Bar Snack

This is one of those nasty brutal stories that either does it for you or it doesn’t. Writing this kind of story takes me to territory I rarely explore. The main character is the kind of man that I would cheerfully eliminate from the genepool and yet I know he has at least some appeal.

Read, enjoy and don’t feel guilty about it afterwards

© Mike Kimera 2011

Sandie was my type of woman: alone, a little drunk, more than a little  overweight and flashing her flabby flesh like a fritzing neon sign on a rundown whorehouse.

She was a fading thirty-something still trying to convince herself that she hadn’t changed since she’d left college.  The dress she was wearing had been designed to hang loosely on a young nymphet, displaying her blossoming womanhood. Stretched over Sandie’s full and just starting to sag curves, it displayed only one thing: desperation.

That, of course, is what had attracted me to her.

Desperate women don’t complain. Desperate women do what they’re told and afterwards,desperate women know in their hearts that it was their fault and that they only got what they deserved.

I’d spotted her leaning against a pillar, scanning the early evening “Bar Rouge” crowd, nursing her drink, pretending she was waiting for someone rather than just hoping for someone. “Bar Rouge” is a trying-to-be-trendy place at the top of a glass office tower. It has great views over the city but everyone here was looking inwards. It’s a pick up place for singles. Sandie looked like she’d been single for a little too long.

I didn’t approach her until I was sure that she was about to give up and go home. When I asked if I could buy her a drink, her face lit up as if Prince Charming had just  turned up with one of her used glass slippers.

I could see in her eyes that she wanted me and that she was more than a little surprised that she might actually get to have me. We both knew I could have done better. Physically I was out of her league.  I wondered how long it had been since she had had anyone she wanted to fuck with her eyes open.

I led her to the bar and helped her perch on a stool that was both too high and too small for her to sit on comfortably. I felt up her arse as I positioned her. She gave me a nervous little smile and said, “I can see I’m going to have to watch myself with you.” It was her only insightful comment of the evening.

I sat on the stool next to her, leaning close, publicly claiming her. I’m sure that if the stool had been wider she would have preened with pleasure. Each time I handed her a drink I touched her, on the wrist, on the arm, on the hip. She pretended not to notice but by the fourth drink she was waiting for my touch.

I fed her drinks for about an hour. She gulped the alcohol down so fast; I hadn’t even had to add anything to her drinks to put her in a more receptive frame of mind.

I asked her where she came from and how long she’d been in the city and listened attentively as she told me about how she was far from home in a job that should have become a career but was turning into a dull routine.

She was isolated, disappointed but still hopeful; a perfect little Bar Snack.

When I asked her what a passionate woman like her was doing alone in a bar on a Friday evening, she leant forward to give me a better view of her Grand Canyon sized cleavage and told me that she was looking for someone who would appreciate what she had to offer.

My smile in response was genuine. Sandie was about to find out that I knew exactly how to show my appreciation of what she had to offer.

I ordered Sandie her final drink of the evening and held it far enough away that she had to turn unsteadily on her stool to reach for it. Her thighs splayed, her dress rode up as far as it was able, disclosing the tightly stretched tops of her thigh-highs. I took the opportunity to slide my hand rapidly up her leg until my fingers tips pushed into the soft indentation at the top of her thigh.

She reached down with her free hand to push me away, smiling but saying, “People will see.”

I kept my hand in place long enough to show that she lacked the strength to move me, then I withdrew my hand, stood up from my stool and took a step away from her, keeping my face impassive.

Anxiety flickered in her eyes. I did nothing to reassure her.

“Don’t go,” she said taking my wrist in both her hands.

The pleading tone in her voice aroused me more than touching her flesh had but I didn’t let that show in my face.

“Please,” she said, guiding my hand back under her dress, “Stay.”

I stepped closer and pushed my hand up further until my fingers were pressed against her panties. Her legs clamped shut, she leant forward so her head was on my shoulder, but she didn’t push me away.

“Let’s find somewhere more private,” I said.

She looked into my face, searching for something. I ran my thumb along her slit. Her eyes closed.

“Now,” I said, pulling my hand from between her thighs and stepping away.

Sandie stood up, shouldering her handbag, ready to follow me. I took her hand and pulled her through the crowd so quickly that it was all she could do to keep her balance on her high-heels.

The emergency exit doors at the back of “Bar Rouge” opened out onto a landing in a bare concrete stairwell. The ambience was public car park meets latrine; just what I was looking for.

I span Sandie in front of me, pinned her against the far wall, forced her legs apart with my foot and clamped my hand on her cunt.

By the time she got her breath back, I had my mouth at her throat and a finger inside her. It wasn’t easy, but then, I wasn’t being gentle.

She didn’t slap me and she didn’t cry out. She just said, in a quiet voice that sounded more disappointed than shocked, “You’re hurting me.”

I kept my finger inside her, rubbed my thumb over her clit, looked her in the eyes and said, “What did you expect, a candle-lit dinner for two? That special moment when our eyes meet and two hearts beat as one? You must have known I was dragging you here to fuck you. Isn’t that what you’ve been offering for the past hour every time you pushed your big tits at me? Isn’t that what you were begging for when you pulled my hand between your legs? So now you’re going to get fucked. You should be happy.”

The expression on Sandie’s face was the best part of my evening. It was as if all the alcohol had suddenly been expelled from her system. I had the real Sandie in front of me now. The one who looked at herself naked in the mirror each morning and knew exactly what she was worth. The one who’d given up on Prince Charming and was now searching for Mr Not Too Bad Most Of The Time. The one who knew that she’d met a predator and offered herself up on a plate.

There was a moment when I thought that she might cry or scream and I’d have to let her go. Then something changed in her eyes and I knew she’d reached her decision.

“You don’t have to hurt me,” she said keeping eye contact as she reached down with one hand to search for my erection. “I do want you. Really I do. Let me show you.”

She stretched upwards and kissed me. I slipped my wet finger out of her and slid my hand up to squeeze her breast. Sandie traced the line of my erection through my trousers and pushed her tongue into my mouth to show me her enthusiasm.

I put both hands on her breasts and pushed her back against the wall.

“That’s not where I want your mouth,” I said.

Sandie made her way to her knees without much grace. I unzipped and left my erection bobbing in front of her face. She reached out to grab it but I swatted her hand away.

“Just your mouth.”

She looked up at me with wide eyes but managed a smile before she took the tip of my cock into her mouth.

I stroked her face gently and smiled at her. She put a little more effort in, using her tongue, sucking in her cheeks. No one could accuse her of not trying.

When I’d had enough, I told her stop. She looked disappointed. Maybe she’d thought a quick blowjob was all I was looking for.

I helped her to her feet like a gentleman and led her to the banister at the top of the stairwell.

“Lean over it, spread your legs, and hold on. You’re about to get a fucking you won’t forget.”

That much at least I was sure was true.

I ripped off Sandie’s panties and put them in my pocket. Her cunt was moist rather than wet but I got in without too much effort and with only the most muted of grunts from her.

Finesse would have been wasted in the circumstances so I concentrated on speed and power, slamming Sandie against the banisters hard enough to make them rattle. Sandie didn’t bother faking an orgasm. It seemed to be all she could do to catch her breath.

I love taking women from behind. I found the sight of Sandie bent double, braced for impact absolutely irresistible.

A couple of minutes in, I knew I was almost done. Sandie must have sensed it too. She looked back at me over her shoulder and said, “Please don’t come inside me.”

I liked the please.

I stood still, hilt deep inside her and asked the obvious question: “So, Sandie, tell me where you want me to dump my cum.”

Sandie tried to find the right answer in my face. I raised an eyebrow and gave her another thrust.

“On my face?” she said, hesitantly.

Perfect. I knew she’d always remember saying that, begging a stranger to come on her face.

I laughed.

“I like this view better,” I said, “I’ll come on your fat arse. Hold it open for me.”

Sandie pulled her arse cheeks apart like a good little whore and waited for my cum to run down her legs as I tossed off over her.

“Don’t stand up yet,” I said.

I used my iPhone to take a picture of my cum sliding down Sandie’s arse cheek, just to the right of her gaping cunt.

“What are doing?” Sandie said, straightening up.

“Making a little souvenir of our evening together.” I showed her the picture on my phone. “If you give me your number I’ll send you a copy.”

Sandie stared at me.

“You are a sick bastard.”

“And what does that make you, Sandie. Think about that.”

I fished three twenties out of my wallet and offered them to her.

“Taxi money?” I said.

“Fuck off.”

“Been there, done that. Have a good evening, Sandie. It was a pleasure fucking you.”

I thought that was a pretty cool exit line. I’d have to remember that one.

I found a cab as soon as I hit street level.  As we pulled away from the curb, the cabbie grinned at me and said, “You smell like you’ve had a good night, mate.” I took a deep breath and realized that, in the confines of the cab, the just-fucked smell was impossible to miss. I grinned back at the cabbie, pulled Sandie’s panties from my pocket and held them up for him to see.

Before I could say anything, my iPhone rang.

“Hi, babe,” I said, “Yeah, I know, I’m late.  I had to take some clients for a drink after the meeting. No I don’t need food. I just had a bar snack. Did I miss the kids? I’ll make it up to you. I’m gonna hit the shower as soon as I get home. When I’m done, I want to find you in the bedroom wearing nothing but thigh-highs, heels, a little lube and a smile. No you may not start without me. Nor unless you want a spanking. You’re right, it might be worth it. Now go and get ready, I’ll be home in a few.”

I closed the call. The cabby made eye contact with me in the mirror.

“You lead a bloody charmed life, mate.”

“You’re so right,” I said and settled back into my seat to flick through the photos on my iPhone.

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.

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.

In Jack’s Hands

“In  Jack’s Hands” stands alone as a story in its present form. In my head, I imagine it as a novella I haven’t yet finished. I hope to return to it someday. Let me know what you think of it.

Jack’s wife is younger than me. His “She’ll-be twenty-two-next-April”child-bride is almost young enough to be my daughter; certainly young enough to be his. I think about that sometimes when I’m alone in this bed that he pays for.

She’s his second wife of course; his first left him once their children were grown. She’d left his bed long before that. Perhaps she’d sensed my presence there, like perfumed sweat on the sheets. She is the kind of woman who would rather starve than share a plate.

It had amused me at first, when he’d taken me to their bed, then taken me on it, riding me with my legs spread wide and my ankles held high, not so much screwing me as nailing me to the bed, making me cry out with every swing of his hammer.

Back then I’d assumed my youthful form was the source of his vigour. Now, when I remember how, leaning over me, soaked with sweat and pink with effort, he closed his eyes just before he came; I wonder who he imagined spilling into, me or his wife?

It’s not in Jack’s nature to be faithful. He’s a strong, slightly selfish man who takes what he wants and expects the rest of us to do the same.

He took me the first time that we met, ten years ago.

I was twenty five, had just moved to London after a lifetime in the frozen North and was determined to enjoy myself in the big bad city. I had a good body, a great smile and a very sexy little black dress that would get me in to almost anywhere.

That evening my dress and I were at a cocktail party in an expensive gallery in South Kensington. I’d come because I knew there’d be free champagne and rich young men, not all of whom could be gay. To my surprise the art turned out to be more interesting than the men: large bronze figures of naked women. These were not the fantasy nymphs of mass-produced, middle-class, middle-brow, masturbation-art, but real women with imperfect bodies naturally posed, that I thought were intensely sensual.

I found myself walking around the figure of a slightly heavy woman who was lying on her side. She had that just-come look. Everything from the trace of a smile beneath her closed eyes, through to the way her top leg lay slightly in front of the other, told me that she was resting in post-orgasmic warmth, though whether from her own fingers, that rested on her soft belly just below her hips, or through a good fucking, I couldn’t say. How she got to her afterglow didn’t matter. This piece was about how she felt when she arrived and the answer was very clear: entitled to be there.

Without thinking about it, I reached out to stroke the smooth line of her thigh, half expecting to feel warm skin beneath my fingers. I’d just reached her hip bone when someone very close behind me said: “I could never resist touching her either.”

I whirled around, hiding my hands behind me and blushing as if I’d been caught shop lifting.

I recognized Jack at once. His picture had been in the entrance to the show, above a sign saying “Jack Cavanaugh: Artist”. The head and shoulders shot had captured the strength of his forty-something face but it hadn’t shown how big he was up close. He was a foot taller than me and with shoulders so wide that I couldn’t see beyond him to the room full of people. It felt like there was just me and him and the naked woman behind us. I should have taken that for an omen.

“The eyes lie,” Jack said.

I felt his eyes roam over me like a skilful tongue, from my thighs, up my belly, lingering for a second on the free motion of my breasts, along the smooth length of my neck and finally up to my mouth. It seemed to me that I was already naked in front of him. It had been a while since I’d been naked in front of anyone. My body was telling me that I liked the idea.

“But touch always tells the truth.”

Jack took a step towards me, bringing him so close now that I could smell him: an alcohol top-note and a hint of Bulgari over a strong base of warm male. It was a scent that made me want to inhale deeply.

The lust in his eyes excited me and I tilted my head up, waiting for the first kiss. I didn’t know then that Jack never does the predictable thing.

He leant forward but instead of kissing me he took hold of my wrist and placed my hand back on the hip of the bronze. “Her name is Angie,” he said, “and she likes to be touched.”

Jack put his large hand over mine and traced the curve of Angie’s belly up to the fullness of her breast. In the process he turned me around so that I was facing her and he was pressed up against my back.

I knew I should say something but I had no words. All my concentration was on the surface of my skin: my fingertips on the cold bronze nipple, Jack’s hard hand on mine, the heat of him behind me. No words passed my lips but my whole body was broadcasting, “Fuck me. Please.”

Jack pushed forward, pressing his chest against my back. I shivered and pushed back into him.

“Close your eyes,” Jack said, “let your fingers tell you all you need to know.”

I cupped the bronze breast gently, imagining the weight of it in real life. Jack placed his other hand on my ribs, just below my breasts. It felt as if he was burning me but I wanted to move towards the fire, not away from it.

“Feel the how her breast fills your hand. Imagine it heavy, firm, hot and responsive. Run your thumb over the nipple and feel her shudder with pleasure.” With Jack’s hand on mine I could almost believe that the warmth came from the bronze beneath me. I’d never wanted to touch a woman but I found that I liked the idea of Jack making me caress Angie.

“I like my hands to know a woman before I sculpt her,” Jack said, sliding his hand over my breast and cupping it. “My hands tell me the truth about who she is and what she wants.”

To my acute embarrassment, when Jack’s thumb grazed my lightly clad nipple, I groaned with pleasure.

It was, I think, the signal Jack had been waiting for.

“Don’t let go of Angie,” he said “and try not to make too much noise.”

Jack wrapped his arm around my chest, squeezing me until it was hard for me to breathe. I could feel his erection, hard and hot, against my arse. I parted my legs in anticipation.

I was in a public place with a man who hadn’t even asked me my name and yet I was ready to bend over and let him fuck me in any hole he could reach. It was insane and intoxicating and out of my control. My legs were tensed, my eyes were closed. I was waiting impatiently for him to fuck me.

Of course Jack didn’t fuck me; he was too controlling for that. He fed my hunger rather than sating it.

Taking his hand off mine he slid it gracefully up my thigh, under my short dress, over my hipbone and then down between my legs. When he closed his wide hand over my cunt it felt like he was claiming territory.

Pushing upwards, Jack lifted me up onto tiptoe, pressing me into his erection, bending me closer to Angie. I waited for his strong fingers to force their way into me, wondering if they’d hurt and if I’d care but he didn’t enter me.

He didn’t even move my panties aside. He massaged me through them, working my labia and clit with a skill that had me breathless in seconds and made me come in less than a minute. Then he let go and stepped away from me.

I slumped against the bronze, my head almost resting on Angie’s ample arse, waiting for him to continue. Looking behind me in what I hoped to e a provocative way, I saw Jack, smiling and holding his fingers to his nose.

“I’d like to do you,” Jack said calmly, making no move towards me “You’d make a fine bronze.”

I couldn’t believe Jack’s arrogance. He had my juice on his fingers and he was talking to me as if we were having a coffee. I pushed myself upright, one hand on Angie’s thigh and moved towards him.

“Perhaps, I could persuade Angie to pose with you. You look so suited to one another.”

That’s when I tried to slap him.

I’d never hit a man before. I’d never hit anyone. But he’d made me so angry that I wanted to smash his smug bastard face so that he could never smile again.

I put all my strength behind the blow. He caught my wrist in midair and held it tight. He was still smiling so I let fly with other hand. He caught that one as well. Then with great speed and apparent ease, he forced both hands down and held them at the small of my back.

“Bast…”

My words were stifled by his kiss.

I should have bitten him or kicked him or both, God knows he deserved it, except I was too busy discovering how much I liked being held totally helpless by a large, powerful man who kissed me as if it was his right.

My eyes were closed when I heard that distinctive upper-class throat-clearing sound that expresses disapproval and mild irritation without requiring words to be wasted.

A tall thin man stood behind Jack. He was in his thirties, casually dressed but with a “groomed by others since birth” finish that spoke of breeding and not just wealth.

Jack let go of my hands but did not move away from me.

“The Culture Vultures are waiting to be fed. These people are too well-educated to touch a sculpture. They wait for someone to explain it to them so that can tell their friends why buying my work cost them so much money.”

Jack stepped away from me and turned towards the tall man.

“Campion, give this woman the address of my studio and set up an appointment for a session when the dragon lady is away.”

Jack moved towards the crowd that was waiting to hear him speak. Without looking back he said “Oh and Campion, find out her name for me.” Then he was gone.

“You can take your hands from behind your back now.” Campion said.

Although Jack had released me, I was still standing as if bound. I refused to let myself be embarrassed. I held out my hand towards Campion and said “My name is Tracey Muir.”

Campion shook my hand briefly but politely. His skin was soft and dry. His face was carefully neutral.

“This is Jack’s address, Ms Muir,” Campion said handing me a card. “You can have your session with him any time from Wednesday noon onwards. If you call that number, we’ll send a car for you.”

Campion started to turn away from me to follow Jack. I wasn’t ready to be dismissed. Some of the anger I should have directed a Jack splashed onto Campion instead.

“Are you always, Jack’s pimp, Campion?”

He turned to face me, looking at me properly for the first time. He smiled.

“I see Jack has found a brave one. Jack can sense bravery from fifty paces. The only thing I always am, Ms Muir, is Jack’s brother. In any case, I believe the role you were casting me in was panderer rather than pimp.”

He stepped towards me, moving close enough so the he could speak without the possibility of being overheard. I wanted to step back but I didn’t want to look weak so I stayed put.

“Jack will be forty next week. You are somewhere in your twenties I would guess. Jack has been married for most of your life. His oldest child has just gone up to Oxford. You wear no wedding ring. Jack is a selfish, domineering, intensely passionate man who eats young women before breakfast. You need to decide who you want to be, before Jack casts you in bronze. And now, like a good brother, I must join the crowd in time to applaud Jack for being Jack.”

He left before I could think of anything to say beyond “Fuck you” which was in danger of sounding like an offer in the circumstances.

That night I lay in bed, thinking over the encounter. So Jack was a married man who ate young girls before breakfast. It sounded like a good way to work up an appetite to me. Besides, the idea of fucking a married man had a certain illicit thrill to it. And it placed a limit. If he had a wife then things could never get too serious.

I didn’t want serious. Not then. Then I was twenty-five and he was a good story I would tell one day to shock my daughters. “I once bedded a sculptor you, know – very good with his hands. Even better without them.”

I decided to conclude my day with a reprise of Jack’s finger fuck. I rolled over onto my belly, closed my eyes and slid my hand into position trying to imagine Jack’s weight on top of me. Annoyingly I couldn’t get anywhere near the level of arousal that Jack had produced. My own hand felt more like Campion’s than Jack’s. An image popped into my head of me, naked, hands bound behind my back, sitting on Jack’s lap with my back to him and his cock up my arse and Campion standing in front of us, face carefully neutral, waiting to applaud Jack for being Jack. My arousal peaked and I fell asleep determined to visit Jack on Wednesday.

 

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

 

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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.

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

Toying with Lily

In my experience, women who seek a sexually submissive role are often people who are dominant and forceful in their daily lives. They do not slide meekly into a submissive role. There has to be dominance before there is submission. This story gets you inside the head of a Dom with a fiesty Sub and shows what it takes to be in charge.

“Toying with Lily” appeared in “Hurts So Good” Alison Tyler (ed.), Unrestrained Erotica (Cleis).

It was a finalist for the 2009 John Preston Short Fiction Award. The John Preston award is given by the US-based  National Leather Association: International (NLA-I), a leading organization for activists in the pansexual SM/leather/fetish community

Other Bonds Than Leather

In real life, all kinds of people are in D/s relationships. They are not all young and perfectly formed. D/s relationships do not spring spontaneously into being.

In this story I wanted to consider how such a relationship might come into being between two people who are already friendly with each other and old enough to be cautious about what they are getting in to. I also wanted to highlight that the relationship is more important than the paraphernalia. I’ve had a lot of feedback from readers telling me that they recognize themselves in this story.

So, if you’ve never tried D/s, here’s a place to start and if you’re in the lifestyle, here’s something you might recognize. Either way, let me know what you think.

 

 

© Mike Kimera 2001

 

 

“Would I have to call you ‘Master’?”  Caroline says, doing an Igor impersonation as she twists the word, “because I don’t think I could do that without giggling.”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“But I thought the whole point of this Dom/Sub thing was to make me do things I don’t want to do.”

“No. The point is to make you do things you deeply desire and don’t dare to do.”

“What kind of things?” She’s still smiling, but with a real question in her eyes.

“That’s what we we’d find out together, Caroline. Isn’t that why you are here?”

“I’m here–against my better judgment if truth be known–because something about you tugs at me. I think it’s your voice. I’m perfectly sane until I hear your voice and then suddenly I find myself wanting…”

“Wanting what?”

“I don’t know.” She laughs again, nervously this time. “For you to like me? To give me your approval?” Her voice lowers. “To invite me into your world?”

“So being here with me isn’t sane?”

“Well, look at me,” she says, holding out her arms. “What do you see? An older, heavier, woman with big thighs and small breasts who ought to know better. I mean, I’m going to be a grandmother soon.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. I take her right hand and hold it in both of mine. I pull her closer and say, “What I see is a woman who intrigues me. An intelligent, articulate woman whose sensuality and strength show in everything she does.” I kiss her hand. “I see a woman who honoured my request not to wear underwear (she actually blushes at this) and whose thighs invite me to explore.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” she says, pretending to be cross and pulling her hand away. “Words like that, spoken like that… How am I supposed to make sensible decisions when you drip words like that into my mind?”

“Listen to your lust Caroline. It’ll tell you what to do.”

Suddenly she looks serious. “Promise you won’t just play with me, Jonathan. Don’t make me into a fool.”

I match her tone, looking straight into her eyes, “I want you to trust yourself. I want you to trust me. Let go. I promise I will catch you.”

I can’t read her expression as she rifles my face for signs of betrayal or insincerity.

She looks away and asks brightly, “So do you have a dungeon, oh, Masterly One?”

“Yes,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow, whether in disbelief or disapproval I can’t tell.

“Follow me, please,” I say. I don’t look back–but I’m pleased when I hear her on the stairs behind me.

“Holy Penguins, Batman! It’s the Batcave.” Caroline slaps one fist into her palm in a very believable impersonation of Robin.

I stay by the stairs, switching on the spotlights one by one.

She moves around the room slowly, as if she’s memorizing an exhibition at the museum.

She starts at the leather Cross of St. Andrew with its restraints at the four extremes of the X. Then she circles the stocks, adjusted to just the height for her head and hands. Next the leather hurdle, which she bends over playfully, looking back at me for comment. I switch on the next light.

“Good God.” She stares at the whips and collars and paddles hanging on the wall. “‘Fucktoys R Us’.”  Her eyes fall on the bench displaying dildos, buttplugs, restraints and gags. She’s like a sleepwalker now: her movements slow and her eyes going everywhere at once. She picks up an inflatable penis gag, and then drops it as if it were hot after she sees what happens when she squeezes the bladder. Her fingers move gently over the black silicon of the largest buttplug. When she turns to me, her nipples are erect under her summer dress, but her eyes are in shock.

“You… use all these?”

“Not usually all at the same time,” I say.

“Women let you tie them up and put these things on them–in them–and…” She’s speaking slowly. The reality of “my world,” the world she wanted to be invited into, is hitting her for the first time.

“Would you like to leave, Caroline? Shall I take you back upstairs? We can have a glass of wine before you go home?”

She shakes her head.

I switch on one more light and then switch off the rest.

In the centre of the circle of warm bright light is a gyniechair, complete with stirrups. It has straps at the wrists and neck.

Caroline stares. She has her back to me and is moving away from the chair as if she’s not aware she’s doing it.

I turn her gently by the shoulders until she’s facing me.

“Close your eyes please, Caroline.” My voice is calm, reasonable, compelling.

A small hesitation, a tremor of doubt, and then her eyes close.

I have to bend to kiss her. I hold her face in my hands, my thumbs gently tracing her cheekbones. My lips press hers–but it is her tongue that enters my mouth. She’s eager now. Her arms wrap around me; her whole body is trying to adhere to mine. My left hand is stroking her hair. Short, wiry, strong, sexy; her hair is a metaphor for the woman herself. The tension in her body passes slowly from anxiety to desire. I break the kiss but do not release her head from my hands.

“I want you to sit in the chair with your legs in the stirrups.” I let go and her head turns toward the chair.

“I want to explore the space between your thighs,” I say, leading her towards the circle of light.

She stops at the chair. We are in the struggle now, she and I; the dance has begun. I can feel her unspoken words pushing at me.

“I won’t tie you or gag you or blindfold you today, but I want you to do what I ask. If you decide not to, we will go back upstairs.”

I might lose her here.

A fire of anger that stirs my cock flashes through her eyes, but she suppresses it.

“If you hurt me, I’ll leave,” she says.

Touché. This is going to be interesting.

Caroline looks small in the chair. Without being told, she lifts her dress so that her sex is fully exposed. She has trimmed her pubic hair, but a defiant banner of grey-streaked curls covers her mons.

I stand between her brightly-lit legs and look intently at her sex. She squirms a little; uncomfortable at being so exposed.

“You look magnificent,” I say. Then, before she can reply, I say, “Please close your eyes and keep them closed. Keep your hands on the arms of the chair.”

She closes her eyes.

I count to ten. I know it will seem longer to her. She doesn’t speak. I smile: the dance has progressed.

I run my index fingers down the inside of her thighs. The skin is soft, getting softer as I reach the top. I stop just where the thigh joins the hip, both fingers on either side of her cunt but not touching it. Then I let go.

Her eyes are still closed. Good.

I unzip. Slowly. The sound is loud in the silence of the room.

My index fingers repeat their journey but this time lightly touching the outer labia.

I pull a condom from my pocket. I hold it close to Caroline so she’ll hear the packet ripped open and smell the latex. Then I lay it on the palm of her right hand like a promise. Her hand opens and closes on it; she says nothing.

On their third journey along her thighs my index fingers spread the plump outer labia wide. They don’t retreat this time but hold her open; she glistens like an oyster in the spotlight.

“Oh, God. Do it. Fuck me,” Caroline says.

I ignore her and kneel between her thighs.

Her labia are long enough to suck. I take each one into my mouth in turn, sucking hard to hold them there, then letting go.

“Don’t stop,” Caroline says. “Don’t you dare stop”.

Her clit is small but unsheathed now. I move the flesh around it with my fingers but leave it untouched. Then I turn my head and push my tongue as deep into her as I can. She coats my tongue and my cock throbs.

Still inside her, I turn the tip of my tongue upwards and try to scoop out her juices.

“Fuck, yes,” Caroline says.

I remove my tongue. It aches a little but it tastes wonderful.

I stand.

“Keep your eyes closed but give me the condom please, Caroline.”

If she keeps the condom the dance will end.

She opens her hand for me.

When she feels the rubber slide into her cunt she gasps. Her face telegraphs her concern. Despite her words earlier, she’s still not sure if she really wants to fuck. This is happening too quickly.

A second or two later she realises the condom is stretched over three of my fingers.

Her laugh turns to a moan as the fingers find her G-spot.

When my tongue flicks across her clit she literally bounces in the stirrups. Her come starts when I suck her clit into my mouth and hold it.

I knew she’d be loud. The sound and taste of her make me dizzy.

I withdraw my fingers and remove the condom.

She is still breathing hard when I move to stand behind her chair.

“What a wet cunt you have,” I whisper. “What a sweet tasting slit”

Then, bending forward, I push my juice-coated tongue into her mouth. She sucks. Hard.

When the kiss stops she says, “Thank you,” almost as if she were talking in her sleep.

“Open your eyes, Caroline”

She blinks at the bright light as I remove her legs from the stirrups and help her down from the chair. She leans into me and her hand goes to my erection. “May I?” she says, moving her hand along the shaft.

“Next time, perhaps,” I say and move her hand away.

“Why not?” she says in a tone that gives me a flashback of her as she must have been as a little girl, stamping her foot to get her way.

I push my cock back inside my jeans. “Because I want my first come to be inside you when you’re bound to that cross.” I point at the X-frame across the room.

She steps away from me.

“Is that a power play, Jonathon?” she says.

“No, it’s a fantasy. I want you completely open to me. I want to feel you give your whole body to me. When you are ready.”

“You are a strange man,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply.

Mimicking my earlier action, she lifts my hand and kisses it. “Thank you Jonathon. I enjoyed today. But I need time to think.”

I put my arm around her and lead her back to the real world.

After she leaves I go back to the playroom, strip and sit in the chair. I can still feel her presence. She has promised to come back, tomorrow, when she has had time to think.

I close my eyes and work my cock slowly.

I summon her taste and smell. I imagine her asking to be tied to my cross. I concentrate on the image of her being pummelled into the leather and groaning with pleasure.

Caroline believes there was no bondage today. No restraints were used. She does not yet know that there are other bonds than leather, that all restraint is a matter of will.

As my spend slides over my hand and onto my belly, I think that my new bonds feel good. I shall wear them yet awhile.

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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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