Friday, October 29, 2010

The Force of Circumstance


A1 is still undecided about this story so, while they dither, here are two pics of Lana, our protagonist.
Isn't she pretty?

The Spider. A chapter

I had a lot of fun writing this chapter.

Ch 17
Akemashite Omedetō Gozaimasu

I guess I had to expect it; it was to be New Year’s Eve after all and you had to have a party. I told David I did not want to know who was coming or what the plans were other than the fact that I would receive the New Year hanging from my breasts.
Of course that wasn’t true at all. I did very much want to know who was coming and what the plans were since they probably involved me. It may seem strange but, once I told David of my plans, and he told Burt, I began to have second and third thoughts about the whole thing. It was not the party. I hoped no one I knew was there, it would be too embarrassing but I had enough to worry about to be concerned about minor things like modesty. Of course, once Burt was in on it and they began to organize the party I could no longer back out of it. It would make David lose too much face.
True to form, David said nothing about the party plans. My first hint was at lunchtime, at the North Star Mall, when David insisted I have a hearty lunch.
“You won’t get to have dinner, so eat well now.”
Now that sounded kind of ominous, but I knew I’d better follow his advice.
We arrived at Burt’s at seven. I thought it was rather early for a New Year’s Eve party but nobody was asking me. Except for Burt there was no one else there. The men wore comfortable clothes; I wore a purple dress and heels. It did not last long on me.
“Go to the guest room and strip,” David ordered as soon as we arrived.
I guessed the evening was starting early for me. I did as ordered, hanging the clothes in the closet, and returned to the living room; I kept my heels on.
An oriental man, wearing a black and white bandana on his head was setting up his tools in the kitchen. When I entered he looked at me showing no surprise in his eyes. He was expecting me; there was no one else in the room.
“I am Chef Ito. Hurry up, come here and help me,” The man had only the faintest oriental accent.
He wrapped a bandanna around my hair and gave me a short white kimono to wear. He had a large cutting board in front of him and several shallow aluminum pans set up on the counter. He gave me a plastic jug.
“Fill the aluminum pans with crushed ice. Hurry.”
I began filling the jug with crushed ice from the freezer and spreading it on the pans. While I did so, he pulled out several sides of fish and began cutting them into small portions with a Suntoku knife. It seemed like there was sushi for dinner menu.
As soon as I was done, he told me to lay the pieces of fish on the ice, while he placed a large wood tub on the kitchen counter; it was full of steamed rice. I had barely finished with the fish when he ordered me to make little plates of seaweed salad, and after that, I put a pot of miso soup on the stove to heat. I wondered what the boys were doing.
He ordered me to set the table for seven people. The table was rectangular and I was not to use a tablecloth. The only utensils were red lacquered chopsticks, tiny little bowls for the soy sauce, a larger bowl for rice set on the left side, a little porcelain rectangle on the rice, where the chopsticks rested, and a square lacquered bamboo box, for sake.
He gave me no quarter. As soon as one task was finished he had another for me. Slice oranges, little rice Nigiri rolls to put the fish on, and so on. After everything was ready, he ordered me to empty five bags of ice from the freezer outside into the bathtub and fill the bath with water. I wondered what that was about.
Shortly before eight, David and Burt came up from the den. Chef Ito bowed to them and, after he elbowed me in the ribs, so did I.
“We are ready,” he said.
I served the three men sake.
“Sensei,” Burt said, “You may use her, if you want, before the party starts. You will be too busy later.”
My eyes snapped open.
Chef Ito bowed low, “Domo arigato gozaimasu,” his voice was hoarse already.
He turned to me, “Kneel.”
I needed no further instructions. I unzipped his fly and took his hardening cock in my mouth. It rapidly grew erect to its full five inches. His pubic hair was surprisingly long, and straight rather than curly. He smelled very clean. As soon as he was hard, I began to bob on his dick. I easily took all his length in my mouth, and twirled my tongue around the thin dark shaft. I could sense his growing excitement, and felt a little stab of arousal myself; not a whole lot, just a twinge, a faint response to the desire I sensed between my lips. He took hold of my head now and began to fuck my head. Faster and faster he thrust until he grunted and spurted his come in my mouth. It was a bit saltier than David’s. ‘Must be all the miso in his diet,’ I thought.
It had taken less than four minutes.
It was eight o’clock.
“Go bathe,” Chef Ito ordered, “use cold water only; do not wet your hair. Hurry!”
Now I knew. I took off my kimono and noticed that, after all the running about, getting dinner ready, and the chef’s rocks off, I was a bit sweaty; that twinge of arousal released a bit of musk too. Before I got into the freezing water, the door to the bathroom opened and the Chef entered.
“Shower first,” he ordered.
I got into the shower stall and showered with cold water; that was less than comfortable, this being December and all. There was no gel for me to use, only a plain, unperfumed, white soap bar. I used it. As soon as I was rinsed Chef Ito ordered me into the bath. I wrapped my hair in a towel to keep it dry and gingerly stepped into the freezing water. He made sure I got in, all the way to my neck. I began to shiver immediately.
“Stay there!” he ordered and left, leaving the door open.
My shivers turned into violent shakes, I had never been so cold in my life. Through the open door, I heard the guests begin to arrive. I heard the pop of champagne bottles and the clicking of glasses. Spirited conversation wafted into the bathroom although I could not understand the words. I pushed my toes out of the ice water. They were blue.
Chef Ito returned and closed the door.
“Come out!” He ordered.
I was shaking so violently I could barely hold a towel. It wasn’t necessary. He dried me thoroughly with two large terrycloth towels and, once he was satisfied, he gave me a new kimono to wear. It was white, with two large black fish swimming across its length. The fabric was very soft. He gave me two bamboo sandals to wear. I removed the towel from my hair letting it fall free.
“Take small steps,” he said.
Still trembling, with small, measured steps, I followed Chef Ito. There were four men and a young woman, in addition to Burt and David, standing in the living room. They all held champagne glasses and seemed, up to now, very gay, although the conversation quieted down when I made my entry. I did not know any of them.
I followed the Chef to the dining room table where he turned me around, facing the crowd. We bowed to them.
“Let the kimono slide off your shoulders to the floor,” he whispered to me.
For once I was happy to blush; it warmed my face.
I stood nude in front of all this people. I could see they liked what they saw. I wondered how much they knew about what was going to happen afterwards. More than I did, I gathered.
Chef Ito helped me on to the table, where I lay flat, my arms and legs slightly open. Although still freezing, I was no longer shivering.
“Do not move.” He ordered in a low voice.
He began to work at a feverish pace. He took four thin cloth bags and placed one under each of my armpits and one on each side of my neck. I shivered when they touched my cold skin. They were full of ice.
“They will help keep you cool,” he said
He placed two smaller ones on my groins and behind my knees. I almost did not feel the two ice bas he placed under my knees, so cold was my skin.
Then, he began to arrange the different sushi creations directly on my skin. Salmon, Hamachi, Toro, Unagi, all the sashimi he arranged neatly in whorls of seafood around my breasts and on my chest and abdomen. The Nigiri sushi pieces he placed on my thighs and the salmon roe, in a basket of bib lettuce he placed over my pussy. He covered one of my nipples with pickled ginger sliced paper thin. He furiously grated a wasabi root and placed a pyramid of the pungent root on my other nipple. Both the ginger and the wasabi stung my nipple a little. I was grateful for any heat I could get.
He took a picture of his creation.
“I’ll give you a copy,” he said.
“Sit down, kudasai.” He gestured at the table bowing.
As soon as the guests sat down, he brought two large bottles of sake, letting the guests help themselves, and served them a bowl of miso soup apiece. I could smell the fragrant broth, but with my face looking up, I could see very little, aside from the lamp above the table, and the ceiling where a small spider made its way across. I prayed it did not fall on me.
The guests stood up and gave Chef Ito a standing ovation. He bowed twice, said:
“Happy New Year” and left.
I was still freezing from the bath and the ice bags strategically placed at my pulse points were not helping.
Conversation started again, as the sake began to flow. They talked about their studies, their work. They talked about the Olympics next year and about whom would the Republicans run in November’s presidential election. They ignored me completely.
Of course, you do not talk about your host’s china when you are invited to dinner. And that is what I was right now. A very cold serving plate.
To feel the chopsticks picking the pieces of fish off my naked body was, disconcerting. When anyone picked some of the roe from the cup of leaves between my thighs, they could not help but move the leaves a bit and, since they were resting against my most sensitive area, despite the cold, I felt tiny twinges inside me; something similar happened when they picked the pickled ginger or the wasabi from atop my nipples. I was so cold though that they failed to ignite. That was probably a good thing; I don’t think that a river of musky pussy juice would be very appetizing.
At times, one of the guests would let the tip of his chopstick drag, briefly, on my skin; especially if he was picking up wasabi or ginger.
A chopstick accidentally slid under the bib lettuce and was promptly removed.
The worst thing was being unable to move.


Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Colette

The leading lady of the Colette series.
Her friend Gigi, I shall post tomorrow.

Still waiting

Still waiting on an answer from the publisher on "The Force of Circumstance"
They might not want it as it is a departure from my usual stuff. Most of the sex is really vanilla, and the BD undertone is muted though strong.
Will keep you posted

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Update to Urban Roasters

I posted a new update to Urban Roasters today.

The Descent.

The Descent is coming along quite well, it is about half way done, so I thought I'd give you a tease.

Ch 3
The first time.



We drove down to a seedy bar a few blocks away. Even though it was near our gated community we’d never been to it. The bouncer at the door gave as one bored look which turned into a wolfish grin when he saw my outfit and opened the door for us.
I steeled myself and followed my husband in. This was a completely new experience for me; up until now he had always opened the door and followed me. I was now heeling him, like a bitch. The smell of stale smoke assaulted my nostrils as we made our way into the dimly lit bar. The patrons, mostly men, except for the cocktail waitresses and two tired looking whores sitting at the bar looked at us. The women quickly looked away minding their own business. The men, they minded their own business by ogling me. I followed George to the bar where we sat on two, rather grimy, stools. He ordered a vodka martini for himself and ginger ale for me.
“I do not want you drunk, or even buzzed today,” he said, “I want you fully aware of what you are doing, and what is being done to you.”
“Yes George,” I answered.
Sipping my ginger ale I wondered what kind of depravity George would have me do, or be done to me. I had, of course, a general idea of what the context would be, given the skimpiness of my garment, but the actual details I ignored. It would not be the first time I had second thoughts about this whole idea.
George gestured with his glass towards a man sitting at a table, across from us. Like just about every male in the saloon he was ogling me being, perhaps less discreet about it than the others even if I was escorted. Of course, if my escort did not intend for my charms to be ogled, he would not have let me out of the house dressed like a hooker.
“Turn towards, and smile at him.”
Cringing inside I did so. His smile became a lecherous leer.
“Open your thighs,” I had kept them tightly closed, “and cross them, slowly.”
His eyes almost popped out of their sockets as I gave him my best Sharon Stone imitation. His cigarette dropped, unnoticed on the floor. He hesitated; doubting whether to approach us or not. George lit a small cigar.
I felt cold sweat dripping down my back. I’d never had sex with anyone but George. I dated him when he was an engineering major in College Station and I was a high school senior; he agreed to be my date for the prom; I still remember Susie Labelle, green with envy, seething at the sight of the hunk of a college student I brought to the party. I had sex with him that night; it was my first time and I’ve never been with anyone else since. We eloped six months later.
And now here I was, flashing my bush and pussy to a stranger in a smoky bar. It got worse.
“Go over to his table and offer to give him a blow job,” he exhaled the cigar smoke through his nose, “be persuasive.”
My legs shook as I got off the bar stool, I swayed on the high heels, perhaps giving the impression that I’d had too much to drink. I did give George blowjobs when we were dating; it was safer than having sex because I could not get knocked up that way but I hated the whole concept; after we got married I rarely did. In fact, it had probably been more than two years since I last went down on him. Now he ordered me to do that with a complete, and probably unwashed, stranger.
With as much dignity as I could, I still cared about such things back then; I walked over to his side and sat beside him.
How do I start? I wondered. He helped out by speaking first.
“Who’s the dude with you?” he asked; his voice sounded gritty.
“My husband.”
“Hmmm,” he said.
I gathered up my nerve, “May I give you a blow job?”
There, I said it. I kept my eyes fixed on the table, trying to keep them from brimming over. He did not answer; I looked up at his face. He was looking at George, his hand rubbing the stubble of beard on his chin. George got up off his stool and approached us. I saw the muscles on his arms tense on the table.
George smiled approaching us. The man’s muscles relaxed.
“It’s OK; I told her to.”
“I see,” he gestured to the other side of the table, inviting George to sit.
“Let’s go,” he said to me, getting up.
I followed him to the men’s room. A man standing at one of the urinals looked our way before resuming what he was doing. It seems that a woman entering the men’s washroom in this bar was not such an unheard of sight. The stall was occupied. He leaned against the wall at the end of the grimy room.
“Kneel and get on with it.”
The wet floor was cold on my knees; I could only hope that it was water, but doubted it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the man at the urinal turn around to watch us. I unzipped his fly and worked his cock out of his shorts. He was already hard, the shiny head throbbing with hot blood coursing through it. The smell of sweat and musk invaded my nostrils. I opened my mouth and took him inside me. Tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping down to join the muck on the floor. If only he would come soon.
But he did not. I bobbed on his cock up and down, trying, as hard as I could, not to feel, not to see, or smell the foul surroundings. He let me do for a while. I closed my eyes. I heard the door open and hoped that the man at the urinal left.
“She sucks at this,” I recognized the gritty voice of the man I was servicing.
“I’m sorry about that,” said my husband.
I opened my eyes. He was standing at the urinal, his back to us. He was taking a leak.
“Go ahead and fuck her face,” he said, “otherwise you’ll be here until Christmas.”
He grabbed my hair and began to pump into my mouth. His cock penetrated deeper into me than George ever had, and I was powerless to stop him. In a reflex action, that I soon regretted, I bit down on him.
Stars exploded in my head. He slapped me.
“Don’t do that again bitch!”
I looked at him and at my husband, who had finished peeing and was looking at us. He made no attempt to defend me.
“Now get your mouth on it and don’t let me feel a tooth.”
He resumed fucking my face. Every time his cock hit the back of my throat I retched. He did not seem to care when I brought up my ginger ale all over his rod. Finally, he shoved himself into me deeper, my throat muscles, retching, opened up and I felt his cock slide down my throat. My body tried to vomit, to eject the intruder but he held on to my head, his cock and pelvis vibrating. My nose was crushed against his pubic hair, where the smell of my own vomit mixed with his musk and sweat bringing new waves of nausea up my throat.
When he pulled out, I vomited his semen along with my ginger ale.
I remained on my knees, curled into a ball, crying. It got worse.
“Come to our place on Saturday at five,” my husband said. “She’ll make this up to you.”
I cried louder.
“Bring a couple of friends too.”


Monday, October 18, 2010

The Descent

Here for your consideration is the protagonist of "The Descent" in all her nude glory.
Pretty isn't she?

While waiting

While I'm waiting for A1 to decide on "The Force of Circumstance" I've been updating "Suburban Roasters" at the Dol. site.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

The Force of Circumstance

Well, the new publisher rejected "The Force of Circumstance" I sent it off to A1 and let's see what happens.

Friday, October 15, 2010

BDSM Library restoring process

Waiting for BDSMlibrary.com to be fully restored to post the final Birthday chapter.
Meanwhile, work on "Spider" is coming along well and I anticipate a release before Christmas.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Una de mis novelas Blue esta disponible en espanol: AZUL

AZUL
Prologo
Las manos de Paul acarician mis senos. Mis pezones, ya erectos, esperan su tacto. Estoy arrodillada en la cama, mientras él me abraza desde atrás. Sus manos se mueven, expertas, sobre mi cuerpo, y yo respondo, como él sabe que hare. Siento el calor de su cuerpo y me inclino hacia él. El toca mi cuerpo como si fuera un instrumento de música. Siento sus labios en mi cuello, su aliento en mis oídos. Esta caliente; caliente y peligroso.
Su erección, parada, a lo largo de la raja de mis nalgas, pero no busca entrar; todavía no. Abro mis ojos y veo la pared desnuda, blanca y sin adornos. Su gusto en la decoración es minimalista, casi Zen. Descanso mi cabeza en sus hombros. Me abraza más fuerte, me dejo caer sobre él. Mi respiración es más rápida, mientras my excitación, mi necesidad me abruma. Y todavía no me ha tocado el coño.
Giro la cabeza, deseo besarlo y él lo permite. Toco su cara con mi mejilla, la corta sombra de su barba rasca mi piel sensible. Deseo, a veces, que se afeitara antes de acostarse, en vez de por la mañana. Trato de girar, para verlo de frente, pero no lo permite. Aun no; no hasta que esté listo.
Continua acariciando mis tetas, my vientre, firme y suave, pero no me toca allí, por mucho que lo deseo, que lo necesito. Noto mi humedad filtrándose; puedo oler mi ardor, almizcle, húmedo, profundo. ¿Puede el? Tiene que notarlo, pero no dice nada. Una de sus manos vaga a mi pezón, apretándolo, pellizcando el tejido suave de la areola. Aprieto mis piernas, duro; necesito su mano ahí, necesito algo ahí.
Suavemente me empuja hacia delante, en cuatro patas. Abro mis piernas y empujo mi culo hacia él. Mi espalda, cubierta por mi sudor, mezclado con el suyo, nota el frio en el aire acondicionado de la habitación. Espero su placer, my culo temblando. ¿Tomara mi coño, como necesito tan violentamente, o tomara mi culo, como hace tan a menudo? No necesita preguntar. El sabe que puede tomar lo que quiera. Soy tan totalmente suya. Su pene me toca los labios; prácticamente aguanto la respiración ansiosa. Me penetra. Exhalo cuando entra en mí; el largo de su pene, probando, empujando con violencia, mientras mis tripas aprietan y siento el primer espasmo de mi orgasmo. Me corro, fuertemente, y él lo siente. Los músculos de mi pelvis lo estrujan, no dejándolo salir. Parece durar un largo tiempo, pero deben haber sido solo unos segundos.
Todavía esta rígido; no se ha corrido. Todavía está dentro de mí, y se inclina hacia atrás, arrastrándome con él. Yace en la cama, sobre su espalda, yo sentada sobre él, su polla profundamente clavada dentro de mi; mis piernas abiertas mientras yo estoy sentada, de rodillas sobre su pelvis. Me mezo, hacia atrás y adelante, notándole dentro de mí. Estoy volando al borde del siguiente orgasmo, casi lista para él. “Hummm” es todo lo que digo, perdida en el éctasis de mis sensaciones. El mundo, centrado, reducido al pequeño volumen de una pelvis con un pene dentro.
Sus manos están sobre mis caderas, pero no se mueve. Está satisfecho con notar mi balanceo en su polla. Acaricia mis nalgas y las separa. Le gusta ver mi culo, le gusta verme desnuda, y la luz que entra en la habitación es suficiente para darle una buena imagen. Noto su polla, aun más dura dentro de mí, empujando el cuello del útero. Eso es lo que necesitaba y me voy en un segundo orgasmo explosivo. Me muevo, arriba y abajo, adelante y atrás, descontrolada, llevada solo por mi necesidad. Grito suavemente, casi un gemido. Oigo el húmedo sonido de su polla, chapoteando en mi mojado agujero. Me vuelve y ahora, panza arriba, puedo ver su cara, sus ojos, profundos y penetrantes, y la línea de su mandíbula, fuerte, imperiosa. Me penetra de frente esta vez. Lo envuelvo con mis piernas. Ahora se mueve, lenta, pensativamente.
Me empiezo a preocupar. Cuando hace algo así, cuando me da una serie de orgasmos de esta forma, como un regalo, es siempre un preludio. Un preludio al siguiente paso en nuestra relación. Un paso que yo no voy a querer dar, un paso que no me va a gustar, un paso que dolerá. Pero su polla casi esta fuera de mi, casi, pero no del todo, y regresa, profunda, y con ella, una ola, una ola de sangre, de jugo, una tsunami de necesidad. Mi coño lo agarra, aunque yo no lo quiera, aunque tema lo que pasara después. Mi cuerpo, como siempre, me traiciona. Empujo contra él, para traerle más adentro de mi cueva. Desearía tenerlo a él entero, dentro de mí, en este momento. Me corro una vez más, y finalmente, también él.
No deja de moverse, dentro de mí, su miembro semi duro. Veo abrirse su boca. Aquí viene:
“El viernes por la tarde, a las siete, iras a visitar unos amigos míos. Hare que la limusina te recoga.”
Hoy es miércoles. “¿Tu no vienes?” le pregunto.
“Me marcho de viaje mañana,” me responde, “tú te irás con ellos.
Sé que no debo discutir. Soy libre, libre como una pluma, libre para marcharme en cualquier momento. He follado con otros hombres, cuando Paul me lo ha mandado, cuando quiso verme, retorciéndome bajo los empujones de otro, o complaciendo a otro hombre, su polla clavada profundamente en mi garganta, pero el siempre estaba allí para verlo, para complacerse con la imagen de su chica tomada, humillada por otro, u otros. Sera distinto esta vez.
“¿Cuánto tiempo estaré allí?” pregunto, aunque sé que es fútil.
“No te importa,” contesta, “saldrás de la casa a las seis treinta, precisamente, y entraras en la limusina que te estará esperando.” Noto su polla endureciéndose otra vez dentro de mí.
“Llevaras tu gabardina blanca y las sandalias de tirilla, de tacón. Nada más, excepto tu maquillaje. ¿Esta claro?”
“Si Paul.”
“Y no digas una palabra, salvo que te lo pidan, que probablemente no harán.”
“Si Paul.”
“Puedes gritar, si lo necesitas… Definitivamente lo harás.”
Esta completamente rígido y follándome otra vez. No puedo contener las lágrimas. No quiero que las vea, pero me está mirando, con los ojos bien abiertos mientras me folla. Esta vez busca su propio placer. Yo ya tuve el mío, ahora quiere el suyo. Estoy al borde del llanto.
“Paul, antes de que te vayas, ¿Puedes darme por el culo una vez más?,” le pido.
Se detiene y la saca. “Como desees,” me dice.
Me pongo a cuatro patas. Esta es su posición favorita para joderme por el culo. No me gusta que me sodomice el culo, siempre me duele mucho. No me gusta, ni así, ni de frente, pero me duele más de esta forma. Me inclino hacia delante, para descansar mi cara en la almohada, pero me detiene.
“Puedes usar lubricante,” me dice.
Tengo que abrir el cajón en mi mesilla de noche y coger la gelatina. Se la ofrezco pero no la toma.
“Póntela tu misma,” me dice.
Mi humillación es, naturalmente, más completa de esta forma. A menudo me lubrica el mismo, pero no cuando quiere castigarme, o hacerme daño. En ese caso tengo que prepararme yo misma. Y eso es lo que hago. A cuatro patas, unto la jalea alrededor de mi ano, e incluso adentro, con mi dedo. Siento el esfínter, tenso, y apretándose más. Cuando me he untado bien, empujo la punta del tubo dentro de mi culo y lo aprieto. Noto la jalea fría dentro de mí. Dejo el tubo en la mesilla y resumo mi posición, a cuatro patas. Me inclino hacia delante, reposo mi cara en la almohada y, con las manos sujeto mis nalgas. Separo los dos globos dándole fácil acceso a mí, ya lubricado, agujero.
“Tu chica esta lista para ti.”
El viene; siento la punta de su polla, empujando mi culo. Noto la resistencia y trato de forzar a mi culo a soltarse, como puedo hacer a menudo, pero no hoy. Hoy quiere resistírsele. Quiere que duela. Y me doy cuenta de que yo, también, necesito que duela. El empuja más y más fuerte. Mis lagrimas, ocultas a él, ahora pueden venir libremente y mojar el almohadón. No digo nada mientras gruñe y empuja más fuerte. Mantengo las nalgas bien abiertas y empujo contra él. Un empujón más y la cabeza entró. Gimoteo por el dolor, siento, otra vez, como si me desgarrase. El entra ahora en su reino, su polla más y más profundamente clavada en mis tripas. El dolor es más profundo ahora; no solo mi esfínter dilatado, sino un dolor profundo. El empuja más adentro y yo lo siento, profundamente, hiriéndome en las tripas. Noto su pubis golpeando el hueso de mi cola, esta todo adentro ahora. Sujeta mi cintura y empieza a moverse y yo con él, uniéndome a su ritmo.
Se corre; se derrama en mi recto con un gruñido de placer. Da algunos empujones más, para asegurarse de que se vació por completo en mí, y se retira. Sin esperar órdenes me volteo y lo tomo en mi boca. Lo limpio con mi boca y lengua. Hoy esto es solo simbólico, ya que me puse un enema antes de acostarme. A menudo lo hago dado que gusta de joderme por el culo, pero el simbolismo permanece. Me aseguro que su pene este limpio antes de soltarlo. Me besa con ternura y caemos en la cama, sus brazos a mi alrededor, su pecho contra mi espalda.
Pronto, está dormido. Noto su respiración profunda y pareja contra mí. Permanezco despierta. ¿Qué pasara el viernes? ¿Cuánto tiempo estaré allí? ¿Cómo me metí en esto?
Ni una sola vez pienso en rehusarle. No, no le rehusare, no puedo; no puedo rehusarle nada

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

The Twelve labors of Andromeda, an excerpt


One of the chapters of the story I loved the most. The story has heavy S&M yet, in this chapter, there is no S&M, just submission and humiliation. Andromeda on top, and her Godess Irene.
See if you like it.
Comments are always welcome.

Ch 13
Shopping


Fortunately for me, the room service breakfast arrived as Irene showered; had it arrived earlier or later and I might have had to open the door, or sign for it, in the nude. As it was, I wrapped my body in one of the bed sheets thus preserving a modicum of dignity. I was happy that here was not much time for play or humiliation since we had a lot of shopping to do.
I needn’t have worried; there would be debasement aplenty that day. For a start, I was allowed to wear only my underwear, bra, thong, garter and hose. Over it, my raincoat only and, of course, my high heels. Walking out of the hotel no one suspected that, under the rather conservative raincoat, I was almost nude. The silver choker on my neck, and the matching thin, elegant chain, that hanged from it was another matter. Back in the nineties Linda Evangelista caused some controversy when she posed wearing a choker and chain, much like the one I wore today; of course her chain was attached to a silver cuff on her own wrist, not to a loop of leather carried by Irene.
I heeled her out of the hotel, and we walked across Place Vendome to the Chanel Boutique. She had arranged for a private showing. The people at Chanel were so sophisticated that seemed not to think there was anything unusual for one of their customers to show up with a leashed girl in trail, and only blinked, politely when I dropped my raincoat at the front.
I watched the showing kneeling by my Goddess’ side and, after the first, self-conscious moments, I actually got into it. It was only awkward at the beginning, whenever we walked into one of the exclusive boutiques and I took my coat off. Afterwards, kneeling by Irene’s side, watching the models show the fancy outfits, I got to enjoy the experience. After all, what woman does not like to go shopping?
Pierre would rather parachute into a war torn Middle Eastern country in his boxer shorts than go shopping for clothes; if it were shoes, he would even omit the shorts. He bought his shoes over the internet and managed to only buy clothes once a year. He scheduled his shopping outings with as much enthusiasm as a dental appointment. So I bought much of his wardrobe.
Not that I would spend the small fortune Irene’s spree was costing; I could get any clothes I wanted on Pierre’s credit card but I never did. I bought my own; the allowance from my fund was generous enough, within reason. I did use his card for lingerie; after all, all that sexy, lacy stuff, I was buying for him, mostly.
Fortunately for me, since I had to carry the bags, Irene had most of her stuff delivered to her suite at the Ritz. We had lunch at the Petit Vendome where we lingered over café and gateau. I kept my raincoat on.
I brushed the last crumbs of my cake off my lips.
Irene looked at me, an ironic smile on her face, “You were so good last night I think you deserve a little reward.”
She looked at her watch, “You have an appointment, cherie.”
The guy from last night’s room service arrived shortly after we got to the suite. He wasn’t bad looking, average size, with medium length brown hair and a little brown love patch on his chin. I did notice a ring on his finger.
I removed my bra and panties leaving the hose and garter on. His cock sprung to attention inside his chinos. Kneeling in front of him I opened his pants and let them drop around his ankles. His erect dick peeked out of the waistband of his slip.
Something about seeing the tip of his uncircumcised penis, struggling to come out of his underwear like a giant worm caused the all too familiar weight to settle in my pelvis. After all, I had not come yesterday, and today’s shopping excursion, for all the embarrassment and humiliation it entailed, or perhaps because of it, had me simmering all day.
I ripped off his pants and, with my hand pulled his foreskin back. His red, angry glans glared at me, as if daring me to take him. I engulfed his head with my lips, bobbing down on it, cupping his heavy balls with my hand. He grew even larger, inside my mouth. I took him as deep as I dared; the tips of his curly hair tickling my nose; he smelled like soap, just soap.
Soon I realized that, unless I stopped, he would come in my mouth right then and there. I did not know about his recovery powers, he being married and, presumably, getting serviced routinely, and I wanted more than just a taste of his sperm in my mouth. I released his cock and led him to the bed.
Irene followed us to the bedroom and sat on the chair watching us. I had forgotten she was there.
I lay down on the bed, my thighs and arms open, inviting. He did not have to be asked twice. He rammed his cock into me with a passion bordering on fury and began thrusting immediately. What he lacked in style or refinement he made up for in strength and power. I felt the pounding of his cock on my cervix with such force that, had I not been as worked up as I was, it would have been painful. As it was, that was just what I needed to come over the edge. As his thrusting became more urgent, more insistent, I felt the first wave of a long delayed, massive, orgasm engulf me.
Je jouis,” I said.