Unknown

leather dress Midnight’s inky stillness finally permits him the indulgence of his imagination.

What will I see when I unzip the dress? he wonders.

His tightly closed eyes allow him to see her standing before him, arms akimbo, one knee thrust forward. Brazenness made flesh. The black leather dress that she covets gleams in the spotlight of his imagination. He wonders how it will feel to the touch: cool, smooth, with an almost imperceptible sheen of oiliness.

Unconsciously, his fingers curl against his palms and re-open.

She doesn’t speak to him in his reverie, because he’s yet to learn how she sounds. Instead, she stands before him in vaguely scornful silence, daring him to move with only her eyes and her lips and her body, inciting him to give vent to his volcanic lust.

A stainless steel zip runs the full length of the dress’s front. In dreams to come, he will tear it downwards like a starving man; yank the two halves of leather apart in his fervour to gorge himself on the creamy nakedness concealed within. But this first time, he tarries, controlling his desire even though it fights to control him. He stretches an arm out slowly, takes hold of the cool metal tab between his thumb and forefinger, gripping hard enough to imprint the logo’s reflection in his flesh. He draws it downward with deliberation, just enough force to overcome the inertia of the interlocked teeth, all the way to where the hem sits just below the tops of her thighs. The crackle is electric: he doesn’t so much hear the sound as feel it, running down his spine like a train, coiling itself in his balls.

All the time, her unwavering gaze holds his.

The dress undone, he runs his thumbs along the insides of the zip, the metal rough against the fleshy pads, the perfect contrast for the smoothness of her skin. She breathes a little heavier, her full breasts heaving against the leather, pressing it outwards.

He opens the dress wide. She swallows at the exposure, but her eyes stay on his, her pride in her appearance evident and justified. His imagination revels in the glory of her, nude.

He doesn’t contemplate taking the dress off. He steps forward, kissing her firmly, passionately, his hands slipping to the small of her back so that he can pull her nakedness tight against his rousing body. The hardness of her nipples presses through the thinness of his cotton shirt, digging into his flesh. Her loins flutter against his, until he feels his control over his lust slipping. He imagines himself pushing her back so that she lands sprawled across a wide bed. He stands over her, pulling at his own clothes until he is naked, until he can lie atop her, his lips at her mouth, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, working his way down her trembling body until his mouth is poised before her pouting sex, senses immersed in the perfume of her arousal, in the glowing heat of her need.

As he plunges his tongue into her oiled depths, she cries out with ardour, long fingers grasping at the back of his head, hips forcing herself harder against his mouth. He slips his hands beneath her raised arse, cradling her to him like some exquisite, priceless chalice, and he drinks deeply of her lust.

And after she comes, while she is still shivering beneath the rolling waves of pleasure, he moves over her once more, piercing her slickness before her orgasm has had chance to subside, the first thrusts of his hard cock propelling her towards another climax. Her slender thighs entwine themselves about his hips, her heels pressing against his rear and the backs of his thighs, urging him on, on, even as her crafty tongue finds his ear, teasing him to shuddering ecstasy. And when his seed bursts forth, erupting within the velvet sweetness of her naked cunt, it is hot, copious, guilt-free.

As always, with orgasm she slips from his grasp, until emptiness forces his eyes open.

Slowly, he rolls onto his side, staring sightlessly at the wall beyond, wondering as he so often has about what might come to pass.

Arabesque

There’s tension in the air by the time the foursome arrive back at the house. It’s nothing heavy or unpleasant. It doesn’t sit heavy upon them, ominous, diverting, but it’s there all the same: a subtle presence generated by the group’s shared knowledge of what is to follow.

There is no sense of fear. The four of them have been here before. Now they’re returning for a second glimpse, for a further taste. There’s a shiver of anticipation in each of them, a thrilling blend of nervousness and excitement. It could become addictive.

Perhaps it already has.

The living room is warm. The lights are left low, the music soft, sensual, underlying the mood perfectly. Logs crackle in the hearth, and the shadows cast by the flames dance back and forth along the cream walls and reflect off the hanging art. Two men and two women sipping their strong drinks, banishing any lingering reserves of uncertainty there might be, ensuring that their desires are allowed to flow unhindered.

The quartet talk easily about everyday things, but their minds are on more intimate subjects. Last time marked their first meeting. The awkwardness of how to begin that night might have prevented anything from happening at all. This time, though, they’re better prepared. They know how to begin, and though the specifics are not set in stone, they all understand what will happen next. Experience has released the chains of apprehension.

The red-headed woman finishes her drink. Without saying a word, she stands up, walks across the room, and sits down on the leather sofa beside the woman with long, blonde hair. Both are dressed femininely, provocatively, in tight, buttoned blouses, knee-length skirts and high heels.

The redhead smiles at her companion, and then she leans forward and tenderly kisses the blonde on the mouth. The tips of their tongues dance slowly as their kiss waxes and wanes. Steadily, their passion builds, their hands reaching for one another’s bodies. Their kiss doesn’t hesitate as their fingers move deftly over the fastenings of their blouses.

The blonde draws open the redhead’s blouse. Beneath, she wears a black brassiere, with cups diaphanous enough to reveal that her nipples are already taut. The redhead pulls the two halves of the blonde’s blouse apart to expose a white lace bra. The contrast between the women – one blonde and tan, the other Titian and pale – is accentuated by their respective choice of lingerie.

The men sip their whisky, watching in rapt silence.

The women cup and fondle each other’s bare breasts with wondrous softness, with exquisite artfulness. If they are aware of the intensity with which their partners watch, it doesn’t show. They are in a world of two, a world in which the crackling of the fire and the quickening breathing of their men is light years away.

With a look of something akin to sadness, the redhead breaks the kiss. “We might be more comfortable upstairs,” she says.

“I think you might be right.”

The women get to their feet. The redhead takes the lead, reaching behind her for the blonde’s hand as she goes. She leads her lover out of the living room and up the sweeping staircase without looking back at any of the people present.

The men regard each other in silence for a few seconds. No grinning, no winks: just a measured acceptance of what is to follow, and an unspoken acknowledgement of how fortunate they are. Carrying their glasses, they follow the women upstairs.

The only light in the bedroom comes from a number of church candles placed upon the windowsill. The men take their seats, just as they did the first time this happened. Sultry music bleeds into the room from concealed speakers.

The women slip off their shoes and sit down on the edge of the bed. With neither words nor awkwardness, they slip into a second kiss as though the first had never ended. Gradually, their hands come up to their bodies again, and they slide the blouses from each other’s shoulders and let them fall to the bed.

From here on, clothes will be little more than an encumbrance.

The blonde eases one of the redhead’s bra straps from her shoulder and draws the cup downward, gradually revealing a pale pink nipple already darkening with lust. The blonde bows her head and rains delicate kisses down upon the soft flesh of her lover’s breast. Inevitably, her lips find the taut nipple, and the tip of her tongue paints damp circles about its hard crown. The redhead’s eyes flutter closed as she gasps. In darkness, she runs her fingers through the blonde’s fine hair, lightly draws the tips of her manicured nails along the other woman’s shoulders and down the outsides of her arms. Eventually, she reaches behind her lover’s back and releases the fastening on her bra. The blonde does the same, and the woman ease their brassieres off just as they did their blouses moments before.

There is no mistaking the men’s hungry expressions. Yet they hold their places at the edges of the stage. They know better than to interfere.

The women kneel on the bed, face to face. Their kisses are deeper now, intensifying, making them moan into each other’s mouths. They pull one another tight, naked torsos pressed together, and the softness of their breasts merge. The redhead cups one of her own breasts and guides it so that her hard, pink nipple presses against the blonde’s hard, chocolate brown crown. They pause their kiss and look at each other, nothing but lust and the desire to be fulfilled in their gazes.

The blonde breaks the impasse. She reaches behind the redhead and unbuttons and unzips her skirt.

“Lie down,” she says.

The redhead complies with the request, the order, allowing the blonde to draw her skirt down the paleness of her legs. She wears black panties that match her bra, and hold-up stockings with deep lace tops.

With tender deliberation, the blonde strokes her hand over the redhead’s breasts, down her trembling belly and onto her mound. She eases three of her fingers down between the redhead’s parted thighs and presses them gently against her sex through the gossamer thinness of her underwear. The blonde smiles, satisfied by the warmth and moistness she feels.

The blonde swings herself elegantly off the bed and stands up. The other woman merely turns her head to watch as the blonde removes her own skirt. Underneath, she wears a white thong that cleaves the peach of her behind in two; her long, tanned legs are bare, gleaming in the candlelight.

The blonde climbs over the prone body of her lover, supporting herself on hands and knees. She lowers herself gradually, until their lips meet again, until their bodies press tightly together, two becoming one. Neither man is aware that he is leaning forward, straining to be closer without moving from his seat. One of them strokes his chin ruminatively. Beads of perspiration have gathered at the temples of the other.

The redhead’s legs lift up, encircling the blonde’s hips so that their sexes are forced tightly together. Lips, tongues, hands, fingers … they go wherever they want, no plan to follow, no sense of urgency. They take their time, ensuring that they miss nothing, that they explore everything. It’s clear that they both want to discover every delightful sensation that they can.

Now they roll onto their sides, still facing each other, fingers finding their way into the waistbands of their panties. Each draws the other’s down her legs, their movements a little jerkier now, a little less composed in their eagerness to be free, to be bare.

Now only the flickering shadows of the candlelight conceals their nakedness.

The women kiss, stop to look at their men, and then begin to kiss again.

As one, the men rise to their feet and begin to undress, quietly, without drama. Neither man’s gaze strays from the tableau before him. They strip themselves naked. They are already hard, and they begin to stroke themselves leisurely as they watch their wives slip their hands between each other’s thighs, seeking out the succulent, velvety flesh.

Unhurriedly, the women caress one another: with knowing fingers, they explore the soft, engorged labia, circle the tight clitorises, slip inside the warm, wet depths of their cunts. The men watch spellbound, caressing themselves as they watch fantasy becoming flesh before their eyes. The women groan with the pleasure of sensation, and the men groan with the pleasure of the voyeur.

The blonde eases herself down the bed, kissing a lazy path that entwines itself about the redhead’s alabaster body. When she presses her lips against the redhead’s mound and then against the outside of her sex, the redhead’s partner cannot stop himself from gasping and clutching at his hard flesh.

The blonde runs her tongue along of the cleft of the moist sex before her. Then she lifts her head and turns to regard both men, licking her lips as she does so. Like a snake striking, her man steps forward and kisses her, so that he can savour the taste of another woman on his wife’s lips. She smiles knowingly when the kiss ends, and then turns her attention back to her lover. Her partner watches even more raptly.

The blonde’s tongue flickers out, grazing the redhead’s clitoris with the slightest of touches. It is still enough to make her cry softly with pleasure, to urge her sex up towards her lover’s mouth.

Gradually, the room absorbs the musky sweet fragrance of enflamed womanhood.

The blonde circles the redhead’s clitoris with her tongue tip several times, then slips her tongue lower and presses it deep, deep inside her cunt, tasting her fully. The redhead cries out again, louder now, and she writhes against the softness of the bed. The blonde kisses her way upwards, her lips and her chin glistening with the redhead’s lust; she strums her tongue across her lover’s clit, concentrating the pleasure, urging her towards her first orgasm and the redhead responds by reaching down and plunging her fingers into the blonde’s long hair.

Both men struggle to maintain their control, to keep their distance. It’s the blonde’s partner who weakens first. He walks around the bed so that his wife’s raised buttocks are towards him. He strokes the smooth, tanned buttocks, draws soft lines across her skin with his fingernails. He hears her groan contentedly and so he draws his caresses inwards, towards the softness of her inner thighs.

He slides a single finger over the nude lips of her sex, draws it up and down the damp valley and then pauses with it resting atop her clitoris. When she presses herself back against his touch, he stokes her delicately, once, twice, three times, draws a line between her labia and then sinks his finger inside her heat.

Now it’s the blonde’s turn to gasp with pleasure.

Her man explores her with his fingers for a time, then crouches down behind her. He leans in, kisses her labia, draws his tongue along the moist valley of her sex and then drums it against her clitoris, forcing another series of pleasured sighs from her mouth even as her tongue is propelling similar sighs from the redhead’s. Reaching up, he cups her buttocks, opening her sex to his tongue’s advances, stoking his wife’s lust just as she stokes the redhead’s.

The redhead’s partner crouches beside the bed, his face close to hers. He turns her face towards him and kisses her, deliberately, passionately, savouring the way she groans into his mouth as the blonde’s tongue pleasures her sex. He strokes her breasts, relishing how her flesh yields to his grasp, the way her taut nipples feel against his palms.

The blonde’s man gets onto the bed behind her, brings the head of his hard cock to her now sodden sex. With nary a pause, he presses himself inside her, and the blonde cries out against her lover’s cunt as her flesh is filled.

The redhead lifts her head and watches enviously, then turns and looks into her partner’s eyes.

“Give me your cock,” she says in a low, insistent whisper.

He stands immediately, kneels at the edge of the bed and offers his tumescence to her mouth. She accepts willingly, greedily, her lips caressing the burnished glans, her tongue snaking around its corniced edge, her hand cradling his laden balls. He closes his eyes and sighs, then opens them again, his gaze flicking back and forth along the line of the flesh they’ve made.

Four bodies linked as one. A unique form, one dedicated to sensation and satisfaction.

The air is redolent with the scents of sex and the sounds of pleasure. Lust courses unrestrained through each of the four that makes the one, and when the one breaks apart, it almost immediately reforms, a hedonistic arabesque creating a new array of decadence. Now it is the blonde who writhes against the bed, gasping about her man’s hard flesh as the redhead’s tongue and fingers pleasure her sex in cycles that seem never-ending. Now it is the redhead who cries out against the blonde’s sex as she is taken from behind with long, measured thrusts.

Once again, one becomes four, breaking apart as though the creation is unable to contain the simmering desires within. When it reforms for a third time, the women are lying on their sides, facing one another other. As they kiss passionately, as they caress each others’ breasts, each others’ sexes, their partners are fucking them from behind. There is a confusion of caresses, a wickedly wanton meandering of hands and fingers across breasts and nipples and cunts as they are pleasured from in front and behind, and each time they reach out to find the other’s woman’s clitoris, they can feel the cock of the other man as he thrusts in and out, in and out, in and out, can steal a touch of the underside of his hard, thick shaft, can cup his heavy balls, can trace the slickness of the other woman’s cunt upon his flesh.

The form breaks once more. The redhead reaches out to a bedside cabinet, and produces a leather harness fitted with a phallus that is larger-than-average in both length and girth. She looks up at the blonde.

“Use this on me,” she says in a quiet voice. “Then I’ll use it on you.”

The blonde only nods. She slips her legs through the leather thigh loops, fastens another strap about her waist, and then tightens all three until the phallus is seated snugly against her mound. The presence of such weight and girth is unfamiliar to her, slightly unnerving and yet exhilarating all the same.

The redhead rolls over on the bed, coming up on her hands and knees. She looks back invitingly, imploringly. The blonde kneels behind her, her feet hanging over the edge of the bed. She holds the phallus, guiding it until the tip of its head nestles into the redhead’s sex. Then she eases forward, a woman fucking a woman in the style of a man.

The redhead groans each time that she is filled. Her partner takes up a position at the head of the bed, so that she can fellate him while she is being fucked. It’s as though the redhead is being taken by two men instead of only one. The first time she’s experienced the feeling; she hopes to repeat it, perhaps with a duo of men instead of just one.

The blonde finds a rhythm that suits them both, stroking the redhead’s arse as she fucks her, reaching beneath her to cup her swinging breasts, to find her ecstatic clit. Each time she thrusts forward, the base of the phallus presses firmly against her clitoris, inflaming her own lust. The sensation becomes addictive. Her pace quickens.

She is so absorbed, she barely notices her partner moving behind her again. And as her imitation cock thrusts ever more deeply, ever more rapidly into the redhead, her partner’s flesh-and-blood cock finds its way between her thighs and past the harness, and slides deep into her delicious wetness.

And after a time, the one breaks and then reforms. And breaks and reforms. And breaks and reforms….

Qu’est-ce que c’est

What will I do with you?

That’s the question on your lips, isn’t it? The question that you want an answer to most urgently?

As you wish.

First, I’ll tell you to undress. Not ask. Tell.

As you begin to disrobe, I’ll be sitting across the room from you, my suit jacket hanging over the back of my chair, my tie loosened, the top button of my shirt undone. I may be sipping a drink, whisky or bourbon, so that you can taste it on my kisses later. I’ll observe you wordlessly, raptly, my steady gaze recording every movement that you make. I’ll watch your hands as they attend to the fastenings of your outfit, as they peel each item of clothing away from your lithe body. I’ll study the way you stand as you gradually reveal yourself (will you maintain your poise with consummate ease? Or will I see the shivers of excitement, the tremors of expectation, coursing over you?) And I’ll scrutinise your face, your cool, liquid eyes, for every flicker of emotion, for every expression – conscious or otherwise – of your desire.

I’m torn between wanting to see you utterly naked, and leaving you adorned in your stockings. You were born to wear them, you know, with those long, slender legs. If I turn down the music I’m listening to right now – Enigma, Smell of Desire – I can hear the electric crackle as you cross your legs, as your thighs brush together, as I run my palms from your ankles to the warm, soft expanse of creamy, naked flesh that waits for me beyond the nylon.

I’ve decided. Keep the stockings on. And your boots.

I’ll tell you to lie face down upon the very centre of the bed. I’ll get up from my seat and stand before you. I’ll reach into my pocket, take out the pair of stockings I’ve brought with me, and tell you to hold your hands out to me. If there’s a bedstead, I’ll bind your wrists to the frame separately, as far apart as is comfortable. If the bed’s a divan, then I’ll bind your wrists together with a single stocking and use the other to secure your bonds to the nearest, immovable object.

That will be the moment for me to begin removing my own clothes. I’ll strip unhurriedly, right before you; close enough for you to sense the warmth of my body, to smell the scent of my cologne, the muskiness of my semi-hard cock. I don’t plan on touching you, not yet. There’s no need for me to take steps to tease you. Being bound and naked while I undress before your eyes, only able to wait and anticipate what’s to come, knowing that it’ll be on my time scale, not yours … that will be all the teasing you’ll require.

When I move away, it’ll be to walk along the side of the bed, my eyes drinking in your naked glory, gleaming like pale fire in the softly lit room. Perhaps it will only be seconds, or maybe it will be minutes, before I speak to you again, when I say, “Lift your hips for me.” And when you’ve complied, I’ll slip one pillow beneath your loins, then a second, to raise your arse tantalisingly, invitingly.

Now I’ll get onto the bed behind you, pressing your legs far enough apart that I can kneel comfortably between them. Can you imagine what I’ll see when I regard you, the glory of the vista that will be before me? For how long do you think I’ll simply kneel there, indulging my voyeur’s gaze?

How long will you want me to look?

Only when my eyes are finally satiated will I reach out for you; unhurriedly running my palms over the smooth tautness of your buttocks, sliding them down the backs of your legs, drawing them inward to discover the soft, vulnerable flesh of your inner thighs. I’ll allow the flats of my fingers to rest against the pout of your vulva, delighting in its exquisite softness, its seductive cleft, its damp, pulsing fire. With a single fingertip, I’ll slowly trace the puckered rosebud that calls to me like some taboo siren, again and again.

Eventually, my body will draw still closer, as I lean forward to press my lips against you. I’ll kiss my way across every millimetre of naked skin before me: your behind, your thighs, your calves, the soles of your feet, your toes. Once I’ve descended, I’ll reverse my path, working my way back to your core, and you’ll feel my hands on your cheeks once again, feel me easing them apart, opening you to my lustful gaze, to my licentious wants. For an aeon, my warm breath will caress the lips of your sex, making your body stiffen over and over with delicious expectation; and then finally, finally, I’ll kiss you there, the very centre of your sex: just the once, delicately, with a chasteness that seems a little ridiculous to us both. My nose will press against you as I luxuriate in the fragrance of your desire, drawing it as deep inside my lungs as I can, and my tongue will sweep across you, sketching the boundaries of your sex, exploring its seductive softness whilst testing your ability to remain still, to surrender to experience, to endure pleasure.

I want you to come that way: on your knees, with your hands helpless and my hands clutching at the fullness of your arse; my tongue alternating between plunging into the depths your salty-sweetness and dancing across your thrumming clit. And when your climax comes, I want you to cry out; I don’t care if you scream or curse or invoke the name of your deity. But I want you to tell me what’s happening to you. I want you to say:

“I’m coming!”

Say it for me. Speak the words and stir my soul. Thrill me with the articulation of your bliss.

I swear, those words will barely have escaped your lips when my glans presses into the white heat of your vestibule, when the length of my hard cock cleaves the oiled silk of your cunt. I’m sorry, but I have no plans to prolong our fucking, not this time. That’s for later, when you welcome me between your parted thighs and take me deep inside you; your mouth tender against my own, your arms about my shoulders and your calves entwined around my thighs as I thrust long and slow and gentle. No, now is for me; the chance to exhaust my selfish needs, to spend my pent-up lust deep inside you, my alluring allumeuse; my fiery femme fatale.

My strong hands gripping your waist, I’ll piston my flesh into yours; I’ll take you, mark you as mine, if only for a few secret hours. I want to leave the imprint of my passion inside you, delineated upon the sacredness of your cunt, where only you and I will know of its existence; where only you will feel it linger tenderly.

And when it’s my turn to climax … will you permit me to come inside you? Will you want to feel my seed erupt within you, drenching the vermilion of your velvet flesh? Or would you prefer to surrender that choice, to leave it to impulse, to the caprice of lust?

Whatever. I’ve answered your question now, told you what you wanted to know.

Is that enough for you? Have my words quenched your curiosity? Or have they served only to enflame it?

Aureate

Today, I’m doing something a little radical for me: I’m posting a piece of erotic fiction that’s been written by a guest author. It’s something of a cheat, having someone filling in for me. Nevertheless, I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I did.

Aureate

Aureate She stood naked on a small dais in the middle of the bustling, brightly lit room. The man in front of her – a makeup artist – had a tin of non-toxic body paint in his left hand and held a brush in his right hand, poised to begin covering her exposed skin in gold. She was accustomed to such public nudity; as a figure model and artists’ muse, she had stood naked in busier places than this. Her task this day was to have her body completely covered in gold, and then to be filmed as a living statue for a movie being made here in her hometown. Other girls in the room were being painted similarly, so she didn’t feel at all out of place or nervous.

The makeup artist sat on a small stool at her feet. He looked up at her, the statuesque beauty in front of him, and he thought that today he had the best job in the world. He managed to keep his hand from trembling as he wetted his brush in the paint, and then prepared to apply it to her long, lush, sweetly curving frame.

“Are you ready for me to start?” he asked, more to prepare himself than for any worries he had for her.

She shrugged, held her arms slightly away from her body and said, “Ready when you are.”

He had already decided where to begin; he would work from the top down, and so got to his feet and stepped up on her dais, to get access to her neck. Her long auburn hair was piled upon her head: it would be covered in a gold wig later, but for now the glorious flames of her tresses gleamed and sparked under the bright lights. His brush stroked her neck, the place just under her hairline in back to the nape, and then swept the metallic liquid around behind her ears and under her jaw line. The brush was quite fine and rather narrow, and he wondered from an artistic perspective if perhaps it should have been wider for better coverage and less visible brush strokes.

She gasped slightly and breathed, “It’s cold!”

A surreptitious glance around the side of her body showed him that her nipples had already hardened from the sensation. Small goose bumps appeared on her arms, and her hairs rose just so slightly.

He paused in his ministrations.

“Would you mind if I used my hands instead of the brush? It’s just … the brush is quite small, and the strokes are showing. My hands might warm the paint. We could get this done in half the time.”

She looked at him, at his hands, at the brush. “OK, if you think it will give better coverage.”

He put down the brush and dipped his fingers directly into the viscous, metallic fluid in the tin. It dripped off them in slick rivulets, and he rubbed it around to warm it a bit. His hand touched her warm, soft skin and began stroking the paint onto her. She looked at him as his hands began to sweep over her, then transferred her gaze over his shoulder, focusing on something behind him.

The makeup artist turned around. There was a man there, seated about fifteen feet away, watching them intently. He nodded at the artist, and gestured at him as if to say, ‘You may continue.’ The man was well-dressed in a dark suit and expensive shoes; he was impassive, yet there was a quiet sense of power, of possessive control, about him. It was clear that he knew the model.

The makeup artist turned back to his work, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. She switched her jade gaze back from the man watching to the artist, and imperiously raised her chin in a movement that said, Yes, carry on.

Oh God, she felt marvelous. Fuck she was gorgeous. Her skin was smooth and velvet soft, and the paint slid onto her like the finest exotic oil. Using his hands was so much faster than the brush, and he worked quickly to smooth and refine the gold so that it glittered on her in a solid, smooth coating. His hands moved from her neck to her shoulders, down her arms, front and back. She giggled a little when he did her underarms.

“I’m ticklish,” she said, charmingly.

From her arms he moved behind her, to her long, smooth back, to the delicate swoop where her backbone met her arse, to the dimples on either side of her spine, and the tattoo just above her tailbone. It was black; tribal, simple, elegant. It set off her back beautifully, emphasizing her lean lines and the curve of her hips. He used extra paint to cover it, wishing instead that he could leave it exposed, a black beauty mark in all that glaring metal.

He couldn’t help admiring her shape, his hands firmly guiding the paint onto her, stroking and massaging her into a golden goddess. He worked lower, under her buttocks, down the back of her legs. Her thighs were firm. So warm. He couldn’t quite work up the nerve to go to her inner thighs, into her secret crevices, not yet. He kept his ministrations on the outer, less intimate places, until he felt a little calmer at having her under his hands in such a sensual manner.

He continued along the backs of her legs, down to her feet, and then he realized that he had done her whole back with the exception of her arse crack. He went back up her legs and slowly, carefully, worked from the outside of her buttocks inwards, so that she could feel which way he was going. He glanced around her hip to the man watching, her voyeur, his eyes dark and glittering. He merely nodded as before.

Ok, then, the artist thought. His hand slid between her cheeks. He felt her buttocks tense and then release, ever so subtly, as he carefully rubbed the oily paint from the top of the valley to just below her anus. He stopped short of her perineum, paused ever so slightly, took a breath, and – still standing behind her – whisked a single finger ever so gently lower.

He heard the merest exhalation of breath escape her, and his finger was met with the white-hot, wet heat of a woman very much aroused. He withdrew it quickly, shocked. Shocked but instantaneously and intensely turned on.

Oh fuck, he thought. Oh Jesus God. How was he going to be able to finish this without her seeing the marble-hard erection that sprang up the instant he felt her excitement? He could not untuck his shirt to conceal his desire with his hands covered in paint. He hoped his jeans would hold him tight.

Still behind her, to give himself a moment, he cleared his throat and said “That’s the back done. We’ll start on the front now”.

He walked around her. Her green eyes blazed into his, her pupils dilated, her lids slightly lowered. Her lips were half open, and her nipples were hard nubs on her chest, erect and pink. She did not say a word. She merely stood there looking at him, directly into his eyes, and then she spread her legs a few inches apart. She switched her emerald gaze back to the voyeur.

Suddenly, the artist’s throat was very dry.

The artist resumed his painting, working down her upper chest to the gentle slopes of her firm breasts. The tautness of her nipples caught the paint greedily, which he then re-smoothed, slowly circling them, catching the droplets that gathered at the tips. The rosiness of her nipples added an extra layer of color and glow to the paint … very subtle, but very, very alluring. Her breasts shivered and shimmered. It was unbearably erotic for him; he wanted to suck those rosy tips until she cried out, but he knew he could not, that he had to carry on, the detached professional. For a moment, he thought he noticed her subtly pressing her breasts into his hands, but no sign of pleasure showed on her face, except for the fire in her icy green eyes, which remained fixed upon the voyeur in his throne.

Her nipples were so hard, so distended, they required a second application of paint as they had cracked the first coat. He re-circled her aureoles and her aching buds (they had to be aching; he had never seen nipples quite so at attention). He pulled slightly on her nipples – he could not resist doing so any longer – and saw her mouth offer a tiny, barely visible moue of pleasure.

He worked down to her flat, firm belly, stroking and smoothing the sides of her narrow waist, her belly button and her hips, then around and down the fronts of her thighs and her shins until he reached her feet.

He stood up and regarded her. Her entire body was gold, except for the vividly roseate flesh nestled between her thighs. It was the single most erotic thing he had ever seen.

He re-dipped his hand in the paint. Now it seemed like oil, like lubricant, and he felt the sexual tension thick and hot around him. The people bustling about the room receded until they were nothing but background noise, inconsequential. The interplay between the three of them … the artist, the controlled voyeur and this glorious creature and her maddeningly exciting impassivity and professionalism … they were a triumvirate of sexual play and power. The artist glanced back at the voyeur. The man was leaning forward, watching intently. The artist turned back to the model, and her unwavering gaze bore into the voyeur. It said: Watch. Watch what happens. Watch this man touch me, excite me. Imagine yourself touching me like this. Feel my arousal.

The makeup artist moved his hand slowly up her inner thigh. He could feel her heat well before he touched her sex. He quickly dipped his other hand in the paint and ran it up her other leg, both hands moving up to barely nudge her labia. His hands slid into the furrows between her legs and her sex, making sure that he got the paint all the way to where her thighs became her arse. Her legs moved apart infinitesimally more. He looked up her body, and slowly, gently, slid his golden, oiled fingers into her innermost cleft.

She was so wet, so swollen, so hot. Her inner lips surrounded his fingers, drawing him in, drawing him to her cunt, to that burning wet door to her passion, a door he longed to enter more fully, more thoroughly. Her eyes darkened, but besides a slight flaring of her nostrils as she inhaled, and the merest tremble in her belly, she showed no other sign of the obviously intense arousal she felt. He re-gilded his fingers and daintily stroked the paint onto her, into her. Her was clit so hard and flared, he could not avoid it if he tried. He stroked it avariciously. Slowly, carefully, he kept stroking her, rubbing her in a gentle rhythm, watching the pulse in her throat beating wildly. The makeup artist wondered what the voyeur was thinking, if he was jealous of the artist’s hands right now, the hands stroking this magnificent, silently pulsing beauty to pleasure, while he could only watch. The artist could see the woman looking at the voyeur, daring him to say something, to react, to desire her.

The model’s inner thighs shook slightly. The artist worked faster, but with softly insinuating, measured strokes, as if he was merely massaging in the paint, no more. He left his stroking, slowly ran his fingers along the enveloping path of her dripping cleft, and slid a finger into her. He could feel the waves of ultimate pleasure start, could feel her cunt beginning its rhythmic clenching, so he came back to her clit and applied slightly more pressure, though no faster than he had before. Her orgasm erupted; he felt it, his hand upon the epicenter, the source … intense, powerful, silent. The only obvious evidence of her climax was a small sigh, a slight upward curve of her lip and a brief tremor than ran the length of her. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed back at the voyeur, as she exhaled, as she came, as her heart tumbled.

The makeup artist dipped his hand once more in the paint, then cupped her whole sex intimately and performed one last, comforting, soothing sweep of paint. It was his final chance to feel her juices, her softly swollen lust, to have her hot femininity within his grasp.

The model was entirely golden now; all that remained was for the matching mask and wig to be applied. His work was done. The artist turned to look at the voyeur, his hand still somewhat possessively between the model’s legs.

The voyeur was gone.

Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012….

1.	Molly from Molly’s Daily Kiss	@mollysdailykiss
2.	EA from Easily Aroused	@EasilyAroused
3.	Hyacinth Jones from A Dissolute Life Means…
4.	Cheeky Minx from Love Hate Sex Cake	@LoveHateSexCake
5.	Amy from Anal Amy	@AnalAmy
6.	My Trousers Rolled from My Trousers Rolled	@rolledtrousers
7.	Sexual Life of a Wife from Sexual Life of a Wife
8.	Dark Gracie from Gracie’s Playground	@darkgracie
9.	diirrty from d i i r r t y
10.	nilla from Vanillamom’s Blog	@swirlednilla

The remainder of the top 100 can be found over at Between My Sheets

Lie Down In Darkness

He has restraint in mind for you.

It was when you invoked the name of the Almighty repeatedly that he realised how much you wanted that last vestige of control stripping away. It was when you confessed you’d had to change your panties – because the thought of him bringing four lengths of cotton rope with him to bind you to the bed by your wrists and ankles had left you sodden – that he understood you were waiting for someone to propel you out of your comfort zone.

That’s when he decided. That’s when he purchased the restraint.

It’s fashioned from cool, black leather. The collar is three inches high; sufficient to make you lift your chin imperiously when it’s locked in place about your slender neck. The strap that runs down the centre of your back is thinner, its purpose merely to provide a suitable anchor for the two cuffs below. When fastened about your wrists, they’ll keep your forearms at right angles to the line of your body. Once all three of the small, brass padlocks have snapped shut, rest assured, you’ll be quite helpless.

That’s when he’ll begin in earnest.

Before you feel that first, shiver-inducing kiss of leather against your skin, though, he will have prepared you. He’ll have kissed you slowly, intensely; softly, fervently, until you’re both panting with animal desire. He won’t allow you to touch him, though. Not yet. That’s to be saved for later. Instead, standing behind you, he’ll have placed a folded silk scarf across your eyes and knotted it amongst your luxuriant tresses. Then, cloaked in your own private darkness, you’ll have been led towards the centre of the hotel room, and you’ll have heard the first of two distinctive noises: the swish of the heavy curtains being drawn apart, unveiling the floor-to-ceiling windows.

That’s when he’ll begin to undress you.

He’ll take his time, removing each layer carefully, prissily. You’ll hear him folding each garment, draping it over the back of the room’s solitary chair. You’ll feel his fingers brush your body as he peels away your lacy lingerie, the warmth of his form radiating against you as he stands inches away, the ragged whisper of his breath against your skin. And throughout, you’ll understand that your disrobing might be seen by any number of licentious voyeurs – knowledge that will both torture and tantalise you. It might be difficult for you to discern where your foreboding ends and your fever begins. But it will be impossible for you to stop yourself quivering in anticipation.

And once you’re naked except for your gleaming stilettos, you’ll hear the second of those distinctive noises: the slow unzipping of the leather holdall he brought with him.

That’s when you’ll feel the leather.

Bound in hide, sealed in darkness, you’ll be guided to the king-size bed, bade to kneel down upon its firm-yet-yielding mattress. He’ll take you by the shoulders and press your upper body gently down, until your forehead rests against the welcoming counterpane.

Head bowed, buttocks raised, you’ll wait, knowing that the gazes of your lover and the night world that lies beyond the tall glass are likely transfixed by the sight of your helpless, naked form. You’ll listen to the sounds of him disrobing somewhere behind you … and then you’ll hear him approach, sense him close by, feel his strong hands settle upon your taut arse. You’ll feel the pads of his fingers drawing abstract patterns over your skin, feel his nails draw parallels of fire across your nerve endings. You’ll feel him crouch behind you, and as he does, he’ll ease your checks apart, opening your sex to his rapacious gaze.

That’s when you’ll feel his tongue.

Lapping at the backs of your thighs … painting glistening lines across the womanly curves of your behind … and all the time, circling closer and closer to the centre of your fire as his strong hands mould your yielding flesh to his grasp. You’ll want to speak, to urge him onwards with a tremulous voice: Don’t tease me. Go faster, faster. Let me feel your tongue on my clit. Let me have you plunging it inside me, fucking me with it. Oh, let me tremble and come against your mouth. But don’t tease me. Don’t make me wait. Please. And yet … you’ll ache for him to make you wait; yearn for him to continue his patient exploration of your flesh, of your burning desire … the flames being coaxed higher, hotter, with every second.

And when he finally comes to extinguish them….

*******

You test the strength of the leather restraining you. Your rational mind knows that it’s pointless, but you do it anyway, because it’s your nature not to surrender without a fight, even when you want to lose.

The straps don’t offer the merest hint of yielding to your strength.

Your lover pauses, moves away from you. Something cool and damp, slightly viscous in its consistency, is smeared against your anus. You shudder, knowing what is to come. He’s teased you with the promise of this illicit game, and now you’re about to play; helpless to stop him, too far gone – if you’re honest with yourself – to even consider saying no.

Le jeux sont fait.

The first of the beads – metal, given its chill weight and firmness – kisses the rosebud’s seal. Gradually, it’s pressed against your flesh, and then you feel yourself starting to yield before it. The sensation is alien, slightly disconcerting … and yet … there is some minor pleasure at the stimulus, but what affects you most is the excitement at being taken somewhere new, somewhere previously forbidden.

The bead passes through the twin rings of muscle. He strokes your buttocks, kisses your backs of your thighs. The second bead nuzzles at your rosebud. Again, there is that vague mixture of discomfort and pleasure, underscored by the thrill of the taboo, as it’s pressed inside you. The action is repeated three more times. After each bead, he spends a few seconds caressing your body, allowing you to become accustomed to the intrusion, to the experience.

Inside you, the beads feel neither good nor bad; but knowing they are there … that thrills you blackly.

He eases your thighs apart and his tongue suddenly rakes your sodden cleft. You cry out into the bed, smearing your lips against the softness. You wish that his hard cock was before you now, ready to slip inside your mouth. You can almost taste the warm musk of his flesh, the salty-sweetness of his precum. His tongue travels the valley of your cunt again, more slowly this time, so you have the chance to measure every millimetre of his exploration. It’s difficult given your position, but you try to force yourself back against his mouth. His fingers sink gently into the plumpness of your labia, and you feel him drawing you open, feel his warm breath against the pink tenderness of your sex. For a time, the tip of his tongue traces the very edges of your quim, and then it slips inside you, pressing deep, firmly, into the silken flesh. He grips your waist and pulls you back towards him so that you can’t escape, and the bristles of his beard – which you plan to lick and suck clean of every trace of your lust – make your vulva tingle wickedly.

You cry out into the bed.

Then – somehow – his face is underneath you, and he’s pulling your loins down to meet his clever, greedy mouth. His tongue flickers against the growing pearl of your clitoris, and you bite down hard on the counterpane to still cries of pleasure you fear will be audible in the adjacent rooms. As he licks you, he slips two fingers deep into your wetness, fucking you in accompaniment to the dancing of his tongue.

Your body is awash with pleasure. The memory of all the days and weeks and months of waiting and fantasising … it’s just a shadow, now: ephemeral; powerless. Your ache for fulfilment was consuming, at times almost too much to bear … and yet now … now, the pain and the hunger are gone. Obliterated. Finally.

The realisation of your wantonness means that little time passes before his flickering tongue and thrusting fingers have you quivering on the brink of your first climax. As you start to come, he reaches upwards, over the curve of your hip. At once, there’s a new tension inside you, the sensation of something hard and smooth pulling insistently against the inside of your sphincter. As the bead is drawn through both rings of muscle, you shiver deliciously, and the waves of your orgasm increase their height. You can’t stop yourself from turning your face to one side and letting the room – and your neighbours, perhaps – hear your delight.

One by one, the beads are drawn from you; each time one slips from your flesh, its passage triggers a minor explosion of ecstasy that prolongs the intensity of your climax. When the last of the beads has been freed, you are panting, sobbing against the bed.

He moves again, slipping from beneath your loins, moving to stand behind you. One hand cups the left side of your waist, his fingers curling around to clutch at the softness of your abdomen. The unmistakable sensation of his glans being drawn down through your cleft rips your breath away again as you’ve barely begun to reclaim it.

“Yes,” you gasp, as he draws the tip of his cock up and down the sodden chink in your loins.

Deprived of sight, you focus in on the sound of his flesh moving wetly within yours. “Yes. Oh yes.” When he eases his full length inside you in one, flowing impulse, it’s as though someone has fired off a flash within the blackness of your blindfold.

The after image lingers before your eyes as he begins to fuck you. His warm, strong hands seize you about your waist, forcing you back to meet each thrust, just like he did when he fucked you with his tongue. It feels exquisite when his thick shaft is embedded to the hilt within you, so much so that there’s a bitter moment of regret when he withdraws, when he eases himself back until only the very tip of his cockhead still touches your sex.

But when he thrusts back into you….

In the darkness that he’s fashioned for you, it’s easy to lose yourself in the reciprocal rhythms of your lust. Your cunt measures the advance and retreat of his cock like some shameless scientist, gripping at his prick, reluctant to accede to its recoil, avaricious in its welcoming of his return. The oiled friction of his thrusts soothes and satisfies and startles all at once. The unmistakable aroma of fucking fills your nostrils and you welcome its piquancy like an old friend.

You don’t know how long he fucks you before his control of pace starts to fray, before his strokes begin to lose their sinuous smoothness. By then, he’s fucked you to another orgasm, the fingers of one hand strumming your clitoris as he plunges his cock into your depths. His free hand cups one of your swinging breasts, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip when he pulls upon the stiff nipple, when he rolls its thickness between his fingers and thumb.

You sense his body tautening behind you; you can feel it in his hands, in his loins, most of all in his cock. His length twitches inside your velvet sheath, and he draws back with a gasp that would sound like agony to the unaccustomed. A man at the point of no return. For a moment, you fear that he intends to part his flesh from yours, to spurt his seed across the cheeks of your arse, along the shallow curve of your spine. But then he drives back into you, hard enough to force a shameless cry of triumph from between your lips, and as his shaft throbs and pulses inside you, as you feel the flood of warm semen within your most sacred flesh, the final part of your triumvirate of ecstasy erupts.

Spent, you collapse forward upon the crumpled bed. He comes with you, his cock still embedded within your flesh. Tenderly, he kisses your ear, then your neck above the edge of the leather collar. His fingers busy themselves with the trio of padlocks, and soon he’s peeling the leather harness away from your body, freeing you, returning your control.

You barely hear him when he whispers, “Enjoy?”

*******

That’s what he had in mind for you when he thought of ‘restraint’, when he made the purchase. That’s what he thought of when the package arrived, when he unwrapped it, ran his eyes and then his fingers over the contents. That’s what he thought of when he tested the softness and the strength of the leather.

That’s what he’s thinking of now.

Is that what you’re thinking of too?

The Ultimate

Since it’s Halloween, I thought I’d treat you all to a vaguely supernatural piece of erotica. For those of you who’ve purchased my book ‘Concupiscent’, I apologise in advance, since you’ll undoubtedly recognise it as being the final tale in that particular book.

I hope you enjoy it.

Rebecca Carlson rolls herself away from her panting, perspiring lover. The Egyptian cotton bed sheets – pressed and crisply starched three quarters of an hour before – are now rumpled and damp beneath her naked back and buttocks. She fidgets, irritated by the peaks and troughs of material gathered beneath her.

Frank turns to look at her. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Your sigh suggests otherwise.

Rebecca looks along the sweeping curves of her gleaming body. The sight is both a source of pleasure and annoyance. Since her teens, she has understood the advantage of her beauty, used it without hesitance or shame to advance herself and her many, varied desires. Yet it has always failed to bring her the one thing that she has always craved. The capacity to orgasm both swiftly and powerfully. No matter how excited she becomes, no matter how she is pleasured and stimulated, no matter how skilled the fingers and lips and tongues and cocks of her lovers, her body will tremble upon the edge of release for an age, an interminable eternity. And when she does finally climax, the sensations that flow through her, though pleasurable, are underwhelming; a pale shadow of what she feels she should be experiencing, what she feels that she deserves.

Two husbands and more than four dozen lovers – both men and women – have failed to provide Rebecca with what she aches for, what she feels she needs to complete her. A drawer in her bedside cabinet is home to a multitude of toys and devices that have been purchased in expectation, and abandoned in dissatisfaction when they fail to compel her nerve-endings to reach the apex of pleasure she desires.

Frank brushes his fingertips along the inside of her outstretched arm. He’s a corporate lawyer, picked out from amongst the insipid customers in an overpriced wine bar in Lime Street. When she undressed him, his Italian suit gave way to a torso lean and firm after numerous gym sessions and squash court tussles. His cock is neither the longest nor the thickest she’s encountered, but it is adequate to the occasion. That is to say, obliging, but ultimately unfulfilling.

Rebecca turns to regard him properly for the first time since she felt his well-mannered prick disgorging itself deep inside her. He smiles broadly, revealing perfectly even, white teeth. A handsome, intelligent, and even moderately wealthy man. The perfect catch for almost any woman.

“Tell me what you’d like,” he asks her.

She smiles warmly. “I think I’d like you to leave.”

*******

She picks up her first scent of fulfilment a week later.

She’s killing time at her computer, browsing through the messages she’s received at her latest Google e-mail account, one in a long line of addresses she adopts for online purchases of a more intimate nature, and which she offers to the men – and women – she doesn’t expect to become long-standing features in her life. As a result, the accounts soon become veritable Spam fests. She’s about to delete the latest batch of unsolicited messages, thinking that it’s time for her to change her address again, when a single subject line catches her eye.

“Do you crave the very ultimate in orgasms?”

When she opens the message, there’s just a URL. No images, no attachments, not the usual mass of imploring, overblown text. She hovers the cursor over the link. Her anti-virus software is up to date, but she’s been a circumspect web surfer ever since it took a week and several hundred pounds to repair the effects her first, and last, infection.

In the end, though, curiosity gets the better of her. She clicks on the link, and her web browser displays a small QuickTime video window in the centre of the white screen. Above the window is a single line of black text, written in capitals: “THE ULTIM8 ORGASM.” Beneath the window are several lines of neat Arial. Though she’s unaware, Rebecca’s gaze narrows hungrily as she reads the text.
“What is an ULTIM8 orgasm like? View this clip, and see just how fulfilling “out of body” intimacy can be. Climaxes so good, they’ll transport you – both physically and spiritually! Check in and see how sex can help you check out. ULTIM8 – the ULTIMATE in pleasure.”

Rebecca barely hesitates before clicking the play button. After a brief pause, the streaming footage begins to play on her screen. The setting is a neat, nondescript bedroom, the sort that would be found in millions of suburban homes. The footage is clear and crisp, yet something about it suggests an amateur set-up, as opposed to one instigated by a professional.

An attractive woman steps into the frame. She’s dressed in a thin, navy blue robe that adheres to her slender form, and glints in the light as she walks, as though it’s made from either satin or silk. The woman sits down on the edge of the bed, and takes something out of a bedside drawer, something that’s hidden by the way she cups it in her right hand. Whatever it is, there’s a moment when it sparkles metallically. The woman stretches herself out across the bed. As she does so, her robe parts, giving the camera a glimpse of her white lace bra and panties ensemble, and a pair of long, slender thighs.

The woman settles herself, slipping the item in her right hand between her thighs, against the outside of her sex, over the top of the lacy panties.

Rebecca watches attentively.

Almost immediately, the woman in the video begins to squirm upon the bed, slowly at first, sensuously, with dreamy decadence. Within a matter of seconds, her movements have speeded up, the smoothness beginning to decay until the woman is shivering, spasming, as though an electrical current is passing through her body. The transformation isn’t done there. As Rebecca stares, transfixed by the images on the screen, the woman in the blue robe starts to buck, as though she is fitting. Her head lashes from side to side on the pillow and her body twists and jerks against the bed in increasingly violent fashion.

All the time, the thing cupped in her right hand remains clutched against the outside of her sex.

The woman in the blue robe suddenly sits up, seemingly wrenched into a sitting position by the savage contractions of her muscles. As she does so, she snatches her right hand away from her sex. The camera zooms in on her. She might have just completed a strenuous exercise session; her face is bathed in perspiration, and her chest rises and falls in time with her ragged breathing.

From start to finish, the video seems to have lasted for little more than a minute. A couple of minutes at most, surely?

Rebecca presses the pause button, drags the slider all the way back to the left and presses ‘play’ again. Part of the way through, she realises that she is watching in silence. She flicks on the speakers that sit on either side of her monitor. This time, she hears the woman’s whispers of pleasure become sighs become moans become cries. As she sits up and wrenches her right hand from between her thighs, she screams, the very sort of scream that the starlets make in porn films when they come, or, rather, when they fake their orgasms. The very sort of scream that Rebecca has always yearned to make as she reaches her climax.

This time, the video plays through to the very end. The bedroom scene fades to black, and a line of white text appears.

“Would you like the ULTIM8 orgasm too? It’s not inexpensive, but then can you afford to say no?”

Centred beneath the line is a London telephone number.

Rebecca plays the video through for a third time, this time with one eye upon the second hand on her Rolex watch. It’s a one-camera, one-viewpoint set-up, and there are no signs that the action has been edited in any way. The woman appears to reach her orgasm one minute and twenty-four seconds after she pressed her right hand between her thighs

“She has to be faking,” Rebecca whispers to herself. “She has to be.”

Rebecca has always lived by a series of self-defined rules. One of those rules is that if it looks too good to be true, then it is.

She shakes her head and smiles.

She’s about to power down the computer when she suddenly stops, takes a notepad out of the desk drawer, and scribbles down the number in London.

*******

Rebecca manages to wait an entire week before she dials. In those seven days, she watches the video clip again. And again. She understands that’s she’s watched it quite a few times by the week’s end, but it’s hardly as though she needs to keep count. Therefore, she’s unaware that the clip has been played back on her computer more than a hundred times when she picks up the telephone.

After each showing, she simply dismisses the clip as a fake, a glittering lure through which dim-witted marks will be drawn to their fate. Yet despite having dismissed it so many times, she finds that it’s impossible to forget.

In the end, the promise of the fulfilment that she’s dreamed of for so long – no matter how vague, how spurious it may be – is too enticing to resist.

The phone is answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?” A man’s voice.

“Er, hello. I’m ringing about-”

“Yes, I know. The video clip.” There’s a brief pause. “People only ring this number because they have seen the video clip.”

The man sounds eloquent, but he has no discernible accent. Rebecca had expected something different, something … baser.

“Right. Well, I’m very interested in what I saw. What can you tell-?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m sorry?”

Another pause. “I do not provide details over the telephone. Ever. I’m afraid you are going to have to meet me in person if you wish to learn more about the device I have to offer.”

Rebecca hesitates. The alarm bells she’s suppressed thus far just to make this call are now jangling loud and clear. “I don’t think I’m comfortable with that.”

“Then I will wish you a pleasant evening.” The line goes dead.

Rebecca stares at the mobile phone in her hand, scarcely able to comprehend what has just happened. The mark being hung up on by the roper? Or by the inside man himself? Am I being played? Her eyes narrow. Every instinct tells her that she is.

And yet…

Her mind slips back to the video clip, to the woman’s sudden expression of stunned ecstasy as her orgasm / fake orgasm erupts.

“She has to be faking,” Rebecca whispers to herself once again. “She has to be.”

Then she presses the redial button.

Again, the call is answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Yes, hello. You … erm … you just hung up on me.”

“You said that you weren’t comfortable with meeting in person. There seemed little point in continuing the conversation.”

Rebecca closes her eyes and swallows hard. “Where did you have in mind to meet?”

*******

The only reason she agrees to the meeting is because it’s a highly public place during daylight hours. 2pm, the following afternoon, at The Reef Coffee Bar on Waterloo Station. She gets there quarter of an hour early, buys herself a double espresso and takes a seat by one of the balcony’s glass partitions.

At the end of their telephone call, the man had asked her only for her first name. No request for her surname. No request for her description. He didn’t offer her any of those things in return.

“How will I know you?”

“You won’t. I’ll know you.”

“From just a first name?” She’d laughed lightly. “Should I wear a carnation in my lapel?”

“I’ll know you without the flower.” He’d said it with utter conviction, and then the line had gone dead again.

Rebecca rests an elbow against the brushed steel railing and scans the swirl of commuters criss-crossing the concourse beneath her vantage point. To begin with, she plays at guessing which of the many men he might be, but she quickly tires of the game. She’s never had much of a taste for games. Her first husband had found her low-boredom threshold to be especially tiresome. She’d started divorce proceedings a few months after that particular revelation.

She glances at her Rolex. 2.04pm. She wonders what the man is going to be like, whether he’ll be creased and crumpled, smelling of chip fat and stale sweat. She wonders what his scam will ultimately turn out to be, and how long she should give him before she leaves. Most of all, she wonders what the hell she is doing here.

“You must be Rebecca.”

Rebecca whirls round in her seat, caught completely off-guard by the soft voice behind her.

He’s older than she expected, certainly older than his voice. Late forties, early fifties. Rebecca is equally surprised by the fact that he is Oriental. There wasn’t the slightest hint of it in his voice when they spoke on the telephone. His full head of hair is iron grey, stark white at the temples. Even from her seat, she can tell that he’s much shorter than she is. 5’5″, 5’6″ at most. In her heels, Rebecca stands a fraction over six feet. Despite the relative safety of the extremely public venue, she finds the fact that she towers over him reassuring.

She continues her inspection. The man is neither creased nor crumpled. He wears a black suit, clean and well pressed. His white shirt and black tie are equally presentable. The black Oxford shoes gleam with fresh polish.

The man tilts his head slightly to one side while he waits for her to confirm his initial statement. In the end, Rebecca simply says, “Yes.”

The man sits down. He places his hands in his lap and laces the fingers together. He carefully looks around the balcony, and then, seemingly satisfied, turns back to face Rebecca.

“My proposal is this. We leave this place now, together, for a hotel of your own choosing.” He immediately sees Rebecca’s expression of aversion, and holds up a restraining hand. “Allow me to finish before you decide on how you wish to respond. I have something that you desire, very strongly. This is why you are here. The promise of a fulfilment that you cannot achieve elsewhere. I will provide you with the means to achieve this fulfilment, in exchange for the sum of two thousand pounds.”

“Two thousand pounds?” Rebecca snorts and shakes her head mockingly. “You are completely crazy if you think I’m going to give you two grand.” Her seat squeals as she pushes it back across the tiled floor and begins to stand.

The man continues as though Rebecca hasn’t spoken, hasn’t moved. “At the hotel of your choosing, you will book yourself a room. I will accompany you to the door. At that time, I will give you the device, and you will enter the room alone, while I remain outside. You may lock and barricade the door in whatever ways you see fit. Then you will test what it is that I am offering you. If it should prove to be to your satisfaction, you will then be required to pay me two thousand pounds cash, Sterling only, in return for its retention. If you are not satisfied with what I am offering you, then you will simply return it to me without there being any further obligation upon either of us.”

He looks intently into her eyes. “Is this agreeable?”

Rebecca has a hundred questions cascading through her mind. The only one she can think to annunciate is, “What’s your name?”

“You can call me Lee. Is my proposal agreeable to you?”
Rebecca stares at him for a long time before she says, “Yes.”

*******

Mr Lee accompanies Rebecca in a black cab to the Park Plaza hotel. Rebecca walks to the check-in desk whilst Lee stands quietly a dozen paces away. A tall, swarthy man in a well-cut dark-blue suit walks very closely past her. He smells of Michel Germain. His roguish looks and the intense glance he gives her as he heads towards the bar quicken her pulse deliciously.

Then Rebecca remembers why she has come here.

In the end, she books a double room, to avoid raising the desk manager’s suspicions. She hands over her credit card, signs the computer-printed slip presented to her and accepts the key card to her room on the tenth floor. Mr Lee follows her in silence as she heads towards the lifts. Rebecca throws a glance back over her shoulder and catches the desk manager watching her inscrutably.

Fucker, she thinks, the colour hot in her cheeks.

The new lift hums as it ascends. Rebecca feels the coils of tension in her belly tightening. She fights not to let her grimace show. She slips a hand inside her Aspinal handbag and brings out her mobile phone. The battery indicator is at half, the signal strength full. She replaces the phone, noting as she does the location of the palm-sized canister of CS spray she purchased online last year.

“There’s no cause for your alarm,” Lee tells her. “I have not come here to molest or otherwise interfere with you.”

Rebecca knows that she has no business believing him, but there’s something so matter-of-fact about his voice, his whole demeanour, that makes her do just that.

The room Rebecca has paid for is a dozen paces away from the lift. The sign indicating the presence of an emergency exit looks to be another dozen steps further on. She stops in front of the doorway and turns to Lee.

Escape routes to the left of me.
Escape routes to the right.
Here I am.
Stuck in the middle with you.

The instant she conceives of the modified lyrics, the accompanying tune lodges itself in her mind, repeating over and over.

Mr Lee is watching her as inscrutably as the desk manager did a few minutes before. She swallows to lubricate her vocabulary. “What happens now?” she asks.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a rosewood box. It’s the length and width of a paperback novel. There’s a copy of American Psycho on Rebecca’s beside table at home, and the box in Lee’s hands is twice as thick as the book. A gold metal clasp holds the two halves of the box together.

Lee holds the box before her, his fingers on either side. A sacred offering. The wood is heavily polished, almost lacquered in appearance. The lid holds clear reflections of the fluorescent lights mounted in the ceiling above their heads.

“Take this into the room with you,” he tells her, in the same, damnably calm and comforting voice. “Lock the door and barricade it if you wish. Then explore the limits of your pleasure.”

Rebecca finds it more than a little creepy, hearing those last four words spoken in so erudite a fashion by such a precise and controlled man. She reaches out for the box. It’s smooth against her fingertips, solid, cool to the touch. She looks into Lee’s eyes and asks him without saying a word.

Lee nods fractionally. “Take it. It is yours.”

Rebecca lifts the box from his grasp. It’s much heavier than she expected. Something shifts within. She moves her thumb over the clasp, intending to look inside.

“Do not open it here.” The suddenness of Lee’s voice startles her. “You must wait until you are inside the room. Until you are alone.”

Once again, disquiet and suspicion skitter their way down Rebecca’s spine. Give him the damn box back, a part of her thinks. Just walk out of here, find a bar, have a drink and wait until he’s sure to have left. Then come back, go to the bar, and find Mr Michel Germain. Let him buy you a drink or two, and then invite him up to the room and have him explore the limits of your pleasure.

Even as she’s thinking it, though, she knows that, ultimately, such a course of action will prove disappointing. No matter how swarthy and roguish he might be, no matter how firm and fit, how long and thick and hard, it will end the same way. It always ends the same way. Inadequate. Disheartening. Her body wrote that script long ago.

Rebecca looks down at the cool, hard, gleaming wood between her manicured fingers. Times passes. She’ll never know just how long she looks at the box for, desperately trying to decide.

In the end, her hand hardly shakes as she pushes the key card into the door slot.

Green light.

Rebecca steps into the room, turning swiftly around in the doorway. Lee does not attempt to follow her inside. He’s not even watching her. When she looks back into the corridor, he’s already moved away from the doorway, standing to one side with his back against the wall. Rebecca closes the door, locks it and then slips the heavy security chain into place.

She scans the room, scarcely acknowledging the view of the Thames and the Houses of Parliament through the floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s a heavy-looking club chair in red leather in the corner of the room. She wonders whether she should place it in front of the door. The solid feel of the door and the bedside phone reassure her.

Rebecca drops the box onto the gold-coloured counterpane, slips out of her coat and drapes it across the chair. She stands beside the desk, looking towards the square spires of Westminster, willing her breathing to ease, her drumming pulse to slow. As the minutes pass, her body relaxes. Eventually, she feels able to turn around and regard her prize.

She sits down upon the edge of the bed, reaches out for the box. She can’t remember feeling anticipation as thrilling as this, not even in her most-longed for childhood Christmases. Her thumb brushes over the clasp, and the ripples course down her spine. There’s a click as she lifts the ornate fastening. The lid opens easily.

Inside, there’s a piece of polished, curved metal, the pinkish hue of rose gold, lying upon a blue velvet pad. Even in the brightness of the afternoon, the contrast in colours is startling.

Rebecca tries to think what the piece of metal looks like; the word that keeps coming to her is ‘tongue’. It has the same, roughly oval shape, the same thickness. She runs a single fingertip along it. It’s smooth, solid, warm. Warmer than it ought to be. Curious, she lifts the velvet pad. There’s nothing beneath. She strokes the metal again. Still warm. A little warmer if anything, though her perceptions might well be deceived by the sudden bloom of heat within her. She lifts the tongue – she can’t seem to shake that image now – from its cerulean cushion, and instantly realises that much of the weight of the polished box came from this … thing.

She turns it before her eyes, marvelling at the feel and weight of the construct. There are no hard or sharp edges anywhere. At all points, the upper surface rolls smoothly into the sides, which, in turn, flow into the base. At one end, the metal tongue is markedly rounded; at the other, it is much flatter, seemingly a point of termination rather than of beginning.

Rebecca cannot help but admire the artisanship.

Yet although beautifully sculpted, the tongue puzzles her. There are clearly no moving surfaces, no apparent means by which it might vibrate in the manner of a conventional jouet de sexe. No on/off switch, no compartment in which batteries of any size could be housed.

She continues to rotate the object before her gaze. How does it work? Rebecca’s mind drifts back to the video clip she downloaded. The way the woman slipped whatever was in her hand between the tops of her thighs, held it tight against her sex.

Rebecca places the tongue back down on its velvet cradle. She quickly undresses to her lingerie, not bothering to draw the curtains. Who could see her here? She finds that she doesn’t particularly care if someone is watching. For a few crazy seconds, she imagines herself being regarded from Westminster by a small group of backbenchers, maybe a Minister or two, all but one waiting raptly for their turn with the telescope or the binoculars.

In black bra and panties, she settles herself against the comfortable mattress. Ordinarily, she takes her time when she masturbates, builds the mood and her senses with almost agonising deliberateness. It’s the only way she knows to ensure that her climax is worth the effort. However, this time … Rebecca’s nerve endings are already quivering with microscopic expectation, and she is deliciously aware of the moist heat gathering in her loins. She reaches for the tongue, cradles it in her right palm as she imagines the woman in the video clip did.

For some reason, Rebecca can’t bring herself to watch. She stares up at the white ceiling, scarcely breathing, as she eases her hand downwards, and hesitantly presses the tongue to the outside of her sex.

For a few moments, she feels nothing, save for the smooth, warm kiss of the metal through the ephemeral lace of her panties. She clutches the metal tongue more tightly to herself, afraid that her touch is too slight for the occasion. She stares at the ceiling, her eyes roaming over the smooth surface, waiting for something to happen, willing it to happen.

Then she feels it.

It’s only a tremor at first; it’s so minor, she thinks it’s merely a symptom of her tight grip upon the tongue. Then she feels the tremor again, fractionally stronger this time. It’s followed by a third tremor, and then a fourth, then a fifth, each separated by a couple of seconds, each a little more powerful than the one that preceded it. They’re too regular, too purposeful, to be the result of any muscle tension. They’re like the pings of a submarine’s sonar, radiating out from the tongue, outwards through the entirety of her body, and as each tremor passes through Rebecca’s sex, she feels a shimmer of sublime pleasure.

The shimmer grows with each tremor.

Rebecca sighs, just as the woman in the video clip did. Scarcely aware that she is doing it, she arches her back, and her legs and her arms shift languidly across the bed. She still clutches the metal tongue tightly against herself. The tremors continue to build in intensity. So too does the sensation of heat against her sex, and the continually growing wave of pleasure flowing through her. The only thing that is diminishing is the interval between the tremors. Already, Rebecca is much too far-gone to calculate it with anything approaching precision, but she understands that the gaps are smaller now. A second? Three quarters of a second? With all of the delicious sensations building inside her, it’s impossible to be sure. Soon, it’s impossible for her to care. All she can do – all that she wants to do – is feel.

“Oh my God,” she whispers.

Not once has she ever called out to the Almighty in the throes of lust, has she ever been compelled to deify a sexual experience. Again, she’s only aware of what she has uttered in the vaguest of senses. Her ever-growing mental and physical bliss are stripping away the higher functions of her mind. Her powers of reasoning, verbiage and memory are dissolving, slipping through the fingers of her intellect like grains of sand, as she becomes a swirl of sensation, her body transforming into a vessel through which she can chart the most rapturous of pleasures.

“Oh, God!”

The heat between Rebecca’s legs is incredible now. If she were capable of rational thought, she’d be afraid that the metal is going to burn her, raise blisters and leave scars. Yet there’s not an iota of pain, only pleasure, and so she doesn’t care, does fear. She just wants to feel.

The gaps between the tremors have disappeared. They come continuously now, a never-ending succession of vibration. They’ve grown in intensity too. They’re not deserving of the word ‘tremor’ any more. They’re ripples, pulses, vibrations, eruptions. They resonate throughout the length of her, through the core of her trunk, along her arms and her legs to the very tip of each finger and toe. They make her belly quiver as if she’s riding a plunging roller-coaster; they caress her breasts and raise her nipples like the most accomplished of Lotharios. And they make her cunt swell and ache and moisten like no one – no one – has ever done, has ever come close to doing.

“Oh fuck!”

She’s writhing across the bed now, her head whipping from side to side. She’s become a woman possessed, an animal, utterly intoxicated by the sensations emanating from the metal tongue, enraptured by her sensual journey, upwards, ever upwards.

Even in the midst of her rapture, Rebecca senses her orgasm approach. It’s as though she’s standing on the track at the mouth of a pitch-black tunnel, through which a speeding train is about to erupt. She can’t see it, but she knows that it is coming. She can hear its roar rising as it remorselessly devours the distance between them. She can feel the vibrations building beneath her feet. She can feel the buffeting wind generated by its approach. And she knows that there is no way to stop the monster, no way to avoid it now. All that she can do is surrender herself to her fate. All she can do is stand there and wait for it to hit her, to obliterate her.

It arrives.

The intensity is like nothing she has ever experienced, like nothing she could ever conceive of in her most potent longings. The nerve endings of her sex ignite. The fire catches in a nanosecond, triggering a sustained, uncontrollable chain of sensation that explodes throughout her body. It’s a thermonuclear come, an epic on Richter’s Scale.

Rebecca screams.

At once, she snatches the tongue away from her quivering cunt. The tongue spins out of her grasp, sliding across the terracotta carpet until it hits the window frame with a heavy thump.

Rebecca collapses against the now-crumpled bed. Her breathing is fast, shallow, erratic. Her pulse lays down a fast, staccato drum track in her ears. It doesn’t matter though. If she were dying, she couldn’t lift a hand to save herself. She can’t move a single muscle. It’s as though her entire body has been bound to the bed with roll after roll of cling film. All she can do is just lie there, relying on her autonomic systems take care of the business of keeping her alive, while she revels in the afterglow of the most exquisite sensations that she’s ever experienced.

When Rebecca finally rises, she has no idea how much time has passed. She pulls her clothes on with trembling hands, has to reach out to steady herself against the wall as she slips back into her skirt. When she’s fully dressed, she goes to retrieve the tongue from the floor. She gets down on her knees, suddenly cold with the fear that she may have damaged it with her carelessness. Her worries are baseless. There’s a tiny dent in the window frame at carpet level, but the tongue itself is unblemished. In fact, it looks as pristine as it did when she first opened the lid of its polished box.

Rebecca carefully places the tongue back upon its velvet bed and closes the lid. She gathers her coat, and carefully slips the box into one of the pockets. As she turns to leave, she catches sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her complexion has the most radiant glow she has ever seen, but the circles under her eyes are dark, weary. For a few seconds, it makes for a disconcerting contrast.

Then she remembers her pleasure.

Rebecca slides back the security chain and unlocks the door. Mr Lee is standing in precisely the same spot as when she went inside. He doesn’t move until he hears the door close again. Then he slowly turns to face her.

“So?” he asks. “Are you satisfied with what I have to offer you? Or would you prefer to return it to me?”

Mr Lee holds out his steady palm towards her.
Rebecca shakes her head vehemently. “You’re going to have to come with me to the bank so that I can get you your money.”

*******

In the days and nights that follow her acquisition, Rebecca and her latest plaything become friends.

The best of friends.

These early, heady days remind her of the very first trip she made as a child to a fun park, the Pleasure Beach at Blackpool. It’s not just how the rose gold-coloured tongue makes her stomach lurch as though she’s riding in the front carriage of the Big Dipper. It’s the prospect of the excitement it offers that accompanies her through each day. It doesn’t seem to matter where she is: pouring over projected overspends and profit forecasts in her office; sitting in her car in one more sluggish line of traffic as she heads to and from work; guiding a trolley along the fresh vegetables aisle of her local Sainsbury’s; or dripping sweat onto the treadmill or the Concept 2 rower at the gym. The certainty of the sensations waiting for her when she returns home is always there, like an itch in the back of her mind: maddening, delicious. Every second she’s away from it is like that first fun park visit, as she held her father’s hand and skipped excitedly towards the next thrilling ride.

There are no consequences in the beginning. How could there be? There is only the oft-repeated reward of that explosion of exquisite pleasure, the volcanic eruption of delight. Rebecca begins to lose track of all the times she has to fling the tongue away from herself when she orgasms. She fancies that the depressions along her skirting board are beginning to merge, but it’s a fleeting thought, barely of any consequence to her amidst the blur of her daily routine, and her ever-growing desire to come home to her most secret, most precious treasure.

Through all of the extraordinary pleasure, though, three things continue to tug at the strings of her higher intellect.

The first seems rather trivial, but it’s there all the same. She’s already lost track of the number of times she’s used the tongue to bring herself to delicious orgasm. She still feels a ripple each time she flips open the box’s clasp and slowly lifts the lid, feels the electricity course through her each time she glimpses the pristine tongue. Yet she doesn’t ever recall cleaning it, or polishing it. She remembers the first time she used it at home, going into the bathroom on jelly-filled legs to find a towel to wipe it down with. Only when she picked up the tongue, it was already spotless, gleaming as it had the first time she opened the box.

Strange, she’d thought, before slipping the tongue back into its box, and then drifting into the deepest sleep she’d had in weeks.

The second thing concerns the mechanics of her prized possession. From the very outset, she’s been pondering the functionality of the tongue. There are no obvious joins in the metal, which appears to have been cast as one solid piece. No battery compartments, no places through which to apply oil to gears or motors or other moving metal parts.

Yet each time she holds it, the metal is warm to the touch, and no matter how cool the ambient temperature. On one occasion, too intrigued to dismiss the matter as she normally does, she places the tongue – still inside its box – inside the refrigerator, and leaves it there for several hours. When she retrieves them, the box and the velvet cushion are both cool against her fingers … yet the tongue is still warm when she gathers it into her hands. She considers conducting another experiment, utilising the freezer this time … but in the end, she baulks, terrified she might cause irreparable damage.

Rebecca tries rationalising the question. Perhaps the metal is similar to a crystal? She finds the thought encouraging, even comforting. Yes, perhaps it possesses its own harmonics and resonances, innate vibrations which only increase when the metal is brought into contact with the warmth of sensitive, human flesh. Rebecca’s an intelligent woman, but she’s an economist, not an engineer. Her knowledge of science is limited to the modest attention she paid during school physics classes. But where there was once a time Rebecca would have used the Internet to research the subject herself, or even sought out the advice of one of her university friends who are now working as fully-fledged scientists, now … well, it just doesn’t seem to matter that much. After all, it works. Good God, does it work! Does it really matter how it does it? I mean, really? And so Rebecca pushes the thoughts to the back of her mind, where they continue to nag at her lightly, but never threaten to annoy or overwhelm her.

The last thing nagging at her is how tired she suddenly feels. And not just sometimes. All of the time.

It’s easier for her to dismiss at the very beginning. Her recent promotion at work has effectively doubled her responsibilities, and the additional hours spent sitting at her Canary Wharf desk are only to be expected to be draining, mentally and physically. Besides, she enjoys the trappings of her increased salary and her company BMW far too much to regret accepting the advancement. And then there’s her social life. A dynamic, successful woman will always be a sought-after companion, and Rebecca is no exception. Nights spent at chic eateries or the latest West End productions have long been a feature of her existence. And if she doesn’t have plans for later on, it’s rare that a work day isn’t rounded off with a couple of drinks at one of the sophisticated bars that service the City. Then there’s the gym, and if she decides to skip the gym, she’ll jog a few miles when she gets home. Hardly surprising that she feels tired.

Except…

The thought nags at her. It’s a Saturday morning, and she’s sitting in her local Caffè Nero, nursing an unsugared double espresso. She shakes her head. Her thoughts used to be so crisp and effortless, criss-crossing through her synopses along a series of well-organised high-speed rails. Now … now it’s like she’s trying to think her way through a wad of melted marsh-mallows. She shakes her head again. Yes, she has lots of reasons why she should feel tired, even exhausted, and yet…

When was the last time she visited one of those chic eateries? Or a theatre, West End or otherwise? She sips the bitter coffee. She can’t recall the last time she visited the gym either. If she concentrates, she can see an image of her trainers stowed neatly beside the front door to her apartment, but she can’t remember the last time she didn’t just walk indifferently past them. And when did she last go to Hardy’s or Coleridge’s for a drink after work? She can’t even call to mind the last time she worked late. Most (all?) afternoons, her eyes will repeatedly stray to the clock on her desk, willing the hands to move more quickly, to reach six o’clock, when she can leave with a vaguely clear conscience.

I should be worried, she thinks. Really worried. She sips the last of her drink. The espresso ought to nudge her senses towards a higher gear at the very least, but it’s hardly making any impression. Abstractly, she thinks of an article she read in The Times a few months ago, about how long-term drug addicts had to use just to feel vaguely normal, to drag them out of their junk-fueled apathy and sickness.

I’m no addict, she thinks.

And on the heels of that:

Aren’t you?

Rebecca struggles to pierce the cerebral fog. Unconsciously, her hands fall into her lap. The tips of her fingers come to rest against the soft swelling of her mound. The stimulation sends tingles of sensation coursing up through her belly and down her thighs. It’s enough to grind her self-inquisition to a halt, to turn her thoughts back towards the wooden box, and its precious contents cradled in velvet, secreted at the very back of her bedside cabinet.

The tongue.

And on the heels of that:

Mmmm.

She checks her Rolex. Eleven-thirty. She’s come out intending to do the weekly shopping, perhaps calling one of her friends and meeting up for a drink at a local wine bar. Now all she can think is about is the damned tongue.

I’ve got enough milk and bread and essentials to keep me going until after the weekend. She nods to herself absently. And I can always call Bianca or Melanie tomorrow.

She stands, walks swiftly out of the coffee shop and turns back towards home. The click of her heels grows ever quicker as she closes the distance to the secure compound her apartment block resides in.

*******

Rebecca Carlson dies a little after ten pm on a Friday evening, six months to the day after she took possession of the golden tongue.

Both her land line and her mobile phone ring constantly throughout the following weekend. Nobody comes to her apartment right away. Rebecca has grown increasingly remote in the preceding weeks and months, and no one is overly concerned when she fails to answer or return their calls.

When she hasn’t appeared for work by the Wednesday morning, her boss and her secretary drive to the apartment. They see the BMW parked in her numbered bay and buzz for the security guard. When he reports that no one has seen Ms Carlson all weekend, they telephone the police. A young Constable – not all that long out of the police training centre at Hendon – arrives and enters the apartment using a skeleton key furnished by the guard.

It’s Constable Crook (Rebecca’s secretary finds the combination of rank and name hysterical – she mentions it frequently when she’s regaling some of her friends with the tale in a bar later that evening) who finds Rebecca lying in the centre of her king-sized bed. She’s naked, the single bed sheet thrown back so that it only covers her left shin and foot. Her unseeing eyes are fixed to the white ceiling. There’s a look of contentment, even bliss, upon her drawn face. Constable Crook calls her name several times, and then he gingerly tries to find her pulse. Realising that there’s none, he radios for an ambulance and a supervisor.

The routine bureaucracies of death take over. Rebecca’s autopsy is carried out a week to the day after her passing. It fails to determine an exact cause of death, although foul play is ruled out. When the inquest is held several months later, it determines that she died through natural causes, though misadventure might have been a more fitting verdict in the circumstances.

There’s sadness at her passing, but not as much as Rebecca might have expected, or have liked. Her belongings are gathered by her younger sister on behalf of the rest of the family. The BMW is returned to the leasing agent, and the keys to Rebecca’s apartment are handed over to an estate agent for appropriate disposal. Even with the fall in the housing market, its sale will net a significant profit. Rebecca’s sister decides that she’ll put her share of the estate into a trust fund for her own children, and that they’ll know that at least part of their legacy was founded upon their aunt’s misfortune.

No one – not the police, the paramedics, Rebecca’s family nor her friends – ever know about the golden tongue. They never learn how a short oriental man, his full head of hair now jet-black with just the merest hint of grey at the temples, came into Rebecca’s apartment on that Friday evening at the very moment she slipped away. They never know how she looked at him with a mixture of horror and gratitude as her last breath hissed into the night. They never know how he gathered the golden tongue from between her still-warm thighs, dried it on a piece of raw silk and placed it carefully back inside its box, before leaving as silently and as without trace as he arrived.

And no one knows about the email that’s sent out the very next day to a thousand women in the city whose career paths, love lives and sexual predilections are remarkably similar to Rebecca’s … an email that is comprised of just eight words.

“Do you crave the very ultimate in orgasms?”

Concupiscent is available to buy from Lulu.com

Repost ~ The Lure of Darkness

I wrote this back in 2006, and it’s probably the piece that’s garnered the greatest number of repost requests. So here you are. For those of you who enjoy this sample of my older work, you can find more in ‘Compulsive Ardour’ and ‘Zealous Kisses’, both of which are available in paperback and e-book, as well as in the hardback-only compendium, ‘[five]‘. See EA in Print for more details.

I’ve never thought of it like this before. Never wanted it like this before.

Not with this frequency.

Never with this intensity.

Now I find that I’m bewitched, obsessed with thoughts of entering that forbidden place, of easing my way inside that tight ring of flesh.

Slowly.

So very, very slowly.

Oh, I can see us now.

* * * * * * *

I’m naked, oiling my hard cock with long, fluid strokes until it’s gleaming. No, not gleaming. Dripping. And you, as naked as I, watching, waiting on the bed impatiently. Expectantly.

I stand behind you, push you forward, press you down, until the side of your face rests against the pillow; palms and knees against the firm hotel mattress, hands wide to brace you. Your buttocks lift invitingly towards my gaze. Their sweeping curves are beguiling, demanding.

The tip of my glans presses lightly against that crinkled circle of oiled terra-cotta. I tremble, and in that instant, I see your body stiffen fractionally, hear the tiniest gasp escape you.

It’s all the assurance, all the invitation that I need.

One hand holding your waist, the other guiding my erection, I press forward. I feel you press back, pushing out to meet me. Gradually, your flesh starts to open. I stare, entranced by the sight of my cockhead slowly entering you. You’re shivering, trembling as though a low current is coursing through you. Easy now. Easy. With a control I never thought myself capable of, I feed myself to you, millimetre by millimetre, until there’s a sensation of you somehow expanding, giving, surrendering, and all at once my glans slips all the way inside you, my shaft suddenly gripped by that snug corona of muscle.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp. An unmistakable sound of pain, yet pain underlain by something else. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck.”

You utter it. I’m capable only of thinking it. Words are beyond me for the moment. I’m consumed by the tightness, the sense of compression, the closeness of our flesh. My glans is burning, scorched by your illicit fire. My soul shudders with the divinely dark knowledge that this is forbidden. Taboo.

I fuck you so slowly, barely inching into you, taking the friction on the backstroke, withdrawing until the ridge of my cockhead is once more snared by that pulsating ring. Each time I press forward, I take a little more ground, until half of my cock is embedded within the Delphian heat of your ass, and you’re gasping and crying like a woman possessed. It’s hard to be sure from the sounds whether pain has possession of your nerve endings, or if it’s pleasure. Perhaps it’s a mixture of both. Perhaps it’s a pain that brings pleasure.

Such thoughts excite me more than they should.

“How deep do you want me?” I growl.

And a growl is about all that I can manage. Civilisation seeps out of me with every second. The urge to thrust wildly, savagely, is excruciating, exquisite. You’re drawing me in, driving me insane. There’s a pulse in my cock that throbs in time with the thud of my heart. It feels like I’m coming unhinged. The measured strokes drain me more than the frenzied ones. I yearn to relinquish my control, to surrender to my basest, blackest desires, seize you about the waist with both hands, and piston myself into you, until every last inch of me is rooted within you, and my heavy balls crash against the lips of your soaking sex.

I’ve never been so aware of my flesh.

I’ve never been so hard.

Oh fuck.

And yet somehow, I hold on, bite down, reign myself in. I clutch hold of the beast inside me, sink my fingers deep into his pelt and wrestle him to my side until he’s still once more.

But it’s close.

So close.

Too close.

I swallow, and ask again. “How deep do you want me?”

You don’t respond. For an age, you’re lost to my voice, your consciousness swimming in a world of enchantment, overflowing with the sounds and sensations of your flesh.

Finally you speak, your voice little more than a whisper. Your words hold the haunted tones of the possessed.

“All of you.”

I can scarcely breathe. “Say it again. Tell me again. Please.”

“All of you. I want all of you. Everything.”

And so I begin to move once more, a little further forward with each advance, until I’ve nothing left to feed to the fire, until my full length is within you, baking in your heat, and those gasps of yours have melded, seemingly become one long exhalation of sensation.

“Fuck me,” you moan, and I start to move with greater impetus, holding your waist with both hands, trailing my fingertips down the line of concavity above your spine, dragging my nails across the taut skin of your buttocks.

“Oh yes,” you gasp.

And now I’m thrusting, my will finally beginning to collapse, lost to the siren call of your flesh and your cries of bitter delight. I remember when you told me that your vagina could almost become numb from being pounded, but that it never happened when you were fucked in the ass. I remember that ripple of pleasure in your voice as your words floated to me on the telephone.

“No matter how long I go at it, it feels like it just started.”

There’s a line of perspiration down your back, spreading across your shoulders, pooling at the base of your spine. I want to taste it, dip my tongue into the sweet saltiness of your flesh, but I can’t bend that far. I’m embedded within you, unable to do much but thrust, back and forth, back and forth.

Back and forth.

Oh fuck.

Instead, I slip one hand past your hip, across your mound, downwards, downwards. How long did I spend slowly running my tongue over your clitoris, your labia, the sweet entrance to your cunt, all the while with a lubricated finger deep in your ass, preparing the way? Was it an hour? Two?

Such well-spent time.

My sly fingers find the engorged nub that guards the passage to your sex. I skirt a finger tip around its circumference, not quite touching, pleasure by association, and you whimper and wriggle against me. When I run my finger directly over its glistening peak, you shudder and gasp.

“Fuck, yes!”

One of your hands comes off the bed, slips down your body until it rests over mine. Your fingers join my own, guiding me, assisting me to pleasure your clit. And then your hand inches lower, and the tremors course through your gleaming body as you ease two fingers inside your sex. I feel them against the underside of my shaft, through the thin divide of flesh that separates us.

It’s started. I feel it growing within me, rising rapidly. Sensations ripple outwards from my loins, through my belly, along my spine, my cock; so familiar, so welcome. I know that I won’t last much longer, that if I don’t stop right now, regain some composure, my cock will soon explode, a pulsing stream of semen erupting into the visceral centre of you.

But I know that it’s precisely what you want to feel, what you’re yearning for. You’ve told me that so many times. I want to feel you coming in my ass. It’s all I can think, all I can hear, over and over again. The comprehension is exhilarating, intoxicating.

Your cries are climbing, the pleasure in them now unmistakable. “Oh fuck, I’m coming! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

I couldn’t if I wanted to. I’m so close now. My fingers work over your clitoris, and you cry out rapturously as your fingers and my cock fuck you into that first crashing wave. The ringlet of your ass ripples, delicious palpitations, dragging me over the edge with you, and my entire form locks rigid, frozen in a spasm of pleasure as I come, my seed cascading into you, propelled by the heavy throb of my cock.

You collapse forward onto the bed, and I follow, still mated to your forbidden flesh. Gradually, the rasping desperation of our breathing subsides. I feel myself beginning to dwindle inside you. Soon I’ll slip away, but I’m already dreaming of when I can take you again. I’m remembering how you told me that you like it most when you’re on top, rolling your hips, grinding your clitoris against your lover’s pubis when you’re ready to come. How those orgasms are more potent than anything you’ve ever experienced; how they propel you to the brink of unconsciousness.

Oh fuck.

* * * * * * *

I’ve never thought of it like this before. Never wanted it like this before.

Not with this frequency.

Never with this intensity.

Share yourself with me. Surrender yourself to me. Put an end to my torment.

E-Lust #40

Photo courtesy of @iSlut_ of A Slut’s Memoir

Welcome to e[lust] - The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #41? Start with the newly updated rules, come back October 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates! I’d like to also direct your attention to a new Editor’s Letter that’s up.

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

The Bitch is Back – The temperature at the table drops several degrees. “Like that?,” I say. ”Is that what you want?”

On Women Who Like Sex – I like sex as much as any man I know. I am not a weirdo, I am not a slut, and I am not in any excessive danger.

Secret Secretary- There she was in the reception room on my couch, lying on her back, legs spread, skirt hiked up over her torso, her hands frantically feeling between her legs.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

Street Harassment: It’s everywhere, all the time

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Thoughts: Regarding Limits In BDSM

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Begin rant
Communication Breakdown
Family Planning
Great Expectation
My Fantasy
Rituals, Symbolism, Kink, and of course ME

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

How You Know You Are On The Rag
Intersecting

Kink & Fetish

Anal Slut
Belted
Flogger Use and Safety from a Beginner
Janet’s Magical Toybag
Protest Much?
Property of Seven
Playing With Fire
Please
Tonight I am going to fuck your (slave) ass
The Long-Anticipated Gangbang Post
Welcome To The Club

Erotic Writing

Almost Broken
Alive
A Bad Habit
A Sinner Sits for Sacred Sunday Service
BBQ & Beer
Birthday Sex
Cap D’Agde -spit roast with a stranger
Dirty Talk
Lolita Twenty-Twelve, Part Five
Lush
Matched
Oral at a Sex Party
once in a while
Revelation
Random memories: First love
Saturday Morning Pussy
Stress Reliever – Lubed Fingers
The shopping assistant
The Sting of the Crop
You

Avenues and Alleyways

Take my hand. It’s dark, so let me lead the way along these broad avenues and narrow streets. Don’t worry; your hotel is this way. I know these winding, sometimes cobbled roads, the play of lights upon the obsidian surface of the waterways, almost as well as I know the urban sprawl that I call home.

But let’s not rush. Let’s savour this night: the sound of our heels clicking as we stroll through the autumnal chill; the crispness of the vaguely acrid air against our faces and in our nostrils; the sounds of contented revellers both near and far, and of the cars and the trams and the bicycles that are the lifeblood of this city, the arteries that carry the corpuscles of vitality throughout this quaint metropolis.

And as we walk, there is that thrumming undercurrent, the desire that’s built between us for so long, that’s threatened to consume us both at one time or another; the desire that continues to grow, even when we’ve had chance to disburse some of its energy. Even though this isn’t our first time, the need – the yearning – to touch you, taste you, possess you … it makes me feel small and enormous, like a child and a man, all at once.

That’s why I’m leading you into this alleyway. I’m not certain where it goes, but I know exactly where it will lead us. I can’t wait for your hotel, nor do I want its cosseting civilisation. I want you right now; raw, unbridled, exposed. The shadows here are deep and welcoming. Let them swallow you, swallow us. We’ll watch the world passing by a dozen yards away, and no one will even suspect that we’re even here. We’ll be ghosts, apparitions of desire made flesh in the dark, by the dark.

The thought of being consumed by lust in so public and yet so private a place … it has me shivering with anticipation. Is that how you’re feeling? Is your mouth like cotton? Are there waves of expectancy rippling outwards from your core, making your arms and legs tremble?

Fuck, I want you.

I’m going to rip open your blouse. Don’t worry; I’ll buy you something to replace it in the morning. Right now, I need to rend it, to tear it asunder, so that you know my fever, so that you understand that I can’t – won’t – be denied.

There. The sound of cotton tearing, of buttons raining down upon the ground was thrilling, wasn’t it? Your coat will conceal the evidence once we’re done with one other. Right now, just kiss me: meld your lips with mine, let your tongue dance in my willing mouth as I hold your breasts through your bra, as I ease your yielding flesh from the lace cups. Feel my thumbs brush across the flat peaks of your nipples, taut with cold excitement; feel them pressing against the centres of my palms. Do you like that? I want you to like it. I want to hear you sigh with pleasure as I caress you. I want to feel you pressing yourself back against my soft grasp as my hardening cock presses against your hip, the promise of things to come.

Don’t be frightened by the ferocity of my lust. Don’t be afraid as I grasp your breasts more potently, as I bow my head and capture first one nipple and then the other with my mouth, my lips drawing on the taut crowns, suckling as my tongue circles them, as my teeth lightly graze their slopes. Just reach down for the front of my trousers. Yes, that’s it. Don’t be coy; don’t hold back. Surrender to the basest of your instincts. Wrench my belt open, tear at the button and then my zipper. Reach inside and grasp the hardness within. Be desirous. Be frantic. Don’t hold back. Don’t hold anything back. Fuck, yes, just like that. Just like that. Your hand is so soft, so cool; oh, it feels so fucking good entwined about my rigid, burning flesh.

I don’t want to be stroked, though – I don’t have the patience for it right now. Nor do I have the patience to finger you, or to have you sink down onto your haunches so that you can take my cock into your mouth, or to bend you forward from the waist so that I can tongue your cunt and your sweet, forbidden rosebud from behind. All of those things – all of those delicious, wanton things – will wait until we’re in the warmth and privacy of your hotel room. Right now, I just want to be inside you.

So I’m spinning you round until you’re facing the rough brick wall that forms one boundary of this dark alleyway. I’m pressing your hands against it, the bricks crumbling and damp against your palms on this cool night.

“Leave them there,” I command you, and then I fill my hands with your arse, squeezing it through the short black skirt you’re wearing, moulding your buttocks to my grasp. I’m sliding my hands down the backs of your thighs, drawing parallel tracks with my fingers until I reach the hem of your skirt. Now I’m easing the skirt upwards, past the tops of your stockings, over the firm swell of your cheeks … baring your arse to the night, because you’ve left your panties in your room, just as I asked you to.

There: feel the first press of my erection against the softness of your arse as I fit my thick shaft between your cheeks and thrust teasingly up and down. As I thrust, I sweep your long hair aside and press my lips to the nape of your neck, nuzzle the side of your throat, gnaw softly upon the tenderness of your collar. Can you feel my hot breath against the coolness of your skin? Can you feel the ragged heat of my desire?

Now I’m holding myself, drawing my cockhead down between your cheeks, guiding it between your thighs, so that you can feel the top of my shaft aligned with your cleft. And now I’m thrusting once more, the edge of my glans raking the opening to your cunt and then your clitoris, over and over again. Do you like it? Do you like being teased this way? Does it excite you having a man so close to being inside you, and yet not? Feel me moving back and forth along the track of your moist flesh. Concentrate everything you are on that line of contact. And know that I won’t do another thing – not one more thing – until I hear you whisper the words, “Fuck me.”

“Fuck me.”

Only now do I stop the teasing. Only now do I ease my length inside you, to the hilt, taking my time, glorying in the moment, making you gasp at the very instant that my flesh completely fills yours. I hold you by your hips and then I fuck you, fuck you with hard, fast strokes; selfish strokes. I piston my length into you, lost in the merging of our flesh, bewitched by your sighs, by the oiled silk clasp of your cunt.

I release your hips and cup your breasts in both hands, relishing the texture of your hard nipples against my palms. One hand relinquishes its hold upon your bosom, slips down your belly and over the front of your skirt, before disappearing beneath the cotton and over your mound. The tips of my fingers seek the hard bud of your clitoris; seek it, find it, stroke it in time with your growing sighs. At the lit end of the alleyway, a couple stroll by. For a second, the man turns and looks in our direction, unconsciously drawn, perhaps, by the soft cry of your passion. Does he see us? For a moment it seems like he and I are peering into one another’s eyes, connected. Are you feeling the moment the same way? No, he doesn’t see us. But he senses us, I’m sure; senses our illicit union. He grips the hand of his companion and quickens his pace, and within seconds they are gone from our sight. When he fucks her later this night, will he think of this alleyway? Perhaps he’ll bring her back here tomorrow night…

I’m thrusting in and out of your sodden sex, the delicious strokes oiled by the quicksilver of your passion. I reach for one of your hands, bring it off the wall and guide it between your thighs, permitting you the benefit of your own knowing caresses.

“I’m going to come soon,” I whisper harshly against your ear. “I want you to come with me.”

“Yes,” you answer. “Yes.”

As my strokes speed towards crescendo, I’m wondering if you’ll let me come inside you, even though my cock is naked. You’ve no idea how much the prospect of doing so arouses me – the thought of my cock pulsing inside you, my semen spurting deep inside your secret flesh, is so decadent, so exciting in its forbiddenness. Or does the very thing that excites me mean that your penchant is that I withdraw, spray my warm cream across the bare cheeks of your behind so that you can reach back and run your fingers through it, capture it, taste it even as you still shudder with your own climax?

“Where do you want me to come?” I ask, a few strokes away now.

“Inside me,” you cry out softly, biting down on your bottom lip as the words escape you. “Inside.”

The way you say it – part anguish, part ecstasy – is the final trigger. I clutch at your waist, pull you back hard onto my cock as I thrust inside you one final time, and for all too brief a moment, the delicious pulsations that possesses my cock become the very centre of my universe; so much so that I am only just conscious of your own wonderful cry of completion, of you forcing your arse back against me as you shudder within my grasp.

“Good?” I ask you as I once more press my lips to the nape of your neck, now damp with perspiration. You turn to look at me and nod wearily.

“Good. Very good.”

So now let’s get dressed. Conceal your torn blouse beneath your coat. As I said, tomorrow I’ll buy you something new to replace it. Straighten your skirt. Forget about the seepage of my seed; wear it upon your stockinged thighs as a badge of your wanton lust. Once we’re ensconced within the privacy of your hotel room, I’ll slowly undress you and bathe you, dry you tenderly, lay you out upon the crisp white sheets and make long, slow love to you.

And then we’ll begin to play once more.

Easily Aroused ~ erotic fiction by a seductive Englishman

Sensual erotic fiction for discerning women

Unknown

Arabesque

Qu’est-ce que c’est

Aureate

Aureate

Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012….

Lie Down In Darkness

The Ultimate

Repost ~ The Lure of Darkness

E-Lust #40

Avenues and Alleyways

Advertising

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Aureate

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Advertising