Lovers

An Erotic Story

By Shadow X

Published by Lascivity.

www.lascivity.co.uk

lascivityblog@gmail.com

This story contains graphic and detailed descriptions of BDSM and rough sex.

If you're reading this, you're probably into that.

If you're not into that, maybe go read a magazine or something?

For kinky stories, snippets of filth, sex guides and more of you can check out my blog.

(Although I'm also on FetLife and Tumblr if that's more your jam.)

Lovers

Her

Whenever I try to write about her I find myself blank - not because there's nothing to write, but because there's too much. Where do I start? We were together for one-hundred-and-ninety-two days, measuring from our first meeting to the day she came to collect her things. In that short period I ejaculated inside her body ninety-four times. I knew every inch of her. I thought I could all but read her mind. She was, we pretended, my property - my slave, my cunt. Then, in the end, she wasn't anymore.

My natural response to losing something is to write about it - to try and make it into a story. When it comes to her that's beyond me. I can't seem to make anything out of losing her. Instead all I have is a bunch of parts: memories and little gestures and thoughts and moments. Scribbled notes. A history written in text messages and emails. Whenever I try to put them together into something recognisable it's never quite right. Never quite her.

Maybe all I have when it comes to her is the truth. Fractured, awkward, complex. Scraps that defy any meaningful order. She's a million little details in my head. Memories and moments all mashed together. They don't make a story, no matter what I do with them. But it seems important that I write them down. That I don't forget her. That I make something, even if it's chaos.

First Meeting

The first time we fuck is in her room in Holborn. Mid-afternoon. Quiet. We met four hours ago, and now she is underneath me and I am inside her, and she is shaking as I fuck her and my hand is in her hair, pulling her head back. My other hand is beneath her, over her cunt so that I can feel myself driving into her, feel with the tips of my fingers the point at which I enter her. Wetness slick and dripping. I release her hair and put my arm around her throat.

This is what you wanted, isn't it?

Yes, Sir.

It's what I wanted. From the moment I saw you. Every minute speaking to you I was thinking about pushing you down, holding you down. How wet and easy your cunt would be.

Oh god.

I force her legs a further apart with mine and kneel up. Put your hands behind your back. She does, contorting herself to make the position work. Her face is buried in a pillow, a few sweat-slick strands of hair glued to her cheek. I grab her wrists with both of my hands and buck into her hard, wild, my hips smacking against her ass. She screams and struggles. I hold her down.

Cunt

That is what I call her. When we play. Sometimes in a low voice as we walk together. In messages. In private. A name for her that nobody else knows. It is a sign. Ownership. She is mine. My cunt. My plaything. A beauty in that simple, spat word. A cunt is a hole, an absence of a thing. A void that needs filling - whose only function is to be fucked. There is a thoroughness to it. The most violent word I can think. But a cunt is beautiful too. A layered and powerful thing, which she is, through and through.

Vanilla

She is a barrister. Family law. For her, as much a passion as anything else. It's giving people dignity again, she says. Hours spent unpicking the tangled mess of marriages years since gone rancid. She is young in her profession, and doesn't talk about it often. She favours alcohol that is sweet instead of bitter. Hates courgettes, but will eat them if she has to. Loves sweets. Pick 'n' mix. Jelly. Any dessert. Ice cream. Has two fillings, both on the right lower side of her mouth. She reads John Berger because he can reliably make her cry just with words and that is a thing that she has never fully understood. She never tidies her room. Things stay where they fall, and there are stories in the untidiness of her space: letters opened and discarded, clothes strewn over the back of her desk chair, makeup smeared on the white of her pillow. Unusually, for a lawyer, she has little grasp of time. She sets alarms on her phone to remind her to do thing: get up, go to work, turn in requested notes. These things - the messiness, the penchant for sweets, the disorganisation - might make her seem childish, except that when she speaks in public her whole demeanour changes. She stands up straighter, and her voice adopts corners - brightly, sharply enunciated. She is twenty-four, but could pass for any age five years on either side. She draws, though not well. Her notebooks are bordered with trailing sketches. She enjoys the sensation, after a long bout of exercise, of standing in a shower and feeling sweat sluice from her skin. She doesn't exercise often. Her favourite restaurant is a Lebanese place, one block from her house. They serve mint tea in glass mugs, into which she stirs four tiny spoons of crystallised brown sugar, the tea whirling in a vortex of green until it's all dissolved. When she can, she watches trash TV. Fears nothing except moths, which always used to find their way into her childhood bedroom and get stuck inside the light fitting, beating their wings against the plastic until they expired, or until one of her sisters could be persuaded to come and put them out the window.

Body

In contrast with me there are no angles, no straight lines anywhere on her body. Her hips curve inwards to her cunt. Her shoulders are smooth, all graceful collarbones and tendon. Everything connects seamlessly beneath the surface. Even light seems to have a different, softer quality against the smoothness of her skin.

Her breasts are perfectly rounded - a handful each. When she first takes off her clothes for me she shrugs out of her bra without apparent pause, and only stops to glance at me, to read my reaction, as she hooks her thumbs into the hem of her panties. I stop her there. Take her chin in my hand. She freezes where she is, and I hold her at arm's length, admiring the shape of her.

Boundaries

After our first meeting we talk at some length. I haven't been in a relationship for six years. I tell her this. I tell her that I don't believe in them. Don't want the mess and entanglement of them. That she will not be my girlfriend and I will not be her boyfriend. We will play, until such a time as one or other of us no longer wishes to. That's all I want. That will have to be enough.

She accepts this all. Smilingly. Almost laughing at me and the earnestness with which I tell her these things. Of course it must seem only sensible to her - someone who spends their life unknotting the strands of failed relationships. Someone who daily sees the misery that binding yourself to another human being can cause.

No problem, she says, just play. Don't worry. I'm not the type to catch feelings anyway.

Consensual Nonconsent

I send her a message an hour before I arrive telling her that I want her to fight me. To not let me take what I want. When I get to her house she lets me in as normal. We go upstairs. She is breathing heavily. I can hear this even as we talk about our respective days. In her room I sit in her desk chair and she sits on the bed. Empty space between us. We haven't so much as kissed yet. I ask her about her work over the last week, and listen to her talk. After a minute or two I stand up, move to her, and put my hand on the back of her neck.

She shrugs me off. It's light at first - she doesn't quite know if we've begun the game. But her words dry up and she is looking up at me, and there is something in her look of real, honest fear. There will be a moment, we both know, when things shift from this innocuous conversation to something brightly violent, something which only one of us will have any real control over. I raise my hand slowly, deliberately, and place it back on her shoulder.

This time she twists away, rising to her feet from the bed and I catch her as she comes up and she yelps in surprise and pushes me with both her palms, but I'm stronger than her. She struggles, wriggles, attempting to free herself, and the expression on her face is almost puzzled, as if she cannot figure out why this isn't working. Perhaps she has been in this position before. Brushing away unwanted touch. She should be able to disengage my hands and step away, smoothing things over with a laugh. But she can't. I won't let her.

Hey, she says. I... hey... wait a second... I turn her around so that her back is against my chest. Her little fingers are prying at my hands. She's stronger than she looks, but not strong enough. My other hand finds the back of her neck.

Down. On the floor.

She doesn't comply, and so I force her. She bends and scrabbles at my hands, but then I knock the back of her knee with my own. No. Don't. Let me... let me up. I push her down until she's flat on the floor. She puts her palms against the boards and tries to push up, but I pin her with my knee in the small of her back.

This is happening, I say. You fight me and I'll make it hurt.

She whimpers. Such a small noise of alarm. It's easy enough to ruck up her skirt, but when I take the waistband of her underwear and pull she finds some new strength, and manages to buck me. It's a surprise. A thrill. I feel my cock twitch and harden, and I'm on her again in a second, straddling her and wrestling her hands. I pin them both down, and my face is an inch from hers. She turns her head, mouth pressed shut. I fasten teeth on her ear and bite. Hard.

Owwww. Ah.

Both her wrists pinned beneath one of my hands. I pull back and slap her across the face and she squeals, and in the moment of shock afterwards I flip her over once more and press her head down against the rug and this time I have her skirt up and her panties down to her knees before she starts kicking. I make a fist of the fabric and pull. Her underwear rips and comes away in my hand. I ball it up and, still pressing her head to the floor with one hand, force it into her mouth. Lips and teeth graze my fingertips.

You wanted this. Cunt. You're a whore and you deserve it all. I'm not listening to your screams. Bite down. Take it.

She won't spread her legs. I take a moment to free myself from my jeans. Rock hard. Throbbing and heavy. With one hand I whisk my belt out of its loops and snake it around her neck. I hold it in one hand, tight, like a dog's leash. The other I brace myself against the floor and put a knee between her legs and push down until I slip between them. Her hands are fumbling with the belt where it cuts into her neck, panicked gasps and gurgles coming from her throat... but still I can feel her resisting, trying to bring her legs together.

I don't let her. I lay down on top of her, pinning her with my weight, the belt still tight, and on the tip of my cock I can feel the heat of her. Close. Both of us panting, bodies heaving. Hard against the floor. All of her muscles tightening as she tries to breathe and buck me and push up from the floor.

I'm going to take what I want from you. There's nothing you can do to stop me.

And I push forward. She's so wet that I slip inside without difficulty, and in that moment she stops fighting. Groans and shuts her eyes, teeth gritted. There's so much tension in her still, so much fight. But I'm inside her now. And I push deep - deep enough to hurt - and the way she moans tells me that I've won.

Wedding

We are dancing at her eldest sister's wedding. A last-minute arrangement. She called me on the train to explain that her plus one was ill in bed. She didn't want to go alone. You'd be doing me a favour, she said. Only if you're free, of course. No pressure. And she meant it, and so here I am. It is late at night - soon there will be fireworks and final speeches and the crowds will drain away home, leaving the clubhouse speckled with confetti and drenched with spilled wine. But for now we are dancing.

Not long ago we were out on the golf course, fucking violently in the dark. She has fixed her hair as best she can, and it looks almost as good as it did this morning. Under the shifting lights nobody can see the grass stains on her dress, or the slight reddening of her left cheek, or the hazy, unfocussed look in her eyes. Except me. I see these things, because I know that they are there, because I put them there. Because they are small but significant signifiers of me.

Before We Met

She messages me first. Her profile picture is her lying on the floor beside a low bed with her legs propped up on the surface of the mattress. Arms spread. A mock glamour shot, I think at first, but later she tells me it was taken by an ex-boyfriend after she came so hard that she fainted while he had his hand inside of her.

That way she writes is sublime. There's a grace to her words that I haven't encountered in anyone else. It seems effortless. Later, after meeting her, I will know that she writes exactly as well as she speaks. She tells me about her previous partner: We played a little, but he would only ever go so far, and I knew I wanted to go further. I wanted him, but that isn't everything. He was always so careful with me. I want to understand this part of myself. I want to see how deep it goes. There's an intelligence there that I'm not used to seeing in other people.

We start writing to each other in March. By the end of the month I feel as though I know her, although I've only ever seen her face in pictures. I would like to meet you, I write to her, and she writes back, I would like to meet you too.

After It Ended

She has come to collect her things, but as it turns out there is nothing of hers in my house that she wants back. She sits on my bed and we don't talk about what happened. We don't dissect how or why things ended. We drink tea, and she tells me that he housemates advised her not to sleep with me again. Half an hour later we fuck anyway.

It makes sense to do so. We always were better able to articulate ourselves afterwards. And besides, we have fucked every single time we have seen one another since the beginning. It would be strange to break that habit. I take her from behind with my hands around her throat, pulling her body up into mine even as I throttle her. She clutches at my arms, and she is wet beyond belief, dripping wet, and there's an urgency to it that wasn't always there. Every time I thrust into her I'm trying to remember the exact sensation of it, the exact way her body moves - storing it away for future recall. This is the last time. After this there won't be any more.

We come at the same time. I feel her tightening around me and hear the change in the pitch of her voice and that's what takes me over the edge. It's so acute that for a moment I see white. Nothing else. Floating. I feel as though our bodies are melting together - as though we aren't two people but two substances, binding, bonding, our molecules mixing together. I hold her as pleasure ripples through her body, as I pump my come into that most intimate part of her.

For a long time afterwards we don't pull apart, even as I soften. After this, I won't ever be inside her again. The precise warmth of her, and her tightness, the slickness of her cunt, the tremors that run through her body, the noises she makes, the way her breath hitches, the way she wriggles when I fuck her, the shape of her throat against the bridge of my hand, the feel of her breath on my cock, the way she swirls her tongue against me, the wetness of her eyes, the smooth mound of her pudenda, the tight entanglement of her arms with mine, the shape of her face, the pinpoint centre of her eyes, the feel of her teeth grazing skin, the taste of her sweat, the taste of her cunt, the taste of the world when she is in it...

It is the last time for all of these things. I pull gently out of her, and she turns over to face me, and we kiss on the mouth. She is crying. Perhaps I am crying too. Our faces are wet. And this too - our tears co-mingling - this is also the very last time.

After The First Time

After we fuck the first time we spoon on her bed and she reads to me from John Berger - a passage in which he talks about cities having a sex, an identity. Like people. Sometimes, after fucking, I feel high. All my senses strange, softened, blunted, sleepy. Balanced on the edge of the world. That's how I feel as she reads to me.

Her voice is smooth but slightly thick, and in my head I imagine a city, rising up and up and up into the air like a giant from a thousand-year bed. Its arms and legs are studded with buildings. Skyscrapers rise from its spine like bony vertebrae. Parks and open spaces cling like patches of moss on a mountain. Somewhere on its skin is her house. We are inside it, peering out through the skylight.

After she finishes reading there is silence. We are still new to one another, and silence with a stranger has a different texture from silence with someone you know even a little. Listen as I might, I can't tell what kind of silence this is.

Masturbation

She has, she admits freely, a high sex drive. Most days she masturbates if she gets the chance. Sometimes she likes to wait. Deny herself for a day or two so that when she finally gives in the release is sweeter, more all-consuming. With her hands she can get herself close, sometimes finish. With a vibrator it happens every time without fail.

She tells me this, at my request. Then I tell her to show me. She blinks. We are in her room, both sitting on her bed. We have fucked twice today. It is warm outside and the skylights in her roof are wide open - the broad blue sky beyond laced with the vapour trails of passing aeroplanes.

You want me just to... just for myself?

Pretend I'm not here.

She nods. Fetches her vibrator from the drawer and stands, holding it. Her eyes dart nervously towards me, meeting mine for the split of a second. I stand, and take her by the neck and pull her in towards me.

I'm not here, I say. You are on your own and you are horny or you are bored. You are going to make yourself come. I don't exist.

Yes, Sir. She swallows and I feel it in her neck. I let her go, and she doesn't look at me again. She doesn't deliberately look away either. Her eyes slide over me like I'm empty space. She understands, then, what I want to see.

I watch carefully as she burrows in the drawer. Pulls out a small red bottle of lubricant. She makes herself comfortable on the bed, lying on her back and using one finger to spread the clear lube over the surface of the toy. She's already naked, her cunt glistening wet from the last time that we fucked. I watch her penetrate herself. Her head thrown back a little, eyes shut. She pushes the toy home and then twists it a little, pumps it back and forth. There's a slight tremor in her arm.

When she switches it on the hum is muted, muffled by her body. The effect is visible in her instantly though - she convulses against the bed, her body an arch. She grips the base of it tight and works it in and out and in again before holding it in place with both hands, pulling it hard into her body. She rolls her hips. Wriggles back against the bed. Her breath comes faster now, rougher around the edges.

After a minute or so on her back she kneels up. Spreads her legs and plants herself on the bed, the toy beneath her. Her eyes are shut. Her mouth slightly open. The base of the toy is against the surface of the bed, with the rest buried inside her. Both her hands clutch the duvet, and she rocks her hips back and forth. There's so much tension in her I can see it building and falling in swells. She could come, I think, but she's keeping herself on edge. Letting it build. Letting it become something more.

She fumbles for the button. The whine of the motor changes pitch. Faster. She groans out loud, but bites it quickly back. Takes one hand and rakes her nails down the inside of her thigh, leaving behind white tracks on her skin. Her shoulders hunch. She pulls down into herself for a moment. Then a stifled cry. She twitches. Bends forward to place her forehead against the bed.

I can see each pulse of her climax as it runs through her body. She groans into the duvet, twitching, the motor of the vibrator still whirring. The room is oddly silent but for that. It's like seeing a storm in the distance: all that violence and fury and yet no noise except for birdsong. I feel the urge to touch her. Reach out and put a hand on the curve of her back. It seems to me that I might be able to feel something of the pleasure in her through her skin. But I hold back. She is alone. For that moment, isolated by her own private pleasure.

It lasts maybe twenty seconds. Then, with a shudder, she slips down onto her side. Her whole body loosens. No longer is she tightly wound, waiting for release. Her eyes are still shut. I lie down beside her, not touching, and wait for her to return from wherever she has gone.

Love

This is a word that, in all the time we are together, neither of us ever speak. Towards the end we skirt around it. Treat it like an unexploded depth charge washed up on the beach. I sometimes feel it lodging in my throat, wanting to be said. But I won't say it. I refuse. I don't know why, but the thought of doing so fills me with a kind of rabbit-like panic. It is everything that we have promised one another over and over again we will not have, and yet there are time I am sure it is what we have anyway, despite our best efforts to the contrary.

Marks

Bruises are her particular favourite because she can find them through her clothes and press on them subtly and bring back the memory of me hitting her for days after the event. She likes to watch them grow as if they are orchids. Rare, exotic plants, blooming from her skin into autumnal colours. They're deeper, often, than you at first think they are. And even when she's not touching them there's a dull ache there, steady as a heartbeat. She's sad when they fade. Like losing a tattoo.

The grazes from the belt or crop are altogether different. They mark her ass, where she cannot see them so easily, only feel them... though that doesn't stop her from knowing they are there. They come to mind every time her clothes shift against them. Every time she sits down. And they give her not only pain but a change to the texture of her skin. She can reach back, she tells me, and feel a distinct line for every stroke of the cane that I gave her.

It's like you've changed me, a little. Physically. Marked me. She waves her hands in vague patterns in the air, trying to outline for me the thing that she sees so clearly in her head.

I could mark you, I say. Something lasting if you want.

She pauses in the way she does when something I've said has made her cunt twitch. How?

A knife. A brand. There are other ways too.

How long would it last?

A while. A long while. But it would hurt a lot.

That's fine, she says. I don't mind the pain. We are sitting together in a tiny coffee shop. It is the middle of the day and the place is packed with suited men and women checking smartphones over their lunches. In twenty minutes she will return to her office. It is unusual for us to meet in the middle of the day, at a time when fucking isn't an option. But I was nearby, and free, and I felt like recapping the events of the night before. That's all. That's what I tell myself.

I would do it on your inner thigh, I tell her. Close to your cunt. Every time you looked at yourself in the mirror - every time you saw it you would think of me. You would remember the pain it took to get that marking. You wouldn't be able to detach one from the other.

Her mouth is slightly open, but she doesn't say a word. We stare at each other across the table. Since we met up half an hour ago I haven't touched her. Not so much as a kiss. But I know that she is wet. I can see it in her eyes.

Morning Afters

We wake up hungover, both of us, and spend an hour considering the possibility of rising from bed before we finally do. We stumble each in turn from the warm cocoon of covers to the bathroom and back again. When it is her turn I listen to the sound of her urine hitting the water. I open the shutter on her skylight and squint in the sudden yellowness that floods the room.

It is the morning after her sister's wedding. Neither of us planned to drink as much as we did, but it was almost dawn by the time we got back to her house. Both of us stumbling, staggering drunk. The least in-control I've ever been around her.

Oh, she says as she trips back to bed, you let the world in.

We stay under the covers for another hour. Not asleep. Not talking. Spooning and close and kissing sometimes, our hands mapping the familiar shapes of each other's bodies. We are too hungover to fuck, but there is comfort just in touching. Someone else's body being as familiar as your own can make even a headache seem less lonely.

Eventually, we get up. Reluctantly. It's almost midday and we both have things to do. While I shower she makes pancakes in the kitchen downstairs, and the smell of frying batter reaches me as I step out of the cubicle, hair wet, skin cool. None of her housemates are here; I don't bother switching the towel around my waist for clothes.

There is something about all of this which worries me. Something gnawing. This isn't like us. This is cosy and domestic and comfortable. Something I would never normally allow. But it is so comfortable, and I am tired and aching and lazy, and for once I cannot be bothered to fight it. To maintain those carefully-set boundaries. I look at myself in the mirror, and then I go downstairs and we eat pancakes together and watch awful mid-afternoon TV.

Chastity

I own her pleasure. She does not come without my permission. It is a game, of course, just as this all is - but one that we play out in the real world. She texts me every evening as she edges herself, her words becoming swift and graceless in the rush to get them out.

Please. I won't sleep else. Let me finish. Tomorrow I'll be good. Please. Sir, please.

I think about it. At length. It would be satisfying to give permission, to tip her over the edge. At a distance. All it would take is a word from me - not so much as a touch. She would come. Fall asleep satisfied. That most basic and personal and human of pleasures returned to her, at least for the night.

But not tonight. Behave yourself, Cunt. Wait for me. Simple too, to deny her the same pleasure, to keep her balanced on the keen edge of her own self-control, teetering between her desire to obey and her need to finish, to release. I wonder how far I can push her before she risks disobeying? She hasn't yet felt the consequences, although I have told her in detail how I will hurt her if she's bad. Perhaps that's enough. I can feel the tension between us - my control of her like a living stream of consciousness that has its own swells and dips.

Please sir, she writes to me. I need this. Can't wait two days. Can't think straight.

That's enough to make me hard. The thought of her alone in her bed, on her back, her fingers between her legs, pushing into the slick folds of flesh. The way she stops when she's on the edge but doesn't have permission to come - whipping her fingers away from herself as though her cunt is suddenly red hot. Gripping the bed sheets and arching her back. Her cunt visibly twitching.

You'll wait. You know you will. I know you will.

The reply is almost instant. I have to cum. Please. It hurts. Waiting hurts.

Be good for me.

Sir...

I reach down and touch myself. Thoughts of her throbbing and waiting and biting her lip. Thoughts of the wetness she's made that will be put to no use tonight. For the next two nights. And when she sees me she will be so eager, so ready - ripe enough to split. And even as she tries to kiss me I will catch her by the throat and press her back and make her wait some more.

In the dark, in the privacy of my room, I allow myself the pleasure that she is forbidden, and it is sweet and comes in waves and seems to last for an impossibly long time, and through it all I see her, her desperate face, and it is as if I've taken this climax from her. She's given it willingly. Reduced herself to throbbing and waiting, and begging me for release.

Enjoyed Reading?

That's the end of the extract! If you want to read the rest of the story, please buy a copy of this book. It costs about the same as a coffee, and I'm willing to bet you'll enjoy it at least as much as one.