F Is for Fetish, page 7
Remembering the words, Lisette shivered.
Slowly, Kylie made her way across the edge of the dance floor, casually studying the scene. She didn’t need to elbow people aside, but as the crowd grew thicker, passage became more difficult. She paused in one corner, her back to Lisette.
Lisette looked, breathing hard, blinking to make sure it was real. Her wrists were crossed behind her; the hot smell of sex was in her nostrils. She could feel the tension in her hips, feel the tingling in her fingertips. Her lips and tongue were dry. She shot a glance toward the door, wondering how fast she could get back to her hotel and masturbate, or if she could manage to do it on the street without anyone noticing. Then she licked her lips and reached for the zipper on the back of the woman’s jeans. Her hands shaking, Lisette pulled the zipper awkwardly down the center of Kylie’s ass, to the very top of her crack, the tight leather peeling insistently away, the white flesh smooth and sweat-slick underneath. Kylie was like a mannequin, waiting.
The zipper reached the halfway point, and Lisette stopped.
A laugh worked its way underneath the throbbing beat of Tribe 8, as Kylie threw her head back. She turned her head only just enough for Lisette to hear her. “Your name had better be Lisette,” said Kylie.
The press of women was tight all around them. Lisette looked at Kylie, turned now to face her. Kylie’s cold steel eyes mercilessly opened up that baby-doll dress.
“Kylie,” said Lisette.
The blood-red lips, the bottom one pierced with a 16-gauge labrette, parted deliciously, savoring the taste of a morsel not yet devoured. Kylie licked them with a red tongue, also pierced.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Kylie, sliding forward to kiss Lisette and let her hands creep around the swell of the girl’s breasts, right there on the edge of the dance floor. Lisette melted into Kylie’s hands. Kylie’s place was not far away, and she wasn’t really in the mood for dancing. They didn’t talk much—they had talked enough already, and neither one could afford to break the spell Kylie had cast. Lisette walked three paces behind Kylie, hypnotized by the sway of her white flesh exposed beneath the half-opened zipper and at the terminus of the black leather vest.
They had to pass through an alley to get to the place. Suddenly Lisette gasped as Kylie turned on her, slamming her against the smooth concrete wall with the full force of that leather-clad body. Kylie pressed against Lisette, grinding against the ephemeral cotton of the baby-doll dress. She kissed Lisette hard, thrusting her tongue into the sub’s mouth and then suckling hungrily on her lower lip. Lisette whimpered while Kylie reached down the front of her dress, feeling her breast, rubbing and pinching the hardness of her nipple. With the other hand, she reached under the dress, sliding around Lisette’s ass and squeezing, then working her fingers around and pressing them between Lisette’s thighs.
Lisette wasn’t wearing even the barest whisper of underwear, and Kylie’s two fingers slid easily into the pretty girl’s cunt while her thumb worked her clit. Lisette’s mouth opened wide in a gasp of stunned pleasure as Kylie pressed her fingers home. Kylie kissed Lisette again, rougher this time, biting her lower lip and smearing lipstick haphazardly. She slid her fingers out of Lisette’s cunt and lifted them to Lisette’s lips, stroking gently. Lisette licked Kylie’s fingers, tasting herself.
Kylie moved both hands down the dress now, pulling two of her buttons open. Lisette pressed herself against the wall, not daring to move her own hands, as Kylie felt her ample breasts, squeezing gently and then pinching the nipples roughly. Tweaking them. Now the dress was open halfway down the front, and the cool night air was caressing Lisette’s body.
Kylie took her hands out of the dress and stood there looking at the sub in the faint moonlight, at the exposed mounds of her tits and the white belly. She pressed forward once more, up close, one hand on Lisette’s tit, the other reaching down smoothly as she lifted her foot.
The switchblade slid smoothly out of the well-oiled boot sheath, open without a sound and up against Lisette’s face, bright blade flickering in the moonlight.
“Upstairs,” she said, as she turned and walked away down the alley. The switchblade had vanished like a whisper.
Lisette buttoned her dress up quickly before she hurried to follow Kylie, but she missed a few buttons in her haste.
It was an attic studio, nested atop two flights of stairs over the office of a queer nonprofit. A single room, empty except for the necessities: bed, chair, chains, restraints. The finish on the hardwood floor was worn away to white in the spot under the eyehole; the black leather restraints hung on a chain above the worn patch.
“Turn around and walk out,” said Kylie, “if that’s what you want. No hard feelings.”
Lisette had long ago given up that option, and she shook her head quickly, the blood throbbing in her head.
Kylie shrugged and smiled. “Then you know the drill.”
Lisette did. She was revealed only in the flickering lights of the city and the headlamps from cars heading into the hills. Breathless, she reached up and undid the buttons of the baby-doll dress.
She opened it up slowly, sensuously, shrugged the dress off and stood there naked except for boots, nervously holding the dress in front of her. Kylie nodded approvingly.
Lisette put the dress on the floor near the door. She took off her boots and socks, and left them there next to the dress. Then she walked over to the bare spot on the floor.
Kylie watched as Lisette put her wrists in the leather restraints, buckling them just tightly enough and then snapping the padlocks shut. She had a lot of trouble with the second restraint, and especially with the second padlock. Kylie did not move to help her.
Lisette had no piercings, no tattoos. Kylie liked knowing that this was an untouched body begging to be marked and that she would exercise all the restraint necessary to make not a single discoloration on that expanse of virgin skin. Damn, this dyke was beautiful.
Her lips parted, lush and inviting; her body grew charged with desire. Lisette knew she had sealed her fate, and almost without knowing she was doing it, she spoke, answering the unanswered question.
“I trust you,” she said, her voice husky.
Kylie smiled as Lisette stood there naked and chained, whimpering faintly in the midnight. She began to walk toward her. A vicious laugh, delighting in mayhem and the sound of broken glass. The switchblade appeared in Kylie’s hand.
“Trust whoever you want,” Kylie said—the point of the switchblade straying dangerously close to Lisette’s jugular—“You belong to me now.”
Kylie pressed her body against Lisette’s, stroking the vulnerable white throat. She let her tongue laze out and lightly touch Lisette’s cheek. Lisette could feel the swell of Kylie’s breasts through the leather vest, feel the smoothness of Kylie’s left hand against her bare belly. Feel the insistence with which Kylie reached down and slipped a hand between Lisette’s legs.
Gently, two of Kylie’s fingers explored the slick flesh of Lisette’s cunt. She slipped both fingers in, making Lisette slump in the restraints.
“Don’t start that shit,” growled Kylie, grasping Lisette’s hair. “Potential nerve damage. On your feet, woman.”
Guided by the force of Kylie’s fingers inside her, Lisette steadied herself, taking the pressure off her restrained wrists, locking her knees.
“Not that, either,” whispered Kylie, grinning as she slid her fingers gently in and out of Lisette’s body. “Haven’t you heard the stories about altar boys? Lock your knees and next thing you know, you’ll be out cold. Or maybe you want to be an altar boy.” Kylie’s fingers pumped a torturous rhythm in and out of Lisette, invading and nurturing. Her other hand was curved around Lisette’s neck, holding the blade against her throat.
“Wanna be an altar boy?” Kylie was not quite smiling.
Lisette managed to shake her head, faintly, and unlock her knees. Kylie’s thumb came down in a semicircle and pressed, lightly, against the hard bud of Lisette’s clit.
Kylie’s lips were now so close to Lisette’s ear that they moved against the flesh as she spoke. Pressed together as they were, the razor edge of the quicksilver blade touched both their throats, and only Kylie’s iron control prevented the rending of flesh.
“As I was saying…” said Kylie, drawing the edge of the blade across Lisette’s throat, awakening her skin, “…this is act one of a morality play.”
Slowly, Kylie drew the edge of the knife along Lisette’s parted lips, gently prodding the very tip of her tongue. Her other hand absently caressed the full breasts and worked the swollen nipples, the pressure growing harder as Lisette’s whimpering moans gained volume and desperation. Her breasts were extremely sensitive, Kylie knew, though not from experience; long, slow, rhythmic nipple play with the slightest pressure on her clit could make Lisette come even if she was standing up. Kylie knew this, and she was using it for everything it was worth. Lisette’s eyes were wide open, staring into Kylie’s as the knife entered her, the tip just grazing the roof of her mouth.
“Danger is such a luxury for a woman,” mused Kylie, as if reciting the only lines to the morality play she’d composed in her head, her pierced tongue flickering in an unusually erotic and serpentine fashion, “when she is absolutely and totally safe.”
Lisette could taste the sharp tang of the metal, could feel Kylie’s power as she stroked her tongue with the flat of the blade. Gradually, Lisette felt it coming on, and she knew that only Kylie could stop it. Her eyes flickered and Kylie seemed to know, seemed to sense what was happening. The pinching of her nipples grew stronger, faster, the rhythmic squeeze more insistent. Smoothly, Kylie slipped the blade out of Lisette’s mouth, drawing it slick across her cheek and then down her belly, spreading her fingers as she pressed it flat against the front of Lisette’s pubic bone.
“Come, you bitch,” growled Kylie as her fingers pressed hard on Lisette’s clit, and that’s exactly when Lisette did.
She had come standing up many times before, but this time was different. It was so hard to stand up when all she wanted to do was to give in to this woman, surrender to her, lie under her feet and be caressed by the power of her silver blade. Lisette moaned faintly as she came, hard and fast, and finally her knees gave out. Kylie was ready even before Lisette was; the blade disappeared as Kylie threw it to pierce the wood of the far wall, where it stood out, perpendicular and quivering. Kylie’s other hand left Lisette’s breast, reaching up and hitting the quick-release so that Lisette fell into her embrace. Within a few seconds Lisette was laid out on the floor, Kylie kneeling over, propping a small pillow under her head, and setting the other woman’s bound wrists on her stomach just beneath her breasts.
The faint spasms of Lisette’s orgasm were still surging through her. She felt safe in a way she had not felt for a long time. Kylie was over her, holding a squeeze bottle of grape juice, offering broken-off morsels of Saltine cracker. Lisette looked up into darkness and saw only the serpentine twistings of Kylie’s body as she unfastened the padlocks.
It was what Kylie expected, and what Lisette had demanded so many weeks ago across the electronic frontier that had separated them. That she should succumb so completely after the torture, that the rest of the night would be spent in luxurious nothingness. But Lisette, surprising even herself, did not sleep. When she thought about it later, her memories were dimmed, clouded and obscured as they were by a desire so acute it obliterated her mind. She remembered Kylie undressing at the side of the bed, the buttery black leather peeling away from the tight breasts and tattooed legs, the gentle scissor of Kylie’s thighs as she climbed onto the futon, her tongue tracing the faintest path up Lisette’s throat to her mouth, then plumbing its depths insistently. Kylie was surprised when Lisette asked with a faint, desirous whisper for Kylie to make love to her, to fuck her until she couldn’t be fucked anymore. Smiling faintly but still very serious, Kylie said, “Act two.”
Kylie did just as Lisette had asked, spreading her legs over Lisette and settling the pierced cunt down on Lisette’s seeking mouth and tongue. Then, eagerly, Kylie lowered her face and worked her own tongue into Lisette, building on the tiny spasms which still occasionally went through the succulent flesh. Kylie was the one to come first, and she found herself doing it a second time before Lisette climaxed again herself.
Wrapped in each other, they began to fall asleep as the apartment flooded with diffuse light. One hand on Lisette’s breast, Kylie counted down the number of things she knew about this woman. Residence, New York City. Account name lisette@dom.com. Stage name Selena Montage. Real name? Who the fuck knew? No piercings, no tattoos, no distinguishing marks; no whips, no spanking, no bruises, no hickeys. Back in New York, she topped men and women for a living, a well-known and respected young dom with a tendency toward extreme cruelty. An excellent top, but also a private switch with a fondness for the edge. They had thirteen transcontinental friends in common, Kylie knew, a very lucky number. Lisette had checked with them all concerning Kylie’s reliability and reputation—Lisette, it seemed, was a very careful woman.
They had said so few words to each other—the weeks of text-only communication had perhaps filled much of that need. Kylie wondered if they would talk over breakfast. Kylie wondered if Lisette was fond of omelettes.
Light started to break through the apartment, but it was not yet dawn.
MOLLY LASTER
THE DEATH OF THE MARABOU SLIPPERS
FEATHERS. Pink-tipped white feathers. The feathers transformed the shoes from any other innocent pair of bedroom slippers into true decadence. But maybe they weren’t quite so innocent to start with. Maybe they knew what they were doing all along. You’ve seen the type—smug in their open-toedness. Willful in their daring high-heeled glory. Deliciously trimmed with a bit of tender white-pink marabou fluff on the front, just to get your attention.
I’d never owned shoes like these before. Sure, I’d seen versions of them in the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog, insolently positioned with toe toward the camera, daring the casual peruser to purchase them. And I’d even drooled over such fantasy footwear when it was worn by my favorite forties screen stars: Myrna Loy. Claudette Colbert. Garbo. But those women had the clothes to go with the shoes—angel-sleeved night- gowns with three-foot trains, tight satin slips with plunging necklines. Such sexy slippers weren’t meant for someone like me—a girl who owns plain white bra and panty sets, who wears Gap sweats to bed, whose one experience with a pair of black fishnets was a comedic disaster.
What purpose could a pair of wayward shoes like these possibly have?
Still, when I caught sight of the immoral mules at a panty sale in San Francisco, I bought them. Even though they were a size 8 and I’m a size 6. Even though I found the very sight of them fairly wicked. Even though my own bedroom slippers at home were made of plaid flannel and had been chewed on repeatedly by my golden retriever puppy. I simply thought Lucas would like them.
He did.
“I’m gonna fuck those shoes,” he said when I pulled them from the silver bag. “Sweetheart, those shoes are history.”
I’d never seen him react like that to anything. My tall, handsome, green-eyed husband has a healthy libido. I definitely get my share of bedroom romping time. But as far as kinkiness goes, he has always appeared positively fetish-free. No requests for handcuffs. No need for teddies or “special” outfits to get him in the mood. No urgent trips to Safeway at midnight for whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and maraschino cherries.
“Put them on,” Lucas hissed. “Now.”
I kicked off my patent leather penny loafers, pulled off my black stockings, and slid into the marabou mules. The white-pink bit of fluff on the toes made the shoes look like some sort of pastry, a fantasy confection created just for feet. My red toenails peeked through the opening.
Dirty, I thought. Indecent.
Lucas got on the floor and kissed my exposed toes, stroked the soft feathery tips of the shoes, then stood and quickly shed his clothes.
“They’re bad,” he said excitedly, positioning himself between my parted legs, his cock over my feet, as if preparing to do push-ups. He’s ex-military and has excellent formation for this activity—his body becomes stiff and boardlike. The sleek muscles in his back shift becomingly under his tan skin. In this position, his straining cock went directly between the two mules.
“Oh, man,” he whispered. “So bad they’re good.”
He went up and down over my shoes, digging his cock between them, dragging it over the marabou trim, sighing with delight when the feathers got between his legs. I could only imagine how those pale white feathers tickled his most sensitive organ.
“They’re so soft,” he murmured.
I’d been staring down at him, at his fine ass—clenching with each depraved push-up—at his strong back, the muscles rippling. Now, I looked straight ahead, into the full-length mirror across the room, taking in the total effect of our afternoon of debauchery.
I was fully dressed: long black skirt, black mock turtleneck, my dark hair in a refined ponytail, small spectacles in place. If you ended the reflection at my shins, you might have placed me for exactly what I am, an editor at an educational publishing company. Below my shins, however, was Lucas, doing ungodly push-ups over my brand-new shoes. My slim ankles were bare, feet sliding slightly in the too-big marabou-trimmed mules. If you disregarded the shoes, and imagined Lucas moving in stop-motion animation, he might have been culled from a series of Eadweard Muybridge pictures. But with the shoes in place, and with Lucas’s body moving rigidly up and down, this picture looked more like something from a fantastic pornographic movie.
