Literary BDSM Fetish Erotica
"Raw Ginger. Poison Apple. Silver Scalpel." - a Licorice Whips sex story by Juliet Cook
You see me before I see you. Poised on the shiny edge of the barstool, leaning forward as the bartender feeds me maraschino cherries. The red, wet globes seem to glow like tiny hanging lamps in the dim heaviness of the room. Fingertips brush marooned lips.
I feel someone watching me. I slowly turn towards you, meet your gaze, turn back to my cocktail, and wait. You thought I’d get up and walk your way, didn’t you?
You look at what I’m wearing as you approach. My dress is black and falls just below the knees. I’m wearing black hosiery and heavy makeup – I’m black around the eyes. I’m sipping something clear, perhaps vodka on the rocks. You notice my thin fingers and sharpened nails, painted Vampire Red. The room feels glossy and blurry at the same time as you sit down next to me. When you say my name, I offer a small smile. An ambiguous tilt of the lips. “Let’s go back up to your room,” I suggest.
What I want you to do is shove me against the wall as soon as the door clicks shut. Shove me hard, slamming my arms against the wall, stretched above my head. I know a girl with black angel wings. Tattooed on her back, life-size. I visualize the black sequined pasties on her nipples. I imagine her upstretched arms, shackled above the stage. One night, she asked me if I came to play. She was wearing a feathery black masquerade mask. She had freckles on her cheeks. She liked to hog-tie a guy to her bed and stuff an onion in his mouth until he couldn’t stop crying. She liked to laugh. But she couldn’t draw any blood that night because the establishment served liquor. What I want you to do is encircle my neck with one hand while your other hand pulls at my hair, hard enough to make me gasp. Or part my hair gently like a black curtain, then sink your fangs into my neck. I want you unable to control your hands. I want you to immediately thrust them up my dress, up my thighs. Whisper my name. Growl it. Slide your fingers under the black lace of my panties. I imagine the black balloons breaking. This is how she practices her whipping techniques. Lines up a row of balloons and controls the flick of her wrist so she can crack her whip against the whole line-up without breaking a single balloon. Then she breaks them, one by one. The sudden snap, the smell of latex. She ignores all the guys staring at her hands and smiles at me.
Serenity, by Matthew Slade (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
You don’t grab me as soon as the door closes. Instead, you stare into my eyes, as if calculating your approach. Remember that time you donned makeup and a dress for me because you thought that might turn me on? I’d told you before I found girls more aesthetically pleasing. You can’t read my mind. I stare back with opaque eyes and a slight sneer. You take one step closer. I act nonplussed and tell the truth—I wanted to be overwhelmed. Instead, you’re gingerly circling me like some kind of cat. I tell you, “I’m thinking of the shape and smell of raw ginger. Eating it like candy.” When a questioning look flickers into your eyes, I take advantage. “If you won’t take control, I will. I know what I want and I know what you want, too.” I’m speaking softly, unsmiling. The look in your eyes shows fascination mixed with bemusement. My tongue tastes like a mixed drink, even though I was drinking straight vodka. One time I made a boy crawl around naked. From the bedroom to the kitchen. To the blender to make me another drink. Naked, I made him polish my toenails. Vamp. He did a very messy job and had to be punished. Certain pleasures had to be withheld from him. It was more of a game than a sexual turn-on. The thing that turned me on was the sound of the blender blades. The other thing that turned me on was the fact that he kept binder clips on his bedside table to torture his girlfriend, but he would do whatever I would say. “What do you want me to do?” you ask, halfway between serious and teasing. Intrigued.
“Lie on the floor right there.” I gesture. You oblige. I walk over to where you’re lying face-up on the hotel carpet. The carpet reminds me of a shorthaired cat, domestic. I like contrasts. I get into a position where I’m standing above you, one leg on each side of your face. If I were to sit down, I’d be straddling your mouth—but I’m not sitting down. I’m standing above you and you can see up my dress. A view of lacy black panties. A view unencumbered except by distance.
I begin speaking to you, slowly and not entirely nicely: “I know what you want. You just love thinking about me reading your poetry and getting so fucking worked up that I can’t even control my own hands from creeping up between my thighs. You love imagining that you don’t even have to be in the same room with me to get me off. You like that kind of power, don’t you? You like thinking even your indirect presence affects me. Like you’re some kind of warped ghost always haunting me. You picture me riding the bus home, thinking about your hair, thinking about your fingers, until even the slightest vibrations of the seat are arousing me. Then when I get home, I have to lock the bathroom door, strip off my clothes, climb into the shower, grab the shower nozzle from its hook. All while thinking about you. Do you wonder if I choose hot or cold, as I lie on the shower floor and spread my legs?” Just once, I let that boy tie me up. Cuffs and chains—one limb to each corner of his bed. He thought he was in control with me spread out in that position. But the thing that turned me on was the image of my own fettered body against white sheets. An image in a dark poem. Then he blindfolded me, made it darker. I started flailing around, pretending I was trying to get free. But I really just wanted to hear the music of the chains. He thought he was in control of me, but my wrists are so skinny, I could have easily slipped away. Into my own imagery. Into my own soundtrack of heavy metal blender blades and wailing banshees. A murder of crows screeching. Ice cubes, ice chips, ice shards, and icicles dangling like weaponry. Like stalactites in some dangerous underground cave. Some dangerous underground game. Bloody nail polish, black wings, binder clips, and whips. On stage, someone started her angel wings on fire. A quick, blue flame.
“You’re getting a little excited, aren’t you? But there’s nothing you can do about it yet. Maybe I just devised that little shower scene because I thought you might enjoy it. Maybe I thought about climbing into that shower, but I didn’t. You know how you say you need an audience for your poetry? Well, perhaps I require an audience for some of my performances, too. Admit it, you’re willing to assume the position of voyeur. You already have. You’re already on your back, staring up my dress, hoping my panties get wet just from talking to you. But maybe I just like the sound of my own voice.” As I’ve spoken these last few lines, I’ve been slowly sliding my palms up the insides of each thigh. Do you remember how soft they are? I finally slide my black lacy panties down, past the sharp edges of hipbones. I step out of them, lightly toss them to the side of your head. I spread my pussy lips apart, exposing my clitoris. “Is this what you want to see?” I want to make you watch me, but I already feel myself reaching a point where I want you to take over. But maybe I shouldn’t let you. Maybe I want to make you watch me make myself come and then leave. But my breath feels ragged. You’re staring at me knowingly. My legs feel weak. I want to sit down—but then I’d be sitting on your face. You’re staring at me like you know some deep secret about me. I want you to tell it to me. You say my name once, looking right into my eyes instead of up my dress. “Do you think you’re ready to be in charge now?” I ask, trying to sound collected, but it emerges more like a moan. My question is all the invitation you need. You reach up and grab my thighs and pull me down. I collapse right below your face with a little gasp. I know you love the little-girl sounds I make. Your fingers take the place of mine. You slide one finger inside of me as your lips fasten over my clitoris like a kiss. That’s all it takes for me to come. I fall against your chest. You stroke my hair.
“I’m not done with you,” you whisper into my ear. Your voice dark and sultry. Your voice always piercing my illusion of control. “Why don’t you go take a nice, warm bath and relax those tight muscles of yours? I’ll come in and get you in a bit.” I decide to abide by your suggestion. I like baths and I like sexual tension. “Order me some room service,” I request. “Coffee. Waffles with whipped cream and strawberries.” I like the way I can stick my tongue into a strawberry and make the fruit expand outwards with the slightest pressure. I fleetingly wish you were a woman. I remember a short story in which one woman wanted to stick a strawberry into another woman’s asshole and take a photograph. She had a whole collection of these glossy pictures. But there was a long process leading up to the snapshot. In order for the second woman’s asshole to be opened wide enough to accommodate the first woman’s succulent strawberry, they had to work their way through a series of progressively larger dildos, until both of them were drenched in sweat. I absorbed this with a mixture of fascination and apprehension, tinged with repulsion. Too much work. Not dreamy enough. Not soft as a boy’s long hair—long enough to wash my feet. And when my feet are clean, I want a dirty-talking poet to mess me up again. Room service. I’ll have a combination dish of romantic and crude. Sacred and profane. Served up on silver platters. Wondering what’s steaming under those heavy lids.
I languish in warm water. I stare at my wrists and imagine them tied up with your hair. I realize I haven’t even had the chance to see or touch your naked body yet tonight. The definition of your bones. The sharp shoulder blades like stunted angel wings. Why did they stop growing, or who broke them off? I want you to tell me your angel and alien stories again. Remember the one about impalement and purple blood? I don’t want to wait much longer, but I sink back and try to relax. Why did I request room service anyway, when I don’t want to wait for the delivery? Perhaps I was entertaining some fleeting notion of lapping whipped cream and strawberries off your chest and stomach, but do I really need that kind of topping? Anyway, you wouldn’t like getting sticky. You won’t even lick my feet because they might be dirty. Well, I am now very, very clean. Dripping, I climb from the tub and consider immediately making my entrance back into the bedroom—who cares what the room service boy sees? Then I hear your voice, as if you had read my mind. “I didn’t order the room service yet. I’ll get you whatever you want later. So come out whenever you’re ready.”
I’m ready now. I open the door and your body greets me—naked and beautiful and intimidating. You want me on my knees on the floor. Your hands pin my hands to the ground and you growl that I’m not allowed to touch you. I love it when you growl into my ears. You bite my neck and thrust into me, hard. It hurts and I whimper as you growl. I want to touch you, but I’m not allowed. Your long hair is sweeping across my back and you’re chewing on my neck as you fuck me. You’re hurting me just enough. Then suddenly, you pause. You stop growling and hiss into my ear that we’re going to move to the bed now.
You slowly withdraw, help me to my feet, and lead me by my hand to the bed. You sit me down on the edge of it. My legs dangle down without touching the floor and I feel like a little girl. As a little girl, I stole a thick hardback book from the church library. It was a book about the lives of saints. A hard cover of pastel stripes in lavender and pink like Easter eggs. Inside, the lives and deaths of saints and martyrs. The female saints were almost always tortured. Explicit details of boiling cauldrons and floggings and draggings through the street naked. All she had to do was kiss his false idol but she kept refusing, resolute in her faith. She was tortured and she died and she came back to life just to be subjected to another bloody torture scene. She was drawn & quartered explicitly. All she had to do was worship his false god, but instead she kept bleeding. Stigmata, ecstatic nosebleed, the rapture. I absorbed myself in those scenes in private. I felt like I was reading a dirty novel. The musty smell of an old story. The yellowed and blood-drenched pages. The text offered up enough imagery and I furtively digested each chapter again and again. Saint Lucy had no eyes. Served up on silver platters. Wondering what’s steaming under those heavy lids. In her coffin, she could have been a fairy tale, if it wasn’t for the silver mask. A sharp edge. A metallic taste in the back of my throat. Her sacrifice, her sockets, her gaping holes. You spread my legs apart. My eyes are closed. You felt mean, almost bestial, when we were on the floor. When I was down on my hands and knees and couldn’t see or touch you. My knees hurt like I’ve been doing too much kneeling in church. I hear organ music. I smell incense masking the scent of something taboo. When I think of a chalice, I think of a stain spreading. When I think of hosts, I think of parasites. I think of vampires who know just the right seductive words to transform the pain into euphoria. You’re talking to me seductively and softly. You’ve always been able to talk me into anything. You’re tenderly caressing my neck. You spread my legs apart a little farther and softly kiss me back into the bed.
“I liked what you were doing before,” you whisper. “I really enjoyed watching you get yourself off in front of me. That excited me. But I think we both know I can do it better. I want to taste you. I want to feel you coming right against my lips. Then, right after you come for me, I’m going to make love to you and maybe you’ll even be allowed to touch me.” As you’re talking to me, you’re rubbing my feet. You pause to kiss each toe and then you slide your hands slowly up my legs. With your fingers pressing into my thighs, you again look into my eyes with your strangely hypnotic gaze. You continue talking to me. “Don’t ask me to stop because I won’t. Not even if you beg. I think you’re really going to enjoy this, but I know how sometimes you get scared if something feels too good. You don’t like to lose control, do you? But you’re just going to have to surrender and trust me, because I’m not going to stop.” One fingertip is gently massaging my clit and I feel like I’m sinking into something that has no top or bottom. “I might slow down if you ask me nicely. But you’d better say it sweetly because if you put up a fight, then I’ll just have to tie you up. I’ll just have to stick my tongue in your mouth to keep you quiet. Anyway, I know what you like, don’t I? You like contrasts. You like it soft then hard. You like it gentle then you want me to fuck that tight pussy of yours until you can hardly stand it anymore and I still won’t stop.” I feel excited, yet vulnerable. I feel like you’re a threat. Like you’re a temptation I haven’t been able to resist yet.
I grasp one of your hands as your other hand’s fingers, and then your tongue, probe expertly between my thighs. I close my eyes and hold onto your hand and sink back into the pillows, allowing myself to moan. Allowing myself to give in to the building sensation one more time. It’s like a flood when I come and you bite the inside of my thigh. You shift me onto the bed and position yourself above me, holding my arms down against the pillows. You slip into me easily, deeply. This time, you’re moving slowly, sliding all the way into me. I know my cunt is hot and wet and throbbing and I want you inside me even deeper and I’m tilting my hips off the bed to get as close to you as I can. “Please let me touch you now,” I whisper and you release my hands and slide your hands under my ass. I love the way your spine feels—the honed blades of your shoulders—your flat, smooth stomach—your delineated ribcage. Your long, wavy hair serpentined between my fingers. I grab handfuls and pull it until you gasp. I scratch my fingernails down your back. I suck on your tongue like it’s my favorite flavor of candy. Raw ginger. Poison apple. Silver scalpel.
Now I want to be on top so I can look down at you—so I can kiss your lips as I slide down—so I can see your shiny hair all spread out across the pillows. Glimmering. Undulating. Throbbing. I want you to tell me when you’re going to come so I can wrap my lips around your cock as you pulse into my mouth. I’ll swallow every hot drop. I’m already licking the sweat off your chest in anticipation. And before I leave, I’m going to draw some fucking blood. Remember that table you left me on? In an abandoned warehouse setting. In your depraved fantasy that used to include me. The smell of rusty equipment permeated the air. You thought it would turn me on and you were right. I’d told you before I sometimes fantasized about the merciless rhythm of machinery. Circular saw blades, hot metal, gleaming edges, pistons pumping with assembly line precision. You positioned me on a table with a circular saw blade at the top of my peripheral vision. I reached up and grabbed the serrated points. Remember how the tips of my fingers bled and you smeared it all over your chest like a primal tattoo? But it washed off, didn’t it? My imprint disappeared and left you clean and left you free and you escaped. Now it's just these hotel room liaisons. The cruel rhythm of time driving them farther and farther apart. I let you spread my legs farther and farther apart until I feel a ripping sensation. I let you tear me up, but this time I plan to leave a scar. A tattoo you can’t forget. Every time you look at yourself naked in the mirror, you’ll see my teeth above your heart.
Black angel wings lit up with blue flame. Binder clips. Messy maroon. My tongue tinged with repulsion like the flavor of my favorite poisonous candy. It’s hard shards when it shatters. I swallow. You gasp. I’ll turn you into an obscene saint, but first I have to torture you. At first, my aromatic stained glass words will mask the pain. Eventually, the pane will break and we’ll step through the warped frame. Eventually, just the faintest taste of rust will remain.
Originally published June 2011