Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!
Today's guest is Jo Henny Wolf, whose short story The Black Orchid appears in the Sinful Pleasures anthology, alongside my own contribution.
“But…” Donn’s thoughts were hazy, but he knew that he couldn’t wait six months. “I need the black orchid now.” No, dumbass, you need to find a killer. Somehow, in his mind, both things had become one, circling endlessly around each other.
Poppy didn’t give him room to think. Instead, she dropped her hand to the buckle of his belt, tapping her nails against it. Donn had no time to process this, for she slid her other hand from his arm up to his neck, dragging her nails over his scalp as she raked through his hair. Her lips moved against his ear. Donn was helpless to stop his hips from bucking. “Maybe we should play a game. If you win, you get a black orchid.”
“And if I lose?” Fuck, he was hoarse. He couldn’t concentrate with her fingers sliding through his hair and slipping around his throat.
“Oh, I’ll think of something, don’t worry about that.”
Donn’s answer came too quick and without thinking. “Okay, let’s play.”
“Perfect.” Poppy reached for something out of a tin on her potting table and showed it to him. It was a piece of soft paper string used to bind up flower stems. Not all that impressive, he thought. Then his brain was flushed out the drain as she clasped his wrists and brought his hands behind his back. “I’m going to tie your thumbs together, and you won’t break that tie if you don’t want to lose the game, okay?” Her fingers were hot as she encircled his thumbs in her grip, and Donn’s throat went dry. He would be at her mercy, completely helpless without his hands. This meant offering himself for the taking, and he wasn’t entirely sure that the nature of her taking was benign.
“Okay,” he rasped. A paper string wasn’t that hard to break. At least he hoped so, but when Poppy had tied his thumbs together, he tested the hold of this binding nevertheless. It was loose enough so he could slip out, but that also meant he had to take extra care not to lose it accidentally. Poppy turned him around.
“Did you know that mantises are cannibals?” she asked, looking him up and down as if she contemplated eating him. He nodded, feebly. Poppy continued, “The females eat the males when they don’t get away fast enough after mating. But they’re still ready to risk their lives for a fuck. Interesting, don’t you think?” She traced the bulge of his straining cock with the tip of her finger, and Donn opened his mouth. No sound came out. She tilted her head, an amused smile crooking her lips. Her eyes were as green as the filtered light inside her glass house.
“Your mouth is pretty useless, isn’t it? We should give it something to do.”
He clapped his mouth shut. Poppy’s grin became devious. She stepped so close he could feel her heat burn through his clothes, so close that he could see her skin shimmer. He thought she wanted to kiss him, but she bent sideways and picked something else up from the table.
“Open up…” She twirled a black orchid blossom between her fingertips. Donn hesitated. “Don’t worry, they’re not poisonous,” she said, tipping the flower to her own lips.
“Do you want me to eat it?”
“Of course not. I want you to open up and hold it in your mouth while I do… other things. And don’t you drop it, or it’s game over.”
Donn flexed his hands behind his back. His pants were growing tighter. He would be so vulnerable like that, but his blood simmered, pulsing in his groin, whispering to him to give in and let go.
Surrendering, he opened his mouth and allowed Poppy to gently push the blossom between his lips. It tickled his palate, his tongue, filling his whole mouth with its petals. Donn forced himself not to bite down against the fuzzy sensation. The blossom would offer no resistance if he did. It was solely his responsibility not to break it, his responsibility to keep his mouth open no matter what Poppy did to him. Saliva gathered behind his teeth, and he curled his lip inwards to keep from drooling. The scent of the flower filled every hollow of his skull as he inhaled, and on his tongue, the petals were as velvety soft as a woman’s sex.
All of a sudden, the odd familiarity of the scent made sense, and it hit him like a hammer. It smelled of sex. Of cunt. Its taste filled him to the brim and overwhelmed his senses, rushing through his veins and straight down to his prick. Moaning, he thrust his head back, grabbing the edge of the potting table to keep on his feet as his knees threatened to buckle. He made the most ridiculous sound when Poppy Baines cupped his cock through his pants and squeezed.
“Think of that flower,” she warned him. Had it not been for that, he would have swallowed the blasted orchid the very next moment, when Poppy undid first his belt, then his pants, and worked his cock free of its prison. “Nice.”
She stepped back, examining him like the specimen of a rare plant. Something in her eyes had him on edge, and Donn prepared to be taunted for being so easy. His cock didn’t care about his humiliation though, jutting out recklessly. Wobbly, he spread his feet apart to keep his pants from slipping down and pooling around his ankles.
Poppy shrugged out of her cardigan and dropped it to the floor between them, and Donn stopped breathing when she sank to her knees. Fucking hell. He looked down at her, dripping drool from his mouth and almost losing the flower. She was rigging the game, and not playing by the rules at all… not that they had specified any rules beyond don’t drop the flower. It had seemed simple enough a moment ago, yet when Poppy parted her lips and breathed onto his cock, then dragged her tongue across the tip, wetting it, it turned into an impossible challenge.
The only thing harder than holding still was his cock. Tension coiled between his pelvic bones, drawing every bit of his conscious mind down into the roiling vortex of need smouldering there. He wanted Poppy’s soft, red lips around his shaft, and he longed to push deep into her throat, like she was an orchid and her mouth the vessel to receive his seed.
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Jo Henny Wolf lives with her husband and two daughters in the idyllic Rhine Valley in one of the warmest places of Germany. She spent her childhood roaming the woods of the Black Forest, steeped deeply in myth and folklore and ingrained superstition, where her love for fairytales was nurtured and cemented.
She holds a B.A. in German Language and Literature as well as Scandinavian Language and Literature. Tracing intertextual influences is like a treasure hunt and a fascinating puzzle to her, but it's not as fulfilling as writing her own stories, accompanying her heroines and heroes through adventures full of magic, love and melancholy, and lots of steamy sex. She writes Romance novels as J. H. Wolf.
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