Read Online Say Please: Lesbian BDSM Erotica by Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sinclair Sexsmith, Miriam Zoila Perez, Wendi Kali, Gigi Frost, BB Rydell, Amelia Thornton, Dilo Keith, Vie La Guerre, Anna Watson - Free Book Online
Authors: Rachel Kramer Bussel, Sinclair Sexsmith, Miriam Zoila Perez, Wendi Kali, Gigi Frost, BB Rydell, Amelia Thornton, Dilo Keith, Vie La Guerre, Anna Watson
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pounding emptiness inside me seeming unbearable now.
“Tell me you want it.”
“I want it, I want you, fuck me, please fuck me, my Master…” The words are out of my mouth before I can think of them, before I can check myself and remind myself that I don’t use them, remind myself that Masters and Mistresses aren’t real, they’re just games, games I play all day long. It seems to shock you too, as you fall quiet for just a minute before resting your hands against my hips and pushing the tip of your cock forward until it’s nestling against my opening, taunting me with its closeness.
“You’re so beautiful right now. My girl.” Your voice is soft and gentle, and makes me smile as I lift my head up to look at my reflection in the mirrored wall, my eyes streaked with mascara-drenched tears, you standing behind me, so strong, so authoritative. My Master. Slowly, so slowly, you push yourself inside me, making me bite my lip as a long, low moan curls from my throat, my emptiness filled at last.
I rock my hips back onto you, feeling you going deeper into me, my wetness dribbling out around you, trickling down my thighs and coating the shining silicone with more and more of me. I remember you once told me what you liked most about fisting me was how much wetness came out of me, like I was wrapping you up in the liquid version of myself. I like that image, of me fucking you back as you fuck me, consuming you and absorbing you and bringing you inside myself. I feel like that right now, like we are both all tangled up together, taking and giving and giving and taking, losing ourselves in each other. Looking up at the reflection of me, I see all of the versions of myself looking back, each one so content, right here in this moment. Each one of them is yours, my Master. All of me is yours.
TAKING DIRECTION
Vie La Guerre
I can’t take my eyes off you. I watch you sipping, wishing I were a smooth, strong whiskey ginger sliding down your throat, blooming in your belly, making you high. You look at ease, waiting patiently, only looking for me through the crowd every now and then. So simple for you to look cool even though I know you’re tensed. I watch your hands. I sit at the horseshoeshaped bar across from you. I love to watch you so much that I don’t order right away; my mind wanders, and I see you check your watch.
“Can I buy you a drink?” In the moment that she asks me, you finally turn your head and catch my eyes. I smile wickedly at you and you see the butch next to me summon the bartender. Good thing you can lip-read “gin and tonic” across the bar. I tear my eyes away from yours and sink them into her, and you know they’re liquid and promising as I thank her. Her skin shines caramel and cinnamon, her hair is oily black like her eyes. She’s rocking some of that old-school vaquero Mexican style: embroidered shirt, cowboy boots, needlework everywhere, and smooth Latin lover movements. When she moves her arm, I read her ornate tattoo: Angel.
“Se llama Angel?” I ask sweetly. You see her practiced nonchalant smirk melt for a second from across the room when this blonde femme pronounces her name correctly.
You feel it rising in you as you watch me lean into her and laugh at her jokes. When I incline my head toward her to give her my ear so she can whisper in it, I look at you to make sure you’re seeing me. You watch me draw her in. I move my body just right so you know my skirt hikes up my thigh; you can’t see but you know from the angle of my body that my garter’s showing. That mixture of troubled and turned on is roiling inside you, making you a little harder, a little angry, pulling that tension in your body until you see me lean in and reach my hand around her head. The second you see my short, dark nails touch her neck, you’re up and moving.
“Hi.” Your voice is tight and in an instant, everything’s obvious.
Angel looks between us and then decides to
“Tell me you want it.”
“I want it, I want you, fuck me, please fuck me, my Master…” The words are out of my mouth before I can think of them, before I can check myself and remind myself that I don’t use them, remind myself that Masters and Mistresses aren’t real, they’re just games, games I play all day long. It seems to shock you too, as you fall quiet for just a minute before resting your hands against my hips and pushing the tip of your cock forward until it’s nestling against my opening, taunting me with its closeness.
“You’re so beautiful right now. My girl.” Your voice is soft and gentle, and makes me smile as I lift my head up to look at my reflection in the mirrored wall, my eyes streaked with mascara-drenched tears, you standing behind me, so strong, so authoritative. My Master. Slowly, so slowly, you push yourself inside me, making me bite my lip as a long, low moan curls from my throat, my emptiness filled at last.
I rock my hips back onto you, feeling you going deeper into me, my wetness dribbling out around you, trickling down my thighs and coating the shining silicone with more and more of me. I remember you once told me what you liked most about fisting me was how much wetness came out of me, like I was wrapping you up in the liquid version of myself. I like that image, of me fucking you back as you fuck me, consuming you and absorbing you and bringing you inside myself. I feel like that right now, like we are both all tangled up together, taking and giving and giving and taking, losing ourselves in each other. Looking up at the reflection of me, I see all of the versions of myself looking back, each one so content, right here in this moment. Each one of them is yours, my Master. All of me is yours.
TAKING DIRECTION
Vie La Guerre
I can’t take my eyes off you. I watch you sipping, wishing I were a smooth, strong whiskey ginger sliding down your throat, blooming in your belly, making you high. You look at ease, waiting patiently, only looking for me through the crowd every now and then. So simple for you to look cool even though I know you’re tensed. I watch your hands. I sit at the horseshoeshaped bar across from you. I love to watch you so much that I don’t order right away; my mind wanders, and I see you check your watch.
“Can I buy you a drink?” In the moment that she asks me, you finally turn your head and catch my eyes. I smile wickedly at you and you see the butch next to me summon the bartender. Good thing you can lip-read “gin and tonic” across the bar. I tear my eyes away from yours and sink them into her, and you know they’re liquid and promising as I thank her. Her skin shines caramel and cinnamon, her hair is oily black like her eyes. She’s rocking some of that old-school vaquero Mexican style: embroidered shirt, cowboy boots, needlework everywhere, and smooth Latin lover movements. When she moves her arm, I read her ornate tattoo: Angel.
“Se llama Angel?” I ask sweetly. You see her practiced nonchalant smirk melt for a second from across the room when this blonde femme pronounces her name correctly.
You feel it rising in you as you watch me lean into her and laugh at her jokes. When I incline my head toward her to give her my ear so she can whisper in it, I look at you to make sure you’re seeing me. You watch me draw her in. I move my body just right so you know my skirt hikes up my thigh; you can’t see but you know from the angle of my body that my garter’s showing. That mixture of troubled and turned on is roiling inside you, making you a little harder, a little angry, pulling that tension in your body until you see me lean in and reach my hand around her head. The second you see my short, dark nails touch her neck, you’re up and moving.
“Hi.” Your voice is tight and in an instant, everything’s obvious.
Angel looks between us and then decides to
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