Saturday, May 28, 2011
It’s a short, basic word but one that offers such pleasure. I love to use this word when I address you. I love to sit at your feet and caress your long strong thighs with my fingertips and whisper it. Please may I pour you a glass of wine? Please may I unbutton your shirt, exposing your smooth firm chest? Please may I lick your nipples until they stand out, pushing insistently against my tongue? Please?
I don’t want to order you around. I have no desire for equality if it means we are somehow neutered, de-clawed, made politically correct. I love to dress up for you, high heels and stockings and heady French perfume. I love to sit on your knee and feel your warm breath on my shoulders as you kiss my soft white skin. You make me feel like the woman I was born to be, uncompromisingly feminine, potent in my weakness, alive with love.
I kneel at your feet, wearing my collar, corset and retro silk stockings. You are sipping the wine I brought you, taking your time, relaxing at the end of the day. You tell me to dance for you. Carefully I rise, trembling with anticipation and the height of my stiletto shoes. I turn my back to you and begin to sway a little, moving my hips to my inner beat. I can feel your eyes on me, closely observing the way I push my bottom towards you. My body belongs to you. You can do anything you like with it. I am entirely at your command.
“Put some music on. Something slow and sensual.”
I nod and crouch to slip a disc into the CD player. Music with a Middle Eastern rhythm fills the air. The candles on the table flicker and shadows dance across the wall. I begin to sway again, gradually, steadily increasingly the circle of my hips until I resemble a belly dancer. In my mind’s eye I imagine a strong, buxom dark-skinned girl with waist-length hair and beautiful full breasts. I channel this image, become the dancer.
“Mm, I like it.”
You always make me feel so good about myself and that’s why I find it so easy to please you. I undulate my body like a snake and drop to the floor. I love to take my clothes off for you. The music rises and falls as I tease you, playing with the straps of my bra. One by one I slide them from my shoulders and then replace them, smiling coyly like a girl in an old-fashioned glamour shoot. I roll across the carpet and lift my arms above my head, pushing my breasts up and out, loving being a voluptuous and wanton slut. You take another sip of wine and I wonder if your cock is hard. I think of slipping its smooth head between my lips and worshipping it.
“Good girl. You’re beautiful. Now take off your bra. You’ve teased me long enough.”
I am always so happy when you praise me. Obediently, I unfasten myself and let my breasts swing free. Your breathing alters and I know that you’re aroused. I cup my lush boobs in my hands and arch my spine. I offer myself to you, my body a vessel for your pleasure.
“Please,” I whisper, my pussy wet. “Please will you take me to bed?”
You look down at me, a smile flickering on your lips.
“Soon. Take your panties off and get on your hands and knees. Such a whore deserves a good spanking.”
My heart begins to beat faster as I ease my panties down my thighs and slip them off. I adopt the position you say and I push my bottom in the air, delirious with arousal. My shaven pussy is a silky slippery cleft. Your hand rests on my bottom, pats it lightly and then moves away. It’s your turn to tease me now. I always get exactly what I deserve.
“Put your head down and raise your hips up. Higher. That’s it. Perfect. God, you look like such a wonderful slut.”
There’s no irony in my response. To be called a slut is the highest compliment. I concentrate on doing exactly as I am told, in being a good girl, a whore who lives only to please the one who owns her. This is my life’s dream and I eagerly drink it like champagne.
Your fingers return to my bottom and trace delicate figure of eights on my quivering buttocks. I moan softly and try to wriggle my hips so your fingers touch my clit but you outwit my movements every time.
“Keep still. If you’re good, you’ll get what you want.”
I stop wriggling and try not to clench in frustration. I know the pleasure will be greater for being delayed. My pussy is slick. I concentrate on presenting myself as requested.
The palm of your hand makes short sharp contact with my vulnerable bottom.
I cry out more in surprise than pain. I know this will not be a hard spanking, just a little reminder of my place in life. I willingly submit. You spank me until my bottom is warm and no doubt quite pink. My cheeks quiver slightly with every spank and my boobs swing free and jiggle in time. I think of an adult film we watched very recently, full of girls with beautiful natural breasts. I sat on your lap afterwards and shook my tits for you, your own private dancer. It turned me on beyond belief.
Back on the floor, my face is against the carpet and my behind is raised high, a humiliating pose. You have finished spanking me and you relax back in your chair. I hear you take another drink of wine.
“You’ll stay down there, just like that, until I say it’s time to move. Understand?”
“Yes,” I say, blissful with happiness. “Yes. Yes, please.”
Monday, May 2, 2011
I initially created my short story, The Perfect Girl, in an appropriately old-fashioned medium, scribbled longhand on a stack of lined writing paper. The steampunk genre was new to me but fascinating – a pastiche of pseudo-Victorian imagery complete with elements of Conan Doyle and Jules Verne, high adventure with anachronistic gadgetry. In The Perfect Girl a gentleman brings a mysterious veiled young lady to Mrs James’ high-class bordello. He appears to be instructing her in the pleasures of the flesh, keen to mould her to his ideal of erotic perfection. The unfolding scene is described by earthy, witty “Crepe de Chine”, a whore who, like all whores, is not quite as she seems. But neither is the willowy young lady who issues not a sound and submissively complies with her master’s somewhat eclectic instructions…
The room was very quiet and rapidly becoming stiflingly hot. Victoria withdrew, stumbling slightly on the fringe of the thick Turkey rug. Mr Friday caught her arm to steady her and again she nodded, a small, curt inclination of her head. I wondered what was next as he referred to his watch again. My breasts and pussy throbbed, fully aroused but painfully neglected. I needed release. Perhaps he was observing the effects of intense stimulus followed by deprivation on the common or garden bordello slut. I tossed my curls and moved my hands towards my quim. I could smell myself, an intoxicating mix of strong musk and lily of the valley scent. It wouldn’t take much to send me over the edge of pleasure… I thought of the wide voluptuous mouth behind the modesty veil. I imagined full moist lips against my fat shiny bud, teasing, kissing, licking, sucking, bringing me to the climax of my twenty years. But no.
The Perfect Girl appears in Carnal Machines, an anthology of steampunk themed erotica just published by Cleis Press.
Order a copy direct from the publisher
Explore the online journals of other Carnal Machines authors in a Grand Tour:
May 1 D. L. King
May 2 Teresa Noelle Roberts
May 3 Kathleen Bradean
May 4 Jay Lawrence - you are here
May 5 Kannan Feng
May 6 Essemoh Teepee
May 7 Elizabeth Schechter
May 8 Delilah Devlin
May 9 Tracey Shellito
May 10 Renee Michaels
May 11 Elias St. James
May 12 Lisabet Sarai
May 13 Janine Ashbless
May 14 Poe von Page
The Perfect Girl is a light-hearted variation on the Greek myth of Pygmalion, the inspiration for My Fair Lady via the earlier work of playwright George Bernard Shaw. Pygmalion was a sculptor who fell in love with a statue he created from ivory. As I have a particular interest in Victorian London and the role of women “on the edge of society” I decided to set the story in a brothel. Those interested in exploring this world should read The French Lieutenant’s Woman by John Fowles, which is both an historical romance and a social comment of the time.