Free Flash Fiction Erotica
"The Choice," a Licorice Whips story by Jack Scranton
Ava in Bondage - Cuffed - by Stephen Perry (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
He left me alone on the couch as he went downstairs. From hidden speakers flowed one of Beethoven's piano sonatas, its dark harmonies and urgent, roiling melodies in perfect counterpoint to my own inner torment. I'm not sure how long I sat there, but when I glanced at my watch I realized that I would never get home in time to keep my husband from wondering why I was late.
Usually, when I stepped into this apartment, his first act was to strip me, or watch closely as I did it myself. This evening, I was uncharacteristically clothed. Still dressed for work, I had come here straight from the office, my resolve firm, my course set.
"I can't continue," I'd told him. "I'm being pulled apart and it's driving me crazy," I'd said. "This must end."
He said nothing for a minute or two, just listened to the music as he watched me, no expression crossing his face that might give me a clue as to his reaction. Then he stood, covered the short space between us, held out his hand and drew me to my feet.
Still, he said nothing. Merely caressed my cheek. Soft, soothing strokes, down my neck, touching my lips, tracing circles around my closed eyes, running his fingers through my hair. His touch, as always, was hypnotic, was something I never wanted to end; no matter if it was gentle or harsh, I never wanted it to end.
Then he raised my skirt, placed his hand between my thighs and simply left it there, fitting his palm to the curve of my damp mound, pressing against lips swollen with arousal—their natural state in his presence, something beyond my control. He gently rubbed my panties over moist flesh, and for long moments we simply stood there, his careful stimulation steadily building in me until I knew he would produce the orgasm I craved, that I always craved when close to him. Pulling on the waistband now, sliding his hand down inside, running his finger between my lips, playing with my clit. Still no words; this was all the communication we required.
His hand stopped moving. He simply left it in place, finger nestled snugly in the wet gash between my thighs, like a challenge: Might you find something useful to do with this, my pet? And oh, I certainly did. I let my hips seek him out, focused the pressure and friction where it would do the most good, scraped myself on him like the cat in heat that I was, a growl of unrestrained lust vibrating in my throat.
It didn't take long, and when it happened, it was quick and violent. I cried out, shuddered, my mind emptied, and the exquisite pleasure erupted from the very center of my soul. As I peaked, he moved his hand with me, sliding fingers into my empty spaces, filling them with his uncompromising insistence that I perform at his command, for as long as he wished. Keeping the stimulation steady, he effortlessly brought me up to a peak again... and then yet again. And uncounted more. My legs weakened, I leaned on him for support, pulled myself tightly to him.
Finally, he let me stop. He touched his fingers to my lips and I cleaned them with my tongue, sucking my own juices into my mouth, tasting the salt of my desire. I began to cry.
"Sit," he said. Then he left the room. When he returned, he placed three objects on the coffee table in front of me: a crop, a heavy leather strap, and a single-tail whip.
"You have ten minutes," he said. "I'll be downstairs. If you don't join me by then, I'll assume you're out of my life. If you decide to join me, choose which of these you're in the mood for."
Then he kissed me, a lover's kiss, and left me to myself.
Beethoven used his music to grapple with his demons. What did I have? I picked up the strap. It was new, never used, the leather still stiff and unscarred. I breathed in its scent and felt the primal urges that it triggered deep inside. It would be horrible. I considered the crop – it was familiar, almost an old friend. He would savage my breasts with it, turn my nipples to flame, sear my mind with the heat of his intensity. I picked up the single-tail, admired the intricate braiding, the subtle flexibility, the long, hideous tip that he could crack right at the surface of my skin. I closed my eyes, saw him standing there, the whip almost passive in his hand, his voice calm: "Open your legs, dear. I'm afraid I'm going to have to really hurt you now..."
The door was so near, the life beyond it so safe, so filled with accolades and acknowledgment, so bountiful in the love and adoration it offered me. Here, there was only darkness and a sinister craving that no expressions of love could ever hope to satisfy. I began crying again. I had already made my choice; all this was merely prelude to the inevitable.
I picked up the whip and went downstairs.
Copyright August 10, 2011
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.