Under Her Thumb, page 17
When the two women break for air, Patrick has polished off the wine, but it is Hannah’s cheeks that are flushed. She stands up, demure even though her white blouse is unbuttoned past her bra, and says that she needs the toilet before they get started. “Guest bathroom,” Cassie says, “and your bag is in there.” She points toward the guest bedroom.
“Great, back in a bit,” she tells them.
“Do you want to go on down?” Cassie asks, standing to gather the glasses.
“Can do,” he says. At the top of the stairs he turns the basement lights on, where most of the scene is set up already. He uses the half bath—half-hard, it takes a few moments for him to go—and washes his hands thoroughly, drying them on a faded rust-red towel, once vibrant, now relegated to the basement. Hannah’s robe is pale blue like her eyes; Cassie’s is black. He meets them at the base of the stairs: Cassie automatically dims the lights, and says, “Much better.”
This time, when they sit on the couch, Cassie settles in next to him, and in an anxious throaty voice says, “Take it off for us, pretty baby.” Hannah looks around shyly, like there might be someone else in the room. When she undoes the satin belt Cassie coos, and when she opens her robe they exchange a heated look. “God,” she says, as Cassie moves her hand to his thigh, “you are so fucking hot.”
“She really is,” he says. His wife is stroking along his fly, holding out her other hand to the girl. “Come here, you beautiful little bitch,” and Hannah steps over the pile of discarded silk cautiously, before coming to sit on Patrick’s lap as instructed and meeting his lips in a kiss Cassie pushes her in for. As they make out, tongues touching and drawing back in curt flicks, her cunt growing damp against his thigh, her underwear is yanked down, her bra strap slides down her shoulder. Cassie breathes hot words of encouragement, growing bolder, touching herself and him and her and them, all three of them.
“I want to see this little slut on her knees, don’t you?” she asks him. “Look at her, humping your leg like a filthy animal. She can barely contain herself,” and it is true, Hannah is sliding up and down his quadriceps, and he has to place his hands around her slim waist to hold her still, and even then she whimpers, pathetically.
“Oh sweetheart,” Cassie says, pushing the girl’s dark hair away from her wide blue eyes, “you have so much farther to go. Come on, get down,” she insists, and when Hannah does not listen right away Cassie fists a hand in her hair and pulls her down onto the floor. “I said get the fuck down you dirty bitch. Get on your fucking knees. Who the fuck do you think you are?” The soles of her shoes are scuffed—this is the detail he notices as she crawls behind Cas to the joist. Her slit is already damp, her ass perfectly round. It jiggles as she crawls.
“Sit up; that’s a good girl,” his wife says, stripping down to her own ensemble. The black silk and lace is vibrant against her white skin. The flame of her hair matches the redness of Hannah’s nipples as Cassie pinches them. “Keep those hands up,” she says, slapping her tits until those go pink as well.
Cas has had some rope training. Hannah sits as instructed, knees splayed out wide, buttocks resting on her stripper heels as her hair is parted and tied to the joist. The two pigtails his wife ties make Hannah look like a schoolgirl, hands bound behind her neck so that her young breasts beg to be suckled and smacked. With a loud sound Cassie winches the wood up high so that Hannah is pulled up by her hair.
“Come touch her,” she tells him, because he is looking on, hungrily. The permission is so much quicker than with just the two of them, because now Hannah is the focus. “Help me play with these nice tits.” He stands up, his cock stiff, his gaze aimed steadily down at the shivering, naked girl trussed up like a piece of meat, and walks in a slow, appraising circle around her, taking in the hold-up stockings, the bra yanked cruelly down around her rib cage, the pale-brown rope cleaving her hairline in two.
In their emails to one another Cassie must have inquired about the sensitivity of Hannah’s nipples, because she pulls and prods and pinches one, and with soft clucks encourages him to do the same. When Hannah’s tits are burning pink from play, Cassie clamps them. The chain between them swings as Cassie stands Patrick up and undoes his belt, “Hold her hair, honey,” she tells him, “Grab those pigtails and fuck her face. Stupid little slut, that mouth is begging for a cock.”
Hannah opens her mouth obediently, like a baby bird, and Cassie guides his swollen cockhead to the center of her moist lower lip and swipes off the precome gathering there. She presents the girl with this offering and says, “Lick it off,” and Hannah does, hungrily. Cassie says, “You want to suck on this cock, baby?” and she says, “Yes, yes, please.” She twists against her restraints, seeking friction, seeking relief.
“Please, what?” Cassie says, taunting her with his dick, both of them her toys.
“Please, Mistress, let me suck him off.”
“That’s a good girl,” she says, patting Hannah’s head as she closes her eyes and starts to suck. “Eyes up here,” she says, walking behind Patrick and tugging out his balls for the girl to lick and draw into her mouth, one at a time. “Keep those eyes open while you suck that dick. Aren’t you a good girl? How’s that feel, baby?” she asks him.
“Christ,” he says, sawing his hips back and forth between her spit-slick lips. “So fucking good. Thank you.”
“Deep throat him,” she tells the girl, her voice rich with amusement. She grips one rope in each hand to pull her by the hair, and he says, “Oh, fuck yes.” She purrs, “Suck it, whore, there you go, choke on that fat cock. You want to make him come for me? Can you do that, can you get a load on that pretty face of yours?”
Hannah nods, makes a garbled, wet sound around his dick, and Cassie releases one rope and says, “What’s that?” and Hannah doesn’t even answer, she dives right back down, forging down hot and purposeful on his throbbing dick. “You want that come, huh? Yeah, earn it,” she says. Another choked nod is her answer, and Hannah gags around his cock, hollowing her cheeks and swallowing over and over until he says, “Baby, babe, I’m gonna—” and she practically shouts, “Pull out, pull out,” and he starts to come in her throat and finishes with Cassie’s hand wrapped around his own, milking his load across the girl’s pretty face.
“Fuck,” he groans, his heart pounding in his ears, taking in the sight of her—eye makeup streaked, hair straining at the ropes, come dripping down her cheek—and his dick twitches even after he tucks himself away at the sight of Cassie pulling down her underwear and straddling Hannah’s eager upturned face.
“My turn.”
He watches from the side, listening to the crescendo of her first orgasm and then—after an interval where she plays with the clamps, opening and closing them so that they pinch and Hannah squeaks, and Cassie smacks her tits, slaps her face, shoves her fingers down Hannah’s throat and then dips them down between her legs to fondle her as she whispers in her ear, dark quiet things that make Hannah whimper, “Please, oh, please”—a second orgasm, where she rides her, hands grabbing the ropes like reins and her own hips bucking with release.
She dismounts and takes a step back to survey her work, to touch her again. Those big blue eyes widen in surprise when Cassie pauses in her caresses to slap Hannah across the face, in between slaps prodding and pressing her cheeks so that her lips pooch out.
“Baby,” she says, in that wet scratchy voice that gets him in his gut, “I think it’s time for this girl to get fucked, what do you think?”
“Fantastic idea,” he says, “Do you need the bag?”
“Please,” she says, drawing circles on Hannah’s abdomen with her dark nails. She lifts her arms gingerly, and he straps her into the harness, buckling it in the back around her ample hips.
“I’ll need a condom,” she says, and he retrieves one of those as well, unlubricated. “Hey,” she breathes out as he tears open the packet, “baby, come on, come get me wet before you put that on.” Patrick grins and touches his lips gingerly to the tip of the cock, licks a slow circle either way and, when she tuts, he draws it in slowly between his teeth. She hisses, “Be glad that’s not real, sweetheart, you could hurt someone with those things.”
He slips the condom on her, and she positions herself behind Hannah, pushing up from underneath until the girl is suspended over the cock, the head just teasing the entrance to her cunt, and she sobs with frustration because there is no more slack with her hair, no way for her to reach it.
“Beg me for it.”
“Oh, god, please, please, I want it, anything,” the girl babbles to the air, the basement walls, to anyone who will listen.
“What do you think?” she asks Patrick, not that his answer matters.
“Give her a treat,” he says, and she purrs, “Isn’t that nice of him, sweetheart? He’s so much nicer than me. Okay, here you go, let’s fill that tight hole of yours.” Cassie cups the girl’s breasts and sits up on her own heels, pushing inside—he can tell by the harsh cry of relief Hannah emits.
“Go to the front,” she tells him, after an interval of teasing and slow fucking. “I want you to put your mouth on her.” He crawls around to the front and catches her gaze: bleary-eyed and desperate. On all fours he licks her as Cas fucks her, occasionally catching the slick of silicone and latex on his tongue. From above him he hears her keeping up the same crescendo of “Good girl,” “Slut,” “So hot.”
Twice Hannah’s hips go fast like she may be on the verge of coming, and when she seems close Cassie stills her own hips and commands him to stop. After the third time she says, voice broken, “Get the wand.” She covers Hannah’s mouth, her teeth visible in a rictus of pleasure-pain; fucks her hard against the vibrations, and when the girl finally comes it is with tears that leave her eyeliner tracking in wet lines down her face.
“Fu—uck,” she moans as they pull the orgasm from her: it sounds feral, hardly pleasurable. Her body tenses, twitches. Cassie backs off and says, “Turn it up,” and the girl grits her teeth and spasms between them, each small cry like a miniature climax, and when it happens again only the pressure of Cassie’s hand keeps the sound down.
“Yes, that’s it, there you go, baby, there you go,” Cas intones, gentling her through it.
Of course she is shaking, vibrating with aftershocks. They each unhook a pigtail, quickly, and Cas unties her hands and rubs her wrists. Patrick takes away all the toys—Hannah hisses when he unhooks the clamps—and puts them into the half bath to deal with later, bringing back three bottles of water from the minifridge and handing one to each of the girls, who are by now curled up under a ratty yellow duvet on the couch.
“Mmm, thank you,” says Hannah. He smiles around the mouth of his own bottle and gets out his phone to make a call. Cas strokes Hannah’s hair intermittently, a small smile playing on her lips. The girls look content, comfortable, like they’ve been doing this for years, rather than a couple of months, and when the doorbell chimes, signaling their dinner has arrived, he knows it is nowhere near the last time.
IN THE CHILL OF HER DISPLEASURE
Veronica Wilde
The spring twilight is just beginning to cool when the dommes and slaves arrive for Carima’s salon. One by one they park in the circular drive and ring the bell: five women in Christian Louboutins and Jimmy Choos, formidable from their blood-red manicures to their confident eyes. And behind them, six boys, whose expressions range from intimidated to excited.
Carima’s slave, Liam, has already built the fire and has been waiting in the foyer. “They’re here.”
She caresses his tousled blond hair. “Then let them in.”
He squares his shoulders. The tension in his jaw amuses her. Liam is young; she is his first mistress. He’s been her slave ever since they met at a fetish ball seven months ago, arriving every weekend to run her bath, wash her car and clean her stable. She keeps him naked whenever possible, hard cock on display, so she can use him at a moment’s notice, his pretty mouth gagged and his dick buried deep inside her. Already he serves beautifully, can take the hardest spanking and obeys perfectly whether he’s cuffed or leashed or caged. Yet preparing for this salon has had him on edge all day.
Liam opens the carved oak door, playing butler with equal nervousness and courtesy. The dommes give him admiring looks as they file into the polished parquet foyer. Of the six boys following behind them, two are accompanying their mistresses and the other four are uncollared. They are here as an audition of sorts; tonight is the first in what is to be a monthly femdom salon and it is the slaves’ job to serve drinks and refreshments, give foot rubs and tend the fire. If these boys perform well, they may find a mistress here.
“Let’s go into the living room.” Carima runs a critical eye over the new boys. They’re a good-looking lot, athletic and long limbed. The tallest one is dark haired and handsome, and gives her a look of brazen sexual assessment as he passes. Well, then. Someone has a lesson in subservience to learn.
The boys undress in the adjoining dungeon, then return, kneel and give their names. The handsome, cocky one is Colton, who kneels with the dignity of a captured soldier. Every slave in the room is sporting a stiff cock and the tension of their flexed thigh muscles is exquisite. But all eyes are on Colton and his little smirk says he knows it: every domme in the room is eyeing his thick, enormous cock.
Carima notices that Liam is watching Colton, albeit with a scowl. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was jealous. She prods him. “Take the boys into the kitchen to begin serving.”
He nods, suddenly looking so vulnerable and buff at the same time that it gives her a protective pang in her chest.
“At last,” Carima says, settling back into her chaise. The warmth of the flames intensifies the light scent of daffodils and irises around the room. “I’m glad we started these salons. It’s so hard to find time to see each other these days.”
“It’s good training for them as well,” throws in the oldest domme, Anne.
“Training, schmaining,” Stephanie scoffs. “I just want to relax. How is Irving, Carima? You haven’t mentioned any competitions lately.”
The newest domme turns. “You enter your slave in competitions?”
The rest of them erupt into laughter, though Carima enjoys the fleeting image of an equestrian competition for submissive men. “Irving is my horse. My slave is named Liam,” she corrects.
Predictable jokes about bits and riding crops ensue as the naked slaves return with the trays of refreshments. They are being judged on their manners and adherence to protocol. But most of them are nervous; it’s their first salon too. Carima casts a critical eye on Liam to make sure he is serving gracefully. To her irritation, his eyes are still locked broodingly on Colton. He’s actually threatened: that’s a first. Of course, he’s never had to share her attention before. And being an exceptionally pretty boy, Liam’s used to being the pick of the litter at any party. This is the first time another slave has challenged his confidence.
Colton seems aware of his effect, serving her tea with a slight smirk. “Like your boots,” he murmurs.
Speaking to her is a violation of salon protocol. But he’s giving her an open invitation to test Liam. “Thank you. They do make my feet ache…”
He’s on his knees in a flash. “Allow me.”
And just as he slips off her right boot and begins to massage the not-really-aching sole of her foot, a horrible clatter and shriek sound to the right.
Liam has spilled wine down another domme’s leg.
“I’m sorry, fuck, I am so sorry,” he mutters, swabbing ineffectively at her boot. The rest of the dommes and slaves stare in horrified amusement at the spectacle.
Carima wants to kill him. Instead she says calmly, “Into the dungeon, Liam.”
His green eyes fill with fear but she doesn’t relent. The dommes and slaves watch with curiosity as she slips on her boot and guides him into the adjoining dungeon by his neck.
She turns on the electric wall-mounted torches. She wasn’t intending to use the dungeon tonight; this isn’t a play party, just a salon. But Liam has embarrassed both of them and he must be punished.
She retrieves the chains she keeps chilled in the small dungeon freezer. Liam’s color drains from his face but she marches him toward the menacing X of the St. Andrew’s cross. “Lift your arms.”
He lifts pleading eyes to her. Pinching his nipple hard, she repeats, “Lift your arms.”
He obeys, never taking his eyes from the heavy, ice-cold lengths of chain. Carima refuses to let herself soften, shackling his arms to the upper points and following with his ankles on the bottom points, wrapping his body liberally with the chains. Liam shivers wildly, every inch of him naked, open and available.
His voice is miserable. “What—what are you going to do?”
“You don’t get to ask me that,” she retorts, giving his thigh a stinging smack of her crop.
He gives her a defiant look before dropping his gaze. She slides a black blindfold down over his eyes anyhow to intensify the sensation of helplessness. Then she gently traces the leather tip of her crop up his inner thigh.
“I thought you were ready for this.”
“I am.”
“You don’t seem to be.”
“I’ve just never been around other people when I’m…” His voice fades but she knows how to finish that sentence. When I’m submissive, naked, helpless and hard.
