Kneeling on my rug, legs very wide, she fucked herself. The gentle part ended quickly. She was now really, strongly fucking herself. A soft foam rimmed her cunt where the plastic slicked in and out. Some of her pubic hairs streaked along the length on the outstroke, curled in on the return. The hiss that had been only from the clips on her nipples was joined by the deeper sounds of a rolling, approaching come.
I didn’t know her that well, but a good Master knows the sounds, no matter the toy, and I could tell that she could see it coming, could smell, taste it coming. Her breathing broke, became shorter, panting.
Now, right now,
I thought as I bent forward and put thumbs and fingers on the pins. I pulled.
Her eyes snapped open, fear lighting her irises. This time she didn’t say, without words,
more,
but rather
Oh my God.
I pulled. Not hard, just enough to drag her orgasm out, draw it farther out. Her fucking had slowed, eased, but she was too far along to stop. She couldn’t if she wanted to.
I didn’t want her to. So she didn’t. I didn’t need to say it, she understood it: the language of Master to SLUTSLAVE. Her fucking increased, pushing herself back up to the precipice. It didn’t take long for her to be looking down the fast slope to her come. This time she said, without words,
now.
Yes, SLUTSLAVE:
Now.
The pins came off. Screw noise concerns. Her scream came from her nipples, her tits, but also from her spasming, quivering, quaking cunt. Her come rattled her, making her body shake and her head bob back and forth. Her legs, already tensed from holding her forward, collapsed, spilling her backward on my old scratchy rug.
I watched her. Her breathing, after a long while, eased to a regular, resting rhythm. Then I went to my bathroom, got a big fluffy towel, and draped it over her. She didn’t say anything, not even thanks.
I got her a glass of water from my kitchen, even put a little slice of lemon in it. She took it with gently quivering fingers. Drank all of it, handed it back. Then she said, “Thanks,” but for the glass or the evening I didn’t know.
Slowly, she got up, started hunting for her panties. I helped her, handing them over to her. She seemed to be happy.
Finally, she was dressed, though she looked funny with her hair messed. “Are you okay to go home?” I asked her, my hand on her arm. “Should I call you a cab?”
“I’m—whooo,” she breathed, laughing for a second with a shivering after-feeling. “I’m okay. Really. Thank you,” she finally said. “That was a blast.”
“I’m glad. I’d love to do it again some time—soon.”
“So would I. Really.” Her hand was on the doorknob.
“Write me,” I said, holding it open for her. “Send me a message and we’ll pick a date.”
“That’d be fun. Sure.” She walked down the hall. When she got to the end she turned, waved to me. I waved back.
I checked my messages an hour or so later. Nothing. I watched some television, something I barely remember. Cops, I think. Or doctors. Something like that. Before I went to bed, I checked again. Nothing. I sent her a message: “Hope you had a good time. Write when you get a chance.”
In the morning, nothing. I browsed some of the chatrooms, even though I’d never known her to be there that early. Nothing, of course.
When I got home from work I checked again. Spam. A few messages from some friends. Nothing. She’s just busy. Things happen, I told myself, not believing my own thoughts.
Before I went to bed I wrote another message. But I didn’t send it. Maybe in a few days, I thought.
I checked again the instant I walked in after work. Nothing. Nothing at all. I wrote her, against my better judgment. Simple, direct: “Concerned about how you’re feeling. Please write.”
That will do it, I thought. That’ll reach her. Was it too much to ask? I thought she had fun. I thought she did.
But when I went to bed there was nothing but more spam, a few other messages. Nothing from her.
Around midnight, late for me, I went to bed. Nothing at all. I tried to masturbate but it didn’t work out.
Eventually I fell asleep.
In the morning I checked again, first thing. Nothing. Nothing at all.
I never used the handle MASTER017 again.
WILD CHILD
Matt Conklin
Sex on planes is stupid. These people think they’re so cool for joining the “Mile High Club.” They probably think that sneaking a joint makes them oh so rebellious too. Whatever. Fucking on airplanes is overrated. They’re just dumb conformists who want to do it because they read about it in a magazine. I just want to get to L.A. already. This whole thing is stupid….
I
couldn’t help looking over her shoulder. She was sitting right next to me, after all, and I’ve never been one not to notice a woman, even if she is fifteen years my junior. But even if I weren’t the type to try to see what my seatmate was reading or check her out, the furious way this girl was scribbling in her notebook, a loud, angry kind of scrawl, was the equivalent of pounding a piano keyboard, hard, and it was difficult to ignore.
Her entire aura was angry, and she was dressed in typical post-teen fashion—black tank top over jeans, with a black hoodie, plenty of black eyeliner, an eyebrow ring, and a scowl. Oh, and dark green Converse sneakers. As I took in her words, I knew immediately that she was all but a virgin. She was too fired up, too cocky to have ever fully surrendered to a boy—or a girl. She had all the charm of a young woman whose sensuality is hidden not so deeply beneath the surface, but who just hasn’t figured it out yet.
She made me want to smack some sense into her, or fuck her. I could’ve told her to grow up, but what would be the point? So she could become jaded, I mean, “mature,” like me? No, I figured I could have some fun with her, though, and maybe let Miss Attitude know that there’s more than one way to get screwed on an airplane.
Her eyes, once you got past the shaggy bangs and overdone makeup, were almost sexy. And yes, I was now officially a dirty old man, likely twice her age or damn close, for even considering what she had going on under that hoodie. But she started it, and I felt like it was in both our best interests to pursue it.
“You’re wrong, you know,” I said in as snotty a voice as I could muster. Like meets like and all that. “It’s not just about yuppies sneaking off for a quickie and calling it the best sex of the year. There are all kinds of ways to fuck on a plane. You’re just too young to know about them.”
She glared up at me, and let me tell you, it was the sexiest glare I’d ever seen, the kind of sneer that says “Leave me alone” and “I want to suck your cock” at the very same time, the kind of stare that made my dick even harder. “Like you’d know,” she muttered, then cut me with her eyes before turning to face the window, deliberately closing her journal and curling up into a ball as best she could within the confines of the seat. Normally, I don’t care what my neighbors are reading or eating or doing on a plane; I’m intent on getting where I’m going as quickly as possible. I’ve had my share of fun on planes, but for the most part I think they’re utilitarian vehicles, the fastest way to get from point
A
to point
B,
nothing to get too excited about.
But I was excited about this girl, because she was definitely a girl, not a woman—not even close. I’d been spending my time with women who’d been around the block, who knew exactly how to give a blow job designed to make me melt, who approached sex like a sport they’d already won several medals in. Maybe that’s not totally fair, but I was bored. I was on the plane because I wanted to shake things up, not necessarily with a wild fling, but with something different. I’d been certain a quick trip to Miami would snap me out of my rut. I’d fantasized about somewhere more exotic, but time was even tighter than money and I just wanted to be in the sun, soak up a few rays, ogle some chicks in bikinis and flirt and drink and not think about my latest breakup or my job performance. Things were salvageable at work, but I wasn’t exactly going to be made employee of the year. I’d been drinking too much and had taken some of my frustration out on Heather, who’d finally had enough. But looking at this girl full of smoldering sex appeal buried beneath layers of goth indifference, I wondered if maybe I didn’t even need to get to the land of beaches, sunshine, and Cuban flair for that to happen. This wild child seemed tailor-made for that, and looked like she could use someone to talk some sense into her before she became jaded like all the others.
Just then the stewardess came by and asked about drinks. My companion surprised me by ordering a club soda. I opted for water—with extra ice, and a whiskey. I smiled politely even as my mind formed deviant plans. My seatmate continued to pretend to ignore me, but I sensed her eyes peering at me over her shoulder. I pulled out a book, some thick thriller on the bestseller list I’d grabbed off the shelves. I used to have a stack of books just waiting to be read, and would sometimes rush home to them like they were old friends, but lately all I’d been reading were labels on jars and captions on my TV screen.
I tried to act like I was immersed in the book, playing hard to get, if you will, but when the stewardess returned with my requested cup of ice, I was grateful for the chance to pull out my tray, and grinned up at her. I think she thought I was flirting with her, from the way she leaned down, thrusting her tits in my face. That brief nearness made my seatmate a little jealous, apparently, because she scowled at the woman and demanded both a Coke and a tomato juice. “You better not spill on me,” I said to her like she was eight.
“Why don’t you just mind your own business?” she snapped back.
“Are you sure that’s really what you want…Donna?” I asked, having copped a glance at the copy of
Bust
with its address label still attached she’d been rifling through.
“You’re damn nosy, you know that?”
“You were the one writing about something that I happen to have a vested interest in.”
“I was writing in my
journal,
you idiot.”
“Fine. Stay young and uninformed, I don’t care,” I said, sipping the whisky I’d so wisely had the busty stewardess bring me. I reached for my book again and tried to imagine I was in first class. But my cock was insistent that I not let this one get away.
I ignored her for as long as I could stand it before turning toward her. She now had her headphones on full blast, her hoodie hiked up around her ears, and her body turned all the way away from me, her petite build allowing her to sit with her legs tucked against her as she faced the window, staring into the darkening sky.
“The ice is melting. Such a shame,” I said quietly.
“Why?” She wasn’t exactly gracious, but I was pretty sure I had piqued her interest.
“I don’t know. Some people, you know, those stuffy, uptight dickwads you think so highly of, might be interested in playing with ice, like a sex toy. I’m sure that would be way beneath you, so there’s no point in even going on about it.”
There was silence for a few minutes as I sipped my drink and actually let myself get sucked into the mystery novel, the first clues making my brain spin with possibilities. Just when I thought I had a lead on who the killer might be, she spoke again. “Not that I actually care or anything, but what exactly would you do with the ice? And how do you do it without getting caught?”
I turned to look at her and her eyes seemed wider, the makeup seeming to fade as she stared up at me. “Well, the only real way to tell you is to show you. Otherwise it’ll just sound boring. Do you think you’re up for it? I’m not so sure a delicate flower like you could stand it. It’s really more for the…masochistic sort of girl.” Of course I already knew that she was as submissive as they come. It’s the bratty ones who always need a good spanking, and the sniveling, simpering ones who are actually the biggest bitches once you scratch that outer layer. Time and time again, my theory has been proven right, as ballsy babes who’ve busted my nuts at work or among friends have begged to have their hair pulled, to choke on my cock, to be degraded in ways even I hadn’t thought of.
Donna looked up at me and nodded. “I can take it.” She said it like I was about to take her before a firing squad, rather than make her more aware of her nipples than she’d ever been.
“Try not to sound too enthusiastic,” I said right into her ear. She shivered, and I made my lips brush against her lobe. “Cold?”
“No, I’m fine,” she said.
“Good, because you’re about to get a lot colder.” And with a practiced move, I took one of the pieces of ice in my hand, put my arm around her, and quickly worked it below her T-shirt and into her bra. I made sure it was secure there, as I felt it start to melt just a little. I allowed my fingers only a brief meeting with her already-hardening flesh before removing my hand and patting her on the shoulder.
She looked at me again, her mouth open, fishlike. “Don’t say anything. It’s better that way. Just take deep breaths and focus on the sensation. And get used to it because I’m about to add another one,” I told her. Her face could not have looked more shocked. Having ice melting against your nipples is one of those things you can’t really prepare for. Even if you think you know what you’re getting into, the reality is more painful, chilling, and exciting than you could have expected.