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.

Monday, June 20, 2011

The Fiendish Miss Blow

The blonde glanced over her shoulder as she left the underground station, her small, slender body melting into the milling crowds on Wardour Street. ‘It’d be a crime to lose her in more ways than one’ thought Dixon Frost, as he followed her, his presence as unremarkable as the steady rain that issued from the gray London sky. He was a nondescript forty-something man in a brown suit and tortoiseshell glasses, interchangeable with a million others. His plainness suited his task. A mere hour before, he had been assigned a monumental mission. Catch a dangerous informant, a woman whose careless talk was costing lives and nourishing deadly Nazi plans.
Why are spies so alluring?
The thought caught him off guard. Veronica Blow. At five foot two, she was positively short, but what she lacked in stature, she made up for with a reputation for sex that could rival Moll Flanders. Carter of MI5 had warned Frost about Miss Blow’s sultry charms. ‘She’s like a snake, old man. Let her wrap her glittering coils about you and you’ve had it. You’ll depart with the business end of a Luger nestled under your ribs.’
But she’s only a woman.
Frost moved through the crowd, his eyes fixed on the sensuous, dangerous back of Miss Blow. They were in Chinatown. Some of the buildings were brightly painted, embellished with gold and red and green. Signs in indecipherable Cantonese advertised restaurants and shops and clubs. The hordes thinned, became largely oriental, rapidly exposing the young white woman in the tight gray suit. Miss Blow was as fearless as her record suggested. Tipping her little veiled hat with a neatly gloved hand, she smiled at Frost and swiftly disappeared into a basement guarded by a gilded dragon.
Very nicely done, my dear. What’s your encore?
The gleaming reptile defended a stout green door. A menu in a glass case showed the establishment was the Golden Dragon Restaurant. Original. Every fiber of his being primed for action, Frost pushed open the heavy door. Inside, an elderly Chinese man in an elaborate costume stood behind a desk in a small, dimly lit foyer.
“For one, sir?”
The detective nodded. His horn-rimmed spectacles began to mist up in the moist heat of the noodle house. A sullen-looking girl in a pink cheongsam appeared at the imperious wave of the old man’s wizened hand.
“May will show you to a booth. Might I suggest the Peking Duck.”
Frost followed the waitress, through a clicking bead curtain and into a narrow windowless room. The place had the feel of a cheap bordello, with garish wallpaper and an atmosphere that was warm and thick with the smell of cooking oil and tobacco smoke. The girl gestured to a corner booth, furthest away from the door to the street, then retreated, her lithe hips squirming beneath the tight satin dress. As he’d expected, a small figure waited on the crimson banquette. A pair of amused blue eyes looked up at him from behind a fine cloud of net.
“Nice arse on that girl. I’m Veronica Blow.”
Her voice was sibilant and soft, like the gentle rush of water over smooth, cool stones. Frost caught his breath. He’d expected a harsh, mocking harpy. Cautiously, he slid onto the opposite seat. Veronica Blow wore two long feathers in her natty hat. Mandarin duck.
“I’m afraid you are under arrest, Miss Blow. For crimes against this country and His Majesty -”
“Yes, yes,” the young woman murmured impatiently, glancing towards the waitress, who returned bearing the menus. “I do quite understand. I’ve been a naughty girl again. It seems to happen on a regular basis. I’ll have the Peking Duck, by the way. And a gin and lime.”
The waitress nodded and waited expectantly for Frost to order, her black slanting eyes enigmatic slits in her pretty oriental face. Something stirred beneath the scarlet-draped table, a slender knee brushed against his own. Miss Blow winked.
“Why don’t we make that Peking Duck for two? And a whisky and soda for Mr. Frost.”
Frost stared. He’d been warned about the vixen’s ruthless, evil traits; that she’d sell what was left of her damned soul to betray the land that had adopted her. Her real name was Russian and unpronounceable. He sharply retracted his knee from contact with the girl’s and watched her pout theatrically.
“If you’re taking me straight to Holloway, I’m having a decent meal before we go.”
“Prison’s too good for the likes of you. You’ll hang, you know.”
He couldn’t help himself. There was something intensely infuriating about Veronica Blow, her audacious cool when literally cornered and faced with his authority. He wasn’t used to being treated like an equal by his prey and he didn’t like it one bit. The spy retrieved a flat silver box from her purse and slid it across the scarlet tablecloth.
“Light me a cigarette, darling.”
“Light one yourself. And don’t call me darling.”
“My, don’t we just sound like an old married couple?”
Shrugging, Miss Blow extracted a cigarette and lit it with a matching lighter. With a deep sensual sigh, she took a lengthy draw, then blew a trail of smoke into Frost’s eyes.
“Did you ever wonder why they call me Blow?”
“I can’t imagine.”
The waitress returned with their drinks. The spy raised her glass in a mocking toast.
“Well, here’s to His Majesty. God save the King.”
White hot fury seethed through every particle of Frost’s body. The arrogant little bitch! Through gritted teeth, he muttered, “You’d better come quietly…”
“Au contraire, I tend to be a rather noisy minx. When I come, that is. Do you come quietly, Mr. Frost?”
Miss Blow moistened her crimson painted lips with the tip of her tongue. Despite his anger, Frost’s member stirred in his trousers. With one swift movement, he slipped his handcuffs out of his jacket pocket and onto her dainty wrist. To his extreme annoyance, the young woman’s eyes didn’t register a flicker of dismay. Indeed, she shivered and wriggled gently, as if the experience had aroused her. Frost stared at the gorgeous blonde whom he now held captive. Her eyes were a soft violet blue, long-lashed and expressionless.
“Well, now that we are, shall we say, attached, we might as well get acquainted. Do you like to eat pussy, Mr. Frost? Do you like to fuck a girl from behind? Do you like to spank a helpless, squirming bare bottom? What’s your taste in the pleasures of the flesh?”
Frost held his breath. The Chinese girl was approaching with their lunch, so he tossed a napkin over the cuffs to avert a riot. Miss Blow smiled, revealing two rows of small and perfect teeth. The expression did not reach her eyes. When Tiger Lily had retreated again, leaving several steaming bowls and pots, the spy laughed quietly.
“I think you’re a disciplinarian. Wouldn’t you love to have that little girl’s delicious arse across your knees? Her buttocks must be like a fresh ripe peach.”
How did she know? He’d never told anyone his secret fantasy. Miss Blow’s wrist felt cool and smooth and somehow electric against his own. A subtle yet potent frisson was making the hairs on his arm stand up. And that wasn’t all. His cock was like an iron rod.
The spy downed her gin and lime juice in one thirsty gulp. Frost watched her throat pulse as she swallowed, imagined her sucking his swollen member dry.
“Would you spank me, Mr Frost? If I asked very nicely?”
Miss Blow picked up her chopsticks left-handed and deftly scooped a succulent morsel of duck. Frost watched her eat, his own mouth as dry as dust. It felt as if every available drop of moisture in his body had rushed to his crotch, which throbbed as steadily as if his penis had a heart. His brain told him to remain silent, cold and unresponsive, not to allow the over-sexed fiend a gateway into his mind. He would not taste the duck, he would not touch the drink. He would be an unyielding rock face for Miss Blow to slide impotently off of and away into the gutter where she belonged.
“My panties are soaking, Mr. Frost. It’s the thought of lying across your sturdy knees, my bottom twitching and frisking under the hard palm of your hand. Scarlet buttocks. Hot and stingy. Oh…”
Miss Blow closed her eyes and gasped, as if experiencing ecstasy. Her wrist grew warmer, the current of sexual chemistry between them surged. Frost ground his teeth and stared at the bowl of steaming savory duck. It smelled divine. Adam could not have been more tempted in the Garden of Eden.
Little snake.
The spy continued to eat the fragrant meat and tease Frost mercilessly between mouthfuls. He found himself recalling teenage fantasies of tugging down nubile girls’ knickers and tanning their lily white wobbling backsides. He remembered Miss Vetch, his history teacher, whose marvelous round plump arse was tightly encased in a prim tweed skirt. He’d had fantasies of bending her bare-bummed over her desk and taking a ruler to those blissful orbs, as she teetered on high-heels, one randy hand straying to her luscious crotch …
“I’ll bet you’re going to come quietly now, Mr. Frost.”
The sinuous serpent-like voice barely broke through his consciousness as his straining cock erupted into his underpants, a seemingly impossible quantity of creamy hot semen swiftly soaking his trouser fly. He groaned, hunched-over as if she’d punched him in the gut.
“You bitch. You utter bitch!”
He gasped for breath. His heart pounded in his chest. A queer blend of emotions coursed through his inflamed body. Intractable, self-righteous hatred for the woman and all she represented, and something else – God help him – pure, rampant, unadulterated desire. So, it was round one to Miss Blow. As he regained his equilibrium, he had a clear mental image of chaining the spy to a cold blank wall and torturing her in a way MI5 hadn’t trained him. After all, there was plenty of time. She wasn’t going anywhere, her lily white wrist neatly cuffed to his. His heartbeat subsided, regulated itself. He smiled, wryly.
“Now, doesn’t that feel better, Mr. Frost?”
Veronica Blow’s lips were coated with a glistening layer of duck fat. Again, she ran the tip of her tongue over the plump red rim of flesh. Frost had an image of her kissing the shiny round head of his cock, sucking on the glans as if it were a lollipop. He knew by instinct she could deep-throat, take the length of him into her velvet wet heat and swallow, swallow, swallow…
I have to take control.
“Much better. Thank you. It beats paying a tart to suck my prick.”
The spy raised one perfect painted eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t have thought you were the type to consort with whores, Mr. Frost.”
“I’m not.”
Frost adjusted his trousers. He was horribly damp. Miss Blow had finished the duck and looked pointedly at her cigarette case. The detective shook his head.
“Nope. No more ciggies for you, my dear. If it’s heat you desire, I’m sure I can oblige.”
Frost fished for his wallet and counted some notes onto the scarlet tablecloth. It was time to go. He knew a nice cheap hotel around the corner, the type that rented rooms by the hour. One hour would do the trick. As he stood up, Miss Blow made a token show of resistance but soon realized that being dragged along the carpet was not an elegant way for a lady to make an exit. Frost tucked her cuffed wrist into his jacket pocket as they briskly left the restaurant and marched out into the cold damp street, seemingly two young lovers with but one thought.
The Wing Shing Hotel
The sign was lopsided, the paint faded. Perfect. Whatever had got into Frost, he didn’t much care. He was beginning to enjoy himself. Miss Blow remained strangely silent as the detective rented a room from another inscrutable oriental who had doubtless witnessed the process a thousand times before. The ‘honeymoon suite’ overlooked a warehouse and a yard full of scrap metal. Frost hoped his girl was beginning to feel cheap. He locked the door behind them and then took off the cuffs.
“Are you going to rape me?”
Her eyes were devoid of emotion, calmly awaiting whatever news Frost chose to impart.
“Certainly not.”
The spy sat in a hard chair and crossed her legs, disinterestedly expectant as a jaded schoolmarm waiting for a rather slow pupil to perform a reading.
“I’m going to tie you up and spank you. Very hard. On your bare bottom.”
At that, Miss Blow threw her head back and laughed.
“Mais quel surprise…”
Frost looked at the expanse of silky stocking-clad thigh that crossing her legs had revealed. He took in her tiny high-heeled shoes. His cock stirred in its damp tweed lair. Poor Veronica. What she didn’t realize was that he had omitted to mention that he held the trump card. Not in his trousers but in the reinforced concealed top left pocket of his stout wool jacket.
“I suppose you’re armed, aren’t you?”
The girl was a mind reader.
“In more ways than one, my dear.”
It was quite a lark. Just for an hour, he would be the kind of detective one reads about in cheap paperbound thrillers. American style. So, it was against all the rules. Miss Blow was a one-off and Frost would make it a singularly individual coup.
“So, what are you waiting for? Strip.”
He wondered if she would make him pull out his service revolver and force her to remove her clothes at gun-point. She didn’t. Slowly, sensuously, she unbuttoned her jacket and laid it daintily on the floor beside her chair. She wore a short-sleeved lambswool sweater, pale pink and so close fitting that she barely seemed to be wearing anything at all. The twin peaks of her breasts pushed against the soft yielding fabric. Frost realized that she must possess a stunning figure. His heart was thumping again and his voice shook ever so slightly as he bade her stand up and continue undressing.
“Yes, sir.”
Was she also enjoying the little charade? His cock hardened as he watched her unzip and wriggle out of her skirt. She had a slinky, practiced way of performing the act, as if she might have done it on stage. When she took off the sweater it was like peeling some luscious fully ripe fruit. She wore no underwear but a garter belt and stood before him on the threadbare rug in stockings, high-heels and the natty little hat with the feathers on top.
“Turn around to face the wall.”
Frost watched a hint of emotion play across her lovely painted face. Did she really imagine he might execute her from behind? Slowly, unwillingly, she did as he instructed.
“Raise your arms above your head and spread your legs.”
There was nothing to bind her to, so he decided to do an even more sadistic routine. Let the bitch hold her own position and be punished twice as hard for moving out of line. Every cell of his body was filled to bursting with the potent thrill of conquest as he approached the naked, vulnerable young woman and whispered into the nape of her neck.
“Having fun?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
She was tense, every muscle on her trim back clearly defined. Her buttocks were scrunched up tight and he placed the palm of his right hand upon their glorious silky orbs. Almost instantly, she relaxed against the warmth of his flesh. She was beautiful. He traced a circular pattern over the satiny curves of her firm little buttocks and watched her shiver quite violently. Now, it was her turn to lose her edge through lust.
“Just do it, will you?”
The spy’s voice was diminished, a little brittle. Frost grinned.
“Madam, I shall do this as and how I please.”
“Very well.”
Calmly, he removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Miss Blow remained very still, like a knife-thrower’s assistant at a circus. What to spank her with? His mother had always used an old carpet slipper but there wasn’t such an item to hand. Ah well, it would have to be – his hand. He had always been a traditionalist. Carefully, he stood sideways on to his prey and braced his left hand against the shabby peeling wall. He almost imagined her buttocks were quivering. Then he raised his right hand high and brought it down sharply on the sweet lily white flesh with a most satisfying smack.
Veronica Blow moaned deeply and clutched at the ancient wallpaper with her lacquered talons. Frost aimed a second hard swat at her vulnerable bottom. The second time, she gasped and seemed to convulse, her hips grinding against the cold hard wall as if to fuck some phantom lover. He sensed she was very wet between the legs. He could smell the sweet heavy musk of her arousal. The third spank began to elicit a delicious flush of scarlet in the trembling cheeks. The fourth caused the spy to call upon the Lord in vain. Helplessly, she writhed and squirmed against the bedroom wall, as lush and sinuous as the most exotic Eastern dancer Frost could imagine. God help him, he wanted to come inside her. Blind with desire, he unfastened his trousers and pulled her to the bed. In less than ten seconds, he had entered her incredible melting heat and pierced her hard as she raked her fingernails down his shirt-clad back.
Round two – to whom? Dixon Frost stared down at the lovely, wicked creature who lolled disheveled on the bed, suspecting that his victory was not as complete as he had hoped. There would be time for a third and final round before he led the fiendish Miss Blow to meet her Waterloo. Smiling broadly, he remembered the handcuffs…