‘Hang on, I’ll have a quick word with my brother, see what can be arranged,’ says Leon, disappearing briefly in the direction of the bar. Minutes later he returns, smiling. ‘It’s OK. I’ll drop him back at the house and then we can go on to your place.’
By the time we have shared a few more slow dances, I am desperate for a good fucking. We make our way out to the crowded car park, after I’ve let Mo know I’ve made other arrangements to get home. As I thought, she’s made other arrangements too – with Kev.
‘Hope you don’t mind sitting in the back with Ray,’ says Leon. ‘The front seat is piled up with his stuff. I’m helping him move out of his old flat.’
I had been looking forward to giving Leon’s cock a massage while he was driving, so by now I am feeling quite irritated with his brother. I settle myself in the back seat, trying not to show my annoyance when Leon says, ‘Ah, here is Ray, at last. Ray, this is Kira.’
To my surprise, I am joined in the back by another gorgeous-looking bloke, who seems to be a slightly younger version of Leon.
‘Hello, Kira,’ he says in a voice that melts my insides. ‘I think we might have to squeeze in next to each other. Hope you don’t mind.’
He sits much closer than is necessary and I can feel the roughness of Ray’s trousers brushing against my bare thighs. As the car pulls off, he rests a hand on my knee, and when I don’t push it away, he lets it travel higher and higher, until it reaches the hem of my dress. For a while, he plays with the flimsy fabric, teasing me. I am not sure how to react. I’m feeling horny as hell, and what he’s doing is turning me on. But I wonder what Leon would think of his brother copping a feel of his date. It’s bad manners, to say the least. Soon, Ray’s fingers continue to move upwards, quickly finding the insides of my thighs, which I part to allow him easier access. I am charged with anticipation as, inevitably, his fingers find my clit, stroking it through my now damp thong. I feel my muscles tightening, wanting to suck his fingers in but knowing I have to stop myself. I try to pretend it isn’t happening, although this gets increasingly harder – as does Ray, I realise, when he suddenly grabs my hand and places it firmly on the stiffening bulge in his trousers. Then I catch Leon’s eye in the driving mirror and realise he can see everything. Ray looks across at his brother before taking my chin gently in his hand and then pressing his mouth against mine, his tongue finding mine, tasting, probing. Leon is smiling. Well, if he doesn’t mind … I can’t help wondering if they make a habit of this. But I am so turned on, I really don’t care if this was a set-up.
‘Why don’t you both come in for coffee?’ I suggest.
Luckily, my flat is on the ground floor and the front door opens straight into the kitchen, where Leon grabs me by the waist and sits me on the dining table, my dress hitched up around my waist revealing my black stockings and red suspender belt. My shiny high-heel shoes are quickly removed. The two brothers look at each other with a conspiratorial smile and I wonder what they have in mind. I don’t have to wait long. Lowering their heads, they each take a suspender in their teeth, manipulating it with their tongues until it snaps open. Then, simultaneously, they roll down my stockings with their mouths. The experience is so incredibly erotic, I let my head roll back, delighting in the delicious sensations as my toes, knees and ankles are kissed and caressed lovingly. Then they are up again, a mouth pressed each side of my neck, nibbling and kissing, like a pair of sex-crazed vampires, while I gasp and groan with pleasure. I feel hands, fingers, gently parting my legs, sliding my now soaking thong down my thighs, exploring the folds of my lips, my clitoris.
‘Good enough to eat,’ sighs Ray, and while he covers my mouth with his, Leon grabs a banana from the fruit bowl on the kitchen worktop. Spreading my legs wide, he slowly unpeels the yellow fruit before carefully inserting it, bit by bit, into my gaping pussy. I watch, wide-eyed, as it disappears inside me and Leon kneels down, pushing his tongue in, tasting, savouring.
‘Delicious,’ he murmurs.
‘You are such a bad girl,’ adds Ray.
‘Exceptionally bad,’ agrees his brother. ‘Corrupting nice boys like us.’
‘I really think some punishment is in order,’ continues Ray.
I feel a tingle down my spine and in my stomach. Fear? Excitement? Anticipation?
‘What do you think, bro?’ asks Leon. ‘A good spanking?’
‘At the very least,’ replies Ray.
I tremble as his strong hands encircle my waist and he lifts me deftly off the table.
‘But I think she should be naked,’ says Leon, pulling my skimpy dress over my head and tossing it on the floor with my stockings and lacy thong. ‘That’s better.’
Before I can protest, he grabs my wrists and pins them behind my back, while Ray pushes me over the edge of the table so my shapely bum is thrust upwards – exposed and vulnerable. I wonder what I have let myself in for. Mark had never tried anything he would have called kinky with me, but I have always harboured a secret desire to be dominated and spanked. Just a little. How would the reality compare? I am about to find out.
I gasp when Ray suddenly brings his hand down on my bare flesh – much harder than I am expecting.
‘Ouch, that hurts!‘ I exclaim, surprised
‘It’s supposed to, darlin’,’ laughs Ray. ‘Otherwise it wouldn’t be a very good punishment, would it?’
Before I have time to think, he brings his hand down a second time. It stings even more and I can feel the blood rising to the surface of my skin. I whimper and wriggle but Leon is holding my wrists firmly.
‘No point struggling,’ he grins. ‘Think I’m missing out on the fun here.’ He grabs a discarded stocking and twists it around my hands and arms, binding them together. ‘Keep still, or it will tighten,’ he warns. ‘Time to share the pleasure.’ I try to turn my head, pleading with my eyes, but Leon just strokes my hair and smiles.
‘My turn now,’ he says, raising his arm.
Between them, the two brothers perform a kind of duet, raining blows in turn. The slaps continue, each one harder than the last. My skin feels like it’s on fire. But I can also feel the tingling elsewhere, between my thighs, taking over my pussy. The sensations of pleasure and pain seem inexorably entwined, and I feel as if I am drowning. My head begins to spin.
‘Do you think she’s had enough?’ wonders Leon, resting his hand.
‘Maybe one more,’ replies Ray. ‘Each.’
The sound of hands on skin reverberates around the room. I wonder if my neighbours can hear it. Then I am lifted to my feet once more, while my tormentors gaze appreciatively at my firm breasts before each fastens a tongue to my hard nipples while fingers bury themselves inside me, banana pulp mixing with my own streaming juices. I can feel myself coming already, but I want to hang on for longer, to hold on to the intensity that is rapidly building up. My legs are shaking and they have to steady me. I am groaning, sobbing, my wrists hurting now. Leon kisses me hard on the mouth, his tongue deep inside while Ray stands behind me, cupping my breasts, pulling and pinching my nipples. While I dissolve in the sensations, I realise I am being lowered to the floor and Leon’s tongue is replaced by Ray’s throbbing cock. I close my mouth around it, licking, sucking and within seconds, I feel Leon’s sheathed, rock-hard dick pushing inside me. I wrap my legs around his waist while he thrusts and thrusts and by now I know I can hold back no longer. I come violently, my cries muffled by Ray’s rigid cock and seconds later, Leon jerks and moans. He pulls out immediately, leaving me gaping and open, and needing to be filled. Ray quickly swaps places with his brother, and I am pounded once more, while Leon gently covers my face, neck, eyes, hair with soft kisses.
‘Fuck me, fuck me,’ I moan.
Unlike his brother, Ray paces himself, alternating deep thrusting with slower, rhythmic movement and it isn’t long before I feel my body arch and spasm. Ray judges the moment so he comes at the same time, groaning loudly. After a moment’s recovery, he withdraws and I lie there, legs parted, wide ope
n and so, so wet.
Smiling, Ray lets his fingers trail over my aching pussy with delicate strokes, each one sending a jolt of electricity through my body, leaving me shuddering and trembling. And as Ray’s fingers tease my clit, Leon buries a finger deep inside me, watching with satisfaction as I squirm and writhe. I am gasping, my breathing erratic. Loud. When I am on the edge of coming again he removes it, sucks the dripping juices, pushes it back inside me and then into my mouth.
‘You taste amazing,’ he says.
I am dizzy with lust and sensations, and suddenly they are both licking me at once.
Two tongues circling my swollen clit, lapping, dipping into the heady mixture of my banana-infused juices, tracing an intricate pattern, dancing on me and in me.
My head spinning, I fall and drown in the intense waves that engulf me as I come quickly. Then again. And again.
‘You want more?’ asks Leon, his tone gently mocking, as he unties my wrists.
‘Greedy girl,’ says Ray. ‘And we never did get that coffee.’
Not Plan A
by Ruth Hunt
I prepared the room carefully. I lit black candles. I didn’t want any of the pastel pretty floating kind, or scented monstrosities sporting bits of fruit. They had to be black so they could gutter and spit dangerously in the gentlest of breezes. I burned incense. Not sweet spring perfumes or clinging spices but patchouli for the rich, hard earth. If I’d wanted to bring elemental witchcraft to bear on the scene I should have made use of air and water somehow. But I didn’t and anyway, I’m not really a witch. I’m just expecting someone.
They are guests, by the way. Just so you know. I very seldom entertain men with their disciplinary fantasies for money. Only those who get an additional frisson from some ‘sordid’ transaction are indulged with currency. And there is never sex. I may accept gifts occasionally but the satisfied glow in their cheeks, the tails between their legs hard against their bellies as they leave is all the reward I crave. It’s quite noble of me really. Actually, I don’t need the money. I work as an accounts manager for a high-profile advertising company and I’m ludicrously well paid. My job gives me another opportunity to impress frightened underlings with my authority. My reputation precedes me and none of the underlings get to blossom into cliques of male subversion or backbiting bitches. It’s a cat-eat-dog world out there. I see my hobby (let’s call it that) as just another extension of my personality, into something more sensual and exciting than office politics.
I dressed carefully, as always. I enjoy the attention to detail, the pleasure of my own discipline, so to speak. I wore black silk panties, brief enough for titillation yet modest enough to avoid revealing accidents. A black satin over-bust corset was laced as tight as I could take it. I have a small frame and I enjoy the suffocating perversity of making my waist as tiny as possible, forcing my breasts into deliciously creamy over-spill. With great caution, I put on sheer black stockings, the denier so fine a hard look could ladder them. Lastly the shoes. Most important. I must confess to having a slight shoe fetish. In fact I have 162 pairs of shoes. Probably more than I could sensibly wear in a lifetime. Probably. You never know. Can one ever have too many pairs of shoes? A question I usually answer with a positive negative when faced with the new season’s creations from Manolo Blahnik or Gucci; I’m even sadly saucer-eyed in Top Shop. For this encounter I chose towering four-inch patent black stilettos. Not a very original look, I’ll admit, but they are conservative, yet stylish, and they give me height and power. Mind you, even with four extra inches, I am still only 5’6” and it gives me an enormous sense of well-being to see the men I encounter looking down on me, and still being abject.
I sipped a glass of wine while I distributed a selection of implements on glass-topped tables around the room. My lounge began to look like an up-market installation by some slack-jawed Modern Britain titled “Pervert”. A paddle, a tawse, both leather; the tawse reinforced by wicked stainless steel studs. Two different types of cane – a lithe dragon bamboo with a smooth mahogany handle and a thick Kooboo reformatory cane for the less robust among the happy crowd of floor-touching thrill seekers. Not that many of them can actually touch the floor. Very few of them are fit and under forty. I lined up others, crops, straps and my personal favourite: a four-foot Edwardian schooling whip of plaited leather, given a seal of pride by its long dead maker with a gold and ivory top. The core is whalebone and it flexes like a fishing rod. The sound it makes as it slices through the air is as exquisite as the cry that follows. Pardon me, but it’s a real connoisseur’s piece. And like any indulgent connoisseur, I appreciate my own handiwork. Start with a nice gentle warm-up. Those especially favoured might get a good, sound spanking over my knee while I tell them how their numerous misdemeanours have earned it. I can be Madam, Miss, Mummy or Mistress and I am unflinchingly strict. After all, they’ve all been naughty boys at some time and they can’t hide anything from me. Nor would they seek to, if they know what’s good for them. After they’re nice and radiant, I take a little time with the instrument, or several of my choice. Watching the blush turn to red and then crimson, stroking, whispering, admonishing, feeling the heat and breathing in the unique and luscious perfume of well-tanned hide. Watching the vivid red lines that mark the bitter path of my cane. Hearing the moans and yelps and cries, the hard breathing and the occasional exciting sob. Holding hair tightly, turning their flushed faces to mine, telling them, “You, sir, yes you, sir. Say you’re sorry. You won’t do that again, will you?”, all the while knowing, despite the mumbled contrition, that they absolutely, positively will.
The man of the moment had arrived. His name was John. He was tall with untidy straw-blond hair and cut a dash as the kind of ugly handsome that can get away with murder. He had an astonishingly sweet smile. I poured him a drink and we made small talk while I showed him the dark, scented ambience of my room. He walked around, looking at the equipment, reaching out and briefly touching a cane or a paddle, casting his eyes over the carefully cultivated sophistication of my leather sofas and their fur cushions and the otherwise blameless ephemera of pictures and ornaments. He turned to me as I remained standing by the door. His gaze swept over me like a searchlight.
“You look like a slut,” he said finally.
I stared at him, rooted to the spot. I could feel the swoop in the pit of my stomach as his dark eyes bore into me.
“You’re dressed like a tart,” he added, as if the statement needed further elucidation.
Outrage rose up inside me like bile. I felt myself start to colour. Obviously I don’t normally have this problem with my guests, even though submissive men are often far from compliant. They can come with a long list of rigidly cultivated and often unrealistic fantasies and proscriptions that require shaking loose to be rewarding. I like to have playful and good-natured relationships, despite my firm hand. This was clearly not Plan A. I felt my scalp begin to prickle. There was nowhere to run to, especially not half naked in four-inch heels. Perhaps a little unwisely, I opened my mouth to tell him precisely what I thought of that.
“Don’t you dare,” he warned. “Don’t you say a word.”
He looked dangerous as he came close to me and I could smell his cologne in a rich mixture with his own personal scents. Man. Excited. I stayed very still with my heart beating like a hammer in my chest as he raised a large hand and caressingly encircled my throat. An involuntary frisson went through me.
“Are you going to behave?” he asked quietly, his face only inches from mine. I swallowed as I felt his other hand on my waist. I tried to look defiant.
“Well?”
A small amount of time passed. Which part of valour is discretion? The better part, that’s right. I couldn’t hold his gaze any longer. It was a hard look of nothing more than patient enquiry. It would go on forever. I dropped my eyes.
“Yes,” I mumbled.
“Yes what?” he demanded instantly. I knew. I knew only too well. Humiliation engulfed me. My mouth was d
ry. I swallowed. I hesitated.
“I can’t hear you,” he said, leaning so close I could feel his breath on my face.
“Yes, sir,” I said quietly.
“That’s better,” he said, his fingers still tracing spider webs on my neck. His whole body overwhelmed me. Frightening, solid, warm, hard, soft …
“I can’t believe you,” he said, without rancour. He dropped his hands suddenly and pulled me by the wrists to one of my sofas. He was much bigger and heavier than me and with a surprised yelp, I found myself upended, sprawling across his lap, my head momentarily buried in one of my furry cushions. I struggled to right myself, noticing one of the black candles spitting wickedly on the shelf above me. So much for witchcraft. It was no good. He’d locked one of my legs underneath his, like any good professional, and I couldn’t raise myself high enough to turn.
“Please!” I cried, rather belatedly.
“Please, sir!” he corrected, forcing my shoulders down with one hand and pulling my knickers down with the other. “And I didn’t say you could speak. Bad girls don’t get to speak. Especially not ones dressed like tarts!”
I could feel him caressing my bare backside with gentle deliberation, like an artist examining a piece of sculpture for imperfections. I panted and wriggled. He held me firmer while his fingers completed their exploration. This was a trespass that should not be borne but I felt a terrible anticipation rush through me, a flood that tensed every muscle. He waited just a second longer than my expectation so the first smack across my bare cheeks managed to catch me by surprise. It was a hard stinging slap that knocked the breath out of me and rocked me forward. I felt his fingers tangle into my hair and hold on, making a casual mess of the deliberate attention I had spent on it. Another smack. Then another, waiting just long enough to give each impact its full sensational spread. He kept it up until my ears were ringing with it and a voice I barely recognised as my own had begun to cry out as the heat built up with each hard stroke.
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