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

Bar Snack

© 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.

Brief Encounter

Brief Encounter

© Mike Kimera 2000 All right reserved. Do not reproduce without permission

Summer on the subway. People packed too close to fall over. Each person in their little envelope of private space, avoiding eye contact, shutting down their sense of smell, letting their minds take them somewhere-else.

I hang from an overhead bar, swaying like seaweed in the tidal flow. My body is stretched and loose at the same time. I close my eyes and track the progress of a bead of sweat down my spine. Bodies press against me on all sides, moving to the rhythmic song of the train.

At the next stop, as bodies flow on to the platform, I am buffeted and twisted in the eddies of the crowd and come to rest against the opposite door. I place my forehead against the glass and feel the rumble of the track move through me.

A body moves against mine then moves away. I am certain the body is male and that the contact was deliberate. I stay looking ahead, tense now, waiting. A finger, on my hip, large, strong, sliding and then gone. I discover I have been holding my breath. I wait. Two fingers: firm, insistent, stroking. Brief but purposeful. My personal sonar senses a large presence behind me, very close, walling me off from the crowd, a coral reef for my lagoon.

At the next touch I place my hand over the fingers, trapping them on my hip. They pause. My pulse races. I tense my body but don’t turn my head. I curl my moist palm around the fingers. Slowly, steadily, they push in and out of the hollow I create.

As the train sways I stay still. His body moves against mine and does not move away. A long hard shape pushes into my buttock. I press my shoulders against his chest, making my back into an S. One arm holds the rail above my head, the other clasps the invasive fingers. My eyes are closed, my lips slightly parted, my legs open just enough so that they don’t touch at any point along their length. I can smell my own sex through the thin material of my summer dress.

His breath is on my neck. I lick my lips. Did I sigh or did I only wish it deeply? The fingers vanish. The pressure on my arse eases. The breath on my neck is still there. My shoulders are still on his chest. I think I hear a zipper but the noise is drowned in the opening of doors as people ebb out of the train.

The sticky wetness of his cock in my palm shocks me. Reflexively I grip him. Thick, uncut, hot. How avidly my hand maps the contours of this new but familiar presence. We are both completely still. The train moves forward and he slides through my palm, foreskin slipping back, releasing the salt-musk smell of male sex. My thumb decides to rub along the exposed tip, rewarding me with an immediate hardening of this fascinating flesh.

As if in answer, my neck prickles to the darting touch of a tongue. I melt as my ear, my whole ear, is engulfed in strong demanding lips. My sex is crying with joy. My mind is locked away, pacing its cell muttering “This isn’t me”. I ignore it and listen only to the song of my body. My hand keeps time with the beat of my desire, stroking, squeezing, provoking. Time has slowed and space has stretched as sensation etches strong deep lines in my memory.

My legs have come together from sheer need. I feel my arse tighten against him. His cock, or my hand, I can’t tell which, I control neither, moves faster.

A hand, large, long-fingered, strong, slides up and over my hip then down into the moist shallows of my panties. My head pushes back. My hand strangles the neck of the cock. My cunt lips suckle the fingers, pulling them in, drowning them in juices, closing behind them to block off retreat.

Time accelerates. I thrust and stroke and squeeze and sweat. Blood roars in my ears. Cum splashes on to my hips. “FUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKK” lashes out from my upturned head.

I subside into silence, beached against the door. The train stops. My heartbeat slows. Doors open and close. My mind returns. Behind me is only air and the stares of envious strangers.

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.


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.


© Mike Kimera 2005 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from


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The Way of the Courtesan : Chapter 1 : Riding the Courtesan’s Pony

“Tell me about Rachel,” Ravier said.

“You will be Assessing Rachel personally, my Lord? We had not expected an Assessor of your rank”

The Abbess was younger and prettier than Ravier had imagined but this did not excuse the impertinence of her statement. At Court, such a comment would have been seen as a challenge to his judgement. Punishment would have followed.

Ravier allowed himself to smile as he pictured the pretty little Abbess spread-eagled on the pain-bench, waiting for his whip to teach her some manners.

Perhaps sensing the anger in Ravier’s eyes, the Abbess strove to recover from her mistake. “We are of course, honoured by your presence at Leyston Abbey and will offer every…”

Ravier put his finger to his lips.

The Abbess blushed and fell silent-

Ravier let the silence swell before finally piercing it with one word: “Rachel.”

The Abbess broke eye-contact with Ravier,  pulled a file from off her desk and started to read it aloud.

“Rachel’s potential was first identified by the test routines in the peasant screening programme, administered after her first menses, She scored in the upper decile for both intelligence and libido. Naturally, she was immediately adopted by the Brotherhood and placed here, in our Protected Education School so that…”

“You could ensure her mental development, her physical purity and educate her in the opportunities her gifts might make her heir to,” Ravier said.

It was a direct quote from the Abbey’s Charter. Ravier hoped the Abbess would feel slighted by the interruption and surprised by the extent of his research. The Abbess remained outwardly calm. Ravier decided to push her further.

“One of the great benefits to the Brotherhood, of allowing the peasants to breed outside of the managed stud plan, is the occasional gem their random procreation produces. Don’t you agree Abbess?”

“Yes, my Lord”

“Is it not wonderful how even the freedom to fuck can be made to serve the will of the Founder?”

“Indeed, my Lord,” the Abbess said, bowing her head, perhaps to hide the slight blush the word “fuck” had produced.

Ravier wanted to laugh. If this made her blush then her reaction to the Assessment should be well worth seeing.

“And did Rachel live up to her potential, Abbess?”

Ravier already knew the answer. His presence here was testament to the outcome. He wanted to hear how the Abbess would tell the tale.

“She was a model student. She will graduate at the top of her class, and has won promotion to the rank of Chatelaine in the Brandt Corporation.”

The phrases were terse and factual but the Abbess’ pride in Rachel’s achievement shone through

“You must have been delighted, Abbess, at having your peasant pupil recruited to the most prestigious of the cloistered female corporations. Yet it seems Rachel was not excited at her new opportunity. She had been told, I assume, that her new rank would bestow upon her the honour of producing two male offspring?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Ah, to have such an honour without the trouble of actual maternity. It would be unseemly for a Chatelaine to sweat under the weight of a man and then stagger for months carrying his offspring in her bloated womb don’t you think?”

The Abbess took refuge in polite silence.

“Still it must be strange to have one’s eggs harvested like grapes and ripened in some peasant’s womb. But perhaps Rachel was more troubled by the fact that Chatelaines are forbidden contact with men? Do you think that could be so?”

“It appears so, my Lord”.

“I have been told that many women manage quite nicely without men. Is it true that the Sisters ensure that their charges are well schooled in masturbation techniques?”

“Some tuition is given.”

The Abbess was flushed now. Ravier liked pale skinned women who went scarlet when stimulated. He leaned forward, looked the Abbess in the eye and said, “I understand that they are also taught how to please each other. Now that would be a class worth attending.”

Ravier let the silence that followed drag on. Poor little Abbess. Did she really think the Brotherhood was ignorant of what the Sisters got up to?

“Are you disappointed that your star pupil has turned down the Brandt Corporation, Abbess?”

“Rachel has deferred her acceptance pending your Assessment, my Lord.”

“My Assessment of her suitability for the rank of Courtesan. Do you think she will make a good Courtesan, Abbess?”

“That is not for me to say, my Lord.”

“No, Abbess, it is not. I will see Rachel now.”

The Abbess eagerly accepted the opportunity to absent herself and left to collect the girl.

Ravier put his teasing of the Abbess to one side. She was not important. His visit to the Abbey was.

Amongst the leadership of the Brotherhood it was widely, but quietly, acknowledged that the biggest threat to the social order the Founder had gifted to them was sexual ennui. When one can have almost any woman one wishes, when one is surrounded by accessible beauty, it is too easy to become jaded. Absolute power can bore absolutely.

Some men reacted to their growing ennui by withdrawing into a routine of mechanical gratification provided by interchangeable bed-mates. They engaged in sex with much the same attitude as an over-fed man presented with a finger food buffet, driven more by habit than need.

The young increasingly sustained their interest by taking part in sport-fucks, but if truth were told, they were as concerned with their league-table points (how many, for how long in how many positions or combined with how many partners simultaneously) as they were with the acts themselves.

In mid-life, many men found themselves needing to prop up their desire by focusing on fetishistic practices.

To Ravier, sexual ennui was a cancer eating at the heart of the concept of manhood upon which society was based. Real men should relish their dominance over women. It was their duty to look into the soul of a woman and shape it to their will.

Yet, if that victory came too easily, men became lazy. If it met with too much resistance, men became cruel and abusive. Either way, the men ceased to be men.

In Ravier’s view, Courtesans were the blades with which this cancer could be excised. The Brethren needed women who could provoke them into being the real men they should be; women who could inflame men’s desire and stretch men’s minds while still accepting their own natural place in the world.

And yet, just at the time when the Brotherhood needed them most, it seemed that fewer and fewer women were being produced who could follow the Way of the Courtesan. Ravier had made it his personal mission to seek out those who had the potential to serve and set them on the right path.

Thinking of his mission always filled Ravier with energy. He paced the room, his eagerness growing as he let himself consider the importance of his task. He stopped in mid-stride when the Abbess returned with a novice at her side.

“This is Rachel, my Lord,” the Abbess said.

The novice bowed her head and knelt before Ravier.

Her face was hidden behind a veil that revealed only her eyes. Her posture was demure. She did not flirt. And yet she excited him.

Ravier circled her twice, came to rest in front of her, and said, “Look at me.”

Behind Rachel’s eyes a passion burned that was so luminous, Ravier felt as if he had already seen her naked.

He was exultant. The young girl had talent and he, Alain Ravier, would have the honour of helping to achieve its true potential and shaping it to the service of the Brotherhood

Ravier hid his excitement. He did not want the girl to know that for him the Assessment was already over. Certain forms of behaviour were expected. And besides, he wanted to teach the Abbess a lesson in the reality of the Brotherhood’s power.

“Do you understand the nature of the Assessment, Rachel?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Explain it to me.”

“You will set me tasks that allow me to demonstrate the three main virutes of the Courtesan: obedience, arousal and intelligence.”

The wording was precise; a nice balance between deference and independence.

“Tell me why you wish to be a Courtesan, Rachel.”

The girl was silent for a moment. “I believe it was the role for which I was born for, my Lord.”

“How can you know this?  Have you ever been with a man?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Then how can you know that being a Courtesan is your destiny?”

“If it is not, my Lord, then the passion that I feel at the thought of it, the song that my blood sings in the lonely reaches of the night, the nameless urges that make my pulse race, are without purpose.”

“And if you fail the Assessment?”

“Then I will serve as a Chatelaine to the best of my abilities, my Lord.”

Perfectly done: obedience, arousal, intelligence. Even at Court, Ravier had not seen such a display from one so young. If her body’s performance matched that of her mind, Rachel would be a rare prize for the Brotherhood.

“Abbess,” Ravier said, “is everything ready for the examination?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Please assemble the rest of Rachel’s graduation class in the examination chamber.”

“Are you sure, my Lord? That is most unusual.”

“Are you questioning my instructions, Abbess?”

The Abbess had the good grace to turn pale and the good sense to say nothing further. The haste with which she left the room pleased Ravier.

Ravier knew that the Abbess had a point. Assessments were normally conducted in private. When observers were allowed, they were almost always male and they were certainly not young girls who had yet to emerge from Protected Education.

Rachel was still kneeling in the centre of the office. She had not been given permission to stand. Ravier circled her, thinking about the risk he was going to take. He wanted to push Rachel just a little harder than was usual and he wanted to discomfort the Abbess in the process. If that meant taking a risk, so be it. Taking risks was an essential part of being a man; it tempered his character and reminded him of what it was to be alive. Risk always made Ravier hard; what more proof did he need of its value?

Standing behind Rachel, aware of, but not touching his own erection, he allowed himself a Wolf-moment. He set aside his civilised, educated, persona and gave himself up only to his hungers and his strength. He took a step closer to Rachel, closed his eyes, lowered his head towards hers and breathed deeply. Ah… girl-scent. Wonderful. She smelled young and clean and… yes already aroused. His tongue moved over his lips. His erection pulsed. His hands ached to grab and spread and tear. Almost, he could feel the heat of her flesh, the moist embrace of her sex, the taste of her blood in his mouth.

Ravier opened his eyes. He made the Wolf leave him; forced himself to become a civilised man again. He would control his arousal. He would not let his arousal control him.

When he was sure of himself, placed a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. She trembled but she did not move or speak. He let himself savour the heat of her flesh through the thin fabric of her robe, pleased at his ability to refrain from ripping away the cloth and close his hand around the meat of her breast.

“Stand up, Rachel and take me to the Assessment Chamber.”

Rachel did as she was bid, without looking back. Ravier walked behind her, studying the way she moved. Her step was light and her stride uninhibited. It was the walk of neither lady nor slave but of untroubled youth. Yet she was more than just a girl; there was an unconscious sexuality to her that snagged at his senses like the aroma of unseen food.

“We are here, my Lord,” Rachel said, halting at set of double doors and turning to face him.

He met her eyes once more. Her gaze reached out to him like a caress.

“Listen to me, Rachel. Once we are inside, stand in the centre of the room and remain silent. You are under my authority now, and no one else’s. Obey my instructions and be yourself and all will be well.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Rachel said, bowing her head.

Ravier had not intended to be so encouraging with the girl. Instructions should not have been necessary. He allowed himself a mental shrug of the shoulders. It was only natural that he should want the girl to succeed. Her success was his success. There was no more to it than that.

Ravier pushed open the double doors and swept into the chamber. Rachel’s class, fifteen novices, indistinguishable in their modest robes, were standing in a semicircle, staring at the device that Assessors call, ‘The Courtesan’s Pony’. It was a leather saddle, wide but not high. A woman straddling it would be spread but would still be able to touch the ground with her feet.

As Ravier strode forward, the novices stepped back, as if some dangerous beast had just entered the room. Ravier bowed to them, amused to see them all struggling to curtsey while still moving backwards in disarray.

“Abbess,” Ravier said, “I need the services of whichever of these young ladies is second in Rachel’s Class.”

The Abbess looked more nervous than ever but she led a tall young woman forward by the hand. The girl’s fingers were gripping the Abbess’ hand fiercely.

“This is Celia, my Lord. She will become a Chatelaine with the De Marco Corporation.”

Those words carried a warning. The De Marco Corporation was prone to litigation in protection of its property, be it inventions and or personnel. The Abbess was truly being a shepherd to her sheep. Ravier decided it was time that this shepherd learnt what it was to encounter a wolf.

“Please remove your veil, Celia,” he said.

As an Assessor of the Brotherhood, Ravier could demand such things. He could, if he wished, divert the young Celia’s career in a quite different direction. There would be consequences and, eventually, De Marco would come looking for her, but in the meantime she would have had an experience that she would never forget.

Celia removed her veil and looked downward, modestly. Ravier lifted her head. The girl could not quite hide her indignation at being touched, but she had the discipline not to pull away from him. He studied her as he would study a horse at market. She was beautiful in a slightly fragile sort of way and her mouth showed promise, but her eyes lacked the passion that shone so clearly in Rachel. Ravier ran his thumb over the smooth skin of Celia’s cheek and was rewarded with a blush.

Celia bore a resemblance to the Abbess that made him wonder about her origins. Like the Abbess, her skin was very pale and she blushed easily. An image of Celia, flushed beneath him, with the Abbess at her side, pushing her tongue into the girl’s mouth, flashed across Ravier’s inner-eye. He found it a pleasant picture; one that he could easily choose to make into a reality.

Celia trembled beneath Ravier’s touch. Ravier smiled, released the girl and turned to address the flock of girls standing in a semi-circle around them.

“Thank you, Celia. I need your help to demonstrate the device that your classmate will soon be using. Please place your left hand flat on the centre of the saddle and tell the class what you feel.”

“I feel a long thick ridge with a bulge at either end. The ridge is covered with small, randomly positioned nodules. The ridge is finished in calf-skin, possibly over a silicon base.”

“Well done, Celia; a very clear description. The De Marco Corporation has chosen well I see.”

Celia started to straighten up. Ravier stopped her with a gesture.

“Patience, Celia, patience. Please keep your left hand where it is and place your right hand around the saddle horn. Hold it gently. Tell us what you find.”

“The horn,” she stumbled a little over the word, “is moulded into a pistol grip. It appears to be some kind of triggering device.”

Celia was bent over at the waist, facing her class; her left hand resting on those mysterious ridges, her right hand gripping the horn. Ravier was certain that the soon-to-be Chatelaine knew what would happen next.

“Stay just as you are Celia. Squeeze the horn until I tell you to stop.”

As Celia squeezed the horn, a buzzing noise came from the saddle. The harder she squeezed the louder the noise became. Celia’s left arm visibly vibrated. Even her modest clothing could not hide the movement of her left breast beneath her robe. Ravier silently counted to ten while he watched Celia struggle not to remove her hand. The device clearly offended her.

“Stop now please, Celia, and describe to your class what you have just discovered.”

“The ah, horn, controls the rate of vibration of the ridge in the saddle.”

She seemed relieved to have gotten through this description, but Ravier was not yet done with her.

“Please describe the vibration, Celia.”

Celia flushed, “Describe it, my Lord?”

“Tell us what it felt like. Pleasant? Unpleasant? Stimulating? How did it make you feel Celia?”

“I found it jarring and unpleasant, my Lord.”

Ravier moved to stand next to Celia. He was very close to her when he asked, “And what do you think the ridge is for, Celia?”

The girl made no reply.

Ravier turned towards the class and said, “Come now, Celia, you are going to be an engineer, share with the class your professional insight into the purpose of these ridges.”

“I think it is intended as a stimulator, my Lord,” she said, quietly.

“Speak up Celia. Face the class. Tell them what would be stimulated.”

Celia spoke to the class as if she was presenting an assignment.

“My Lord, from the positioning of the bulges, I imagine that the front bulge is designed to part the labia without penetrating the vagina. Moving away from the front bulge would press the anus against the smaller bulge at the rear. Moving forward would press the clitoris against the bulge. Staying in the centre would stimulate the anus and the labia simultaneously.”

“Thank you for a very accurate description. Tell me Celia, would you like to ride the saddle?”

Her eyes widened in horror at the suggestion. She managed to say, “No, my Lord. I would not choose to ride this.”

Ravier decided that the De Marco Corporation and Celia deserved each other. The girl had a good brain and no fire in her belly. It was time to move things along.

“Celia, I would like you to…”

The pause amused Ravier. The Abbess looked ready to leap to Celia’s defence. The girl herself was frozen in place.

“…rejoin your class.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” she said and rushed back to her classmates like a startled fish heading for the safety of the shoal.

“Ladies,” Ravier said, executing a deep bow, “today you will have the privilege of watching your classmate, Rachel, being assessed for progression towards the rank of Courtesan. Please give her your full attention.”

Ravier beckoned Rachel to come forward. He positioned her so that she was standing next to him, facing towards her class.

“Rachel, please take off your clothes.”

Rachel neither replied nor hesitated. She removed her headdress, revealing a train of thick black hair that hung to the middle of her back.  It shone in the light and looked heavy and soft. Ravier wanted to weigh it in his hand. Rachel was still dressed and already she was an incitement, a provocation.

Next Rachel removed her veil. Her face was broad, regularly featured, with a strong chin, high cheekbones, and a wide mouth set beneath a straight nose. Ravier had seen her genotype many times before; it was pleasing, but not outstanding.

As Rachel’s hands reached up to undo the ribbon at the top of her shift, she looked into Ravier’s eyes and smiled. The smile illuminated her whole face. Ravier knew that men would compete to be the cause of that smile.

With an elegant shrug of her shoulders, Rachel was naked. She held her hand out to Ravier, ostensibly to steady herself as she stepped out of the shift that was now pooled around her feet.

Ravier admired this move. It allowed her to offer herself, while at the same time giving her the initiative. She had chosen when and where he would get to touch her for the first time. She had also made him complicit in her disrobing.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Rachel said, releasing his hand and curtseying. Her combination of modest behaviour, graceful movements and complete nakedness was calculated to beguile.

Rachel turned to face her classmates. She stood with her legs slightly apart, her hands behind her back and her head held high. Suddenly it seemed as if all the other women in the room were overdressed. With apparent serenity, Rachel waited for further instructions.

Ravier assessed Rachel’s body calmly. It was pleasant to look at. Her skin was the colour of liquid honey, her small round breasts where topped with cinnamon coloured nipples that pointed upwards at an angle that seemed like an invitation. Her buttocks were firm, almost boyish. Her legs were unspectacular, but the eye was drawn to the garnish of glossy black curls that nested at the base of her belly. It was a body that avoided extremes and so would have a wider appeal. It was, Ravier thought, an adequate foundation to build upon.

“The Founder taught us,” Ravier said, addressing the class, “that it is the role of woman to serve man with her body, her mind and her skills. Some women are called to serve as bed-mates or breeding stock, others as child-rearers, cooks, cleaners and teachers. A talented few nurture their gifts in the Cloistered Corporations, offering the fruits of their labours and their wombs to the Brotherhood. All these forms of service were blessed by the Founder, but perhaps the most valued service of all is offered by those who follow ‘The Way of the Courtesan.'”

Ravier was a sincere follower of the Founder, but he was not above using the Book of the Brotherhood for his own purposes. He knew that by placing teachers below cooks and chatelaines below courtesans he had insulted the Abbess. What he was about to do next would humble her.

Ravier stood behind Rachel and placed his hands on her shoulders. Her skin was warm and inviting. She leaned back into him. He pulled her shoulders backward a little and was pleased by the way that her breasts rose. Rachel closed her eyes and smiled.

“As you can see, Rachel is proud to offer herself in the service of the Brotherhood. Abbess, I know you too are proud of Rachel. Please join us.”

The Abbess came forward, not meeting Ravier’s eyes, looking instead at Rachel.

“The test Rachel is going to take is about arousal. Her capacity for arousal and her ability to provoke arousal in others,” Ravier said to the class. “Before we begin, Abbess, I would like the class to note Rachel’s current level of arousal. Would you be so kind as to check for me?”

After a heartbeats pause, the Abbess bowed her head in assent. Rachel opened her eyes and calmly watched the Abbess move towards her.

Silently the Abbess placed the palm of her hand over Rachel’s left nipple and moved it in a circle, keeping the nipple in the centre of her palm. Rachel rose on the balls of her feet and pressed her breast fully up against the Abbess’ palm.

“Rachel’s nipples are stiff, my Lord, and seem to be fully erect,” the Abbess said.

The Abbess was very close to Ravier now. Only Rachel separated them. He could see what a struggle it was for her to keep her composure.

To Ravier’s surprise the Abbess leant forward, bringing her head close to his.

“Please, my Lord Ravier,” the Abbess whispered, “Do not do this, not in front of my students.”

Ravier smiled at her and nodded. She looked relieved. Ravier allowed three seconds to pass. Then he said, “Please continue your examination, Abbess.”

He could not have hurt the Abbess more if he had slapped her. She looked away from him and started to kneel in front of Rachel but Ravier forbade her. He made the Abbess step very close to Rachel, so that their bodies were touching, and then waited as she slipped her middle finger into Rachel’s sex.

The silence in the room was palpable.  The novices seemed to be holding their breath, unsure how to respond to the sight of the Abbess and their classmate touching so intimately and so publicly. Rachel moaned softly and leant back against Ravier.

The Abbess withdrew her finger, which glistened in the bright light of the chamber. The scent of sex spread through the air like blood dropped into water. The Abbess was blushing now and there was sweat on her forehead but she dutifully made her report.

“Rachel’s inner and outer labia are engorged and her sex is well lubricated, my Lord. She seems to be fully aroused.”

“She does indeed,” said Ravier, stepping around Rachel and placing his arm around the Abbess’ shoulders.  She flinched at his touch but did not move away. Ravier wondered how long it had been since the Abbess had felt the weight of a man. Too long, he decided.

Ravier own lust was starting to rise. It was time for him to be a man and to commit himself to risk. The Abbess was holding up the glistening finger that had provoked Rachel’s desire; looking at it as if it no longer felt belonged to her. Ravier grasped the Abbess’ wrist and took the finger inside his mouth.

“Please, my Lord,” the Abbess murmured, she sounded lost and confused.

Ravier lead the Abbess by the wrist until she was standing next to the saddle, then he pushed down on her  shoulder, making her kneel. Rachel’s class looked stunned. This was not how the world was supposed to work. Ravier smiled at them. One of the girls started to cry softly.

Keeping his hand on the Abbess’ shoulder, Ravier turned to Rachel. Her eyes were on him. Looking into those eyes he could believe that they were the only two people in the room. Not a second of her attention was given to her distressed classmates or to the kneeling Abbess; she was focused on him completely. Ravier found that he did not want that focus to change. Her power was amazing, all the more so because she seemed to be unaware of it.

“It is time, Rachel,” Ravier said, “mount the machine.”

Rachel turned when she reached the machine. She made eye contact with Ravier as she placed her hand on the saddle horn. She smiled at him and then swung her leg over the saddle. She looked small and vulnerable spread across the width of the saddle. The sight of her instantly made Ravier hard. He wanted to stretch out his hand and touch her. Instead he tightened his grip on the Abbess’ shoulder.

“Squeeze the horn, Rachel. Ride the machine until I tell you to stop,” Ravier said.

“Thank you, my Lord”.

Rachel settled herself squarely onto the ridges of the saddle and then grasped the horn. Ravier sighed as he imagined what those long slim fingers would feel like wrapped around him.

Rachel tightened her grip on the horn and the saddle ridges quickly reached their maximum speed. She closed her eyes, chewed on her lower lip and seemed to wait. The room waited with her. Seconds ticked by. Rachel was sweating. Her back was straight and her hips were grinding into the saddle. Then her head tipped back, her hair bounced against her buttocks, and a low groan echoed through the room.

Ravier licked his lips. She was good; very good. The air was permeated with sex. The effect of her orgasm rippled through the novices. Fingers where furtively moving beneath robes. Girls were leaning against one another. The Abbess was carefully looking only at the floor. Ravier wanted to shout his joy.

Then Rachel opened her eyes. When she was sure she had his attention, she took her feet off the floor until her heels touched her buttocks. Now all her weight was on the saddle. She looked as if her legs were bound.

Ravier found himself unable to look away from her. It was as if her eyes were reeling him in. Then her eyes moved down his body to his crotch and stayed there.

“Please, my Lord,” Rachel said, “may I see you?”

Ravier shivered. She was perfect, absolutely perfect. Naked, spread, sweating, displayed on a fuck-toy in front of her classmates and still she was in control.

“Abbess,” Ravier said, “I need your assistance.”

The Abbess’ eyes were blank. It was as if she wasn’t there. She reached into Ravier’s trousers and released him. Ravier moved the Abbess’ hand backwards and forwards on his shaft. When he let go, the Abbess continued, working him as if she were a machine.

Rachel stared at his erection as if it were the most important thing in the universe. Her free hand moved up to her breast and started to knead it. She leaned forward on the saddle, as if she were pulling herself towards him by her breast. Then she started to chant softly, “Please, please, please, please.” in time to her fingers opening and closing on her breast. There was no doubt what she wanted.

Some of the novices where kneeling now, with their hands between their legs. They were rocking in time to Rachel’s chant. The Abbess copied the rhythm as she moved her hand backwards and forwards. The whole room was locked into a prayer for sexual release.

Ravier was no longer an Assessor. He was a man, surrounded by women rocking with need. He was rampant. He was hard. He was going to come and come and come. He threw back his head and howled. His seed sprayed out of him with tremendous force and the world became nothing but pleasure.

When he could see again, Rachel’s black hair was streaked with his seed. She was slumped over the saddle, her chin resting on the horn, her legs spasming. Her chant had changed to, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Ravier pushed the Abbess away from him and stepped towards Rachel. He lifted her chin. Her pupils were fully dilated. She had bitten her lip. A thin crimson line traced its way along her chin and then dropped unnoticed onto her breast.

“You can stop now, Rachel.”

“Thank you, my Lord. Thank you.”

Ravier pried Rachel’s fingers away from the horn and then lifted her into his arms. He carried her, still naked, out of the Assessment Chamber and towards her new life.

Behind him the Abbess raised her head and allowed herself a small smile of triumph.

© Mike Kimera 2001 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

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

The Last Taboo

Those who attempt to define that nature of erotica often describe it as fundamentally transgressive.

Yet  it sometimes seems that there are no taboos left so what exactly do you have to do to be be transgressive these days?

Fat Frank knows the answer. He has a secret. Read “The Last Taboo” and he’ll share it with you.


The Last Taboo

© Mike Kimera 2008

Most men lie about sex. I don’t know why. We talk about it often and loudly in all those places where men gather without women. We talk about who we’d like to fuck and how and sometimes where. We brag about our performance on one-night-stands or with whores or with the wives of friends. But, to my ears, these conversations lack authenticity. They have about them a whistling-to-show-I’m-not-afraid-of-the-dark quality that is more than a little pathetic.

I am usually silent when these conversations take place. No one in my circle of male acquaintances, hereafter referred to as, ‘The Lads’, questions this. I was never a handsome man and I am no longer a young one. I think the assumption, in the language of male-(don’t worry, we’re all hetero here, honest)-bonding, is that “Fat Frank isn’t getting any.” What else could explain my silence?

In reality, I remain silent because I think The Lads would not react well if they knew the truth. Fat Frank, (a nickname chosen for its alliterative charm, its factual accuracy, and the ease with which it can be rhymed with wank) deviates from one of the accepted norms of married life. I break the last taboo: I like to fuck my wife.

I mean I really like to fuck my wife. I think about it before we do it. I give myself up to it completely when I’m in her. I hug the memory of each fuck to me, reluctant to let it go.

Liz and I have been married for eight years and been together for twelve, so we must have fucked thousands of times. I know the conventional wisdom is that repetition blunts the experience but Liz is like a whetstone for my knife-sharp desire, each time I rub against her the edge gets keener and cuts deeper.

Perhaps if Liz was the kind of woman that The Lads ogle and comment on (but never EVER actually speak to) I could share the reality of my passion with them. They would slap me on the back or punch me in the arm and shout “You lucky bastard.” Jimmy would say, “Who’d have thought Fat Frank would have it in him?” Robbo would grin and say, “Who’d have thought Fat Frank would have it in her you mean.” I would be expected to drop my head in false modesty and then explain of how Liz goes all night like a racehorse on speed. Jimmy would say, “If you ever need a hand with her, Frank, you only have to ask.” Everyone, including me, would laugh. I’d be offered a beer and my status in the group would rise.

But Liz is not the kind of woman The Lads notice. She’s not a fantasy figure. She’s a normal, healthy, slightly over-weight woman in her mid-thirties.

Liz, it seems, is extraordinary only in my eyes. Her eyes are green with little flecks of gold that shine in the sunlight. Her hair, which she keeps short, curls against the back of her neck as if caressing it. Her smile is crooked and filled with wickedness. Her skin is soft and pale and flushes when she is aroused. But the most extraordinary thing about Liz, the arse-clenching, cock-stiffening, heart-aching thing about her is that she loves me.

I’m not talking about something vague here, some Hallmark sentimental notion of love, a fantasy emotion propped up by romantic gestures and mutual self-delusion. I’m talking about a warts-and-all, robust, uncompromising and unconditional love that crashes over you like a big wave, taking your breathe away but leaving you excited to be alive.

Liz has known me for a long time. We went to the same school. We saw each other grow up. Liz knew the bookish, solitary boy I was and the hormone-charged, cripplingly shy youth I became, and yet she still fell in love with me. The power of being thoroughly known and thoroughly loved is almost impossible to get into words.

According to Liz, words are my weakness. She thinks I use way too many of them and get lost in the patterns that they make. It’s true that sometimes I can be too introspective for my own good. I get hooked on ideas and concepts and lose touch with the day-to-day world where reality happens. Left to my own devices I could float away from the world and become an eccentric old fart who laughs at obscure references no one-else understands. Liz saves me from that.

It’s not that Liz doesn’t like ideas. She loves to hear me talk about them. She just doesn’t let herself become seduced by them. One time I was going through a phase were I was obsessed with the early Greek philosophers. Liz bought me a copy of Plato’s “Apology” written in defence of Socrates. Inside the cover she wrote, “An over-explored life is not worth living.”

Liz and I don’t speak much when we fuck. We laugh and groan and grunt and sigh, but mostly we let our bodies do the talking. From the beginning, Liz has been the one who initiates these kinds of conversation. There’s a certain look she gets that I know means that she wants sex and she wants it soon. I never act on the look alone. Over the years, we’ve developed a little ritual: when the need is strong, Liz will stand close to me, sometimes in front, sometimes behind, put her mouth next to my ear and whisper, “Fuck me.” Those two words are like a trigger, they always make me hard.

Most of our fucking is outside of the bedroom. Liz thinks that beds are for sleeping on and that floors (and sofas, and tables and stairs) are for fucking on. She has whispered, “Fuck me,” in every room in the house. Although we’ve never talked about it, we both understand that I will fuck Liz whenever and wherever she whispers those two little words. We’ve fucked on Ferry Boats, in cars, in phone booths, on the steps of public buildings. I love the risk that this introduces and I love the sense of wickedness that comes from a secret shared.

Liz is the only woman I’ve ever had sex with. Now there’s a statement that would make The Lads shuffle their feet and pretend that I hadn’t spoken. As a conversation stopper, it’s on a par with “Have you opened your heart to Jesus?” The fidelity implied by this statement is not a badge of honour. I have made no sacrifices. Liz gives me everything that I need and I give thanks for my good fortune everyday.

I’m sure that Liz and I are not the only couple with this kind of relationship but I’m equally sure that we are a minority. Many marriages run out of passion or find they no longer need it.

The real reason it is taboo for me to talk to The Lads (none of whom are lads any longer and all of whom are or have been married) about the reality of my sex life, is that they don’t want to be confronted with the possibility that, if they had found the right person, they too would look forward to fucking their wives.

So, I will continue to be silent when they brag and boast and encourage one another. It is the polite thing to do. And it gives me time to think about Liz and what we will get up to the next time that she whispers in my ear.

© Mike Kimera 2008 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

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.

Bus Ride

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.”



© Mike Kimera 2004 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from



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.


Blind Faith

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.


© Mike Kimera 2008 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from


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

Hard At Work

“Hard At Work” is a slightly tongue-in-cheek story of a man being brought into line by his dominant but neglected wife.

It was originally an all dialogue piece but I decided that it would benefit from some further description.

The next time you see a man disappear to a conference room with a phone to his ear, remember this story and ask yourself what he’s doing behind that closed door.

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