Very gently he smacked my bruised skin and thrust hard again. Smaller, but just as intense, a second orgasm pulsed through my body. I hadn’t even recovered from the first.
‘So beautiful,’ he said, finding a rhythm now as I pushed back to meet him. I wanted to soak him up. Take him all the way into me. The beautiful feel of his body in mine was like a drug. ‘You were gorgeous. Counting them off, taking the blows. Your back bowed and shaking. Your ass striped and welted and angry red. But you did it,’ he growled, his motions growing faster. ‘So much more brave than I ever was. A fucking warrior. One who should never be afraid of her own talent. Never try to hide from it,’ he grunted.
As soon as he said it I came. The truth. It was the truth. I felt overwhelmed at times, so I ran away. Hid from what I wanted to do with my life and my words. Austin came with me, yanking my hips so hard I screamed as my bruised ass banged his hipbones.
Little dots of white light danced in my vision. I put my head down and took a deep breath, not wanting to break contact. Austin’s body was still linked with mine, his diminished but still firm cock in my cunt. I wanted to stay here for just a minute more.
Finally, he placed kisses along my spine and across my upper back. Then he pulled free and started to dress. I turned and sat in the chair then promptly jumped up with a screech.
‘Five thousand words, Lizzie. Right now. I’ll make dinner,’ he said, handing me my clothes.
I put them on slowly and watched his face. He smiled his normal smile at me. I felt something loosen in my chest.
‘I’m going to do it right now,’ I assured him.
He handed me a throw pillow from the bed. ‘You’ll need this.’
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. ‘Think I’ll ever need a refresher course?’ I asked, secretly hoping I would.
‘We all need refresher courses from time to time. I’m sure you’ll be needing one in the future.’
I didn’t say it but I thought it. Good.
The Catnip Club
by Cathryn Cooper
Jungle rhythms screamed and pounded from beneath Shirley Anne’s feet. The blues band down in the Catnip Club were belting out their first number. The vibrations shuddered across the floor, crept up her calves and made her thighs and her buttocks tremble. Even the delicate fabric of her underwear shivered against her flesh. She was aware that her breasts were quivering like two jellies just turned out from their moulds, but she was none too concerned about that.
The man who owned the club was circling her, the circles diminishing in size so that he got closer, his scent getting stronger.
She liked his scent; liked him too: couldn’t help holding her shoulders back so that her nipples pressed against the thin fabric of her dress, couldn’t help arching her spine so that the seams of her dress strained against the opulent voluptuousness of her buttocks.
Half hidden behind dark lashes, her eyes followed his progress. There was a certain arrogance to the way he held himself. His chin was high. His eyes regarded her from either side of an aquiline nose that ended in flaring nostrils.
He moved gracefully, and yet she detected something else beneath the suave, sophisticated surface. Something more vigorous. Something deeply decadent.
He was a handsome man, this Rene Brabonne who owned the Catnip Club in the heart of the old quarter of New Orleans. He was dark and sleek in his well-made clothes. He had the air of someone sure of his position, sure of his roots.
Because he wore no jacket, she could discern the shape of his arms beneath his cotton shirt. His bright mustard vest wrestled with the muscles of his chest. Its silk back gleamed with the effort of containing the understated muscularity of his body. He was lithe rather than broad.
She trembled with anticipation as he came to a standstill in front of her and a mix of maleness, cologne and silk seemed to envelope her.
At first, her heart quaked at his closeness. A kind of fear made her direct her gaze at the floor which still trembled with the music from the club below. It was as if she was not permitted to look at him. He could only look at her.
A sudden well of defiance rose within her. Holding herself that much more erect, she tilted her chin and boldly, her dark green eyes looked into his.
Almost as though he understood, his eyes twinkled. Like stars, she thought, stars fashioned from steel.
‘What is your name, cherie?’ His voice was deep, warm as brandy and tinged with the lilt of Louisiana Cajun that sounded as if it was struggling to be Paris French.
She swallowed the dryness in her throat.
‘Shirley Anne Porter, sir.’
‘So what brought you to New Orleans?’
She met his gaze. ‘I need a different life. I thought I could get that here.’
He blew a puff of cigar smoke, slipping the cigar between his teeth, chewing it as he moved away from her and sat himself down in a big leather chair behind an equally large cedar desk. He took the cigar from his mouth.
‘Your looks could be your fortune, Shirley Anne, but what else can you do. Can you sing?’
A flock of butterflies seemed to take flight in Shirley Anne’s stomach. ‘Yes. I used to sing in Church. In the choir. Sometimes solo.’
Rene chuckled. ‘We do not indulge in too much church music here, cherie, though some feel their sins are so great they need to attend confession occasionally. Sing. Sing for me.’
She paused seeking a suitable song. Eventually her voice rang out, full of emotion, full of soul and strangely suiting the tempo of the band playing in the club downstairs.
As the song came to an end, he got to his feet and came to her. He patted the concave area beneath her ribs. His free hand caressed her cheek.
‘Creole. Mulatto,’ he said, ‘A mix of classical European and a hint of darkest, wildest Africa.’
She looked into his eyes and felt the colour rising in her cheeks. In his eyes she could see herself naked, her body stretched out, arms high above her head, chained to a wall, a whip reddening her flesh. She could almost feel his teeth upon her breasts and the thrust of his pelvis grinding against hers.
He looked at her knowingly. ‘You see something in my eyes?’
She looked away and shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you heard of voodoo?’
She nodded, a sudden cold shiver running down her spine.
‘Do not worry. You will be safe here. No harm will befall you. Are you afraid?’
She managed to shake her head.
‘Did anyone else offer you a job before you came here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I don’t know his name. He had gold teeth and wore a white suit. He asked if I was willing to appear naked suspended in a cage over the bar of his club. I didn’t like it. The girls there wore nothing except rubber corsets and black stockings. Their breasts were strapped up so that the nipples pointed forward. Their nipples were painted gold. I didn’t want to do that.’
He leaned close. She felt his breath on her cheek. ‘But I might like that. What would you do if I asked you to paint your nipples and display yourself half-naked in public?’
She couldn’t speak. Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She’d got through the small sum of money she’d brought with her and could no longer afford to be choosy about what she did for a living – within reason.
‘As long as they only watch but don’t touch,’ she blurted.
It was out in an instant, without thought, without preamble.
‘A good answer.’ He nodded as he blew more cigar smoke into the air. ‘So do it. But not right away. You need to practise. Here. I will pay you.’ He gave her a bundle of bills. ‘Do you have somewhere to stay?’
She shook her head. ‘No. But I can find somewhere now I have this.’
‘Stay here tonight. There’s a room through there.’ He indicated a large pane of glass. ‘This is a two way mirror. Before you sleep, I want to see you perform for me. Will you do that?�
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That smell of masculine sexuality. Of course she would do it. And of course the room was hers for the night.
She sighed. This was better than she’d expected.
The room took her breath away. In the centre was a bed with a golden brocade cover. White linen drapes hung from a brass and blue coronet above its head. Cream closets decorated with ormolu fronds and sweeps, all gilded with pale green and gold, stood against a wall. Tall gas lamps on heavy tripods hissed in each corner. There was a low chest of drawers and chairs of gold brocade, their legs braced on ball and claw feet.
This was so opulent, worlds apart from what she was used to. If this was what was possible, she wanted more. Rene had left her wanting much more than a room. She’d wanted him. She now wanted satisfaction, but on her own terms.
She stripped off her clothes and caught sight of her reflection in a mirror. Her nipples were dark as ripe plums and hard as cherries. A thick bush of hair nestled between her legs. Her skin glistened and her eyes were bright with excitement. Her own image surprised her and strangely filled her with longing. She deserved to be desired.
The sound of applause resounded from the club below. She jerked her attention away from herself and the mirror. Rene had set her a task. If she wanted all this – and more – then she must be creative, original and entertaining. She searched the room for ideas, for props and for encouragement.
To the left of the window was a five foot high statue of a black footman holding a tray. He was beautifully made, his muscular body picked out in artistic relief. She ran her fingers down over his hard chest. A thought occurred to her.
She glanced at the two-way mirror and smiled, pursed her lips and blew him a kiss. Purposely bending over, legs slightly parted, her buttocks, and that dark, hairy patch between, exposed to his view, she removed the tray.
Just as she’d expected, the statue had the most beautifully formed hands. Her breathing quicker now, she got astride the spread hand. Two fingers stood up proud of the rest. Shirley eased herself down onto them, murmuring with delight as, unyielding they pushed their way into her.
Carefully at first, she began to ride him, her eyes half closed and a low moan escaping her throat.
His palm, like his fingers, was hard against her sex. The high plateaus and low indentations of his hand pressed relentlessly against her fleshy lips. This was selfish love for her lover made no demands for satisfaction, for kisses, for the slightest favour in return for his services.
Sighing with delight, she wriggled a little on his hard hand so that, soon, she could almost forget he had no life. No warmth. He was only very hard and always available.
As her arousal deepened, she closed her eyes and remembered Seth. She had left their bed in the early hours of the morning before he’d awakened. She knew she would miss him but hoped to find someone just as fulfilling, just as willing to give her what she wanted.
His dark body had been almost as hard as this stiff mannequin, but warmer, and the words he’d poured into her ear had added to her desire. She’d wanted his hands to cover her, she’d wanted to submit because in submitting he was hers and she was his. She’d let him tie her up, blindfold her and have her helpless whilst he’d taken his pleasure.
He’d tied her legs apart, thick ropes around her ankles securing her to the foot of the bed. Her legs open. Her wrists secured above her, her eyes blindfolded, yet even that had not been enough for him. He’d gagged her and placed headphones over her ears. Only her senses of smell and touch had remained. She had smelled his body, but only through touch had they truly communicated.
Like now, she thought, though there was sound and the only touch was that of a cold, hard hand, but if she closed her eyes…
She threw back her head as she rubbed at her nipples. This was something the statue could not do. He could and he would bring her to orgasm, just by her manipulating her sex over his hand. In her mind it was him – or perhaps Seth – or perhaps even Rene playing with her nipples. She could pretend and, in pretending, the nub of tingling circling her clitoris began to spread like a web throughout her body.
A starburst of orgasm exploded from that tiny, sensitive spot nestling in her velvety folds. It was over! It was done. The statue had done its work. The pleasure, the release was all hers, except…
She opened her eyes and looked at the mirror. She smiled. Rene was on the other side. She knew the job, the accommodation and all that went with it was hers for the taking. And night after night, he would watch her hoping for a repeat performance, and there would be many. Her new lover was untiring in his ministrations. He would always be giving and in return she would give him nothing.
Yellow Decadence
by D J Kirkby
The afterglow from their time together yesterday afternoon still shone from her entire being, especially noticeable in her sparkling eyes and ready smile. There was nothing more exhilarating than rampant lovemaking with the man she absolutely adored; of that fact, if of little else in her life, she was certain. They had both been so busy recently that not finding time to make love had, sadly, begun to become a habit.
Yesterday he had gotten up early, preoccupied with trying to finish painting under the stairs, and Susan, never one to be outdone, had set herself the task of turning over the flower beds. The sun was warm on her face and back as she dug into the damp soil; wet clods of it falling off the spade, wafting a clay scent upwards. While raking the last of the winter debris from the lawn, she realised that she found the rocking motion of her legs and hips stimulating, a none-too-subtle reminder of their dry spell.
Distracted, she stopped and, leaning on the rake, stared at the bright yellow forsythia blossom to the side of the shed. It could do with a bit of a prune and she had a fabulous idea about what to do with the cuttings!
She set to work with a smile on her face, a throbbing clitoris and a dampening sensation between her legs. Walking into the shed she stripped off her clothes, took out her mobile and dialled the home phone. When Jon answered she made her voice quiver; she was renowned for her fear of rodents.
‘Darling, I went into the shed for the pruning shears and saw a mouse. I am standing on the paint tins at the back and I’m too scared to move!’
‘I’ll be right there,’ Jon said, years of practical experience managing to keep him from making the mistake of laughing… but only just!
Susan hung up, drawing the forsythia branches up her legs and across her belly with a huge grin on her face.
She could hear Jon approaching and then he flung open the door saying, ‘How is the mouse supposed to have a chance to escape when the shed door is…’ He stopped short when he saw the look on her face and her nakedness draped with branches of yellow blossoms.
‘Get your clothes off and get down on your knees or you’ll never find out what you’re missing!’
Jon had his trousers down around his knees by the end of her sentence. His penis was already stirring in anticipation. Susan flicked it gently with one of the flimsier branches. His cock twitched in response. He puddled his clothes on the floor and kneeled on them, looking up at Susan to indicate his readiness. This was all the encouragement she needed; she picked up a small selection of branches and stood at his side; drawing them from his rounded bum to his straining shoulders. She spent a while flicking them against that gorgeous ass of his, each impact harder than the last, until it reddened enough to match the flush on his chest and face. Next she ran the blossom-laden branches up each leg, making sure to brush against his scrotum. His arms trembled and his breath hissed.
Susan could feel her clit twitching and her labia swelling with arousal. Moving to stand in front of Jon, she spread her legs and ran her hand down over her belly, curving her fingers into her pussy and bringing them back up to stroke her nub of pleasure.
His eyes hooded with lust and he murmured, ‘do it Susan, do it’.
Too close to the edge and unwilling to stop just to tease him further, she rubbed herself frantically to a sh
uddering climax, much to Jon’s delight. He had told her many times how much of a turn on it was to watch her bring herself off. In his opinion, watching the utter abandon of a truly liberated woman was pleasure in itself.
After she had recovered, Susan turned to assisting with Jon’s gratification. Aware she was onto a good thing, she pulled the forsythia branches up her own legs, making sure the blossoms brushed past her wet lips, coating them in some of her own lubrication before sweeping them past his face.
Jon was sitting back on his heels, greedily watching her, his penis engorged and rising up to thump him in the stomach from time to time. This spurred her on and she rubbed herself, smearing moisture onto her finger tips and ran this around her nipples. They stood upright, shining with their glossy coating and sending tingles directly down to her already aching clit.
Jon settled into a sitting position and reached up to touch her. He moved his palms in a sweeping upward motion along the inside of her thighs and Susan spread her legs to invite and accommodate his wet mouth. He dipped his tongue in and out of her moistness and began gently stroking her clit with his fingers. Before long Susan’s hips were rhythmically grinding down onto the contact. Susan turned and leaned against the old chest of drawers and then mewled with displeasure when he stopped playing with her in order to stand up. Upright, he pressed against her, reaching round to slide his fingers into her wet hole and she began to buck her ass against his hardness. Placing his hands on her hips, he leaned away enough to bend his knees and position himself so his cock slid between her legs. Gently, ever so gently, he rocked back and forth purposefully stroking her clit with his hard cock. Then he leaned against her, cock still hot against her labia and began to kiss the back of her neck until she tilted her ass up and against his stomach, inviting his entry into her wet centre. Knowing she was ready and, unable to contain himself, he plunged into her in one smooth stroke. Susan thrust back and forth, riding his cock and the pressure of his fingers, which were once again on her clit, with his other hand wrapped round her breast, clinging onto her bucking hips with the pressure of his own. It seemed an eternity and simultaneously only seconds before they were both joyously climaxing.
Whip Me Page 2
