The Pursuit of Happiness

© 2005 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

They say that, when you press a conch to your ear, you can hear the sea. When I press my lips against Beth’s cunt, and the sea-salt taste of her floods my mouth, and her thighs press against my ears, I hear happiness.

This is a here-and-now, grab it, savor it, look for it again, kind of happiness that roars in my blood like laughter in a storm. I grin and push my tongue into her.

When I can press no deeper, my hands slide, palms flat and smooth, up the warm flesh that stretches from the depths of her buttocks to the narrow shallows of her knees. I grip hard, pulling Beth’s legs apart, lifting her hips, letting my mouth slip slowly south towards the darker, earthier opening.

Beth squirms as my tongue spirals inwards insistently and my nose presses into the slick-but-sticky folds of her cunt.

If her hands were free, her fingers would be in my hair, grabbing and pushing, torn between removal and insertion. But, Beth is bound tight from wrist to elbow, hands stretched far above her head.

If she could speak, there would be curses and growls and pleas and thank yous, but all Beth can do is bite down on the black leather bit that fits across her mouth like a fat, armor-plated cock.

When I am so drenched in her that I have lost awareness of everything except the pounding of my blood in my now stiff cock, I stand, move hands from knees to ankles, spread her wider and enter her in her tightest hole.

Making it tighter still, I grasp both ankles in one fist and hold them firm against my shoulder.

Beth shudders as I adjust my stance, pushing home until there is no gap between her and me all along the length of her sweat-glazed legs.

Her eyes scream at me, then widen when they see, held high about my head in my free hand, the short, soft, suede, strips of the hand flogger.

Happiness grows like a blush with each stroke across Beth’s belly. I can feel her trying to bounce with joy.

When my arm is tired, and the tears have come, and my cock has spurted its appreciation, I slump to the floor, Beth’s legs limp over my shoulders.

A poet once said, “Man cannot take too much happiness.” Or did he say “truth“? Is there a difference? In my sated state, I cannot tell.

But, I am not a poet and I seek happiness whenever I can.

They say that, when you press a conch to your ear, you can hear the sea. When I press my ear against Beth’s sweat-slick breast and listen to her heart, I hear happiness.

Kirsten’s First Morning At The Sanctuary

This little piece is set in a world of Doms who have castles and Subs who seek only to be shaped by their Master. Escapist but fun if you’re in that frame of mind. Enjoy.

 

(c) Mike Kimera 2001

As the sun rises I focus my attention on the strands of silver in Madam Chen’s jet-black braid. She is small wiry woman with strong hands, a sharply angled face that seldom shows any emotion other than anger or contempt. She is standing between Kirsten’s legs, bending over her naked body like a predator readying for a kill.

Chen’s braid is a calculated provocation: it looks so controlled, so deferential, but speaks of sex and passionate restraint. Every man she passes watches that tightly woven braid bounce off her arse and feels his cock stir in anticipation.

I have imagined wrapping that braid around my fist and forcing her impassive face further down my cock until involuntary tears flow, or using it to bind her hands behind her back and pulling on it like a leash as I push deeper into her arse. I have imagined it, but so far I have held back. Chen is valuable because she is fierce and fearless. She believes herself protected and she has been trained to act without pity or remorse. That is one reason why we are all here.

“ ‘Feng Shui’ combines the five elements: Earth, Metal, Wood, Water and Fire to produce a harmonious alignment.” Madam Chen explains.

She makes the words sound like a threat and in a way they are.

Unfortunately Kirsten is not listening. She is letting herself be distracted by Chen’s assistants, two teenage girls, who are releasing Kirsten’s arms and legs from the cuffs that I used to bind her to the leather bench that she slept on last night.

The first night in The Sanctuary is always spent that way.

The girls are stroking Kirsten’s wrists and ankles, helping the blood to flow. The younger of the two brushes her breast against the back of Kirsten’s hand with each stoke of the wrist. Even from across the room, I can see the girl’s erect nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her cotton shift.

Instead of listening to Madam Chen, Kirsten turns to smile at the girl. The girl looks away but leans further forward against Kirsten’s hand.

Madam Chen takes hold of Kirsten’s chin firmly with her finger and thumb, pulling Kirsten up into a sitting position, bringing their faces close together. Fear washes across Kirsten’s face as she looks up into Madam Chen’s unsmiling face and feels Madam’s sharp fingernails press into her cheeks. Kirsten’s eyes flick quickly towards me, hoping I will intervene.

“Look at me! You have not yet earned the right to look at your Master.”

Madam Chen’s voice betrays the hatred she feels for the flesh she holds. Young flesh, privileged flesh, flesh entitled to freedom and choosing to be enslaved.

I have promised Kirsten that she will not be marked without her consent, but it is obvious to both of us that Chen would like to rake Kirsten’s flawless skin. My imagination flashes me an image of Kirsten’s blood flowing over Chen’s pale nails as they rend her flesh. Kirsten trembles. My cock stiffens. Madam Chen smiles. It is not a reassuring smile.

“Today you will be used according to the principles of Feng Shui. Each time harmony is achieved you will be permitted to come. If you come without permission, you will be punished.”

Madam Chen lets go of Kirsten’s chin; steps back and runs her gaze across Kirsten’s naked body.

“I suspect you will be punished often. I look forward to it.”

It is unusual for Madam to be so provoked. She was born at The Sanctuary, was schooled in our ways. The fact that, instead of becoming part of our breeding pool, or being traded to another House, she has become a Madam is a tribute to her control, her aggression and her complete ruthlessness.

Perhaps it is time to remind Chen that the power she has been given can be taken away? Yet that would a waste and finding her successor would be a chore. Besides, the fact that Chen’s armoured emotions are so easily pierced reinforces my judgement that Kirsten is extraordinary.

Ever since she surrendered herself into my care, with her parents consent, on her eighteenth birthday, I have been nurturing her libido, ensuring she has come, with my permission, at least five times a day, often more. Her body now hums with a hunger that must be fed well and often.

I have being stoking that hunger since we set out for the Sanctuary yesterday. She was given no opportunity to touch herself on the journey. When we arrived, I stripped her and tied her to the tightly to the bench, positioning her with her head facing away from my bed and with her cunt spread and open to my sight.

They brought me a woman, ripe and soft, with pale flesh for my whip to write upon. It took me an hour to bring her to climax. Kirsten could hear her but not see her. Each time the woman moaned I could see Kirsten’s arse clench, showing how much she wanted to be the one feeling the whip’s biting kiss. By the time the woman was carried from the room, Kirsten’s cunt lips were slick and swollen.

In honour of her discipline in staying silence I decided to reward Kirsten. I stood between her legs, not touching her, relieving the aching hardness of my cock. When my cum splashed her belly, pooling in her navel, Kirsten groaned and pressed against her bonds. I knew what she wanted.

“Tomorrow” I said as I put out the light.

Madam Chen has noticed the dried sperm on Kirsten’s belly. It makes Kirsten’s smooth skin pucker slightly, like a scar. Chen scrapes at it, not gently, with one nail.

“Open her” Madam Chen says to the girl massaging Kirsten’s ankles.

She places her face an inch or less from Kirsten’s cunt and inspects every inch.

“Clean her. Get rid of all this hair. I want her smooth and oiled. Don’t let her come.”

“Yes, Madam Chen,” both girls say together.

Madam Chen strides out of the room, braid bouncing off her buttocks. As the door closes all three girls visibly relax.

“What is your name?” Kirsten asks the younger of the two girls. The girl shakes her head and refuses to look at Kirsten.

“Please tell me your name.”

The slap the older girl administers, catches Kirsten completely by surprise. The older girl places one finger across her lips signalling for Kirsten to be silent. The younger girl mimics the action but brings the finger from her lips to Kirsten’s and lets her eyes smile.

Without needing to speak to one another the girls lift Kirsten, taking one arm each and placing it behind their neck, supporting her under the armpits. Kirsten is still unsteady on her feet and seems glad of their support.

As they move with her towards the shower room, I step in front of Kirsten. The girls pause. I am fully dressed, and have cup of tea in my hands. I flick my gaze across Kirsten, reminding her of her nakedness, making her aware that her breasts are touching the girls who carry her. Her nipples harden and to my surprise she blushes. I prize that blush more than the sunrise I have just witnessed from the window of this chamber.

The shower room is tiled from floor to ceiling. At first sight it looks as if the shower curtain is missing, until the eye is drawn to the cuffs hanging from what is not, after all, a shower-rail. The girls raise Kirsten’s arms above her head and fasten them, wide apart, on the rail, then they spread her legs and tie them to rings set in the tiled floor.

I move forward and push my fingers through Kirsten’s hair. I keep her hair short and boyish, it’s easier to maintain and it provides a vivid contrast to her full figure. Kirsten tries to kiss my arm but I stop her with a look. When I hold up the blacked-out swimming goggles, she bows her head. With a practiced motion, I deprive her of her sight.

I step to one side so that I can read Kirsten’s body language. She tenses as she waits. Then the water hits her. She winces as it moves from too hot to too cold and then relaxes as the girls massage her with a high-pressure spray from in front and behind.

They start at her shoulders and work their way down, as if they were washing a car, then move closer, bringing the spray up between her legs from both directions. Kirsten tries to spread wider, welcoming the sensation, trying to dance on the water, seeking stimulation and release.

The water stops. There is silence.

Kirsten cocks her head to listen, seems momentarily puzzled by a sound that is familiar but which she can’t place.

When the shaving foam hits her mound she stands very still, letting the girls spread it with their fingers. She bites her lip; I can almost feel her anxiety as she waits for a sharp blade to move across her tender skin.

The finger pushing into her anus catches her by surprise. The younger girl is smearing lube with fast, light touches, inside and out. The nozzle slips into Kirsten easily, but the warm water that follows has enough pressure behind it to make her moan. She pushes forward, away from the assault on her rear, only to encounter the caress of the razor as it shears her.

I watch as the wisps of curly hair are swept away and her pink skin emerges looking freshly scrubbed.

Kirsten relaxes her leg muscles and lets herself hang from the bar above her head. The older girl pushes a second nozzle into Kirsten, this time into her cunt, flooding her with the scent of strawberries.

Kirsten rise onto tiptoe but there is nothing she can do to free herself from the dual force of the liquids sliding into her. When the nozzles are pulled from her simultaneously she sighs with pleasure. Watching her from the side I picture her as the water nymph statue at the centre of some Seventeenth Century fountain.

Starting at her shoulders, in front and behind, with the practised co-ordination of a dance, the girls work an oil into Kirsten’s skin, until every inch of her smells of French Vanilla. It is slow thorough work, interrupted three times to prevent her from reaching a climax. Finally it is done. Kirsten gleams in the early morning sunlight.

“Thank you,” she murmurs when the goggles are removed, but the erotic haze she had surrounded herself with is immediately dispersed when she sees that it is Madam Chen who has given her back her sight.

Both girls are kneeling beside Madam Chen, eyes downcast, as she inspects their work.

Her eyes are on Kirsten’s as she tests the smoothness of the shave with the ball of her thumb. She leans closer and pushes two fingers into Kirsten’s cunt and one into her arse. Despite herself, Kirsten moans.

Chen reaches up until her mouth is close to Kirsten’s, fingers still inside her. Just when Kirsten is sure she will be kissed, when she’s starting to lean into it, Chen’s mouth forms, but does not speak, the word SLUT and she removes her fingers with painful speed.

Madam Chen holds her fingers under her nose as Kirsten settles back onto the soles of her feet.

“You have done well girls. You will be rewarded. Put the collar on her and lead her to the Courtyard.”

Madam Chen strides out of the room to prepare Kirsten’s first ordeal.

For a moment, standing between the two kneeling girls whose efforts have made her skin gleam, Kirsten looks so lost and bereft that my heart aches for her.

The girls look at me, waiting for me to provide them with the collar that will show Kirsten’s status here. I move towards her, signalling for them to remain kneeling at her feet.

“Kirsten,” I say, resting the palm of my hand against her face and feeling my pulse race at the restoration of that contact, “are you ready to accept your collar from me?”

Her dark eyes focus on me, like searchlights exploring my soul. She turns her head into my hand and kisses my palm. Her resolve has returned. The strength and capacity for passion that first attracted me to her are apparent in the quiet confidence with which she says, “I am ready”.

The collar is a simple thing: strong black leather trimmed with silver at the edges; and with four matt black D rings evenly spaced at front back and sides. My initials are carved into the leather on either side of the front D ring. The silver edging is more than decorative. It tells everyone in The Sanctury who sees it that Kirsten has chosen a path of self-exploration; the initials show that she is under my protection.

I attach a leash to the collar. Kirsten makes to follow me.

“Not yet, Kirsten,” I say. “First you must reward these girls for a job so well done.”

Kirsten looks confused. She is not sure what I want.

I make a movement with my hands. The girls respond as they have been trained to do and fall forward with their small arses in the air.

“Kneel and finger then to climax, Kirsten.”

I watch for several minutes as Kirsten works with a hand inside each girl. As their passion rises, I remind her that she must not come.

My cock is hard. I free it from my clothes and push the head into Kirsten’s mouth. She is sucking on it, her cheek s concave with the effort, when the girls come on her fingers one after the other.

I pull back from Kirsten, and reward each girl with some of my semen on their foreheads.

Standing, I pull on Kirsten’s leash, then turn my back on her and lead her out into the courtyard.

The Enclave: Chapter 1 – a new arrival

“I’m not as young as I look,” I said quietly, my mouth against her ear. “The Legate makes me dress like this. He likes the virgin-whore schoolgirl thing.”

The woman made no reply. Well, the cock-gag in her mouth made that predictable, but some of the panic left her eyes.

“Now I need you to lie very still.” I said, loudly enough for the microphones to pick up.

Her whole body stiffened. She’d seen the cut-throat razor in my hand.

“It’s OK. I’m good at this. I get lots of practice. I’ll have your mound smooth and hairless in no time at all.”

I thought for a moment she might cry. Instead she turned her head away. Most of them prefer not to watch.

She was old enough to be my mother. She even has the same Celtic look that makes me so exotic here: skin pale enough to see the veins beneath, blood red hair, sky-blue eyes.

He’d set this up because the whole lesbo-mother-daughter thing cranked his erection up a few degrees. Lewdness appealed to him. It made for great television. He’d be watching the recording of this session for weeks. I looked up at one of the cameras and smiled. Then I set to work shaving off the curls of red hair from the woman’s pubis.

Her clitoris was deeply hooded and her labia folded over one another like petals on a sleeping flower. The skin at the edge of her labia was darker than the rest. A rarity. He’d like that.

I ran my thumb over her mound to test the smoothness of the finish. We’d both suffer if I missed a spot. She flinched beneath my touch. Her bonds meant she couldn’t move far, but she definitely flinched, finding my touch more difficult to bear than the kiss of the blade.

Her wrist-cuffs had been clipped to the black leather straps around her thighs. Her hands were clenched into fists. She wore a wedding ring. Probably a war widow. I wondered how long it had been since someone had seen her naked. My guess was that no one had ever seen her naked and bound.

She’d get used to it.

We all do.

I set down the razor and slid up her body, pressing my small still-clad breasts against her large naked ones. Playing it up for the camera. When I was close enough, I whispered in her ear.

“He can’t keep you against your will. They don’t tell you that when you sign the form, but any contract can be broken. Slavery is still illegal.”

I kiss her ear to keep the watching public happy and continue.

“Nod your head and I’ll cut you loose and make sure he let’s you go. I can make him do that, I promise you.”

I sat up, legs straddling her, letting my too-short plaid skirt display my lack of underwear and placed both of my hands on her breasts.

I waited.

She did not nod.

I was not surprised. Any contract could be broken but there were always consequences. At the very least she’d be made to leave Enclave. She didn’t look like she’d survive that for long.

I tweaked playfully on her nipples and said, in my best schoolgirl voice. “Yum, you look good enough to eat.” Then I leant forward and sucked one of her breasts into my mouth.

She was actually quite beautiful. Even with the ugly black cock sticking up obscenely from the gag in her mouth, she looked dignified and elegant. Everything about her appealed to me. Everything except the fact that my touch made her flinch. It would have been nice, just once, to have had one of them love me.

Still, the Legate knew my tastes. Where would the fun have been in sending me someone who shared them?

I reminded myself that, in six more months, my contract came due and I would have a permanent right to reside in the Enclave, I would even have the opportunity to study. Once I’d paid my dues.

I climbed off the widow. She did not look at me.

I gave the cameras a quizzical look and said “I wonder if the rest of you tastes as sweet?”

The bonds tying her to the bench have spread her legs wide. One of the ceiling cameras moved along its track until it is above where my face would soon be. The camera at the head of the bench stayed focused on the widow’s face. I wondered if the Legate was running the cameras himself today.

It wasn’t hard to work out what he wanted. He had had her left here with that big black rubber cock sticking out of her mouth after all.

“I know,” I said in a bright, happy voice, “why don’t I eat and ride at the same time.”

I knelt quickly beside her, making a show of loosening my school tie and opening up all the buttons on my blouse and saying softly, “Play along. This is going to happen. Try to enjoy it.*

I grabbed the dildo sticking out of her mouth and used it to turn her head to look up at me.

“Please, Momsy,” I said, “Can I have a ride?”

I didn’t wait for a reply. I was past worrying about the widow. I was looking after myself now.

I took off the skirt. No point in hiding the action. Then, slowly and with melodramatic relish, I slid down the faux-cock until it was all the way in. The only real cock I’ve ever had is the Legate’s and that was one more than I’d ever wanted, but I do like being this full; it takes my mind off everything else.

I didn’t have to fake the satisfied sigh, which was just as well as he’s not very tolerant of faking. I pushed up and down a couple of times, grinding back against her head, then I slid forward, careful to keep some of the cock inside me, and found my way to that hooded clit.

I get through these sessions by being somewhere else with someone else. Today, I was with Jess, in the barn, before the war reached us. She is sitting naked, with her back to a pillar, legs spread even wider than the evil grin on her face and pointing dramatically to her clit. “I need you right here, right now” she says.

I tried to imagine that the clit unfurling beneath my tongue is Jess’ and that this session is about love and joy. If I concentrated hard enough I could sometimes even make myself believe that. Today was not one of those days. I licked and sucked and nibbled but it all felt mechanical and forced. Which, I suppose, was quite appropriate. I was resigning myself to a lack-lustre session when I was taken completely by surprise. The widow started bucking beneath me, using her head to push the cock in deeper.

For a moment I let myself think that I’d actually aroused her. Then I realised that she really was just using her head; trying to get this over with as fast as possible.

I closed my eyes, said my traditional prayer “Jess, I need you right here and right now” and reapplied myself to making us both come.

It took me longer than usual to find her g-spot. It was set back in the curved roof of her sex and I needed most of my small hand in her to put pressure on it. Once I found it, everything slickened up nicely. I persisted and persisted until the widow lady arched her back so much that the cock slipped out of me entirely, leaving me gaping into the camera. She came for several seconds, in little quakes that felt like sobs.

This was a problem. I wasn’t even close to coming. I wondered how the Legate would react to that.

The sound of clapping reached me, like an answer to my question. The Legate had arrived in person to applaud our efforts. This was very unusual.

I started to sit up but he said “No need to rise, Lizzie. I like you just where you are.”

I dropped my head back onto the widow’s mound and carried on licking, never taking my eyes off him. He’s often forced home the point that I should look him in the eye when he’s using me.

As usual, he was accompanied by Yuriko, a Japanese half-breed who is even smaller and less developed than I am. She was wearing a sailor suit top but was naked below the waist. The leash he held was attached to her clit ring, ensuring that she always takes care to be at his side.

“Yuriko and I enjoyed your love making so much, I decided to join in.”

He snapped his fingers and Yuriko rushed to loosen the belt that held his kimono closed and reached up to slide the robe from his shoulders. She had to press against him to do this. He neither bent forward nor looked at her.

He has the well-defined muscles of a man who uses his body as a weapon: deep chest, strong arms, thick legs, spread in a fighter’s stance. His substantial erection curved up and back towards his concave belly.

Yuriko bent her head to suck him but he pushed her away, throwing the leash after her. He was clearly very excited. Which was good, because it meant this wouldn’t take long.

“I’m glad you enjoyed Mrs. Carstairs, Lizzie” he said as he climbed onto the bench and knelt between the widows legs.

He leant forward, steadying himself by pushing my head down onto her pubis. I opened my mouth and he pushes all the way in. I knew better than to suck. He would take whatever he wanted.

“You and, what did you call her? Ah yes, Momsy. You and Momsy make such a lovely couple,” he said, pushing deeper into my mouth, “that I’ve decide to put you in charge of her training.”

He picked up his pace, fucking my face as hard as he could. When I started to gag he gave a satisfied grunt, pulled out of me and slipped into the widow. She thrashed around until she heard him laugh. Then she had the sense to lie still.

It took less than a minute of humping before he was ready to come. The Legate was still forcing my head down onto the widow’s mound. I took the hint and did my best to lick her clit and his shaft. It’s a trick that takes practice but I’ve had plenty of that. The Legate went for the crowd-pleasing finish, pulling out of the widow to spew his cum on my face and her mound.

“Splendid,” he said with same sense of pride another person might show if they’d just invented a cure for cancer.

He got off the bench and headed for the door, still naked and still slightly erect. Yuriko was kneeling at the exit, holding up her leash to him. We all knew that it would be her function to deal with what was left of the Legate’s erection, probably while he viewed his newest recording for the first time.

While Yuriko got to her feet, the Legate looked back at me and said, “I’m making her your bed-mate for a while, Lizzie. Now clean her up and take her to your quarters. And do let her get some rest. I want her on the Pole tomorrow and I don’t want it over quickly.” Then he tugged on Yukio’s leash and left us.

For a moment I didn’t move. His instructions had caught me by surprise He’d never let me have a regular bed-mate before.

Then I processed his statement about the Pole. That was a tough routine for a new arrival. Clearly Mrs. Carstairs was more to him than just another neophyte for the Enclave.

I needed to find out what that connection was so I could decide if I’d been offered a reward or a poison chalice.

I was literally shaken out of my reverie by Mrs Carstairs herself, who was making it clear that she wanted me off her as soon as possible. While understandable, this was not acceptable behaviour from my new trainee.

I climbed down, found a towel to wipe his slime off me and put my skirt back on. I was in charge here so I got to clean up and wear clothes while she stayed naked and soiled.

My new charge was struggling against her bonds and trying to make herself heard despite the gag in her mouth. That wouldn’t do at all, especially with the cameras still running.

The slap across her face seemed to astound her.

I could see it would leave a mark. I had hit her a little harder than I’d intended to. Still, at least now I had her attention.

I grabbed the sticky cock-gag and turned her face towards me.

“I don’t know who you were out in the world but here, in the Enclave, you are mine to train. You are also my bed-mate and you will serve me as such even if I have to keep you bound the whole time.”

Her eyes became very cold. But she was calm and she seemed to be listening.

“Struggling against your bonds is not allowed unless it is caused by pain. That is why I slapped you. It is also why you will keep the gag in your mouth and his cum on your belly, while I walk you to my quarters.”

I let go of the gag, picked up the razor and said, “Nod your head if you are ready to obey me.”

She eyed the razor with concern but this time she nodded.

I sliced through the bonds at her ankles with the razor but I left her wrists bound to the straps around her thighs. Then I dragged her to her feet by the cockgag.

Standing up, she was much taller than me. My mouth was about level with her breasts. She had nice breasts, large but firm, with wide nipples that still pointed up and out.

I looked up into her eyes and saw only wariness. Wariness was a lot better than shock or despair or hate. I could work with wariness, but first I had to reinforce it.

“You have nice nipples, Momsy,” I said, twisting her left nipple between my finger and thumb but keeping my eyes on hers.

“As your trainer, I get to decide if we pierce them…”

Score one to the home team, Mrs C’s eyes widened in shock. The camera would love that.

I placed the flat side of the razor next to her right nipple. “… or if we should take them off altogether.”

I smiled then. I think that frightened her more than blade.

“But, then perhaps they’re better as they are. What do you think, Mumsy? Oh you can’t speak with you mouth full. Silly me.“

I leant forward a little so that my mouth was close to her breast.

“Maybe, if I became fond of your nipples, if I knew they brought us both pleasure, I could leave them as they are. Would you like that Momsy?”

I waited. A small tear escaped down one cheek.

You have to admire the control that that implies.

Mrs C nodded.

Twice.

“Show me that you want me to enjoy your nipples.” I said.

Mrs C worked it out. She pushed her left breast forward against my mouth, brushing my lips.

I moved the razor away from Mrs C’s other breast and extended my tongue so that I could lap at the nipple like a cat taking cream.

She really did have attractive nipples but I made myself pull my mouth away. I needed one more step to drive the lesson home.

“I’m not sure you’re enjoying this.” I said, stepping back. “Perhaps you would prefer I didn’t suckle you?”

Mrs C shook her head so violently that the cockgag wobbled. She shuffled forward towards me, doing the best she could with her wrists bound to her thighs, to offer me her breasts.

“Well, if you’re sure.” I said.

I grabbed her breasts with both hands, lifting and squeezing them so that her nipples were offered up like cherries on a sundae. I sucked on each nipple, worried them with my teeth, pulling my head back to stretch her flesh. I wasn’t gentle but I was thorough.

When I stepped away, Mrs C stayed still, waiting for me to tell her what to do next.

We were making progress. A sense of triumph blossomed briefly within me. It died when I looked into Mrs C’s eyes and saw myself reflected there. I understood then that the only one triumphing here was the Legate. Which is something I should never have lost sight of.

I decided to change the game a little.  Silently, I stepped forward and cut Mrs C’s wrists free from the straps at her thighs and then reached up,grabbed the cock-gag and used it to make Mrs C bend her head. When her ear was close to mouth I whispered, “The only words you say when I loosen this gag are ‘Thank you, Lizzie'”.

I loosened the strap until I could pull the gag out of her mouth and leave it dangling from her neck. Her lips were swollen and her mouth and chin were covered in spit but that only seem to make her more attractive in my eyes.

“Thank you, Lizzie” she said. Her voice not much above a whisper.

“That’s OK, Mumsy. That’s your reward for offering me your breasts like a good girl.”

“Now, let me take you to your new home.” I said holding out my hand.

I thought she might ask for clothes, or a towel to wipe herself, or try to cover her nakedness with her hands, but she had better control than that. She took hold of my hand and said “Thank you, Lizzie.”

She kept hold of my hand and stayed in step beside me as we walked through the Enclave to my quarters.

Ask Alice

It’s been a while since I wrote something that is erotica with no frills. This is a D/s story with a lesbian / bi-sexual flavour, so it hits a lot of the arousal tags.

I hope that it goes on to do more than that. I want this one to crawl under your skin and make you itch afterwards.

I’m happy to receive any comments. Enjoy.

(c) Mike Kimera 2010, All rights reserved.

“Carol, this is Alice.”

Alice is small, round, pale and naked.

Hot fingers of desire run their nails up from my belly to my breasts.

This instant arousal shames me, not just because it is lust without a context but because the trigger for my arousal is not the soft heavy flesh in front of me but the ugly slave collar around the girl’s neck and the strange gag across her mouth.

Alice is in a deep squat, hands behind her head, arms and legs spread wide, breasts and sex exposed and available.

Without thinking about it, I take a step closer. In my heels, I tower above her; my sex is level with her head. All I’d have to do is lift the hem of my little black dress and…

I make myself stop. The girl hasn’t even looked at me and I am ready to use her like a sextoy. This isn’t how I think of myself.

I turn towards Alan.

“You’re sure she’s OK with this?”

“Ask her.”

“But…,”

“… the tongue-clamp means that she can’t speak. The loss of speech is worth it don’t you think? See how wide and wet her tongue is? How the pressure of the clamp keeps her attention on this soft sensitive tissue over which she has surrendered all control? How the saliva that drips from it makes her breasts glisten and reminds her that she is an object on display, ready for use?”

The gag is a kind of bridle through which Alice has forced her tongue. The gag holds her tongue at full extension. It looks painful. I want to think of it as monstrous and barbaric but the main effect it has on me is to want to stroke my thumb across the surface of her tongue.

“Squat down,” Alan says, “and look into her eyes. Get closer. Close enough to suck the tip of her tongue into your mouth. What do you see?”

My little black dress is short and form-fitting. Underneath it I am wearing thigh-highs and the tiniest of thongs. As I squat, I am intensely aware of the way the fabric slides up my legs, exposing my thighs.

I get close enough to Alice to smell her sweat. She is younger than me. Her skin is perfect. I want to lick it. Slowly, deliberately, she makes eye contact with me.

Looking into her eyes I understand for the first time that I am dealing with a person here, a woman, like me. Except that she is bound and naked and drooling. And I can take her if I want to. The thought makes me wriggle with excitement but I keep eye contact.

“I see… embarrassment? Defiance? Fear?” I say.

Alan squats next to me, so close that his shoulder brushes mine. He reaches out, grasps the tip of the girl’s tongue between his finger and thumb and turns her head towards him.

Something in her eyes changes when he touches her. She looks at him as if he is the only person in the world.

“I see desire and submission,” Alan says, letting go of her tongue. “I see a struggle between her picture of herself as a strong woman and her need to be offered for the use of strangers.”

Alice looks down.

Alan brushes the hair back from her forehead.

“You do want to be used, don’t you Alice?” he says.

There is a pause then, looking only at Alan, Alice nods.

Alan stands up. I remain squatting, torn between hunger and conscience.

She nodded. She could have said no. That makes it OK doesn’t it?

I look up at Alan.

“And she, er… likes women?”

“That,” he says, “is something we are all about to find out.”

“Oh God.”

It comes out almost as a groan. As he’d promised Alan has arranged for me to live my fantasy.

Alan and I have known one another since University. He was one of the first people I came out to. Back then, I was dating Heather and he always asked me a lot of questions about what it was like to sleep with a woman. I always told him that he should know; he’d done it often enough. He kept on at it; asking for a threesomes or just to get to sit and watch. He even offered to film us. I thought about it but Heather was a private person and wouldn’t consider it. Heather left me two years ago. Since then, Alan has hit on every girl he’s seen me with.

Alan is very public in his sexuality. He’s a control freak. He’s a martial arts expert who stays in perfect shape. He made his money in the City before the credit crunch and now runs a string of Dojos. He also trains pets. That’s how he describes it. His pets are submissive women that he literally has begging him to tie them up and slap, pinch, whip and fuck them into ecstasy. I’ve seen the photographs.

This evening, Alan and I had one of our regular dinners at Langhams. It’s been a while since I’ve been with someone so it was a relief to be able to talk freely; the more wine we had, the more freely we talked.

Towards the end of the meal, Alan asked me the question that had brought me face to face with Alice.

“Tell me about what gets you off.”

“You know what gets me off,” I said, making light of the question. “Pretty young things who think I’m gorgeous.”

“Don’t be evasive. Tell me about the long-held fantasy that you return to time and again and which always gets you off. The one that shares your bed with you when you are alone. The one that has nothing to do with anyone’s pleasure but your own.”

I didn’t reply.

Alan looked at me, letting the silence build. He’s a hard man to say no to.

“My deepest darkest fantasy,” I said, leaning towards him so that I could speak quietly, “has always been to have sex with a straight woman. I don’t mean a woman who is gay but not admitting it; I mean a woman who is strongly heterosexual but who still offers herself to me.

“Sometimes it’s a married woman, neglected by her husband and exhausted by her kids, who I sweep off her feet. Sometimes it’s a cocky young thing who doesn’t desire me at all but is willing to use her body to barter her way out of a bad situation. Hey, it’s a fantasy. I’m allowed to think bad things as long as I don’t do them.

“What the fantasies all have in common is that I’m the first woman who has ever fucked them. I know how that sounds but the whole ‘she’s not a virgin anymore’ thing makes me hot.”

I could see the excitement in Alan’s eyes. His whole body-language had changed. He’d moved into that predator-on-the-prowl mode that makes him look sexy, even to me.

“So, I’ve told you mine. Now it’s your turn.”

“Mine is always the same,” he said. “I think about you squatting on the face of a pretty woman and coming so hard that you scream.”

That sent a sliver of ice-cold excitement into my spine. It wasn’t just the image; it was that I knew that Alan meant exactly what he said.  Which meant that he’d spent years, cock in hand, working towards the short strokes, with me as the centre of all his desire. It was a disturbing and arousing piece of knowledge.

“Well,” I said. “I guess we all fantasize about what we can’t have.”

“I don’t accept that. These fantasies tell us what we really need. It only makes sense to arrange to live them.”

Without waiting for me to reply, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and pressed a speed-dial number.

When the call went through he said, “Be there in twenty minutes. Prepare yourself and wait for me.” then he hung up and signaled the waiter for our bill.

“What was that all about?”

“Come home with me and you’ll find out.”

I had indeed found out. I’d found that my fantasy-made-flesh had a bone-deep appeal that both appalled and illuminated me.

Alice is mine if I want her.

I will get a straight woman’s tongue where it will do me the most good and Alan will finally get to watch me fuck.

It is perfect.

Isn’t it?

“It doesn’t matter if Alice enjoys you forcing her tongue into your cunt or grinding your clit against her nose.” Alan says. “What matters is that she shows me her obedience. If she’s a good pet, I’ll send her home to her husband with my cum up her arse and we’ll all be happy.”

Alice is married. Alice left her husband this evening because Alan told her to. Alice is going to let me fuck her because Alan told her to.

I allow myself to touch her.

I slide my hand down her thigh. She gives a small involuntary flinch but she stays in place. Alan has trained her to stay in place.

Her sex is wet on my fingers. Long, engorged labia that part easily. I take her imprisoned tongue into my mouth at the same time that I push two fingers into her.

She closes her eyes and waits.

Alice will let me do anything to her. Anything at all.

I want her eyes open. I want her to look at me; to see me, the woman who is going to show her what sex can be. I want to leave my mark on her memory.

My fingers find the roof of Alice’s sex, my thumb presses into her clit so hard she struggles to stay in her squat. When I suck hard on her tongue then clamp down on it with my teeth, Alice’s eyes shoot open. I have all of her attention now.

I hear Alan unzip. I have all of his attention too.  He steps closer until his erection, as hard and purposeful as his will,  is visible above Alice’s head. Wordlessly he starts to stroke himself. Slow unhurried strokes that speak of controlled desire and absolute entitlement.

I realise that he is  going to stroke himself while he watches  two women, one gay, one straight, squatting, sucking, fingering, fucking, putting on a show for him.

Now I know exactly what I want, no, what I need to do.

I pull out of Alice’s sex, release her tongue and use both hands to undo that cruel tongue-gag.

Alice looks at me with a question in her eyes. It seems to me this is the first true acknowledgment she’s made that I am anything more than an extension of Alan’s will.

I look up at Alan. He grins at me, displaying his arousal like a trophy or perhaps a weapon.

I put my hands on either side of Alice’s face as she flexes her freed tongue.

I lean forward and kiss Alice on the forehead.  Alan’s erection hovers above us like a bird of prey. I work my way down Alice’s  face until I am close to her ear.

“Go home to your husband,” I whisper. “You deserve someone better than Alan.”

I stand up, straightening my dress as I rise.

The look of astonishment on Alan’s face is the highlight of my evening.

“I’m leaving now,” I say to Alice. “I’m calling a cab. If you want to leave with me, be upstairs in five minutes.”

Looking from Alice to Alan I realise that neither of them know what her answer will be.

I leave the room smiling. It seems that I may have  swept a straight woman off her feet after all.

“Untouched” Part 2

In Part 2 of “Untouched” , Sharon makes our hero confront his darkest desires.

Part 1 of “Untouched” can be found here

Untouched

(c) Mike Kimera 2010. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@gmail.com

My next encounter with Sharon changed my world.

Sharon had arranged herself in the spotlight that illumined the entrance to the disco: leaning against the wall, hands behind her back, head high, one foot drawn up and pressed against the wall, she stared into the middle distance, paying no attention to the admiring glances she got from just about every male who passed her.

Her outfit was in the vanguard of fashion for 1984, following Madonna in walking the razor’s edge between playful fashionista and cheap whore.

She was a vision in white: seriously high fuck-me pumps, opaque thigh-highs that stopped inches below a tiered taffeta halter dress, a neckline that plunged to breathe-taking depths, and most striking of all, a slim leather choker decorated with silver D-rings.

As I approached, she looked at me but didn’t speak or move away from the wall.

Perhaps it was the choker or her hands behind her back or just the way she held herself, but she reminded me of a virgin in a Pre-Raphaelite painting, tethered to a post, waiting to be sacrificed. Hey, what can I tell you, I was a New Romantic and a Burne-Jones fan.

I stopped a couple of feet away and let her see me memorizing her image. She raised her chin and pressed her shoulders against the wall, presenting herself for my inspection.

For a moment I saw myself as Perseus rescuing Andromeda from the sea monster.

I’d tossed off thinking about Sharon as a bound virgin.  Seeing my fantasy in the flesh summoned a wave of lust that washed away my doubts and fears. I wanted to be her hero and to get my reward.

Looking back, I think Sharon wasn’t waiting to be rescued; she was hoping to summon the ravaging monster.

I stood directly in front of Sharon, hands in my pockets, trying to look cool.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked.

Before I could think of an answer, she pushed off the wall, hands still behind her back, and closed the distance between us.

When her breasts were almost touching me, she stopped, and looked up into my face.

For half a second she seemed to wait for something, although I didn’t know what. Then she moved her hands to her hips, ran them in parallel up her torso, and slid them over her breasts.

Perhaps a normal man would have been fully focused on watching Sharon fondle herself but when she’d brought her hands from behind her back, I’d seen for the first time that on each wrist she wore a little white leather cuff with a clasp that could be attached to the D-rings on her collar.

Any attempt at cool evaporated in the heat of that revelation. Deep in my gut, something hot and slick and less than human uncurled, stretched itself and let out a low hiss of anticipation.

“Do you like the dress?” Sharon said, “I wore it especially for you. Do you know why?”

I didn’t trust myself to speak.

“I wore it because I knew that you would be imaging me naked.”

As she spoke her hands slid up to the back of her neck.

“In this dress I can be naked just by undoing this halter”

For a moment it seemed as if she might undo the fabric and right there in disco car park and display herself to me.

An erection, stronger than any I could remember, surged against my leg. It was triggered not so much by the possibility of Sharon undressing but by my desire to push her arms back further until her wrists were fastened to the rear of the collar, forcing her elbows up and out, leaving her helpless and exposed.

A small wet patch of pre-cum darkened my trousers.

Sharon saw it and laughed. She let her hands fall from her neck, contriving to graze the back of her hand against my erection as she did so.

“We’re not going to the disco tonight,” she said. “I have something to show you.”

With that, she walked away from me.

She headed purposefully towards the High Street. She didn’t look back. She took it for granted that I would follow her.

I stayed behind her, savoring the way her arse moved as she took long confident strides in her high heels.

She stopped in front a photography shop. It was closed of course but Sharon produced a key a let herself in. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me in after her. There was something furtive in her manner that made me uneasy but excited.

“What are we doing here? Why do you have a key?” I asked, automatically speaking in a whisper.

“I’ve got a Saturday job here,” Sharon said. “I assist Mr. McKinley.”

“The old guy who takes the school photos?”

“He’s not that old. He’s still in his forties,” she said, sounding a little defensive. “Besides, I like older men. They know what they’re doing.” This was accompanied by a salacious grin. “He’s always very nice to me. He says I remind him of my mother when she was young. They used to date each other. I’ll bet he was her lover. Who knows, if things had been a little different, he might have been my Dad.”

My mind was working on some nasty images of what Sharon meant when she’d said McKinley was nice to her. I’d seen him at school. He looked OK, I guess, he wasn’t fat or bald or anything like that but there was something about the way he looked at girls that was a little creepy. He wasn’t obvious about it but that made it more creepy not less. Knowing that he’d fucked Sharon’s mother way back when amped the creep factor to the max. It was repulsive but the kind of repulsive that is hard to look away from. The kind that surfaces all the repulsive things about yourself that you normally won’t admit to.

“If you like older men so much, what am I doing here?”

I sounded petulant. Perhaps Sharon noticed. She ran her hand down my arm and stepped closer to me.

“You and he have a lot in common.”

“Like what?”

“You both like to watch.”

No one had ever said that to me before. I’d barely voiced it to myself. I felt as if I was suddenly in front of her naked with my dick in my hands. Her words literally shocked me. My body tingled. Time slowed down. It took a second or two before I recognised that Sharon’s tone suggested approval, perhaps even excitement.

“Mr. McKinley really likes to watch.” Sharon said, linking her arm through mine and leading me towards a room at the back of the shop.

“That’s why he takes such good photographs, he sees things and holds them in his head. Just like you do.”

Have you ever taken photographs? I bet you’d enjoy it. Holding women in your lens. Zooming in close. Focusing on just the parts that interest you.”

I’ve seen you at the disco, watching the dancers. You like them to sweat don’t you. Imagine seeing them through a long distance lens, being yards away, practically invisible, and still being able to track the progress of each bead of sweat as it rolls down a girl’s neck. I think you’d like that a lot.”

Sharon had been watching me. She’d seen me more clearly, or at least more honestly, than I’d seen myself. She knew some of my darkest desires. And she had still brought me here. Lain in wait for me. Baited the hook with a her sex-kitten outfit. Sharon had an agenda.

“What was it you wanted to show me?” I asked, trying to regain the initiative.

“Come into the studio,” Sharon said.

I could see an area to the side of the shop that had props and a camera on a tripod.

“I thought that was the studio.”

“That’s for the kids and the mums. The studio is for adults. Actually, you could say it’s for adults only,” Sharon said, holding out her hand to me and smiling. Her smile suggested that she had lots to show me, that she wanted to take her time and that I was going to enjoy myself.

Sharon lead me to the back of the shop. She unlocked the door and brought me in to a windowless room. The light in the room was red. There were trays and negatives, a photographs hanging on clips.

“This is a dark room,” I said, lamely.

“We’re not there yet.”

Sharon moved aside a curtain and revealed another locked room. A hidden locked room. I felt a chill in my balls. What kind of man was McKinley?

Sharon grabbed my hand and pulled me into the studio. It was definitely for adults only. There were two sets of cameras on tripods, each with its own cluster of lights. The first set of cameras was pointed an iron framed double bed. The sheets were black and shiny. Handcuffs hung from the ironwork at the head and the foot of the bed. In the centre of the bed, laid out in a straight line were  a riding crop, a flogger with many short soft leather strips and some kind of leather bridle, shaped for the human head.

I turned to Sharon. Her eyes were shining.

“That’s not even the best part,” she said, “Watch this.”

She ran to the far wall and flicked a switch. I recognised the sound of a slide projector powering up. Light flickered on the wall above the bed.

Each dispassionate turn of the carousel displayed a pornographic picture on the wall. The quality of the photography varied as wildly as the age and shape of the people caught in the flash lit sex acts. The pictures smelled of desperation, of need unmet, of intimacy betrayed. And yet I could not look away from them.

“Mr. McKinley runs a special service for people who can’t send their pictures off to Boots to be developed.” Sharon said. “He does them cheaply so he thinks it’s only fair that he keeps a copy for himself. Of course his pictures are much better than those. He’s an artist. Now, let me show you what I brought you to see.”

She moved to the second set of cameras and turned looking at me eagerly

Behind me the carousel continued to click inexorably forward, casting shadows of desire above us.

I paused, knowing that there was something wrong here. That this was neither normal nor right. That it spoke to the worst parts of me. That I should leave.

I didn’t want to leave.

A kind of numb recklessness spread over me at that acknowledgement. I refused to think. I acquiesced as the lizard part of me that had woken earlier took control of my actions. I was going to do this. Whatever this turned out to be.

I joined Sharon at the second set of cameras.

They were pointed at a U-shaped wooden plinth, that looked as if it was made of old railway sleepers, rough and stained. The arms of the U faced towards me. They were about a foot wide and about two feet off the ground. A pillar, made from another sleeper, rose from the base of the U. It was scarred and stained and had eye bolts all around the top. A strip of braided leather with a D ring at the end hung from each bolt.

But what held my attention was a narrow pole, topped with a life-like but over-sized black rubber phallus that jutted up between the arms of the U. I’d never seen anything like it. I didn’t even know what to call it.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Mr. McKinley calls it the best seat in the house,” Sharon said.

That made no sense to me at all.

Sharon was visibly excited. She led me by the hand to the tripod directly in front of the plinth and said,”Watch through the camera, you get the best view that way.”

Before I could ask, “Watch what?”, Sharon had stepped away from me.

Reaching behind the plinth she fetched up a jar of Vaseline, scooped a handful, squatted beside the plinth and started methodically to spread the Vaseline over the phallus with both hands. When she finished, she held the thing in a hand-over-hand grip that still left another couple of inches of rubber were visible below the broad flat glans.

“Have you ever seen a dildo this real?”

“I’ve never seen a dildo at all,” I said.

“My mum has one. She keeps it in a box under the bed where my dad won’t find it, but hers is more like a candle. This one is so real, you can’t resist touching it.”

Without thinking about it, I adjusted the focus on the camera to get a closer look at the thing Sharon was grasping. It glistened in the bright lights.

“There’s a new 36 frame role of film in the camera,” Sharon said, “Just press the lever on the right.”

I checked the controls. When I looked back, was standing in front of the plinth. She reached up behind her and undid the halter-neck of her dress and let the fabric fall to her waist. Her breasts were magnificent: firm and round and topped with dark nipples that seemed to suck in the light from the room.

“Go ahead,” Sharon said, pushing her breasts towards me. “Shoot me.”

I didn’t hesitate. The camera seemed like an extension of my imagination, framing the pieces of Sharon that I most desired and then capturing them.

Sharon started to dance to music I couldn’t hear. She let the dress fall the rest of the way and stepped out of it with choreographed efficiency.

I continued to shoot, slowly and carefully, focusing on where her white stay-up stockings stopped on her thigh, on the way the clasp from her wrist-cuffs grazed against her nipple, on the swollen cleft clearly visible behind the thin fabric of her panties.

I was in heaven. I was also as hard as hell.

“I’ll take the panties off if you pull that erection out where I can see it properly.”

I paused.

Sharon ran her thumb across her panties. Through the lens I could see the fabric dampen.

My zip sounded loud in the silent room. I could smell myself as I pulled back my foreskin.

“That will do nicely,” Sharon said, grinning, then turned her back to me,bent at the waist, feet together and pushed her panties down to her ankles.

My cock bounced in time to the camera shutter as I recorded my first view of a real girl’s sex.

Then Sharon was suddenly out of shot.

I pulled the focus back and found that she had climbed onto the plinth, facing me, one foot on each arm of the U. She squatted, legs spread wide, sex positioned behind the head of the phallus.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

I held my breath as I realised what she was about to do but I didn’t lift my head from the camera.

“Tell me to fuck it.”

“What?”

“Tell me that you want to see this thing split me. Tell me what you really want and I’ll give it to you.”

My words came from the part of me I normally kept gagged in a dark room.

“I want you to fuck that thing hard and deep while I watch. I want to hear you fuck. I want…”

I couldn’t say it.

Sharon rubbed the head of the dildo against her sex.

“Tell me all of it. Make me do all of it.”

A torrent of pent up words flooded out of my mouth.

“I want your hands bound behind your head. I want you helpless. I want your tits to bounce as you fuck. I want to see you squirm and sweat. I want to hear you scream”

I was shocked by my own demands.

Sharon grinned. “I knew I was right about you.”

Keeping her eyes on me, she grabbed the dildo with one hand and guided it into her sex. She pushed herself down onto it, grunting as the fat head stretched her and then disappeared as if it had climbed in of its own accord and was never coming out.

She squatted further and a few more inches slid inside her. Her long strong legs strained and she rose until only the tip was in her.

Her labia were long and dark and seemed to have an almost prehensile grip on the rubber cock. I focused the camera until they were all I could see.

“Please come and bind me.”

I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to stay at the camera. This seemed to be about what I wanted so…

“Do it yourself.”

It came out as a command.

Sharon’s expression shifted. Lust flowed across her face like sweat.

“Yes, Sir,” she said.

I felt as if I’d just passed a test.

Still partly impaled on the dildo, eyes on me, Sharon raised her hands above her head and blindly found the leather strip that hung from the top of the pole and with an ease that told me she’d done this before, clipped each wrist-cuff to the D-ring.

“Now show me you know how to fuck.”

The voice was mine but I didn’t remember forming the words.

“Yes, Sir.”

She kept hold of the leather strip with her hands and bore down on the dildo until it was all inside her. Her arms were stretched taut above her head. Her breasts pushed up and out in quivering mounds that I suddenly had the desire to beat and twist until they bruised.

It took her some effort to haul herself back up the monster cock. She grunted as she slid back down.

I stayed behind the camera, greedily sucking in image after image as Sharon sweated and strained.

“Faster. Get a rhythm.”

Another instruction I hadn’t meant to give.

Sharon started to work hard, pushing with her legs, supporting herself with her arms, her sex swallowing the dildo with smooth efficiency.

I became aware that she was chanting something softly to herself. I listened harder to make out the words.

“Best seat in the house.”

McKinley’s phrase. McKinley had taught her this. Had photographed her like this. Had handled the same camera I was handling as a girl young enough to be his daughter fucked herself for his pleasure.

I still don’t know if it was my distaste at having so much in common with McKinley, or the fact that I ran out of film, or the deep animal growl of Sharon’s orgasm that pulled me out of my lust-fugue but all of a sudden it seemed to me that I was somewhere I didn’t want to be doing something I would later be ashamed of.

I stepped away from the camera and moved towards Sharon.

She was motionless at the bottom of her arc, with all her weight supported by the dildo. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was twisted into a smile I’d never seen before.

She looked young and beautiful but everything about what she was doing and how she was displayed suddenly struck me as obscene. I wanted to get us both out of there.

Sharon opened her eyes just before I reached her and grinned at me.

“Coming to claim your reward. You could make me suck you – no hands – go as deep as you like. You can shoot all over my face and then shoot what you’ve done.”

She ended with a laugh but it sounded forced to me.

The thought of using Sharon this way restored my erection. It also made me angry with myself

“Get off that thing.”

Sharon looked at my erection and said, “Jealous are we? Want to get big boy out of the way so that you can take his place? You’ll have to help me off. I can’t push up high enough to release the cuffs anymore.”

I could see that what she said was true. She couldn’t get down from the best seat in the house unaided.

“I’m helpless here,” Sharon pouted. “You could fuck my face or tits or my arse. You could even leave the dildo in me while you reamed me. I’d have to let you, wouldn’t I?”

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to do all those things. Needed to do them.

I stepped closer. She was covered in sweat, she stank of sex and I no longer wanted to touch her.

I reached up to unhook Sharon’s wrists. She used the opportunity to try and capture my cock with her mouth. She looked as if she was bobbing for apples.

In my effort to avoid being sucked, I released Sharon’s wrist-cuffs from the leather strap but didn’t take the time to separate the cuffs.

As I bent to lift her off the dildo, Sharon slipped her bound wrists behind my neck.

There was an audible “plop” as I lifted Sharon clear.

She immediately tried to bring her legs up around my hips and mount me.

“No,” I said.

“Your cock wants me. I want it. Fuck me.”

Her legs were strong and locked in place.

Her flesh and her stink were all over me. She tried to kiss me and suddenly it seemed to me that she was a leach with two mouths sucking at my blood. I wanted her off me.

I pushed her arms above my head, freeing my neck. She misunderstood and leant back to offer me her breasts. I slid my hands down her body, as if I was going to cup her arse and the grip of her legs on my hips relaxed a little.

My hands had reached her waist. I shoved her off me.

She hit the floor hard, arse first.

She looked at me in surprise rather than outrage.

“Sorry, Sir.” she said. “I was bad.”

She pulled herself up into a kneeling position, put her cuffed hands behind her head, straightened her spine and looked up at me. There was hunger in her eyes.

“Punish me. Hurt me. Please,” she said.

I fled the room without looking back

The Way of the Courtesan : Chapter 5 : Ravier and Jenna

Ravier needed to fuck. He had spent the whole morning struggling to control his arousal. Being locked in a small Transport with Rachel had been almost unbearable. He could hear his own blood roaring in his ears, calling on him to leap on Rachel and devour her. Even his men had been visibly affected. The pressure had eased when Sabine lead Rachel away to prepare her for the ritual but his cock was still thick against his thigh.

He turned his gaze to Jenna and a grin spread across his face. It was a requirement that the Sponsor of a Courtesan should have rigorous sex before the blessing; it demonstrated his trust that the Founder would give him the strength to carry out his role in the ritual. Sabine had given him Jenna to carry out this tradition.

Jenna was dressed as a handmaiden, available for Ravier’s pleasure, but it was clear to him that Jenna was more than that. The Brotherhood did not publicise the existence of female assassins but Ravier’s father had sometimes used them and Ravier recognised the signs; Jenna’s gait, the development of her muscles, the lack of fear in her eyes, were all warning signs to him.  He doubted that Sabine would harm him in her own House, but it was possible that Jenna was working for someone-else.

“Strip,” he said to Jenna.

“Here, my Lord?”

He was sure that Jenna meant to look coy, pretending to be shocked at the idea of being naked in a public place, but she didn’t quite manage to hide her amusement.

Ravier slapped her across the face with the flat of his hand. He saw the fighter’s reflex start and then be subdued. Jenna could have avoided the blow. She had let him hit her.

“Of course, my Lord,” Jenna said. She kept eye contact with him as she undid the fastenings at her shoulders and let the robe drop to her feet.

Ravier’s cock pulsed. Her body was all hard curves and smooth flesh. It was a canvas he wanted to paint with pain.

“Put your hands on your head and turn around in a circle.”

Jenna moved slowly, displaying herself to him and his men. She knew she was being searched for weapons. They both knew that she was lethal even without a blade.

“Tie her hands behind her back.”

Two of Ravier’s men held Jenna’s arms. They pressed themselves against her while their comrade worked cruel knots to bind her wrists.

“Bring her,” Ravier said and strode towards the tent Sabine had prepared for him.

Jenna was forced to her knees in front of Ravier. His men stayed at the perimeter of the tent. They should have been guarding him but that seemed pointless when the main threat was already amongst them.

Ravier released himself from his trousers. His cock felt hot in his hand. His balls hung heavily. He pressed against Jenna’s mouth and pushed his cock inside. She grinned around his flesh and pushed herself forward, forcing her head further down his shaft. Ravier lost himself to it then, holding her head, ploughing her mouth. No subtly, just haste. Even as he came he was thinking of Rachel: Rachel spread on the horse, Rachel with his sperm on her face and hair, Rachel being carried naked and exhausted in his arms. It was all he could do not to cry out her name.

He came inside Jenna and then pushed her roughly away. His three Security looked at her as if they would tear her apart. Ravier didn’t want that. He wasn’t completely certain they would all survive it.

“Get women and wine for my men”, he shouted. Invisible listeners met his needs. Sabine knew how to keep men happy; within minutes there were six women in the tent. Ravier sat in a field-chair and watched his men take their pleasure.  At first they dived in like starving men. Like him they were still riding the erotic wake Rachel seemed to leave behind her. A few minutes later, after the first come, they slowed down and started swapping the women, commenting on this one’s tightness or that one’s nipples.

Ravier’s mind returned to Rachel, playing with images of her being painted in preparation for the ritual. He wondered what Sabine was saying to her, hoping that it was enough to keep her safe and not so much as to corrupt her entirely.

He ignored Jenna, waiting to see what her next move would be. She had stayed on her knees, watching him watch his men fuck. Now she crawled back to him on her knees, her hands still bound behind her. He didn’t remember giving her the bruise on her face but he smiled to see it there.

Jenna kissed his feet and then slid her breasts up his shin and rubbed her face along his thigh. It was an impressive display of muscle control. With her lips pressed against his balls and his wet cock lolling on her forehead, she looked up and said, “If you will risk untying me, my Lord, I will show you how skilled my hands are.”

For the first time in days, Ravier laughed. He pulled a knife from his boot and sliced through her bonds, leaving a rope bracelet around each wrist because he liked the look.

Jenna sucked one of Ravier’s balls into her mouth and moved her head backwards, pulling him just hard enough to give him a little pain. Before Ravier could place his knife at her throat, she released him, smiled and said, “Thank you, my Lord.”

Ravier kept the knife level with her face but raised his hips enough to let Jenna pull his leather trousers down to his knees. Part of his mind was clammering for his attention, saying “she’s hobbled you and you’ve cut her free. Your men are busy. This is when you die.”  Ravier’s cock stirred at the thought.

Jenna shook her shoulders and rotated her wrists, still on her knees. Ravier watched the movement of her breasts and only saw her arm flick forward a second before her left hand gripped the base of his ball sack.

She squeezed, hard enough to make him breathe in but not hard enough to hurt. She had his full attention now. She smiled, no longer demure, and slid the fingers of her right hand into her cunt. Still frigging herself, she leant forward and rubbed her face against Ravier’s stiffening cock.

Ravier ran the edge of his blade along Jenna’s shoulder, not breaking the skin; just reminding her of how quickly she could die. She turned her face toward the blade and ran her tongue along the sharp edge. Blood flowed from the shallow cut, dripping over her chin and down on to her breasts. Ravier’s cock twitched to full attention.

Jenna released Ravier’s balls, turned away from him and with deliberate slowness, placed her cheek on the floor, her arse in the air and pulled herself open for him. She licked her lips, sucking in the blood, slid her hands across the smooth curve of her arse and pushed one finger all the way into her ring.

“My Lady thought it wise to make sure I was oiled for you, my Lord. She says that the pain is more than worth it. Is she right?

Ravier slid to the floor, kneeling behind Jenna. The blow he delivered to her was so hard it made his men look up from their fucking. The women servicing them flinched as a second, harder blow landed on Jenna’s arse.

“Lady Sabine is always right. Her handmaiden should know this.”

“I do, my Lord I do,” Jenna said wiggling her reddening arse from side to side. “Let me please you, my Lord. I can make it memorable if you will let me.”

Ravier had had many, many women. Few of them had proved memorable.  But then, he’d never taken an assassin before. Ravier’s cock didn’t care about what would be remembered, only about what would happen right now. As brutally as he could, Ravier forced himself into Jenna’s arse. She was tight and smooth. Then she surprised him. She pushed her hand into her cunt and stroked his cock, pressing it, pushing it, teasing it. There was no question of him withdrawing. Every moved she made was to take him deeper and keep him there. When he was pressed up against her arse with her fingers strumming the head of his cock, she tightened her ring.

If Ravier had believed in sorcery, he would have taken this as evidence of it. Her muscle gripped him like a bite and then let go. Then gripped. Then let go. He was being milked into her bowels. He tried to pull out but she would not release him. He was like a dog locked into a bitch. So he treated her like a bitch. He bent over her back, dug his fingers into her breasts and bit her neck. He came at the first taste of blood. She released him only after she had sucked out the last drop of his sperm.

When he rolled off her, breathless, dizzy, he realised that his men and the women they were using were looking at him. They all had the same look in their eyes, lust spiced with envy.

Jenna was the only person in the tent who was still calm and composed. She knelt in front of Ravier, naked, stained with blood and cum, hair wet with sweat, smiled at him demurely, bowed her head and said, “Thank you my Lord. It was a pleasure to serve. May I prepare you for the ritual now?”

Ravier decided that Jenna was memorable. She had even managed to make him forget Rachel for a while. The mention of the ritual brought her back into his mind. He was spent. His cock hung limp and useless between his legs. It was time to display himself to the public. He stripped off his clothes and headed out into the courtyard, Jenna following politely two steps behind him.

Ravier stood at the centre of the dais and let Jenna begin her work. A crowd had formed to witness the blessing. A path had been kept clear from the gateway at the far side of the courtyard to the dais. Rachel would enter along that path. Ravier focused his vision on the gateway while Jenna chanted and worked on his flesh. He wanted to see Rachel the moment she entered the courtyard.

A tingling warmth spread up Ravier’s spine. He felt his cock unfurl like a fern in the morning sun. The crowd murmured their appreciation.

“You are ready, my Lord,” Jenna said, “The young Lady will be truly blessed.”

The edge of amusement to her voice told Ravier that, even though she was kneeling naked before him, with his sperm leaking from her, and her face coloured by the bruises he had given her, she still proud almost to the point of defiance.

Ravier controlled the impulse to hit Jenna again. He wanted to look imposing and powerful; the embodiment of the Founder; hitting Jenna might make him look petulant. He reminded himself that the crowd had not heard Jenna’s tone. All they could see was a naked servant carrying out her role in the ceremony, staring devoutly at his erection.

The erection was substantial. His cock was so hard it slapped up against his belly, belying the fact that he had come twice within the past half hour. The tip was swollen and had a purple hue to it, every vein along his shaft was sharply defined, but what caught the eye was the calligraphy. Jenna had painted the Founder’s blessing in gold luminescent ink in a spiral around his cock: “Blessed is he who stands firm in the service of the Founder”.

According to tradition, the strength of Ravier’s erection was a measure of his favour with the Founder, a blessing that he would pass on to the Supplicant Courtesan on the Founder’s behalf.

Ravier did not believe in that kind of magic. He knew that the real source of this blessing was the ink that Jenna had used. It contained a chemical, absorbed through the skin, which altered the flow of his blood, engorging him almost to the point of pain. He would stay hard for a long time now and, because of his recent activity, he would only come under severe provocation. He returned his gaze to the gateway and waited for provocation to arrive.

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© Mike Kimera 2001 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

American Holidays 1 : Memorial Day

“Memorial Day” was originally a free-standing story, prompted by some discussion about threesomes: why they are such a common fantasy, whether the fantasy is the same for women as for men, and what threesomes are like in reality.

I wanted to write a story about a threesome between people who had known each other a while and had some affection for one another. As I started to think this through, the characers took on voices of their own and I realized that they had more to say and that nothing is as simple as it first seems. So I extended the thinking into the “American Holiday” series.

Even now, the voices of the characters are not silent in my head. From time to time one or more of them whispers to me, “Don’t you think we deserve to be a novel?” What do you think?

Memorial Day

“So what was your best?”

“Best what?”

“Best erotic experience.”

Mark is a sex bore. He talks about it so much it’s a wonder he gets time to do it.

“Mine was with two Swedish twins in a sauna,” he says, leaning towards me conspiratorially. “I’d added a day to a Swiss business trip to get some skiing in and these two and I were first back to the hotel from the piste. Well, you know how the Europeans are with saunas, everyone together and no clothes allowed. Just one of these girls would have been amazing — snow white hair, all-over tan and sleek body — but twins! I thought I’d died and gone to pussy heaven.”

I hate men who say pussy like that. Like a woman starts and ends at her cunt. But I’ve known Mark since grade school, so I give him some latitude. Turning slightly away from him, I look toward the lake where my wife, Helen, and Barbara are sunning themselves. They are the best of friends, and they tell each other everything. I want to sit quietly beside them and listen to their talk. Instead I am standing next to Mark at the BarBQ pit, burning burgers.

“So anyway, the shock came when the first one took me inside her. In the heat of the sauna her pussy felt cool. No shit. Cool pussy from an ice maiden in a sauna. How sexy is that! Then, when her sister joined in…”

I think Mark is making this up. Maybe the twins were real. Maybe he even saw them in the sauna. But I want to believe that he doesn’t cheat on Barbara on his business trips.

I am a little in love with Barbara. Helen pointed it out to me one night as we drove back from dinner at their house. She said that she’d noticed that Barbara is always the last person I look at in a room, and that I avoid being alone with her, both sure signs of my attraction. Denial would have been pointless; Helen knows me too well. After a few seconds of guilt-ridden silence, Helen pulled the car over to the side of the road, and right there, on a tree-lined suburban street, where nice neighbors repaint their picket fences every spring, she fucked me. She didn’t say a word. Mouth on mine, she freed my cock, pushed aside her panties and rode me. I came like a boy. She grinned at me, held my face in her hands and said, “If you ever call me Barbara while we fuck, I’ll cut your dick off.” Then she drove us home.

Only when Mark says, “Your turn,” do I realize I’ve missed his sauna-sex story, and he is now waiting for mine.

“Come on Pete”, he says, “even a terminally married man like you must have had some erotic adventures.’ Fess up”

An image of Helen blossoms in my mind. She is nineteen and has just let me fuck her for the first time. She’d insisted that we use her parents’ bed. “It will make up for all the times I’ve had to listen to them screwing,” she’d said as she led me into the master bedroom. I am lying on my back, wrists still tied to the headboard, sated and happy, watching her between half closed eyes, pretending to be asleep. She is sitting at her mother’s dressing table, brushing her long black hair. The sun streaming through the window behind her seems to me to be a kind of halo. She leans her head to one side so that she can push the comb through the full length of her thick glossy hair. This causes one small upturned breast to push off the silk robe that Helen has “borrowed” from her mother, and to stretch triumphantly up towards the sun. I am hypnotized by the play of light on her hair; the smooth movement of her arm as she wields the brush and the slight but attention-grabbing movement of her silhouetted breast. She puts the brush back on the dressing table, looks at me and smiles. Many times since, I have returned to that moment of still happiness, crowned with the love in her smile.

“Well?” Mark says.

“Sorry Mark,” I say, “nobody seems to want erotic adventures with me.”

I mean it as a playful way of changing the subject. Mark takes me literally.

“I don’t know,” he says, “you’re not bad looking. I know Barbara thinks you’re sexy. You just need to read the signs.”

“I think the food is ready now,” I say, gathering the half-burnt/half-frozen products of Mark’s culinary skill onto plates.

“You must have been tempted. At least once,” Mark says.

“I’m happily married Mark. Temptation is easy enough to overcome.”

“Ah yes,” Mark says, “I’d forgotten about the ‘Peter Brader, man-of-steel’ act.”

I start to walk back towards the lake, hoping to bring an end to the conversation before we get in to a fight. Mark has always taken my abstinence from casual sex as a personal affront. Briefly I wonder if he thinks it’s all an act and I’m just refusing to share the details with him.

“Barbara really does think you’re sexy, you know.”

I stop and look at him. He laughs.

“No need to look so horrified. She’s not going to rape you or anything. But she told me that she admires your serenity. Isn’t that a great phrase? Admires your serenity.”

I try for a wry smile but Mark is already striding ahead of me, so it is lost on him.

“OK girls, the hunters have returned with freshly charred dead animals for their women to feast upon,” he shouts.

Sometimes I think Mark is locked in a parallel dimension. The “girls”, both in their late twenties, exchange pained glances at Mark’s return, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

This meal is a tradition amongst us going back eight years, to when we were both newly married couples. Every Memorial Day we drive out to the lake and have a barbecue on the public beach. Back then we slept in our trucks and drank beer with our burgers. Now we rent a large cabin and sip Pinot Noir. Sometimes I think the burgers are the last talisman of the days when we had more hope than history.

I have my head in Helen’s lap. She smells of sunshine and cotton. I relax; content to listen to her telling Barbara stories about the people in her office. I have never visited Helen’s office. I am reluctant to have reality superimposed on the vivid images I have of her colleagues. Barbara and Helen used to work together, and Helen introduced Barbara to Mark.

When Barbara laughs at the punch line of Helen’s story, it is a raucous laugh that seems to escape from her. I turn my head slightly, knowing that Barbara will have one hand in front of her face. Helen feels me move, recognizes the reason and unseen by the others, pinches my earlobe as she pulls me back to my original position. I look up at her. She mouths the word “later” and I shiver at the thought.

Despite Helen’s admonition, I find myself wondering about Barbara’s laugh. It reminds me of Miss Honeychurch in “Room With a View”, whose passionate nature is discernible only by the way in which she plays piano. With a stab of guilt, accompanied by a sudden erection, I have a flash of Barbara coming as raucously as she laughs.

On our second year out here, we almost got into a group thing. We’d stopped talking and started kissing, still in couples but with each couple acutely aware of the presence of the other. I left the decision to Helen, who in turn looked to Barbara. Mark was thinking with his cock and pushed up Barbara’s T-shirt to take her nipple into his mouth. The discomfort on Barbara’s face was obvious.

Helen grabbed me by the belt and said, more loudly than she needed to, “Come on Peter, I need a bed to tie you to.”

I was happy to leave. Barbara smiled her gratitude while trying to keep Mark’s fingers out of her shorts. Civilized man that I am, I still could not erase the sight of Barbara’s stiff nipple topping a small neat breast that just demanded to be taken into my mouth. Helen knew what I was thinking. When she rode me she held my nipples between her fingernails and used them like a bridle. I was sore for a week but my cock was made of ivory that night.

The scene was never repeated. Barbara confided in Helen her embarrassment at how Mark fucks her. I was puzzled when Helen passed on the remark. She just laughed and said, “Well, you’ve seen him dance haven’t you?” Mark thinks he dances like John Travolta, but he looks more like Fred Flintstone. He dances vigorously, with his eyes closed, paying little attention to either his partner or the rhythm of the music. The magnitude of the criticism made my balls retract.

I am constantly amazed at what women tell each other. Men brag, women tell the truth. It’s a frightening thought.

A tinny rendition of the James Bond theme fractures the silence. Mark has brought his cell phone, even on Memorial Day. Barbara glares at him, but he turns his back on her and takes the call. Mark uses an earpiece on his phone. He says he doesn’t want to fry the brain cells that survived the drugs. He looks demented as he paces in a circle, apparently talking to himself.

We overhear enough of the conversation to know that he has been summoned back to the city by some European emergency that he must respond to at once. I wonder at that — it’s 9 p.m. in Berlin right now. It occurs to me that I have just seen a piece of performance art. Maybe Mark doesn’t make his adventures up. Perhaps there is someone waiting for him even now in a city center hotel room.

To my surprise, Barbara lets Mark go without complaint — she just sits and watches as he takes the car, leaving her behind like luggage that we will forward to him later.

“I’m going to lie down in the cabin for a while,” Barbara says once the car is out of sight.

“Are you OK?” I say. Dumb question. Helen digs her fingers into my side to tell me to shut up.

“No Peter, I’m not OK, but I’m trying to get used to it. Not everyone has a marriage like yours. I live with a man who never touches me, but who tries to fuck anything female that can move without a Zimmer frame. He doesn’t even have the tact not to embarrass me in front of my friends. So I’m trying to preserve my dignity by not letting myself cry until I get back to my room.”

Barbara’s eyes are wet, but she is standing straight and her voice is strong and clear. She holds my gaze until I look away, then she picks up a bottle of wine and heads back to the cabin. Helen follows her. They talk quietly but passionately. I can’t hear what is said. Then they hug in that way that women do, halfway between a caress and a handshake.

Helen waits, head on one side, hands on her hips, for my questions. I don’t ask any. She looks at me for the longest time. I seldom know what she is thinking. She moves to stand in front of me, tilts my head down towards hers and says, “I love you, Peter Brader.”

We give Barbara an hour before we return to the cabin. I head into the kitchen to clear away the debris of our meal. Helen goes to check on Barbara. I have just loaded the dishwasher when I hear Helen say, “Come here, Peter.”

I know from her tone that we have started to play. I am surprised, but out of long habit I go to her and wait, eyes downcast, for her instructions. I love surrendering to her like this. My cock is already thickening and my heartbeat is elevated. It is so exciting not to know what will happen next. Even so, I am concerned. Surely she’s not going to take me here, in the main room. The thought worries and thrills me at the same time.

“Strip, Peter.”

Helen has never done this before. On our Memorial Day weekends she has always used the bedroom for our fucking.

I don’t look at her or speak as I strip. I feel exposed standing there, my cock sending semaphore signals of desire to my mistress.

“Put your hands behind your back,” Helen says.

The steel cuffs Helen produces from her bag are cold against my wrists. They make me feel pleasantly helpless.

“Peter, I want you to stay hard as long as you can. Let me help you,” She ties a soft leather strap around my balls. My cock trembles at her touch. She grins and plants a chaste little kiss just underneath the head.

I wait for her to undress. She doesn’t. Instead she reaches into her bag and pulls out a scarf. Standing behind me she blindfolds me with the scarf. I feel her breath on my neck. Her teeth sink into my earlobe as her fist closes around my cock. I groan.

“You wanted Barbara today didn’t you,” she says.

I nod.

“Say it. Tell me what you were thinking”

“I wanted to know how she sounds when she comes,” I say.

She lets go of my cock. A cool finger probes my anus.

“So you prefer her to me?”

“No. I love you. I need you.”

“But…?”

“But I like Barbara.”

“Would you like her to fuck you?”

“Yes,” I say. I think I know where Helen is going with this but I can’t believe she really means it.

Helen kisses me; a deep, slow kiss, exploring my mouth with hers. Except it is not Helen. Helen is still behind me.

The kissing stops. Before I can speak Helen presses against my back and whispers, “It will be OK Peter. Trust me.” I nod my head slightly and she whispers “Thank you.”

I understand the blindfold. It gives us the option to pretend that none of this has happened.

No one is touching me now. I wait. I assume the women are undressing. I wonder if they are touching. Suddenly it occurs to me that over the years they may have done more than just touch. My mind doubts that this is true, Helen would have told me, but my cock goes with the image and twitches ludicrously.

A hand, strong and purposeful, pushes on my shoulder, signaling for me to kneel. The floor is hard on my knees. I won’t be able to do this for long. I recognize the smell of Helen’s sex, seconds before it is pressed against my face. She holds my head and rubs herself against me. My tongue presents itself for use. She presses her labia against my mouth until my head is forced backwards. She rubs me in a figure of eight against her sex, then she is gone.

Seconds later another sex is pressed against my mouth. To my surprise it smells and tastes just like the first. Maybe I can’t tell the difference between Helen and Barbara. Maybe Helen is returning to confuse me. The message is clear enough: stop trying to analyze, go with the flow, be the moment, let the sex flow through you. That message is at the heart of my sexuality, and I recognize it as their gift to me.

Hands guide me to lie first on my side and then on my back. Cushions are placed under my head and my butt. Care is taken to ensure that I am never touched by both women at the same time. I could let myself imagine that there is only Helen or only Barbara, but now is the time for feeling, not imagining.

A mouth suckles my nipple. The sound of it is loud against the eerie silence that possesses us like a spell. The tongue moves down my belly slowly, skillfully, until it reaches my pubic hair, then it goes away. A hand, warm, strong, grips my cock around the shaft. The palm of a second hand rubs my precum over the head of my cock, making me wriggle and moan. It takes effort not to come, but I control myself.

Attention shifts from my cock to my mouth. Swift butterfly kisses that make me smile. Then tickling. Tickling that goes on until I am giggling helplessly with tears wetting my blindfold.

I am allowed to get my breath back, then I am mounted. My cock slides into ripe wetness that grabs at me eagerly. Hands on my chest. Thighs around my legs. Deep forceful strokes, followed, after the shortest of times, by a tremor of passion that passes through to my bones. She falls forward on to me, sweat-slick breasts sliding over me, teeth nipping at my neck.

Then she rolls off me, leaving my cock straining for relief, my body demanding stimulus. Both are granted by the mouth that envelops my cock and the swollen labia that descend upon my face. I lick eagerly at first, then become distracted by the play of teeth and tongue and lips upon my cock.

I break the spell of silence, begging to be allowed to come. The mouth releases me as she slides down my body and impales herself on my cock. She does not move, but she squeezes me with her cunt, milking me irresistibly. She is moaning now, but quietly, as if she were gagged. Her hands are on my ankles; her cunt is pressed hard against my pubis. When I start to come, her grip on my ankles tightens and I hear a groan that starts in the back of her throat and becomes an explosive “Fuck!” She stays on me until my cock softens, then she lets it slide out.

I am exhausted. Cool fingers undo the leather around my balls. My cock is patted gently, like a Labrador being rewarded for performing a favorite trick. I find it hard to focus. My awareness always ebbs after I come.

I am being helped up and lead somewhere. A bed. Fresh clean linen. The bed feels so comforting after the hardness of the floor. My hands are uncuffed. My arms are massaged vigorously and asexually. Scarves are used to tie my wrists to the headboard.

I am ready to give way to sleep when I hear that unmistakable buzz followed by the smell of lubricated latex. My asshole clenches in anticipation.

“Spread, Peter,” Helen’s voice. A calm command she knows will be obeyed.

The vibrator is slim and has a slight curve. It is perfect for stimulating the prostate. I relax and let it slide in, wondering who is holding it. My tired cock starts to rally. I think I hear a giggle from beside the bed, but I am distracted by having my balls sucked one after the other.

My brain is fuzzy. I want to sleep. I want to fuck forever. I turn down the noise in my mind and focus on the cunt that is now raising and lowering itself on my cock. I have no control over the pace. I am a flesh dildo. I am happy.

With the vibrator in place, I manage to stay hard until after she comes. I am rewarded with a skilful handjob that drains my balls and takes the last of my energy.

I hear Helen say, “You can sleep now Peter,” and I know the game is over. As sleep washes over me, I think I hear a different voice say, very quietly, “Thank you.”

I sleep late. When I awake my hands are free, the blindfold is gone, my ass is sore and my memory is confused. Before I can get out of bed, Helen and Barbara, both fully dressed and looking refreshed and relaxed, bring me breakfast on a tray.

“Good morning sleepyhead,” Helen says. “We’ve brought you something to build up your strength.”

“Do I need building up?” I ask.

Helen ignores the question and hands me a glass of cold OJ. Barbara is standing at the foot of the bed. She is smiling, not broadly, but persistently. I doubt she is aware of it.

“Barbara is going to come and stay with us for a while,” Helen says.

I look at both of them. Helen posed it as a statement, but we all know it was a question. The silence continues while I think about it.

“It’s only until I decide what to do about Mark,” Barbara says, “Helen thought I could stay in the guest room for a while.”

I think about how long I have known Mark and yet how little I really like him. I consider how comfortable Helen and Barbara are together. I remember the carefully anonymous passion we shared last night. I know that if I say yes, it will change things forever in ways that I can’t yet predict.

“I’m sorry about you and Mark,” I say to Barbara, “but I’m glad you’re coming to stay. I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

The look on Helen’s face tells me I’ve done the right thing. I don’t know if last night will be repeated. I trust Helen to work that out. I do know that I am still naked under the bedclothes and that I desperately need to use the bathroom.

“If you ladies will excuse me,” I say, “I have some urgent business to attend to, privately.”

Helen grins and leads Barbara by the elbow, saying, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” in a terrible John Wayne accent.

Barbara picks up the theme and says, “Yep, and there are some things a man must do alone.” They are both laughing as they leave the room.

I’m still not sure what I’ve just agreed to, but however it turns out, it won’t be dull. I head off to the bathroom, whistling happily.

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© Mike Kimera 2003 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Yoshi And The Shibari Cowgirls

The question that plagues me with speculative erotic fiction is what is the driver, the speculative part or the erotic part?

I think the answer is that they should be like two blades of a pair of scissors. An erotic story in space suit doesn’t make it speculative fiction. A great idea with no sexual heat doesn’t make it erotic.

In “Yoshi And The Shibari Cowgirls” sex is at the centre of what has changed in the universe. The role of men is fundamentally different. The impact of this is that sex is also rather unusual but I think it is authentic in the context of the story.

The universe in “Yoshi And The Shibari Cowgirls” is one that I’ve been playing with for a while. I have the outlines for threee more stories set in this environment. Let me know what you think of this.

I’ll post the others here as I complete them.

* 1 *

As I’d been taught, I lifted my mouth from Fem Julia’s labia the moment she touched the back of my head. I stayed kneeling between her thighs, my head close enough for her to feel my breath, my eyes obediently focused on her sex, waiting for her instructions.

It is Fem Julia’s custom to take her pleasure silently but I had enough experience between her thighs to know that she had achieved bliss at least twice before she had asked me to stop. Her outer labia are short and dark and swell prodigiously when she is aroused. On previous occasions, when her mood was right and my timing was fortuitous, I had provoked her into a copious spray of pleasure that had flooded my tongue and nostrils with a slick spicy honey of lust that made my cock shiver with pride. But on this afternoon, although I had been diligent, I had not gained her full attention.

“Thank you, Yoshi. That was very nice.”

The use of my name meant that I could sit back on my heels and look up at her. I noted with pride that her breasts were pink with pleasure.

“Please stand, Yoshi. Let me see your tribute.”

I stood and positioned myself next to the Fem’s head so that she could inspect me without having to sit up. I kept my eyes straight ahead and tried to keep my face dispassionate while she studied my erection. I hoped she would be pleased.

“Yoshi, Yoshi, Yoshi,” she said softly, “My little delight.”

She pulled my erection away from my belly, testing the upward curve of the tip between her thumb and finger.

“Such perfect form in such a small package. Such focused arousal. I have enjoyed you so.”

Later I would wonder if her use of the past tense meant that she knew what would happen later that day. I like to think that she did not. The Fem had always treated me with affection.

But such thoughts were far from me on that day. When Fem Julia ran her thumb across the tip of my cock it was all I could do not to cry out. She smiled up at me, appreciating my control, pulled my cock forward a little and then released it. We both heard it slap up against my flat belly.

“Come over here, Angelus,” Fem Julia said. “Yoshi deserves more than the milking machine today.”

This brought a smile to my face; I was to be allowed a measure of bliss. The milking machines are painless and efficient and there have been times after I have been left too long, either through neglect or as a punishment, when the machine have been a welcome release from the pain of a throbbing cock and swollen balls, but there is no pleasure to be had from them.

Angelus is a handsome man, older than me by a few years, still youthful in appearance, blond and pink, but heavy in the way of neuters. He is Fem Julia’s Secretary and constant companion. All of her orders are channelled through him. I was honoured that such a senior neuter was to pleasure me.

Michael says that neuters resent being used in sport by Fems, especially when they are used to service a potent. He says it is beneath their dignity. I wonder whether perhaps it is because it reminds them of all they cannot be. Whatever the case, Angelus would not meet my eyes as he knelt before me.

Fem Julia rose from her couch and stood behind me. We were the same height, she and I, but she was perhaps twice my weight. She wrapped an arm across my torso, the palm of her hand pressing into my nipple and pulled me back against her. My hands, bound behind me with a small thumb-lock, pressed into the folds of her soft belly. Her large round breasts compressed against my shoulders. I felt safe and valued.

“Today is an important day, Yoshi,” she said quietly into my ear. “We have important guests. I want you relaxed and focused.”

Angelus was positioning the sperm-catcher, thin and incredibly soft, over my glands, so that nothing would be wasted. His touch was light and gentle but it was still almost more than I could bear. When the ‘catcher was secure, Angelus extended his tongue and licked his way down my shaft in one smooth motion. When he sucked my balls into his generous mouth, I closed my eyes to savour my joy.

Without distraction, I would surely have come after only the slightest manipulation by Angelus. I wanted to relish the honour the Fem had paid me so I distracted myself by reviewing Fem Julia’s statements about the day’s importance. We heard little of the outside worlds within the sheltering walls of the House but even I knew that it was the first day of the bicentennial celebrations of the Mothers’ Blessing. Any ship that could would make planet-fall for the festivities. The richest ships would come to Earth and the richest of those would come here, to Fem Julia’s House.

Angelus was managing to hold both of my balls in his mouth, pushing at them with his tongue while working the base of my shaft with his finger and thumb; small, ungentle strokes that made my cock bulge and seemed to demand that I come. To hold off the moment I turned my mind to Michael.

Michael is the newest import to the House. He is old for a potent; more than thirty I think. Old enough that, when I shave his pubis and his head each morning, I can see that the some of the stubble is gray. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. His eyes have the sky in them; his skin is pale to the point of transparency and covered with a galaxy of freckles, too numerous to catalogue. But the most extraordinary thing about his is his voice. When he sings, all the world stops to listen. Fem Julia listens to his voice more often than she uses his body.

Michael is my bondmate; we keep each other clean and presentable. Although it is against the rules of the House, most bondmates also bring each other bliss when they can. Michael does not allow this. On the first opportunity after his arrival, I offered Michael my mouth. I wanted him to feel welcome and, if I’m honest, I wanted him to return the favour.

Michael said, “I don’t need that, Yoshi and neither do you. A man has the right to control his own body; he is more than a pipe of blood-engorged meat.”

This was foolish talk. Everyone knows that a man cannot control his own body; he will turn feral, lose himself in the beat of the rut and be a danger to all who encounter him. I did not want to hear such foolishness so I tried to stifle it by kissing Michael. He was still bound by the thumb-lock but he managed to struggle aside. I lost my balance and fell to my knees in front of him. His cock, which is veined and fat although not very long, was directly in front of me. I could see from the way that it pulsed that it had been more than a day since he had been milked.

“Watch, Yoshi.” he said, “Watch and learn.”

To my astonishment, Michael’s cock softened before me, deflating with the careless grace of a cat settling to sleep. From the evidence of my eyes, Michael could have been a neuter. I could not understand what I was seeing; ever since the Mothers’ Blessing this has been impossible and yet I could see that it was so.

“Don’t be afraid, Yoshi. Watch.”

This time, Michael’s cock unfurled like a fern in the morning sun until it was back before me in all its glory.

“You want to know how it is done, Yoshi. I can teach you. A small modification to your diet, a little training, and you too can do this.”

But Michael was wrong. I hadn’t wanted to know how; I’d wanted to know why. Why would anyone reject the Mothers’ Blessing?

Fem Julia, perhaps sensing that I was stretching the moment, brought me back to the present with a sharp bite on my earlobe. I stiffened in anticipation of what would come next. It was a dangerous, but oh so pleasurable, game.

Angelus had both hands on my shaft now, milking me from base to tip. My balls were resting against his soft pink cheek. With perfect timing, Fem Julia covered my mouth with her hand and then pinched my nostrils closed so that I couldn’t breathe.

“Now, Angelus.”

Angelus took one hand from my shaft and forced his thumb up into my anus, lifting me onto the balls of my feet.

Pressed against the hot sweating body of the Fem, impaled on a neuter’s thumb, and starved of oxygen, when I finally spewed forth my come it felt as though the space behind my eyes had exploded, expelling not just my sperm but my very self.

The Fem did not remove her hand. I could not breathe. As I slipped from consciousness I heard her say, “My poor, sweet, little Yoshi. The Shibari Cowgirls will eat you up.”

* 2 *

I awoke in the chamber that Michael and I shared. I was leashed to the bed by my collar but my hands were free, as they usually are after a milking. Michael was sitting on the bed, unleashed but wrists bound to the straps on his thighs.

“Be very careful of them, Yoshi.”

“Careful of whom?”

“The Shibari Cowgirls. You kept repeating their name while you slept.”

“They will be our guests tonight,” I said. “From the way Fem Julia spoke, I think we may be visited by the Mothers’ Tongue herself.”

Michael’s face set into a scowl that seemed powered by some deeply felt hatred.

“They are dangerous, Yoshi. The “Shibari Cowgirls” is a Dark Ship. Do you know what that means?”

“Of course. It means that these Fems service the Mothers who protect our worlds. They serve a noble purpose…”

“… and they are cruel vicious bitches driven more than a little mad by the company that they keep.”

I was stunned into silence. I held my breath, imagining that such a statement must bring immediate retribution. Without meaning to, I edged away from Michael as if he were the source of unwelcome heat.

Michael watched me closely, as if trying to decide something.

“Today marks the celebration the Mothers’ Blessing, Yoshi. What is it that you think is being celebrated?”

I couldn’t see the link between this and the Shibari Cowgirls but I was eager to move away from the blasphemy Michael had expressed.

“Two hundred years ago, the Mothers returned to us after an absence of ten millennia. They found that the race they had seeded here had strayed. By some evil twist of fate, men had become the dominant gender. They had established societies that oppressed women, pillaged the planet, and retarded the progress of the species. When the Mothers announced themselves to the world and pointed out the problem, the leaders of the men resisted the truth. Even so, the Mothers were merciful, instead of destroying the race and reseeding the planet, they gave us their Blessing to set things right. That is what we celebrate.”

I was proud of my recitation. I had remembered every word of what I had been taught.

“If my hands were free, Yoshi, I would applaud,” Michael said. “You tell the story with such conviction that I could almost believe it is true.”

“It is true,” I said.

“Do you feel blessed, Yoshi?”

“I am proud to be a potent. I am blessed with the ability to bring pleasure and to seed life.”

“You mean you’re constantly hard and your sperm is sucked into a machine that the women control, just as they control everything that you do?”

“It is a woman’s place to control, Michael. A potent is not suited to such a role. You are a potent, you must feel the call in your blood to fuck and fuck and fuck until only the next come matters. Without the women we would all be ferals.”

Michael laughed sarcastically. “And what a terrible thing that would be,” he said. “Where I come from we call it The Bitches’ Curse not the Mothers’ Blessing. The Curse they released killed fifty percent of the males on the planet within ten days. Most of those who survived where rendered impotent. Does that feel like a blessing, Yoshi?”

The Curse made a permanent change in our DNA so that eighty percent of men are born as neuters: impotent, corrupted copies of what a man should be; while the remainder are a locked into a permanent state of arousal that makes them little more than roosters. This was no blessing, Yoshi, it was a brutal act of war.”

These were the most shocking words I had ever heard. I was familiar with the numbers of course, but Michael’s suggestion of malice seemed insane.

“Your words are twisted Michael. The Mothers love us. We are their children. Why would they make war on the race they seeded on the planet?”

“That is the biggest lie of all. We are not their children. They are aliens with some resemblance to humans. They tried to exploit that to buy the whole planet for some glass beads and few bottles of rum and when we wouldn’t trade, they killed the men and stole the souls of the women.”

I had no idea what Michael was talking about, but I was disturbed by his agitation. I tried to bring him back to reality.

“What does this have to do with the Shibari Cowgirls, Michael?”

“It tells you who they are, Yoshi. The Dark Ship Mothers are the ones who released the Curse. They are fierce; the enforcers of their people.

“What do you think it does to our women to share a ship with these aliens?  The women don’t crew the ship. They are the Mothers’ pets. Did you think the title “Mothers’ Tongue” was only about being the Mothers’ representative? I’m sure that, on the long voyages through space, it takes on a more literal meaning.

“Dark Ship Mothers like their pleasure laced with pain and you can bet that they pass this taste on to their pets.”

It seemed to me that Michael was trapped in some kind of paranoid fantasy. Yet it was clear that he believed what he said. I wanted to calm him so I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “I’ll be careful, Michael.”

He didn’t look as though he believed me but at least he stopped his crazy talk. I patted our bed and said, “We should rest, Michael. We will need to be at our best this evening.”

I gave him my brightest, most welcoming smile and moved across the mattress so that he could lie down in the warm spot I had created. Michael lay on his back with his eyes open. I curled up next to him. He even allowed me to rest my hand on his sex, something that always made me feel safe and content. After a while, I fell back to sleep.

* 3 *

The strangeness started when Angelus, rather than our usual handler, came to prepare us. He placed us in our steel dress-collars and cuffs, with a long chain running from cuff to cuff through a ring on the collar. This gave us freedom of movement but still met the House rules on restraints. It took Angelus some time to fix Michael’s collar. I assumed at the time that he was simply unfamiliar with the task. I would never have guessed the true cause of the delay.

Angelus led Michael and me into the playroom on our leashes. I was proud that we were the first couple to be displayed, but I almost lost my footing when I saw that the room had been filled with pain-toys of every description. Michael took hold of my hand and prevented me from falling. “Smile,” he said, under his breathe.

I smiled as best I could. After all, I knew that most of the pain-toys were more for show than use, but the sight of them, so soon after Michael’s warnings, unnerved me.

Three Fems stood in the centre of the room. It was immediately clear that the one in the front of the V shape that they formed was the leader, probably the Mothers’ Tongue herself. I was excited to see that she was Japanese and astonishingly beautiful. I showed my admiration by letting my gaze move slowly from her thick, well-rounded thighs, through a forest of dark pubic hair, across her strong, wide hips, up over the folds of her soft belly and on to her long heavy breasts. I smiled when I my gaze reached her broad, face crowned with raven black hair, threaded with silver. She was the perfect image of womanhood.

The two women behind her were plain by comparison: one was white and the other brown but both were too slim and too well muscled to be truly attractive, and too young to be really experienced. I hoped that the Mothers’ Tongue would choose me but I would, of course have done my best to serve any or all of the Fems.

Angelus pulled us rapidly towards the centre of the room. He held our leashes high above his head and kept his eyes downcast. I had to hold my head up high and walk at a pace that made my erection sway before me.

Angelus knelt at the Mothers’ Tongue’s feet with Michael and me standing shoulder to shoulder behind him.

The two junior Fems moved silently to positions that placed us in the centre of a triangle made up by the three women. They looked like predators, practiced in hunting as a pack, stalking their prey. The Mothers’ Tongue took our leashes from Angelus without looking at him and then stepped towards us. Her pack-mates closed in behind us.

I was afraid. I knew I shouldn’t be, but I was.

When the Mothers’ Tongue spoke, her voice was deep and strangely accented, as if she was unpracticed in speaking in English.

“So, my dears” she said, speaking to her mates, not to us, “Julia is starting our evening with a brace of exotics: a young Japanese and mature Celt with a golden tongue. So few of either breed survived the Blessing, something to do with the type of men they were, perhaps?”

She reached out to stroke my face. Her fingernails were long and looked sharp, like small knives. It was all I could do not to flinch. I’m sure she saw the fear in my eyes.

“Delicious,” she said and smiled. I shivered.

“Stool the older one and thumblock the Japanese,” she said, speaking to Angelus for the first time.

I was shocked. Stooling is usually reserved as a punishment for potents who have lost themselves to the rut and have to be reminded of the need for control.

The stool built low to the ground and has a long thin phallus at the centre a seat that slopes forward. With your ankles tied to the back legs of the stool you are held in place only by the phallus upon which you are impaled. The phallus curves so that the pressure on the prostate is continuous and acute.

I saw Angelus and Michael exchange glances. Some understanding passed between them and then Angelus pushed Michael down on to the stool. Michael grimaced with the discomfort but made no sound.

“I thought that might make him sing for us,” the Mothers’ Tongue said. “How unusual to find a potent who has at least some control.”

Her words sounded like praise but her tone suggested displeasure. It was as if she had wanted to damage him with the stool. Surely she must have been aware that we oil each other thoroughly as part of the preparations for this kind of evening?

When Angelus left Michael and came to lock my hands behind me I was puzzled to see that, although Michael’s legs were wrapped around the stool, his ankles did not seem to be tied.

Angelus manhandled me roughly as he put on the thumblock and it seemed to me that he was trying to turn me away from Michael, although he made it look as if he was pushing me closer the Mothers’ Tongue.

The tall brown pack-mate moved to the Mothers’ Tongue’s side and said, “May I play with him, Mother? I’m sure I can make him sing.”

“Of course you may play with him, Maya, but don’t break anything. Not yet. Later we will see how well he screams. Meanwhile, Trish and I will sample the Japanese.”

I had time to see Maya straddle Michael, one leg over his shoulder, her sex against his mouth, all of her weight pressing him down onto the stool before the Mothers’ Tongue grabbed my head and turned me towards her. Her fingernails were pressing into my cheek and I thought she might rake my face.

Again, she checked for the fear in my eyes, then without looking away she let go of my face and wrapped her fingers around my erection, pressing the head into the palm of her hand.

I sighed, partly from relief, partly from pleasure.

“It’s been a long time since I had a Japanese,” she said, working her palm in a small circle. “The last one was on a Feral Hunt. The Houses hadn’t been established then and without training, many potents went feral. Our job was to hunt them down.”

I wondered how it was possible for the Mothers’ Tongue to have been on a feral hunt. The Houses had been established more than a hundred and fifty years ago, surely she could not be that old?

“Most of them we just shot but I always kept the Japanese alive for a little longer. I liked to make them suffer before they died.”

Suddenly she squeezed my cock so hard it took my breath away then she let go and stepped back.

I didn’t see the blow coming. Trish, the white pack-mate, hit me behind the knees with something long and hard. With my hands locked behind me I wasn’t able to do anything to break my fall.

“Roll him over, Trish. I want to ride him while you work.”

I was very afraid now. I didn’t mind the pain or being ridden but my mind screamed with fear at the kind of “work” Trish might do.

I was hard, despite my fear, and the Mothers’ Tongue had no difficulty sliding me inside her. She was wet and not very tight, but it felt good to have her weight on me. I tried to lift my hips to give her more pleasure but she wouldn’t let me move.

“Do you know what time dilation is? No, of course not. No man with a prick this hard could master physics; too much of their blood is drawn away from the brain for them to think straight. All you need to know is that, for me only twenty-five years have passed since the Blessing. I remember the old world. I remember how men who looked like you used to treat women like me.”

She sounded angry and not entirely sane. Instinctively I turned my head to try and see what was happening with Michael. Maya was fucking him in a way designed to cause him pain. She was squatting with her back to him, pressing back on his cock, pushing him down onto the phallus in the stool. I was amazed that he was able to remain silent. He must be in great pain and yet he seemed more focused on my plight than his.

“I have the Smarthread, Mother. Where shall I use it?” Trish asked.

“Put it under his armpits, the top of his thighs and around his neck above his collar. That should make him wriggle.”

Trish laced the thread around my body quickly and efficiently. It felt sticky and warm and unpleasant.

The Mothers’ Tongue slapped my face.

“Pay attention to me, little man. I want you to know what is happening and why,” she said.

I began to understand that the Mothers’ Tongue might indeed be a little mad and that I was at her mercy.

“When I was a girl,” the Mothers’ Tongue said, “Men like you used to tie me with rope before they fucked me. They were proud of the knots they tied and the pain they caused. They referred to the tying as an art. I think it excited them more than I did. They called the art Shibari.”

Trish knelt on either side of my legs behind the Mothers’ Tongue, leaning into her back, head over her shoulder, hands massaging the Mothers’ Tongue’s breasts.

“When the Mothers came and the world changed, I served with devotion. The Mothers have rewarded me. Part of my reward is Smarthread. Can you feel the heat of it? It’s reading the signals from your nervous system, drawing energy from it. It uses the energy to pull itself tighter. Fear, pain, excitement, all of them feed the thread and increase the pace at which it tightens. As it tightens it cuts into your flesh and, eventually, through your muscles and bones.”

I was going to die and die painfully and slowly.

“A potent like you is ruled by your prick. The men who took me as a girl where also ruled by their pricks. When you orgasm, the Smarthread will slice so deep that every beat of your heart will wash this floor with blood. Yet we both know you will soon be hard again, that you won’t stop even though you are fucking yourself to death.”

Trish was licking the Mothers’ Tongue’s neck. The Mothers’ Tongue was rocking on my cock. I couldn’t help but be excited and that excitement was going to kill me.

“Please,” I said, “don’t hurt me.”

But the Mothers’ Tongue wasn’t listening. She was kissing Trish. Both of them had their eyes closed. I think that is what saved my life.

Potents are trained to be triggered by the sound of a woman’s pleasure. Even in my fear I had been aware of the grunts and groans Maya was making as she rode Michael. They were one more thing pushing me towards orgasm and mutilation.  Perhaps this is why I noticed that the sounds had stopped even though the Mothers’ Tongue and Trish didn’t.

I looked up to see if further harm had befallen Michael and I couldn’t help but call out at what I saw.

Michael was half standing, the stool still attached to him. Maya was in his arms, blood streaming from the cut in her throat. In each hand, Michael held a curved blade that I slowly realized was made from the two halves of his collar.

When I cried out the Smarthread tightened enough to draw blood.

Trish and the Mothers’ Tongue were still kissing but Trish opened her eyes to look at me. When she saw the blood, she broke off from the kiss to dip her fingers into the cut at my thigh. She was reaching to push her bloody fingers into the Mothers’ Tongue’s mouth when Angelus killed her. He didn’t use a blade; he broke her neck with a move that looked well practiced and efficient.

The Mothers’ Tongue still had her eyes closed. Her cunt had been tight on my cock for some seconds and I knew she was ready to come. When she came, I would come also and the Smarthead would cut my throat open.

The Mothers’ Tongue’s eyes shot open at the sound of Trish’s neck breaking. It was obvious that she knew exactly what she was hearing. She struggled up off me immediately, but I could feel the cum in my balls getting ready to fly.

I tried to sit up; to make it stop. Then Michael’s fist connected with my jaw.

* 4 *

I woke in a bed with clean linen and a warm duvet. The sensation was comforting and familiar but something was missing or different but my mind was fuddled and I couldn’t figure out what.

Of course! Now I knew what was missing: I had no bondmate to share the bed and for first time since puberty, I had awoken without an erection. This last news so disturbed me that I had to reach down and check that I was still in one piece.

“Lost something?”

I looked up, still half asleep, hand on my still-dormant genitals and saw Michael standing at the foot of my bed. At least I thought it was Michael. His head was covered in very short hair; he had a light beard and was wearing clothes – some kind of coverall with badges on it.

“Michael?”

“My real name is Brendan, Yoshi.”

Real name? What did he mean, “Real name”? Then I remembered everything.

“The Mothers’ Tongue…”

“Is our prisoner, Yoshi. She is why I was there.”

Michael sat on the bed and took my hand in his.

“When Angelus told us that the House had a Japanese, we knew that you were bait that the Mothers’ Tongue would nibble at for her bicentennial celebration. I’m sorry, Yoshi, but it was an opportunity we couldn’t afford to miss.”

“Angelus betrayed the House?”

“Angelus is a brave man who serves the Alliance well, Yoshi. Thanks to him I had the weapons to kill that bitch, Maya.”

This was too much information too quickly. It seemed that nothing I thought I had understood had been true. I thought that Michael liked me and yet it seemed I was just the cheese in his mousetrap. I felt like crying but I didn’t want to do that in front of Michael. I let myself get angry instead.

“You hit me,” I said. I sounded petulant, even to my own ears.

Michael laughed. “Don’t sulk, Yoshi. It was the only way I could stop you from triggering the Smarthread.”

I did start to cry then. I had been about to die. And Michael, no Brendan, had saved me. And two Fems were dead. And the Mothers’ Tongue was kidnapped. And nothing, nothing at all, made sense.

Michael/Brendan held me, rocking my head gently against his chest.

“It’s the shock, Yoshi. You’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”

I let him hold me for a while. Then I asked the question that I most needed the answer to. It was the hardest question I’d ever asked.

“Am I a neuter now?”

Michael/Brendan looked puzzled.

“It’s just that I don’t have an erection and I should have one and I wondered if maybe I couldn’t have one anymore?”

I was babbling but Michael didn’t laugh.

“You’re in the Alliance now, Yoshi. We’ve developed ways to combat the Bitches Curse. You can have an erection but you don’t have to have one. Try it out. Think of something that excites you.”

I closed my eyes and summoned up the image. My cock stirred in response and I felt a peace settling on me. I didn’t know what the Alliance was, or what would happen to me next, but at least I was still me.

Michael stood up. “Get some rest, Yoshi. You’re still weak. I’ll be back to see you later.”

He was right. I was weak. I let myself fall back onto the soft pillows as soon as he left the room. I was still erect. I decided to do something about it. I recalled the image to my mind, something that I had imagined many times but never experienced. Then I let my fingers work. I had masturbated before, some Fems enjoy watching a potent bring himself to release, but I had never masturbated alone, focused entirely on my own pleasure. I should have felt guilty at wasting sperm in this way. Instead I felt… free.

After I came and before sleep claimed me, I had time to wonder if Michael’s lips would be as soft in reality as they were in my imagination.

 

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© Mike Kimera 2004 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

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Queen Martha And The Knights Of The Bound Table

I fell in love with the King Arthur myth when I saw John  Boormans “Excalibur” in 1981. A high powered cast, wonderful music, and one of the most erotic dance scenes on film (Igrayne – the dancer who aroused everyone’s lust  was Katrine Boorman, daughter of the Director. Imagine the father daughter chat on the set that day)

I decided to mix the myth with the ethos of the  Carry On movies (my favourite is “Carry On Up The Khyber”) a very British type of comedy filled with puns and innuendos and a relentless humor that doesn’t slow down.

Be warned, “Queen Martha And The Knights Of The Bound Table” is a tale of bondage, whips, leather, and lots and lots of puns. Enjoy.

Maudlin the magician felt that he was not accorded the respect at court that his abilities and position deserved. As the magician who had helped make Queen Martha the woman she was today, he should not be referred to as “that sad old Celt”. Anyway, it was hard to be joyful when you were living your life backwards in time as he was. It wasn’t always fun knowing what, and who, was going to come next.

Ah but today would be different. Today, at dawn, he had a meeting that could change everything. Descending into the bowels of Camealot (he should never have let her call it that, too backward looking and bourgeois; only one step away from Dunscruin) Maudlin let his mind form the image of Martha’s half sister Fata Morgana. It was a big image. Morgana, more than twice Martha’s size and with half her looks, hated the way Martha always called her Fat Mo, running it together into a single insulting word Fatmo. Martha never even noticed the hurt that she caused. Now Morgana was plotting revenge and she wanted Maudlin’s help. There’d be a price to pay of course.  There was always a price.

* * *

The young squire with his head between Queen Martha’s legs was on the verge of becoming a Knight of the Bound Table. He had been in training for a year and a day. In all that time he had served the sexual needs of others without ever being allowed relief. He had mastered the ability to become erect on command and to stay that way for hours at a time. Although technically still a virgin, he had studied the martial art of Tao Chi Feeli, and was able to pleasure women and men with or without the use of paraphernalia. Now, on the eve of his 21st birthday, he was ready to become a Knight and serve under his Queen. All he need do was maintain his erection from dusk until dawn while pleasing all those who called upon him and he would receive the Queen’s blessing.

So far the young squire was doing well. Lady Cuminere and Sir Wiltalot had played with him for hours. The noble knight had a reputation for being a bit premature in his actions, but Martha had noticed that he wilted a lot less often when the tight bum of a young squire was available to him.

It was Lady Cuminere who had set the squire his most difficult test. An hour ago she had provoked his erection until she could flick the end of his cock with her nail and it would remain unmoved. Then she had tied strong thread tightly round the squire’s balls and the base of his cock, pulled the thin thread up between his buttocks and used it to tie the young man’s thumbs together, leaving no slack at all in the thread. Any sudden movement would cause him pain. Staying still left him constantly stimulated. Martha had been impressed by the squire’s ability to remain motionless while Cuminere slowly covered the palms of his hands in hot wax. His suppressed moans of pain against the Queen’s labia as each drop of wax fell had been thrilling.

Martha spread her legs a little wider, wriggled to a more comfortable spot and tugged on the young squire’s ears to urge him to increase his pace. Turning her head to one side, Martha let her tongue flick across Lady Cuminere’s irresistible mouth, rousing her from her doze. Cuminere smiled, she knew what her Queen required.  Cuminere’s breasts were famous throughout the land: large, shapely, firm and with long nipples that she allowed to poke through her leather breastplate even when she went in to battle. The bounteously endowed woman now made her nipples available to the Queen and was rewarded by the familiar touch of skilled royal fingers between her legs.

Martha suspected that Maudlin was somehow involved in the forming of Cuminere’s perfect flesh. She wondered what exactly Cuminere had had to do to win such a blessing. Maybe some day she would make Cuminere tell her, perhaps even re-enact whatever task it had been.

* * *

Morgana had been studying magic secretly for years; patiently acquiring small fragments of the craft and then piecing them together. Now she felt she had learned enough to take from Maudlin the one spell she most desired. She, who was named after an illusion, would finally master the ability to shape-shift.

Running her hands slowly over her substantial flesh, Morgana summoned the sexual arousal her magic fed upon. No one in Camealot seemed to think that Fatmo had any sexual needs. Only thin people fucked. Fat people were just fucked up. Oh she’d had the odd session with a Knight too drunk to care who’s body he used, but mostly she’d been casually, thoughtlessly, excluded from the sex-life of the castle. Soon, when she could assume any form she liked, she would make up for the lost years and take revenge on Martha for treating her so badly.

As Morgana’s nipples hardened and her juices flowed, she could feel the heat of magic flowing through her. With her heightened senses she became aware of the wizard’s descent towards her lair. Morgana found Maudlin’s power attractive and his growing disaffection useful. Tonight she would pursue power through pleasure; pursue it ruthlessly. Twisting her nipples in joy, Morgana began to laugh. As her lust and magic mingled, a nimbus of crimson light coruscated across Morgana’s naked body.

By the time the wizard reached her, Morgana was wreathed in what seemed to be glowing serpents of blood. Inside an almost abandoned chamber of his soul, Maudlin felt his Dragon stir in answer to the serpents call.

* * *

The young squire, released from his bonds, knelt, still erect, mouth  glazed with his Queen’s spend, facing the east window, awaiting the rising of the sun. Martha watched him with envy for his belief. He was waiting to receive the Queen’s favour with religious devotion. The Queen looked down at the means by which she would bestow that favour: XCalibre.

In preparation for the climax of the ceremony, Martha let her mind return to that day, in her nineteenth summer, when she had first encountered XCalibre. She had spent the previous year locked away with the Wizard Maudlin, practicing skills that, according to the wizard, were part of The Way of Power: the use of the flogger, the scarifier, the clamp and, of course, the whip.

There was no doubt she understood the whip. She loved to hear the air sigh as the whip cut through it, to see flesh sliced and blood flow.  With the whip she could caress or cut at will. The wizard said that the whip was the medium through which she accessed her anima; bringing the power of her spirit into the physical world.  Martha knew it must be a powerful spirit, for when she used the whip she became calm and excited at the same time and was possessed of an indomitable power. She also achieved a level of sexual transcendence that, had she but known it, awed the wizard. Martha glowed when she used the whip. She generated a field of sexual energy that affected all around her.

Now young Martha she was going to The Naming. She felt so full of life she could barely contain it. She wore the traditional black leather breastplate and short leather skirt. Her whip, Shadow, was coiled around her thigh. It soothed her to have Shadow there. Maudlin had conjured Shadow for her; a living whip, existing partly in this world and partly in the world beyond the mists. The wizard had confirmed what Martha’s instincts had already told her: she must bond with the whip, making it an extension of her will. She fed Shadow on the pain he inflicted and he filled her with power. Maudlin had not had to teach Martha the ritual of licking her whip clean of blood at the end of a session, it had seemed obvious to her that this is what should be done. She loved the warmth of the whip when it returned to her, the way it throbbed under her touch.

Striding through the forest towards The Glade, Martha held Shadow’s shaft and ran her thumb over the smooth pommel that had brought her so much pleasure in her nights of enforced solitude over the past year. She paid no attention to the gentle tightening and release of the whip’s coils as she walked. She was focused entirely on The Naming and what it meant. She did not notice how the crowds parted for her, nor how those she passed closest to stroked themselves. Martha left a wake of lust to mark her path through the forest.

The most powerful women in the land would be at The Naming, each seeking to demonstrate that they were the True Born Queen. There had been strife in the land for nearly a generation now, with faction fighting faction for control. Three months ago, as Maudlin had predicted, the stone had appeared in the Glade, the spiritual navel of the land. Jutting out of the stone was the head of an obsidian phallus, that caught the rays of the sun at dawn and filled the Glade with light.  The inscription on the stone read: “Whosoever calls this phallus from the stone is the True Born Queen”.  Everyone had seen that naming the True Born Queen would bring peace to the land. Every leader felt that she must be the True Born Queen and that the phallus would prove it. A date for The Naming had been set and now the day had arrived.

Martha would never forget the moment she entered The Glade and saw XCalibre for the first time. The whole world went silent and grey. Nothing existed except her, XCalibre and Shadow. They were a trio destined to sing songs of pain a pleasure for the world.

In her mind the phallus spoke to her and her body was filled with joy.

“Welcome Martha, welcome Shadow, I am XCalibre. Together we will bring peace to the land. Wait now, until I call you to free me”.

Martha was in a trance, unable to move, waiting to be filled with that voice again. Around her thigh, Shadow tightened his grip until the he drew blood.

With part of her mind Martha was aware that powerful women where taking turns trying to free the phallus from the stone. She saw Magdelene the Massive lower her mighty thighs around the phallus, gripping it tightly within her and pulling fiercely until orgasm forced her to release the still-trapped head and sent her sprawling to the ground, semiconscious.  She watched the Sylvana of the Woods stroke and lick and suckle the phallus until she too fell into a stupor of lust. The Lady Tittonia advanced on XCalibre with a smile, tied her nipple rings together on the far side of the shaft and massaged the phallus with her breasts. She continued, moving in a rhythm she didn’t seem to control, until she was covered in sweat and visibly excited. Her nipple ring glowed with a bright light, the binding released and Tittonia fell backwards, eyes closed, mouth slightly open.

After two hours, the stone was surrounded by the stunned bodies of the seven most powerful leaders in the land. By now the crowd had noticed that all the bodies moved to the same slow rhythm. Something had them in a thrall of ecstasy. Only Martha knew that the women moved to the beat of XCalibre’s song.

“Come to me Martha. Release me. Show that you are the True Born Queen.” XCalibre’s voice released Martha from her trance and filled her with the energy it was drawing from the seven women.

She stepped boldly up to the stone and shouted to the encircling crowd “I, Martha Pendragon, daughter of Ursula Pendragon, demand my turn”.

There were mutterings of surprise in the crowd. Ursula Pendragon had been dead for ten years and her family was no longer a power in the land. The wizards, worried at the failure of the seven women who had tried so far, and sensing Martha’s sexual power, signalled that she should continue.

Instead of going closer to the stone, Martha stood back and drew out her whip. Shadow was scarlet with Martha’s blood and twitched with pent up power. Bringing her whip from behind her head, Martha cried, “Come to me XCalibre”.

Shadow sliced through air with vicious joy and gripped XCalibre firmly around the shaft. For a second nothing happened; girl whip and phallus were locked in a tableau of want and power. Then the rock split open and XCalibre and Shadow flew back into Martha’s hand.

As the crowd around her shouted “Queen Martha, Queen Martha, Queen Martha” and the refused leaders woke from their trance and came to kneel before her, Martha’s eyes widened while the glassy phallus in her hand showed her what to do next.

That had been the beginning. Now Martha would repeat the ritual with the soon-to-be knight in front of her. As the first rays of dawn struck XCalibre, the chamber was bathed in light and the ritual began.

* * *

Almost filling the huge cave at the base of the castle, two dragons were lost in the throes of mating. The cobalt male dragon was mounted on the back of the larger red wingless female. Their necks and tails entwined, the male dragon used his wings to balance as he thrust at tremendous speed into the substantial form below him.

For the first time in a century, Maudlin lost himself to lust. He was the dragon now: huge, powerful, filled with the madness of rut. His wings were at full stretch, his talons were buried in the red scales beneath him and his barbed cock plundered the soft depths of the female. Maudlin’s arousal was such that, in his rush to take Morgana, he had shouted the shapeshifting spell he would normally have mouthed silently. He didn’t care. He needed this. He deserved this. He was a powerful wizard and this was his reward. Maudlin’s mind melded with his dragon form as his seed shot deep within the she-dragon below him. For a moment he was nothing but the dragon.

A moment was all that it took. Morgana had been waiting for that moment and used it to cast that spell of binding that can only be spoken in the dragon’s tongue. Freeing herself easily from beneath the smaller dragon, Morgana looked into Maudlin’s eyes and saw the fear there. He could not speak. He could not change back. Morgana used the spell Maudlin had unwittingly given her to resume her normal shape.

“I hope you enjoyed the ride Maudlin. Your technique needs work even for a dragon. Sadly you will have no time to practice I fear. But be happy for me. Your fumbling efforts were successful. I carry within me now a dragon-daughter. How powerful she will be. What a shame you will never see her born.”

Maudlin was screaming silently behind the dragon’s eyes. This was not how it was supposed to end. He had never seen the dragon-daughter in his pictures of the future. Something terrible had gone wrong.

Morgana stroked the dragon’s snout. “There is always a price Maudlin. This time it’s your turn to pay.”

Morgana put her robe back on then ripped it to expose one large breast. Using the immobilised dragon’s claw she raked her shoulder and drew blood. Running up the stairs she shouted “Guards! Guards! A dragon! Help me. Kill it before it kills us all.”

* * *

Lady Cuminere and Sir Wiltalot knelt shoulder to shoulder in front of the squire. Their tongues met and formed a cushion for the tip of the Squire’s cock. Their open mouths would receive his first spend in over a year.

XCalibre and Martha were now one. The phallus, nested in Martha’s cunt, feeding off her energy, glowed and writhed in front of her, eager to bestow the Queen’s blessing. Martha released Shadow and sent him to wrap around the squire’s neck to heighten the young man’s pleasure.

The squire trembled at the whip’s caress, then groaned as XCalibre entered him. Martha pressed her breasts into his strong back and placed her left hand around the rigid base of his cock. Without her needing to move, XCalibre filled and probed both of them, pushing and prodding towards a transcendent climax.

Martha’s blood sang. She was the only one in the room who heard XCalibre and Shadow join in. At the height of the song, the man in front of her found his long-delayed release.

“Bless you Sir Fortescru” his Queen whispered in his ear.

 

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© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

I Wonder…

This dark little thing came to me one day when I was working in London. I walked past something that labelled itself, with a remarkable lack of discretion, as “The Spy Store”. I began to wonder what domestic users would use this kind of kit for. This story was the result.

© Mike Kimera 2000

I’ve seen you many times, on buses, in local shops, buying coffee (tall skinny latte double-cup) at Starbucks. I’ve noticed details of your appearance and your posture and pondered them, quietly and continuously as I lay next to my sleeping wife. You are younger than me and people notice you. Your energy shouts more loudly even than the brightly coloured clothes you wear on your good days. Your depression and disappointment announce themselves in the slope of your shoulders and the fingers running distractedly through your hair.

The police would find no pictures of you on my walls, no unposted letters to you in my files, no stolen underwear under my mattress. And yet I am collecting you; putting you, piece by piece, in my belljar.

A sociopath, they say, is someone who understands the consequences of their actions, is able to conceive of the impact of their actions on others, and yet commits the actions anyway. More difficult to detect than the psychopath, these men, and they are nearly always men, manipulate the people around them in order to meet their strongly felt needs for control.

That seems to me a bloodless, weak, unempathic description. Let me explain. We sociopaths act BECAUSE we understand the impact of our actions on others. It is this impact which gives the act flavour and purpose. The shiny happy shallow people who surround us like shoals of minnows escape for the most part by not being worthy of attention.

You caught my attention. All of it.

The layout of your house is available through a search of the town planning records. I wonder which of the two bedrooms you sleep in. The larger, I decide, the smaller will be your office where the computer you love so much lives.

You left your keys in your front door one day. Wasn’t it kind of me to return them to you? You gave me one of your friendliest smiles. You almost remembered my name.

Your career is beginning to bloom. Your agent tells you that Bantam is interested in your book outline. But what has really made a change to your life (and will make an even bigger change – one you could not possibly predict – one which would drain the joy from your face if you anticipated it) is the new man in your life. Handsome, witty, charismatic and – oh happy day – working in television.

In Europe, the surveillance equipment that is restricted to Federal agencies here is available over the counter: powerful microphones that pick up every sound and fit inconspicuously behind electrical sockets, video cameras that fit into motion detectors just like the ones you had installed last month as part of your alarm system. My trips to our offices in London this year have been most instructive.

Yesterday, Sunday, you looked so happy kissing him good-bye. His first full night in your bed – at least in this bed – although I have imagined you and he as a tangle of sweaty limbs and stained damp linen. I have imagined it in detail.

My wife worries about my insomnia. She says I spend too much time in front of the computer. Last night I kissed her and told her to get some sleep. Then I returned to the video images on my screen, using headphones for the sound so I won’t disturb her. I am a considerate husband.

Restraints, gags, nipple-clamps, all the bondage toys that are so freely available over the Internet. Who buys them? People like me and you?

The shack out by the lake was my wife’s idea, ask anybody. An isolated spot where we could spend pagan weekends away from the kids. I’ve been spending some time there recently, fixing it up, making some modifications to meet my needs.

Tonight my wife left to visit her sister for a couple of weeks. I’m packing a bag full of toys. I’ll be spending some time at the shack. I jingle the newly cut set of keys in my pocket. The video on my computer screen shows that you are sleeping. I knew you would sleep in the nude. You’re that kind of girl.

Hotmail is a free and convenient e-mail system but you should always remember to log out. Simply moving to another web page leaves an open door anyone might pass through. An e-mail from your account to your agent says that you argued with your boyfriend last night and that you need time alone. You’ll be back in a couple of weeks.

The image of you waking, tied to a frame, penis gag in your mouth, blindfolded, vibrator in cunt and arse, has filled my mind for some time. I wonder how your scream will sound when the pain starts. I wonder if you will recognise my face.

Let’s find out.

 

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© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

A Walk In The Park

“A Walk In The Park” is an early D/s story of mine. It’s thin on plot but it seems to get the juices running. It has the same characters as “Bus Ride“

 

Walking through the park, Paul and Suzie make a striking couple. He has an air of power, almost aggression, about him. She seems demur and sinful at the same time. People find their eyes drawn to them, without quite knowing why.  If pheromones were visible, they would swarm about these two like bees around a hive.

The day is cold. Paul is wearing an expensive coat and close fitting black leather gloves. Suzie is wearing a red silk dress better suited to summer. Her hard nipples press through the thin fabric. She is carrying her coat in front of her, over her hands as she walks. She is grateful to carry it this way, to hide the fact that her wrists are cuffed together.

Suzie is walking to heel, but only she and Paul know that. Paul’s stride is longer than hers and Suzie doesn’t know where they are going, so she has to concentrate to keep up. The ben-wah balls in her cunt mimic her movements, stretching and probing, constantly stimulating. When she hurries, her short dress flows around her thighs in an eye catching way and there is a danger that someone will notice her lack of panties. She has not been given permission to speak, so they walk in silence. Paul stops. Suzie almost walks past him but she catches herself in time.

The litre bottle of mineral water is full and cold. It has a little cap that allows the water to be sucked from the bottle. Suzie looks into Paul’s eyes as he places the cap in her mouth and tips the bottle. She knows that he will not lower the bottle it she fails to swallow the water. He’ll squeeze until the water runs down her neck and over her breasts. So she sucks hard; hard enough for the sides of the bottle to flex. Paul makes her drink half a litre. People are watching.

Leaning close to her ear, Paul says, “What a great cocksucking mouth you have, Suzie.”  Suzie blushes, hoping no-one overheard those words, but she does not move away.

Paul puts the bottle back to her lips and tilts her head most of the way back. Her neck is stretched and vulnerable. Every swallow she makes is visible. Already Suzie’s bladder is under pressure and she is losing body warmth. When the bottle is empty Paul kisses her lips but doesn’t touch her.

Only when Paul steps back does Suzie see the couple on the park bench who have watched her drinking feat. She realises that, while she drank, her coat moved and the cuffs are now visible. The boy can’t take his eyes from her. The girl looks as if she wants to spit at her.

Paul makes her walk on. It is not a comfortable process. She needs to piss. The eggs in her cunt, with their shifting counter-weights are making her wet. She feels everyone is staring at her. She doesn’t know what he will make her do next.

They step off the path into a small rose garden, not much frequented this late in the year. Paul tells her to squat. Suzie looks up at Paul, needing to piss but hoping not to have to do it here. Squatting puts pressure on her bladder and exposes her cunt to the world. Paul strokes Suzie’s cheek, finishing by pulling down her lower lip with his thumb.

“Stay here and don’t piss”, Paul says and strides off.

The wait seems interminable. Left alone in this humiliating position, Paul’s power over her starts to wane and Suzie has time to wonder how she let this happen to her. She is almost ready to stand, at least to ease her aching muscles, when Paul returns. The boy from the bench is with him. The girl, it seems, is history. Suzie is at eye level with the erection in the boy’s jeans.

Locking eyes with Suzie and placing his hand on the top of her head, Paul speaks to the boy. “She can’t fuck you just now because her cunt is already full. As you know, her hands are tied. She needs to piss but she won’t be allowed to do this until she makes you come with her mouth. The only rule is that you can’t hurt her. Do you have any requests?”

“Yeah – I wanna come on her face and I wanna see her tits.”

Suzie is in shock. Paul can’t mean this. Surely he is going to send this boy and his hungry hardness away. This is a test. She looks up at Paul, silently pleading for him to change his mind. All the while the pressure on her bladder is building.

“That’s up to you,” Paul says to the boy. “Her hands are tied so you’ll have to undo her dress for her if you want to see her breasts. Remember, don’t hurt her. Feel free to use her throat; she’s well practiced at that. She will do her best to please you.”

Suzie’s world slows down. Her will goes on hold. She feels as if she is outside herself, watching this strange meeting. As the boy fumbles with the buttons on her dress, she is surprised to find that her main concern is to be allowed to piss and soon. The boy’s cock already has precum on it. She knows he won’t last long. Almost on autopilot Suzie leans forward and sucks in his cock.

The boy places one hand on Suzie’s head and uses the other to tweak her nipple. “I don’t even know his name,” she thinks, as she swallows his cock whole. She desperately wants to pee. He is fucking her face with a fast rhythm and she concentrates on the drumbeat of his lust.

Then she feels Paul squatting behind her. She can’t help it; the moment Paul touches her, desire floods through her. He flips up her skirt and pushes his thumb into her asshole.

“When he comes you can piss, but I want you to come too,” Paul says. “If you piss before then I will make you lick it up”

She knows he doesn’t mean this, but the thought excites her. She surrenders herself to the experience.

Soon Paul’s thumb becomes her point of balance. Her eyes are closed. She rocks between Paul and the nameless cock using her mouth.

Then the cock is withdrawn from her lips. Suzie opens her eyes just as the boy starts to spray his thick young-man’s cum on her face. She closes her mouth so it will all go on her face and hair. To everyone’s surprise, she smiles. Now she can piss. She feels her ass contract on Paul’s thumb as she empties her bladder. The eggs move inside her and she starts to come.

A pool of urine is forming at Suzie’s feet. She rests her back against Paul, ignoring the cum dripping from her chin, and lets herself groan, a long deep growl of a groan, as she comes.

.When she opens her eyes, the boy, prompted by Paul, is thanking her. Suzie is reminded of a boy dutifully thanking his aunt for a birthday present. She laughs.

The laugh releases her. She is back in her own head again. The boy is gone. Paul is unlocking her cuffs and putting her coat around her shoulders. He kisses her cum-stained mouth passionately and without restraint.

Game over, Suzie steps back, holds Paul’s gaze just long enough to see a question start to form in his eyes and then says, “Thank you Paul. I didn’t know I needed that.”

 

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© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Bus Ride

“Bus Ride” has the same characters as “A Walk In The Park” but was written first. It appeared on “Clean Sheets” in 2004 and was one of the few pieces of mine that has received angry mails. This is apparently, sheer porn, that degrades and humiliates women. I know that will prompt some of you to read it, but it surprised me as I think this is quite a mild piece. If you want porn, read “Have A Nice Day” which is very hardcore but which no one ever objected to.

Still, what do I know? I only wrote it. The rest is up to the reader.

It is mid-afternoon on a sunny October day. Paul has told Suzie that they are going on a bus ride across town. Paul does not normally ride the bus. He will look out of place in his business suit and tie but Suzie knows that all eyes will be on her. The summer print dress that Paul has chosen for her to wear has narrow straps, a dropped waist and bias cut that flares when she walks. The weather is not quite warm enough for the outfit and her nipples show the cold. Apart from the dress, she is wearing a black silk choker with a D ring, and, on each wrist, a black leather cuff also with a D ring. It seems to Suzie that these items scream for the attention of every passing eye. They set her apart. They mark her as Paul’s. She is embarrassed, excited and proud at the same time.

Suzie looks small and young and exotic next to Paul. He is white, middle aged and middle class. She is Asian, young enough to be his daughter, and projects an air of calm submission. No one would mistake them for husband and wife. No one could miss the fact that they are together.

Suzie is walking with care. The ben-wah balls in her cunt stimulate her with every step. As she steps on to the bus ahead of Paul, the sun shining through the dress shows clearly that she is naked underneath.

Paul directs Suzie to the backseat of the bus. People instinctively make way for them. Most find their gaze drawn to Suzie. She has snagged the fabric of their attention and they must shake themselves to break the link.

Paul sits first. Suzie stands patiently in front of him until he looks up at her, giving her permission to sit next to him. As she sits, she lifts her dress so that her bare skin will touch the seat. She sits as close as she can to Paul without touching him. She keeps her legs slightly parted and her gaze straight ahead.

A boy, no more than eighteen, leans against the window further along the bench seat. He stares at the choker on Suzie’s neck and the cuffs on her wrists, but looks away when he notices Paul looking at him.

Paul, still watching the boy, whispers in Suzie’s ear. She puts her hands behind her back, slides further forward on the seat, the PVC warm against her buttocks, and clips the two cuffs together. Her face is impassive but Paul knows her well enough to see that she is excited and a little afraid.

Paul moves the strap of her dress off her left shoulder, then her right. Only her breasts hold the dress up. Each time the bus bounces Suzie is in danger of the dress falling to her waist. She knows that if this happens she will not be allowed to cover herself; she will have to wait to see what Paul instructs.

The boy is not slouching against the window any more. He has moved closer on the benchseat and all of his attention is focussed on Suzie. He is watching her intently. His jeans do nothing to hide the erection that his thumb traces.  He wants to touch Suzie. The sight of her makes him want to do things that he has barely imagined before: to bite, to probe, to use. Only Paul’s threatening presence holds him at bay.

The bus reaches the terminus. Reluctantly the boy stands to leave. As he slips by he deliberately brushes against Suzie’s shoulder. Her dress falls forward a little; the top of her nipple is just visible. Suzie does not move or glace up at the boy. His erection is directly in front of her. She sees a damp spot blossom at its tip and knows that the boy has just come. Paul makes a noise that is more of a growl than a word and starts to stand. The boy backs away rapidly, falling over his feet, one hand pressed to his crotch.

It will be a few minutes before the new passengers join the bus. Paul stands facing Suzie, shielding her from view of the passengers getting on. He pushes her dress down to expose her breasts. He tilts her chin up to make her look him in the eyes, unzips and places his cock in her mouth. He is very hard. Suzie knows that he has been fully erect since they boarded the bus. She sucks eagerly, at this cock, partly from excitement and partly because she wants to make him come before the new passengers see what she is doing.

Paul twists the nipple Suzie’s right breast, his other reaches between her legs. His fingers search for the string to the ben-wah balls. Pushing his cock deeper into her mouth, Paul pulls out the ben-wah balls. Suzie’s sigh on his cock triggers Paul’s long withheld come.

The bus is filling. Paul and Suzie are attracting attention. Suzie does her best to swallow Paul’s cum. She allows herself to rock forward on his fingers by way of a reward. He leaves his cock in her mouth even though she can hear people getting closer to the back of the bus. She wants to struggle, to push his cock from her mouth, to cover herself, but more than all those things, she wants to obey him.

Paul can see the alarm in her eyes. He smiles and with rapid, confident movements, pulls the straps of her dress back on her shoulders and zips himself up in the time it takes for Suzie to lick the cum off her swollen lips.

Suzie waits for Paul to undo her wrists. She is disappointed that the game is over and she has not yet come but she knows that when Paul teases her like this she is always rewarded.  Paul reaches behind her but he does not undo the cuffs. Suzie’s eyes widen as she feels the ben-wah balls, still slick from her cunt, placed in palm of her hand.

Paul turns to leave. Suzie’s wrists are still bound. The game is not over.

Suzie knows that there is a spot of Paul’s cum just below her lower lips, the ben-wah balls are visible in her hands, and she will leave a wet stain on the seat when she stands. Paul is almost off the bus. Determined to walk with dignity and not to scurry with fear, Suzie rises to follow Paul off the bus, conscious of the stares she is receiving, feeling them like slaps, warming under their touch.

Paul lifts Suzie from the step of the bus, holding her off the ground, licking away the cum on her chin, kissing her with the cum still on his tongue. Then her turns her to face the bus while he undoes her cuffs. Several passengers are looking at her with expressions that vary from distaste through greed to envy.

“Good girl, Suzie,” Paul says.

He is holding her hands at her sides, not letting her turn away from the bus.

“Now it’s time for your reward,. Suzie. Look straight ahead. Close your eyes. Listen to your body. Tune it. Stroke it with your mind. Focus it. Let all these people see how beautiful it is. How beautiful you are.”

With her eyes closed all Suzie allowed herself to be aware of was Paul’s voice, leading her, making her go where she needed to be. In the long hours of the night he has taught her to respond to his voice. Her body greets it like a dog wagging its tail. She focuses on all that she wants and needs.  His voice in her ear is like a mouth on her clit, tugging at her, nudging her, driving her onwards.

When she hears Paul say, “Come now, Suzie.” she shudders to a climax that leaves her floating.

“Open your eyes, Suzie.”

The bus is gone.

Paul takes off his suit jacket and put it around Suzie’s shoulders, wraps his arms around her so she is pressed back against him and says, “Thank you. You were magnificent.”

His praise warms Suzie almost a deeply as her orgasm. She feels safe and protected and needed in his arms. She is drowsy and content now. She lets her weight lean against Paul.

He kisses the top of her head and says, “We’ll take a cab home.”

 

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© Mike Kimera 2004 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Have A Nice Day

“Have A Nice Day” is a very early story of mine. It is pure porn. I’ve resisted the temptation to edit it into something smoother because I’ve had so many people tell me that, when they need some finger fun, this is the story that they reach for.

If you are looking for inner spiritual meaning, you won’t find it here. You will find a fast sequence of hardcore set pieces. Please enjoy this story in the spirit in which it was written.

 

The message I sent you on the beeper said, “Open the box in private – but open it at once”. Five minutes later, at 11.30, UPS deliver a parcel marked “PERSONAL” to your desk at work. Everyone notices, but you go to the bathroom immediately to open it.

It contains: a note, a condom, and a large black dildo; one of those anatomically correct but way out of scale dildos, all veins and ridges, made out of silicone so that they bend and feel warm to the touch. It looks huge in your hand. It must be ten inches long and three inches around. You find yourself playing with it; feeling the weight in the palm of your hand. Without thinking you rub the head against you cheek. Then you remember the note. It says, “Take off your panties. Fold them and put them in your purse. Slide the condom over the dildo and push the dildo all the way into your cunt. DO NOT fuck yourself with it. Go to our table at Starbucks at 12:15”

Your cunt is very wet. Surely you think; this huge dildo will never fit. Then you realise you will have to go back to the office with it inside you and wait until it’s time to walk to the coffee shop round the corner. You think of how this monster will feel in your cunt as you walk. You notice that you are squeezing the rubber cock in your hand. With sudden determination you take off your panties – red silk today – fold them and put them in your purse.

You have just ripped the foil on the condom when you hear people enter the toilet. You don’t have time to wait. You roll the condom down over the black cock in your hands – shit this feels so real you half expect it to spit cum at you – hoping no one will recognise that condom smell. You put one foot up on the toilet bowl, open yourself as wide as you can, and start to push the monster in.

Someone enters the stall next to yours. You are struggling to take it all inside you. Trying not to be heard. Trying not to just fuck yourself crazy with this invader. You get most of it inside you. Two inches protrude. You sit on the toilet seat, and, balancing on the base of the dildo. You push hard. It slides in slowly, making you groan.

The black dildo is now deep in your cunt. The pressure is so great you have to pee right there and then. Just peeing makes your clit ache. Your pussy lips don’t quite close over the end of the dildo. You wipe yourself, pull down your skirt and step out of the cubicle. In the mirror you see that your nipples are very prominent and that your legs are slightly parted causing your skirt to rise up a little. They are bound to notice something in the office

You return to your desk. The beeper goes. You read “How does it feel?”. The beeper goes again. “Cross your legs”. You obey and feel the rubber cock move inside you. Three minutes ’til you leave for Starbucks. A colleague comes to your desk and asks you if you’d like to go to lunch. You think he’s looking at your hard nipples. Can he smell you? You want to look at his cock to see if it’s hard but you daren’t risk it. You smile and decline his offer.

Walking has never been so difficult. Although you know how tightly held the cock is you worry it will slip out. You feel as though your legs are spread wide as you walk. Your hips sway slightly more than normal. This attracts attention. You try to hurry and have to stand still suddenly. The pressure is too much. You walk slowly to our table at Starbucks. The beeper goes “Don’t turn around. I’m watching you. Fits snugly doesn’t it?” You reach Starbucks as you finish reading the message.

Our table is taken. A beautiful black woman in a stylish business suit of a yellow so bright only her dark skin could carry it off, is sitting at it. You turn to look for me when the woman smiles, stands and embraces you.

“Jenny” she cries hugging you to her.

She is six foot, slim, long black hair, wide mouth, bright teeth, high cheekbones. There is no blouse under the business jacket.

As she hugs you she whispers “It’s a very BIG dildo isn’t it Jenny. Sit very close to me, raise your skirt so your bare ass is on the chair and keep your legs a little apart. Michael sent me”.

She kisses you on both cheeks and sits down.

You are shocked. I’ve never done this to you before.

Your beeper goes “DO AS SHE SAYS”.

When you look up you see that her eyes are focussed on your nipples. Seeing your look she smiles and licks her lips. You sit. The shiny aluminium chair is cold against your flesh. She moves her chair closer to yours and, as she passes you a latte with her left hand, her right hand slides up your thigh to your cunt.

“Don’t spill the coffee on this nice skirt” she says and looks you in the eyes as her fingers trace your swollen cunt lips and feel the butt of the dildo at the entrance to your pussy.

You sit absolutely still. She pushes gently on the dildo but it doesn’t move. Her fingers stroke back down your thigh in slow circles.

She brings her fingers to her lips and licks them. “I love a tight wet cunt” she says. “I was told you would be good”.

You look down at your coffee.

“Nice nipples too – glad to see there’s no bra… I’m going to use you Jenny – with your permission – I do have your permission don’t I?” she pauses.

You look up. “Yes you have my permission to use me… I would like that”.

She makes a call on her cellphone and a white stretch limo pulls up. She leads you to the limo by the hand. You worry about getting in without flashing your dildo filled cunt at the world. People know you here. She solves the problem for you. Once the door is open she pushes you hard on the back of the head and you fall into the limo face first, ass in the air. As you scramble for balance you hear the sound of yourself coming. The video in the limo shows you being fucked by me and coming hard.

“Don’t just lie there Jenny, take a seat and watch the show – I’ve seen it twice. My names Lily, by the way.”

You look up and then past her and finally you see me sitting in the centre of a bench seat. I look at you but say nothing.

Lily lifts you easily and places you in the centre of the bench seat opposite. She ties each of your ankles to a car door, spreading your legs so wide the muscles on the inside of your thighs tremble. Lily pushes back your skirt so that your whole ass is visible. She lifts both of your hands above your head and ties them to a headrest. Your back is arched. Only your ass is on the seat. You sway slightly as the car moves.

Lily sits beside me and we both watch you. The video is on loop and starts with you on the floor, tied, with my cock in your mouth. Lily kisses me and unzips my cock. I push her head down on it while keeping my eyes on you. The black dildo is visible in your swollen cunt. Already I can smell your juices. Your eyes plead with me for attention.

I pull Lily’s head off my cock and push her towards you.

“You’re getting the seat damp Jenny” Lily says.

Her fingers trace the outline of your wet cunt lips around the dildo butt. You moan and look away. She kneels between your legs and licks your clit. Your ass bounces on the seat.

“Show her” I say.

Lily takes off the yellow jacket. Her breasts are very round. They both have large gold nipple-rings. She hefts one breast in her hand and licks the nipple with her long tongue. Shimmying out of her skirt she exposes a shaved pussy and a tight muscled ass. She is wearing a harness round her hips and between her legs. Seeing you look at it, she points to a ring on the harness just above her clit. “This is what the butt of that dildo slots into Jenny. I’m going to have such fun fucking you with it. Maybe we should see how well it fits your ass”

You look at Lily, licking your lips. “Come fuck me with your big cock bitch” you moan, your hips swaying and your pussy gripping the dildo.

I grin at your response. “I told you she was good, Lily. Enjoy her”.

Lily licks her way up your thighs. Her tongue penetrates you ass. She pushes deeply into you. Her strong tongue passes through your rose. She sucks hard. Her large lips move up. She takes the dildo in her teeth and pulls it back by an inch. She slots it into the belt.

“Fuck me,” you say and push yourself forward, pressing the dildo against her mound.

You feel the huge dildo slide deep in you as Lily rams it in and out of you. Bouncing your hips off the car seat to meet each thrust, you push back on the dildo so she feels it against her clit. Both of you moan as she fucks you. Your bodies are covered with sweat as she pushes faster and deeper into your hot cunt.

I reach over and pull on her nipple rings as I tweak your tit. I push two fingers up your ass as Lily pushes hard, burying the dildo deep in your cunt. You pull on the ropes as you feel the dildo stretch your tight pussy, then push back on it, making Lily moan. Faster and faster she fucks into you, your body squirming as I ram my fingers up your hot moist ass.

Lily pushes deep into you, grinding her hips against you as she comes. I shove my fingers further into your ass and pinch your clit making you scream as you cum.

I release your hands and legs, sit on the seat you have made damp and then retie your hands behind your back, leaving your legs free as you kneel in front of me. Grabbing your head, I force my cock into your wet mouth. You feel Lily’s hands stroking your back as your lips slide up and down my hard cock. Knowing that you love it, I push your head down onto my cock. It lodges with comfortable familiarity deep in your throat.

A shiver runs through your body as you groan against my cock, Lily pushes her fingers into your ass. Looking into my eyes you suck me hard and deep, with your tongue twirling around my cock. Lily fingers your ass as I fuck my cock in and out of your mouth. I hear you moan and feel you jerk as Lily pushes the big dildo up your tight ass. I watch as the big black dildo disappears, spreading your ass hole as inch by inch sinks into your tight tunnel. Your ass squirms prettily as Lily impales you on the huge rod. Reflexively your ass ring tightens, fighting to keep out the dildo splitting you.

I keep your mouth on my cock as you arch your back trying to lift your head up and scream in pain. Lily smiles to herself and then grins at me as she twists the dildo in your ass making your body jerk. I watch as she pulls it out until just the crown is surrounded by your ass ring. I nod my head at her and with one forceful stroke she buries the dildo deep into your ass as I push down on your head and flex my hips forcing my cock fully into your throat. You feel my cock pulse as I cum down your throat, filling you with my hot cum. I spit the command “Drink it” at you and feel your throat tighten as you swallow my sperm.

I untie your hands and hug you to me. I kiss you on your cum filled mouth. Lily has detached the dildo from her harness leaving it buried in your ass. She is licking carefully at the small smears of blood around your ring.

“Help me tie Lily” I say.

Lily lies back in the seat, taking up more of it than you did. We spread her legs so wide the pink inside her slit is visible. With clever knots you tie her outstretched legs making her lean forward slightly. You kneel back to look at her.

I raise your hands above your head and slip off your top. It is the first time Lily has seen your breasts. From behind you I cup them, kissing your neck, working on the hard nipples, while you smile at Lily.

The elegant gold nipple clamps close brutally over each of your nipples in turn. You bite your lip as I connect each of your clamps to one of Lily’s nipple rings by five inches of gold chain. You are very close to one another now but not touching.

I pull you backwards on your heels and then further, until your breasts and hers are both stretched and the little gold chains are taut.

Lily’s eyes go wide as she thinks of the nipple rings being ripped from her. I know she is a screamer. I reach into your purse and find the panties you placed there earlier.

“Use these to gag her” I say and let go of you.

You climb between Lily’s legs pressing against her. You kiss her large lips, pushing your tongue in her mouth and sucking her thick lower lip. You place the gusset of your panties against her tongue and fill her mouth with them. Then you kiss her throat, hands resting on her breasts.

“Lily likes to be fisted,” I say “but she’s never been fisted in her little brown hole. I think you could put one of your small hands in each hole at the same time, don’t you, Jenny?”

Lily’s starts to struggle, shaking her head and jiggling the chains that bind you together.

You make eye contact with her, smile wickedly and say, “I would enjoy that.”

You kiss Lily on lips and whisper in her ear “I do have your permission to use you don’t I, Lily, to use you harder than you’ve ever been used before?”

Lily pauses, feeling your tongue trace its way down her neck. She nods briefly but will not look at you.

I smear KY over your hands and wrists. You place your right hand against her anus and push. Nothing happens. I hold your forearm and push your tiny fist with all my strength. Lily thrashes like a dying fish as you slide into her past your wrist. You pull back a little and watch her asshole start to turn inside out. Then you thrust your hand all the way in.

You place your left hand on her cunt. The lips are swollen. Pink is clearly visible. Juices are running from her cunt to where your arm is buried in her ass. You laugh and slide you fist easily into her pussy.

I watch your delight as you discover that you can rub your hands together. Even muffled by the gag Lily’s screams are loud.

I turn on the stereo. “Wanna lover with a slow hand” drowns out Lily’s moans.

My cock is hard again. I slip it into your cunt from behind, feeling how the dildo in your ass squeezes me. You fuck Lily to the rhythm of my cock in your cunt. Lily’s body is now covered in sweat. Her asshole is stretched as wide as her mouth.

I know I won’t last long inside you. Your whole cunt is massaging my cock. On the outward pull of your arms you lean back so you can pull Lily’s breasts with your own. On the inward stroke you push deep into her and lean your breasts against her. With each stroke your cunt massages my cock. You are close to orgasm now. My hand finds your bud and coaxes it. As you cum you push deeper yet into Lily and lie gasping against her breasts.

I pull out of you and wank over Lily’s face. She hardly notices, she is coming in both holes at once trapping your hands in her flesh. She passes out.

Still with your hands in her you lick my cum from her face and neck. For a few moments you are lost only to the sensations of licking and tasting. I know that you are completely focused now.

“Time to go back to work, Jenny.”

You look at me confused. I kiss your forehead and pull your hands from Lily. I pass you wet-ones to clean yourself with.

You reach to remove the dildo from your ass.

“Leave it there. I’ll beep you to say when you can remove it.”

I take your panties from Lily’s mouth.

“Put these on and straighten your skirt.” I say as I gently remove the nipple clamps.

“You have done well Jenny, I’m pleased with you.”

The limo halts as you slide the top back on over your sensitive nipples. I step out of the car and pull you to your feet on the kerb.

“You’ll want to freshen up” I say and you become aware of your smudged lipstick and dishevelled hair. You are outside the main entrance to your office.

I kiss your forehead, whisper “Have a nice day” in your ear and get into the limo and leave.

 

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© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Tiger, Tiger

This story presents a D/s relationship as an act of poetry, hence the reference to Blake’s poem. That may seem a little fanciful, an excuse for purple prose in an attempt to lift a porn scene into something more intellectual. In my experience, the D/s world has an above average number of people who are prone to introspection.

I wonder if it is their insight and their need to create meaning, that stands between them and full satisfaction from vanilla sex or if perhaps it is the discipline and the subtle nuances of the power relationship in D/s that finally allow them to combine mind and flesh. This story is dedicated to all of the folks out there who continue to search for acts that bring poetry into their daily lives. I wish them success.

 

The moonlight through the blinds forms stripes of shadow across her pale flesh. She burns in the darkness, a sex candle, filling the room with her scent and the heat of her need.

If the gag were removed she would curse me. Even with the small rubber penis pressing her tongue flat she is cursing me with her eyes.

“Tiger, tiger burning bright.”

I know she hasn’t come in days.

I know, though she does not, that she came to me to come to herself again.

Yet she fights it. Hands bound behind her back, spreaderbar pushing her legs wide, she twists at the waist, lifting her shoulders off the bed, drilling her eyes into my flesh.

The vibrator is very small, a little cylinder rounded at each end, about an inch long. It looks so harmless taped to her clit. It is set at low. It has been set at low for thirty minutes. Her tiger stripes are slick with sweat. Her hair is a damp mane I find irresistible.

Her eyes narrow as she sees me finally undress.

She must have known I would do this.

Mustn’t she?

Must have known how her energy would stiffen my resolve?

The spreaderbar is tied across the headboard. She has been watching me in the mirror. I have been sitting silently in the bedside chair. Now my pale, hair-strewn flesh shines in the mirror, looming towards her from out of the darkness. She thinks, perhaps, that I am the match for her candle. I feel I am the moth for her flame.

The first touch sears us. Her nipple so hard between my lips. Her shoulders moving so that she could be struggling from me or into me. My fingers close around strands of sweat soaked hair, pulling her face to mine, kissing the space between those flaring eyes.

I straddle her. She looks disappointed or maybe disgusted. Another man after a cheap blowjob or a titfuck fantasy?

I undo the gag. She sputters and licks at her mouth and swears at me. She stops briefly when I put the gag, still wet from her, in my own mouth.

I slide down her, between her parted legs. I don’t listen to the meaning of the words she throws at me. They are like the first fierce drops of rain against my skin in a thunderstorm that may last for hours, shockingly direct and promising much.

“Bastard,” she shouts as I rip off the vibrator taped to her.

With the gag I can’t lick her. Instead I push my cheek against her labia. So much heat. The smell slides over me and into me. My cheek glistens. By the time I run my nose softly over her clit and down between her sex the first torrent of words has slowed to a drizzle of abuse.

There are a few seconds of clumsy fumbling as I untie her ankle-cuffs from the spreaderbar and then push her ankles, still spread wide, up towards her head. When she is split below me, her knees almost touching her breasts, we both pause.

We ought to be able to see the lightning that flashes between us. We both know it is there, pinning us in this moment of brightness. She with all the fury of arousal, me pointed directly at the eye of the storm. The pounding of the blood in my ears sounds like thunder when she finally pushes upwards just enough to suck the tip of me into her, completing the circuit and making the energy flow.

Sex always surprises me. I try not to channel it, just to ride the flow. When I bound her, I had a flickering thought that I would be above her drilling her into this bed. Yet instead I slide slowly, like a ship coming gratefully into harbour, gliding through the softly rippled water until I come to rest against her. She sighs or perhaps just groans at my weight.

More fumbling as I reach behind her and unclip one cuff from the other. She hadn’t expected that. But she doesn’t wait. Even as the blood returns to her arms, her hands are in my hair, clawing at my head. She could bite me now. She could rip at my throat.

My cock pulses inside her.

She rips off the gag and kisses me, sucking out my tongue. My hands slide behind her back lifting her. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me downwards.

I’m not sure which of us starts the roll that brings her out on top. Already it seems that the idea of our bodies as separate things is absurd. The tiger has us both now.

Her fingernails rake my chest as she drives down onto me, head back, breasts being licked by the moonlight. My head is off the foot of the bed. I watch us in the mirror.

“Tiger, tiger burning bright

In the forest of the night

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

It seems to me we are moving to the slow beat of Blake’s poem.

What immortal hand or eye?

This moment. This union. This confluence of need. This is what makes us immortal.

That seems like a truth for me just before the second when all words lose meaning and my body releases itself from my mind and does its best to merge with hers, flowing into her, filling her, until both of us are released from mortal need.

Afterwards I watch her, curled on the rumpled sheets, sleeping. The tiger has left us. She is all woman again now. She looks strong and vulnerable.

There seems to be a cord binding my guts to the beat of her heart. Each breath tugs at me with an emotion we never name, demanding a word we never use. Maybe, when she wakes, I can persuade her that we are more than the tiger. Maybe in the morning, in the light of day, I can ask her just to love me. Maybe I can explain that she has already everything I can offer but I still want to give her more.

I settle in behind her, sliding my hand between the concavity at the top of her thighs. I let myself relish the warmth of her skin and the scent of her sweat.

As sleep pushes me downwards I accept that, in the morning, things will continue as they are, questions unasked will remain unanswered, but in the night, in that dark forest, we will again seek each other out. It is a good thought on which to yield to sleep.

 

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© Mike Kimera 2000 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

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A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.

Blind Faith

I set “Blind Faith” in a harbour on Lake Geneva that I know well. The events described are entirely fictional. Blindfolding is a common element of D/s sex. It is often portrayed as taking something away from the person wearing the blindfold. In my experience, the blindfold often gives the sub the concentration, confidence and freedom fully to enter into the experience.

But of course, any D/s relationship develops its own layers of meaning and significant objects. For Faith, the blindfold is central to her understanding of her actions and her choices.

 

Faith hesitated at the arched gateway that led from the Chateau to the harbour. Below her, the wide curve of the harbour wall protecting the small boats at anchor looked like a sleeping dragon that she would be better not to wake. Faith smiled at the image. Waking a dragon was exactly what she was here for. She took a deep breath, straightened her back, and walked along the harbour wall until she reached the beacon at the far end. Then, as instructed, she waited.

She tried to lose herself in the breath-taking view over Lake Geneva. Even after years of living here in La Tour de Peilz she was still awed by the dramatic rise of the Alps on the opposite shore. Normally she would have been able to make her mind as calm as the sun-lit water in front of her, but anxiety broke her concentration like pebbles skipping on the surface of the lake. She could not believe that Thierry had selected such a public place. True, the low wall around the base of the beacon would partially block her from the sight of people in the harbour but she would be exposed to anyone out on the lake or in one of the buildings nearby.

Faith shivered at the thought of being on public display, but she did not leave. Instead she touched the strip of heavy white cotton that was tied around her wrist. It was her magic amulet. It had the power to transform her from her day to day self into someone to whom amazing things happened. After all, how many recently divorced, thirty-five year old Englishwomen found themselves standing on a harbour wall, looking out at the Alps and waiting for their lover to use them as he wished?

A slight breeze came in off the lake, making her aware that the summer was now over and the dress she was wearing was too thin for the autumn weather. She had chosen it because it was what she had been wearing the first time that Thierry took her, exactly three months ago.

She wanted to hug herself against the breeze but Thierry was probably already watching her, savouring the sight of her silhouetted against the sky, so she stood with her legs slightly apart, her chin up and her hands clasped demurely in front of her, offering him a promise from a distance.

She heard his footsteps on the stone behind her, confident, purposeful steps that were typical of the energy that Thierry put into everything, but she did not turn around. That was not how their game was played. He came up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her back against him.

Bending his head close to her ear he said, “Do you trust me, Faith?”

These were the words that had started it all. They had become a ritual with them for meetings like this.

Faith gave the same reply she had always given: “Completely.”

Thierry ran his hands down her arms to her wrists, enclosing her in his strength.

“Show me that you are mine. Put on the blindfold.”

He released her hands and waited.

Faith undid the cotton strip that she wore on her wrist and refolded it. She held one end of the cloth in each hand and pulled it taut, making it a channel for the tension that she was feeling, then she raised it to her lips and kissed it. Thierry had taught her to do this. He had explained that, before a Mass, the priest will kiss the stole that he is about to drape around his neck, because it gives him time to reflect on the transition he is about to make from ordinary man to someone who could summon God.

As her lips touched the fabric, Faith thought about the summoning that she was consenting to by putting on the blindfold. She was calling up a side of herself that she had always kept hidden, had in fact been embarrassed to admit to: the side of herself that wanted to be worshiped, wanted to be subjugated, wanted to be stirred into a feeding frenzy of lust, wanted to lose her mind in the outpouring of her heart’s desire.

Faith raised her head to face the sun and reached up to tie the cloth around her head; willingly blindfolding herself in a public place, in the arms of a lover who required her complete trust and absolute obedience.

As soon as she completed the knot, everything changed. The cloth that denied her her sight also freed her from responsibility for what happened next. She was now both in the world and out of it at the same time. Her existence was defined by touch and taste and smell and sound and most of all, by desire.

“Thank you, my Blind Faith,” Thierry said, his mouth close to her ear.

Faith found Thierry’s Swiss-French accent exotic, capable of breathing new meaning into old words. His voice was gentle and confident and, best of all, edged with hunger for her.

Thierry pushed Faith back against the low wall that sloped inwards in a cone around the beacon, so that she was leaning backwards slightly. The wall came up to just below her shoulders; she could feel the rough stone against her back through the fabric of her dress, hard and unyielding. It made her smile.

“I recognise this dress,” Thierry said. He ran his hands up her body and cupped her breasts firmly, stroking her nipples with his thumbs. “It is the one you wore the first time I undressed you…” He undid the top buttons of the dress and pushed the fabric aside, exposing Faith’s breasts, “…except today you wear nothing beneath it, it seems.”

“Nothing at all.” Faith said and pushed her breasts upwards against his hands.

“Show me.”

For a heartbeat, Faith hesitated, uncertain what Thierry wanted.

“Guide my hand,” he said.

Like a ghost, Faith took his hand, slid it up along her thigh and placed it on her naked sex. Thierry grasped her firmly, pushing her upwards onto the balls of her feet and pressing one insistent finger between her labia.

Without the blindfold, Faith would have tried to wriggle free, but Blind Faith was free to spread her legs and open herself to her lover’s desire.

Thierry massaged her mound until she was so slick she could smell herself. Then he slid two fingers inside her. She rocked on them gently, unconcerned with anything but the sensation.

When she was feeling warm and desirable and safe, Thierry slipped out of her and pushed his fingers into her mouth. Faith sucked on them, taking them as deep as she could

Before Thierry, Faith had not enjoyed oral sex. She couldn’t see the point. Now of course, she could see nothing at all and had discovered the richness of heat and texture and smell that were available to her. She had learnt to enjoy the power and excitement of bringing Thierry to complete hardness with her mouth and to relish the movement of his hot smooth skin across her face.

“Faith, the wall behind you is topped by a steel railing. When I place your hands on the railing you will be spread against the beacon like a figurehead on a ship,” Thierry said. “I want you to hold the railing tightly with both hands.”

Thierry placed Faith’s arms along the top of the railings and stretched her out in both directions, so that her shoulders pulled back and her still-naked breasts rose. Quickly, almost impersonally, he used his feet to push her legs wide apart. Then he stopped touching her.

She listened hard for his next instruction but the only sound was made by wind in the rigging on the tiny fishing boats moored in the harbour behind her.

Faith wanted to call out. She wanted to let go of the railing and cover herself. She wanted to tear off the blindfold and take back control. Instead she gripped the railing tightly and waited.

Thierry would not desert her, she told herself. He would not leave her on display like this, available to anyone who came along. And yet, what if that was the experience he had in mind for her today?

Faith calmed her mind by recalling the promise that Thierry had made her when this strangeness started. “In you, Faith,” he had said, “I see a woman who has been starved of the sensual pleasures her mind and body deserve. If you will give me your trust, and with it, your obedience, I will feed your desires and you will open like a flower at dawn.”

If an Englishman had said that to her, she would have laughed, but Thierry was French and beautiful and she had wanted so much to believe him. So she had agreed and he had started her journey by taking away her sight.

She had never questioned him on what she was going to blossom into.

Seconds ticked by. Faith felt the breeze lift her dress and wanted to let go of the railing and prevent herself from being further exposed. But if she let go of the railing, she would let go of Thierry’s trust. She waited.

Suddenly she felt him covering her, engulfing her like a wave of energy. His big hands enfolded hers. His mouth worked on her neck as if he meant to consume her. He let his weight press into her, grinding her against the wall until she was literally breathless.

She relished his heat and strength but also recognised her relief that she had been right, this time, to hold on.

Thierry kissed her on the mouth, gently, slowly, holding her blindfolded head in his hands.

“You looked wonderful standing there, open and full of potential,” he said.

One hand left her face. She heard him unzip and her stomach clenched in anticipation.

He kissed her again on the lips, more urgently this time. Then he lowered his head and pulled one of Faith’s small breasts all the way into his mouth.

“Fuck me.”

Faith’s words flew out across the water like gulls rising. Once she would have cringed in embarrassment as much for the admission of need as for the crudeness of her language, but Blind Faith’s tongue was free.

“FUCK me.”

Thierry’s hands slid down her body, found the full flesh of her arse and lifted her up off the wall. Faith wrapped her legs around Thierry and, after a moment’s slick struggle, he entered her.

Faith gripped the railing, threw back her head, and let Thierry crucify her lust against the hard stone.

There was no finesse, no tenderness, just a furious rutting that hammered away at her senses summoning up a tide of warmth and release that almost drowned her.

By the time Thierry came inside her, Faith was hanging limply on the wall, unable to move or think or speak.

Thierry gently set her feet down on the ground and helped her to stand. Turning her so that she had her back to him, he re-buttoned her dress and made sure she was covered, then he held her in silence.

“Thank you,” Faith said.

Thierry gave her one final hug, and, as was his way, left her.

Faith listened until she could no longer hear his footsteps on the stone. Then she reached up, removed the blindfold and slowly came back to herself.

It was almost sunset but Faith did not want to linger over the spectacle of the scarlet sky. Vision returned her to the real world. A world where she wanted to be rid of the stickiness she could feel between her legs and at the top of her thighs; where she needed to lie in a bath and soothe the places she knew would bloom into bruises by morning; where Thierry was not just her lover but someone else’s husband.

Except, Faith thought, this world was no more, or less, real than the one she had occupied a few moments ago when she’d been spread wide and used hard.

Faith looked down at the strip of cotton she was holding. All she had to do was open her hand and let it fall and there would be no more Blind Faith.

Before her mind could decide what to do next, her fingers had wrapped the cloth around her wrist. Faith, smiled, turned away from the sunset, and headed for home.

 

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© Mike Kimera 2008 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

 

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