The Enclave: Chapter 1 – a new arrival

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’d get used to it.

We all do.

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

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

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

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

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

I waited.

She did not nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The slap across her face seemed to astound her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I waited. A small tear escaped down one cheek.

You have to admire the control that that implies.

Mrs C nodded.


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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, if you’re sure.” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Satin Worship

“Satin Worship” appeared on Cleansheets under the title “Hot to Frott”

Okay so here goes. I volunteered for this and I’m going to go through with it. Let me just adjust the video camera so only my head is in the shot.

Right, I am participant number 97. I’m 27 years old, female, 5’6″, 110 pounds, single, heterosexual. I confirm that I am taking part in this sociology study of my own free will, and that the material in this tape can be used anonymously for academic research.

So the brief said to talk about my sexual preferences. I guess we all think we’re special, but there’s nothing new under the sun really. We’ve all got things that press our buttons and launch us off to ecstasy heaven. For some people it’s the sound of a voice, or the smell of leather or the sight of a stiff nipple or the warmth of a hard cock. With me its all about texture. If I want to let the genii out of the bottle, then I rub until it comes.

The French call it “frottage,” — well, they would have a word for it, wouldn’t they? When I get those dark and dangerous urges, nothing will do but a good frott. My frott fabric of choice is satin. True, it’s hard to clean, but it feels so smooth and cool, like the skin of a perfect lover.

Actually it’s been a while since I had a lover. You know how it is, you move to a new city, you work long hours, you have a preference for intelligent, gentle, people who can make you laugh as well as make you come; but all you ever meet are guys who are challenged by a sentence syntax more complex than: “Hi Sugar. You lookin’ so fine tonight. Wanna hang?” And if you do meet guys with good verbal skills, it turns out that all they can manage is a 30 degree erection that either spurts in your hand or goes soft on entry.

Who wants to spend hours in a bar squeezing conversation out of a guy who can’t remember your name but has been guessing your cup size since you first met, when you can have a nice shower, slip into something shiny and smooth and slowly work yourself into a friction frenzy?

In theory, when you’re hot to frott, you can do it anywhere. There’s a whole scene around rubbing up against people in crowded subway trains and elevators. Not my kind of thing really, I mean who knows where they’ve been? And what if they want to take you home afterwards?

I did get off in the Tube once. We were crammed into an oven in the shape of a train, learning way too much about the armpit aromas of our neighbours, when I saw a really cool guy. One of those guys who look beautiful and serene from a distance, and then you speak to them and realise that actually they’re just spaced out and vacant.

This one was straight out of a Renaissance painting: soft hair parting over a high forehead; a slim straight nose dividing eyes so blue you saw sky; and rosebud lips, permanently puckered. He was the perfect distance away: close enough to be vividly present, but too far away for me to have to touch him.

Underneath my cotton print dress, I was wearing a satin thong over my freshly shaved mound. It was too hot for a bra, not that I really need one. I moved through the crowd, letting myself be aware of each contact I made, stealing a charge from them, until I reached one of the metal poles. I leaned against it, hands wrapped around it above my head, breasts separated by the steel, feet planted slightly apart, and let my pubis rest against the shiny metal.

It takes skill and concentration to use a pole like that. You have to get in sync with the movement of the train so that it washes you against the pole like flotsam being pushed onto the beach. You use all the muscles in your body to make sure that your sex is placed under just the right amount of pressure. Fortunately I’ve had a lot of practice at getting worked up under pressure, so I kept my eyes on poster boy and put all my experience to work.

The come, when it arrived, was a delightful slow burn that started in the tips of my toes and the top of my head at the same time. I closed my eyes and let the warmth flood me. When I opened them again, poster boy had been replaced by a sweating fat man who looked at me as if I was an ice-cream that he needed to eat before it melted over his fingers. I let myself grind against the pole one more time, just to give him something to remember me by, and then I got off at the next stop. He was too stunned even to try and follow me.

It was fun, but it was a one-off. Mostly I prefer to take my pleasures at home. I have a huge, firm bed that I like to dress in fresh satin sheets. I love to slide — get on all fours and bend and dip until my nipples just graze the satin. I’d swear that there are sparks sometimes. Then there are the pillows. I have lots of pillows of different sizes and densities, Don’t you just love a pillow between the thighs, soft and persistent?

I like to take my time with sex, which may be why most men make me so impatient — wham bam, you were great, I’ll call you — all while I’m still warming up. Men are like finger food; you have to have a lot of them to stop being hungry and afterwards you wonder why you bothered.

My preference is to devote a night to sex. I call it satin worship. First I shower, then I shave my legs and pubis. I fill the bathroom with scented candles, fill the tub with scented water, fill a glass with chilled white wine, and slip into half an hour of complete relaxation.

I don’t switch the music on until I start to dress in front of the mirror. I like to look good for myself, so the makeup goes on with care and the hair is primped and teased. Damn I look good.

Then I go all wicked: thigh high suede boots and satin gloves that reach to above elbows, they’re both hell to put on, but they are so worth it. I tingle just looking at myself. I pose for a while, touching myself here and there until my nipples harden and my sex is moist, then I get out my satin satisfier: a long narrow strip of satin which I fold over and slide between my labia and over my mound. It looks great in the mirror, and it makes me feel like I’m going straight to hell with a grin on my face.

When I can’t bear to stand any more, I lay back on the bed and tie the strip over my eyes, leaving a tail of about a foot or so to bite on. I pretend that I’m performing for an audience, and I want to give them their money’s worth. I spread my legs as wide as I can, then I tease myself with my satin-gloved fingers, never entering, just pressing the labia together or pulling them apart. My hips thrust up off the bed. It takes a lot of effort so I work up a sweat . I imagine my body gleaming in a spotlight.

When I reach the point where I just have to come, I wrap the tail of the satisfier tightly around my neck, and finally push a finger in as deep as I can. It never fails.

Well I hope that helps with the research. Any chance I could get to see some of the other tapes?

© Mike Kimera 2003 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.

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.


Tiger Tiger

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.


© Mike Kimera 2000 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.

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

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Playing With Barney

This story was meant to be a slightly dark, slightly sleazy piece about voyeurism, sexual exploitation and the use of sex toys.

The problem was that the main character turned out to be irrepressibly optimistic and completely refused to be degraded and exploited.

Which, in its way, turned out to be a smile.

I’m back in the room again, facing the mirror that he watches me through. It’s important that I pretend not to know that he’s there. If he wanted eye contact there’d be no need for the mirror.

I smile at myself. I look good today. It’s summer in the world outside and my simple print dress and bare feet have carried the season in with me. I make a show of pulling down one strap of the dress and looking over my shoulder into the mirror so that I can check my tan. I stand on tiptoe to do this. It looks cute and it shows off my naked legs. I pout at some imagined sunburn, pull the strap back into place and adjust my hair. Only then do I turn towards the room.

I know this room means something to him. It more a shrine for him to worship at than it is a stage for me to perform on. It’s a teenage girl’s room, decorated with a regrettable nod towards Malibu Barbie that is not quite rescued by the rock posters on the wall. They date back to the nineties, when Jon Bon Jovi still had chest hair. I think it’s supposed to be my room. The question is, who am I supposed to be?  First love? Lost love? Sister? No, let’s not go there. I won’t be able to do this right if I keep those thoughts in my head. Besides, his assistant made it clear that he just wants me to be myself.

I sit on the edge of the huge (pukey-pink) bed, side on to the mirror, and let my feet dangle. Then I spot the box on the dressing table. There is always a present somewhere. I bound off the bed to inspect it. A small box wrapped in shiny silver paper with a pink ribbon. I shake it; something too solid to rattle and quite light.  I don’t have to feign my curiosity as I rip off the paper. His presents tell me his mood and his mood tells me what to do.

The first present was a silver hairbrush. I spent most of the hour sitting naked before the mirror, bending my head to one side and brushing my long blonde hair. I love doing that. I feel like a cat licking itself. Sitting there, knowing I was being watched, putting myself into a trance with the rhythm of the brush, it seemed natural, towards the end, to part my legs and slide the smooth silver handle between my labia. It was warm from my hand. Not the ideal shape, but I liked the idea of it. The handle had initials engraved on it, his initials probably. I thought about them inside me, a token of his presence. I pictured the curves of the letters slowly being flooded with my juices. I came imagining him holding the brush afterwards, sniffing it, maybe even tasting it.

At the end of the session, his assistant told me that her employer, that’s how she always refers to him, “my employer”, had been very pleased with me. I got a bonus in recognition of my natural talent. And, of course, I got invited back.

Inside the box is a butt plug. We are not going for subtlety today. Hands up those who can think of 101 uses for a butt plug? I pick it up. It’s purple, six inches long, curved, fat, flanged and made of warm-to-the-touch latex. It reminds me absurdly of Barney the dinosaur.  What do you call a Dino butt plug? A fuckedtilsaurus. Good job I lubed in advance, like a good girl scout.

I hold Barney by the flange and waggle him about. I can’t help but giggle, he looks so ridiculously male: potent and ungainly. It will take a while to come with just Barney in my arse.

I never fake my orgasms. I’m sure he knows that. I think it’s one of the reasons that he keeps inviting me back. I suspect the other reason is that I look like whomever this room used to belong to.

His assistant approached me after my first performance in the University Drama Society. I was playing Lulu in a very realistic production, performed in the round, in a space so small I could smell the audience. I spent most of the play wearing nothing but underwear and at one point I rode a rather fat student around the floor, making him crawl on all fours while I hit him with a riding crop. Ah, the things we do for art.

I’d seen her in the audience for every performance in our four-night run. She didn’t speak to me until the party after the last performance.  I’d assumed (well perhaps hoped is a more accurate word) that she was some kind of talent scout. I wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t quite right either.

“Would you describe yourself as broadminded, Angela?” she asked.

This wasn’t what I had expected. I wondered if she was chatting me up. As it happens, I am broadminded enough to be flattered by attention from an attractive woman. I let my eyes flick across her figure to show my interest.

“I’m always open to new experiences,” I said, “actually this was my first time playing horsy in public.”

She didn’t laugh, but she did smile. The kind of smile that says, “High spirits are a wonderful thing in the young, but can we please get on.”

“What do you want me to be broadminded about?”

“My employer would find you interesting. He would like you to perform for him, privately.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t look like a pimp.”

“And you don’t look like a whore, Angela, despite your recent performance. That is what makes you interesting.”

She handed me her card: plain, white, with “Emma Smithson” and a telephone number in embossed black Times New Roman lettering. I’d admired its sparseness.

“Please contact me Angela. I think you would find it most rewarding.”

Ten days later I was coming hard with a hairbrush sticking out of me. Who would have thought it?  Four sessions later and my only reaction to Barney is amusement. Actually, that’s not quite true. There is also anticipation. I enjoy these sessions. They… stretch me. Although frankly I don’t think Barney will stretch me much.

Time to get a move on. Or at least, time to get my clothes off. Holding Barney in my mouth, I turn towards the mirror and strip, slowly. My nipples look good: long, eager, young, ready.

The Ottoman at the foot of the bed is the obvious place for today’s session, which I have mentally christened “Angela a la grecque”, although the tabloids would call it, “Angie gets her A Levels.”

I want him to see everything, my face, my poor abused arse, my pointy nipples, my wet sex. I want him to be spoiled for choice as to where to look. Mirrorman is about to find out how a butt should be plugged.

I sit on the floor with my back against the Ottoman. O.K., here’s where all those bloody ballet lessons pay off.  Slowly, never taking my eyes off my image in the mirror, I place my left leg behind my head. How’s that for a crowd pleaser? There was a risk that I would look ridiculous, but I don’t, I look spectacular. In this position I am completely exposed. No, exposed makes me sound too vulnerable. I don’t feel vulnerable. I am Super Slut, ready to take on the man of steel, or, in this case, latex. I decide I am displayed, not exposed.

I won’t be able to hold this for long so I’m going to make it good.  I take Barney out of my mouth and reach below my raised leg. Pressing up against my arse, he feels a lot bigger than when he was in my mouth. Maybe that’s why men like anal sex, it makes them all feel like big boys. I close my eyes and allow myself a short, unfaked, grimace as I push him home. I close behind him like I’m never going to let him go. Now he does feel like a Dinosaur. I wouldn’t want to be any fuller than that.

I open my eyes again and look down at myself. All that is visible of Barney is a purple flange with a little dimple in it. I look as though I have a corkscrew up my arse. I press against the dimple. It’s nice. It would be nicer if there was a vibrator to rest there. I repeat this a few times. Much better than I expected but not enough to get me off.

Well, I’d been told to be myself and I circumstances like these my natural reaction is to cheat.  I keep one hand on Barney and push two fingers from the other hand into my mouth. I suck them down and get them nice and shiny. They slide into my sex and are embraced like long lost friends. But I’m not taking them their normal route. They are on their way to meet Barney. There he is, just the other side of this thin wall of flesh. Actually, that feels good.

Time for my mental movie. Today’s feature stars Mirrorman, his assistant and me. He’s behind me of course, in the Barney position, so I can’t seem him. The lovely Emma is in front of me, pushing her fingers into me, stroking her employer from inside of me, still working for him even when she’s servicing me. I force her head onto my breast, trying to smother her as a punishment for wanting him more than she wants me. She likes it, the slut. She sucks on me and ignores him. Take that Mirrorman. He pushes deeper into me but she has found my happy button and matters are becoming very pressing.

The movie is making me laugh as well as making me hot. For the first time in a long time, I’m grinning when the come finally hits me.


I lower my leg. I’m going to be sore there for a couple of days. I stand up and Barney reminds me of his presence. The extraction, performed with me standing, bent at the waist, back to the mirror, leaves me breathless and with a sense of being empty and gaping. Thank God it was only Barney and not Godzilla, that’s all I can say.

In that moment of semi-blindness while my dress slips over my head, it becomes clear to me that I am happy. Very, very happy.

Clothed and almost demure again, I give way to an impulse that may mean I’m not invited here again. I run forward to the mirror and give it a big “thank you” kiss. Then I grin. On my way out, I wave. Happiness should always be celebrated.


© Mike Kimera 2000 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.