Monday, November 28, 2011

She's Not There

Well let me tell you 'bout the way she looked
The way she'd act and the colour of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool
Her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Friday, September 16, 2011

Sweet Discipline

Just had my story, Sweet Discipline, accepted for publication in a new monthly ebook venture by Constable and Robinson. Sweet Discipline will appear in Lesbian ebook volume 4.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Friday, September 9, 2011

Spanking the Maid

“What are you doing?”
I knew it was a mistake to utter the words the moment they had escaped my lips. I stood in the drawing room doorway, frozen, entirely transfixed by the scene unfolding before my eyes. My husband was seated on the green leather sofa – the one the exact shade of the car in Tamara de Lempicka’s “Autoportrait”. His right hand was raised. And Sonia, our maid, lay across his knees, her skirt flipped right up to reveal a rather plump and exceedingly well-reddened behind.
“I thought that was rather obvious, my dear.”
As if it was the most natural and commonplace event in the world, he returned to spanking Sonia who rewarded his efforts by squealing lustily and wriggling her ample hips against his crotch. Idly I wondered if his cock was hard. But wasn’t it my cock? Wasn’t he supposed to be keeping it for me? My heart beat sturdily, making the fine cream silk of my blouse quiver in time with the young girl’s blancmange-like derriere.
“Really, Quentin…”
This time he didn’t even bother to look up but continued relentlessly applying force majeure to a pair of buttocks that had begun to look rather sore and as crimson as a bad case of scarlet fever.
“The girl needs correction and correction she will have. Be quiet, Constance. It’s time you learned your place.”

Indulge yourself!

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Slave of Fortune


“You little ninny, Warnock. I told you to polish the fish knives, not give them an idle dusting! Look at those traces of tarnish in the handles! I want them burnished until you can see your silly face in them, miss. Do you understand?"
“Yes, Mrs Beacon. I’m sorry, Mrs Beacon.”
The young woman flinched involuntarily as the housekeeper clattered a large tray of silver cutlery down upon the scullery table. She wondered what the master and mistress would say if they knew their valuable tableware was being so brutally mistreated.
“Sorry didn’t build the Empire. On with it, girl. I shall return in one hour to inspect your work.”
The large woman in grey stalked out of the small, dark room, closing the door behind her with a slight bang. Staccato footsteps retreated down the corridor, then silence. McGeever, the young Irish scullery maid, looked up from her task, preparing beetroot. The palms of her hands were stained bright pink. She smiled, consolingly.
“We calls her Bacon on accounts of her being such a pig.”
Warnock simply nodded, her dark eyes fixed upon the scullery door. Eventually, she shrugged slightly and, picking up a fish knife, began to rub with as much vigour as she could muster from her cold and aching form. It had been a long night, tossing and turning in the creaking old bed with the sagging mattress, with McGeever’s icy feet occasionally pressing against the backs of her calves like a pair of flaccid semi-frosted fish. Maybe she would knit the girl a pair of bed socks. Christ, it was freezing. McGeever appeared to be in a chatty mood. Her strong, broad fingers worked on, cutting off the tops and trailing roots of the beets, scrubbing the purple globes free of dirt. She had spread an old cloth across her knees to prevent her pinny from getting stained.
“It must seem very quiet for you here in the country, after London. I have cousins in London but I’ve never seen the place. Been to Dublin, though.”
Warnock shivered and lifted the knife she was polishing up to the yellow light from the hissing gas mantle. The sun wasn’t even up yet. Darkness pressed against the four small panes of the tiny window set high on the scullery wall.
“I’ll get used to it. The air is fresh here. The city can be hard on your chest, especially when there’s a fog comes up from the river.”
The young woman paused to examine her diminutive reflection in the silvered surface of the knife’s blade. McGeever snorted and wiped her hands on the rag with an impatient gesture.
“You’ll have no time for primping here! What work did they set you to do in London, then? Doesn’t look as if you’ve spent much time with the cutlery. You’ll be at that all day and old Ma Bacon will be apoplectic by tea time.”
“Will she now?”
Warnock breathed on the knife, a fine coating of mist briefly clouding the reflection of her deep brown eyes. Idly, she wondered how long it would be before McGeever or the housekeeper or anyone else discovered her guilty secret. She was unmarried but not a maid in any sense of the word. Well, she had better learn and learn fast. She looked up just in time to catch a sharp look from the Irish girl, who put down her basin and stood up, the beet-stained cloth slowly falling to the cold, flagged floor.
“I’m going to show you something and it’s for your own good.”
McGeever’s round cheeks were shiny and flushed almost as deeply as the root vegetables in her bowl. Her hair was thick and dark, her mouth as small and round as the spout of a teapot. Warnock watched the other girl impassively as she began to lift up the hem of her skirt. Layers of white petticoats were hoisted to reveal dimpled knees and plump thighs.
“You’re not wearing any drawers.”
She had to remember to sound at least a little bit shocked, although going without drawers was a common enough folly where she had just come from. McGeever bit her bottom lip and turned around to face the wall, simultaneously raising her skirts to waist level. Warnock saw.
“You’ve been caned, Mary.”
The young girl’s fleshy white buttocks were liberally striped with livid scarlet welts. Abruptly, she let her skirts fall and her face glowed redder than ever as she resumed her seat on the hard wooden chair. When she finally spoke, her voice had diminished to a pale shadow of its former self.
“Be warned, Lily. If you don’t pull your weight in this household, you’ll get as much – or worse.”
Ah, but I already know all about that little game.
“So, is it Mrs Beacon who delivers the sore bottoms?”
Oddly enough, she already knew the answer, before the Irish girl had time to reply.
“Oh no, that bitch’s bark is worse than her bite, thank heavens. No, it’s Mr Gerrard, the butler, who sees to the disciplining of staff. I did a bad job of black-leading the grate in his sitting room last Wednesday morning. Jesus, I thought I’d never be able to sit down again. I swear it felt as if I’d been stung on the bum by a nest of hornets!”
Lily had made a swift assessment of Mr Gerrard the previous evening when she arrived. He was a large man, somewhat portly, with a bulbous, purplish nose that suggested a penchant for imbibing spirits. His bushy eyebrows met in the middle and he frequently consulted a large pocket watch. She had to remember to be frightened, to be totally aghast.
“You poor thing, Mary McGeever. I swear I’d faint clean away if he tried to do that to me.”
Mary resumed her work with the beets.
“Just be warned, that’s all. I don’t know what kind of easy, fancy ways you’ve been used to in your London town house, but you’d better pull yourself up by your bootstraps.”
Easy, fancy ways…
Smiling slightly, Lily began to polish with a vengeance, her mind firmly fixed upon her former home.


“My dear, a rose by any name could never smell as sweet as little Miss Lily here.”
The gentleman was an American and clumsily charming in the typical manner of his countrymen. He stood in the doorway of the dimly lit bedroom, swaying slightly with an excess of fine wine and after dinner port. Behind him, Mrs Jakes lingered, deftly tucking the guinea he’d proffered into the recesses of her small velvet bag.
“I think you’ll find this girl meets your requirements, sir. However, we do have a house rule concerning excessive marking of the flesh. If you beat her so she cannot work for a few days, you must pay more to cover our loss.”
The madam’s scarlet mouth seemed garish in the soft light of the room and her bombazine dress crackled slightly as she withdrew, exchanging a knowing look with the man who merely nodded politely and cleared his throat. Lily waited quietly, knowing that very soon the deceptive stillness would become a violent storm. She understood sadists.
“Are you a good girl, sweet Lily?”
Already his voice had changed, as swiftly as he closed the door behind him and casually tossed his hat upon a chair. Lily kept her eyes upon the ivory backs of her hands, which were demurely crossed upon her lap. She replied immediately yet softly.
“No, sir.”
This was a familiar game, the game of cat and mouse, always the same but for some minor twist in theme. Schoolmaster and errant pupil, cruel husband and virgin bride. The American did not remove his gloves.
“Oh? All girls must be good girls. The penalty for sin must be severe.”
“Yes, sir.”
Her voice had diminished to the faintest whisper and she realised that her heart had begun to beat like a drum. The body knows before the mind takes in what is to come. He was a monster, this Colonial, with his Southern twang. Why, he probably kept slaves, real life slaves and maybe he even beat them too. She slid to her knees on the rug beside the large and opulent bed. Subservience would please this arrogant oaf.
“Did I tell you to kneel, Miss Lily?”
The American moved around the bed and took a handful of the young woman’s soft dark hair. She cried out in pain as he sharply tugged her head back and slapped her several times across the face.
“Little bitch. Worthless little bitch. What are you?”
“I’m a worthless little bitch, sir.”
She loathed such humiliation but went through the motions of her act, moist eyes downcast to gaze at the swirling pattern of the Turkish rug. Large, slightly moist hands tore at the flimsy bodice of her nightgown, rapidly exposing her round, firm breasts to the warm air of the bedroom. Steely fingers pinched her nipples hard and, despite herself, she moaned softly.
“Slut. Worthless slut.”
“Use me, then.”
She couldn’t believe she had uttered those words, a red rag to the bull that towered over her cowering form. The American raised one eyebrow quizzically at such a forward outburst.
“Oh, I shall, Miss Lily. Believe me, I shall.”
The next thing she knew, she was lifted up and thrown down upon the bed, so violently that it knocked the wind out of her and she could barely catch her breath. The heavy mahogany posts of the headboard collided with the bedroom wall and Lily gasped as gloved hands found her throat and began to squeeze relentlessly.
“Insolent whore. Why, I could rid this earth of a piece of bad business in just the twinkling of an eye, my dear child.”
His voice was as soft and sibilant as the faint hiss of gas in the mantle on the bedroom wall. Darkness was rising, a velvety pool of inky oblivion. She was beyond screaming, her heartbeat a heavy pulse which filled her ears to overflowing. Blood suffused her face and her hands fluttered impotently against the scarlet silk of the counterpane.

Indulge yourself...

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Miss Donohue

By Jay Lawrence and Harry Neptune

Miss Donohue stood in the door of the deserted girls’ changing room. The last hockey players had gone, off to their homework and whatever else they found to do outside the walls of the school. Sports implements littered the benches against the walls and overflowed to the floor. Hockey and lacrosse sticks, shin pads and gloves, tennis racquets and the occasional cricket bat. The windows were closed now, trapping the lingering steam from the showers and the smell of young lady sweat.
Sadie had not taken a shower. Miss Donohue knew that. She walked across the damp, muddy floor to Sadie’s locker, the lock left carelessly undone. Sadie had hung her school uniform skirt and blouse on a hook inside the door and dropped her underwear in a crumpled heap below it. She had gone home in her hockey gear with her satchel over her shoulder.
Miss Donohue’s breath and heartbeat came quicker. A little moisture appeared at her temples. She reached for the pile of underwear and took out Sadie’s white cotton panties. She held them lightly in her hands, then squeezed them hard, then hesitatingly brought them to her lips. Her tongue peeked out and touched the sweat stained crotch. Her nose caught a familiar scent and she convulsively buried her face in the material. She could smell sweat and a musty, juicy smell she knew so well from her own fingers. The smell of Sadie’s sex, of the juices seeping from her vagina when she daydreamed in class of devil-may-care buccaneers ravishing her on tropical islands.
Miss Donohue’s heart went trip hammer fast. She felt a pulsing between her legs, felt her own silk knickers stick to the dampness invading her pubic hair. Still holding Sadie’s panties, she kicked off her shoes and undid the zip down the back of her long plain dress. She shrugged it from her shoulders and worked it over her hips. She freed it from her legs and looked for somewhere to hang it, then impatiently flung it on a bench. Her silk brassiere matched her knickers. She unhooked it at the front and threw it after her dress. Her breasts were full, pale skin and large nipples, now engorged and hard in the open air.
She buried her face in Sadie’s panties again, breathed hard through the cotton and dragged the scent through her nose and over her palate into her lungs. She dragged the panties over her neck and to her breasts. Now her own sweat was mixed with Sadie’s sweat and juices. She squeezed her nipples savagely through the material. Her eyes were almost shut and she made mewling sounds.
Still pressing the panties close to herself, she massaged her stomach, down to the line of her knickers. She pushed the panties inside the silk and rubbed her clitoris with them, feeling it swell proud beneath the soaking material. Her forefinger found its way into her vagina, still wrapped in Sadie’s panties. She thrust it in and out in time with rubbing her mound. Her hair had been pinned up but now flew free with the violence of her motions, obscuring her face and her neck, almost down to her breasts.
Miss Donohue bent double when the orgasm rushed through her. Her forehead touched her knees. Her knees collapsed until her bottom touched her heels. Two fingers were deep inside her. The cotton, rougher then the bare fingers and nails she usually felt inside herself, set new sensations flowing from her vagina to her clitoris. She came again without expecting it and rolled to the floor on her side, still bent in on herself. She quieted. She was almost asleep. Her fingers hardly moved now, softly twitching in a residual rhythm.
After a few minutes Miss Donohue rose slowly. She leaned against the open locker, breathing more easily. She brushed the hair away from her face. She was soaked in sweat. She gently rubbed her face and neck with Sadie’s panties. She placed them carefully on top of Sadie’s bra in the locker.
She ran the tips of her fingers round the waistband of her own knickers. She hooked her thumbs over the silk and pulled them over her hips, past her sodden pubic hair, down her thighs and past her knees, her calves, stepping out of them one foot at a time.
Miss Donohue took Sadie’s panties out of the locker. She touched them to her nose and lips once more. She bent down and stepped into them. Her mature bottom was fuller than Sadie’s and the elastic pinched her waist and thighs.
She lifted Sadie’s bra from the locker. It was a size too big for her, even for her woman’s breasts. Sadie’s blouse and skirt were hung from a hook inside the locker door. Miss Donohue put the blouse on and buttoned it up, leaving the neck open. Her arms were bare in the short sleeves.
She unhooked the skirt and uncovered a photograph taped onto the door. It was a young man, in jeans and shirtless, handsome and smiling and muscled, leaning forward with one foot on a fallen log and an arm resting on his knee. A felling axe was on the ground beside him. The photograph was a pinup from a teenage magazine. Sadie or one of her friends had used a felt tip pen to draw an enormous erection bursting out of the young man’s jeans. Miss Donohue frowned and slammed the door shut. She hurriedly put on the skirt, tight again over her hips, and zipped it up over the blouse. She ran her hands through her hair and tucked it behind her ears.
Miss Donohue walked from the locker to a full-length mirror facing the door. She looked at her reflection, looked longingly at Sadie. The short tight skirt made horizontal creases across her hips. She tucked the blouse more firmly into the back of her skirt so her breasts pressed against it.
She ran her hands over Sadie’s belly, up to her breasts. She cupped them lovingly. She watched her fingers tease Sadie’s nipples into prominence, smoothing the material of her bra and blouse over them. She undid a button of the blouse and slipped a hand inside. Sadie giggled and tried to push her away, but Miss Donohue persisted and felt inside Sadie’s bra, took her bare nipple between her fingers and rolled it until it grew even more.
She admired Sadie’s legs emerging from the skirt. She wondered what she would find under the skirt. Was Sadie wearing panties? Her hand descended from Sadie’s breasts, back across her belly and to the waistband of her skirt. Miss Donohue hesitated a moment, then moved over Sadie’s thigh to the skirt hem.
Sadie had stopped protesting now. Miss Donohue watched her hand circle Sadie’s thigh and disappear under her skirt. She shoved the skirt up bit by bit and revealed more gorgeous thigh. She felt Sadie’s panties before she saw them, felt they were soaking wet and the girl was ready for her. She rubbed the cotton, searching for Sadie’s mound, finding it risen and sensitive to her touch. Sadie gasped.
Miss Donohue lifted the skirt higher, revealing Sadie’s white cotton panties and her own fingers stretching them against Sadie’s sex. She felt for the tight waistband of the panties and, with one movement, thrust her hand inside and captured Sadie’s clitoris.
Miss Donohue closed her eyes and concentrated on Sadie. She felt Sadie’s rigid nipples as she moved from one breast to the other and back again inside the bra. Sadie moaned and gasped at Miss Donohue’s expert touch, spread her legs apart to let Miss Donohue make free of her.
Sadie felt the juices well in her and her orgasm start to build. Miss Donohue sensed it and held back, teased Sadie until she begged her to go on, to frig her and not stop. When Sadie could wait no longer, Miss Donohue brought her to a shuddering climax with her knowing fingers. Sadie cried out in ecstasy. Miss Donohue eased her down from her peak with slower movements. She started to think of Sadie’s fingers in her own silk knickers.
Sadie’s muscles relaxed. Miss Donohue lifted up her mouth and kissed her. Sadie’s tongue met hers.
Miss Donohue opened her eyes. She met the eyes of the Headmaster in the mirror.

Indulge yourself...

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Miss Frobisher Bends Over

By Jay Lawrence & Harry Neptune

It had been a long hard day. The phone never stopped ringing, the email never stopped coming, the coffee machine broke, and someone had dropped a peanut butter sandwich outside my office. Miss Frobisher picked the wrong moment to spill my precious Starbucks latte all over the papers on my desk.
“Oh my God! Oh, Mr Thomas, I’m so sorry! I’ll clear it up straight away…”
Miss Frobisher turned to run for some paper towels and whatever else you clear up spilt coffee with. I sighed a familiar, long-suffering sigh.
“Miss Frobisher, stop right there. Watch.”
Miss Frobisher stopped in the doorway. I picked up the waste bin and swept in the soggy remains.
Miss Frobisher stood aghast.
“But… but… all your work… it… oh no!”
With that last exclamation she turned pale then blushed crimson. Miss Frobisher came from the original catalog of secretaries. She was tall, with blonde hair tied back in a severe regulation bun, and wore horn-rimmed glasses. Her slim figure was encased in a tight pencil skirt, white blouse, and seamed stockings. She was made even taller by four inch heels. Thick bangles circled her wrists.
“Miss Frobisher. You have erred.”
“But it was just an accident! A silly mistake!”
I savored the young woman’s distress. Naughty of me, I know, but it’s a rather fascinating game to play when both partners are willing. My secretary was over-acting like crazy, doing her very best to get a good old-fashioned bare bottom spanking over my desk. Shocked? Don’t be. The world is full of spankers and spankees. I licked my lips as Miss Frobisher’s big blue eyes pleaded with me. I knew that she was begging for correction rather than leniency. I knew that her panties would already be wet, her clit engorged, her nipples hard. It had been several weeks since her last bottom warming.
“You know the routine, Miss Frobisher. Take off your skirt and bend over my desk. Oh, and try not to get latte stains on that nice white blouse.”
“Yes, sir. I really am sorry, sir.”
I believed her. Miss Frobisher is an excellent assistant and I normally have to invent reasons to tan her lovely behind. With unladylike haste, the young woman unzipped her long tight skirt and eased it over her hips and thighs. It rustled to a navy blue puddle about her ankles. I admired the view—long, slender, well-formed legs lightly encased in sheer seamed stockings, admirably topped with the sexiest bottom in New England. At my request, she wore full panties rather than a thong. I like the effect of the fine smooth satin peeling away from her pearly white skin. Slowly, like a striptease artist, Miss Frobisher revealed her beautiful buttocks. I remained as cool and business-like as a man with a monstrous erection can be.
I closed the door.
“Very good, Miss Frobisher. Over my desk.”
Miss Frobisher gave a sob and bent at the waist. Her legs and back were straight, a ninety degree bend putting her into that position. Miss Frobisher works out regularly and is an excellent amateur ballet dancer. Now last week’s languid Sugar Plum Fairy presented her bare pale bottom to my large and heavy hand. Last time I saw her dance I had to go the bathroom before the interval to relieve my pressure. This time the Ice Queen would feel her punishment and my lust in person. Her vulva was just visible between her legs.
“Please, Mr Thomas! Not too hard! Please don’t hurt me!”
The game went on.
“Oh, please, Mr Thomas! I’ll never do it again! I’ll be good! I really will! Oh sir…”
“Enough, Miss Frobisher! Be silent! You have transgressed. You have disappointed me. It pains me to do what I am about to do. But—it is for your own good, Miss Frobisher. For your own good.”
I ran my hand gently over her trembling buttocks. Miss Frobisher whimpered. My erection reached new heights.
“I hope you are ashamed of yourself, Miss Frobisher. Just think what the ballet would say if they could see you now.”
Miss Frobisher looked fearfully over her shoulder at me. A tear squeezed from her eye. This was going to be a very good session.
“Please don’t tell them! Please don’t! I’ll die of shame…”
“You should have thought of that before you spilled coffee all over my work, Miss Frobisher. Look to your front.”
Miss Frobisher turned her head away. I took her slender thighs in my hands and moved them apart ever so slightly. Just enough for her sex to feel the wind of my hand as it landed on her bottom. A drop of moisture ran from her pussy onto her leg. Soon I would be deep inside her hot luscious body. But first she had to be punished. Punished severely. I raised my hand.
“This will hurt me more than it will hurt you, Miss Frobisher.”
The secretary murmured something unintelligible and a delightful tremor shivered through her captive buttocks. My erection strained against my pants like a caged beast. I raised my hand higher and brought it down sharply against the tender under-shelf of Miss Frobisher’s behind.
I always relish the first smack. The spankee’s pained bleat always sounds so shocked and surprised, no matter how many bun-warming sessions are under her belt. At first, the buttocks feel cool and silky smooth but that soon changes to a fiery warmth.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Miss Frobisher was already getting into the spirit of the spanking. Like a hussy, she ground her slender dancer’s hips against the edge of the desk and moaned softly. Her stiletto heels tapped on the floor as if she were doing an impromptu flamenco.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
The soft ivory skin of my assistant’s bottom was turning a lovely shade of pink. It made me think of rose petals. She continued to buck her rear like a little pony trying to throw its rider off, drumming her feet in a wild orgiastic rhythm. Strands of ice maiden blonde hair began to unwind from her prim hairstyle. Immaculately manicured hands clasped the far side of my desk. My cock throbbed and pulsed in my underwear.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
The slut was fucking the desk, her chastised rear bobbing up and down to the beat of my spanks. I watched her swollen pussy drip like a ripe juicy fruit. She wanted to touch herself but she couldn’t. She’d have to make herself come by dancing the spank fandango over my desk.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
My hand was warm now. That is always a good sign when spanking. It means the spankee is even warmer. Miss Frobisher was a good spankee, ready to take whatever my heavy hand could deliver.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
“Please stop, Mr Thomas! Please stop!”
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Miss Frobisher suddenly pushed herself away from the desk. She darted for the door, her blouse flying above her red behind. I reached out a hand and caught her arm. She cringed, then made as if to strike me.
I stood still, my eyes on hers. Her hand was raised but did not move. She trembled. She sagged in my grasp. Her arm fell. A tear rolled down her cheek.
I pulled Miss Frobisher around the desk to my chair. I sat and pulled her over my knee. Swiftly I pulled both arms behind her back and held her wrists tight. She whimpered. My hand rose. And fell.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
“Oh no, Mr Thomas! Oh no! Oh no! Please!”
Miss Frobisher’s hips bucked under my pinioning arm. I felt dampness on one thigh, breasts on the other.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
My mountainous erection dug into her shoulder. The moment she came I would be inside her.
The secretary’s pleading had taken on a different tone.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
“Mmm… mmm…mmm…”
Miss Frobisher’s lovely hair had come completely undone. She looked quite wild as she threw back her head, her eyes tightly closed, her full moist lips parted. I had a sudden thought.
“That open mouth deserves filling.”
Swiftly, I manhandled my assistant onto her knees, unfastened my pants and thrust the contents into her astonished mouth. She paused for a second, then two indignant blue eyes opened wide above my throbbing rod and Miss Frobisher began to suck. Oh boy, did she suck!
“Does that taste good, my dear?”
The secretary’s lips were stretched tight around my swollen cock. Her pretty, dishevelled head bobbed up and down, up and down, her hot moist tongue massaging the underside of my shaft. I held myself back for as long as I could, relishing the attractive scene between my thighs. Miss Frobisher’s blouse was partly undone, her high round breasts thrust in their virginal white lace bra. Her scarlet bottom bobbed feverishly, hips grinding in time with her juicy slurps. The minx was on the verge of an orgasm too. My balls were about to burst. Reluctantly, I had to let go. At the very last second, I pulled my manhood from Miss Frobisher’s dewy grasp and spurted hot creamy semen all over my assistant’s face.
She looked startled, then her hand strayed to her soaking crotch. I watched with much satisfaction as my secretary rubbed at her pink swollen clit. Cream dripped from her nose and ran in little rivulets down her lovely cheeks. Her eyelashes were coated.
“Make yourself come, Miss Frobisher. Rub that perfect little perfumed cunt!”
My assistant’s eyes opened wide in shock. I had never used such a word in the office. The shock effect worked divinely. Miss Frobisher frigged like a bitch in heat and soon began to squeal.
“Yes! Ooh, yes! Yes!!”
And that was the upshot of another day’s dictation. I hoped Miss Frobisher had learned her lesson. But not too well.

Indulge yourself...

Introducing Lawrence and Neptune

Like Ellery Queen, Jay Lawrence and Harry Neptune are close-knit co-authors, whose inimitable tandem style has left readers doubled up - with laughter! The Jay & Harry stories were penned at breakneck speed over many thousands of miles and on several continents. From the frigid wastes of sub-arctic Canada to the sultry steam heat of Trinidad, Jay and Harry, both expatriate Celts with a fondness for a passport full of stamps, leapt out of aeroplanes large and small, clutching battered old laptops and having some rather fascinating adventures along the way… Although fact is sometimes stranger than fiction, Lawrence & Neptune’s tales are pure cartoon, a gaudy concoction, an improbable cocktail with a paper parasol on top! But the places described do, in many cases exist, for Harry really does know the tropics. And Miss Lawrence? Let’s just say that she can indeed perform a mean cha cha cha…

Monday, August 1, 2011

Methinks He Doth Protest Too Much

Lust At Sea

by Jay Lawrence and Harry Neptune

Chapter 1

“Mmmmmm… Whassup? Not guilty, go ‘way…”
“It’s all right, darling, I’m not the I.R.S. You have to wake up, Harry. Now! Something dreadful has happened.”
I gave the grunting hulk beside me a fresh prod in the ribs and this time a ruffled head emerged from the tangled mass of bedcovers, glared balefully at me through reddened eyes then sank back down on the pillows with a pained groan.
“My head hurts. Fetch me an aspirin, bint. What’s up? Run out of fresh meat? No toy boys at the market this morning?”
I rummaged in my purse for the emergency pain pill. Not being prone to headaches, the tablet was less than fresh and daintily coated in Kleenex fluff and chocolate crumbs. I brushed it off and passed it to the afflictee, along with the glass of water on the night table.
“Here you are, angel. Best take a nice big gulp or it might just stick in your throat.”
With Herculean effort, Harry lugged his bulk into a semi-upright position. Focusing on nothing in particular, he popped the pill on his tongue and chugged down the contents of the glass. There was a sudden choking sound, followed by a liquid eruption of Niagaric proportions.
“Harry Gravesend Neptune! You’ve soaked the bed!”
Rarely did I utter my partner’s middle name. It was an event that marked those inevitable times of extreme frustration which pockmark the face of any Great Love. Harry gasped and spluttered.
“That was neat Tequila, you little horror! You’re trying to kill me again, aren’t you? I don’t know why. I keep telling you I don’t have a brass farthing to my name. Neptune has never been synonymous with wealth, I’m afraid.”
Sheepishly, I took the glass from Harry’s outstretched hand and sniffed the remains. It was booze all right. Gently, I replaced the tumbler on the night table and stroked my paramour’s tousled hair. I had news to break and I sensed the bulletin might hit him hard.
“Darling, I have something to tell you.”
“You’ve found a cure for the farting.”
“No, dear.”
“Too bad. It’s kind of ripe in here. Can’t you open a window or something? Where the heck are we, anyway?”
Harry peered at his surroundings, a typically nondescript hotel room.
I steeled myself.
“We’re in Las Vegas, sweetie.”
“I thought you disapproved of gambling!”
“I do. Always thought craps was something you put on the roses. But, angel…”
Harry clasped his throbbing head, then gingerly drew back the sodden sheets to reveal some interesting night apparel.
“Don’t tell me! I lost my shirt, didn’t I? What on earth am I wearing? You minx, Lawrence. You set me up with the girls at the Crazy Horse again, didn’t you? Ah, I remember Paris. Is the Nevada squad as lively as the French? Odd, I really can’t recall a thing…”
“Nice jammies.”
I stifled a giggle. Harry was resplendent in scarlet silk pyjamas, naughtily printed with top-heavy nudes. He slowly examined the pattern with increasing amusement.
“Ooh, I say! Look at this plump one under my armpit. Could be you, except her bum’s not big enough…”
I stiffened.
“That’s enough. I can’t help my genes. It’s the Eskimo blood. Right. That’s it. No more beating around the bush. You asked for it, Neptune. The thing is - we got married.”
Harry’s tanned face blanched to a shade normally associated with blotting paper. Then he looked at me suspiciously, a wry smile hovering about his lips.
“OK, Jaybird, you’re a very funny girl. Joke’s over. Harry Neptune ain’t that gullible.”
I sighed heavily and patted his hand.
“I’m sorry, darling. It’s not a joke. You proposed and I accepted. We are hitched. Spliced. Man and wife.”
My other half issued a pitiful strangled cry. I’d heard him make some pretty peculiar noises over the course of our longtime partnership but this one was new to the repertoire.
“But where? How? When?”
“At the Buxom Baybe Medieval Boob Fest. In the Chapel of Celestial Bliss. By the Fairly Irreverent Pastor Von Schlong. Sometime last night.”
Harry rallied visibly.
“Buxom Boob Fest? Pastor Von Schlong? Hah! Relax Lawrence, there’s no way it can possibly be legal. What are we doing for breakfast? I’m beginning to feel a bit more human again.”
“There’s a place across the road. But darling, I’m afraid this marriage lark is not the jolly jape it seems. I called my attorney about an hour ago, thinking he’d laugh my worries all the way to Yuma. The trouble is, it’s legal. I’m Mrs. Harry Gravesend Neptune.”
Harry moaned.
“Oh, good grief. We’ve been in some dangerous situations but this one takes the biscuit. I don’t want a wife! Had one once, hated every moment of it. There has to be an Acme Drive-Thru De-Hitching Center. This is Vegas. Easy come, easy go. Fetch me my shorts!”
I stared at the outraged vision in the lurid pyjamas.
“Well, if you must know, this wasn’t what I had in mind either! Give me Venice over Vegas, any time. Find your own shorts!”
“Acting like a bloody married woman already, I see. Right then. Breakfast first, then we seek further legal advice. I don’t believe this. I just don’t bloody believe it. Wait ‘til I get my hands on that Von Schlong. I’ll wrap him round a lamppost. What the hell was I drinking last night, anyway? Jet fuel?”
I searched my memory bank and came up with something unsavory.
“I think it was that stuff that comes with a nice fat juicy worm in every bottle. You were showing off for a brace of blonde croupiers from Caligula’s Circus. I think you actually ate the bug, with a Jalapeno chaser.”
Harry clutched his stomach.
“That’s it! I’m going on the wagon. Never again!”
“No more croupiers?”
“Ha ha. Lawrence, I don’t suppose we have photographic evidence of this fiasco, do we? Exhibit A, as it were.”
I fished in my purse and withdrew a Polaroid. Harry’s face contorted. He turned beetroot. His stomach heaved. Finally, he let out a huge guffaw.
“HEE! HEE! HEE! Another one for the family album! That is an absolute classic! Where are you, anyway?”
“Oh, very funny.”
I snatched the instant image from my better half, and wondered whether I could have it digitally altered. A very much the worse for wear Harry leaned (nay, slumped) against a fake Roman column, elegantly dressed for the occasion in a garish Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to his navel. His glasses were slightly askew, his eyes likewise. His hair was a mess. In fact, it looked as if he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, to quote a quaint old Celtic phrase. Beside him, at torso level, was an equally disheveled head, all red eye and out of focus. Apparently, due to the cramped dimensions of the chapel and the distinctive difference in the bride and groom’s respective heights, the photographer decided to capture what he could. It was cut off Harry’s head or lose my body and my body lost. I stifled a sob.


“There, there, old girl. The shirt ain’t all that bad, and anyway it looks like it didn’t survive the party. Where the hell did these pyjamas come from, anyway?”
“I don’t care where the bloody shirt went or where the bloody pyjamas came from! I want my wedding pictures!”
I stared at my diminutive friend in surprise. This was a far cry from the Miss Lawrence who gave a Montana football team more than they bargained for when trapped in a snow-bound Howard Johnson’s two winters ago.
“I want my wedding pictures! All dressed up in virginal white and you in a white tuxedo and a black tie. And bridesmaids. And flowers. And ... and ... and … I want my wedding pictures!!”
I put my arm around my sobbing friend – my sobbing wife. She rested her head on my shoulder for a moment then tugged at my pyjama jacket and blew her nose noisily on it.
“Mind you, I never thought you’d be in my wedding pictures. But you asked me so nicely, on bended knee and everything, rose behind your ear and champagne in the waitress’s slipper. ‘I love you, Jay Lawrence,’ you said, ‘Hitch your star to mine and I’ll have your babies.’ Everyone applauded and someone gave you the Fairly Irreverent Pastor Von Schlong’s folding brochure and…”
The tears started again and I did my ineffectual manly bit until they stemmed. It was starting to come back to me.
We turned up at Miami airport and told Fly By Night Airlines that we would go anywhere as long as we got an upgrade. After rejecting Edmonton, Alberta with a pair of heartfelt shudders we accepted two Business Class seats to Sin City. We loaded up with sushi from the concourse bar, instructed the flight staff as we boarded on how to store it and when to serve it, and proceeded to show our appreciation for Fly By Night’s generosity and cooperation by gushingly complimenting every glass as it arrived and was rapidly replaced by the next one.
“I want the plashtic handcuffs!” is the refrain I recall emanating from Miss Lawrence in a bondage mood. Eventually they fished out the restraints to keep the racket down and she was happy for the rest of the flight.
Things got a bit blurry after that. There was a taxi ride to a hotel, presumably the one we were in now, and a bar crawl along the strip in which we made lots of new friends. And in which apparently I ate worms. I didn’t remember that bit and didn’t want to, blonde croupiers in togas or not.
Then, apparently, I popped the question and slipped the Irrelevant Schlong a fin or two to do the dirty deed.
“A white dress…”
“Shush, my dear. Rest your head on me and calm yourself.”
“A white dress … and bridesmaids…”
“Hush a bye baby…” I trilled.
Mrs. Neptune sat up. “Are you going to be sick?”
“No, I am not going to be sick! I am comforting you with a lullaby.”
“Humph. Stick to patting my bum or I’ll be sick.”
“Charming! What’s that sticking out of your bag? Is it our wedding certificate?”
Jay leaned over and pulled out an official looking piece of paper covered with small print. I could make out the words ‘Copyright, Chapel of Celestial Bliss’ overprinted in pale red.
“It’s not the wedding certificate. I propped that up on the dresser with your aftershave bottle. It’s – it’s a prenuptial agreement!”
“What! Does that mean I get all your money when we annul this afternoon?”
Jay gave me an old-fashioned look.
“It says on the top, ‘For The Bride’. As far as I can make out I take you to the cleaners under any and all circumstances, plus a few I hadn’t thought of. Wow! Not even Elizabeth Taylor thought of that one – it’s a lulu…”
I leaned back and adjusted my comfort. I smiled.
“As I keep telling you, my love, I haven’t a sou. I live off my wits and charm. You may dispose of that useless piece of paper in the nearest waste receptacle.”
“Oh yes, Harry Neptune? What about that Cayman National Laundry account you told them to pay your winnings into last night? That’s where you keep your dirty socks, is it?”
I maintained my sangfroid admirably. I closed my eyes and sighed.
“A hang over from my Colonial days, sweetie pie. Merely a few tens of dollars to cover any unexpected expenses. The interest wouldn’t keep me in jelly babies.”
I yawned elaborately and peeped at my new spouse out of one eye.
“Your Platinum Cayman National Laundry account. No doubt with diamond clusters.” There was a glint in the Lawrence eye. “We’ll see about that. I always did wonder where you found the loot for Saville Row suits.”
I decided a change of subject was in order. I was searching for one when a sudden and obvious thought burst into my mind.
“Consummation! Every marriage has to be consummated or it’s null and void! Who was the queer poet who never rogered his wife and she divorced him after years and years?”
“Oscar Wilde probably. And who says our marriage is not consummated? We’ve consummated at every opportunity for yonks!”
“Not after the ceremony we haven’t! That’s all that matters. Pre-marital practice doesn’t count.”
“How do you know we didn’t? You can’t remember a dickey bird from last night!”
“Exactly! I rest my case! You know perfectly well that if I get as completely blotto as that, the old hampton wick goes into hibernation. Quod est demonstrandum. Nil lead in pencil, nil consummation, nil marriage. We’re off the hook!”
I was glared at.
“And nil prenuptial agreement – there must be a cooling off clause in there somewhere!” I added as an afterthought.
I wasn’t expecting the fist that landed in my left eye. Nor was I expecting the hand that dived into my pyjama trousers, nor to be straddled by a gimlet eyed Miss Lawrence.
“Miss Lawrence!” I gasped.
“That’s Mrs. Neptune to you!”


Harry made a sound like antique bagpipes.
“Oof! Gerroff my belly! And before breakfast, too! You know I can’t do a thing ‘til I’ve had my eggs over easy!”
Relentlessly, I hunted down his snoozing manhood and clasped it tight within my hot little hand. My husband yelped.
“You’ve been over easy for way too long, darling. I think it’s time you saw the light and were saved by the love of a good woman.”
I was quite getting into the matrimonial lark. In fact, I wondered why I hadn’t tried it before. Oh, it was something to do with that “love, honor and obey” clause. But no one ever paid much attention to the small print, anyway. The power was rather intoxicating. Seductively, I slipped my silky robe from my shoulders, revealing my heavy breasts. Sensing my strategy, Harry turned his head to one side and scrunched his eyes shut. I began to rock gently and rhythmically against his crotch, enjoying the way his big torso made me open my thighs full stretch. Riding horsy was one of our favorite games. Harry clenched his teeth. I picked up speed, moving from a sedate walk to a nice crisp trot.
“Bouncy, bouncy! Ooh, look at those boobies go! Up, down, up, down, up, down. Jiggle, joggle, jiggle, joggle, jiggle, joggle!”
There was a large mirror on the wall above the bed and I watched my plump breasts twitch and frisk in the bright morning sunlight. Not bad, Mrs. Neptune. Not bad at all. It was a few years since I’d last appeared in a blue movie but I still had the moves. I felt a vague stirring between my legs and Harry began to mutter.
“Cold showers, thick tights, cold showers, thick tights…”
I giggled and upgraded the trot to a canter. My boobs began to slap lustily against my ribs as I gripped Harry’s hips with my thighs and squirmed my soaking pussy against his helplessly swelling shaft. Now, I understood why people got married. Amazing to think that such a large percentage of the populace were sadists, however. Strains of Wagner filled my head as I rode my trusty steed towards a rousing climax. The muttering intensified and the pitch rose by an octave. My beloved sounded like a Buddhist monk on acid.
“Oatmeal and woolly vests! Oatmeal and woolly vests!”
The sweet taste of victory close at hand, I launched myself into full-tilt gallop and the William Tell Overture, popularly known as the theme from the Lone Ranger.
“Da da da, da da da, da da dah dah dah!
Da da da, da da da, da da da dah dah!”
“Cold tights, woolly oatmeal…”
“Hi ho, Silver, away!”
Now we bounced as one, the furious rhythm carrying us along in a wild orgiastic frenzy. Harry’s cock was hard and full against my dripping cleft. With a deft feat of syncopation, I captured his luscious love-tool with my hungry snatch and gripped as if my life depended on it. My husband howled in a schizoid blend of pleasure and despair.
“Bitch! Oh, Jesus, that feels good! You’ve never done it like this before! Aaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeee!!! Nnnyurrrghh!!!”
I felt my own orgasm approach hot on the heels of Harry’s. Interestingly, marriage seemed to be bringing out my sluttish side. Maybe wedded bliss was the ultimate kink for a card-carrying pervert and confirmed single. My singing rose to an ecstatic shriek.
“Ooh, yes! YES!! Harry!!!”
I dismounted with as much grace as I could muster (which wasn’t much, as I had cramp in both calves and my knees had seized up). Harry lay like a beached whale, a strange glazed look in his eyes. Briskly, I threw off my robe and headed for the shower, attempting to limp with a slink. Casually, I called out from the bathroom:
“I think we can call this marriage consummated, sweetie. Don’t worry. I just know this is going to be good for both of us. Don’t know why we didn’t take the plunge years ago.”
“You said you were allergic.”
Harry sat on the edge of the bed, numbly examining the large damp patch on the front of his pyjamas.
“I hope you haven’t ruined my new PJs!”
I adopted a clipped, 1950s hausfrau tone.
“Of course not, darling! Why, you just whip them off and I’ll get out my Acme washer and wringer and have them squeaky clean in no time at all! Would you like nice sharp creases in the trousers? I should have some Crispo laundry starch.”
“Well, now you mention it, I do have some shirts you could iron…”
“Sorry, darling. The schedule is full. Ask the maid. I want to visit Retro Mart for some old-fashioned undies to play my new wifely role to the hilt. You know, seamed stockings, Betty Paige stuff. You won’t regret making an honest woman of me!”
Harry began to look more cheerful. At that moment, there was a faint rustle and a large pink envelope slid underneath our hotel room door. Tastefully decorated with glittery kissing cherubs, it bore the legend:

Compliments of the Chapel of Celestial Bliss

Do Not Destroy! You May Be A Winner!!

Indulge yourself...

Sunday, July 31, 2011


“My god, what a dream…”
Natasha Ivanovich sat bolt upright in bed, clutching the sheet to her chest, as if the thin cotton could provide protection from the demons of the night. As always, the room was bright, pulsing neon light from nearby Times Square.
The city that never sleeps and nor can I!
Natasha slid out of bed and padded across the cold floor of her room. Sighing softly, she opened the refrigerator and flinched as its illuminated white interior dazzled her burning eyes. Trembling slightly, she poured herself a tall glass of mineral water and drank it all in one gasping draught.
Now, what had Madame Helena told her about rats in dreams? That an illness was coming. A dreadful, gnawing sickness.
“Oh what nonsense!”
Natasha thought of the short, rotund clairvoyant, so dearly beloved of all the girls in the corps de ballet. Madame Helena, who dispensed her laconic wisdom from a closet-like apartment near the East River, served up with strong Russian tea. Madame Helena, dressed in peasant black, who was rumored to help young ladies whose monthly flow was overdue…
Vague nausea rose in the young woman’s throat and she shivered violently.
Only two days late and I’m not eating enough. It must be the diet…
She spied her reflection in the glass above her dressing table – a wraithlike creature with large dark eyes and sleek hair falling to her waist. Dainty breasts made little impact on the tall, slender column of her body.
I’m beginning to look like a boy. If I grow any thinner, Alexander will no longer want me…
“Unless I make him my dwarf.”
Dream imagery surged through the young woman’s mind, filling its sleep deprived corners with garish costumed creatures, waltzing, burning … A photograph was taped to one side of the mirror – a beautiful young man with golden hair and the elegant cheekbones of a white Russian.
My only hope is to become his Queen. Or he will be gone like the geese before the winter snow…
“I must get some sleep.”
Natasha took one last lingering look at the picture of her lover, rummaged in the dressing table drawer for her sleeping pills and placed one small white tablet on her tongue. Alex observed her actions dispassionately, aloof and unobtainable as an alabaster god.

The old upright piano in the rehearsal room tinkled tinnily as she dashed through the entrance hall, avoiding the baleful glance of old Maurice the custodian. She could see him muttering “late again!” as he ponderously mopped the ancient linoleum. The entire building reeked of pine disinfectant and her stomach churned, bitter saliva filling her mouth.
It can’t be. I cannot be pregnant.
An odd metallic taste coated her tongue and she swallowed hard, wriggling out of her heavy coat and tossing her hat upon the changing room stand. Bending down to remove her boots, the room swam, the faint acrid scent of sweat and well-worn leather induced another surge of nausea. She would have to call upon Madame Helena.
Oh dear God, help me.
The music was changing, from the rhythmic, familiar notes that marked time for the dancers’ warm-up, to the overture of the next production. Quickly, Natasha slipped on her blocked shoes, crossing and wrapping the ribbons about her ankles with practiced deftness. Her plain wool dress concealed a leotard and tights and her dark hair was tightly pinned up in a stark knot. Few appreciate the draconian discipline which forms the foundation of classical dance. Flushed with shame, she pushed open the door of the rehearsal room and took her place in the chorus, avoiding the fierce glare of the ballet master.
“Alors! Mademoiselle Ivanovich, you will see me after rehearsal!”
Natasha nodded at the short, balding man who fixed her with such a look of contempt that she almost imagined she might be turned to a heap of dust like the creatures of her dream.
“Oui, Monsieur Mortaille.”
Leaning casually upon the bar, Alex smiled at her confusion, at once amused and disdainful. His full mouth blew her the faintest semblance of a kiss, then he turned away, sweeping one arm through an elegant curve before dipping forwards in a theatrical stretch. Natasha watched the muscles of his back, each distinct beneath a thin cotton vest, as she knew he meant her to see him in his taunting, vain splendor. Suddenly, without a shadow of a doubt, she knew he would never again press his sensual lips to hers, nor push his impatient hardness between her yielding thighs. Goodbye was etched upon each haughty angle of the young man’s profile, stark as the inscription on a tomb.

“It may well be a false alarm, my child. You are rather gaunt – do you eat? I am no expert on female troubles but I do know starvation can cause the monthly flow to cease.”
They sat together in the slightly steamy atmosphere of a shabby café, a window table looking out at the cold, damp street. Everything was brown and gray – the tall, narrow buildings, zigzagged with a framework of iron fire escapes, the overcoats of the people hurrying by. Occasionally, a taxi-cab glared bright yellow in the gloom, the unexpected color almost hurting the eye. Monsieur Mortaille removed his hat and enclosed his cup of coffee in stiff, swollen hands.
“I am afflicted with rheumatics in the colder months. There is a herbalist in Chinatown who blends a remedy that helps. He may have an answer to your problem.”
“Thank you for your kindness.”
Natasha huddled inside her coat, the moist heat of the room unable to warm her, painfully aware of the scarlet imprint of her lipstick on the rim of her cup. The table-top was red too, red for blood, red for danger. Two lovers paused before the plate glass window, the young man’s hand briefly brushing his girl’s breast in a proprietary, daring gesture. They were dressed in gray, rain spattered, but the blonde girl’s lips were red. Laughing in conspiracy, they walked away, and, wearily, Natasha looked up into the ballet master’s eyes.
“I have been foolish, haven’t I?”
Monsieur Mortaille smiled, a myriad of laugh lines creasing his clean-shaven face. His eyes were as gray as the sidewalk outside, yet filled with light, the intense quality of a driven, perfectionist man.
“You are very young, Natasha, and therefore more than entitled to your mistake. But try to learn from it, please. There must be discipline in life and self-control. Without these qualities, all is chaos and waste. Discipline!”
Something in the tenor of his voice changed and she felt a strange stirring in her stomach, which seemed to fill with butterflies. With a sudden shock, she realized she was wet between the legs.
“Excuse me.”
Oh please let it have started!
Natasha fled to the washroom, glimpsing her pale, drawn face in the mirror above the basin as she closed the cubicle door. It took her some time to find the courage to tear off a few sheets of toilet tissue and blot the wetness. Bright scarlet blood stained the white paper. Relieved tears ran down her cheeks and she tasted salt. Swiftly, she made herself tidy, for once welcoming the dull ache that began to nag at the small of her back.
“Better now?”
Monsieur Mortaille had finished his coffee and was carefully drawing on his gloves. With a start, Natasha realized that he reminded her of the dwarf in her dream, yet it was she who must follow him, not the other way round. She collected her rehearsal case and primly replaced her hat and gloves. The ache in her back grew stronger, she would need some codeine if it did not abate. There was a drugstore across the road. As if reading her mind, the ballet master glanced out at the passing throng.
“I would like you to come with me to Chinatown, child. There are voids in your education that a pretty boy can’t fill. You comprehend? There is another world here. Indeed, there are many worlds, if you know where to look.”

Her name was May Chang and she wore a cheongsam of electric blue, dazzling against the faded bamboo-patterned walls. The room smelled musty, acrid sweat and sweet, cheap perfume, the cloying, stifling oiliness of deep fried food. Her room was above a noodle house, beyond the narrow window endless washing hung limp in a tangled cat’s cradle above the dirty alley below. A peculiarly ugly lamp sat on the night table, its yellow shade matched the high heeled sandals of the Chinese girl who sat on the end of her bed, a slight frown marring her doll-like face.
“She know what you like? She won’ tell?”
“Natasha won’t tell, May. Natasha is mine.”
“Ahh! You take slave, less cost than May.”
The girl began to laugh and Natasha knew that now she was adrift in the strangest dream of all. The ache in her back sent stabbing fingers down her thighs and gloved hands stroked her hair, then pushed her roughly to the floor. The thin, worn carpet offered little padding for her knees and she felt her stockings catch upon its roughened nap. She remembered the thinness of her thighs and the blood between her legs. May Chang’s calves were firm and golden brown before her face, slick with some heavy perfumed oil, and the tawdry straps of the yellow sandals crisscrossed slender feet with scarlet toes. The Chinese girl crossed her legs and leaned back slightly, taking her weight upon her arms, letting her hair slide sensuously down her back to skim her hips with its ebony sheen. Her eyes were closed, her red lips parted, wet and fleshy as the place between her legs. Mortaille’s gloved hands left Natasha’s head and found the other girl’s breasts, rubbing the shiny satin until large, hard nipples pushed against the tightly fitting cloth. May Chang began to moan, as strange and incoherent as if she were drugged. The hands grasped the sleeves of the dress and began to tear with a steady, controlled violence.
“Aaaaahhhh! My dress!”
The spell was broken, the Chinese girl’s eyes snapped open and she tried to wrest Mortaille’s fingers from the slippery cloth. Flimsy seams had parted readily, exposing the soft contours of her upper arms and the sleeves had become opera gloves. She was furious, black eyes bright and hard in her painted face.
“You get new dress for May!”
Mortaille laughed softly, then, to Natasha’s horror, he slapped the girl hard upon one powdered cheek. Slowly, she slid backwards on the bed, kicking her sandals off, clasping her tormentor’s head, drawing him down to kiss her hard upon her mouth, as if such abuse was the customary prelude to their love. Roughly, he tore the skintight bodice from her full, firm breasts and straddled her chest, forcing his swollen shaft between her painted lips. It was then that Natasha noticed the parasol.
Just like the one in my dream!
The cloth was gay, a riotous blaze of scarlet, gold and clear sky blue, depicting a scene of dragons, winding snake-like about besieged pagodas. Natasha almost imagined she could see tiny frantic faces at the windows of the elaborate towers. The handle of the parasol was slender yet intricately carved, repeating the theme of the coiling dragon in ivory. The parasol was propped against an aged dresser, half-opened, its dramatic silk folds drooped languidly in the airless room. Suddenly, Mortaille groaned and the Chinese girl cried out beneath his thrusting hips. He moved away, revealing her ravaged face, streaked and smeared with a glistening blend of lip rouge and semen. Looking down at her, he pressed one gloved thumb against her lips, spreading the remnants of her scarlet mouth onto her chin with a single abusive gesture. Smiling disdainfully, he looked back at Natasha, still kneeling at the foot of the tangled bed.
“This is what I do with whores, child. Now, what shall I do with you?”
Slowly, as if dazed, May Chang sat up, allowing the fine black curtain of her hair to fall across her face, concealing the mess Mortaille had left. Unsteadily, she padded to the sink in one corner of the room and ran the tap full-tilt into the stained, cracked bowl. Shakily, she began to dab at her mouth with a washcloth. Natasha met the girl’s gaze in the glass above the sink, and her heart began to pound as Mortaille gestured to the bed and the rumpled scene of May Chang’s rape. The base of her spine ached dully as she crawled upon the sullied sheets, feeling the sadist’s hands upon her again, turning her so she lay face-up, staring at the yellowed ceiling of the tiny room. Swiftly, he pulled the cotton case from one of the pillows and placed it over Natasha’s head so she could see no more. A white cloud seemed to have descended over her, a cloud which smelled of sweat and semen and cheap perfume. Gloved hands pushed her knees apart and long nails caressed the inside contours of her thighs. There was a faint clicking sound, a silken rustle, then something hard and cool was placed against the expanse of skin above her stocking top.
“I’m bleeding…”
Her voice sounded impotent in the half-light of the cotton shroud and she bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t spoken. The rigid coolness found the hem of her panties and began to push against it, easing itself beneath the elasticated edge. Deft, warm fingers began to trace the modest contours of her breasts and she thought of her thinness, wished for curves and lush voluptuous flesh. May Chang had large breasts for an Asian girl.
“Master not care if you bleed. He make you bleed anyway.”
The silky fingers reached beneath her sweater and caressed her nipples through her tiny brassiere. It was a ridiculous undergarment, like a twelve year old’s first bra. She could easily go without, but decorum dictated she seek support. Her breasts tingled, almost seemed to swell beneath the girl’s appraising hands. The hard shaft of the parasol handle found her vagina and Mortaille pushed it in, twisting and turning the carved ivory rod.
“Mmm! Bet that feel real good.”
Natasha could not speak and one gloved hand had caught her wrists together, holding them up so May Chang could bind them to the iron frame of the bed. Her sweater was pushed up and over the silly bra, causing a flush of embarrassment to stain the young girl’s neck.
“I think we can do without this.”
There was a harsh tearing sound and the flimsy undergarment was wrenched from her breasts, leaving them exposed to the still air of the room. Warm, sticky lips nuzzled her aureoles. Despite her fear, Natasha felt her nipples harden and she finally cried out as the ribbed carving of the ivory shaft found her clitoris and began to massage it. A hot, wet mouth descended over one nipple, suckling feverishly, and she felt her flesh swell to fill May Chang’s mouth.
“Aah! She like May. She like girls, Master.”
“Better than pretty boys. Isn’t that correct, Natasha?”
“Yes, sir.”
She had never had an orgasm before, kept quiet when the girls whispered and giggled of “that feeling”. She had not known what that feeling was until now, had merely lain still and open for her haughty partner’s brief thrustings. Moaning, she ground her gamine hips against the ivory rod, straining against her bonds, thighs wide open for the ballet master as her body finally came to life.
“Take off her hood.”
At the brink of her ecstasy, May Chang pulled the pillowcase from Natasha’s head and Mortaille abruptly tugged the parasol handle from the young girl’s cunt. He smiled cruelly at his captive’s plight, as she squirmed upon the bed, grinding her body in abject frustration, tears beginning to glisten in the corners of her eyes.
“But why?”
Mortaille gestured to the sink in the corner of the room.
“Get her washed, May. I want to take some pictures. You will get your reward when you’ve done some pretty posing, little girl. May has a lovely dress-up box, just you wait and see.”
“Come with me. Don’ make Master wait.”
Numbly, Natasha allowed the Chinese girl to lead her to the sink. Scalding water surged into the cracked basin and she let May Chang undress her, felt the shredded remnants of her bra fall to the floor with her sweater and skirt. Her panties were gently eased to her ankles and she stepped out of them, flushing as scarlet as the blood soaked pad. The Chinese girl hastily bundled the panties to one side and swiftly creamed up her washcloth with jasmine scented soap. Natasha stood in her stockings and garter belt, first flinching at the heat from the steaming cloth between her legs, then relaxing into the intimate toilet session. May Chang’s hand felt good between her thighs and she sighed when the other girl finished her job and began to rummage in a wash-bag by the sink.
“I give you tampon. Much better than pad. There. That better!”
It was inconceivable that she was here in this squalid room, squatting to perform such intimate acts before Mortaille, who merely sat upon the bed and watched, as if it was his right to observe her most private moments. He seemed to read her mind and smiled.
“Suitably humiliated? Good. Then let’s begin. Undo her hair, May, and find her some heels.”
“Nice hair.”
May Chang murmured as she unpinned the heavy chignon which was already partly loosened by the afternoon’s events.
“I brush, make soft.”
It felt so good to let the Chinese girl groom her waist-length tresses to a glowing sheen and she felt her nipples tingle at the voluptuous feel of the deft hands on her hair. Suddenly, completely helpless, she shivered violently, a rich crop of goose flesh creeping down her spine. May Chang giggled and pushed her magnificent breasts against Natasha’s back.
“She like May. Maybe wanna eat May.”
Again, she giggled and, sweeping Natasha’s hair to one side, she pressed a sensuous kiss on the young girl’s neck.
“Oh! Oh, please…”
“High heels, May, and a good coat of lip rouge, then dress off and up onto the bed. You can play later.”
“Yes, Master.”
Suddenly submissive, the Chinese girl drew a trunk from beneath the bed and opened it to reveal a tangled mess of gaudy lingerie and shoes. She rummaged for a few seconds then pulled out a pair of scarlet stilettos.
“Put these on.”
The shoes had improbably high, spiked heels, narrow, pointed toes and were fastened with narrow straps about the ankle. To Natasha’s surprise, they fitted perfectly and she tottered to the bed, barely able to stand in the precipitous footwear. She sat on the edge of the bed, letting May Chang paint her lips with thick, scarlet lip rouge. Something had changed, something deep within her. She felt like a woman. Again, Mortaille appeared to read her mind.
“You just needed to be used, Natasha, brought out of that prim little shell. You did not think you were still a virgin but you were, ‘til you met me. Kneel on the bed, girls, and finger one another’s cunts. Arch your spine a little, Natasha, to show off those little tits to best advantage. Don’t be ashamed of them, for they’ll still be pert when bigger girl’s breasts have dropped to their knees. That’s it. Now, rub your tits together, girls, and frig like crazy. Excellent. Stay very still while I get my camera.”
“Yes, yes, yes…”
May Chang’s saliva-moistened fingers had captured Natasha’s clitoris and in response the young girl’s hand cupped the damp place between her Asian partner’s perfumed thighs. What had smelled harsh and acrid-cheap, now seemed alluring, voluptuous, bewitching. Natasha blinked slightly as a dazzling flash illuminated the tiny room. She wanted to taste the dripping cleft between the other girl’s legs. She wanted to suck on those big, bold tits. The flash exploded again and again, catching them in various lewd and libidinous postures, pouting prettily, hungrily kissing one another’s glossy mouths, artfully draped with each other’s hair, nuzzling, suckling nipples, licking the insides of sweat-sticky thighs… Finally, the ballet master laid down the camera.
“Let her come now, May. You’ve both been good girls for Daddy.”
“Spread you legs wide you can.”
May Chang pushed Natasha down onto her back, and she opened herself to the Chinese girl’s mouth, feeling an impossibly delicious hot velvety wetness surround her clit. It was too intensely pleasurable to bear for more than a few seconds. She screamed in ecstasy as her orgasm finally broke, powerful, pulsing, rhythmic waves of bliss fluttering against the other girl’s tongue. May Chang smiled, gratified.
“Sweet pussy. Nice.”
Natasha looked up in time to see Mortaille standing over them. Swiftly, he pumped his swollen shaft, abruptly spurting a shower of creamy droplets over her upturned face.
“No more pretty boys for Natasha. I’m going to rename you Kitten, by the way, because you are such a sweet little pussy. No more pretty boys for Kitten. Just bad girls and wicked old men.”
May Chang laughed and this time, Natasha joined her, happily drenched in the blended juices of the afternoon’s games.

Alex stared at the sensuous creature which swayed dreamily into the rehearsal room the next morning, strangely poised and soignee. What had she done to herself? Her hair was the same as ever, untinted, her make-up unchanged. Yet there was something new about the girl, an interesting quality he must have overlooked. He raised one hand in a languid greeting only to see her glance away, greeting old Mortaille with the sweetest smile. Bitch! He would teach her to pay more respect. What could she want with that grizzled old dwarf? The ballet master was shorter than she was, for heaven’s sake! It was ridiculous, inconceivable. Alex blinked. Gracefully, Natasha crossed the room, taking her place before Alex at the bar. Slowly, thoughtfully, she swept one arm through a perfect curve, casting a brief disdainful glance over her shoulder.
“I hate rats.”
Alex blanched.
“I beg your pardon?”
But Natasha only smiled and bent down to fasten the ribbon on her shoe.

Indulge yourself...

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Goodness Had Nothing To Do With It...

Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth - The Lady from Shanghai

"The problem with people who have no vices is that generally you can be pretty sure they're going to have some pretty annoying virtues."

Elizabeth Taylor

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Incident on Wardour Street

I didn’t sleep well the night everything changed. It might have been an oppressive August night, the way I tossed and turned, casting off the bedcovers, a fine sheen of perspiration making my nylon nightdress stick to my flesh. In the boarding house where I rented a room, all was still, almost peculiarly quiet, as if the inhabitants were waiting, scarcely daring to breathe, all meekly lined up in their mean narrow beds in the dreary musty smelling rooms. We knew—but what did we know? At three a.m. there was a tremendous explosion of light outside, illuminating the city skyline, turning the dark late autumn night a piercing metallic silver. My curtains were drawn, but the heavy cloth was turned to mere gauze by the bright intensity. A triangle of shimmering quicksilver appeared on my bedsit wall and I stared at it for some minutes, too afraid to leave my bed. There were two voices in my head—reason, which suggested a fearful explosion, a towering conflagration at some local place of industry, perhaps Battersea Power Station—and another insidious voice that whispered of Armageddon. I reached for my Bible, which lay on the bedside table, then stopped as the dazzling triangle seemed to intensify and grow. Something within me, some reckless urge or desire to conquer fear, made me slowly get out of bed and cross the room to the wall with the triangle of light. The sky outside had returned to darkness tinged with London’s streetlight glow and I looked at the window coverings, trying to ascertain what chinks in the curtains could be making the triangle form on the wall. Again and again, I looked from the window to the wall, the reasonable voice in my mind telling me, in calm, measured tones, that there had to be a gap in the old brocade cloth, a space between the top of the curtain and the rod where the light (what light since the massive explosion had passed?) could insinuate itself and form a projection on the wall. But there isn’t a gap. There is no way that light should be there, no way at all. I don’t understand. As if in a dream, I reached out and touched the apex of the triangle which glowed with a dense kind of light I had never witnessed before, as if it were concentrated, intense. The moment my fingertips met the wall the triangle disappeared.
I decided to take the next day off work, couldn’t face the thought of another eight hours at the office, typing endless letters as my mind burned with the memory of the strange triangle of light. I hadn’t slept but lay curled up in bed, with the covers pulled up over my head, like a child with night terrors. A day’s window-shopping on Oxford Street, that was the thing to take my mind off the event. I washed and dressed quickly, then made myself a cup of tea. And maybe I’d go to Carnaby Street in Soho, where the trendsetters shopped and pick up some groovy ideas for my next dressmaking project. I just needed to get out of the house.
“The end of the world is nigh! Repent now or burn forever in the fires of hell!”
I flinched as I passed the bearded old man who preached hellfire and damnation near the entrance to my local Underground station. His half-crazed and bloodshot eyes glittered maniacally as he thumped his worn old Bible and accosted the passing crowds who’d heard it all before. Descending into the bowels of the earth on a creaking escalator, I felt as if I had entered the Inferno. The framed adverts on the walls showed details of “18 hour girdles” and stomach powders, reassuringly prosaic. I bought a ticket to Leicester Square. The underground station really did feel like Hades but it wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed my mind. I walked briskly though the narrow, low-ceilinged passage that led to the eastbound platform. It was nothing more than a small tiled tunnel. I loathed being there in rush hour, when hordes of people pushed their way through it like rabbits in a warren. Out on the platform a warm rush of stale air announced the arrival of the next train. I pressed my back against the wall and saw the glowing triangle, clear and sharp in my mind’s eye, as if it had been burned onto my brain.
It was apparent that a sense of vague unease gripped the city. The morning newspapers had printed reassuring stories of a brief freak lightning storm and the resulting power cuts caused when a strike knocked out a major transmission line. So lucky most of us were asleep, comforted the Standard. But people were talking on the journey to Tottenham Court Road, recounting tales of odd things seen and felt, always fuzzily indistinct, as if they were trying to recall the swiftly fading details of a dream. Something had changed—but what? Everything seemed unchanged. I listened, silently, to snippets of conversation. No one mentioned a triangle of light.
At Tottenham Court Road, I realized that a young man was following me.
“Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Freak electrical storm causes chaos!”
A newspaper vendor’s cry broke through my preoccupation and I bought a copy from a kiosk.
“Hardly chaos.”
The man was level with me, staring at a window full of elegantly clad mannequins. I froze, my heart beginning to beat like a drum. Behind the plate glass, six plastic girls in Courreges mini-dresses smiled rather vapidly.
“Those skirts are nice and short, aren’t they?”
What a wonderful day to attract a pervert! I turned away, clutching my newspaper, but the man grasped me by the arm and spoke softly and insistently in my ear.
“I know, Miss Blythe. I know everything. Don’t be afraid.”
His fingers brushed against my breast, whether deliberately or not I could not be sure but the sensation was profound, even when muffled by my sweater and coat.
“How do you know my name? I’ll scream!”
“Oh, don’t be melodramatic, Cathy. You have to come with me.”
Suddenly angry, I turned to face the man, quite prepared to hit him with my handbag if necessary. He was around my own age, mid twenties, and had short, curly black hair. His skin was dusky and he wore heavy rimmed spectacles with tortoiseshell frames. He wore a brown corduroy suit and carried a large umbrella. There was something about his eyes, a fierce, penetrating quality that made me glance away. They were the pale grey blue of a Siamese cat.
“I know what you’ve seen, Cathy. You’ve been selected.”
I began to walk away, catching sight of myself in the mirrored entrance of a jeweller’s shop. I looked a little dowdy, my skirt unfashionably long, but my sleek bobbed hairstyle looked “happening”. My eyes were like a fawn’s, wide with indignation, thick-lashed and heavily outlined with kohl.
“You look like a suburban Cleopatra. I’m David. Have coffee with me and I’ll explain.”
“A silvery triangle of light.”
We sat at a red Formica table in the window of a café on Wardour Street. Steam from our frothy coffees drifted in the cooking fat-scented air. The newspaper lay on the tabletop, its headlines screaming “Freak Storm Hits City”. David’s hand was on my thigh. I knew I should protest but his eyes were so commanding…
“I tried to touch it but it disappeared.”
“Of course.”
My voice sounded strangely distant, as if I were about to faint. There was a rushing in my ears. David’s eyes were very pale and blue and cat-like, expressionless.
“I tried to touch it.”
Strong fingers caressed my thigh. I could see the glowing triangle. It was embedded within my memory, perfectly clear. When I looked at the young man it seemed to be burned into his forehead just above his empty eyes. There was a sharp pricking sensation in my leg.
“I tried…”
When I woke, I found myself in a shop window. It was impossible to see which street the shop was on as the glass had been obliterated with white paint. My body ached and my head hurt quite badly. With a sudden jolt of shock I realized I was semi-undressed, lying on a narrow divan bed wearing just my bra and panties. The window space was decorated for Christmas, a scarlet and gold tableau of The Nutcracker. I lay on a bedspread of fake ermine.
“Good afternoon, Miss Blythe.”
A hollow, amplified voice issued from beyond the wall of the window space. I tried to sit up but felt horribly dizzy. He had drugged me, that young man with the strange pale eyes. How could I have been so foolish? My head span and I thought of white slavers. The disembodied voice continued.
“If you please, remove your brassiere.”
My heart leapt in my chest. I had met David in Soho, an area well-known for its seedy underbelly. He had brought me to some den of iniquity. Maybe he was going to sell me. But what was the window setting for? I was to be a nude live mannequin? I forced myself to sit, a series of sharp pains shooting through my head. Again, I saw the glowing triangle. It seemed to be floating a few inches from my face. When I closed my eyes, it was every bit as bright and clear.
“You have been selected, Miss Blythe. Remove your brassiere.”
I looked about the narrow, crowded space, searching for the door. There didn’t appear to be one.
“There is no way out. Do not waste your strength. Take off your bra.”
I thought of risqué photographs of myself, naked on a fur-draped divan, turning up on posters for seedy gentlemen’s clubs. What would they call me? Miss Fifi? That triangle. Oh God… The voice continued to issue instructions in a flat, expressionless tone, almost like an automaton. It was hard to believe a human spoke to me. The triangle began to spin, slowly at first, then it steadily picked up speed. I could not avoid looking at it, for it was there, no matter whether I had my eyes open or shut. It reminded me of something but I could not think what. Its pure intensity was dazzling. White heat scorched my brain, like gazing at the sun. I’m going to go blind, I thought, then I must have lost consciousness.
“You see what happens when you do not comply.”
It was a statement, not a question. I fumbled towards awareness with the hollow, cold tones of the voice ringing in my ears. Cool air rushed over my naked breasts. They had removed my brassiere. Involuntarily, I crossed my arms over my chest. My nipples felt hot, hard and strangely sticky.
“Uncover your breasts or the adhesive substance on your nipples will bond immediately to the flesh of your arms.”
I moved and my nipples stretched painfully as a few strands of a clear syrupy material stuck to my forearms. It was the consistency of newly boiled toffee. It burned. I watched in horror as it began to cool and form a thick glass-like coating over my nipples. How would I ever get that off? Within a few seconds, my nipples were diamond hard, swollen to several times their normal size and bright scarlet.
“Very nice, Miss Blythe. Very nice indeed.”
I looked down at my breasts. It had to be a dream, some drug-induced hallucination. I could not take it seriously. I had always rather liked my breasts. They were not very full but stood up perkily, the fat silky nipples pointing upwards. The perky quality had been greatly accentuated by the clear coating. Someone could easily use them for coat-pegs. I started to giggle helplessly, as if I’d been given laughing gas.
“Excellent, Miss Blythe. Now, remove your panties.”
I gasped. Was it all some wild erotic dream? My fingers strayed to the waistband of my panties. What would happen if they put the glass-like stuff down there? I hesitated.
“Remove your panties.”
The disembodied voice was relentless. Hot tears pricked at my eyes as I fumbled with the frilly nylon undergarment. Mortified, I eased the panties over my hips and down my thighs, slowly revealing a triangle of dark hair.
“Remove them completely.”
My cheeks were damp as I slid the panties over my calves and discarded them on the floor of the compartment.
“Excellent, Miss Blythe. Now lie on your back and spread your legs as wide as you can.”
Biting my bottom lip, I obeyed, unable to see an alternative to giving the unseen tormentor what he wanted. Perhaps obedience would buy me some time, some chance of escaping from whatever den of iniquity I had been kidnapped into. The fur bedcover felt incredibly soft and warm beneath my naked skin as I lay, arms stretched above my head and thighs parted, fully exposing my most private parts. It was at that moment I realized that the triangle of light had disappeared and the space was oddly silent, as if it was a vacuum. I closed my eyes and tried not to panic, terrifying imagery of being buried alive laying siege to my mind. Was it my imagination or had the “shop window” suddenly become more stifling?
When I opened my eyes, a clear patch had appeared in the white-painted plate glass before me. I watched in a blend of horror and fascination as it spread, created by a graceful female hand with long scarlet nails. The hand continued to remove the paint with a rag, using circular movements. Eventually, an arm was visible, then part of a torso, until a tall blonde woman wearing a very short almost toga-like red dress appeared on the other side of the glass. Beyond her, instead of a street or even the inside of some seedy Soho club, there was, of all things, a large shower compartment. A second woman, a brunette dressed in black, was examining the head of the shower, and looked incongruous as if ready to go to a cocktail party. I could vaguely hear the heels of her stilettos clicking on the tiled floor of the shower.
“And now, Miss Blythe, it’s time for your shower.”
The voice made me jump. This time it was a female voice yet it didn’t appear to be issuing from either of the women on the other side of the glass. There was a grating sound and the entire window slid sideways. The toga-clad blonde stretched out her hands to me. When I took them they were as cold as ice.
“Come with me.”
My legs shook uncontrollably as I moved from the divan and climbed awkwardly through the window space. Now I was in a strange clinical space, all white tiles and a smell that reminded me of a combination of hospital and something else, something very familiar that I couldn’t quite place, an odd sweetish chemical scent. The blonde led me towards the shower cubicle where the brunette waited, a vapid smile on her pretty face. A shower would be quite pleasant after everything I’d endured. It didn’t seem that it could possibly remove the crystalline substance on my nipples, however. The hard coating was pinching and I felt partly aroused and partly angry at what “they” had done to me. Was I to be part of some kind of freak show? The chemical scent was strong within the shower cubicle. The brunette stepped aside and gently maneuvered me under the head, angling it to suit my height.
“There. Stand still, please.”

She stepped outside and closed the frosted glass door. I stood, feeling strangely happy, waiting for the lovely warm water, the elegant tiles cool beneath the soles of my feet. Idly, I watched the blurred shapes of the two women moving beyond the frosted glass, one black, one red, doing what I could not tell. The chemical smell grew stronger still and, finally, I realized what it reminded me of. It was the sweet smell of PVC, the soft plastic that toys are made of.
It was then that the shower started and I gasped as what was not water but a thick viscous pink liquid began to pour over my naked body.
And now I stand in a shop window on Carnaby Street. Completely encased in plastic like a life-size doll, watching the crowds go by. Imprisoned in a full-body cast, I gaze out at the world through tinted glass eyes. My diamond-hard nipples push against the dress of the day, inviting stares and ribald laughs from young men who crouch to look up my fashionably mini skirt. I cannot move unless the window-dresser manipulates my arthritic limbs. I am, to all purposes, dead and yet, horror of horrors, still I live…

Saturday, June 25, 2011

The Ensnaring Of Susan

Indulge in a copy...

Ticket to seduction! Following the loss of her mother, Susan decides to leave home and make her own way in the world. Adrift in a gloomy impoverished existence, she encounters a charismatic stranger who gives her a free ticket to a hypnotist’s show. In a strange and terrifying series of events, the young woman is kidnapped into the luxurious lifestyle she has always dreamed of, given a stunning new look and renamed April. The price of this makeover is Susan’s virginity and total submission to her captor’s cruel desires. Her life descends into a whirlpool of erotic discipline, punctuated by such humiliations as being spanked by a stranger and seduced by two prostitutes. She is a beautiful human doll, dressed to thrill in six inch heels, and totally under her master’s powerful mind control. But what happens to Susan when her owner goes too far in his thirst for her sexual submission? Should she run away and return to a world that doesn’t care? Or can a strange kind of love save the day?

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

The Red Velvet Gloves

I’m sitting in front of my bedroom mirror, the beautiful nineteen twenties one with the age-spotted gilt curlicues. Although it’s November I’m naked but for a pair of red velvet gloves. My skin, bathed by the softness of candlelight, is very white. I concentrate on the gloves, crossing my arms over my breasts in an elegant retro pose. They belonged to my great aunt Sylvia, who was an actress on the stage. The velvet has a musty, dusty quality. I couldn’t bear to have the gloves cleaned. It would be like exorcism, sweeping away the lingering ghosts of faded perfume and a long-lost glamour. Opera gloves. Clothing the arm from fingertip to above the elbow, they are an erotic accessory. When I ease them on, insinuate myself into them, they reward me with their sensual caress. I shiver in response, my nipples firming in the cool air of the room, as if a phantom lover has stroked my arms from wrist to shoulder with smooth, arousing hands. The gloves are lined with silk.

Sometimes I sleep in my gloves and the dreams that call on me are wild. I time travel to another place and era, Victorian, Edwardian or just before the second world war. Arch gentlemen in fine evening dress stand over me, their whiskers bristling, poised to loosen my corset stays and have their wicked way with me, a lady of the night. I always acquiesce, allow them to unlace, unhook and cup my large soft breasts in their kid-gloved hands. The place between my thighs is very warm and very wet, slick with the honey of desire. The men are like bees, unerringly drawn to me. I am the hive.

Girls too, I dream of girls. Chorus girls, naughty girls, escapees from finishing schools, all moist pussied and plump breasted as pheasants. They lick me with their small pink tongues and I writhe, opening my honey pot wide, dipping my fingers in and moaning “taste me”. Cherry lips, some rouged some natural fruit, kiss and nibble at my pert pink nipples. Satin cushioned mouths press all over my sweet ivory skin. Kiss, lick. Kiss, lick. I writhe, writhe, writhe…

Men and girls together. The fine gentlemen with their brandy breath and their cigar scent take me on their broadcloth laps and unhook me for the girls’ pleasure. “Lick her honey” they command and smile knowingly as a bevy of buxom beauties surround me, their mouths fixed on my ankles, my calves, my knees, my thighs. The men expose my breasts, my wicked dripping cunt and the girls dive in, exclamations of glee, all flowers and lace and ribbons and sweet, hot tongues. I shriek in ecstasy as they squabble over my clit, taking turns to capture my bursting bud. Warm, moist lips, kiss, lick, kiss, lick. Writhing, lashing tongues like little snakes, freshly spawned from the garden of Eden. I’m coming. Oh please, I’m coming…

In my dreams, I’m on the stage, powdered and perfumed and tight-laced and high-heeled. Powerful in my restraint, I sing, high and sweet, my fat sweet breasts oozing like whipped cream from an éclair above the tiny bodice of my gown. The men are entranced. I watch their mesmerized faces in the jaundiced glow of the gas lights. Their whiskers bristle with lust. I sway my beribboned hips and smile, a sweet cherry rouged pout. I’m keeping myself for the chorus girls. Kiss, lick, cheap scent and giggling mouths hovering over my swollen tits. Lick me, Lily and Rose, leave luscious snail trails of saliva all over my white, smooth flesh. Seek out my secret passage, velvety, musky, edged in sable girl-fur, beneath the chaos of frothing petticoats. Push your tongues in, right in, to the hilt. Both of you, both of you. My gloved hands on your busy, bobbing heads and I’m coming… I’m coming…

More, more, more. The gloves are magic gloves, bringing men and girls to me, men to worship and unhook and watch, gasping, swallowing, amazed, girls to lick and kiss. Kiss, lick. Sticky, honey pot mouths. More. I’m greedy as a cuckoo in a blackbird’s nest. My thighs are always open, a wet, perfumed tunnel. Burrow into me, I invite. I lie back on rich brocade cushions and the men take my neatly booted ankles and whisk them up, up, up, over my head. I’m as open as I can be. Not just my pussy but my little pink rosebud, the taboo place, open and exposed, vulnerable to the swarming girls. What will they do. My face is awash with lace from my surging sea of petticoats. I feel the mouths gather like little fish, nibbling on my coral. Their velvety lips surround my clit then retreat. I hear them whisper. “Lick her top and bottom” instruct the men, maintaining a steady hold on my feet. I feel like a piece of game, strung up from the kill. A white fox.

Kiss, lick. The unseen faces press into my cunt, sucking. Sensation swirls in my vulva like a whirlpool of pleasure. I’m being drawn in and down and around. I feel wisps of curled hair, bobbing ribbons and feathers, chorus girl trappings tickling and teasing my tormented flesh. I want to come. Like a tide, they advance and retreat. “Get her worked up” state the men, still holding me up like a helpless creature. I adore the suspense. The girls do as they wish, ignoring the men. They lick, they kiss. Sometimes, I sense that they pause from their sweet musky meal and suck each other’s tongues, tasting my juice by proxy, exchanging my flavor back and forth. Back and forth, in and out, kiss, lick, suck. Tongues plunge in my pussy then retreat to dance about my rosebud anus. I am wet from clit to ass. Open and wet. I belong to the girls as I’m held by the men. I love it. I am their sweet, ripe supper and I come, I come, I come…

The gloves shimmer softly in the gentle light from the flickering candle. I gaze at my reflection in my great aunt’s mirror. My nipples are hard and my pussy is slick. In my glove-bewitched dreams, I am a honey pot for girls and worshipped by men in a time long since past, far away, intriguing yet elusive as the faded wraith of perfume on crimson velvet.