Page 32 of Hurts So Good

“David please!”

“What is it, slut?”

“Please. Please. I need to come!” She’s begging.

“You know the only way you get to come when you’re being punished.”

“Yes,” she sobs. “Yes.”

Silence.

I put the phone down and put both hands over my mouth. Shivering, like her, I wait. Except that she knows her fate, which must make it so much worse. Is she thinking about me? Imagining me touching her as David punishes her?

I tell myself I’m sick for the powerful, excited flood of feeling between my legs as I think of being treated in kind for my thoughts about her. For my pride and perversion in knowing Anna—beautiful, perfect Anna—wants me. Like that.

At the crack of renewed slaps, I jump. My thighs tense inward, rubbing pants seam against clit as I hear her scream. Blow after blow, and at every one she gasps and I can hear her moaning, crying in earnest now.

Slowly my lust- and shock-addled brain puts it together. He’s not slapping her, not with that rhythmical swish and hiss and thwack. He’s spanking her with something. A belt? Or something worse? My stomach thrills cold.

I can see her writhing in the doorway, the shock of each blow filling her clit, filling her cunt with painful vibration. Closer and closer, her ass pure pain but her clit sweet throbbing agony. Her cries become strangled, breathless. I know she’s there.

And then the unbearable rhythm stops. Ragged panting. Perhaps he’s kissing her now, caressing her breasts or maybe her ass. Milking the last of her orgasm from her abused flesh.

She whispers a word. I think it sounds like David.

Right now, I’d give anything to see them like that. Master and lady fair.

Fingers shaking, I reach out and press talk once more. The LCD winks out and the silence of my own ordinary house fills my ears. I’m still shaking, torn with desire and the urge to pull my sweatpants down and finish myself off.

What feels like hours is barely a minute before I give in. I wriggle out of the pants and I’ve just kicked off my own wet panties when I hear a sound behind me. Heart beating loud enough to burst my eardrums, I spring to my feet and turn around. Clint walks into the room. Face red, jeans bulging deliciously.

“How much did you hear?” I blurt.

“Enough,” he says after a minute, after he’s looked me over. My nipples poking through the baggy sweatshirt, my bare legs and bare pussy, fragrant with desire and the evidence of my guilty voyeur’s pleasure. I’ve never needed a fuck so badly before, but he makes no move to undo his fly.

And suddenly I wonder.

Clint grins at me, a really wicked grin.

“Turn around,” he says.

FLICK CHICKS

Allison Wonderland

From my place on the chaise, I examine my lover, observing her primping ritual at the vanity table. Sitting on the cushion, clad in sheer chiffon chemise and sugar cone cup bra, Mae looks like she belongs to a different era. An era of starlets and glamour girls and pinup queens. When passersby pass Mae by, they often pause for a moment, expecting the scenery to segue from Technicolor to black-and-white.

Mae plucks her lipstick from the tabletop, swivels the tube, glides the wedge along her lips, creating a circle of crimson. Next are her eyes, the lashes extended with mascara, the lids anointed with gold powder. Glitzy gold, like the statuettes dispensed at the Academy Awards. Now the coiffure. Mae’s hair is her crowning glory. Jean Harlow blonde with Bettie Page bangs. She unrolls the pistachio pinsetters, arms raised and bent at the elbows, resembling a ballerina poised in pirouette. When she is finished, she scrutinizes her reflection in the mirror. Sliding her glasses onto her nose, Mae peers through the cat’s-eye frames of the spectacles, studying the visage of a vixen.

“Let’s get cracking.”

Mae jerks at the sound of my voice. She hates it when I do that. Frown crimping her lips, she turns in my direction, sees me reclining on the lounge, limbs limp, head cushioned by a fluffy round pillow. Pinched between my fingers is a vinyl riding crop, its shaft tapping against the veneer of the maple wood.

Mae rises to her feet, saunters over to the settee, her slender heels stabbing the parquet floor. “What’s this?” she demands, fingering the fabric of my brassiere.

My attire is nearly identical to Mae’s. Garish garters engird my thighs. Black satin gloves conceal the flesh from forearms to fingertips. Nylon stockings cleave to my calves, travel to my toes, and then disappear inside shiny black stilettos. However, unlike Mae and her missile cups, I have opted for a simple black bra.

“What’s wrong?” I pout, feigning innocence.

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