Page 46 of Hurts So Good

What was he thinking, I wondered, watching his hips twitch. Was he remembering our previous conversations? That sexy banter we shared near the end of each day? Was he thinking of how I looked when he watched me through the plate glass windows, seeing me watch him get back on his bike and disappear once more into frantic San Francisco traffic?

The leather made a lovely sound when the belt connected. A sound like applause, a sound I’d been waiting my whole life to hear.

Had he known from the start that a night with me would end up like this?

I let the belt catch him hard, and the music of his dark hollow moan made me clench my thighs together. I could come from this, I thought. I could come.

And so could he. I dropped the belt, put my hand on his hot skin, pressed my face to the welts. I kissed him all over, licked along the lines I’d raised and then made him roll back over, so that I could bob my mouth along the length of his cock.

Oh, fuck me, he was so hard and raw and sweet, and I let my mouth love him until I could hold back no longer. I stared for one moment at his cock, wet and slick from my mouth. Then slid my panties aside and climbed astride him, a dangerous version of the image I’d had in the bar, with him cradling me, holding me up. Now I was on top of him, pushing him down.

I slipped up to the head of his cock and then rode my way back down. I pushed up on my thighs, feeling the ache in the muscles, and then slammed myself against him. Our eyes met. Our gaze held. I let him know with a look when I was ready for him to come. I knew he would never release before I gave him permission.

His body shuddered with the power of his climax, and I took myself to the edge on his pleasure. Coming a beat after him, coming with the belt still by my side on the bed, those silver studs muted in the lamplight from the table.

“You were right,” I told him, looking at the man on my mattress. The man with his arms bound over his head. His body limp and used and relaxed. A grin spread over my face. I knew what he was seeing when he looked at me. “How’s that?” he asked, as I moved to set him free. I felt comfortable releasing him. I knew he’d be coming back for more.

I kissed the spot above his leather cuffs, and then rubbed the skin with my fingers.

“It’s all in the wrist.”

MISTRESS OF CARABAS

D. L. King

I own Carabas. It’s the kind of place that’s both comfortable and decadent. I find my regulars like it that way—dark and chic and plush and a little on the Goth side—because I like Goth. People either like it or they find somewhere else to be. But regulars at Carabas never complain because, really, where else would they go?

I schemed and bribed and filled out miles of paperwork to get my cabaret license, which is, in and of itself, an amazing feat. But it’s what I do with that cabaret license that’s really amazing. A cabaret license, in New York, means dancing is allowed, among other things. No cabaret license; no dancing. It’s something only a New Yorker would understand.

In point of fact, customers don’t actually dance at Carabas; it’s more about watching other people “dance.”

“Cute,” you say. Yeah, yeah, well, whatever, but getting back to my story...

How did Libby Cox become the Mistress of Carabas? I suppose it was all due to my boy, Kit.

We both wound up at a mutual friend’s dinner party and it was lust at first sight. Kit was gorgeous in his silk shirt and leather pants and black Spanish ankle boots, still is, actually, but this isn’t really a story about Kit; it’s a story about my becoming what I was always meant to be and making everyone, including Kit, happy in the process.

We made our excuses to the dinner party host around ten and caught a cab over to my place. Once in the door, I immediately set to unbuttoning his shirt. I think I said something like, “Get those boots and pants off,” and he replied, “Yes, Ma’am,” and took them off. Just like that. Then he stood there, hands clasped behind his back, shirt half-unbuttoned and otherwise naked from the waist down.

After a brief pause, I stepped back and gave him a thoughtful look. More slowly I said, “Finish taking off the shirt now.”

My sweet, beautiful, submissive Kit did exactly as he was told and resumed his easy stance while his eyes practically burned a hole in my brain. Still clothed, I slowly circled around him, coming back to the front, and picked up his thickening cock. There was an almost electric charge at my touch; I thought I smelled ozone and what had been taking its time became stiff almost at once.

I’d had my share of boys, but I’d never experienced this kind of sublime submission. It was as though a chorus of angels began singing as I slowly bent the beautiful Kit over a chair and flogged him red, before taking him in the ass. From that time on, we were practically inseparable. Kit went everywhere with me unless I told him to stay behind or had him running errands. But I think from the first, he wanted to make me over, and believe me, I was ripe for a makeover.

The night of our one-year anniversary, I had Kit bound tightly to the bed and had just begun to torture him when he said, “You should do this.” I must have stopped and looked at him peculiarly because he said, “No, this is what you should do.”

“Well, perhaps you hadn’t noticed, my pretty Kitty, but I am doing this,” I said as I placed another clip on his straining cock.

“No, no, I mean you should do this for real, like for a living.”

“That’s awfully sweet, but I think it’s a little too late to think about becoming a pro domme now.”

“I’m not making myself understood. Sometimes it’s difficult when I’m hard.”

“Yes, baby, I know. So little blood to the brain and all,” I said.

He grinned, and then winced when I added another clip. “I’ll explain later, just remind me if I’m too far gone, because this is important.” And he settled back into the play.

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