Sinister Touch (erotica anthology) Read online

  She loved to scream, loved to screech at the top of her lungs in the throes of passion. It added to the enjoyment, added to that blissful moment when her body shook to its core; when the world stopped and the only thing that mattered was her and him, whoever he was. Those screams grew in intensity when she started dating Peter but they died off when the sex became dull, now, with the passion returning, the screams were coming back with a vengeance. She wanted to scream louder than she had ever screamed, she wanted to come better, harder, louder than she had ever come before. She knew Peter could give her that.

  A week later she came close to perfection. An argument had started from nothing, cutlery and plates began to fly. She took a knock on the arm, Peter took knocks everywhere else. He fucked her up against the wall, finished her off with his tongue. She had the perfect orgasm, screamed the house down whilst he finished on her tits.

  She tried to get him straight into another argument afterwards, eager for more, but he was spent, unwilling and unable.

  “What d’you think about...tools?” he asked her later that day, the sex behind them, their wounds healing.

  She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You know…” he raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  “You mean in the bedroom?”

  He shrugged shyly, she waited for a response but one didn’t come. He didn’t like to talk about sex, neither of them did anymore. Talking about it would ruin the spontaneity and they didn’t want to risk losing the passion.

  She knew by his shy grin that he wanted to try it, she didn’t object. She was game for anything that would increase the thrill. She was on an adrenaline rush, she wanted more.

  They left whips and chains by the bed, to be picked up in the heat of the moment. There were plenty of moments, even more once they started to bring toys into the bedroom. He used dildos on her, she even managed to use one on him, something he didn’t object to.

  She loved it, preferred it. It was rougher, harder, dirtier. They gathered a collection of everything, went through an entire BDSM catalogue of toys and tools to use on each other. She often struggled to walk the next day, he sometimes suffered the same. But it was worth it, she came harder than she had ever come; she screamed louder than she had ever screamed. One of their sessions was interrupted by a nosey neighbor who had overheard the commotion inside the house, commotion that, in his words, had been going on for a long time but had escalated. He thought Peter was beating her, even more so when she showed up at the door, sweaty, her hair in a mess, marks on her faces and blood on her lips. By the time she calmed him down, convinced him that there was nothing to be worried about, that they were just having a ‘private’ moment, the dirty old bastard was ready to join in.

  She entertained the idea of bringing others in, thought it might give her the ultimate orgasm, the ultimate scream, but the neighbor was old and perverted. If they did bring anyone in, someone who would enjoy their flair for violence as much as they did, it wouldn’t be him.

  ***

  The toys were getting old. They both felt it. The last few times she had struggled to come, he had seemed disinterested. Then, during a fight in the kitchen about how hot his toast should have been, she produced a knife from the drawer. She was ready to cut him, ready to unleash his blood, and she saw the spark in his eyes that suggested he wanted that.

  They took the knife to bed, left it on the bedside table as they fucked. They both wanted to use it.

  She wrestled him hard to the bed, nearly drove her knee into his groin, such was her desperation to escalate. She tore at his clothes, ripped his skin and bit into his nipple. He let her, invited her on, begging her to do more, take it that one step further.

  “Cut me bitch,” he growled, spitting sprays of angry salvia at his beloved.

  “You want this?” Annie reached across, took the knife from the bedside table. The blade shimmered. She kissed it, ran the smooth edge along her lips. She could feel him convulsing, kicking out, desperate for the blade, for her. “You want this baby?” she repeated.

  He nodded vigorously, like a snarling animal.

  She kissed the shape edge of the knife, ran a careful tongue along it.

  He kicked out, thrust himself deeper inside her. She shook, moaned, nearly dropped the knife. She paused, smiled, looked down on him, then he bucked again, and again. He pounded upwards continuously, thrusting himself deep inside of her, until she could feel every inch of him, could feel the rush of heat, energy, light and life inside her body as his pelvis thrust repeatedly.

  “Oh my god.” Her eyes rolled in to the back of her head. Her jaw clicked, dropped open. She screamed, unable to control herself, losing herself in a world of orgasmic energy. He continued to pound her, he had relentless stamina, he wasn’t stopping.

  When she came it felt like the world was on fire, like her body was attached to the mains; coursing with thousand of volts of electricity. She bucked herself, her muscles contracting and kicking. Then she grabbed at him, desperate for him to finish as well.

  He stopped bucking, stopping thrusting himself inside of her with a few trailed thrusts. She heard him moan, heard him groan heavily, a sound that emanated from the tips of his toes. He always liked to make a noise.

  She lay on top of him, waiting to feel him shoot his load inside of her, he never did. He had stopped thrusting.

  She opened her eyes, pushed herself upwards. Only then did she see the knife protruding from his chest, only then did she see his wide, blank eyes, staring lifelessly towards the ceiling. Her face turned white, her heart stopped temporarily; his had stopped for good.

  She had forgotten she was holding it, had gotten carried away with herself. She hadn’t felt it enter him, hadn’t felt the moment she had taken his life.

  She reached for the knife, tried to rip it out and then decided against it. She squealed, panicked, threw herself off of him. She chewed her nails, nearly stuffing her entire fists into her mouth. She stared at him, waiting for him to wake up.

  He didn’t wake. With tears running down her cheeks, mumbled worry spilling from her mouth, Annie screamed louder than she had ever screamed before.

  The Nervous One

  She found him at the back of the club. An unassuming but well-built man with a joyful and awkward smile and a way of playing with his hands when he was nervous, which seemed to be a lot. She was instantly attracted to him, she didn’t really like the nervous ones, but there was something special about him and she wanted him as soon as she saw him.

  She got talking to him. She didn’t catch his name, didn’t really pay attention to anything that he said -- how old he was, what he did for a living -- she was staring at his lips the whole time, wondering what those pert things would do to her nipples, what it would feel like if they kissed her clit.

  He bought her a drink, she knocked it back quickly, hoping he would do the same with his. He did. He bought her another, and another, then she saw him relax, noted the instant change as his awkwardness disappeared, his nerves calmed and he became a handsome, almost charming man. She was even more drawn to him at that point, was practically ready to explode when he touched her, planted his arm on the small of her back, and led her outside.

  It was cold outside and she was only wearing a skimpy dress, tight around the top of her thighs -- exposing her long legs -- and virtually nonexistent around her bust, her breasts on display.

  She played with him first, worked his excitement to breaking point until she felt the increasing throbs, the increasing heat, and knew he was nearly ready. Then she let him enter her, up against the side door of the club, the cold steel pressed against her back and buttocks, his thick cock deep inside her.

  When he came, when she felt him blow his load inside her, felt the wetness increase, the sense of deflation in his formerly rigid body, she grabbed his ass cheeks and pressed him against her. She wanted more, wanted him to push. He didn’t disappoint, he fucked her until she orgasmed twice, until she could barely stand,
until the door behind her was hot from her own burning cheeks.

  He came again, it took some time, a lot more than the first. There was no continuing after that, no way she could get him to go again, but she didn’t mind. She had what she wanted, more than what he wanted.

  The nervous ones were always desperate to please, always ready to go the extra mile, and this extra mile had taken her to place she hadn’t been for weeks.

  She thanked him with a peck on the cheek, she wrote a number down on a slip of paper, gave him a wink and slipped it into his back pocket. He seemed delighted, was sure he would see her again, but that wasn’t her number. She would never hear from him, would probably never see him again.

  She stayed for one more drink, didn’t make eye contact with him after that. Then she left, back into the night. She would head home or maybe to another club, it didn’t matter, the night was young, it was hers, and it couldn’t have started any better.

  Gooseberry

  I wanted my friend’s boyfriend more than I had wanted any other man, and I think she knew this.

  Melanie said I only wanted him, only found him even remotely attractive, because he was hers. She said it had been the same way with her other boyfriends, like Paddy Brown, the kid with the squint and the dirty blonde hair who I had picked on throughout primary school and high school but who suddenly blossomed into a handsome man when he was fifteen, around the same time he started dating Melanie. He had harbored a secret crush on me, one that held strong despite all the times I mocked and insulted him and one that climaxed with the quick snog we shared behind the bike-sheds after school. Melanie didn’t find out until a few years later, until I spilled my guts when drunk, but he finished her after that because he thought he could start something with me. He couldn’t and he didn’t.

  Then there was Matthew and Marcus Moody. They were twins, separated by just a few minutes, but they looked nothing alike. One was tall and stocky, the other was short and thin. Melanie started seeing one of them in our first year of college, she dated him for two months before splitting up when she discovered he had been cheating on her, with me. She turned to the other one for consolation, something he was happy to provide, especially when it led to a brief and heated relationship, one which ended when Melanie found my knickers in his bed.

  She didn’t know they were my knickers; didn’t know, and still doesn’t, that I slept with either of them, but she knew I was interested. She also knew about my elder sister’s boyfriend, a guy who used to come over to the house when my sister was on leave from university, a man who used to slip into my bedroom in the middle of the night to get from me what he couldn’t get from my sister.

  It was nonsense of course. It wasn’t my fault, I didn’t come on to them, they came onto me. They were attractive, desirable men and I was, and still am, a young girl keen to explore and discover.

  Melanie’s new boyfriend, Dan was his name, was better than all of them put together. He was a sturdy, strong twenty-five year old with Popeye biceps and a chest I could cut my teeth on. I begged Melanie for details, to find out what he was like in bed, but she wouldn’t tell me anything, wouldn’t even let me near him.

  “You’re my friend,” she told me. “And I love you; I trust you with my life. But not with my boyfriend.”

  She said it as a joke but I knew she was serious, she may have not known about the others, but she knew about my sister’s boyfriend; she knew about little Paddy Brown.

  ***

  “Dan’s coming round tonight,” Melanie told me, a curious expression on her face. “Just for a few drinks, a pizza maybe, you’re welcome to join us.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.” I smiled as warmly as I could, adding, “I’d love to. I could do with some good wine and conversation,” but thinking, ‘I can’t wait to get drunk and ogle your boyfriend.’

  She had invited me but we lived in the same house, had been roommates for three years, so she didn’t really have a say in the matter; if she wanted him around for a few drinks, then there was a good chance I would be there.

  We dressed in the same room, chatting and listening to some music; a regular girl’s night. I kept an eye on her, making sure that I outdid her, that I looked better than her. It helped that she let me do her hair and makeup. I was usually good at it, could make her look like a Disney princess if I wanted to, but tonight I didn’t want to.

  “It looks a bit shabby,” she said, toying with her hair, running a hand through it.

  I put on a shocked face. “I think it looks gorgeous.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded confidently. “He’ll love it.”

  She gave me a happy smile. “Thanks.”

  ***

  He was dressed in white. White shirt; white jacket; white pants; white innocent smile. He had a sheepish, timed way of grinning. I usually found it annoying, childish really, but on him it was endearing.

  Melanie hugged him tightly, gave him a sloppy kiss and then another hug for good measure. I stood back, watched, saw his shy eyes glance over her shoulder at me. I could see him check me out, could see the appraisal as he studied my body, every contour on show for him. I looked better than his girlfriend, a much better prospect, I knew that and I was sure he knew it as well.

  I gave him an extra taste with a close greeting, pressing my bosom against him surreptitiously, breathing hotly in his ear when I moved to kiss his cheek. When I pulled away I could almost sense his desperation in his shy, retiring smile.

  I had him exactly where I wanted him.

  We had a light meal, a few glasses of wine during and a couple of shots afterwards. We let him do most of the talking, I kept eye contact throughout. He gave me a few awkward glances, darted his eyes away when he noticed that I wasn’t breaking eye contact. He was nervous but that was a good sign. Melanie doted on him, didn’t stop looking at him, so she didn’t notice that I was doing the same.

  I laughed at his jokes, allowed him to brag and inflated his ego when needed. His confidence grew as he drank. I became more eager to let him know how much I waned him, that I was prepared to offer myself to him despite being Melanie’s best friend. I loved Melanie, but I was head over heels in love with him, prepared to risk our friendship for him.

  A few hours later we settled in the living room, lazy and lethargic from the drink and food. I was sitting across from him on a single chair, he was tucked up on the couch with Melanie. I tried to give him signs, to flirt with him without making it too obvious to her, but it didn’t seem to be working. Then Melanie left the room to use the toilet. I was drunk, loose, eager. He was talking and I was staring at him, refusing to break eye contact, keen to let him know that if he felt like cheating on his girlfriend while she emptied her bladder, I was more than happy to oblige.

  I played with my hair, toyed enticingly with the strands. I opened my legs slightly, caught his eyes falling towards them before he pulled them away. I knew I had him when I saw his cheeks flush. He was still speaking but he was tripping up his words, clearly distracted as I began to run a hand over my chest, pretending that the act was an unconscious one, that my hand just happened to glide over my bosom, just accidentally pried open my top to expose a nipple.

  I saw him shift, saw him maneuver his legs and place a cushion on his lap, hiding his excitement. I was happy to show him more, to get him even more excited, but Melanie returned from the toilet. I took my finger out of my mouth, closed my legs and gave him one last, long smile.

  He didn’t know what to do after that, seemed to give Melanie a guilty grin whenever she spoke to him, as if she could read his thoughts. I played it cool for the rest of he night, ignored him, let him watch me and want me.

  He said his goodbyes in the early hours of the morning. Melanie was tired, drunk, barely coherent. She had stumbled over him all night, even tried to drag him upstairs on a couple of occasions, but his eyes had lingered on me. He didn’t accept her drunken advances, even shoved her hand away the times she tried to blatantly rub his co
ck or place his palm on her breasts. He seemed embarrassed, not just because I was witnessing it, but because he preferred to stay in my company than drift upstairs to have sex with his girlfriend.

  I followed him to the door when he said his goodbyes. He gave Melanie a prompt and tasteless kiss on the lips, told her he would call her in the morning. She was too dunk to care, too drunk to notice me walk her boyfriend out of the living room, into the darkness and the solitude of the corridor.

  He stuttered a goodbye, lingered longer than was necessary with his face in front of mine, wondering if I was going to kiss him or not. I gave him what he wanted, and more. I kissed him hard, thrusting my tongue into his mouth. I heard him gasp and wondered if he was about to pull away, if I had the signs all wrong, but then he silenced himself, grabbed me by the back of the neck and pressed my lips closer to his.