still playfully commanding. You have not broken character. And yet, your voice holds a tinge of underlying worry.

It’s OK, hon. I would have said the word if I needed to.

“Do it again,” I whisper.

You release a half-laugh, half-moan, and the next drips come faster. I’m prepared for them now, craving them. Each one is a fiery lick of pleasure. They fall over my breasts, hardening on my nipples, down my stomach. Over my hipbones and down my thighs, it drips. The skin pulls taut beneath each daub of cooling wax. Holy shit, it feels good. My flesh tingles, split open with desire and heat.

And then you are over me. On your hands and knees, I think, for your body is not on mine, but I feel your arms and legs on either side of me. One arm lifts and your nail scrapes against my flesh, prying the drip of wax from above my heart.

“Aww,” you purr, “It left a mark. Let me make it better.” I feel your soft, moist lips press a gentle kiss to the spot. A groan of pleasure rises in my throat, but I swallow it before it can escape. You move on to the next drip over my right breast, and then to the nipples, peeling and kissing, sucking…biting. It’s agony and ecstasy. Involuntarily, my back arches, pressing my boobs up, straining for you.

You put a hand on my shoulder and push me back against the mattress. “Stay still, bitch,” you growl. I’m breathing hard, struggling with the effort of staying quiet, staying still, containing my overwhelming urge to tear through these chains and devour you. But you are my Queen. I must obey.

You work your way downwards, peeling one drip at a time, one kiss at a time. By the time you get to my thighs, I am trembling, shivering. I cannot stop.

When the last drip is removed, the last spot kissed, you pause. “You’re wet. And hard. I can see it. Would the Princess like a kiss as well?”

I nod vigorously, and you release a melodious laugh. Oh God, I hope you’ll really do it this time. I can’t take much more of this torture.

And then I feel your warm breath, ruffling the curly hair, blowing over my swollen clit. Your tongue dips in, tastes me, and you groan with satisfaction. “You’re delicious, my Peach. Sweet.”

I’m panting hard, my hands clenched, nails digging into my palm.

“Do you want more?”

I nod again, and open my knees wider.

“Hmmm…I don’t know. You seem like you’re ready to come. You can’t come yet, bitch. It’s not time.”

Fuck. I thrust my hips up, a silent plea.

“Fine. Just a little more. But don’t you dare come. Don’t you fucking dare.”

I nod, though I am so close already I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold back. I don’t give a shit. I’ll take your punishment. I fucking need you, right now.

And then your tongue swirls faster, presses harder. My painted toes curl, my limbs tug against my restraints. I grit my teeth, but a moaning gasp escapes, and a wave of heat rushes—

You stop, remove your mouth and roll away from me, laughing when I buck in protest. “You almost came, you naughty bitch.” Another slap of the hairbrush on my hip. The hardest yet, but I barely feel it. You pinch my thigh, your black-lacquered nails biting into the skin, but the pain only serves to intensify every other feeling coursing through me. It’s pleasure veiled as punishment, and I swear it feels like that alone could push me to climax. My slippery cunt pulses, and it takes every ounce of strength to hold myself back. You pinch again, and I moan in agony.

Something is stuffed into my mouth. Fabric…it smells and tastes of you. I don’t know what article of clothing it is…an undershirt, a slip, your panties…but I bite down and breathe it in, and it does nothing to quell my fervor.

“Shut up, bitch,” you say again. “This is your last chance. One more time, and we’re through. You’ll get nothing more from me.”

Oh damn, I’d better fucking be quiet. I’ll cry if we don’t finish this.

You leave the bed again, and I lie there trembling, my cum dripping down. What are you doing? You’re gone a while, and I hear disconnected sounds I can’t piece together. Something unzipped. Velcro ripped. Elastic snapped against flesh. A clinking sound of plastic on plastic. Fabric rustling.

And then the restraints on my legs are removed, the Velcro cuffs ripped free. I let my legs fall open, offering myself. But that’s not what you want. Not yet. You push my knees together, closing me off from you.

A click and my left hand is free. I know better than to reach for you, and let it lie limp on the bed. And a moment later, there’s another click…but my right hand is still shackled. I feel the other end of the handcuff dangling loosely from my wrist.

You slap my hip. “Put your hands above your head, bitch.”

I do as you say, and you cinch the other cuff down around my left wrist, my arms resting high against the headboard of the bed.

You grab my legs and pull me down, roll me onto my stomach. You drag me sideways until my feet touch the carpet, and I’m bent over the side of the mattress, my arms still above my head, my cheek resting on one sweaty bicep. My wet, hairy pussy presented to you as you stand behind me.

Your hand slaps my ass. Once. Twice. Fuck, it hurts. Harder. I want it harder.

And then I hear the humming chatter of a vibrator, and my whole body clenches with anticipation. From the sound of it, probably a bullet vibe. My clit throbs, waiting…but I feel nothing. Instead, behind me, you give a crying moan of pleasure. Fucking bitch. I’m not allowed to call you that, but I’m sure as hell thinking it. You make me listen. Your sighing moans intensify, rise in pitch…but you stop before you come. The vibrator continues to buzz, but now it’s muffled. What the—

OH FUCK. You pound through me, flaying me open, the dildo hard and thick. I’m so wet and slippery with cum, and you slide in deep. My cuffed hands grip the sheets, my grunting cry muffled by the fabric in my mouth. I can feel the vibration in the dick, you must have slipped the bullet inside the harness, pressed between the base and your own clit. You fuck me hard, sliding in and out with feverish speed. With every thrust, you give a cry of pleasure, while I am screaming inside my head.

“Don’t you dare come,” you command, digging your nails into my fleshy hips. “Don’t…fucking…come.”

I try not to, but it’s impossible. It’s almost here. You’re hitting just the right angle, my G-Spot, and in just a few more—

“Now, bitch! Scream for me.” You push in deep, your thighs pressed against mine, and I feel you go rigid.

I spit out the cloth and let out a high, keening wail as the orgasm crashes through me. Battering me, breaking me, I’m tossed asunder. A geyser gush of hot liquid rushes from me, soaking our legs, dripping onto our feet, mingling with your own wet stream of ecstasy. Fuck…fuck…

I fall against the bed and you collapse on top of me, shaking, fumbling to turn off the vibrator, but you’re too slow and clumsy to stop it. You come again, moaning into my hair, your breasts and stomach and dildo pressed down on my back, squirting your juices over me.

Finally you manage to shut it off, and you slide the harness down. The blindfold comes free, and I blink and squint into the candlelight. I close my eyes again, wait until the handcuffs are unlocked and my hands loosed. Then I turn my head, and find you. Beautiful and glowing, the Queen of my body and soul.

You lie beside me, stroking me gently, tender now. You kiss my lips for the first time that night, the signal that the game is over, and we are ourselves again.

“That was incredible,” I breathe. “You’re incredible.”

You smile shyly. “It wasn’t too much? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

I laugh. “Oh, you hurt me. And I fucking loved it.”