I felt his cock pulse in my throat and I resisted the urge to pull away. He was gripping my head so tightly, I couldn’t have moved if I tried. Then he was coming, pushing his cock so far down my throat that I gagged, but I didn’t pull away. I clung to his thighs as his cock twitched and pulsed. I swallowed to keep from choking, but there was nothing to taste because he was in the back of my throat.
‘That’s it, good girl, swallow it all,’ he commanded.
I took everything he gave me, so close to orgasm that when I jerked open my jeans and touched my clit, I exploded even while he was still fucking my mouth. I gasped and moaned around his cock, dribbling spit and cum as I came and came and came. Finally, I pulled back, swiping at my mouth with the back of my hand. He was breathing hard, his hands still twisted in my hair.
We looked at each other and it was as if there was a strange connection between us now. We both spoke at once.
‘Don’t tell my wife.’
‘Don’t tell Richard.’
We laughed. What else could we do? It was so fucking surreal.
He cupped my chin in his hands. ‘You’re a very bad girl, aren’t you?’
Even though it was over, I was still under his spell. I nodded, hesitantly. I could feel tears pricking behind my eyelids.
He brushed my bangs out of my eyes and smiled. ‘You’re very, very good at being bad. I like that.’
I couldn’t help myself. I smiled. ‘Thank you.’
I should be over it. I should just let it go and write the whole thing off as a moment of temporary insanity. I definitely shouldn’t ever do it again. But I’m sitting here, soaking wet from the memory of how Richard’s father made me feel with just his words, and I want more. I want to pick up the phone and call him. I want to ask him to stop by my house when he gets off work. I want to do anything he wants me to do.
I want to be a very good bad girl for him.
The Window Cleaner’s Boy
by Carmel Lockyer
Once a month, Sandown Associates gets its windows cleaned. Once a month, the women in my department get their fantasies fulfilled. Me too. I’m not any different to, or any better than, anybody else.
It’s the window cleaner’s boy, of course. And he is gorgeous. As soon as their cradle appears outside the seventh floor window, the sound begins – a whole room of women licking their lips and touching their hair and undoing another button on their blouse so their cleavage shows. All done, almost unconsciously, while their eyes are glued to the window cleaner’s boy.
And he is worth watching. He has narrow hips that widen into rippling abs and continue on up to wide shoulders and a strong neck. On his right arm he has a dragon tattoo in emerald green. On his left cheekbone he has a small black mole, like a beauty spot. He has black hair. He smiles and stares into our eyes, one by one, as his boss’s chamois soaps the window, softening us up, driving us to think dirty thoughts while he makes our windows clean. Then the window cleaner’s boy lifts his squeegee and begins to cut through the bubbles and water. His face appears with each sweep, intent, his lower lip caught by his straight white teeth in a moment of unself-conscious concentration. His fingers are long, his knuckles often laced with white as the bubbles fly from the window and back against him. Dark spots of flung water appear on his T-shirt and his old, soft, pale denims. The water makes the fabric cling to his body, wrapping itself around him like a lover’s caress, the jeans sticking to his thighs and groin. Anybody getting hold of him would have to peel those jeans from his skin. Any woman lucky enough to be able to undress him, that is.
I don’t think I can stand it any more – I can’t bear the concentrated attention of a dozen women on one man. I’m driven mad by his studied refusal to pick one of us out, to flirt, to even hint at which he prefers: blonde, brunette, slim, buxom, bold, shy? He leaves us all in the same position – unsure, unsatisfied, hankering.
I get up. Nobody notices. Nearly a dozen pairs of eyes are pinned to the window cleaner’s boy. In a few minutes they will have a break from their fixation as the cradle disappears again, while the two men change the water in their buckets. Their object of lust will then return to rinse the windows and polish them. His arms will make wide arcs on the glass: glass so shiny that it hardly seems to be there, so insubstantial that you feel you could reach out and slide your fingers through it to touch the hollow of his neck, so that he stops moving and turns to gaze at you with his grey eyes, while you let your fingers trail down his body to the water-spattered jeans.
I walk fast. There isn’t that much time. Sod the lift, I take the stairs, two at a time. On the first, fourth and eighth floors there are toilets for men. On the third, fifth and ninth floors there are toilets for women, where we spend our time inspecting our faces, watching our summer tans fade, admiring each other’s new winter boots as we apply lippy and swap stories. But I am heading for the eighth floor. That’s where the cleaners empty the buckets of soapy water and refill them with water that contains a negatively ionised liquid that supposedly stops our office windows collecting dirt. It is this magic fluid that the window cleaner’s boy polishes across our view, as though he’s making our desires gleam.
He comes out of the toilets as I reach the corridor and gives me a faintly startled, faintly smug smile. It’s the third time he’s seen me in the flesh, not through a window. Of course he thinks I’ve skittered down here in my business heels just to get a closer look at him, so I pause and put my hand to my chest, as though surprised, and his eyes drop to my breasts in their black silk shirt and then rise again, with more of a smile this time. Of course he thinks my tightly crinkled nipples and my lust-darkened eyes are due to him. Of course he does. He’s meant to.
The window cleaner’s boy moves gracefully past me to the open window, where he climbs out and operates the cradle mechanism, descending from my view. Eleven women await him, licking their lips, twisting their hair, wriggling in their computer chairs. It’s become some kind of feeding frenzy, the way they lust after him. I don’t think some of them even fancied him at first, just went along with the flow, but now, one woman getting hot is enough to set the others off, so he’s the focus of a mass outbreak of feminine libido. I started it. I did it deliberately. So that I could do this.
I walk through the door of the men’s toilet. The window cleaner is there, whistling tunelessly through his teeth as he rinses out the buckets. He sees me in the mirror. He smiles.
The window cleaner is not like his boy. He has short grey hair and blue eyes. He is trim and stocky, like a lot of men who work outdoors, and he has a permanently tanned face with laugh lines and crow’s feet, caused by squinting into the sun. He wears a grey, long-sleeved sweatshirt and jeans, and the overall impression is one of greyness, mediocrity, a background blur on which the bright image of his boy shines even brighter. That suits me fine. Around his waist the window cleaner has a pocketed apron which contains his chamois and gloves, and a spatula for scraping stains from the glass. The apron fastens with Velcro, and it is the ripping sound of it being undone that marks the start.
‘Seven minutes,’ says the window cleaner, dropping his apron to the floor.
I nod and unzip my business skirt, already walking backwards into the cubicle behind me. We have seven minutes before the window cleaner’s boy finishes polishing the seventh floor windows.
Under the skirt I am wearing only stockings and suspenders, and the window cleaner’s soft hands find the flesh of my buttocks, pulling me to him as he kisses me, kicking the door closed behind us. I thought his hands would be rough, like any other workman’s, but they are in water all day which makes them softer than mine, softer than any other man’s. Soft, but strong. He lifts me a few inches in the air and holds me there while he nuzzles my neck.
Seven minutes isn’t long, but we’ve got this down to an art. His kisses make me wetter than ever and I reach down and unzip his jeans, ready to take him inside me, as soon as I’ve slipped the condom from my jacket pocket over his cock. He
unbuttons my top as I slide the rubber onto him, and lets his kidskin fingers play with my breasts until I shiver with pleasure.
I turn, lowering the toilet seat and bracing my arms on the cistern top. He pauses, and I know he is admiring the picture, my splayed legs in high-heeled shoes, the stockings and suspenders, the smart office shirt now hanging loose on either side of my naked breasts. I know he is working himself gently, running his fingers over the condom, as he takes in the contrasts between efficiency and lust, executive power and complete submission. I wriggle my hips, not wanting to lose any more time, and he chuckles as he presses the head of his shaft against me.
‘You’re impatient,’ he murmurs in my ear as he leans forward and cups my breasts with his hands, slipping himself inside me so assuredly that it’s almost as if he’s always been there.
‘I don’t like to waste time,’ is all I manage to say before I feel my muscles starting to lock around him and my hips beginning to work, milking him. I put one knee up on the toilet seat and let the fingers of my right hand begin to stray, stroking my belly, teasing out my pubes, heading inevitably for the tiny pleasure centre that will bring me off.
The window cleaner sweeps my hair to one side and bends closer, nibbling my earlobe, which always drives me insane with pleasure. I hear myself beginning to moan and beg, the sounds echoing wildly around the tiled spaces of the toilet. If any man comes in here now, we’re done for, but that danger adds to the frenzy. I let go of my clit and reach further back between my legs, scraping my fingernails over his balls. He groans, but he’s still in control enough for his fingers to replace mine, rubbing my bud until it flowers into orgasm.
I come once, fast, and then again, slowly, easing myself up and down the length of his cock while he stands there, his hands on my hips, watching me do all the work. I can imagine his view, his shaft in the black condom appearing and disappearing, my arse sliding to and fro. Imagining how much he likes this picture helps me to come again, although my legs are starting to cramp from the effort of sex in this tiny space, in this hurried fashion. As soon as he feels my muscles starting to clench and release, he begins to thrust, moving faster, hissing as he urges my orgasm on, so that I come just before he does.
I feel my knees beginning to soften, my back starting to droop under the strain, and then I hear a sound. It’s the main door opening. I twist my head to look up at the window cleaner, who winks at me, unhurried, unworried.
He pulls out slowly, with his hand over my mouth to stop me gasping. He helps me straighten up. I try to button my shirt, but my hands are shaking and he has to help me, grinning at my incompetence.
Then he crouches, holding open the skirt I dropped on the floor, and I step into it, trying to be silent. He pulls it up, zipping it, helping me tuck in the shirt, and only then does he fasten his own flies, lifting the toilet seat to drop the used condom. He leans over, kissing me softly, open mouthed, as he presses down the toilet flush, closes the lid, and then unlocks the door and steps out, whistling.
‘All done, lad?’ I hear him say as he runs water in one of the sinks. I slide down to a sitting position on the toilet seat, feeling the cold nylon of my skirt’s lining pressing against the hot wetness of my bare sex.
‘Sure,’ says the window cleaner’s boy. ‘No problem.’
‘Right. Then we’re done here for the month.’ The window cleaner pulls on the rotary towel and whistles again as he dries his hands.
I sit for a while longer, and then head back to my office. The girls are all keen to tell me what I’ve missed, and I nod and smile, but I didn’t miss anything. They are the ones who miss out every month, not me.
Confidante
by Beverly Langland
Danielle isn’t as bad as everyone makes out. I’m not as good. Appearances, as they say, can be deceptive. To look at me you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. Yet, I allow men to do despicable things to me. I often find myself in degrading situations. Unbelievably, I actually thrive on the humiliation. Yes, I’m every woman’s nightmare – the submissive slut who perpetuates the myth of women as sexual objects. Yet, I am not a person confused by my sexuality or my position in society. I am well educated, culturally refined, and feel at ease among the higher echelons with whom Danielle and I spend most of our time socialising. I have the confidence to understand that within reason I can be whatever I like. I’m also discreet. I like to think that is why Danielle chose me as a companion. It isn’t. It’s because I allow him to ill-treat me. You can call me whatever names you like. I already know exactly what I am. Just don’t ask me to explain why.
I met Danielle at an Embassy ball. He was with a young redheaded girl so timid she clung to his arm as if fearful of falling off her ridiculously high heels. I realised exactly what she was as soon as I drew close enough to look into her eyes. There was an instant spark of recognition between us and she gripped Danielle’s arm tighter. She could see beneath my polished exterior and considered me a threat. I soon understood why. Danielle, an Italian living in London, explained that he was looking for a new ‘confidante’. The coded message wasn’t particularly subtle and later he slipped his business card into my hand. Danielle has a way with words and as soon as we spoke more privately on the telephone and I heard his sexy accent, he had me hooked.
As always, when I first meet someone new I introduce him to my friends. You can never be too careful. I like nasty men, but I don’t want to end up in a black bin liner somewhere. My friends gave Danielle the thumbs-up though understandably they found him disagreeable and somewhat presumptuous in the way he openly fondled me. I actually liked his candid display of confidence, so we agreed on a second meeting. Again somewhere in public. He asked about my fantasies, so I told all. Not as you tell a loved one – only revealing what you think they want to hear. I told the truth. Of past men, my brief flirtation with women, my love of exposure, I even revealed details of my young masochistic dabbling. Most of all we talked of my submissive desires. The last was of course obvious to us both. We had been playing the game of cat and mouse since our first meeting, but this had been the first time I had admitted my feelings outright. It felt good to say the words out loud. I felt free. Maybe this sounds strange to those who do not understand, but I was free to be a slave. His slave. This would be my choice. However, we never talked in such terms. Danielle doesn’t like the idea of having a slave. He prefers to call me his confidante. It makes no difference to me what he calls me as long as I am his. People have called me far worse in the past. I have been someone else’s ‘pet’, another’s ‘bitch’. The last relationship didn’t work out for my master broke the bond of trust. Once broken it can never be regained and everything crumbles. Therefore, I’m alone and for someone like me that is truly unbearable.
We arranged a third meeting, a sort of interview to test our compatibility. Danielle told me exactly what I should wear. A short black leather skirt with cotton blouse, the material to be ivory – not cream or white – with four small buttons. Lemon underwear, silk, but not overly decorative. Black shoes with one strap and three-inch spiked heels. So here I am. I have spent the past week shopping to make certain I look just right. Now, standing in front of him in the unfamiliar surroundings of his apartment while he checks my attire, I feel irrationally nervous. He notices. ‘Why, Hannah, you’re trembling ...’
Danielle continues where we left off at the pub, asking more questions, listening carefully, taking note of my answers. I tell him my darkest desires, tell him I want to realise those fantasies. If anyone can make them happen, I feel certain it will be Danielle. It isn’t just a case of logistics or opportunity; I need someone forceful enough to make me do the depraved things running through my head. That is an integral part of the fantasy for me. Just as I hope it will arouse Danielle to force me to do them. I sense he wants to corrupt me and I am ripe for corruption.
‘Promising. Would you like to belong to me, Hannah?’ He makes it sound as if I am his little puppy. In truth I am. To him
I am little more than his pet to use and play with as he pleases. A love-doll. Barbie, he noted on our first meeting, because of my oversized breasts and petite frame. So Barbie I become. I’ll let him dress and play with me. When I no longer please him, he will discard me like last year’s Christmas present in favour of someone new. It is the way of my world. I feel a pang of regret for young Sarah, the girl I hope to usurp. She so desperately wants to please, but as far as Danielle is concerned, Sarah is old hat. I am the vogue. However, I am in no doubt that one day I too will suffer the same fate as Sarah. I can only trust that that day is a long way off.
‘Yes,’ I whisper. Danielle tells me to speak up so I answer again. Louder this time.
He leads me into a bedroom and opens one side of a double wardrobe. Inside is a multitude of rubber costumes. ‘Will these fit?’
I inspect the costumes; decide that at a pinch I should be able to squeeze into them. They may be a little restrictive on top but I have never minded a tight fit. ‘Yes.’
He waves an arm in the general direction of the clothes. ‘When you are in my presence you will always be suitably attired – or naked. Now, let me see your underwear.’
I try to calm myself by taking deep breaths. My fingers visibly shake as I try to unbutton my blouse. I consciously have to steady them before they will function. I shudder slightly as the smooth material slides along my skin, dropping at my feet. Then I hook my fingers into the waistband of my skirt and shake it free until it too pools at my feet. I nimbly step out of the circle of material. Danielle makes me do a circuit of the room before telling me to remove my underwear.
I hesitate slightly as I reach behind to unclip my bra, aware of what I am about to do, the line I am about to cross. The brassiere falls to join the rest of my clothing. Danielle lets out an audible sigh as my breasts swing free, his eyes opening wide with pleasure. I am delighted I have pleased him. I feel the slightly chill air against my bare breasts; I have always loved that initial feeling of freedom. My nipples harden. I’m not sure if it is the cool air or Danielle’s appreciation that caused them to stand erect. Either way, it is difficult to hide my reaction. With trepidation, I slowly slip my panties down my legs and lightly flick them to one side with my foot. I am acutely aware of my nakedness so I lightly cross my hands in front of my crotch. My body feels so alive! Every nerve end vies for attention. I can feel the gentle movement of air on my nipples, the tickle of pubic hair against the palm of my hand. Finally, I make to kick off my shoes but Danielle stops me.
Temptations--Three Book Bundle Page 3
