“No Sleep” and writing on the body
Today I’m guesting at one of my favourite places, sexblogofsorts.com, with a piece about writing on the body, and my reasons for finding it so frickin’ hot. I was half tempted to call the guest post “That’s Why the Lady is a Tramp” but I behaved.
In the piece (read it here), I mention “No Sleep”, the opening story in my new collection, On My Knees, because it centres on a scene where he writes on her body – not in a nice, arty way but in a thoroughly nasty way. You can read the whole of “No Sleep” on Amazon preview but I thought it would be nice to feature an excerpt here as well.
From “No Sleep”
The hotel room, like the bar, was warmly minimalist, a cocoon of cream, browns and aubergine. She turned up the dimmer switch, stripped and knelt, pleased that the thread of ribbon in her black bra was a near-perfect match for the bruise-purple stripe on the bed linen. Not that he would notice. Not that she cared. This was a sex thing, not a matching-bra-and-bed thing.
On the dressing table, the brandy glowed like a tiny fireplace. I could be anyone, she thought.
When he entered, he glanced at her as if she were nothing but furniture before he turned to hang his jacket in the alcove-cum-wardrobe. “Clasp your hands behind your head,” he said, removing his shirt.
She did. She felt nervous and stupid, playing this game of make-believe because it aroused them. Children play games, not adults.
He removed all his clothes, aimed the TV remote then flicked through screens of information. Naked in the dimness, he was glorious, his cock erect, vulgar and shameless, his arms sculpted with light and shadow, his butt taut and lean. Colors from the TV shimmered on his chest.
She recalled him once telling her about a program he’d watched, something involving Romans and their servants, and how it had turned him on. This was months ago when they’d first started seeing each other (if you could call it “seeing”). She’d treasured the snippet because he never revealed much about his day-to-day life. Then again, neither did she. Distance.
But this was cheeky: six weeks apart and he switches on the TV first? She was aching for the warmth of his skin, the scent of him and the wild thrust of his cock, and knew he was equally hot for her. She admired him for being such a cool bastard. The more he ignored her, the more humiliated and horny she grew. She liked to claim she wasn’t ashamed of her kinks but when she was in the thick of it, compliant, needy and submissive, she felt embarrassed by the enormity of her lust. She wanted satisfaction and didn’t like to dwell on how low she might go to achieve it. But it was a tricky business, this game-playing, because going low was part of her pleasure. She loved what she hated, hated what she loved.
He didn’t have that problem. He loved it all.
He set down the remote and addressed her. “Hey, what’s this? Free whore?”
She winced at his jaunty tone, hated it.
He approached. He had a pen in his hand, a Sharpie. “Now this is what I call room service,” he said. “What are you?”
Her voice was soft. “A whore.”
“Sort of a whore?”
She closed her eyes. “A free whore.”
“That’s right. Likes getting used so much she doesn’t even want paying.”
He wrote the words across her chest in black ink: FREE WHORE. She held still, swaying only slightly.
“Arms folded behind your back,” he said. He pushed her bra straps down, lifted her breasts free and grabbed her by the hair. Holding her head firm, he drove into her mouth, increasing his reach until her throat was opening to clasp the last inch of him, so warm and tight. She gazed up obediently, her lips around his root, her eyes watering. Her makeup ran, making her tears as black as the words on her chest.
When she needed air, she tapped his thigh and he withdrew. “Aw,” he said, thumbing away a tear. “Such a good submissive.” She thought he was taunting her; then, in a gentle voice, he added, “You’re beautiful when you cry, you know?”
She thought he was being sincere. (He was.) “I’m not crying,” she said.
“You will be soon,” he warned.
He was right, of course.
In her bag of kit, she had rope, cuffs, flogger, blindfold, ball gag, bit gag, butt plug, vibe, condoms, lube, Wet Wipes. The crop had been too long to pack, so she’d left that at home rather than have its handle poking out of the zip on the Underground, letting everyone know she was a pervert. She should have left the whole bag at home. All he used were the condoms plus the pen that he’d brought himself. It was testament to his dark imagination he could reduce her to a sobbing wreck with so little equipment.
He fucked her on the bed with slow cruelty, easing himself into her without hitting home. He didn’t thrust, he didn’t go deep, and the angle was weak. She was on her side, a leg in the air, pleading for more.
“When I’m ready,” he said, rocking calmly into her cunt.
She shifted position, trying to take more of him but he laughed and readjusted, denying her the advantage. “What are you after?” he asked. “Tell me, I might give it to you.”
She muttered obscenities, begging him to fuck her and fill her and let her have his cock, oh please, it’s torture, I can’t stand it, give it to me hard, please, please.
He took the pen, made her twist forward, then wrote her words on her back as if she’d been dictating. “In case I forget what you want,” he said. He swiveled her onto all fours, gripped her hips, and penetrated her with one neat, clean thrust. Her walls stretched to take him and the two of them groaned in unison. “Oh, I’ve missed this little cunt,” he said.
He fucked her one way for a while before flipping her over, pushing her legs back and slamming in deep again. He went at her with a dour force and passion, his face clouded with absorption in the moment, sweat sprinkling from his forehead. She clung to his cock, slippery and snug, and he filled her with his big, meaty aggression, calling her names through gritted teeth. He withdrew without coming—time for something else now—and told her to kneel on the bed.
Her legs were shaky and she was bothered by the ink stains on the sheets. She imagined the words printed backwards on the cotton, entertainment for the chambermaids. Fuck me hard, please, I can’t stand it, I need your cock, please, oh God, please, and do you think that will come out with Dreft?
He’d had plans he’d been mulling over for weeks, plans involving rope and pain, gags and ass-fucking. But he’d found the Sharpie in his pocket on his way up to the room and he was running with sudden, new ideas. He made her open her knees a little wider then pushed the pen into her wetness. “Grip it,” he said. “Don’t let it drop.”
“Oh Christ.” She squeezed her PC muscles, her entire body tensing with the effort. But the pen was so slim and his cock had been so big, leaving her wet and open. A lifetime of Kegels couldn’t have saved her. She couldn’t hold the pen for a second.
“Try again,” he said.
When she failed for a second time, he slapped her face. This was usually the point where she’d start slipping away from him. He could see it in her eyes. He pinched and twisted her nipples, scratched her skin, and she arched toward him, whimpering for more. He circled and rocked her clit, his fist in her hair, stretching her neck taut. She came quickly. His gaze never left her face.
She looked dazed and remote, as if she existed somewhere behind her eyes. He could do anything he wanted when she started to drift but he was always careful, measuring her reactions, occasionally checking in for a whispered “yes”.
She was in a black, swimmy place veined with purple, pinpoints of light growing large and small. She had no words. If he needed it, she would try her very best to say “yes”. Sometimes, “yes” was as heavy as a boulder. When she couldn’t manage to lift the word, he always understood. He never heard her silence as “no”, thank God.
Kristina has contributed to dozens of anthologies and magazines over the years, and the stories in this collection feature a range of characters, settings and submissive desires. In ‘Living off Lovers’ a woman in a haunted apartment block becomes obsessed with a man she barely knows; while in another tale, Susanna, despite being married, can’t stop thinking about her local butcher (‘Cutting Out Hearts’). An army-boot fetishist meets her match in ‘Boot Camp’; and when Coral’s lover claims ownership of her ass, she orchestrates a threesome so she can enjoy being shared (‘My Ass is Your Ass is My Ass’).
“Kristina Lloyd is one of my favorite writers… Her atmospheric style sends me into orbit” – Alison Tyler