By Lisabet Sarai
Sometimes I feel as though I'm writing
the same story, over and over, about the same person. If you've been
reading the Grip for a while, you'll know who I'm talking about –
the man who introduced me to dominance and submission, more than
thirty years ago, and left his fingerprints all over my soul.
We were a couple for less than two
years. Then happenstance, plus our own insecurities and
misconceptions, came between us, and we ended up first on opposite
sides of a continent, now on opposite sides of the globe.
My first erotica was for him –
private fantasies to amuse and arouse him. Or so I told myself.
Maybe I was really writing them for myself, to relive the intensity
and the joy, to explore all the territory we never had time to
traverse together.
Then came Raw Silk.
He was simultaneously appalled and flattered. Not that the events in
the book are based on reality, but he certainly recognized the
emotions, the dynamics. I even quoted a few of the wild, cheesy,
breath-stopping letters he used in his epistolary seduction.
Anyone familiar with my backlist knows
I don't always write BDSM. I've got stories in pretty much every
genre, with every combination of genders. But when I do write tales
of power exchange, I think readers sense my own deeper involvement
with the topic at hand. And even when I write F/F power play, he's
there in my head and in the scene, making comments.
*****
He dangled the whip above her shoulder,
the knots just touching, then brushed it lightly across her breasts.
The leather was amazingly soft, but as he dragged it across her
still-swollen nipples, she felt the echo of the clamps on her flesh.
Now he was delicately tracing an upward
path, from her pubic fur across her belly, sending delicious tremors
up her spine and down her bound arms. Thus far, he was using the cat
o' nine tails as an instrument of pure pleasure.
He spoke again, without stopping his
leather caresses. “Have you ever been beaten by a lover, Kate?”
Kate shook her head, and felt herself
blush, though she did not understand why.
“Have you ever dreamed or fantasised
about such a thing?” Gregory asked.
“No,” said Kate, indignant. “Of
course not.”
Gregory laughed. “Of course not?
Indeed! Perhaps you don’t remember your dreams, Kate.”
He leaned close to her ear, whispering.
“The first time I laid eyes on you, Kate, I sensed that you craved
the whip. I saw it in your eyes, in the way you moved, in your
fierce, almost defiant independence. I felt your yearning to be
mastered, to be set free.”
Kate hung her head, and said nothing.
Was what he said true? Did she really know so little of herself?
“I want to whip you, Kate, whip you
well, to open your mind and your senses to the possibilities within
you.”
~ Raw Silk (1999)
****
"Being naughty again, Sarah?"
He speaks softly, his rich, melodious voice seducing me as it always
does. "Trying to tease me, my little slut?"
"Just trying to cheer you up."
I arch my back slightly, silently suggesting that he explore my cleft
more deeply. In typical exasperating fashion, he takes his hand away.
"Perfectly innocent, I'm sure,"
he mocks, but he's smiling now, TV forgotten, the power and challenge
of his attention fully directed at me. I bask in his gaze, proud and
humble simultaneously. "You know what happens when you tease me.
I'm sure that you remember the other night."
Of course I do, and the memory leaves
me wet and breathless: the binding, the beating, the final delicious
buggering. My sex overflows. My thighs are slippery with my juices. I
imagine he can hear the liquid squelch as I walk. His arm is around
my shoulder now, guiding me along.
We pass a display of galvanized steel
fittings. I stop, fascinated. Sturdy eye bolts and swivel bolts,
hooks and pulleys, interlocking rings and brackets, all sensuously
curved and shining a dull silver. I can't take my eyes away,
imagining spread limbs and stretched muscles. Hardware stores always
bring out my creative side.
He laughs at my intensity. "You
know that we can't attach anything to the walls, Sarah. It's in the
resident's agreement."
"Well... what about out on the
deck?" Our top-floor condo has a lovely patio built out on the
flat part of the roof. From there we have a fabulous view of the
city, from Twin Peaks to the Golden Gate.
"You want me to bind you out in
the open, where anyone uphill can see you?" He rolls his eyes
heavenward, pretending annoyance. "And you say that I'm
perverted!"
He steers me onward. Reluctantly, I
leave the suggestive display of fittings, only to be transfixed by
the rolls of self-service chain at the other end of the aisle.
"Chain is completely impractical,"
he reminds me with a grin.
"But it's so decorative, so
evocative," I counter. "Whips and chains, you know."
"Whatever you want, dear," he
says, bowing low. I make a choice and he cuts me a four foot length
of the pretty, brass-finished stuff with half-inch links. He dumps it
into our basket. It gives a satisfying clink whenever we move.
My nipples go taut at the sound. He
notices, of course, and leans down to tweak one, hard. Another wave
of lubrication gushes from my cunt. His nostrils flare as my scent
fills the aisle.
"My turn," he says. "Let's
go check out the dowels." His thumb and forefinger are still
grasping my swollen tit. He leads me toward the back of the store.
~ Wednesday Night at Rocky's Ace
Hardware (2002)
****
"Good. Now, then. Let's get rid of
those clothes."
I began to unbutton my blouse.
"No, don't move. I’ll undress
you, this time."
He undid the first three buttons and
pulled the garment open to reveal my unglamorous cotton bra. He
brushed his fingertips over my swollen nipples, clearly visible as
they poked out the fabric. Pleasure shivered across my skin and down
to my already-aching pussy.
"You have such lovely big nipples.
So sensitive." He pinched the right one. I gasped. "I don't
want you to wear a bra anymore. I want everyone to be able to see
those luscious tits of yours."
"But, when I teach... It's not
proper..."
"Did I say you could speak?"
He frowned briefly. I wanted to drop through the floor.
"If you want to please me, you'll
go braless. It's up to you."
I was silent. I craved his approval,
more than anything.
He laid a cool palm against my cheek.
"What other people think doesn't matter, Colette. You only need
to worry about me."
All at once he leaned down and kissed
me. I expected brashness, energy, power. Instead it was a gossamer
kiss, delicate, the barest contact of his lips on mine.
It set me on fire. Tremors raced
through my body. I felt his hands everywhere, exploring, exposing my
raw need. I felt his mind, questing, tasting the flavors of my lust.
Yet only his lips were touching me, and just barely.
I wanted more. I wanted his tongue, his
fingers. I wanted his cock, which I knew was hard though I hadn't
seen it. I was acutely aware of his lust, controlled and hidden as it
was. I tried to press my body against him, but he pulled away.
"Not yet. Not until you're ready."
He resumed the process of methodically removing my clothes. He did
not touch me again. I could swear that he was trying to frustrate me.
I promised myself that I wouldn't beg.
Finally, I was naked. He stepped back
to look me over. "Very nice. Even nicer than I imagined. You
have such fair skin, Colette. The blood is very close to the
surface."
Blood? I remembered that I hardly knew
this man. Somehow that was irrelevant.
"And you're so hairy, down here.
I'm glad you're not shaved. Although that might heighten the
sensations, I admit that I'm somewhat old-fashioned." He slipped
a finger through the curly tangle of my pubic hair, unerringly
finding my clit. Sparks shot through me. My body jerked
uncontrollably.
He took his hand away. I prayed
silently that he'd put it back.
"So very wet, too. That's
excellent. It will raise the conductivity."
~ Body Electric (2008)
****
Three years since I last saw him, and
now his plane is late. I perch on the edge of the chair across from
the American Airlines desk where he told me to meet him, tension
winding me tighter with every moment.
It’s always like this. My chest
aches. It’s difficult to breathe. My nipples are as taut and
swollen as if he already had them wrapped in elastic bands. I try not
to be distracted by the stickiness between my bare thighs. I glance
at the arrivals screen. His flight has just landed. Ten minutes,
fifteen at most, before I can expect him. I fill my lungs
deliberately and try to slow my racing pulse.
I hover between joy and terror. It has
been so long, too long. What will he think of me, the strands of gray
in my hair, the new wrinkles? What will he ask of me? Will I be able
to give him what he needs? I remember other reunions, too few, too
short. No time for more than a few kisses, a few playful swats on my
bared butt. I remember lying on his lap in Golden Gate Park, my skirt
flipped up around my waist. I can precisely recreate my shame and my
excitement. I recall slouching down in the front seat of his car in a
dark, sweltering parking garage, while he unbuttoned my blouse and
dabbled his fingers in my cunt, naming me as his slut. A few hours
every few years is all we manage, a country and my marriage
separating us even as our history and our fantasies draws us
together.
Today will be different. I’ve booked
us a hotel room, in this city where neither of us live. We have the
entire day. My husband waits for me at home, while I wait here in the
airport for my master.
I don’t call him that to his face.
He’d mock me, his voice bitter. “If I were your master, I’d
simply order to you leave him and come to me, and you would.” He
doesn’t give me that order, although I suspect that he’s tempted.
He refrains, out of respect for me and my choices, or maybe in fear
that his power over me is not as great as he would like to imagine.
He spares us both, and I’m grateful, though now, waiting, burning
to see him again, I almost wish that he’d put me to that ultimate
test and take away the awful yearning that I feel when we’re apart.
Every one of my senses is on alert, yet
he manages to surprise me. I’m looking toward the gates. He comes
from the other direction and calls to me softly. “Sarah.”
I start and then laugh nervously. When
I stand up, my bag tumbles off my lap to the floor, toys clattering
inside. “You’re here!” I feel clumsy, silly, stupid, but when
he bends to kiss me, everything but the joy disappears. I’m flooded
with it, gasping, overwhelmed.
In his limbs I feel his pitiless
strength. His lips, though, are gentle, questioning. Am I still his?
I melt, open my mouth and my mind to him. Does he sense the answer?
Sometimes I am certain that he reads my thoughts. He laughs
ironically and calls me suggestible. I don’t know what to believe,
which suits him perfectly. He wants me a bit off-balance.
I struggle to act normal, as if I were
just meeting an old friend. “How was your flight? Did you have
trouble with your connections? What about your baggage? Is that the
only jacket you have? October here can be kind of chilly...”
“Hush,” he says, laying a blunt
finger upon my lips. “Don’t chatter. Take me to the hotel.”
~ Reunion (2009)
****
It takes no more than sixty seconds.
One dark look from him and I'm on my knees, his heavy, uncut cock
brushing my lips. "Open," he says, and his silken voice
wipes away every doubt and regret.
His cock is as silky as his voice but
with a core of steel. He slides it into my suddenly eager mouth. I
suck at the salty, slighty sour flesh, but only for an instant before
he takes over.
He's very hard, very urgent. The hand
tangled in my hair tells me he needs this as much as I apparently do.
He drives his length down my throat. I take it all, like some porn
star, desperate to please him. It hurts. The skin is soft but he uses
his cock like a battering ram, determined to break down my walls.
They are down already. I stretch my
jaws, crane my neck, and receive what he gives.
His cum erupts across my tongue. I
choke and sputter, trying to swallow the bitter fluid. A few drops
trickle down my chin onto my linen jacket. At that moment, I don't
care. He strokes my curls back into some semblance of order and
raises me to my feet. His eyes are black diamonds.
"I knew it," he says. Slow,
thoughtful, he smears my lipstick even further with his thumb. I feel
my lower lips gaping too, just as wet and swollen. "I could
tell." My nipples peak under my jacket, screaming for his
attention. He continues to gaze into my eyes. I can't hide.
The elevator dings. "My floor,"
he says, laughter rippling on the edge of his words for the first
time. He takes my hand. A sharp rectangle of plastic cuts into my
sweating palm. "Room 1263. Seven o'clock."
"But..." I begin. He silences
me with a single look.
~ Never Too Late (2010)
****
He's the sadist in our relationship.
But I'm the one who's more extreme.
He wanted to strap a butterfly vibe to
my clit, to ramp up my arousal so I could better bear the pain. Does
he really believe I could be more aroused than I already am?
I'm immobilized in one of our dinette
chairs. Leather cuffs secure my wrists and ankles. Woven straps
encircle my thighs, my upper arms, my waist and torso. The first rasp
of separating Velcro liquefied me. No, that's not right. I've been
soaked since I served him dinner and he informed me, ever so
casually, that tonight was the night.
He putters around the kitchen, drawing
out the preparations, making me wait. My Master possesses an
instinctive sense of timing - an asset for any Dom. He plays every
action for greatest effect. The goose necked lamp from my desk has
already been plugged in, ready to dispel any shadows. Spreading a
clean towel on the breakfast bar beside my chair, he lays out his
materials and implements, one at a time: latex gloves, a cigarette
lighter, rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, betadine, gauze, surgical
tape, and finally, two gleaming, silvery scalpels. The steel flashes
under the fluorescent lights, impossibly sharp.
A shudder ripples through my bound
body, half terror, half lust. My juices pool under my bare ass.
He cups my chin in his palm and raise
my face to his. His lips curve into a half smile. I know from his
eager inhalation that he's caught my pussy scent. My cheeks burn, but
he won't let me look away.
"Are you all right, Becca?"
His voice makes me think of polished mahogany and warm honey, dark,
rich and sweet beyond measure. He could order me to do anything in
that voice and I'd rush to obey. "Still want to go ahead?"
Shame and desire battle inside me. No
matter how many scenes we play, I'm always appalled by my own
perversity. I swallow hard, unable to force the words out. How can I
want this? How can I admit that I do?
~ Limits: A Love Story (2012)
****
See
what I mean? I'd worry about this – obsession – but it has fueled
what I know are my best, my truest, stories, so how can I wish it gone?
In these tales, I can create the future together that we never had. I
can imagine what it would be like if I'd been with him for the past
three decades, instead of my (much beloved) husband. I can take my
memories of the few, limited encounters we've had over the years and
spin them into sweet, dark scenes without the bitter taste of regret.
In
these stories, I take a heady journey into an alternate reality. And
he is my constant companion.
