Hard Bargains
A MISCHIEF EROTICA COLLECTION
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
This collection is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
Mischief
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
www.mischiefbooks.com
An eBook Original 2016
1
Open-Minded © Justine Elyot
A Deal to Be Struck © Willow Sears
Three of a Kind © Casey Lorne
House of Lewd Shadows © Rose de Fer
Winning a Yes © Kathleen Tudor
Strangers in the Night © Ashley Lister
Loving Myself © Heather Towne
The authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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EBook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008190217
Version 2016-04-27
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Open-Minded – Justine Elyot
A Deal to Be Struck – Willow Sears
Three of a Kind – Casey Lorne
House of Lewd Shadows – Rose de Fer
Winning a Yes – Kathleen Tudor
Strangers in the Night – Ashley Lister
Loving Myself – Heather Towne
About the Publisher
Open-Minded
Justine Elyot
The advert had asked for an ‘open-minded’ flatmate, and, when I asked her what she meant by that, she replied with breathtaking frankness. ‘I moonlight as a sex worker,’ she said. ‘Specifically, kinky stuff, a dominatrix. But you don’t need to worry about weirdos hanging around the place. I know all my clients very well and they’re one hundred per cent decent, respectful guys. Most of them pretty well-off, too. No shifty types in raincoats, I promise.’
It took me a while to reply to this. I needed to take stock of her answer. The fresh-faced thirty-something woman, sitting in front of me in sweats and a messy ponytail was a …?
‘I know, it fazes most people when I tell them,’ she sighed. ‘If it bothers you, that’s fine, I’ll re-advertise …’
‘Er, no, no, hang on,’ I said. ‘So you’re saying you meet your clients here?’
‘I’ll have made enough for a deposit on a serviced apartment in the West End, soon,’ she said. ‘The plan is to move operations out of here as soon as I can. It’ll just be for a few weeks, I hope, until I’ve made all the necessary start-up costs.’
‘Start-up costs?’
‘You know, marketing, a new web page, maybe some hush money for the concierge. That kind of thing. I’ve already got everything I need for the job itself.’
‘The job itself,’ I echoed. ‘You mean, like, whips and stuff?’
‘Yeah. Thigh-high boots, all that.’ She grinned suddenly over the rim of her coffee mug. ‘I know I don’t look the type. You can’t picture it, can you?’
‘I can’t really,’ I confessed. Shona seemed such a very typical kind of London woman: gym, office, wine bar, home. Not gym, office, wine bar, walk all over a man’s back in stilettoes. But then, perhaps there was no ‘typical London woman’. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have my own secret dark side, after all. In fact, Shona and I could almost be birds of a feather. Perhaps it was right that we should flock together. ‘I thought you had to be about six foot tall and built like Wonder Woman.’
‘Hey, are you saying I’m not built like Wonder Woman?’ she said with a fake pout and a laugh. ‘No, you’re right. But you can dress up to look like anything, really. And it’s all about confidence. If you can say the right things in the right way, at the right time, you can look like a Cabbage Patch doll and still get clients. OK, I might be exaggerating that last bit – you do have to make an effort with your appearance. But it’s not as prescriptive as you might think.’
There was a pause.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can see this has knocked you sideways. I’ll let you get on.’
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head for emphasis. ‘No, it’s OK. Honestly. I said I was open-minded, and I am. I’m more fascinated than repelled, definitely.’
‘So you might take the room?’
‘Well, it’s a really nice one. And the location’s perfect, two minutes from the Tube. Price is right. I haven’t seen anything else half as good.’ I muted my thoughts, to put the minus side to myself. But it could be noisy, what with all the walloping and howling that might go on. And what if we get raided by the police?
‘It’s really a great area to live in,’ Shona enthused. ‘The high street’s full of pubs and bars, there’s the cinema, loads of shops, leisure centre around the corner, park at the bottom of the hill …’
I made my decision. This was London. When it came to renting property here, there was always a compromise to be made. The question was only what it would be. I could cope with a few submissive blokes passing through now and then better than I could with an extra half an hour on top of my commute, or rising damp. Perhaps they’d even make me the odd cup of tea, or do the dishes for us.
‘How often do you see clients?’ I said.
‘Not that often at all,’ she said. ‘Two Saturdays a month, and one evening a week. Usually a Wednesday, six till ten. I’ll always give you tons of warning. If you like, just go out for a drink on those evenings. Spend the Saturdays in town, or with mates, or whatever. It’s flexible, anyway. I’ll always take your needs on board.’
‘OK, then,’ I said. ‘I really like the room, and you seem really nice, and … and … OK then. Let’s do it.’
She clapped her hands. ‘Thank fuck!’ she said. ‘Finally, somebody who knows what “open-minded” actually means.’
It wasn’t long before my interpretation was tested.
A week after I moved in, one of the famous Saturdays rolled around. I’d arranged to meet up with friends at six for dinner and drinks, but I needed to get ready in the flat that afternoon.
‘Will that be OK?’ I asked Shona at breakfast. ‘I mean, if I’m actually there for a bit of the afternoon? Just a short bit. I’ll go up to Westfield or something for a few hours first, but I’ll need to be here between about four and six. And I’ll need to use the bathroom. Will that be OK?’
‘I’ll be with a client until five,’ said Shona, ‘but I’ll shut up shop after that. I’ve got a full afternoon of bookings. You can use the shower whenever – the only possible problem is that my client might need to use the loo, but don’t worry about that.’ She smiled wickedly. ‘I can always turn that into part of the session.’
‘God, really?’ This was all fascinating. I’d been too polite to ask questions until now, but I was burning to know more about the ins and outs of it all.
‘Oh, yes. It’s fine, really, Vix. Just giv
e us a quick shout when you come in, so we know.’
Which is what I did. I’d mooched around Westfield for as long as was bearable for a person with £18 left in her bank account, and if I saw another really nice but unaffordable top I was likely to throw myself on the floor in a tantrum.
I let myself in, as noisily as I could, at about ten past four.
‘Only me!’ I shouted, banging the door behind me. I took off my coat and hat and went to hang them up, but there was an unfamiliar coat on my usual peg. I put my hand on it. It was a good coat. Pure new wool, worth a couple of hundred at least.
I leaned back against it, enjoying the feel of it, and the smell of a delicious male cologne that wafted from it, and listened.
At first I couldn’t hear anything, but after my ears acclimatised, I became aware of a low, muffled, sobbing kind of sound coming from Shona’s bedroom. Seconds later, I heard her voice, but it didn’t sound like her voice. It was louder, harder – what you might call strident.
I couldn’t make out the words, but the phrase ended on a questioning note. A low, abject voice made a response that I just knew had to be, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
Creeped out, yet also highly curious, I began to edge along the hallway towards her door, hoping to catch a bit more of what was being said and done.
The tail-end of Shona’s next sentence came to me loud and clear.
‘… have to pay for their disgusting behaviour, don’t they?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You’re a filthy pervert, aren’t you? I’m thinking perhaps I should put you in a chastity device until our next meeting, if that’s what it’s going to take. You know I ordered you not to masturbate. Why did you disobey?’
‘Couldn’t help it, ma’am.’ A pitiful whimper. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and then I had to …’
‘Don’t say another word, you dirty, dirty boy. Bend over and touch your toes.’
I wondered if he was naked or dressed. Tall or short. Old or young. Good-looking or not.
I pictured a man pitched in between all these extremes, a well-dressed guy who looked after himself. He’d have silk boxers around his ankles and his shirt-tails flapping over the top part of his arse, which was peachy firm, perhaps a little pale. All the better to show up …
I swallowed. Was it weird to be turned on by this?
‘I’m going to give you twelve,’ said Shona.
‘Twelve?’ There was outrage, and a touch of fear, in the man’s yelp.
‘I know you’ve only taken six before, but I’m losing patience with you, boy. You’re really trying me. So I’m going to try you. You know what to do. Missed counts will mean repeated strokes. Now keep still and keep that bum up high for me.’
I tried to picture Shona. What would she be wearing? I could see her in a shiny PVC bustier with matching pencil skirt. Soaring stilettoes, fishnets, a jaunty little peaked cap on her hair, which would be pulled back in a severe bun.
What was in her hand? I guessed it had to be an old-school cane, since that was the standard fantasy. Maybe a riding crop. Perhaps I’d be able to tell from the sound it made.
There was a thin whooshing sound, then a quiet sort of ‘snick’, then a howl of pain.
Definitely sounded like the cane. The riding crop would be splattier, I decided.
‘One, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’
But he didn’t sound very grateful.
His protests grew with every additional stroke. I pictured him, grabbing his ankles for dear life, shuddering and jolting forwards every time the rod swiped across his offered cheeks. And the strokes, visible red lines, criss-crossing his well-exercised bottom, turning it into a kind of geometric pattern. I could visualise those all right.
I visualised them so vividly that, together with the swishes and grunts and agonised votes of thanks, they led me to shove my hand down the waistband of my jeans and seek out the ever wetter spot between my thighs.
I rubbed and panted through the dozen smart strokes, imagining them done to him, but also done to me, or even by me, or … I don’t know, but the feat of imagination was fervid and contained multiple images, spilling through my brain like photographic flashes. As the eleventh and twelfth were soundly laid, I thrust out my bottom, feeling the denim tighten and strain across my own unmarked cheeks, offering myself for the same treatment.
My orgasm coincided with the final stroke. It was sudden and strong, and I couldn’t restrain a gasp, putting my palm against the door to prevent myself tumbling forwards. To my horror it made a knocking noise, as the catch rattled in its hole.
Sobering immediately, even as the last fizzlings of my climax leaked out, I tried to straighten my wobbly legs. But I was too late.
‘What have we here?’
Shona, twice as tall and three times as intimidating, looked down at me.
‘Sorry, Shona,’ I muttered. ‘Wrong … door …’
I’ll remember that scene for the rest of my life. The man standing upright and covering his striped bum with his hands as he glared indignantly over his shoulder. Shona, cane still in hand, clad not as I’d imagined but in a business suit, silky nylon gown and fancy-dress mortarboard, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, waiting for my explanation. An explanation that was a long time coming.
I was still sheepish in the extreme the next morning. I crept into the kitchen to make coffee, hoping to get in and out without seeing Shona. After the debacle, I’d run straight into the shower, got rapidly dressed and run out to meet my friends, arriving at the bar half an hour early. By the time I got home, Shona was in bed.
But my plans were scuppered when she came into the kitchen as the kettle was boiling. I couldn’t look at her, but she came and stood right next to me, leaning back on the work surface with her hands gripping the edge.
‘I shouldn’t have gone off at you like that,’ she said.
I was able to look at her then. She sounded genuinely apologetic.
‘I’m really sorry too,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have been earwigging.’
‘No, it’s OK,’ she said. She looked down, biting her lip, then met my eye. ‘Actually, it’s more than OK.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The thing is, Sam … that’s my client … it turned out he was actually … how can I put this? After the initial shock wore off, he was really excited by the idea that someone had been watching us.’
‘Not watching, listening, really,’ I corrected automatically, but a little flare of illicit interest shot through my lower belly.
‘And he was wondering if … I mean, he’d pay double, and you wouldn’t have to do anything, just be in the room …’
‘Oh, my God, you mean he wants me to watch properly?’
‘Of course, say no if the idea repulses you, but it’d be an easy couple of hundred quid for you.’
‘Two hundred pounds? Just for hanging around in your bedroom for an hour?’
‘Yes. You don’t have to make up your mind now. It’ll be a month or so before I see him again – he needs a bit of time to save up the cash.’ She winked at me, and I grinned back.
‘No, I can answer now. Why the hell not? Go on then.’
In the course of that month, I often lay awake at night wondering how the appointment would play out. Although I knew that my role was to watch, I sometimes imagined myself contributing a little more actively. Sometimes I pictured myself bent over beside Sam while Shona dealt with us both, one stroke for him, one stroke for me. Or I was lying on the bed, and Sam was ordered to lick me to orgasm while Shona stood over him, whipping him with a belt. Or the other way around – me giving Sam head while Shona whipped me. Or I licked Shona out with dedicated devotion, while Sam … oh, who cared what Sam was doing? There were multiple variations, but Sam and I were both in the submissive position, and Shona ruled over us with a rod of iron.
I have to admit, these night-time fantasies sometimes made for awkwardness over morning coffee. I think Shona had an inkling that
I was developing quite a crush on her, but she was too delicate to mention it explicitly.
When the Saturday in question finally rolled around, I was fairly buzzing with excitement.
‘What should I wear?’ I asked Shona, as I opened my bank statement at the kitchen table.
‘Oh, anything,’ she said, shrugging. ‘You don’t have to dress up.’
‘Oh, don’t I?’
My face must have fallen, because she laughed.
‘Do you want to dress up?’
I laughed with her, trying to cover my self-conscious blushes.
‘It seems a bit rude not to,’ I suggested.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a French maid’s outfit some of my clients sometimes wear. I’ll put it out for you and you can try it on. Otherwise – just wear what you want. Wear nothing, if that grabs you. I really don’t mind, and neither will Sam.’
The maid’s outfit was made of cheap, scratchy nylon and was tarty as hell. Designed to be worn by cross-dressing men, it fell to mid-thigh on me, covering my modesty nicely, despite the stiff meringue of net petticoats beneath the skirt. With fishnets, suspenders and high heels, I looked flirty and mischievous, an effect I quite liked. I pouted to myself in the mirror and bent over, letting my bottom stick as far out as I could, seeing how low I had to go before a flash of stocking-top was visible. Not that far!
I bit my lip at myself and clasped my hands over my apron. I hadn’t put on any knickers.
I wondered if either of them would ever know, as I giggled maniacally at my own wildness.
I waited for Shona to finish with her penultimate client, then went into her room.
She was wiping down the surfaces with a spray gun and cloth, looking rather grumpy in a latex corset and supertight miniskirt. They matched her shiny elbow-length gloves and thigh-high boots.
When she looked up and saw me, her frown faded and she smiled broadly.
‘Well, look at you. Sex kitten or what?’
My mouth was a bit dry from the effect looking at her had had on me, so I couldn’t really reply.
Hard Bargains Page 1
