Five Fierce Fucking Stories

Here are the five fierce stories from the Vintage S&M Grab Bag contest. (There was a sixth I couldn't post for safety issues. The piece was really well-written and I apologize to the writer.)

The poll will run until Wednesday at midnight—and I'll have a new contest up shortly. Now, get reading... (Ha! I never sound that Dom, do I? Even on the radio yesterday, Sara asked me if I was a Top or Bottom. And I couldn't even fake it for a laugh. Damn.)
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Entry #1: Roadside Discipline

The state trooper just left, warning us that if we’re not gone next time he comes by we’ll have to be towed. Tommy’s under the car, oil all over his face. I’m sitting here, pissed. Another trip screwed over by his insistence we take one of his precious project cars. He’ll pay. Soon his smiling face pops up in my window.

“All fixed!”

I say nothing. Just glare at him.

“I’m sorry honey. That hose needed replacing but I hadn’t gotten to it. Good thing I had extra with me.”

“Yes, good thing.”

He goes back to gather up tools. I step out, look around. Traffic is thinning with the coming dark. Headlights cast shadows as I bend down and pick up a piece of hose. Just long enough, I think, flexing it.

Tommy comes around the side of the car, sees me with the hose and gets this look.

“Come here.” He does.

“Hold onto the mirror.” He does.

I take the hose and wrap it around his wrists and the mirror.

“I’m really sorry honey.”

“Shut up.”

He knows what’s in store. Maybe. I rummage in his tool box until I find something suitable. A rubber belt of some sort. I don’t know car parts. But it will do. Then I yank down his board shorts, exposing his ass. I kick his legs apart.

“What if the cop comes back?”

“Shut up.”

The belt thwaps across his ass. His yelps are drowned by passing trucks. It’s too dark to see his cheeks redden, but I’m wet and wanting to fuck him so bad I can taste it. I reach around and feel his hot rod.

Hissing in his ear I tell him “You better make me come in record time.”

Not long after, the trooper returns just as Tommy starts the car.

“Looks like you got her started just in time. I was about to call the wrecker.” He looks over at me. “ And Ma’am, you have the patience of a saint.”

I smile at the officer.

*****

Entry #2: ? & M

"I'm not a sadist, you know."

He says it periodically, like he wants to remind me.

The first time he said it I actually thought he was joking. On our first date, after all, he'd been the one who had pulled and twisted my nipples, harder and harder, until he could no longer interpret the noises I was making.

"I'm not really sure where your pain/pleasure line is, here," he'd said, still mauling me.

"Neither am I," I panted, "but keep going."

By the time he had his fingers inside me I was begging him to smack my ass.

That was a great first date.

The next time he told me ("I'm not into pain games"), I thought he must mean he didn't want to anymore. But we'd stand in his living room necking, too impatient to make it to the bed, and he'd hurt me and then slide his hand into my panties and feel how wet I was.

"You," he'd murmur, "are what they call a pain slut."

"I am?" He'd pinch, and I'd gasp.

Clearly, he wasn't quitting.

So the next time he brought it up, I know I looked at him funny, and finally he spelled it out for me.

"I don't get off on causing you pain," he said as he wrapped his fist in my hair and pulled. "I get off on getting you off."

And then he bit me. So fucking sweetly.

I don't care what you call it, baby, just don't stop.

*****

Entry #3: Flash Flood

“I have to pee,” I said.

He laughed. It was his damn fault I needed to leave the dungeon party to find the bathroom. Drinking water was one of his rules for me. I hate water.

And here I was, bladder swollen. Wanting to relieve myself. Asking permission.

Eyes narrowing, he grabbed the ring on my collar and me to the warehouse’s rough bathroom, shoving me inside and locking the door behind us.

He pushed me, bending me over the commode. As I grabbed the brushed metal hand rail for support, he whipped off his belt. Doubling the thick black leather, he began to strap my pale bottom hard, ruthlessly, marking the territory of my skin. In my undulations, I straightened up. He growled, “get your ass back here!” I bent down and felt his hand spread the cleft of my cheeks just before the leather lashed my tight anal opening. I screamed – but remained in place. His. To use as he desired.

“Even this is mine,” he whispered. He pulled me up roughly, turned me, and pushed me down on the toilet. “Spread ‘em,” he demanded. Thighs splayed wide, he brought the belt down again and again on my naked mons. My ragged breathing betrayed the searing pleasure ripping through my core. “Thought you had to pee,” he taunted, as my climax gushed as hard as the golden stream I could no longer hold back, embarrassment intertwined with pleasure – and a sudden awareness of wanting a bigger water bottle.

*****

Entry #4: Those Cuffs

He had my shirt over my head, but I could hear him digging through our “red box” by the bed. I knew he was looking for the wrist cuffs, I knew they wouldn’t be there.

“Missing a few pieces are we?”

I didn’t answer, an answer meant a fight, silence meant…

“No matter.” He left me on the bed just for a moment. I had no idea where he went, instantly regretting I had put down a rug the week before.

Returning I felt something silky slide across my erect nipples, a scarf, he was resourceful, and fast, I was tied up in what felt like a second.

I was already on my stomach so he pulled my ass up to his hips, running his fingers over the now white skin (I knew would be red soon enough).

“You know you shouldn’t have lost those cuffs.”

I felt the leather tassels of the whip hit my ass before I even heard anything. The warmth spreading up my back to my tits, giving them goose bumps. The whip came down again, and again, until I felt both his warmth and pressure inside of me.

I knew better than to fight it, he collapsed on me as we both moaned and cried, both riveting from the explosion.

He removed my shirt and kissed my mascara-smeared face.

I always knew those Boy Scout life lessons in knot making would come in handy someday, maybe the cuffs will just never turn up.

*****

Entry #5: Reminder

The voice droned on and I sighed. Yet another academic fundraiser. Yet another excuse for the windbags to hype their accomplishments. I shifted on the narrow seat, crossing my legs the other way. My shoe slipped off my heel and I bounced it on my toe.

"Stop fidgeting." His voice grumbled in my ear and I shuddered. His fingers traced the column of my neck then my shoulder. "Stop. Fidgeting." I forced my foot still. I sat, quiet, under the weight of his hand through another long-winded tale before my foot began to twitch again.

His fingers slid back up and pressed along the curve of my collarbone. Spots of dull pain bloomed under his fingertips. My cunt clenched. My body felt all over again the loss of oxygen as his hand squeezed my throat, the weight of him pinning me down, his hand tight around my wrists, his thrusts deep, punishing.

I wondered. If I fidgeted enough could I earn a repeat?

My foot bounced once.

Hidden under my hair his hand tightened, fingertips pressing in warning.

Arousal bloomed followed by a shiver of fear.

"Are you testing my patience on purpose?" The words were little more than a snarl in my ear.

I swallowed.

Shook my head.

"Liar." Hot sparks raced down my spine to ignite between my legs.

I didn't like pain.

But I loved the surrender.

"My office. Now."

We slipped from the hall, across campus, up the steps, into his office, and him into me.

*****

I have to say, these stories contain some really smooth lines. The sort of writing that doesn't just spark my interest as an editor, but as a sex fiend:

"I'm not really sure where your pain/pleasure line is, here," he'd said, still mauling me.

"Neither am I," I panted, "but keep going."

And:

I didn't like pain.

But I loved the surrender.

And lines that made me smile;

I take the hose and wrap it around his wrists and the mirror.

“I’m really sorry honey.”

“Shut up.”

All subs have been to this place:

I felt the leather tassels of the whip hit my ass before I even heard anything.

Oh, and god, this is me: (No, I didn't write the piece, I mean, I do shit like this):

I wondered. If I fidgeted enough could I earn a repeat?

And this is Sam. To a T:

“Even this is mine,” he whispered.

So god, I'm glad we waited an extra week. I think these stories are to die for. I mean, come. To come for.

XXX,
Alison