The Mercy of Strange Men: Erotic Stories
Aimee Nichols
Smashwords edition.
Copyright 2013 Aimee Nichols
http://www.aimee-nichols.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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For SM, the long-suffering Dr Girlfriend to my Monarch.
Table of Contents
The Mercy of Strange Men
Down in the Park
The Gospel of Sophie
Lipstick
All Eyes On Him
The Window
Strap on Sex is So Passé
Exquisite Corpse
About the Author
The Mercy of Strange Men
Lydia is ready. Lydia has been ready for some time. She has lost track of how long it has been since the Master prepared her in the usual way — naked and face down, her knees bent under her, upper body stretched forward so as not to put too much weight on her thighs. Arms out in front of her and tied to the edge of the platform with long leather cords. Legs shackled in the same manner at the ankles. This is the way they have always done things; the stretching pressure in her muscles has become as common a feeling as standing up or walking around. She has learned how to relax, how to breathe and move her weight about in order to delay becoming stiff and sore from so long spent in one position. Even so, she seems to have been here longer than usual. She is not sure how much longer her body will hold out without the promise of relief.
Surely the show should be ready to start soon?
Time moves excruciatingly slowly without the benefit of sound or images for distraction. Lydia tries to clear her mind and be calm, as the Master always tells her to do, but it’s not as easy as she would like it to be. In isolation such as this, displayed to no one in an empty room, her vulnerability is almost unbearable, but enticing at the same time. She imagines how she would appear to an onlooker who might happen upon the locked room by some twist of fate, unaware of what was inside or why, shocked at their discovery, but a shock mingled with arousal, perhaps. The blue and red hues of the overhead lights cast purple shadows over her body, highlighting curves and crevices. The position the Master has posed her in pushes her arse out provocatively and gives her spine the exaggerated curve of sexual mythology without her having to deliberately arch it. Her long rich red hair tumbles over her shoulders, obscuring her face from view. Her breasts are heavy and round, and their weight extends from her chest, creating a buxom and enticing silhouette. Her pale pink nipples are fully erect.
Already her body has started to respond to the promise of what the night will bring, the consequences of being displayed in such a manner. She smiles, secret and sly. The Master will be pleased when he comes back and finds her wet with no external provocation. She awaits his return, as her cunt grows wetter and her skin ever more sensitive to the air and atmosphere of the room. This is where she belongs.
After an eternity of waiting, when her body has calmed from its initial arousal response but her mind still flares, her lust-heightened senses detect the door opening and the outside breeze wafting in to assault her bare skin, which prickles into gooseflesh in response. She hears the quiet shuffling and low murmurs of the audience taking their seats, and imagines what they look like, and what their reactions are as they look at her, exposed and subservient and untouchable on stage, like an exotic creature in a glass case.
They will have come here to see her having heard of her through the whispered grapevine of gloat and conquest. The thrill of that fact never fades. The familiar buzz of it starts in Lydia’ s mind and moves through her body, coaxing her nipples and clitoris to erection again. Unconsciously she arches her back, pushing her arse higher in the air and her hairless sex towards the crowd. She can feel their presence, their numbers growing. She can feel their attention and readiness; the air is sharp with their sexual tension. She wonders how many feign disinterest, and how many are unable to tear their gaze away, staring without shame, confident they are at last in an environment where they will not be judged and found guilty for looking.
The Master assured her one night, stroking her hair after a show in one of his candid moments brought about by a job well done, that the men were fascinated by her. She had a large repeat audience. Those who did not return were normally forced by circumstances to stay away; the Master had shown her a letter on a different occasion, from a regretful former patron who had accepted a job interstate, but who wanted to tell them how important a part of his life Lydia and the Master had been, and that they remained in his fantasies. She had been flattered that someone like her, who did not attract second glances on the street as she quietly went about her everyday life, should have such an effect on a person, on many people, outside of those everyday situations and bonds. It was flattering, she reflected, to become a part of someone’ s sexual mythology, to have their thoughts turn uncontrollably to you and the brief moment you were a part of their life. To not even have to know them well or acknowledge their existence for this to occur. To know that even after one night in someone’ s presence, you were a part of their life forever.
Lydia had agreed on this arrangement, so long ago now, because the Master had promised to bring her out of her sexual shell. He promised that their experiences together would provide the sexual release that she needed so badly. She had been sceptical at first, even as her cunt responded to the scenarios and ideas he described. How was this supposed to liberate her? How was being naked in a room full of strangers watching her become a sexual object going to do anything to realise her own fantasies? In the end, she could not deny how much the idea spoke to her and excited her, and how in thrall to the Master she already felt, and how that thrilled her. Refusal was an available choice but never a realistic option. From the first night, her willingness to obey and experiment had rewarded her. After that, she could not pretend there had ever been any other reason for agreeing than her own sexual satisfaction. The thrill was too great, the arousal too real.
The room continues to fill up, the murmuring of the voices growing deeper and louder. The presence and arousal of the men is almost a physical force now, and it seems there are a lot of them. Lydia strains to detect the Master’s presence on the stage, to hear the deep timbre of his voice even if his words are imperceptible. She cannot, and despite her arousal she tenses. Surely wouldn’t leave her alone at the mercy of strange men? He would not go that far, she thinks, a faint chill of doubt crystallising in the back of her mind. He would not overstep her boundaries completely, despite his talent for pushing them further and further from what they used to be, despite the fact that they are unrecognisable compared to the boundaries she thought were unmovable before she started coming to him. But would he completely disregard her limits?
As she frets and begins to feel over-exposed in her bonds, she fails to detect the closing of the door, signalling no more admittance for the night’s entertainment. Her worries cease when she hears her Master addressing the audience in his deep tones. She listens to him explain the formalities and rules of the night, and thank them for their attendance, promising they will not be disappointed. She imagines the long-time attendees nodding impatiently, aware of what they must do to stay, waiting for their arousal to be sated, and the newcomers concentrating on ta
king in everything he says, lest they commit some faux pas that will see them ejected from what they already know will be a very memorable night. The dark bass of the Master’s voice ricochets though her body, and her yearning begins anew. She does not know what he has in store for her, but she craves to find out. Her waiting and anxiety will not have been in vain.
He finishes his speech and comes to stand by her side, positioning himself, as always, near her right hip. He is out of her peripheral vision range, and turning her head is forbidden. She tries to content her self with the knowledge of his presence and noting how she can feel his immense sexual energy even from a distance.
It is time for the show to begin.
‘And what,’ he coos in a voice loud enough for the audience to hear, ‘does my little slut wish to learn about tonight?’
Lydia recognises the familiar opening line, tenses in anticipation of the erotic menu to come. Her cunt clenches involuntarily. She wonders if the audience is tensing too, knowing the outline, but not the content, of what is to come
‘Perhaps we could teach you about water-play? Some nice naughty droplets running down your body from one of our gentleman guests? Perhaps some live lesbian action between two supposedly heterosexual women - or is that more of a men’s fantasy, my little girl? A dirty one for us boys and our incorrigible ways? I’m sure nice girls like yourself would never deign to fantasise about something so base and so unattainable, so unrealistic and common, because everything you would think of wanting would be romantic and attainable and not even the slightest bit vulgar. That’s because nice girls like you think you don’t have to beg for anything, isn’t that right?’
At this he pauses momentarily to lightly brush his fingers across her vulva, spreading the wetness he finds there, and without thinking she thrusts herself against his hand. In response, he moves it away, and wipes her juices on her arse cheek, disdain obvious in the forceful drag of his fingers.
‘As you know, my dear, and as our esteemed audience are probably aware by now, I take great pleasure in stripping young ladies like yourself of your illusions about these matters. I must say, I’ve never had any complaints so far.’
Lydia hears murmuring from the crowd, sounds of amusement and agreement. She imagines the men nodding their heads at her Master’s words, pleased to finally have someone voice the thoughts they’re not meant to think, looking down on her, and she flushes with embarrassment.
‘But I’ve gotten off track, haven’t I, my repressed little darling? We were talking about your lesson for tonight, how you want to show your debauched desires to our esteemed guests and prove the existence of the slut heart that beats inside stuck-up middle-class nice girls like you.’
It is always the same. It is lies and performance, a mask of exaggerated disdain for the benefit of the audience, but he sees inside her head and dredges up her darkest shame and desires, proving her to share the desires she considers contemptuous and base in others. He makes her acknowledge what she’s been taught she should not yearn for. He scorns her for her needs; every man here is riveted by the forbidden lust that rages through Lydia’s body and mind. Images flash through her head and she lets out a moan and pushes her pelvis back toward her Master, unconsciously offering herself to him.
‘What is this?’
She doesn’t answer. She can’t, she’ s not allowed, but she wouldn’t anyway. She knows what happens when the Master starts asking her questions.
‘Are you trying to control what happens to you?’ He says it quietly, but there is a resonance in his voice that she knows will carry to even the men seated up the back of the room.
‘I think Lydia, our little slut, is trying to tempt me. I think she wants to control what happens to her. And I do not think that is appropriate.’
There is murmuring from the men in the crowd.
‘I don’t think girls who think they can be tied up with their pussies showing in public and not have to give up control to the men who know better than they should be allowed to get away with such cheek. What do you think, gentlemen?’
More murmurs of assent, stronger now, in the tones of men trying desperately to keep their arousal to themselves.
‘Very well then.’
Lydia hears him walk away, off the stage, and the heavy footfalls of his return. He comes to stand beside her, but for several moments he says or does nothing, and she wonders what is to come.
A sudden harsh swishing sound cuts the air, and the biting sting of a riding crop burns across her arse. She gasps in shock and pain, and her stomach clenches involuntarily. The sharp pain always comes as a shock at first, even when she is ready for it but doubly so when she is not. It takes her body some time to adjust before she begins to enjoy it. But tonight the Master is not interested in giving her time, quickly bringing down the crop again, an inch from where he landed it the first time. Lydia cries out in pain, and tears sting her eyes. The crop bites into her flesh again, and her cry turns into a low moan. The Master pauses, and strokes her sore, tender flesh, whispering softly so that only she can hear. She relaxes against his touch, knowing that it is only a matter of time before he hits her with the crop again. Sure enough, he moves his hand away, and she breathes in, waiting for the inevitable pain.
Her body is ready this time, and the sting carries with it a faint echo of pleasure. The Master rubs her arse again, the warmth of his hand mingling with her heat, and she relaxes and begins to breathe normally. He knows how to play her; he continues alternating lashes of the crop with gentle strokes of his hand. She begins to relish the hiss of the crop as it cuts the air, and her body begins to reinterpret the pain of contact as pleasure. Soon she feels the heat of her arse move lower down to her cunt, as she and the Master both knew she would.
He puts his fingers against her vulva and rubs it gently in a circular motion. She can feel his fingers savouring her wetness. He pulls his hand away and takes a step back.
‘The slut must sate herself,’ he informs the room in general.
He steps forward into her view but does not face her. He crouches at her side, not looking at or speaking to her, and unties the cord that binds her left arm. He then straightens, turns and walks back down off the stage without acknowledging her. She feels a momentary flash of disappointment at his lack of attention, but arousal takes its place as she hungrily places her freed left hand between her legs and begins to stroke herself. She rubs her clit with two fingers, giving herself over to sensation.
She strokes harder and faster, growling in the back of her throat as her orgasm approaches. The audience is silent, awaiting her climax, feeling the sexual electricity that filters through the room and crackles off the surfaces. Their collective gaze is riveted to the source of this energy; the woman who kneels, bound by leather ropes to the raised platform in the middle of the room, and sweats from the hot stage lights and her own palpable desire. Lydia feels their desire, their arousal at both the situation and the close proximity of so many other people, almost as strongly as she feels the sensations caused by her fingers working on her clitoris. She rocks back onto her hand again, offering her backside to the audience, and slips a finger into her cunt. Then two. She takes the pressure off her clitoris for a moment, knowing that if she delays her own orgasm, she increases the sexual tension in the room as well as her own eventual climax. Her thoughts fly to her master as she finger-fucks herself, and she wonders what he makes of her display. Is he watching her, his gaze on her glistening pink cunt, watching the fingers thrust into it and come out a little more slippery each time? Does he have his hand on his cock as he takes it all in? What does he have planned for her after this?
She removes her fingers and goes back to stroking her clit, bucking again at the sensations. She will let herself come this time. She will come hard and noisily, and her sexual release will fill the whole room and everyone will be able to see what a little whore she is. The thought of all her men sitting there, thinking about what a slut she is and maybe with their hands on t
heir cocks because of it, sends her over the edge. She comes to orgasm with a howl, rubbing her clit furiously and rearing back against her hand. She continues to rub even after she is sensitive, lost in a post-orgasmic daze and no longer aware anymore of the crowd and their various stages of arousal. Nor does she notice her Master is at her side until he has roughly grabbed her hand and bound it again with the leather.
She realises what is happening and lowers her head submissively. Although still recovering from her exhibitionistic orgasm, she focuses her senses on trying to locate where he is now that he has moved back behind her, and tries to guess what his next action will be. She does not have to wonder long before she feels the sting of a slap on her right buttock, and gasps aloud, out of shock more than pain, although she can still feel the trail of the crop across her flesh. Before she has time to recover her composure, a second slap lands with a sting upon her left buttock. There is murmuring rising from the crowd; they are excited by the Master’s actions, and by her response. She arches her back and leans in towards the direction his hands are coming from, and is rewarded for her impertinence by several more slaps, coming in quick succession across her arse. Her gasps come steadily, and morph quickly into moans. Then without warning he stops. She pauses, dazed, and whimpers for more, beyond capability of speech. She wants desperately to turn her head to see what is happening, but knows she must not. There will be a punishment if she does so, and far from being a continuation of what she has experienced so far, she fears it will rather be the cessation of the Master’s touch, the premature ending of the show. The pause, however, is temporary, and she guesses it is for show. His hands come at her from her side, striking her in such a way as to slap both arse cheeks. She pushes back against his hand once more and is rewarded with several more slaps. She feels her responses grow more theatrical, mindful even in her aroused state of the audience. She wants them to want her, although they will never touch her in the way the Master is doing now. That’s part of the point, she thinks, and makes a show of trying to squirm away from his punishing hands. Lydia, for all she has become, remains a terrible actress: there is far less show than genuine desire in her responses.
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