Hurts So Good Read online

  But still he was rubbing his cock through his jeans. His skin was tight and chafed raw, burning inside and out.

  Her rocking had sped up; her motion and moaning grew more frenzied until finally she’d closed those amazing violet eyes, thrown back her head, and howled. The sound had hit the back of his skull cold and hard as chunks of hail.

  She’d held herself motionless for a space of breaths, if either of them had actually been breathing. Then she’d stood once more, smoothed her skirt, straightened and tied her shirt. The flush on her throat and cheeks was the color of fresh-crushed strawberries. Her freckles stood out like tiny brands, and she leaned in close so he could smell the sex and soap on her skin.

  “Thank you,” she’d whispered against his neck before she turned toward the door.

  “Wait!” he’d cried. “What about me?”

  “You want to know how it feels?”

  His ridiculous cock had strained at the front of his pants, a small dark spot growing where the pre-come had started to bleed through. He’d felt his pulse beating there and inside his head.

  He’d have got down on his knees and begged her—for what, he couldn’t say. And it didn’t matter because she had just shaken her head, kissed the air around his cheek, and walked away.

  Now she comes back night after night like a haunt to tease and torment him. Always a fresh bruise. Always he is too afraid to ask her how or who. She puts on her little performances, exhibiting her addiction, or is it his? And how can he ever be sure?

  He makes his promises, and he locks the door at closing time. Then Julia shows up on the other side of the rain-streaked glass, and he just can’t turn her away.

  His desire has weight now. Length and breadth. Scales, claws, and teeth. It terrifies and exalts him. Her shame makes him feel debased.

  She gets herself off on the store counter, in every dusty aisle, in the back seat of his car, on the hood of hers, back at her place the time she flagellated herself with a cat-o’-nine tails until the skin broke and tiny drops of blood speckled the sheets like runes. He wanted to read his future there.

  Still, Julia never allows him to lay a hand on her. Her broken flesh is something sacred and forbidden. The things she shows him make him feel low and mean. Jesus, he thinks, what am I becoming? What have I become already?

  It’s her blood, but he’s the sacrifice.

  Always she asks him if he wants her to tell him how it feels. He does, but she never will.

  Julia is smiling now, her watercolor smile, and Ryan feels himself coming undone.

  He should be begging her forgiveness; instead he’s feeling for the strap. He wants to kneel there by the bed, crawl across the floor, but his own wanting is weighing him down. His weakness only feeds his rage. He’s getting a hold of it now—or it is taking hold of him?—either way somebody’s going to bleed.

  “Lay your ass down,” somebody says. The voice is Ryan’s.

  “Yes.”

  Julia stretches out on the bed, her cheek on the pillow, watching him so serenely, eyes full of trust he knows he doesn’t deserve. With one finger he traces the ridges of her spine. He feels a shudder and has no way of knowing which of them trembles.

  The sound of his open palm against her ass is not as loud as he had thought it would be, but the weight of it brings his teeth together on his tongue. The taste of blood fills his mouth.

  “This is me,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  He smacks her again.

  “Can you feel it?”

  “Yes.”

  Again and the red shapes of his fingers stand out clearly on her skin.

  “Can you?”

  “Yes.”

  She rolls over onto her back, her legs spread apart. Her hands shake as she fumbles with his fly.

  He kisses the hollow of her throat, and she says “Yes” one last time as he slips inside. He moves slowly even though she’s pressing up hard against him.

  There’s a lot of pain here, more than a little rage, but he feels such a sense of peace pounding himself into her. The damp heat of her, the hungry animal scent of her, crushes the breath out of him, sets his severed nerves aflame. Sweat makes them both slippery, and still he’s holding onto her shoulders pushing himself higher, deeper into her. He’s made contact, made himself known, and he won’t break now.

  The heat is rolling off her like a fever dream. She’s pulling at his hair. “I can’t,” he says. She doesn’t answer but digs her heels into the bony part of his ass.

  He’s making some noise now. He may be trying to speak her name. He isn’t sure.

  There are lights behind his eyes and a vibration inside his skin that’s a little like being torn apart, a little more like being born.

  Then something’s coming loose, something’s breaking free, and he’s telling her, “Take it, take it, take it honey. Take it all, you bitch.”

  And she does.

  Finally, stillness—outside and inside his skin. No movement or sound but blood through veins, his and hers the same.

  “Tell me,” Julia says. “Tell me how it feels.”

  PANTY LINES

  Sommer Marsden

  When I answer the phone, he says, “Put them on.”

  That’s all. Then he hangs up.

  I put them on.

  Four hours later, I meet Steve for dinner. Our favorite place. A nice candlelit dinner to celebrate the end of the workweek. I listen to my heels tapping on the parking lot to try to distract myself. Anything to pull me from the bizarre mix of arousal, excitement, and pain coursing through me. It hurts to walk. Every step torture. Every flex of my muscles a searing pain.

  He is watching my face. After playing this game for awhile now, I know what he is looking for. The wince when I sit, the shifting in my seat, the way my hands move to offer myself some relief and then still in my lap because I know that’s forbidden.

  “How do you feel?” he asks and pours me a glass of red wine from the table.

  I don’t sip like a lady. I take a big swig. I have also learned that getting that first glass of wine or that first shot of tequila in me will lessen the pain. Turn it from glass shards on my skin to a dull burning pain. A little more manageable.

  “Like I might go insane,” I sigh and take a more demure sip of my drink.

  “How wet are you?” he asks in his normal tone. He does not lower his voice or lean in so only I can hear. He simply asks me as if he is asking if I’ve had my oil changed lately.

  I squirm a little, as I always do at the question and how bold he is. The simple act of asking makes me that much wetter. I can feel the moisture in my panties as I shift. My too-tight panties. The ones he makes me wear for our special occasions. They leave deep red lines in my skin. They are torturous. but I am always rewarded. And the pain is a welcome thing for me. Dancing with the monster. The pain makes what comes later that much sweeter. We discovered this by accident, and now it has become ritual.

  Hour one is annoying.

  Hour two I am tender.

  Hour three and it’s maddening.

  Hour four and I have hit the point where I want it to end. I know this from experience. We are only in hour one.

  “Very wet,” I sigh and sip again. The waiter will arrive soon. Steve has already ordered for us as he always does. Surf and Turf, a nice red wine, and cheesecake for dessert. Every item on our menu a hoop I must jump through to get my reward. To get home and get my too-tight panties peeled off and my needs taken care of.

  “Size?” he asks as the waiter puts our small salads on the table.

  I pop a cherry tomato in my mouth and chew, though my increasing discomfort has stolen my appetite. I can’t get up and move around. I cannot find a new position and shift here, there, and everywhere. I must sit and focus on him and eat my meal and act as if all is well. More moisture seeps into the crotch of my cotton bondage.

  “Two,” I say, playing along.

  “And you, Janelle, wear what size?”

  I want to sigh because he knows damn well what size I wear. But the look in his eyes lets me know that his cock is hard. Very hard and waiting for me. I must jump through the hoop.

  “An eight.”

  Three sizes too small, shrunken in the dryer by my husband on purpose. My key to sexual bliss.

  It started when Steve’s sister Marie came to stay for the weekend. Marie’s laundry had gotten mixed in with ours, and somehow a pair of her panties ended up in my drawer. I am tall and lean but have a healthy ass. Marie is small and lightweight and has the flattest ass on planet earth. When I put her panties on by mistake, I had been rushing out the door. Through a meeting and lunch and the rest of my workday, I suffered. I had worn a short skirt that day, and flashing my ass to the office would have gotten me fired, so I suffered. For nine hours. In Marie’s panties. Steve was there when I got home and took them off. Red indentations and chafing marks all over my skin. When he ran his fingers along my skin to trace them, I gasped. Jumped. Shuddered.

  When he fucked me right after that, I did all the same things.

  The pain and the pleasure were married that night.

  Marie eventually called for her missing items. But Steve went right out and bought an identical pair. In Marie’s size. And then, to add insult to injury, or in this case, pleasure to pain—he washed them in hot water and then dried them. The pair I am currently wearing are even smaller than the pair that started this whole thing.

  “Eat your salad,” he says. I do. Each bite tastes worse than the one before. Each chewing session does nothing to shift my focus from the burning bite of elastic into the tops of my thighs, the swell of my asscheeks, the cleft between my thighs. My attention is focused solely on my discomfort no matter what I try. But my mind also supplies vivid image
s of my eventual release, and my pussy floods the tiny torturous panties. There’s nothing I can do but squirm.

  “And sit still,” Steve adds sternly.

  So I do.

  The final hour of dinner lasts a lifetime. Or feels like it. I am now completely obsessed both with the urge to shift and the voice in my head that reminds me that I cannot. As always, Steve has the rest of my dinner wrapped up for me to take. I never manage to eat much on these nights out. I have, however, downed three glasses of wine. I know he’s aware of what I’m doing, but he lets me. I can only assume he doesn’t want me to suffer in an uncontrolled way. That wine gives me a little sense of relief and control, though this is pretty much an illusion and we both know it.

  “Take the back way home.” He kisses me and heads off to his car.

  I walk the agonizing walk to my car and hiss as I sit in the low bucket seat. I start the engine and drive the back way to our house. The back way takes fifteen minutes longer than the straight shot down a main road. More time in the panties. More torture. More anticipation. Wetter panties. I can feel my own liquids seeping down my inner thighs as I pick my way painfully up the front walk.

  The door is open and Steve is inside. Waiting for me. I move a little faster now because I know that soon, I will be able to breathe. I move a little faster because I know it will get a little worse before it gets a lot better. But that’s okay. I can handle it. Need it, if I’m honest.

  “Upstairs, Janelle!” he calls when the door shuts behind me.

  I climb the stairs slowly. Each step makes me wince.

  He’s waiting in the bedroom. Naked cock standing straight out. He watches me enter. Pins me with that gaze. His fist jerks up and over the shaft a few times, and I clench my thighs at the sight. His hand on his cock never fails to make me crazy. I’m feeling more than a little crazy as it is.

  “Take off your dress,” he commands. I move automatically, without question or thought. I reach around, unzip my dress, and let it fall to the floor.

  Steve nods and jerks his fist again. The smooth head of his cock is turning the most magical shade of violet. “Bra.”

  I unhook and let the flimsy bit of lingerie fall to the floor. Now it is just me and the too-tight panties. Steve motions me forward with his hand, and I go. My inner thighs are nearly raw from the lack of circulation and chafing. I would give my right arm for an ice pack and a shot of whiskey.

  “Lay down and let’s see how bad off you are.” I lie on the bed and let him do his examination. I shoot glances at his hard-on as he begins to look me over. He yanks the elastic, pulling it harder into my indented flesh as I try not to cry. His cock jerks when he does this, as if an invisible string of arousal is tied to it. He works his way around the leg openings, tugging the elastic hard as I try not to beg him to stop. Every time he tugs, his cock jumps in response. He pulls hard on the low waistband, and it bites into the raw line of skin along my lower belly. Finally, he yanks up and the too-tight crotch pulls flush and splits wide my lower lips. I bite my tongue to keep from crying.

  “Pretty sore, I imagine,” he says softly. Speaking more to himself than to me. “On your belly.”

  I turn and close my eyes. Try to breathe. Wait. The first blow hits right where the leg hole has rubbed my asscheek red. The pain is nearly overwhelming, but the aftershock of pleasure that ripples through my flesh and deep inside my cunt makes it bearable. The other cheek takes its turn, as does the flesh of my lower back. My eyes are leaking salty tears, but a steady beat has started between my thighs. When I don’t think I can stand anymore, he traces the afflicted areas with his gentle palms and tongue. Alternating between the two. Always keeping me off balance.

  Finally, I can take a deep breath when he says, “Let’s get you out of these.” He begins to peel the wet, tiny panties from my body. I am not allowed to move or shift to help him. I must stay perfectly still and let him do the removal alone. Sometimes the biting pain on the deeply dented skin is enough to make me scream. I don’t scream.

  The horrid panties are finally off. They are off and his hot tongue is back on me. Licking along the wounded skin, following the trail of pain. I sob just a little into the pillow from the pleasure. He turns me again, licking along the red, red lines as he shoves a finger deep into me. Finding the swollen bundle of my G-spot and pulsing his fingertip in a perfect rhythm.

  I come. This time I sob deeply. I sound like a wounded animal.

  He pushes another big finger into me as his mouth finds my clit. So sensitive and ready it almost hurts when he brushes his flattened tongue against me. He flexes both fingers, licks my sore inner thighs, and returns his tongue.

  I come for the second time. This time I am babbling. I think I’m saying, “Please, please, please…” I could be wrong.

  The blood flow returning to the wicked marks left by nothing more than elastic and cotton is a tingling, electric bliss. He pushes two pillows under my belly, raising my ass high. I hear the dresser drawer, feel him kneeling behind me. He pushes into my cunt. His cock so hard I feel like I’m dying. He runs his fingertips along my marks and grunts approvingly. I’m so wet, I fear he might fall out when he pulls back before thrusting into me again. I don’t lose him, but he’s hitting all the right places and his fingers on my wounds are heaven.

  My cunt bunches around him. Another orgasm to come, we both know. I hear the wet sounds of a lube bottle, feel the cool liquid against my asshole. He’s pounding into me now, his fingers dancing over my lines every so often. When I feel the crown of the dildo nudge my ass, I push back. I’m ready. No preamble.

  He slides it into me. He slides into me. Two cocks. Two entries. At some point, he briefly takes both hands along the now fading dents in my skin. It feels like he’s painting me.

  “Feel better?” he asks and I nod, waiting.

  He resumes his rhythm and pushes me up over that edge one more time, and this time he comes with me.

  LUCKY

  N. T. Morley

  Excuse me, Mistress, may I lick your pussy?”

  Claire was up with her ass in the air bent halfway over the bar; thank God the barstools were so fucking sturdy at this place or she’d have gone headfirst into a wall of premium vodkas. She’d climbed up halfway onto the bar not to pull a Coyote Ugly but to get the attention of the bartender, Dylan, who was completely engrossed in flirting with a cute boy in a sailor suit.

  Claire came down from the barstool and settled into her six-inch stiletto heels, disbelief and anger evident on her pale face. What the fuck had he just said?

  The six-foot, jockey-clad male submissive who stood before her was lucky—very, very lucky—that Claire had been trying for a full ten minutes to get the attention of Dylan. The submissive was also very lucky that he had such an amazingly nice chest.

  The expression of shock and outrage that passed over Mistress Claire’s face was actually a cover-up for the aesthetic pleasure she took in looking at the guy. Besides the chest, he had a nice pair of muscular tattooed arms and… my word. Claire popped her eyes back up to his, and made them hard, inspired by the front of his jockey shorts. My, how she did love tighty-whiteys.

  “What did you say?” she hissed with practiced outrage.

  The submissive dropped his eyes and lowered himself to one knee. “I asked if I could lick your pussy, Mistress,” he said. “I know it’s rude. I’m so sorry. But I’ve been trying to catch your attention for an hour—”

  “Did I give you permission to kneel?”

  The submissive’s mouth hung open for an instant, and he said “I apologize for—” as he began to stand.

  “Did I give you permission to stand?” Claire spat.

  The submissive stood there tottering in mid-crouch, unsure what to do. She let him hover there for a moment, taking pleasure in his insecurity. When his eyes raised to Claire’s to beg direction before his impressive thigh muscles gave way, she snapped “Did I give you permission to look at me?” and he went back to one knee, shaking his head.

  “Do you honestly think that cunnilingus involves licking pussy?”

  He shook his head rapidly.

  “What does a little bitch like you lick, then?” She cut him off when he opened his mouth, by hissing “One word!”