Page 29 of Hurts So Good

I stand where Lily can see me while I finish undressing. Her eyes never leave me.

When I move to the coffee table to pick up what I need, she loses sight of me. She doesn’t see the knife until I climb back on the bed.

We both know the knife is very sharp. We keep it that way in case I need to cut through any bonds in a hurry. I run the blade across my thumb. Blood blossoms bright and fast. I push my thumb into Lily’s mouth. She doesn’t need to be told to suck.

“You should have taken the jeans off, Lily,” I say, running the knife flat along her breast until the blunt side of the blade presses against her nipple. Lily stops sucking. As far as I can tell, she stops breathing.

I withdraw my still-bleeding thumb and move the knife between Lily’s legs, placing the tip against the seam of her jeans. She closes her eyes but does not scream or try to move. I’m proud of her.

Lily still has her eyes closed when I put the knife down on the bed and start to manhandle her jeans. It isn’t easy, but I manage to get them undone and drag them down her legs until they are bunched at her knees and her arse is exposed.

Lily’s sex is soaked. The rich, earthy smell of her arousal floods my senses, making me salivate with need. I bend closer, breathing her in. Only then do I notice the cylinder control hanging out of her. I’d almost forgotten about them in all the excitement. I reach down and turn them both off.

Lily opens her eyes and grins at me.

On her back, bent double, legs forced apart by the spreader bar that is still tied to her collar, toys in each sweat-slickened hole, Lily is an invitation to wickedness.

I’m not in the mood for finesse. I tug the cylinder out of Lily’s cunt easily. The one in her arse takes more work, but it’s clear that her muscles are much more relaxed than they were.

Lily is looking at me intently. My guess is she’s willing me to fuck her cunt. My focus is a little lower, but the angle is not quite right. I slide my hand, palm up, into Lily’s sopping sex, clamp my thumb on her clit, and lift her just a little.

Keeping my hand in her, I position my cock against her arsehole and push. God, she is tight. The head of my cock squeezes its way in. Her arse ring clamps on my shaft, but I keep pushing until I am all the way in.

All I want now is to fuck. Ignoring her protests and pleas, I pull my hand out of her and position myself for maximum leverage by closing my fists around her breasts and letting her take my full weight. Then I let loose all my control, and I fuck as hard and as fast and for as long as I can. I’m aware that Lily is making some kind of noise, but for once I’m not listening. I’m nothing but sweat, and muscle and heat and friction until finally, deep inside her, I find release.

When I come back to myself, all tension, all sense of purpose has left me. Still inside her, I work impatiently to release Lily’s ankle cuffs from the spreader bar. I throw it aside and let myself collapse onto her.

“You can speak now, Lily,” I say, softly in her ear.

For a moment she says nothing, just wraps her legs around me. Then, in a voice that oozes contentment, she says, “Thank you, Daddy.”

TURNAROUND

A. D. R. Forte

I tell Mrs. Bryce-Graham, known to her friends as just Anna, thank you. She shushes me, tells me she’s glad to help, and hangs up. I put a check next to her name on the donation list and smile gratefully at the promised amount.

I’ve known Anna for more than ten years now, but I’m still a little in awe of her. Her very important job, her very extensive knowledge of recipes for anything and everything, her very elegant clothes that go so well with her very stylish haircut. Her unfailing, unpretentious generosity. If princesses existed in the modern world and held poli-sci degrees and raised model children, that would be Anna.

Not like me sitting around in my sweats, grateful my kids are at their grandmother’s for a week so I can get caught up on the piles of tests I have yet to grade, on the overdue deadlines to the magazine I supposedly freelance for, on the Humane Society fundraising I promised to do, and maybe, just maybe, even clean this mess of a house. I shuffle some books and a plate of toast crumbs aside and wince at the thought of Anna’s always spotless kitchen. Why is spring break only one week?

The phone rings and, without looking, I pick it up and click the talk button, still contemplating the woefully short donation list. I put the receiver to my ear and forget to say hello in the shock of hearing Anna’s voice. Except… is that Anna?

Yes. Muffled as if the phone is in her purse, background driving noise like before, but still recognizable. Except… except…

“…swear to you, Sir. I haven’t.” The words make no sense, not from my friend, the Ladies Home Journal poster child. I hear rustling and then a thump as if phone and purse and all have fallen or been dropped on the floor.

Sounding distant, a male voice replies, one that I recognize with another jolt of shock as David Bryce-Graham’s—only like I’ve never heard it before, deep and dangerous and tinged with lazy amusement.

“I don’t believe you, Anna.”

I hear a stifled sound. A feminine moan through clamped lips. Like me, when Clint and I are fucking and trying not to be loud. I know what I’m hearing, but I refuse to comprehend.

More rustling.

Then: “These give you away,” David says, laughter in his voice. And even more dangerously: “You have been thinking about her, darling. You want to fuck her, don’t you?”

My brain is so busy reeling from the idea of hearing David Bryce-Graham using the f-word like that to his wife, to Anna, that I almost miss her very soft, “Yes, Sir.”

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