Restraining Order by Alison Tyler

Duncan buckled his leather belt around her upper arms, capturing them behind her body. Yolanda was sitting up in the bed, her arms fastened and her whole attitude one of waiting. She didn’t fear him, didn’t belong to him, but she would let him use her like this for the night. It appealed to her, being so well-restrained when her mind was free and flying, wondering what he would do next. She tilted her head back, looking at him, challenging him with her cold, liquid black eyes.

With a sigh, Duncan spread her thighs wide, using his calloused thumbs to part the petal lips of her pussy, watching her face instead of her cunt. He liked the way Yolanda’s face seemed to change as he touched her, those dark eyes closing slightly, seeming sleepy, or suddenly relaxed. He continued to probe her, continued to play, using his fingertips to feel for her clit, to brush against it and make her move. Her body was amazing, elongating like an animal’s as she stroked her, swan neck thrown back, silky raven hair brushing his pillows.

It was almost hypnotic, the way her slender hips rose and fell on the rough Navajo blanket, the sound of her breath as it caught in her throat. Yolanda arched her waist up and spread her thighs even wider, letting him see the treasure of her sex, hidden there at the split of her body.

Duncan was on his knees at the edge of the bed and he pulled her forward, getting in between her thighs, impaling her with his cock. She shuddered as he entered her, and he could feel the wave of it rush through her body, the tight inner muscles contracting on him like currents of fire.

He reached forward with one hand, stroking her cheek, laying two fingers on her bottom lip, pressing them forward and into her warm, wet mouth. She sucked on his fingers while her pussy milked his cock, and he was out of his head from it, spinning, spiraling, but he needed more. He tugged at the buckle on his belt and freed her, then quickly grabbed her wrists, capturing them together in one hand, holding her tightly, pulling her into an upright position on the bed with her hands high above her head, completely in his power.

He worked her like that, sliding in the satisfying slickness between her legs, bucking against her, driving into her with his entire being. He tried to get a response, a verbal acknowledgement from her, but Yolanda was inside herself as he fucked her. She took it all in, everything he did, and processed it–the way she processed pain–understanding, contemplating, knowing that her body would come from it well before her mind.

When his cock was coated with her satiny juices, he pulled out, released her wrists, and ordered her to clean him. She obeyed instantly, understanding what he wanted, bending low on the bed to reach for his throbbing member. She took it into her mouth, into the velvet heat of her mouth, suckling him like a baby nursing from a mother’s breast, lapping at the juices that had dripped to the base of his cock. Duncan wrapped his hand in her straight hair, helping her find his rhythm, moving her back and forth. Then, as the first drops of his pre-cum spilled free, he asked in a low voice, a whisper, “Do you like the way we taste together?”

She murmured an answer, her mouth still filled with his cock, her words all slurred around it. He stroked her fine, muscled back, feeling the cut lines of her muscles tensing and sliding beneath her skin. She swallowed harder, trying to take him all the way down her throat, trying to devour him. Pleasuring him as she vied for power.

It was in his head to turn her over, onto her back, straddling her high up and feeding his cock to her, inch by inch, the position helping her take it down her throat until her lips met the heated skin of his body. It was in his mind to roll her over the second before he came and explode onto her naked back, covering the hazy red welts with his semen. Covering her pain with his bliss.

But she surprised him, reared up when he was lost and almost coming, got him down on his back on the bed, with the belt in her hand. She had his arms bound above his head before he knew what was going on. She moved up him, as he’d imagined doing to her, and bestowed him with the gift of the split between her legs, positioning herself over his mouth in the way that would bring her the most satisfaction.

Her back still throbbed from the strokes he’d given her. The feel of his tongue probing her cunt combined with the pain and made her dizzy. That mixture of pain-pleasure had always haunted her, driving her to the darkest sexual back alleys, driving her into the arms of less-deserving lovers than him.

They were perfect together. He’d been on a similar quest: patronizing whores in every part of the world, learning from them, bringing his fantasies to life in the attic rooms of old hotels. Handing over the currency ahead of time and then taking out the props (handcuffs, riding crop, blindfold) that fit his latest craving. But no one had ever been able to take him where he needed to go, the highest pinnacle, the moment of blinding, white-hot fire that would ultimately satisfy his raging hunger.

And then this girl. The one who craved the opposite of his every fantasy. The one who needed to be taken as much as he needed to possess, who needed to feel the pain as much as he needed to inflict it. He’d searched for her endlessly, sometimes catching a glimpse in a club late at night, or a bar, or on the street–always different, chameleon-like. A silky-haired blonde in Paris, on her knees in an alley off the Seine, giving head to a man in a worn-out tuxedo. A young brunette beauty in Venice, whose amazing blue eyes flashed at him. He’d watched her from a gondola as her lover bent her over the bridge and fucked her. He’d listened breathlessly to the moans that she’d made, the cries, watched her fingers gripping the cool stone of the bridge as if searching for purchase.

And then, finally, he’d found her in L.A., at After Dark. Or had she found him? In the larger pattern of things, there are no accidents. The prey is destined for its predator as the wheat is destined for the mill and the grape for the wine-press.

The victim seeks not be consumed, but transformed. That was Yolanda’s quest: to be transformed — into something pure. She knew the only way to obtain pure essence was through distillation, a process that demanded intense heat. Heat to burn away all the impurities, to evaporate everything that diluted the essential element of her being.

And as she threw her head back and felt herself coming, as she moved back and climbed onto his cock and rode him, as she met his eyes and saw the glimmer there, saw that they were one, she knew she’d found him.

And, thus knowing, knew she’d never let him go.

About the author:

Alison Tyler is undeniably a naughty girl. Perhaps this is why she has such fun editing the series Naughty Stories from A to Z 1 & 2, and Bondage on a Budget 1 & 2 (all Pretty Things Press). Her short stories have appeared in anthologies including Sweet Life 1 & 2, Best Women’s Erotica 2002 & 2003, and Erotic Travel Tales 1 & 2 (all published by Cleis), and Wicked Words 4, 5, 6 & 8 (Black Lace).

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