Manhattan Kink: A Boxed Set

by Serafina Conti

  “Will he whip her, do you think?” Something in me hoped he would.

  “If that’s what they both want.”

  “Have sex?” I wanted them to have sex, too. He should take her from behind like a tomcat, biting the nape of her neck.

  “That often happens, but it doesn’t have to.”

  “Why have you brought me here, Rob?”

  “For a drink,” he said, “though I confess that I find you beautiful and compelling.”

  “And ten years older than you,” I said.

  “Eight,” he said, correcting me. “I’ve done my research, you see.”

  “And what made you think I might like a place like this?”

  “A guess,” he said. “Maybe intuition.”

  As he talked, a couple entered the bar, both middle aged and dressed in black leather. The man was wearing a collar with a leash attached; the woman was holding the leash. He walked one pace behind her, observing her carefully as she led him.

  Rob continued, “I decided in any case that I’d trust you with this secret of mine. You handed a good bit of power over to me, back in that restaurant, and now I’m handing it back to you.”

  “How did I hand over power?” I asked, incredulous.

  “When a supervisor tells a man he’s out of a job, she gives up her power over him. I may teach for another year, but your authority over me will be purely notional.”

  It was true. I’d written his last performance evaluation and recommended his last raise. If he decided not to show up for half his classes, there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. But I said, “If we were to go to one of those rooms, wouldn’t I be returning that power to you?”

  “Sort of,” he said. “You would obey me for as long as it pleased you to obey. These people are playing. They exchange power, but it’s play power, like Monopoly money. A submissive always retains the ability to stop the play. On the other hand, I’ve revealed to you that I’m a rather kinky character. Some people would despise me if they knew these proclivities of mine.” He waved towards the objects and pictures on the wall. “The power that gives you over me is real—you could spread rumors about me and do actual damage to my reputation. The kind of kink we practice here isn’t quite mainstream.”

  “How often do you bring women here?” I asked.

  “Not very. They have play parties here once a month, and sometimes I manage to meet someone. Sex isn’t allowed at play parties. I’ve had a couple of kinky girlfriends, but I’m not a Don Juan.”

  “Do you always give fake names for the women you bring?”

  “Only when I bring department chairs,” he said, smiling.

  “Have you ever brought a student here?” I asked accusingly.

  He smiled. “I was tempted a couple of times in my first year of teaching, but I never did. Undergraduates are pretty, but I don’t find them especially sexy.”

  “You like older women,” I said, a question phrased as a statement.

  “Women who know what they’re doing,” he said. “Women mature enough to understand themselves.”

  Strange how the conversation had moved from the abstract to the hypothetical, and now very near the concrete, and yet he didn’t seem to be steering it. Down below, I was feeling tingly and a little wet.

  He was relaxed in his chair, legs crossed, one hand in his lap while with the other he toyed idly with his nearly untouched scotch.

  I leaned forward and took a sip of my wine. “I’m still your supervisor,” I said, “even if that doesn’t mean a whole lot in an academic department—even if I’ve given up any real authority over you. I’m not allowed to have sex with you.”

  “What if I’m the one making the approach?” he said. “If I proposition you, are you allowed to accept?”

  “Not really,” I said, though I was thinking to myself that no one would know.

  “I resign,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

  I said, “You can’t do that. You’ve got to finish out the term.”

  “You’ll have to hire me as an adjunct on Monday,” he said, smiling. “And now that we’ve settled the workplace issue, I’ll say what’s on my mind. Only once—I’m not going to badger you. I want you to go with me to a private room here and submit to me. I want to rule you, and I want to make love to you. Will you go with me?”

  “Are you going to fuck me,” I asked, “like Christian Grey?”

  “I want to make love to you the way you want to be made love to,” he said. “If I’m right in my guess about you, we’ll both get tremendous pleasure out of it.”

  “No bondage,” I said, gesturing at the manacles on the wall. “After what I’ve done to you tonight, I’d be insane to allow you to make me helpless.”

  “No bondage,” he smiled. “Anything else?”

  I glanced at the whips hanging on the wall. “Do you use whips?” I asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Do you hit hard?”

  “If we were to play that way, you’d get to say how hard and when to stop.”

  “What else should I be worried about?”

  “Probably not much. I don’t do edgeplay—cutting, scat, things that risk real damage, either physical or psychological. But when I’m demanding that you obey me, some of the fun, for both you and me, is in pushing a bit—getting you to do things you haven’t done before, or withholding or delaying things you like. If I push too hard, you can say ‘Red’ and I’ll stop everything. If you want to slow things down, change directions, or pause to talk about what’s going on, say ‘Yellow’ and I’ll check in with you.”

  “Why shouldn’t I just say ‘Stop’ or ‘Slow down’ or ‘Wait a minute’?”

  “A lot of people find it a turn-on to say ‘Stop’ and not mean it. Begging for mercy and not getting any can be incredibly hot. This is a game for people who like their play intense, and with at least an illusion of danger. But if you’re more comfortable letting words have their normal meaning, that’s fine with me. In that case we won’t need safewords—‘Red’ and ‘Yellow.’”

  “Let’s let words have their normal meanings for now,” I said. “‘Stop’ means stop.” Only after I’d said this did it occur to me that my language—my omission of subjunctives—was committing me to this evening of insanity. I took a deep breath and looked at him. He’d understood me too, and his lips were curled into a gorgeous wolfish smile. I wanted him to take me in his arms and kiss me, though I guessed that he had a lot more in mind than kissing, or even sex.

  “Okay,” he said. “You can pause the action at any moment to ask questions, make adjustments, change course, or call a stop to the whole thing. If you’re ready, I just have to get a key from Boswell.”

  “Is his name really Boswell?”

  “I have no idea. We call the day man Johnson, if that’s a help.”

  I laughed and said, “Go ahead and get the key.”

  He left, and I looked around the room again. The pictures seemed much more erotic now, and even scarier. The middle-aged man on a leash was sitting on the floor beside his mistress’s chair, looking for all the world like a dog. She fed him a nut from a bowl on her table and glanced my way. She gave me a tight little smile, as if we shared a secret, and I smiled back at her. The man turned his head to look at me, but she jerked his leash sharply, and he returned his attention to her.

  I glanced at the two men at the bar, and it occurred to me that one of them was in all probability a woman. The man had a hand in her crotch; her eyes were closed and she was breathing deeply. I studied the whips hanging on the wall and wondered which would hurt most. The bullwhip, I decided, was absolutely out. I had seen that Indiana Jones movie.

  Rob came back and said, “Ready.”

  I got up and followed him out of the bar. He led me farther along the corridor to an oaken door with the number “6” on it. He opened the door with a key and gestured me in.

  3. Fluffy Kitty

  At first glance the room was like an expensively furnished h
otel room. But over the king-size bed, instead of the usual pastoral scene, was a large black and white photograph of a naked woman who appeared to be on tiptoe, bent over nearly double, hands cuffed behind her with gleaming cuffs. Her back and legs were visible, but not her face or bottom, except for the very top of her crack, from which a shiny steel bar seemed to sprout. A ring at the end of the bar was attached to a taut chain extending up out of the frame. Staring at this, I shivered a little, knowing and not quite wanting to know how that steel bar was fastened to the woman’s backside.

  When I was able to tear my gaze away, I saw that a cross like the one in the barroom was attached to the wall next to the bed. The opposite wall was brick, with three iron rings fixed into it about six feet high and six feet apart, and three more directly under them, near the floor. Farther along on this wall was a rack holding a selection of items—whips (but no bullwhip), what looked like an ostrich feather on a stick, leather cuffs, neat coils of rope hanging from pegs, and, prominent at the top of the rack, some large shears with angled snips. In the ceiling above the open space between the bed and the door was a sturdy steel hook, and there were cleats every few feet along the walls, about four feet above the floor. In one corner of this open space, not far from the bed, was a comfortable leather chair.

  Through the door of the bathroom at the far end of the room, I could see an oversize bathtub. I wondered what other goodies were in there.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Not scared yet?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “Why don’t you have a seat? We have one or two more things to talk about.”

  He gestured towards the leather chair, and I sat.

  He sat on the edge of the bed facing me and said, “Do you ever imagine yourself as something else, you know, in your fantasies? A little girl, an animal of some kind? A piece of furniture? A movie star?”

  This was a hard question—not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I’d never told anyone about this fantasy. I must have looked uncomfortable, because he said, “All answers are good, you know. And your secret is completely safe with me.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. I said “A kitten” in a little voice that surprised me by sounding like a meow.

  “Yes!” he exclaimed, a triumphant hiss. His eyes gleamed, and he said, “I like kitties. Very much.” He got up and went to a closet back near the bathroom. He opened it, and I could see it was all shelves inside, crammed with things I couldn’t make out. But there were labels on the shelves, which he studied for a few seconds before saying, “Ah!” He rummaged on a shelf and pulled out a hairband with two cat ears attached. He turned to me and said, “Would you describe yourself as a short-haired or a long-haired breed?”

  I was intensely embarrassed, but excited. I decided honesty would be the best policy, since it was already yielding benefits.

  “Fluffy,” I whispered.

  He put that headband back and took out another with fluffy black ears.

  “You’ve got light brown hair,” he said, “but these are black. Will they do?”

  “I like them a lot,” I said, a little breathless. I was getting excited, thinking about wearing those ears.

  He rummaged some more and pulled out a fluffy black tail that terminated in a bulbous object like a small metal onion. “Some tails are attached to belts, but they don’t seem to have any of that kind. This is an anal plug. I guess we’d better wait and see if the time comes for it.” He laid it on a nightstand.

  I had a feeling the time would come, though the idea frightened me.

  He turned back to the closet and fished out a pink and lacy collar. “A pretty thing for a pretty kitty,” he said. He came to me and said, “Stand up.”

  I was wearing a gray suit—very businesslike, with a skirt, white blouse, and jacket, and plain black pumps. He unbuttoned the jacket, slipped it off me, and draped it neatly over the back of the leather chair. Then he put the ears and collar on me. He stood back to admire his work. “I like it,” he said, and led me to the bathroom, where he stood me in front of the mirror. He was behind me, hands resting lightly on my shoulders, looking at my reflection.

  I looked at him in the mirror, noticing that I came up just to his shoulders. I tilted my head a little, simpered, and said “Meow.” It was embarrassing, doing this, but I liked the feeling—both being kittenish and being embarrassed.

  He put his arms around me, under my breasts, and said, “I like it very much. Why don’t you just make kitty sounds from here on, unless you have a compelling need to speak as a human being.”

  “Meow,” I said, and leaned back into him.

  “Your lipstick isn’t kittenish,” he said.

  I meowed my agreement—it was lioness red.

  “Clean that off—you’ll find some stuff in the cabinet there,” he said, gesturing towards a medicine cabinet off to the side.

  I found some cold cream in the cabinet and used that and a washcloth to take off my lipstick. By the time I was done he was waiting with a pink lipstick. “You’d better put this on,” he said. “Much as I’d like to do it, I’m sure I’d mess it up.” He watched while I applied it. I was starting to look a little silly—air-headed, a toy for him. I liked it.

  “One more thing to make you the perfect kitten,” he said, and turned me towards him. He was holding an eyeliner.

  “Look up,” he said, “and close your eyes.”

  I could feel what he was doing: making up my eyes to make them more oval, like a cat’s eyes; drawing a little cat’s nose on the end of my nose, and finally three whiskers on either cheek.

  “Open your eyes and look at me,” he said. I opened my eyes and saw that he’d taken a step back for a better look.

  He tilted his head one way, then the other. He put a finger under my chin and turned my head this way and that. Finally he said, “Beautiful.”

  “Meow,” I said, trying to remember if any man had ever told me I was beautiful, not quite believing him, but loving it anyway.

  He turned me towards the mirror and said, “What do you think?”

  My heart fluttered a little as I looked at my reflection—I’d never thought of myself as cute, but that’s what I was now—cute and trivial, very silly and, right now, very aroused.

  “Meow,” I said, and gave him a kittenish smile.

  “Every kitten loves to be petted,” he said. “Come back into the room.”

  I wished I knew how to purr. He grabbed a bath mat from the sill of the tub and returned to the room—I followed him. He sat in the leather chair, spread the bath mat by his right foot, and said, “You can curl up here.”

  I’m not very big, so the bath mat was plenty for me. I kicked off my shoes, curled up there, and felt contented. He reached down and scratched me behind my ear.

  “Mew,” I said, and this time I skipped feeling silly. I just wanted him to go on with what he was doing.

  “There’s a good kitty,” he said, and petted my hair, then, after a minute or so, my back.

  At length he said, “This outfit of yours isn’t kittenish.”

  I said “Mew,” sadly, sat up, and reached for the top button of my blouse.

  “No,” he said, “I’ll do it.” He unbuttoned my blouse, pulled it out of the waistband of my skirt, and took it off me. I’m small breasted, but I wore a bra because at my age you need all the help you can get in the battle against time and gravity. The bra hooked in the back, and he reached around, unhooked it, and slipped it off.

  “Stand,” he said. I did, and he unzipped and pulled down my skirt, leaving my panties. “Down,” he said, and I sank to my knees in front of him, self-conscious because my body isn’t that of a twenty-year-old, but feeling good about the direction things were taking.

  He put a hand on my left nipple, which was already erect. “Mew,” I said, rather urgently, loving the boldness of his touch. He tweaked my nipple with his fingers, then moved over to do the same for the other one.r />
  My panties were soaked: I could feel the coolness down there. I wanted to do something for him now, and I reached for his belt, meaning to undo his pants.

  But he swatted my nose with his fingertips and said, “Bad kitty! I’ll let you know when it’s time for that.”

  A kitten has to defend her dignity: I bared my claws, took a swipe at his hand, and hissed.

  “Oh, kitty,” he said, “we can’t allow that kind of behavior.” He put his right hand on my left shoulder, and with the other he caressed my right cheek. His touch was tender and loving—but suddenly it wasn’t. His left hand slipped from my cheek to my neck, and he shoved hard with his right, and all at once, with a bump, I was on my back on the floor. He put a foot on my tummy; his left hand moved from my neck and his right took its place, holding my head down with one hand and tearing at my panties with the other, ripping them to get them off me.

  “Eeeeowww!” I cried as he sank two fingers into my sopping pussy and fucked me hard, palm on my clit so the sensations spiraled past stimulation into pain—too much! I thought of shouting “Stop!” but I didn’t want to end this, knowing without quite forming the thought that the punishment would make the play tastier.

  Eventually he stopped. His foot was still on my stomach, and he moved his left hand from my pussy to my mouth so I could suck my wetness from his fingers. “Is kitty going to be good now?” he said.

  I said “Mmm” around his fingers, a sad sound, but I was happy that I’d gotten through the little bit of punishment he gave me, that I could take a little pain. I wondered and wanted to find out how much more I could take.

  “Come sit in my lap, then,” he said.

  I did as he said, aware of the contrast between my nakedness and the formality of his dress, and grateful, too, that I’d managed to keep myself slender enough to curl up on his lap, head against his shoulder, while he wrapped his arms all the way around me.

  “Kiss me, kitty,” he said, and I turned towards him and kissed him, enjoying the tickle of his beard and the faint scent of some masculine soap—and beneath me, the swelling of him let me know that I wasn’t the only one turned on here. His lips were aggressive, his tongue penetrating me fiercely—and his hand found my pussy again. His touch wasn’t punishing now, but not gentle either—he was pleasing himself, enjoying the sensation of my moisture on his fingers, caring and not caring that what he was doing was almost too much for me and I was gasping into his mouth, my breath hot around his tongue.