There was something slightly erotic about having a strange man rub her tits with a towel, and Claudia felt her nipples crinkle. She wanted desperately to grab a handful of that long blond hair and press his face right to one aching nub.

“Are you cold, Claudia?” Dante asked. He looked pointedly at her nipples. “That champagne was probably freezing.”

“Um,” Claudia began. “Am I? I can’t tell.”

Dante stood in one fluid motion. He caught the corner of Andre’s towel, where Andre was still diligently trying to sop up the puddle in her lap.

“Andre, let’s get Claudia upstairs to change. I’m afraid this is hopeless. The dry cleaner is just going to have to hate us,” Dante suggested.

Claudia watched as the kneeling Andre looked up at Dante and let the suggestion seep past the champagne-soaked brain cells. Now, why did Dante stare at Andre and bite his lip? Something was familiar about that expression, but she couldn’t remember what.

Andre handed over the towel. “Sounds like a plan, old chum. Help me up, will you?”

Dante stepped around Claudia’s feet and lifted Andre as easily as if he were a child, not a six-foot tall grown man. They were almost eye-to-eye once Andre was upright. Dante held Andre’s shoulders until Andre stopped swaying. Blue denim contrasted with black silk. Sun blond and shadow dark, broad shouldered barbarian and sleek, panther-like sophisticate.

“God, you both are so pretty,” Claudia said, engaging mouth before brain was in gear. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oops. Sorry.”

Both men turned. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Won’t you, Andre?”

“I’ll take any compliments Dee chooses to dish out. Even if I have to share with a liberal Democrat like you.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Doesn’t even know when he’s being insulted,” Andre commented to Claudia. “Come on baby. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“I’ll be the donk and do the lifting, Andre,” Dante offered. “You lead the way to open doors and turn on lights.”

Dante scooped Claudia up and followed Andre up the stairs. Claudia wound her arms around Dante’s neck for balance. Her face was half buried in his silky mane.

“Oooo! Pretty blond hair, Dante!” Claudia said. “You should have been a girl. Then I could tell you blonde jokes, and you wouldn’t remember them.”

Dante remarked, “Well, I’ve heard my share of them over the years.” He was not even breathing hard as they made their way ponderously up the stairs, but his heart was pounding as he felt Claudia’s breath against his cheek.

“Yes,” Andre agreed. “What is a blonde’s mating call?” he asked.

Dante spoke in a squeaky falsetto, “I’m sooo drunk!” Then, in his normal voice, he asked, “What is the brunette’s mating call?”

Andre contrived to look haughty. “Has that damn blonde left yet?”

All three giggled.

Andre sniggered and looked at Claudia’s red hair. “And what is the redhead’s mating call?” he prompted.

Claudia laughed and exclaimed, “Fleet’s in!”

Andre swayed a moment on the landing, impeding their progress. “And you have a whole fleet to yourself tonight, baby. Dante is an ex-sailor, too.” He turned and began to climb again.

“Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it?” Claudia remarked, not knowing what to say next.

Dante put her down in the bedroom while Andre wove to a bedside lamp. Light flared, blinding her. “Bright light, bright light!” Claudia complained in the squeaky voice of a movie character from her childhood. The light went back out.

In the dark, with just moonlight filtering through the curtains, Dante fumbled with the clasp at the back of her dress while Andre came over and stood in front to assist. The dress lifted over her head, revealing just her black panties. All she’d been wearing underneath was the panties, heels, and perfume.

“Whoa,” was Dante’s soft comment.

“Yeah,” was Andre’s awed response.

“Uh, do you need a shower, Claudia?” asked Dante, in a slightly strangled voice.

Andre swayed. “Shower, hell, can we lick you clean?”

Claudia knew it was now or never to get her fantasy fulfilled. All she had to do was agree. She held up her arms to both men. “Why not?” she laughed.

“Excuse me, I think you dropped this.”

The man turned around. So he understood English at least. Good start. Laurel held up the black wool scarf she had just unwound from her own neck. She’d followed the man to his hotel a few blocks from the club. The finest hotel in the area, she noted, as he’d nodded to the doorman who impassively opened the large glass doors for him.

She’d nodded to the doorman as well, saying in German, “Cold as a witch’s tit, eh?” The man had done a slight double take and then grinned broadly as she sailed past him, her eye still on the broad back covered in a fine camelhair coat.

As he turned around she now noted his eyes, a dark, rich chocolate brown—unusual in a person with such blond hair. She felt his appraising gaze as his eyes quickly swept her. He smiled and said, “No, uh, sorry. I have my scarf.” He touched a tan scarf at his neck that perfectly matched his coat.

“Well then, guess I’ve got me a scarf,” Laurel grinned, draping it over her neck. She stuck out her hand and said, “Laurel Jordan, pleased to meet you.”

He automatically took her hand, shaking it firmly. “Jonathan Goldman.” They stood smiling at one another for a moment as she waited. After a beat he said, “Uh, would you like to go into the bar and have a drink, perhaps? Are you staying here?”

Bingo.
|
“I’d love to,” Laurel assented as if it were a brilliant idea, and one she never would have thought of on her own. She didn’t add that no, she would never drop four hundred dollars a night for a room, no matter how posh the hotel. “I’m staying with friends,” she said airily.

They settled themselves at the bar. Jonathan ordered another gin and tonic, Laurel asked for Cabernet. As they sipped their drinks Jonathan said, “So you’re American. What brings you to Germany?”

“The tail end of a few months of bumming around the continent. I’m going to give it another try back in New York. I have an idea for a club there, and a few friends with too much money for their own good willing to invest in it. I’ve already found the location and I have a partner too.”

“You’re from the city? I live in Manhattan. Work for a real estate development firm. Just finished closing a deal here with a German firm that wants to do business in the States. Small world.”

“It is. No matter where I go, I run into people from New York.” Though I don’t always follow them from strip clubs, she thought, inwardly grinning.
“So what’s this idea of yours for a club?”

Laurel took a drink of her wine and said, “A BDSM club. But not some dump in the basement of a clothing boutique or a warehouse, like most of them. Not a poser club for wannabe players dressing up in leather and pretending they have a clue. No, this would be something different—a full dungeon, professional Doms, paid membership. Very upscale.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows. “BDSM! Sadomasochism, whips and chains, all that stuff?”

Laurel laughed at the surprise in his voice. “Uh, yeah. You’ve heard of it?” Her tone was sardonic.

“Well sure, yeah. Cat woman in latex and stilettos wielding a whip over a little naked bald guy who’s licking her boot?”

Laurel laughed. “Oh stop. Surely you’re not that naïve. Even if you are American.”
Jonathan colored slightly and took a long drink of his gin and tonic. “So what would make your club different from the usual black walls, porn videos, fat girls in leather corsets and miserable lonely men in trench coats?”

“Sounds like you’ve been to a few of the clubs, huh, Jonathan?” She grinned, dimples appearing in each cheek as she watched him blush.

“Well, uh, you know. Passing through…”

“Passing through? So you have no fantasies of your own personal slave girl? Of having her meet you naked at the door each night, a whip in her mouth, forehead touching the floor, ass in the air?”

“Jesus,” Jonathan said. “No! I mean, I respect women.”

“So? What’s that got to do with what moves you sexually? With what turns you on?”

“Well, I mean, it’s just, I would never, you know, hurt a woman. Degrade her.”
“There’s nothing degrading about consensual submission,” Laurel said softly, putting her hand lightly over his. Jonathan didn’t pull away, instead narrowing his eyes as he regarded her.

Laurel wondered if he liked what he saw. She knew she was good-looking with dark wavy hair that fell in soft waves, large green eyes and fine, clear skin. Even at twenty-seven she barely needed and rarely used makeup. Her body was long and lean, the muscles a result of hard work and hard play. The idea of joining a gym to work out made her laugh—why pay to jump up and down and lift things? Why not just get out there and plant a garden or climb a mountain? Do something useful or do something fun. Life was too short to spend time sweating in a mirrored room with a bunch of overweight women jumping in place to bad disco music.

He wasn’t exactly falling over himself for her as so many guys did, but she liked that. He didn’t send off that desperate vibe that was so unappealing in a man. He seemed confident, if a little guarded about his sexual predilections. But maybe he was just being careful on her account—not wanting to shock her with his sadistic fantasies. If he even had them! Maybe Greta had been right and he was actually a sub! Watching the girl onstage with his hand over his cock, but in his mind’s eye it was himself on that stage. God, maybe he was gay too! A gay sub—terrific.

She smiled ruefully at the conversation in her head. “You have the most adorable dimples,” Jonathan said suddenly. He still hadn’t pulled his hand from beneath hers. Okay, not gay.

“And you have gorgeous teeth,” she responded. “I was always a sucker for good teeth.” They grinned at each other for a few seconds and Jonathan withdrew his hand. He gestured toward the waitress for another round.

“So when are you heading back to the States?” Laurel asked casually.

“Well, tomorrow actually.”

“Tomorrow! Doesn’t give us much time to get to know each other, huh?” She watched him, and could almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he calculated his ticket times and weighed the risks and possibilities. He looked at his watch. It was already near midnight.

He had taken off his coat and suit jacket, and now unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. The tie had probably come off after he’d closed the deal with the Germans. She noted the fine linen of his shirt and the gold cufflinks at his sleeves. As he opened the shirt a little she couldn’t help but admire his thick neck, not muscle-bound, but strong and masculine. She liked a big man—someone who could give her a good fight when she wrestled him, but who would always win.

She felt her pussy moisten and tingle as he smiled again, fine, square white teeth against tan skin. When he smiled his face creased up, smile lines at the corners of his eyes and his mouth. He looked like a man who smiled often.

She licked her lips, her eyes on his, waiting. Either he’d invite her up to his room now or he’d stand up, say how tired he was and how he hoped they’d meet again soon. She found she was eagerly hoping for the former.

“Good evening. Dylan, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Hi.” The stools on either side of Dylan were occupied. He controlled a sudden urge to push one of the occupants off their stool so Tomas might sit down.

Instead Tomas leaned down, saying softly to the man on his right, “Martin, would you mind terribly giving me your seat for a moment?”

“Oh, no sir! Not at all.” A bare-chested heavyset man with multiple piercings on his face and tattoos over much of his body stood up abruptly. Dylan almost expected him to bow toward Tomas. What was it about this guy that made everyone, including himself, want to worship him?

Tomas slid gracefully onto the stool next to him as Dylan tried to force himself to a calm he didn’t feel. When Tomas spoke, his voice was gentle. “What happened last week, Dylan? A moment you were there, then you were gone.”

For a moment Dylan savored Tomas’ elegant British accent before he forced himself to acknowledge the words. “I know. I don’t know. Uh, that is, I mean, I had to go. I’m sorry.” he laughed ruefully, aware he sounded like a total idiot. “I apologize. Peter said you were upset. He said I was very rude to have left like that.”

“Peter said that? No, no. Peter was mistaken. I was just surprised, is all. You had seemed, if you don’t mind my saying so, rather intrigued. Even,” he added as he put his hand over Dylan’s, “enthralled.”

Dylan held his breath, resisting his urge to put his other hand over Tomas’ to keep it there a little longer. He bit back a sigh as Tomas removed his hand. He was watching Dylan, waiting for a response. “I—I was intrigued. That was quite a display on the rack. I’m a student of history, actually. I recognize that rack as being an excellent replica of the ones used during the Inquisition. Surely it’s no coincidence—your clever pseudonym and that torture device?”
“A student of history? Formal or casual?”

“Well, formal. That is, I’m a professor of European history and I’m working on my PhD in medieval studies at NYU.”

“Impressive,” Tomas smiled and Dylan felt a warmth spread through him at the man’s approval. He wanted to ask what Tomas did when he wasn’t dominating slave boys at underground clubs, but he didn’t quite dare.

Instead he said, “So the rack? Is it yours?”

“No, no. It belongs to the club. Stanley Richards, the owner, he supplied all the equipment you see around us.” Tomas waved toward the room, which housed a number of whipping chairs, several St. Andrew’s Crosses, as well as an old-fashioned pillory and a few whipping posts. “But I’ll tell you a secret.” He leaned closer and Dylan could smell his scent—a hint of vanilla blended with cardamom and musk Dylan wanted to taste. “That’s how I picked my name for the club. The rack reminded me, as it did you, of the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Are you a student of history as well?” Dylan asked.

“You could say that,” Tomas said airily.

When he didn’t elaborate, Dylan tried, “So what makes you use a pseudonym at all? Is that common practice at these places? I mean, I’m not all that familiar with the club scene, but usually guys just tack the word ‘master’ or ‘slave’ to their first name and that’s that. If you don’t mind my asking, why the big mystery?”

Tomas smiled. “Well, first there’s the obvious answer, of course. I have my reasons for keeping my identity secret. But beyond that is something more essential, more basic to the scene. Public scenes are very different from a private D/s relationship. Here so much of what matters is the ambiance, the atmosphere during the few minutes one has to create an experience. It’s theater, in a way, though the players and what they feel are real.

“My goal as a Dom is to create a sensuous, edgy environment, one where the sub can submerge himself, lose himself, if you will, in the intensity of the moment. Part of the thrill is submitting to someone who could be anyone. I become their ultimate fantasy because they can assign whatever qualities they wish to the enigmatic stranger in the leather mask.”

Dylan was quiet a moment. Had he himself succumbed Tomas’ creation? Was his crush on the masked persona, not the man behind it? He knew nothing of the real man, not even his name. On an impulse he asked, “What’s your name? Your real name?”

Tomas’s smile was sardonic as he slowly shook his head. “Come now, Dylan. That would be telling.” Dylan didn’t respond. He hadn’t really expected the man to share with him what he had told no one else.  Tomas went on, “What’s in a name, after all? People come to these clubs to find fantasy—to play dark dangerous games they might not have the courage to explore on their own.” He turned his gaze fully on Dylan, who couldn’t seem to look away.

“Why are you here, Dylan? Why did you come?”

“I—uh, a friend gave me his invitation at the last minute.”

“So you were just curious? No personal interest in D/s?”

Dylan felt himself coloring as he stammered, “Well, no. That is, yes. I mean, I’m sexually submissive, to the right lover. I don’t really go in for these public scenes, if you’ll pardon my bluntness.”

“And yet here you sit, a second time. What made you come back? Did your friend have another invitation just lying around?” Dylan looked down at the bar, recalling how he’d virtually begged Jordan to get him a second invitation.

Summoning his courage, Dylan looked back at Tomas. “You. I came back because of you.”

“Yes. I know you did. In a sense you already belong to me, don’t you?” His voice was quiet, his assurance absolute. Dylan found it difficult to breathe. He glanced toward the exit and Tomas, reading his mind, said, “You will not leave. You will not run this time, Dylan. You will stay and explore the reasons you’re really here.” Dylan nodded slowly as he felt himself slip more firmly under this man’s charismatic spell.

Tomas put his hand on Dylan’s thigh. A thousand tiny sparks of desire ignited in his groin as Tomas stared pointedly at his crotch, a slow smile spreading over his face. “I was watching you, Dylan, when James was on the rack. You wanted to be there. You needed to be there. You felt each stroke of the lash, each caress to his cock and balls. You’ve thought of little else since that night, am I right?”

“Please, I—” Dylan said weakly, trying to refute what he knew was true.

“Stop,” Tomas commanded. “Don’t waste my time or yours with denial. We both know what’s in your heart.” His hand slid up Dylan’s leg to the bulging mound at his center. Dylan felt dizzy as the large hand covered his crotch, squeezing gently.

Sliding the glass door closed behind her, Alexandra padded through the sunroom and headed for the kitchen. Off in the distance, the sound of clinking silverware filled the halls as a tiny voice squawked above the din. As she turned the corner, she paused at the sight before her. Gemma and Elsa were in the midst of their weekly vegetable stand-off.

“Just try it.” The elderly woman placed a hand on her hip.

“It’s green, it’ll taste yucky!” Gemma huffed.

“Green is not a flavor!” Elsa threw her hands up in exasperation.

The four-year-old snorted, sticking her tongue out in response.

“Try that again and it’ll be tongue soup tomorrow!”

Eyes wide with horror, the child threw her head back and wailed loudly. “Mommy!”

“Eat your lima beans, Gemma.” Alexandra chuckled as she entered the kitchen.

“No!” came the stubborn reply.

“Just like her father, this one!” The older woman shook her head.

“Where is her father?” Alexandra sat down beside her daughter.

“Oh, you know Lucius.” Elsa tilted the salt-shaker over her potatoes. “Probably double checking something at the office.”

“This late in the evening?” Alexandra furrowed her brow.

The phone rang suddenly, interrupting their conversation. Sliding her chair back, the younger woman crossed the room and plucked the cordless phone from its cradle. “Hello?”

“What are you wearing?”

Alexandra burst into a fit of giggles. “Where are you?”

“Old Town,” came the reply. “Not far from where we met.”

A tingle ran down her spine, followed by a slight hardening of her nipples. They used to stroll through the area on a semi-regular basis, just to reminisce about their first steamy encounter. But that had been ages ago, before Gemma was born. Nowadays, she counted herself lucky to get a full eight hours’ sleep, let alone spare time for a romantic walk with her husband.

“When will you be home?” She wandered out of the kitchen and into the formal dining room. “I was hoping we might get a head-start on our anniversary.” She could hardly believe it would be five years tomorrow.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve just paid for your gift.” He sounded mysterious.

Alexandra bit her lip in anticipation. “Go on …”

“Come see for yourself.”

“Now?” She eyed the clock on the wall. “It’s almost Gemma’s bedtime.”

“Elsa is more than capable of handling a sleeping four-year-old.” Lucius chuckled. “Meet me under Charles Bridge in an hour.”

“How shall I dress?” She was bursting with excitement.

“Sparingly.”

 Alex Stevenson, owner of ‘The Contemporary Man’, a leading mens’ lifestyle magazine, arranges to unwind with a female dominant, recommended to him by a close friend.

Artist and semi-retired dominatrice, Katherine O’Brien—a.k.a Mistress Kitty– adds Alex to her exclusive clientele after their sexually charged meeting. A first for her, she allows sex on the menu. The man of her dreams is on offer and the challenge of training him is irresistible.

This bachelor is going to get more than he bargained for! Question is, will he like it?

Chapter 1

December, 2005 
Katherine O’Brien, a.k.a. Mistress Kitty, reclined on the white leather sofa and her best friend, Jacqueline Foster, lounged on an identical one opposite, the stiletto heels of her platform boots resting on a narrow, central coffee table, which also happened to be her client.
Quite naked, the accountant’s pasty white skin rivaled the lounge suite for pallor. Marvin was a weedy little man with a shaved head and chocolate-brown eyes, which tilted up to view his mistress adoringly when he thought she wasn’t observing him. A quick press of her stiletto heel enlightened him otherwise.
“Eyes to the floor, slave,” the beautiful blonde-haired woman ordered, her blue eyes cold.
He released a mournful sound and lowered his eyes to the polished hardwood floor.
“Silence. I’m trying to have a conversation with Mistress Kitty.”
Such adoration was a precious gift indeed and Kitty never tired of seeing it. Marvin was once her client—he paid to be her personal slave and devotee and now he engaged Jackie to provide that same service.
Kitty and Jackie had studied together at Edinburgh College of Art and became business partners while still at college. Jackie was already a professional dominatrix at the time.
They shared a ProDom house on Berwick Street. The house of domination took up two floors, included two offices, a comfortable reception area with panoramic views, a private reception for intimate moments, a first-rate dungeon with all the wicked and wonderful trimmings, two cloakrooms and luxury bathroom amenities. Their loyal staff included a receptionist, two personal assistants, two maids and two bodyguards. Decorated in a white, black, red and brown-timber color scheme, the rooms were light, bright and airy, with the exception of the dungeon.
“Are you all right?” Jackie asked.
“Of course I am,” Kitty replied.
Jackie reached over, took her cup and saucer from the black woodgrain coffee table to the left of her chair arm, and sipped her tea. Her long red nails were a startling contrast against the white china. “This tastes like dishwater.” She shuddered.
Her slave’s sad eyes darted up to her and then rapidly dropped to the floor again. Jackie chose to ignore him this time, his obvious grief at disappointing her enough punishment.
Kitty would have done the same.
“Tell me about this gallery in Bloomsbury showing your fabulous Dominant Art.” Jackie’s fine brows drew together. “When does the presentation commence and how long will your works be on display?”
“This June and July. The twelfth ’til the twelfth.”
“Hmm, six months away.”
Jackie sipped her tea and shuddered again. She nudged her “table” with the toe of her boot before removing her feet. She snapped her fingers. “On your feet.” Her slave rose, eyes lowered. “Fetch more tea, and this time, have one of the girls make it, you incompetent fool.”
“Yes, Mistress.” He was as hard as a rock and so proud that his penis pointed at the pristine white ceiling.
“Go!” He collected the tray, cups and pot, clinking as he hurried away. “And, slave…” He stopped and turned to face the petite dominatrix.
“No toilet break and no masturbating. If I smell cock on your hands, I will whip you soundly and forbid masturbation for the entire week, you hear?”
His expression pained, he nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Now get out of my sight!” He turned and scurried from view.
Kitty grinned at Jackie. “You are too cruel.”
“Oh, my dear, he loves it. I’m considering allowing that one the pleasure of eating my prized…

Read more here: Mistress Kitty’s Thigh High Boots

Copyright Monica M. Martin 2007

I stand undressed before Coby, unashamed, compliant, gone. I’m not here, this is just a hollow shell, my body waiting for him. Waiting.

“Turn around,” he commands.

I obey.

He sits on the bed and studies me, the bruises on my hip where McBane hit me with a bottle when he came by last week, the cigarette burns along the inside of my arm, the scars…

When Coby’s hand touches the small of my back, where the skin’s raised from wounds that will never fully heal, the touch is so kind, so unlike anything else I’ve ever felt before that it wrenches me back into the present, into this tiny room where I’m naked and cold. Warm fingers tentative and unsure trace the patterns that scar my back and buttocks.

I hold my breath, almost afraid to let it out and shatter this sudden tenderness. Continue reading ‘Scarred by JM Snyder’

It was a dark and stormy night…

Jack turned away from the window in disgust. Now he was thinking in clichés. Wasn’t his life crazier than any novelist could dream up? Okay, so the thunderstorms had lasted four days already, cooping him in the apartment with his lover, Aneurin. Normally, this would not be a bad prospect. Normally being the operative word. Nothing in his life would ever be normal again. Not when his lover was a dragon and he was a wizard in the modern day Washington, DC area.

Aneurin’s sleeping dragon form took up a large portion of Jack’s generous penthouse living room. The large napping sofa Jack had previously owned hadn’t lasted past the first time Aneurin took his pain pills. After the eye surgery to correct his cataracts two days ago, he’d needed them. Where one pain-wracked man had sat, a dragon lounged in rubble.

Jack shrugged, and a grin crept over his face. His heart lightened. Oh, well. What was the value of mere stuff when you had love? He crept over to lovingly rub his dragon’s scaly muzzle.

Aneurin’s contented sigh ruffled Jack’s hair, and the gold-tipped tail ceased its restless movement.

Jack reached up and adjusted the blue silk bed sheet now serving as a draconic blindfold. They’d given up trying to keep Aneurin in human form when the pain pills made him so stoned he’d revert to his reptilian form as soon as he fell asleep. Continue reading ‘Dragon’s Stone by Lena Austin’

Eight murders—no—nine, I corrected as I parked my Nash Airflyte behind the flashing black-and-white and flipped off the lights. I returned the nod of the uniformed officer who stood beside the squad car, then glanced at the rundown, brick tenement building. Scrawled across the bottom right side in thick, black letters was, Kilroy was here. It was 1948 and signs of the war still lingered. Like the other crime scenes, a lot of shell-shocked vets eked out a survival in these south side buildings.
I left the car, hurried across the sidewalk and up the uneven, concrete steps to the building’s entrance. This string of murders was the biggest case I’d ever worked. The newspapers had dubbed the killer the ‘Bicycle Chain Strangler.’ We were scouring the city for a Nazi who got his kicks from watching American vets die slowly, while blood oozed from cuts inflicted by the murder weapon—a German bicycle chain, a Fahrradfabrik Schauff, to be precise. How even a Nazi could choke the life from another man was beyond me, beyond any rational thinking man. The shrinks think they have it figured out, but those freaks aren’t any more human than the lab rats they study.
I grabbed the doorknob, a wobbly leftover from the twenties, and nearly yanked it free. No locks or buzzer, I noticed as the door swung open. Just like all the others. The killer always entered through the fire escape. I released the doorknob, grabbing the door and swinging it open.
 
A black blur shot toward me from within the dimly lit hallway.

“I think you better come and have a look.”  He ducked back into the room and stood facing the far wall.

She saved her work, and pushed her chair away from the table.  He seemed jumpy, nervous, and she wondered why.  When she stood at the entrance to the new room, she smiled.  It was perfect.  She’d need to get drapes for the winter, but for the time being, she loved having it all open.  Around the perimeter, the hardwood floor gleamed and the Persian rug in the center looked plush and soft.  She stepped inside and did a slow spin, checking all the light fixtures and inhaling the smell of fresh paint.  It was then that she spotted the plug in the far corner, and the lack of a cover.

She turned and faced him, confused.

From behind his back, he pulled out the cover and, while holding it out towards her, he said, “I didn’t quite get it finished.”

She blinked, and smiled again.  Taking the cover, she said, “You know I’ll have to add this to the punishment you’ve already earned.”

“Yes, I know.”  He lowered his eyes, and asked, “What time would you like me here?”

“Ten,” her voice had grown husky.

“Yes ma’am.  I’ll be here.”

He walked towards the door, but before he left, she said, “Don’t masturbate tonight.”

He spun around and faced her.  Flushed, he replied in a small, ragged voice, “Yes ma’am.”

Continue reading ‘An Acquired Taste by Jude Mason’

Jack rose from the bed and headed back to the shower. Neither the pounding of the spray against the porcelain, or the steam rising to fog the mirror, managed to blast Amanda from his thoughts. He pulled the curtain and stepped into the hammering, hot water.Letting it sluice over his back, he leaned his head against the rear wall of the shower stall. He couldn’t deny the lust welling within him when he thought of all the blonde hair and soft, sexy curves that was Amanda.

As much as he physically wanted her, her experiences with Victor Wakefield put her off limits to him for an indefinite amount of time. Abused submissives weren’t known for quick recoveries and their lack of trust hindered them in forming another relationship with a decent Dom. A guy like Jack.

“Case, you better wrap this thing up fast,” Jack muttered under his breath stepping out of the shower. The sooner Amanda was out of his house and safekeeping, the better off they both were.

He towel dried his hair and viciously rubbed the terry over his body. A heart-wrenching sob filtered through the door, stopping him in motion. He swallowed hard, knowing the sound came from Amanda. Concern for her filled him, but could he ease her fears and sadness? Did he dare try to comfort her?

I don’t know what made me stop the video.

Here I was, sneaking into my husband’s computer, snooping in his private stuff and I find a porn collection. Not just any porn collection. I mean, I think I could have handled pictures of gals with big boobs or maybe women on their knees giving blow jobs or something but the bondage video was maybe a bigger shock than I could take.

Fenton and I have a good sex life together. We don’t hang from the ceiling fan or scream when we have orgasms but we give each other oral pleasure and we try different positions every once in a while. I’m fortunate to have found a man who cares about giving me orgasms and we are quite happy with our sex life.

Aren’t we?

Does this video mean he’s not happy with our love-making? Why would he need this stuff? Is he thinking about tying up other women?

Amanda told Jack what she had gone through to stay in Victor’s good graces. Every detail incensed him. With a good Dom, many of the things she revealed would have provided all parties involved intense pleasure. With Victor, Amanda’s sexual acts had been nothing more than a power play to control and punish her.

He sighed and held her closer, keeping his fury in check. Amanda needed a peaceful haven right now, not exposure to a churning sea of anger. He laid a chaste kiss on the top of her head. “I’m sorry, Amanda. You shouldn’t have had to go through that.

“It’s not like it’s your fault,” she whispered. “I chose to be with him.”

Jack clenched his teeth. Despite the effort to remain calm, his anger and frustration for Amanda seeped out. “He should have respected you. Just because you were submissive didn’t mean you had no say, no control over what happened to you.”

Continue reading ‘Refugee by Lucynda Storey’