by Nicole Dere
Felicity gladly discarded the disguise of dark glasses and the long blonde wig, as soon as she was safely behind the locked door of the hotel suite. The mystery attached to her assignment smacked uncomfortably of the ridiculous. But, as she had to keep telling herself, she was here as a Whore of Babylon, one of the Daughters, not as her glamorous public persona. Or was she? She wasn’t sure any more. This Brit fellow she’d belong to for the night clearly knew who she was. Mr Dillman had made that plain; that it was the clincher as far as this financial gnome was concerned. He would produce the goods for their capitalist venture purely because he had been gifted the famed body of the controversial movie star for one whole night. Clearly, a trip to paradise for this sad prick.
She was curious, as well as apprehensive, just how he would turn out. She had of course envisaged a wrinkled, paunched oldie, a combination of Judge Fairlie and Sir Hugh - in which case she almost hoped he would prove to have a penchant for the blindfold that had covered her eyes during the never-to-be-forgotten multi-bang at the Hall. But then she was sure Matt Dillman had called him a ‘young feller’ - though she could hardly remember what he had said, after the hectic finale to their one meeting.
She wished it could have been the fatherly figure of Dillman himself she was required to spend the night with. She hoped she might be ordered to service him again some time. He undoubtedly qualified as an oldie. His face, if not his lean body, gave his age away. Not that he made any effort to disguise it. That’s why he’d seemed so fatherly to her. She blushed as she thought of the can of fantasy worms coupling with him had opened up for her. But whatever, it had been far more satisfying than dealing with some of the Masters she had encountered at the Hall, and at other discreet places back home.
Tonight would not be like that, she feared. Whoever this guy was, young or old, he sounded a sad little git. She’d had her detailed instructions. Which was why she stood now in the dayroom of the luxury suite, done up like a stripper waiting in the wings; down to front opening black net bra, frilly French knickers, and the lace fringed garter-belt with the requisite black stockings and high heels. All she needed was the drum roll, she reflected, then pushed such disparaging thoughts resolutely from her mind. She brought up the image of Magda, and the magical conjunction of their flesh that had made her hers for all time. She was a dedicated Whore, and she would do her duty.
The bedroom door was open, twin lamps directed like spotlights to the space at the foot of the wide bed, where she was summoned to perform. She took up her position before the dark shape lying propped on a mound of pillows in the centre of the bed. He was fully dressed, as far as she could see.
‘Take your clothes off,’ he intoned huskily. ‘Take your time.’
Jesus! Why didn’t he just go to a strip joint? She could not prevent the disgusted thought from entering her mind. This felt truly sordid. Once again she made a valiant effort to banish such admonitory thoughts, and slowly unzipped her dress, shrugged it forward off her arms, then wriggled it down her hips to fall about her feet. She stepped out of it, bobbed gracefully to scoop it up, and laid it on a nearby chair.
The silence was unnerving. She wondered if she should break it. Did he know about the Whores of Babylon? The discipline Magda had taught her prevailed, and she forced herself not to speak. She unfastened the cups of the transparent bra, teasingly drew them apart, and then eased the straps down off her shoulders. Daintily, she turned and dropped the garment on top of the dress, then turned back to face the shadowy figure on the bed. In slow motion she held her breasts in her palms and massaged them in circular motions, and let her fingertips play over her small nipples until they peaked.
She slipped off her shoes, raised one leg to rest her toes on the bottom of the bed, and unhooked her suspenders, before rolling the stocking down with the same, teasing adagio movement. When she had done the same to its companion, she dropped them on the small pile of clothing on the chair. She unsnapped the catch of the belt at her waist and removed the flimsy garment, with its dangling ribbons, which joined her discarded things. All she had left on were the knickers, but as her thumbs hooked into the elastic, the hoarse voice spoke again.
‘Wait! Turn around and spread your legs. Hold the back of the chair.’
She inhaled sharply. So, he was going to chastise her. She wasn’t really surprised. It seemed to be an expected facet of the duties of a Daughter. She knew how important a part corporal punishment played in the role of a Whore of Babylon, the tenets of discipline by which they were required to live. She had learned to accept it with a genuine willingness, and had even learned how it could enhance the bodily pleasure of sexual acts. Her tearful thanks, while her bottom burned from the attentions of Magda, or Lord B, or one of the other Masters, were entirely sincere.
But here she had believed she was not playing her accustomed role of an anonymous Daughter. She had thought this shrouded individual on the bed was paying for the glamour of possessing the famed star who had notoriously orgasmed on the silver screen. The burlesque strip show had all been part of it, she had thought; the kinky thrill this sad man would get from having Felicity Keynes perform for his exclusive pleasure.
Her knuckles whitened on the back of the chair. She flexed her behind. Suddenly she felt that familiar clutch of real fear. Perhaps it was again the idea of whose arse it was that would give him his kicks. And if that was so, he might well lay it on until her flayed backside resembled a piece of raw meat. She bit her lip, her breathing suspended as she stood, bowed forward, her bottom thrust out.
The first swipe was shockingly loud, a great splat that sent fire flaring all over her taut cheeks. Though it smarted abominably, she breathed a thankful prayer that he was using some sort of flat paddle. Not a whip, or a wicked cane, which could cut so nastily and raise welts that would take weeks to fade.
Still, she was sobbing audibly after the third or fourth loud smack, and hopping from one foot to the other as she tried to remain bent over in the position required for her punishment. It was soon over, though it didn’t seem so at first. The steady throb indicated that he’d finished. She hung there, weeping, her hands clamped to the chair back. She was shaking, and felt the secret insidious stirrings of desire the fierce pain had roused. The humiliation of her submissive stance and the vision of her glowing rear stuck out for his inspection added to that beat of sexual excitement.
He had lowered the knickers just clear of her buttocks, and then gently peeled them down her tensed legs. She winced as she lifted her feet to allow him to remove them.
‘Stay there! Don’t look.’
She obeyed and felt his arms move around her, and then swing her round so that she faced the bed. He was still behind her. She realised he was naked.
He positioned her on the bed, kneeling, facing the pillows, her punished bottom raised high. She braced herself, inched her thighs apart as she felt a hand squeeze between them, searching for the soft lips of her sex. But, instead, the fingers were probing the valley of her bottom. She gasped at the cold oiliness of the cream he was smearing there, and at the invasive finger that pressed into the tight and tiny fissure deep in the cleft.
‘No... please...’ she pleaded unconvincingly as a bulbous helmet probed between her buttocks and pressed against her anus. She held her breath, waiting, and then her back dipped as he sank forward and her bottom was impaled by a rigid column of flesh.
‘You know,’ he panted quietly in her ear, ‘from the back you look and feel just like your cousin.’
‘Michael...’ Felicity groaned.
Also Available
Enjoy more damsel in distress BDSM adventures by Nicole Dere, all also published by us at Chimera:
A Desirable Property
‘Turn,’ she went on. ‘This way. Bend over the wheel again. Put your arms up and hold on.’
She made me turn around and spread myself with my front resting against the huge tyre. Obed
iently I stretched my arms up on either side of its thickness and grasped the oily metal supports. My breasts were squashed against the rubber now, as were my tummy and the insides of my spread-eagled thighs. She did not fasten my wrists but just left me clinging there, and a second later I understood why; she needed to use the leather belt as an instrument of chastisement. With the buckle end firmly wrapped around her fist, she brought it down in a flaring line of fire across the centre of my exposed buttocks. I screamed and twisted free of the wheel, clutching at my stinging flesh.
When their plane is hijacked and forced to land in the African state of Leontondo, lovely Jane Freeman and petite redhead, Moira Kinsella, soon learn that their chief hope of survival lays in total submission to the will of their captors, in particular the beautiful, sadistic Krista, whose passion for her victims is matched only by her cruelty.
Jane and Moira, together with young American Nicki Ginsburg and air-stewardess Anita Simpson, are also compelled to serve as amusement for General Koloba, Leontondo’s ruthless dictator, and his henchmen.
Reunited with their husbands, Jane and Moira remain confined, during which time the quartet become involved in an exotically intricate combined relationship. Jack, Moira’s domineering and manipulative partner, is involved in secret negotiations, so that instead of the freedom they hoped for, the other three find themselves sold as slaves to the infamous Lord Staith, prisoners on his tropical island of Kendu, from which there will be no reprieve.
Chain of Command
He grabbed her wrist painfully and dragged it down to the bulge of his cock, straining against the thin material of his summer slacks.
In spite of her panic she found herself obeying him as he eased his hips away from her slightly, and she struggled with the zip of his fly and the unfamiliar process of releasing a throbbing penis from its restrictive concealment. She shuddered and gave a small whimper at the novel sensation of the uncoiling thickness, the fierce animal thrust of hot flesh, slick already with a little glistening emission as it pulsed in her tentative fingers.
Rookie detective Jill Christie finds herself under the firm rule of DI Jackie Barlow and her superior, DCS Moira Sharp, known as the ‘lesbian mafia’. Sometimes tenderly, often painfully, Jill is taught the tricks of her new trade, and others not in the Code of Good Police Practice.
Jill is ‘volunteered’ as an undercover agent to bring villain Jack Palmer to account. She is set up as ‘escort’ and would-be porn star, ready to go above and beyond the call of duty to achieve her aim.
But success brings reprimands rather than reward from Moira, Jill’s highly unusual methods betrayed by Sandra, Moira’s assistant and clandestine lover. Ingenious revenge is plotted by Jill and Jackie, involving unorthodox use of police handcuffs; naked Sandra tethered to the marital bed while normally submissive husband, suitably primed, is determined to play his part in this overdue role reversal.
Prisoners of Passion
‘First thing you have to learn in the army is discipline, my girl. Understand?’ The thick voice sounded as though its owner was being throttled, an impression fortified by the spectacle of the fleshy, empurpled features, and the bug eyes.
‘Yuh - yes, sir!’ Olly gasped, twisting round and squinting up through tear-filled eyes and the clouds of her dishevelled red hair, from her position across the corpulent brigadier’s knee. Her satin knickers were wrapped around her ankles. Her shoes had long gone, flying off when she began the restrained little kicking movements she knew would rouse the fat old pig even more...
When three not so innocent girls exchange the gym-slips of the exclusive Medes School for the uniforms of the ATS, they are eager to do their bit. But they soon lose both enthusiasm and virginity at the hands of the perfidious Lt Postlethwaite who, to avoid public disgrace, hands them over to a French peasant farmer. Tied in a barn to serve his pleasure, the girls find themselves moving from frying pan to fire when they next fall into the hands of the advancing German army.
As the tide of war turns in favour of the allies, the girls wait dubiously for freedom, but it appears they are not to escape so easily from the life of servitude to which they have become accustomed...
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