No more instructions are needed. I know where they want me and what I have to do. Up the spiral staircase I go, my breath catching and my pulse beyond control. I know what is coming because they laid it all before me that night, and saw the effect it had on me. It wasn’t my fantasy then but it has been since.
There is only one door up here to go through. My legs are like jelly but they carry me on. The bed chamber is just as the story described it, how my mind pictured it. I am vaguely aware of a figure sitting in the shadows of the far corner, covered head to toe by some kind of veil. It doesn’t surprise me. I knew he would be there. Instead my attention is taken by the hulking figure kneeling upon the middle of the bed, with eyes upon me.
One spotlight is trained down on him, rendering the room beyond this dark. My God, the size of him. He wears a dagger brooch at his neck, the only embellishment on the otherwise black outfit. It fits tight across his arms and torso, then opens out at the waist like a split-front dress, flowing around his knees. He wears trousers beneath. I’m not confronted by that monster erection, not just yet. My heart skips as if I wish I already was. With no distraction here my eyes search upwards again. The skin on his face and shaven head is ashen, almost white. He wears shadow to darken those already intense brown eyes, and to sharpen the cheekbones. The lips are thin and pale. My pulse quickens still further, the butterflies within me alive. He is transformed. He is the Count of Wallachia.
‘You have come to me,’ he says, ‘so that I may be your master. In doing so you have chosen to become mine, and to serve me however I wish. And my first wish is that you remove your dress.’
It has started, just like that. I should be thankful of the chance to keep my dress in one piece but I know I’ve been spared the ripped garment so that I remove it willingly, and my helpless beau will feel every last agony of watching me give myself to the beast. I don’t have to understand the chemistry of what about this turns him on, I need only think of the pleasure I will gain from it. I cannot defy the Count, he is too powerful. I have to do as he says. I shed the dress to stand only in my best lace underwear. He casts an inspecting eye slowly up and down me, one twitch of the jaw the only sign that the sight arouses him.
His next move is far more obvious. He unzips his trousers and hauls out the thick snake of his still languid prick. The sight has the breath catching in my chest yet again. As he inspects me he unhurriedly strokes his meat, slowly bringing the blood there. I cannot take my eyes off it.
‘Remove the rest,’ he commands.
I do as he says. It’s like I am somebody else. His great prick fills and lengthens quicker at my nakedness, standing proud of his body like a rod of iron. It is just how I pictured it when the story was told me, and every night since. My poor beau will see this monster, see the look of awe and desire on my face. He strokes it more, until a clear, cotton-thin thread oozes down from its tip, stretching towards the satin sheets. Then one finger beckons me, draws me, onto the bed. I go on hands and knees towards him. My beau will see me in profile, heading for the monster. He takes me by the hair so that I am upright on my knees like him. This close he looks even more the genuine article. It strikes me suddenly that this might not be a charade after all.
‘Are you ready to give yourself to me?’ he says. I can only manage a nod. He tugs my head to one side, laying open my neck. Then down he goes and I close my eyes. I feel him sink in there, feel the sharpness of his teeth. He gorges. It is warm and wet. The blood fizzes in my veins and my heart flutters. Thick liquid, blood or spit, seeps down towards my breasts. Then he kisses me on the lips. I hadn’t expected this but it’s another stake driven into the body of my beau. His teeth nip again, bringing to mind the kiss of that night. They like to bite, those two. He pulls my head away before I was ready to stop. The need is coursing through me.
‘Turn,’ he says, and I do, without even thinking. I go onto all fours, subservient as I know I must be, the scene already played out many times in my head. I peer into the darkness masking my beau, trying to look like I’m being forced, although we both know the flush in my cheeks betrays me. Fingers search for my wetness and find it immediately. There is no disguising how ready I am. The head of that monster prick strokes up and down my slit, covering it in my slickness, teasing me until I whimper. Then I feel him push, opening me up twice as wide as my beau has ever managed. I squeal but hands grip me tight and the slide is slow but relentless. I am spitted to my centre just as the fantasy foretold. I am full of him.
He lets me rest to gather myself, and to let the watcher register that my squeals weren’t just of panic and pain but of bliss too. Bliss the like of which he could never give me. Then I am fucked, hard and deep, just slowly enough that the impact of each fabulous thrust can be seen juddering through my behind. I grip the sheets and drool saliva onto them but all I can do is hang on and let the pleasure inside gather and gather towards a momentous finish. This cock will see me ache for days but I know I will yearn for it again. I only hope my beau will see that I have no choice in this, and that he sticks with me to share more passionate, intimate times than this.
My finish is huge. I shriek and shudder so there is no disguising it. I am barely left to recover before he turns me and forces me to taste myself upon him. I know what is coming so it is no surprise to feel the mattress depressing with the weight of a body behind me. I know I am slick and open and prone for whatever desires they need to take from me. A length is there, pressed up between my split. It is the size of my beau although the feel is somehow strange. I am perhaps too wet to properly register the feel of him. Then my cheeks are gripped, eased open. The head is there at my little hole, probing. On it goes to open me again, twice in one night more than I have ever been before.
Nails are digging into my cheeks as I take a cock where I’ve only ever had fingers. Through the haze of the deepest pleasure I register that my beau doesn’t have long nails like these. He bites his. I look back to the corner but the figure there has gone, the veil an indistinct bundle upon the chair seat. It never was him. I know I’ve been duped. The cold realisation sweeps through me but is immediately driven out by the thrill of being spitted once more. I’m breathing hard, shaking, enraptured despite myself.
‘What a delicious little arse you have, my pretty,’ coos Matilda as she gleefully fucks it for me.
When it is over I lie spent upon the bed, still feeling the tremors of two huge climaxes. I blink and try to focus upon Matilda, now wearing a lace negligée over her underwear but with the toy still strapped tight to her crotch. She spies me, comes over and leans across the bed to kiss me and bite my lower lip.
‘You were wonderful, darling,’ she says. ‘You’ll stay here tonight. There’ll be some food when you are ready. I have to go now.’
‘Are you going to leave me alone with him?’ I ask in a quivering voice, more than half-hoping she will answer in the affirmative.
‘I have to. He wants you alone so that he can spank you and have you give his cock a proper sucking. Anyway, I have somewhere I must be. I believe my husband has left a man all trussed up and gagged for me in a room at the Raven Hotel.’
For Your Eyes Only
Senta Holland
Game Set Up
As soon as my foot touches the platform, I know.
This is the place.
This is the time.
I take my little briefcase, plant my low-heeled patent-leather shoes firmly on the ground, adjust my beret and walk through the arches of the old railway station right into the heart of this cold but picturesque city.
Beautiful and exactly right for my purpose.
Because I am here. And he is here.
The spymaster from the opposite side.
It has been a long game.
But the end is close. I can feel it.
I’m nervous. I’m excited. I want it. I’m not sure if I’m strong enough …
I wait for the moment he looks at me.
He is a dangerous man. He can catch
me, rule me, make my world explode.
With his eyes only.
Game 1
I’ve bought a dark wig with a bob. It makes me look kind of gamine, a flirty urchin from those trendy French films who promises lots of mischief. I’m not going to disguise my figure though – but what man would recognise me simply by the curves of my breasts?
It’s fun to try on the lipstick – dark red and very lush, I think.
Yes, it does make me look different. Classy but seductive.
I’ll fit right in here.
Little black skirt, high up, too high for comfort really, almost but not quite showing what it shouldn’t show.
Perfectly legal when walking – but it will reveal the tops of naughty black stockings if I should, for example, bend over. Or be bent over by, say, a strong tall man who is searching me for secret documents concealed on my ‘person’, as they say.
He’s taught me to understand the power of such a skirt.
* * *
This city is so graceful. It lies there, dressed and ready, placidly displaying its riches under the full-fleshed sunlight. Immortalised on canvas by centuries of old masters.
Nobody would suspect that, just underneath the surface, secrets simmer, boundaries are about to be crossed, prey is hunted and lost and many rules are broken.
Dressed and ready is the name of this gamine.
My heart beats fast as I hit the street. I’ll need to outfox him.
My little skirt swings. A little.
I was right, I could easily be one of the denizens of this place. I know how to blend in.
I also know what I must do.
I pay a visit to one of the city’s high-end lingerie shops, where I have ordered a very special, one-of-a-kind garment. The seamstresses here come at a price but their taste is impeccable. Superbly tailored silk (‘Natural Wild Vanilla, colour of the season, mademoiselle!’) caresses my skin with every step. But what the ladies don’t know is just how special this particular item of underwear will be when I have added a final touch of my own …
I think my plan is quite clever.
* * *
Maybe I should have lengthened my skirt an inch or so after all.
Isn’t this one of the great cities of the North?
Under a fresh blue sky a small chilly wind sneaks up my stockinged legs.
I shiver as I imagine a hunter’s hands on my thighs, my buttline and further up …
Where are you, spymaster of the opposite side?
How come you haven’t picked up my trail?
The clock is ticking on my mission.
I need to get to my destination.
Making my way in secret through dark alleys, lingering on the edge of bridges over the canals, I scan the city and its many hiding spots to catch a glimpse of him.
I see men, many men. Some of them intrigue me. Some may be on a secret mission of their own.
But none of these men is him.
I check out shadows at the back of open-air cafés, in the doorways of art dealers and wine shops.
Where is he?
Did he not get the clues? Did he not understand them?
How can a man like him be so invisible?
I’m sure he’s not wearing a wig. Or a skirt, for that matter.
Then someone is scanning me. I slide around a corner and check him out. No.
It’s not him. I must keep moving.
Let me cross that beautiful square …
If this continues, I will get to my destination before he arrives.
That was not the plan.
The plan is much more intricate, much more ambiguous than that.
What if he is not here?
The wind gets chillier.
Clouds collect.
There will be rain.
I move on, quickly, my shoes dancing over the cobblestones, beret shading my eyes.
Oh …
Over there! Over there.
My heart starts racing before I even see him. I have to stop (behind a well-placed statue of a portly citizen of old) and catch my breath.
Let me shoot a well-hidden glance. He’s far away.
Is it him?
Oh, yes. Oh, yes, that’s him.
Ha!
First point to me.
Just his silhouette. He’s careful. But not careful enough to fool me.
Tall, angular. Dressed in a charcoal suit that easily matches the elegance of this place.
I can almost feel the touch of the fabric against my skin.
I shiver.
And not just with fear …
I move around the statue for cover as he walks, briefly, into the dappled sunlight.
A wave of dark hair falls over his brow.
He sweeps it away and I get a good view of his long pale hand with the platinum ring on his finger. It sparkles at me.
Has he seen me?
For a fraction of a second, his eyes sweep over me.
He hesitates. He shakes his head.
No.
My disguise works.
Then he melts away into the well-dressed, well-mannered crowd in the streets.
I think I know what he’s up to.
The mission continues.
* * *
The shock.
As always, visceral shock at how he looks at me.
He sees everything.
I want him to see everything. I don’t want him to see everything, I mean – everything!!
Other men have stared at me.
Some have tried to waylay me on my secret path through this city.
Their eyes bored into mine. Trying to let them deeper inside but all I could see was nothing.
There’s nothing in it for me if you don’t offer me anything of yours.
I don’t play with empty husks.
* * *
Tap-tap-tap go the shoes on the old cobblestones, kept in excellent repair but a little slippery nonetheless.
Whoosh – the wind trying to slither between my naked thighs, small gusts surprising me from behind.
Always alert to danger, moving from shadow to niche to protected corner.
This city is full of irregular old buildings that no planner fitted together, only time did.
Glorious architecture. And I must say it is also very convenient for spies.
Zigzagging round the market stalls. I’m close to my goal.
This is fun. I’m going to score a lot more points over him before …
Oh.
I suddenly feel the hit.
My head turns of its own accord, I can’t stop it.
And there it is: a fierce glance from these incredible eyes.
It’s like the famous coup de foudre that goes blitzing through my bones.
He’s seen me!
All the way from the corner of the square.
The lightning bolt zonks out my brain. All light and stars.
And hits the centre of my desire.
My vagina wants me to run. Not away, but towards him. Grab him and hold him and feel his cock. Right now.
But I’m a spy!
I’m not going to take advice from my vagina. Right now.
I will admit I am caught for a second, but manage to tear myself away and escape around a magnificent display of exquisite local cheeses.
My vagina disagrees but I’m in charge.
‘Have a taste, mademoiselle!’ the stall holder cries, making a little bow. I regret that I can’t stop for him. I have my mission.
Some people come here just to hunt for these delicacies. They will leave on the train tonight with their bags full of Bries and Mimolettes.
I will leave in quite a different way.
* * *
After that, I start to see his shadow everywhere.
Right in the middle of that bridge, inspecting a sculpture.
Lurking in the window of a shop.
Walking down a dark alley, sliding into a niche between the beautiful old buildings …
I’m sure it’s him. I’m sure it’s not.
I try not to look too long. I don’t want to get hooked.
My heart flutters.
My vagina – well, I said I wasn’t going to listen to my vagina. For now.
Not too fast, not too slow.
Don’t look around, don’t look over your shoulder.
Be purposeful, appear lighthearted.
I take a very unexpected route.
Can’t see him.
Can’t feel his presence.
I’m clever.
I skip a little in my patent-leather shoes. My skirt swings extra high.
I’m pretty sure I shook him off.
My vagina is still excited but then what does she know? I’m the one who’s clever.
This street is good for cover. I stay in the shadows.
Pretty soon I will be able to leave the diversions behind and reach my goal.
I’m good at this. I’m tempted to whistle a mischievous little tune.
The buildings here don’t form a straight line. It’s part of their beauty.
People come to paint and photograph their unpredictable shapes.
There are protruding corners and sudden gaps and narrow alleys and here’s a niche …
I wonder who joined those houses together with such inaccuracy that there would suddenly be a niche – whoops!
All thought suspended.
I’ve run into an obstacle.
Hit me across my stomach.
Hard long shape. I can’t move forward.
An arm.
An arm around my waist.
For a micro-moment, I freeze. Has something gone seriously wrong?
I always knew it was a risk, playing that game. The game of spies …
What if … But then … But he …
It’s him.
I can feel his presence at my back. Some anti-ghost from an anime.
Like a shadow rising, much larger than me.
As I sort that out in my head, the other arm shoots out and wraps itself firmly around my shoulder. My own arms are caught inside. Can’t move them.
Come Play With Me Again Page 12
