A Kink In Her Tails

by Sahara Kelly

  He sighed and sipped his drink, the scotch they both enjoyed.

  Her hair brushed his belly and he eased the robe up away from his body even more so that he could expose more of himself to her touch. God, she felt wonderful.

  Her breasts brushed against him, hard and needy, and he obeyed a wicked impulse.

  As she bent to his cock, he slipped his fingers into the bag holding the ice cubes, letting the flesh cool until it was almost burning. Then he reached for her nipple.

  She shrieked as his icy cold fingers caressed her, then thrust her breast into his hand with a moan, squeezing the base of his cock with her hand as he fondled her. “OhmiGod,” she sputtered. “You devil. That’s so—so—good…”

  Jason grinned. “Oh yeah? Come here…” He pushed her down onto her back on their blanket, tugging and pulling the skirt up around her waist. She looked wanton and decadent and like every man’s wet dream with her blonde hair tangled, her blue-green eyes flooding with desire and her pussy glistening with her arousal. And it was all just for him.

  He picked up a slippery ice cube and ran it over one breast, loving her gasps and moans of pleasure/pain. He followed the ice with his mouth, suckling her into the warmth and feeling her squirm beneath him.

  He slipped cold fingers to her clit and watched as she nearly levitated off the blanket.

  “Jesus H. Jason…” She cursed and bucked as his fingers froze her clit and teased it, darting between her sensitive folds to play some more.

  Grinning, he explored this game a little further. A larger ice cube found its way into his hand, and it took but a second to slip it into her cunt.

  She made not a sound, just stared at him, eyes getting wider by the second.

  “Hurt?” he asked, holding his hand tight to her pussy.

  She shook her head, then nodded, then shook her head again. He chuckled.

  He moved quickly between her legs and dipped, thrusting his hot tongue against the chilled flesh.

  She moaned, writhing now as he teased her clit and used his cold fingers along with the melting ice cube to stir new sensations inside her. It was the work of a moment to slip an ice cube into his mouth, letting it chill his tongue and his lips, never letting his other hand cease its teasing play around her swollen and moist flesh.

  He spat out the ice cube and quickly rose up, fastening his now-cold mouth around her breast.

  She seemed unable to control her body as it suffered these unusual onslaughts. She moaned and tossed and bucked, and Jason realized she was so close to coming that her thighs were trembling.

  What could he do? It was his fault she was so aroused. Jason prided himself on being a gentleman. So he did the gentlemanly thing.

  He slid his cock into her cunt, gasping a little himself as the chilled skin brushed his hardness. The ice cube had all but melted, just leaving the tiniest spots of cold to tantalize the head of his cock.

  It was wild, unexpected, amazingly pleasurable and unforgettable.

  The sun burned hotly on his bare backside as he plunged himself into Francesca, time and again. She met every thrust with her hips, sobbing her pleasure, calling his name, begging him to fuck her harder, longer, to ram himself deep into her body.

  He responded as he always did, silently and forcefully, slipping a hand beneath her and raising her so that he could angle his driving thrusts as deeply as humanly possible.

  He lowered his head to her breasts and sucked them hard, pulling the nipples with his tongue and biting them gently, the pain from his teeth adding to her mad rush to orgasm.

  They’d come together, exploding on the rooftop, high above the rest of the world. Their bodies might have been several stories up, but their minds and their souls were at a different level, one measured in astronomical units.

  Jason had always believed that sex with Francesca became a galactic experience, and perhaps even resulted in the creation of life on small planets elsewhere in the cosmos.

  Of course, that theory sounded better when they were sharing a couple of Luke’s funny-smelling cigarettes.

  Whatever the result, Jason could look back on that time with joy, fondness and pleasure. As long as he could forget the pain.

  * * * * *

  A soft chime from his computer roused Jason from his reminiscences. He had mail. Oh joy. At this time on a Saturday night it could only be from his agent, a man to whom the word “weekend” meant “extra hours to work.”

  God knew that Jason was grateful. Having his latest book top the New York Times bestseller lists for six weeks was a pleasure, and he rightfully credited Rick Jackson with the achievement.

  He left the chair and wandered to his desk, his eyes registering the assortment of books that were ranged neatly to one side.

  As always, a tingle of pride flittered up his spine as he read the titles and the author—JB Sims. His pseudonym. No punctuation. He did capitalize, however, not having the daring or the ability of an e e cummings to completely ignore the rules of good grammar.

  His current series of six novels had pride of place on the shelf, and when “Seven Scenes, Seven Sins. Book I” had been released, the furor that had erupted over its controversial subject matter had sent sales skyrocketing.

  Jason wondered if Francesca had read it. Because she was in it. She was in all his books. If it hadn’t been for her, the first one might never have been written.

  Oh it was fiction. Pure and utter fiction. But the story of a whore who found passion through becoming a dominatrix only to throw it all away for a chance at a straight marriage had touched chords with readers. Especially because Jason had refused his editor’s suggestion to compromise and had allowed his frustrated and unhappy heroine to commit suicide at the end.

  Each book had begun with a detailed scene. A scene that Jason and Francesca had either played, or discussed, or tossed around in lively conversation.

  Looking back, Jason realized that their relationship defied description. Neither was submissive, and neither really dominant. They both enjoyed the roles they assigned themselves, switching from top to bottom as their games demanded, and sometimes just going straight vanilla all the way.

  If fucking your girlfriend underwater at midnight in your local swimming pool, which you had quite illegally broken into, could be considered vanilla.

  Jason grinned at the memory of that one. Too much chlorine had given Francesca’s hair a slightly greenish tinge for a while. She’d been royally pissed even though it had been her suggestion in the first place.

  He clicked his email icon.

  “JB, got the deal with the pub. SOB’s didn’t want to up the promo budget but I persuaded them. Book 7 is awaited with avarice and glee by all concerned. Including yours truly. Any word on when? Not that I’m nagging of course…”

  Jason filed the message.

  When. That was the big question. This was the final book in his series. The one that would end the adventures of Darius Malcolm through the underworld of sexual exploration. Would it bring him to the light or end his existence?

  The sad thing was that Jason just didn’t know.

  Should he allow Darius the blessing of a quiet and fulfilling relationship which would satisfy his romantically-minded readers?

  Or should he, as others insisted, have Darius pay for the hearts he’d broken and the asses he’d flogged, by sending him to some kind of literary purgatory for infinity or the run of the novel through the paperback rights, whichever came first?

  Or was there a third possibility? Redemption?

  His agent didn’t care. It was his job to make sure Jason finished it, got it edited and then turned it over to the “machine” for presentation to a greedy public.

  His readers would care, of course, bless their hearts.

  They were vocal, literate, kept him on his toes and had sent him mail that would have made an interesting book all on its own.

  His publishers would go for the happily-ever-after, he knew. There was safety in predictability. And a
lso cash. Lots of it.

  But could he live with it?

  Could he write about something he wasn’t sure existed? He’d created a fictional world for Darius, where women and men interacted sexually in wild and often savage ways. Darius had marched through this world, using and discarding a number of women, none of whom had managed to capture his heart.

  Until now. Until Cameron McKay had crossed his path, lashed him to a St. Andrew’s Cross, and beaten the crap out of him. Then fucked him.

  His readers would certainly never know that he’d come close to being in Darius’ position.

  He could still feel the cold hardness of the wooden X as Francesca had tied his wrists to the upper supports and spread his ankles wide to lash them to the feet of the cross.

  Chapter 4

  It was one hell of a party. Francesca had giggled as she’d told him that they’d been invited to a Dungeon. A real, honest-to-God Dungeon.

  Visions of bikers and needles had flashed through Jason’s mind, then he’d yanked himself out of that fifties mentality and remembered that life had changed. It was the sixties. If Francesca said it was a dungeon, then a dungeon it was.

  And she’d been right.

  Of course, there were few, if any, actual dungeons dotting the New England countryside. There were, however, many small towns with big old houses, once the domicile of the local landowner, and now being repurchased, remodeled, refitted, and occasionally actually lived in.

  It was to one of these that the couple had driven one stormy summer night.

  The trees were tossing their branches around wildly and lightning flickered on the horizon as Jason and Francesca arrived.

  “And you say these people are okay?” Jason raised a quizzical eyebrow as his eyes roamed over the assortment of vehicles parked in the overgrown driveway.

  There was everything from a beat-up ‘57 Chevy to a state of the art Cadillac, a shiny new ragtop Mustang and a couple of Harleys.

  “Sure.” Francesca grabbed his hand and together they walked to the open door and into another world.

  Jason considered himself an educated and informed man. He’d written knowledgeably about sex, about its psychological twists and turns, and its influence over society. He’d completed his thesis and been awarded a Ph.D. in sexual psychology, albeit quietly, as the college was proud of his achievements but even prouder of their alumni donation record which might have been threatened by the news that they were now granting degrees in what amounted to S and M.

  All Jason’s educational experiences, however, went completely out of his mind as he stepped from the darkness into what resembled some kind of sexual Olympiad.

  Through mammoth loudspeakers The Doors were begging people to “C’mon Baby, Light My Fire,” the air was thick with incense, candle smoke and distinct overtones of grass, and clothing was optional. Beads were everywhere, the long tresses of the men and women blurred into a soft haze of hair intertwined with flowers, and most everyone was fucking.

  Energetically.

  Francesca was unfazed. She led Jason by the hand and through the throng, even waving to one girl who was being serviced by two men at the same time. And loving it to judge by her grin.

  Cries told of climaxes reached, grunts and groans of sperm being released. It was primal, heady, arousing and fascinating. Jason wished for a camera, a notebook and a quiet corner so that he and Francesca could add their moans to the soundtrack.

  But she hadn’t stopped, merely tugged him onward until they reached a stairway leading down.

  As they descended, the ambience shifted.

  The music faded, the psychedelic fuck frenzy being relegated to the floors above.

  Here, all was quiet. There was a rich carpet on the bare concrete, cushioning their steps, and a small corridor running the length of the house.

  The Doors were picking up the pace of their music, but only the thump of the bass made it through to this darkened domain. Jason had a whimsical image of the interior of some great beast whose heart was pounding around them.

  A blonde waif with the longest hair Jason could remember seeing outside a storybook emerged from an opening.

  She held a tray in front of her with several small sugar cubes on it.

  Clinically, it wasn’t hard to see that she’d been sampling her own offerings. Her pupils were incredibly dilated, her focus totally gone, and how she was standing upright, let alone offering her wares, was a source of astonishment.

  She was also stark naked.

  Francesca leaned over and kissed her cheek, but turned down the treat. Jason breathed a sigh of relief. He’d never tripped on LSD and wasn’t about to start now.

  “Here, Jason. In here,” she said, opening a door toward the end of the corridor.

  The room was small, and pretty much empty, except for a large wooden contraption in the center of the floor. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize a St. Andrew’s Cross.

  Jason gulped. He’d seen pictures of them, of course, but never actually been face-to-face with one.

  Francesca quietly closed the door behind them and sealed them into their own private space. A small window allowed flickers of lightning to dance off the chrome fittings of the cross, a tall X-shaped creation made from a soft, polished wood. There were cuffs attached to the tops of the X for the wrists, and anklets at the bottom that would secure the penitent’s legs apart.

  For a moment, Jason allowed himself a wry chuckle at the notion of pleasure devices emerging from the torture chambers of medieval Europe. As he so often did, he reflected on how strange the world was.

  Then Francesca touched him and his thoughts ground to a halt. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart, and that’s the honest truth. Would you really want me to strap you into one of these? It’s so…so…medieval.”

  “Oh, and we haven’t gotten pretty medieval already?” she laughed back at him, blue eyes dancing.

  “Point taken.” Jason smiled back at her, his heart warming as he watched her walk around the cross. She had become his life, his dreams, his heart. And yet he had this continuous feeling there was something that still needed to be shared. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He reached up and slid his hand down the smooth wood. “So you want me to spank you here or what?”

  Francesca tipped her head back and grinned at him. “No, babe. This isn’t for me. This is for you.”

  * * * * *

  For a microsecond, Jason could swear he heard Francesca’s laugh in his darkened study. Night had fallen completely, and the ocean was nothing but a black mass, broken only by the rhythmic flashing of a navigational buoy bobbing in the currents.

  He ached. Literally. His heart, his chest, his lungs, his cock. Everything ached for Francesca.

  It was as if the scotch had unlocked a dam within his mind that had started as a small trickle but become a flood of memories, both joyous and painful. He wanted her. More now than ever, because he’d lived so much of his life without her and he wanted to share.

  His business had grown exponentially with his desire for privacy, and it had been ten years or so since he’d withdrawn from public life and started writing. His financial empire was solid, his multi-million-dollar adult toy company continued to show a profit, and he wanted for nothing.

  Jason crossed the room to his computer and sat down, a germ of an idea beginning to grow in his mind.

  There was nothing more in the way of material things that he wanted. He’d had it all, done it all, and sold the T-shirt at a profit. He’d been convinced that the right woman was out there and had spent considerable time and a lot of money on the process of finding out who and where she was.

  There had been blind dates, courtesy dates, honest and sincere dates.

  And there had been fucking. Lots of fucking. Jason Burke was handsome, wealthy, and single. He could have had his choice of women any night of the week. Several of them. Together.

  In fact he had. Although he’d found
himself rather confused by the mechanics of several sets of legs and breasts—rather like being confronted with an entire six-course meal all at once. Where did one start?

  He opened his browser and idly observed his system welcoming him personally.

  There had been several women in his life who had become important to him. A couple that would have made the very best of wives. He’d come very close to finding out. Even bought a ring.

  But, inevitably, it would fail. For no particular reason other than the fact that Jason’s heart wasn’t in it. His mind and his body were set on a course that would have led to marriage, but always his heart had stopped it. He knew it was wrong.

  That “something,” that spark, that shaft of desire he’d felt around Francesca was missing. And without it, there was nothing.

  His fingers trembled above the keyboard as he sat poised to do something he’d never allowed himself to do. Type her name.

  * * * * *

  “Whoa. You can’t mean me?”

  The words had popped out of his mouth as soon as Francesca had told him the St. Andrew’s Cross was for him.

  “I don’t see anyone else in here.” She crossed to him and began undoing his shirt. He must have been severely stunned because he let her undress him without a murmur.

  “But…but…” Oh yes. There we go. Great conversation for a Ph.D.

  “Jason, what’s the problem? You’ve let me top you before?”

  Jason took a breath. “I know, honey. And it’s been fun, but this…” he nodded at the shackles, “this is really intense, you know?”

  She had smiled and licked his nipple. “I know.”

  It was that smile that was his undoing. She could smile at him and he’d move heaven and earth for her.

  He noted that her hands trembled slightly as she unbuckled his belt, and was reassured. The thunder boomed in the distance, adding a very gothic note to this night, and Jason had to chuckle. “Well, we’ve certainly picked the right night to explore the dungeon world. Why do I keep expecting Dr. Frankenstein to make an appearance?”

  Francesca grinned. “I can assure you he won’t. It’s just us, Jason. You and me.”