by Nicole Dere
‘I want you to undress for me, Johnny.’ The dramatically made-up eyes were alight with mischief as she smiled at him warmly.
Again, he found it hard to speak. ‘What about you?’ he managed.
She chuckled. ‘I asked first. Now come on, I promise you’ll love it.’
With a feeling of helplessness, which was all part of the excitement that made his prick throb, he obeyed, bending to slip off his shoes, shrugging off his pants and shirt, the patterned socks, and finally, with only a slight pause, pushing down the tiny black briefs. He stood there and forced himself not to cup his genitals, his toes flexing in the carpet with deep embarrassment.
‘Come, give me your hands.’
Afterwards, he reflected on the strange power she was able to exert over him, and on his own willingness to allow her to dominate him totally. But as she spoke his arms lifted almost of their own accord. He felt her power, but was incapable of analysing it, indeed, incapable of any coherent thought over the drumming of his blood.
She fitted his hands inside two of the metal rings and bound them tightly. She gave a tug on another rope and his arms were drawn upwards to their full extent. The strain lifted his chest, his ribcage sprang prominently into view and his stomach hollowed deeply. Magda’s painted thumbnails ran over the taut chest and flicked at the tiny hardness of the nipples centreing the hairless rounds. ‘Felicity’s tits are hardly any bigger,’ she murmured.
He found it hard to breathe, let alone speak. ‘You’d know, of course,’ he whispered.
‘Of course, my love. Not jealous, are we?’
For a wild second he wondered if Felicity had told her about their lovemaking, but then his attention was powerfully diverted as those strong smooth hands slid down his frame to stroke and cup his genitals. His penis was engorged, hung heavily, but not erect. The long fingers, with their darkly vivid nails, closed around the base of the column, slowly pulled, drew back the foreskin, and he shuddered, his prick leaping under the caresses, the helm swelling and emerging fully. The feeling of helplessness swept through him in a delightful excess of sensation that made him fear he was about to come. The tip of his prick shone with his emission.
‘You’re bigger than I thought, Johnny boy,’ she breathed, working him slowly, while his narrow hips swayed and his tensed belly strained forward towards the stimulation. ‘But not that big. Do you fuck, Johnny? Or do you prefer to be fucked?’
His teeth clenched. He felt close to tears, humiliated.
Yet his body throbbed with urgent pleasure. The degrading captivity and his helplessness were all a part of it. ‘Untie me,’ he hissed, ‘and I’ll show you!’
‘Cheeky boy,’ Magda chuckled, as though she were an indulgent parent with a small child. ‘A little lesson in manners first, I think.’
John watched wild-eyed as she let go of him and went over to the rack. She selected the bundle of birch rods. ‘This for naughty boys, I think.’ She swished it through the air as she advanced upon him, staring at his prick, which jutted stiffly now. ‘We’d better do something about that first, though. Can’t have that going off half cock, now can we?’ The deepness of her laughter was like a cutting blow in itself. She put down the birch and came close, until her face was only inches from his. She had to bend to achieve this, and once more John was struck by her size, the proportions of her magnificent body and limbs. He felt his masculinity draining away, even as she held and began to stimulate him again, with long slow strokes, until his throbbing prick was rock hard, approaching ejaculation. He acknowledged that side of his nature that welcomed his surrender.
As he did so an even stranger feeling possessed him.
As Magda’s face came closer, and those brilliant lips parted and sealed his in a kiss that seemed to suck the strength out of him as thrillingly as the semen he was so near to spurting forth, her strong features took on a weirdly androgynous quality, so that their roles were reversed. She was the male, triumphant, dominant, and he was female, yielding gladly, ceding to her sexual authority over him.
At that instant, with her mouth clamped to his and her tongue thrusting into his throat, he gave a strangled cry, his frame shook, and he felt his come shoot forth, on and on, Magda’s hand milking him of every last drop, while her triumphant chuckle transferred itself through to his quivering frame.
‘Oh, you disgusting, wicked boy!’
Half sobbing he glanced down, following her gaze, and saw the pearly thickness of his semen roped over her fingers and wrist, and splashed in darkening stains across the front of her tight red dress. She wiped the residue from her hand on his heaving belly. His prick shrivelled, the brown folds agleam with his fluid. He hung there limply, watching her remove her dress. Underneath she wore a black body, of a shiny silken texture that clung to her curves like a second skin. Dark, sheer tights encased her legs, and disappeared into the high silken crotch of her undergarment. The narrow shoes had slender heels that added to her already towering height.
She retrieved the bundle of rods she had laid close to his bare feet. ‘Let’s see if we can make you squeal, eh?’ she said, menacingly.
He recognised the challenge, accepted it, and his muscles tensed. His buttocks tightened and dimpled. A flame of swift fire rippled over them at the first swishing blow, and he bit savagely at his lips, his breath escaping in an agonised hiss.
Magda nodded appreciatively.
The second stroke was laid exactly over the first, its force making him squirm despite his best efforts, and his hips shook. He gasped at the bum. She struck more quickly and his body twisted, his feet shuffled and he rose on his toes, the whimpering cries forcing themselves out between his parting lips. His bottom was scored with a myriad of red weals, the whole area afire with the severity of the beating, and, at last, with a convulsive sob, his head dropped between his outstretched arms and he sobbed, ‘Please! No more! Please stop!’
She did so at once, and he hung there, shamed, his behind throbbing and his chest heaving as he sniffled like a chastised child.
Felicity was drifting off to half slumber when, some time later, she heard someone come into the adjoining room. To her vast relief she heard Magda’s rippling laugh, then the tall figure appeared in the doorway, beaming down at her. Magda was wearing what looked like some sort of Greek costume, in a pearly satin, loose about her bust and torso, with wide sleeves and tied with a sash, and ending at mid-thigh to exhibit her long legs to full advantage. She was bare foot.
‘Sorry I took so long,’ she said. ‘I’ve been getting to know your lovely cousin. Up you come, quick.’
Felicity glanced apprehensively over Magda’s shoulder as she rose, the clinging bubbles sliding off her gleaming flesh. ‘It’s all right,’ the deep voice chuckled. ‘We’re quite alone. Wait, there’s far too much soap. Let me rinse you off.’
Felicity stood, her pulse quickening, while Magda plucked up the shower attachment and, adjusting the fine jet of water to the correct temperature, played it over her, lingering over her breasts and the flattened moss of her pubis, then, turning her, the slopes of her buttocks.
Magda held a towel and wrapped the lovely girl in it, and the large hands began to rub and pat and add to Felicity’s arousal while she dried her.
In the bedroom another towel had been spread over the bed. ‘Lie down,’ Magda ordered. When Felicity hesitated, she added, holding up a small bottle of oil, ‘His lordship got this especially. It’s wonderful for aches and pains. On your tum first, if you please. ‘
The capable fingers kneaded, pressed, stirred, and generally cosseted and teased every inch of Felicity’s tingling flesh, until she was sighing and gnawing at her lip with pleasure and frustration.
Magda grinned. ‘Now, just let yourself drift off to bye-byes, baby. I’ll wake you later.’ The thumbs and fingers dug into the muscles of Felicity’s shoulders and neck, bunching and relaxing them, then traced her sp
ine, pressing her soft breasts against the yielding mattress. Down the hollow of her back, pressing on her coccyx, then the rounds of her buttocks. The thumbs dug deep, parted the cleft, opened her most intimate flesh, and she shivered and thrust her belly into the softness of the bed, feeling the flare of her desire. The hands rolled and kneaded the twin cheeks of her bottom.
Felicity was drowsy, her mind drifting, only faintly aware of a pause, the disappearance of those wonderful teasing hands. Then they started again from the base of her neck, following that sensitive path to her behind, again delving deep, and on to the lesser rounds of her calves, her slender ankles and the delicate curve of her heels. Up again...
She gasped, suddenly conscious that the hands were different, harder. She heard a grunt and, at the same instant, she felt those hands spread under her belly and lift her hips, raising her haunches. She smelt the fragrance of Lord Burnopside’s cologne, felt the hardness of his body as he knelt behind her, then the stabbing head of his engorged penis as it nuzzled in the cleft of her behind, seeking the entrance to her already wet and spasming vagina. With a few swift strokes he was fully embedded, and then withdrawing almost to the point of ejection, only to plunge slowly to the hilt once more.
She hissed with discomfort, yet the fierce pleasure was far greater, indeed, enhanced by that very soreness. Her forehead was resting on her folded arms, her bottom raised high, his body folding over her like a warm blanket. Those hands came round and cupped her breasts, held and caressed them until they were alive with sensation, and she knew her crisis was near. She was frantic that he’d begin the wild rutting that signalled his coming, and prayed desperately for her own release. But, wonderfully, he continued that slow rhythmic fucking until her climax came, spiralling to its bursting point, shattering through every nerve so that she cried out a long wailing release. And, at the very instant when the last shuddering shocks of orgasm died, she felt his potent discharge flood her with a mighty surge.
In the shadows Magda stood watching, and felt at that exact moment the flooding rush of her own deliverance.
Chapter Eight
Felicity was greatly relieved that Ally and Ted had their own transport, and that they were not heading back to London on Sunday evening. ‘I couldn’t bear to face the trip back to town in that creep’s company,’ she told John, with a dramatic shudder.
He knew she was referring to the cameraman rather than her director. As it was, they had the spacious rear seat of the Mercedes all to themselves, the uniformed driver sealed off behind his glass partition. Felicity sought her cousin’s hand and clung to it, reminding him of the more innocent days of their shared childhood.
He studied her with a cool fondness. She was lying back, her head lolling on the upholstered rest, her thigh companionably nestled against his. Her face looked paler than ever. She was, as always, wearing her light touches of make-up. Beneath her eyes were faint shadows, not from cosmetics but from the effects of a hectic weekend, yet these subtle hints of decadence only served to make her more sexually appetising. In spite of his own sore weariness, he felt his penis unfurling in the tight grip of his silk underwear. The tenderness of his behind made him wonder if she was suffering in a similar manner.
‘You look shagged,’ he chuckled, ‘if you’ll pardon the expression. ‘
Her dark eyes widened, and he caught that appealingly helpless little girl look that she used so well. Please be nice to me, it begged, and was generally very effective. He dropped his teasing manner, moved by her air of abstracted weariness. He lifted her hand and brushed the knuckles softly against his lips. ‘Did you have a good time, though?’ he asked.
She gave a pathetic little smile. ‘Life gets evermore complicated, Johnny.’ She gave a little shiver, nestled in close, and rested her head against his shoulder. ‘Magda! My God! Isn’t she simply magnificent?’
‘Is she?’
‘I had no idea I was... well... so - so lesbian.’ She snuggled into his arm. ‘And I hate that word. Can I be gay, please Johnny? Is it all right for girls to be gay?’
‘You can be what you like, my love,’ he told her, patting her hand comfortingly, and gazing out at the passing countryside without really seeing it. ‘They don’t waste any time down at Burnopside Hall, do they?’ he reflected.
She sighed and squirmed around until she was stretched out on the seat, her head in John’s lap. The chauffeur was probably far too well trained to gaze in his rearview mirror, and in any case, she had her jeans on so there was nothing much to see. ‘Sometimes I wish I was in love with you, Johnny,’ she said. ‘You’re the only one in the world I feel I can be really honest with.’
They spent the night together, enjoying a cosy intimacy which was full of nostalgia for both of them, undressing together, sharing a bath and touching now and then - but only in the friendliest of caresses. And afterwards sprawling in front of the fire and television, eating a scratch meal in naked, passive affection.
She stared in amazement at the network of scratches covering John’s buttocks. He passed them off as the result of some boisterous play with the coloured girl, Debbie, and Felicity showed no further interest. He was glad. He wondered at his untypical reluctance to reveal the truth, yet somehow, he felt he could not describe his encounter with Magda, least of all to Felicity.
She talked out her own confusion at the recent complications of her sex life. They lay in each other’s arms in her bed, stroking now and then, their limbs intertwined, even kissing gently on lips but taking it no further.
‘I honestly didn’t have any idea that things would start with Stella,’ she sighed. ‘I suppose I was thick. It was bound to happen, really. All that stuff in front of the cameras. I mean, we were doing it, after all. Kissing... everything except the final consummation.’ She gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Even that, in the end. They’ve even got me coming on the silver screen. I wonder if I’ll get a Bafta or an Oscar for that, eh? “And now, for best orgasm of the year,’’’ she intoned, in an MC voice. ‘And as if that isn’t enough, I have to go and get myself mixed up with that weird bunch down at Burnopside. Oh God! What’s happening to me?’
She began to sniffle softly and John gathered her into him, planting light kisses about her brow and her face. ‘Hey, come on, Feely. Don’t get your hormones in a twist. What have I told you? You can’t fight nature, you know that. There’s the heart, and there’s the cunt and the cock. Separate compartments, my girl. And where the cunt or cock goes, the heart can’t always follow. And vice versa, I suppose.’
In spite of the tears still wet on her cheeks, she gave a little giggle. ‘We seem to be a bit confused all ways up. Even with our cunts and cocks.’
‘You speak for yourself,’ he chided, slapping her thigh.
‘Tell me, Johnny, please,’ she said, earnestly. ‘No secrets, eh? You’ve never truly admitted it. Are you bi? Like I am,’ she added quietly, with painful self-revelation.
‘I guess so.’
She could detect a certain hesitancy, even though he tried as usual to disguise it.
‘I’ve dabbled in homoerotic delights, as they say,’ he went on. ‘Let’s just say I’m quite open-minded on the subject.’
In the naked intimacy of the bedclothes she pressed on with real curiosity. ‘Have you ever been in love? I mean, deeply, truly, madly. Like I am.’
He smiled. ‘Only with you, Feely. And I know I don’t stand a chance. In fact, I’m so far down the queue it’s not worth waiting.’
‘Pig!’ She reached out, seized his limp prick and gave it a little shake. ‘I really ought to ban you forever, you wicked boy! But thanks for letting me get all this off my chest. I don’t know what I’d do without you. And you don’t even have to queue. You know that all too well, you cocky man. Now come on, time for sleep. I’ve got a hell of a day tomorrow. Settle down. Mmm... that’s nice.’
She turned her back to him, bent her knees, and he
fitted himself into her shape. He nestled his stirring penis into the tight cleft of her buttocks, and rocked gently back and forth. It swelled but didn’t harden, and they drifted off to sleep.
Some days later, on the set, Stella was foul with everyone, snapping off heads and spoiling takes, until Ally called an early halt. Felicity had a premonition that she was the central target for Stella’s displeasure. They had not got together, in their newly intimate sense, since her weekend down at Burnopside and Stella’s return from Paris. Stella had asked briefly about her stay at Lord B’s mansion, but it was almost as if she didn’t want to hear the details, and Felicity wondered just what she’d heard about the place. She was sure that Stella was now jealous of any activity they could not share, just as she was increasingly and dangerously jealous of Felicity’s fiance. Her partner of the screen was attempting more and more to take over as her real life partner, and Felicity was more disturbed by their relationship with each passing day. She would almost welcome a crisis, except that she was not at all confrontational by nature, and would normally go to great lengths to avoid a clash.
Stella was already stripped down to bra and pants in the dressing room. She turned to Felicity as soon as she entered. ‘Hurry up and get changed,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve ordered a car.’ The tone was brutally dictatorial. She said nothing further.
The weather was chilly, and Felicity was wearing substantial cotton knickers, to which she added a prettily embroidered cotton vest, before dragging on her slacks and a thick sweater. She sat and pulled on her black ankle boots and tied the laces. By now Stella was dressed in her smart white raincoat, the belt pulled tightly into her slim waist. She was standing, nostrils flared, by the door.
