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CHAPTER THREE: PUSS 'N' BOOTS - PART TWO
Pip bit her lip and ran through a mental list of her usual partners. She could try Hayato. He and Max were in a monogamish open relationship and still played with other people from time to time. But, the last three times she’d tried him, he’d been busy with a trial, Donovan’s business, or Max. And Pip just didn’t want to deal with his voicemail again.
There was Sara, a puckish bottom who spat fire and burned hot. But Pip wasn’t in the mood for and definitely didn’t have the energy to top tonight.
Mistress Vera was out of town at a kinky convention. Rand was undercover somewhere in the city on a vice case. Solomon was sick with the flu.
Pip sighed and ran down her phone’s contact list. Pursing her lips, she admitted that she did have a handful of numbers that she could call for some one-night, strings-free sex. But, by this point in her life, she knew strings-free didn’t always mean less complicated and the whole idea just made Pip feel exhausted.
So, instead, she pulled out her brand new toys and laid them out on her bed. She flipped off all the lights except for her bedside lamp and turned on her stereo, settling on some lyric-less jazz.
Closing her eyes, she lay down on her satin sheets next to the toys and allowed her mind let go of all the day’s stress—Phil, Sam, work, and her empty apartment—and let her imagination wander.
She imagined a person standing shadowy and mysterious at the foot of her bed. She didn’t know them. Could barely see them. But she imagined that she could feel their presence. Waiting. Wanting. Ready and rearing for her.
She reached out for the nipple clamps. In her mind, her fantasy’s phantom hands stroked the jewel-toned beads that adorned and would weigh down the delicate silver chain. Her nipples tingled and tightened under her shirt when she thought about how that figure would look at her with a flash of a sadistic smile in the darkness.
With nimble fingers, she stripped her top off, leaving her bare but for her bra to the spectral gaze of her invisible lover. A 32A, she didn’t really need to wear a bra—studies showed that, for a woman her size, bras served absolutely zero practical function—but she liked the look of them, even if she happened to be the only one enjoying the view. The delicate lace. The textures and colors. The way the shape and material hugged her body.
Today, she wore a red lace quarter-cup bra that framed her subtle curves, while leaving her dark, tight nipples bared. She reached out and pinched her peaks. Not particularly sensitive, she could take a lot of sensation there. Preferred it. She gripped her nipple between her forefinger and thumb and twisted hard, imagining it was someone else’s hand—hard, huge, and rough—on her flesh. She hissed, her toes curling.
Her other hand pinched the alligator clamps. She gasped when she attached the first clamp on her nipple. Pain shot from the tip of her breast like a stab of ice before burning through her body. Without thought, she whimpered and released the clamp.
Mentally, she heard her imagined lover tut her, cooing softly in a graveled growl that sought to comfort even as he drank in her pain, before she re-administered the clamp—slower this time, releasing the pressure at a steady pace that allowed her body to adjust to the sensation.
She took deep, heavy breaths and completely let go of the clamp, the burn making her whole body tighten and coil deliciously. Her other hand reached out to grab her still free breast, crushing the small mound in her grasp viciously. For a moment, she hesitated, not sure if she was up for another clamp.
But, in her head, she felt the shadowy figure urge her on, imagined his hand squeezing, pinching, and readying her other breast. She reached for the other clamp, very careful not to pull on the chain, and attached it to her other nipple with a keening moan that seemed to claw up from her belly and lurch out from her throat.
Her body arched up reflexively from her bed as sensation tore through her torso. Oh dear, sweet mother of God! Her brain blanked for long moments while her tense, stunned body processed the feeling.
It always felt miraculous, when she was in the middle of a scene. When the pain bubbled over into a pleasure so deep and so strong it overwhelmed. She felt as if she could feel her blood pumping. It rushed hot and hurried through her veins. Acutely aware of every muscle as it moved, she could feel her pussy pulse, felt her arousal slip and spread over ready skin that beckoned and begged. It was like flipping a switch that intensified everything. It was like finally feeling alive.
With more effort than it should have taken, she tucked her legs underneath her to sit up. She reached for the flogger. It really was beautiful. Some kind of honey-colored wood, it felt smooth and sweet in her hand. The maple-colored lengths were long, soft leather, thickly cut and heavily gathered. She was glad that it didn’t look or feel like a terribly mean-spirited toy. Even as turned on as she was, she wasn’t sure if she could handle much more.
She studied the toy for a moment, letting the weight of it sit heavy in her hands. Pip knew that there were people who were uncomfortable with toys like this. Beyond those squicked out by the pain it could cause or those swayed by the general kink-negativity that often haunted those into BDSM, she knew, as a black woman, her race, and the loaded history it often carried, made this particular kind of play problematic.
Pip, who thought of herself as a knowledgeable, logical, as well as empathetic person, understood all that. And had wrestled with the ethicality of her desires. Sometimes, she still did.
But her desires didn’t hurt anyone. Didn’t bring harm or suffering into a world with far too much of it already. She played while understanding the power dynamics and implications inherent and made sure to only share that play with those who understood them too. Those who respected her, in-scene and out, whatever their play looked like from the outside in.
That was the magic of sex and kink. That it somehow, through some secret alchemy, felt nothing like that ugly, painful part of the past and, instead, brought only pleasure between eagerly consenting partners.
So, though she couldn’t ignore or erase the cultural weight of the flogger in her hand, she could appreciate its full context. The artistry that went into its construction. The potential for pleasure that the toy held within it. Even the taboo tickle of taking such a barbaric instrument and transgressively using it for her pleasure and empowerment.
Given the shape and weight of the piece, Pip knew that for a girl like her this was a comfort toy. With the right swing to the right places, it would hit hard and strong like a good massage. Beating her back in all the right places, releasing all the tension she held.
Getting on all fours, she stripped herself of the rest of her clothes and bowed her back, cringing when the silver chain swayed with the weight of the clamps’ gemstones. She choked her grip on the shined wood, her palms a bit sweaty but still sure, and imagined that her fantasy’s hand, not her own, held the flogger.
Not hard this time. No, the hand that curled around the subtly curved handle was soft. Still strong, but small and practically shaking with excitement. She imagined blood red nails that would tap impatiently against the wood, a wordless scold that—tsk, tsk—wondered what to do with her. Pip shuddered as a shiver of pure anticipation shot up her spine.
If Pip was honest, she preferred playing with women. They hit harder. With gender politics off the table, they were often less concerned about how much she could take. Because, resilient women themselves, they understood that Pip could take everything they were willing to give.
Pip swung the flogger, letting it strike the back of her shoulder in a smacking thud. Her back bowed and her mouth opened on a silent cry. She swung again, aiming for a matching mark on the other shoulder.
This time, she pushed into the strike, meeting the leather eagerly. She pictured the intoxicated look on her partner’s expression. The wide and menacing grin that would spread in a violently crimson curve across her face at Pip’s bowed back and her skin, warmed under the flogger’s unrelenting touch.
That image in mind, she swung again. And again. She lashed her back until her arm grew heavy, the muscles in her arms weakening long before the hungry flesh of her back.
With a sigh, she dropped the flogger and rolled onto her back. The burn bloomed hot and lingering along her skin as she pressed into her mattress. She moaned and her legs clenched on the throbbing ache in her cunt that wanted—needed—more.
She took a deep, fortifying breath and reached for the nipple clamps. Gingerly, with even more care than she’d used putting them on, she removed them, groaning while her stomach clenched and the air rushed out of her lungs. She focused on the burn along her back, letting her mind narrow on the scratching rub of her normally soft, downy comforter as it tortured and teased her abused skin. She sucked in deep, even breaths, feeling her thin frame grow and expand with each intake of air.
Only then did she reach for the dildo. Spreading her bent legs weakly, she imagined her fantasy lover coming over her now, hard and huge and undeniably male again. She knew what she would look like, left sprawled out on her bed, to him. Laid out. Ravished. Waiting.
She put the dildo’s tapered head at her tight but welcoming entrance, pushing its long, thick, ridged length into her wet pussy smoothly, each spiraled vein along the shaft a ripple of pure pleasure. Laying her aching arm over her stomach, she stroked her clit and shoved the dildo in and out of her in fast, deep strokes.
It wasn’t going to take long, as turned on as she was. She could feel her climax build, fast and strong. She bit her lip and arched her back, pressing her throbbing shoulders deeper into the down, while her hands worked furiously. She imagined her fantasy, this undeniable weight crashing down and over—and inside—her, taking what he wanted even as he gave, showing her how well she could take him.
Her eyes flew open and her body finally broke. Her mouth parted on a choked moan when her orgasm swept over her. Trying to catch her breath, she blinked wildly. Her heart rate raced. She heaved on gasping breaths that wracked her shuddering frame as her pussy clenched around the thick cock still deep inside her.
Settling on her bed, now damp with her sweat and arousal, she pulled the glass toy from her pussy, feeling emptier as each thick inch left her body.
And, just like that, the fantasy was over.
The dream was done.
Pip rolled over, grabbing one of her huge, fluffed pillows close, and just stared at the empty half of her bed. She hugged the body-sized bundle of down tight but, no matter how hard she tried to conjure it, her exhausted mind wouldn’t allow her an imagined pair of arms to hold her.
Pip bit her pouting lip and pushed the pillow away. She knew she should clean up—good kinksters took care of their toys; after all, their toys took excellent care of them—should put her clothes and dishes away, brush her teeth, re-twist her hair, and actually settle under the covers and into bed.
Instead, she spared the other side of her bed one more longing glance before rolling onto her back and spreading her limbs wide across the whole soft space. She lay her head down on her satin-covered pillow and closed slightly wet, weighed-down eyes, shutting out the world and letting her dreams take her.
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