A warning: the stories within often contain graphic depictions of sex and BDSM.

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I’m not sure it makes sense, but I like it.

Without further ado I give you:

The Faux Hunt

Winifred stood proudly in the gray light of dawn. A hair over five feet tall, seven stone, and barely nineteen years old, she was stark naked save a pair of Jack’s childhood hunting boots and a bright red fox hat, its tail flapping in the wind. She blushed down to her navel and her green eyes burned with fear and excitement.

Jack and the others watched her stand there, her cream skin with nary a blemish nor a freckle was sheened with morning dew. Her smallish breasts were high and pert, the curve of her bottom seemed to jut out at a lurid angle. Her chest heaved and her heart raced from the shame of being naked, the joy of being the savior of the foxes and, if Jack guessed correctly, the wicked thrill of being wildly bad.

She turned, the contrast of the black of the boots against her white skin making her seem even more naked and the bright splash of carrot orange between her legs directing ever eye down to the virgin shadow every man in the hunting party almost painfully longed for.

Norman Gordon-Stanton, tallish, lean, bespectacled and wearing a dark gray hunting suit and deerstalker, took off his gloves to shake Jack’s hand properly.

“An outstanding diversion,” he said clasping Jack’s hand and shoulder.

The other seven men murmured “hear hear!”

Lord Strachey, by far the cruelest among the hunters, took a rifle from his valet and aimed it high into the air and away from the group and the girl. Even though they all knew the sound was coming, every man jumped a bit as the thunderous crack of the shot echoed through the woods.

Winifred jumped at the sound and startled, turned in a flash and ran. The poor thing managed only a few feet before she stumbled and tripped forward, her white knees painted green and red with grass and blood. She waited there for a moment on all fours, like the very game she was proxy for, and unknowingly gave the hunters a view of the pink split peach between her thin legs.

Jack’s hands tightened into fists in his leather gloves and he suddenly felt very good about his marital choice.

After a moment the girl finally got up and without looking back she sprinted into the woods.

Strachey fetched something small and white from his saddle bag. Jack saw it was a pair of his child-bride’s knickers. The cruel man rubbed said garments into the noses of the dogs, which waited as patiently as hounds could.

“They’re good boys, they won’t hurt her,” he promised with a steely glare.

The clubmen held the hounds back as they mounted their horses. They gave the girl a fighting chance, then, after a good fifteen minutes, the horn was blown and they were off.

*

Winifred was, above all other things, immensely caring. Beautiful, delicate, well spoken, book learned? Yes, she was indeed all of those as well, but the young ginger waif was above all else caring. Which was interesting because empathy was something her fiancé had no use for.

Second to caring, introversion was Winifred’s most noticeable trait. This too was at odds with her husband-to-be’s disposition, which was gregarious to say the least. John Sackville, son of the third Earl of Amherst and more colloquially known as “Randy Jack” to the population of greater Londontown, was indeed the life of the party and a fixture of London society.

Why then was this union to be? Well, young Winifred’s father, Geoffrey Egerton-Cavendish, Earl of Wessex, had been assured that young John Sackville was of stock so noble his blood was bluer than the Danube by various members of the club. John himself had seen the girl at church services one summer day and thought she was particularly comely and irreproachably devout. He felt a driving need to ruin her all at once.

“The Club,” of course was The Club de Lancey; a gentleman’s establishment built for the reading of newspapers and the smoking of cigars, the playing of billiards and the drinking of a great quantity of the highland’s finest whiskys. Norman Gordon-Stanton, who was indeed one of the wealthiest men in London, owned and operated said club and some of the most powerful men in Great Britain were members. It was well known that most of the clientele were womanizers, hedonists, and cads who used the club as a base of operations, an alibi, and a hub for gossip and reconnaissance.

There was the most powerful of all, Horatio “Dewy” Dewhurst, the Duke of Wimbledon; a man of hungers both rich and varied and including but not limited to wine, young women, young men, and games of chance alike. Julian Wentworth, Esq, Lord Dewhurst’s personal barrister and a well known shylock. Lord Philip Dunne, son of the Duke of Strachey, who it was said had an entire secret family in India, commonly known as Lord Strachey or Lord Stretch by old school chums. Dudley Price, a well connected land baron with holdings in five continents lovers in six. Sir Aaron “Old Fish” Fisher, heir the Earlship of Wellsbury, who it was said had visited every brothel in England, Scotland and Wales, and rounding out this motley crew was the aforementioned Randy Jack, who in his prime had a proclivity for seeing how many debutantes he could deflower in a night and later when that sport bored him how many he could involve in an imbroglio at once.

Popular accounts mark the finally tally of the latter north of seven, but no more than a baker’s dozen.

Still Jack, being a crude businessman and an almost preternaturally Machiavellian social politician, understood the merit and even necessity for an attractive and respectable wife. Thus he engaged with one Geoffrey Egerton-Cavendish, Earl of Wessex, about becoming engaged to his daughter.

Having procured said hand and a promise of lush dowry, Jack being Jack, still could not truly be happy with the deal unless he tested the girl’s mettle. Thus he concocted a rather intricate holiday for himself and invited his child bride-to-be to come to his familial (and come the impending death of his father, personal) estate.

While not a wholly unusual request during an engagement, Jack made the outing a bit more precarious than usual by arranging that most of his family would be absent, as they were called to another holiday on the Isle of Man and so it was only the man himself, his cadre of rakes, her maids and his dying father as chaperone.

Now, the tale that follows was not completely envisioned by said lord. That is giving him too much credit. Jack did though set in motion a variety of situations suited to facilitate reactions in Winifred. Catalysts were the forte of a student of human seduction and investigation, of both Jack was in prize pupil.

Thus we come to exhibit one: a box of vulpes vulpes; the common red fox.

As she was delivered to Jack’s estate, one Winifred Egerton-Cavendish was deposited next to said box for a not too short time whilst the driver of Lord Jack’s buggy was fixing its thrown wheel.

Note the initial perking of the girl’s ears. Then the catching of breath, then the comments to her maid about the cuteness of said animals, then rising of these comments in octaves as said cuteness overwhelms the girl. It was all, almost eerily, premonised by Jack.

Ten points, mister Sackville, but to what end?

Lord Jack himself rode down to the hobbled buggy and looking like the very model of masculinity in his riding outfit and crop, he noted said girl’s immediate reaction the the cunning little mammals and bid that they in their crate rode in the now fixed buggy so that his betrothed could ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at their eccentric barks and playful nipping at each other’s ears and so on.

Jack learned (or relearned since careful reconnoitering had told him this already) that the young girls empathy was most potent in the vicinity of small furry animals. The cuter the better. This fact may have been dangling in Jack’s mind when he sent his valet to procure the fluffiest and most foxy of foxes in all the pens of merry old.

“Jack, are they not the most precious little things you’ve ever seen?” she asked with girlish glee that send his dark heart racing.

“Oh, indeed, fair Winifred, they’re delightfulness is matched only by yours,” he said in his warm melodic baritone.

“Do they have names? Could-could I name them?” she asked with wide eyed happiness.

“Name them? Oh, if it’s your wish, my dear, but it would be a shame to get so attached to the little things when they are heading out to the hunt tomorrow,” he said, his own eyes mournful.

“H-hunt? Oh dear, you don’t mean-?” she seemed within seconds of the revelation in tears.

“A good number of my friends are in the country, up from London. I don’t often partake, but Lord Dewhurst is quite partial to heading out with the hounds and hunting fox and–well– he is the Duke of Wimbledon!”

All of this was of course a lie. Jack was very fond of hunting and had been blooded a dozen times before his seventeenth birthday. At twenty-five he had hunted both lions in the Serengeti and bison in the Americas.

“Jack they’re so beautiful. Look how they tumble about with each other!” she said, again happy and transported by looking at their little follies.

“Indeed my pet, but the blokes want what the blokes want. I can try to dissuade them, but the duke–by gum, he’s foxed with the king himself!”

Her red eyebrows set with worry and the hope that she could figure out how to convince her fiancé to change the fate of her new favorite animals.

When all arrived at the great country home of Lord Sackville a feat was set out the likes of which Winifred had never seen, and she was from quite rich stock herself, the daughter of an earl!

Still her father had a Spartan taste and Jack had been schooled for a time in France and come to love the Rococo pageantries of that land.

Let’s skip ahead, shall we? A lunch was served. The girl was charmed by the line of eloquent and worldly friend of Jack. The men retired to billiards and Jack walked young Winifred around the palatial estate and delicately wooed as he gleaned the secrets of her psyche.

What he found was a brilliant, if innocent, girl who would make a find wife. She had the breeding to bear him strange handsome children, she had the social graces to behave impeccably even if sat down next to a princess, matched with no real desire to attend court unnecessarily and hobbies enough to keep her out of her hair. A perfect mate for a man who would spend most of his time away from her in London getting blind drunk and having orgies anyhow.

As well, she was cream skinned and buxom almost to an inappropriate degree. Full lips, pleasant hips, and a body that Jack took a very educated guess would fuck like rabbit in heat.

With his decision made he turned to her and gauged her desire.

“I know so much of these things are left to handshakes and paternal negotiations, but sweet Winifred knowing you in these few hours my heart has soared in a way I’ve never experienced. I need to know if you wish these union with your heart as well, more than simply engaging with me because of your familial duties,” Jack said serious, nearly reaching out and touching her arm as he did, but stopping, for effect, before he broke the rules of betrothal.

Her eye welled for the third time that afternoon (once with the foxes and one when she tripped on a large rock outside the garden,) as she nodded her head meaningfully.

“I believe I do feel the same, John. I believe with all my heart that I do,” she said and she took his hand and smiled prettily up at him.

It was in that moment, when she looked at him like a little angel, he knew he had to ruin her a bit before walking her down the aisle. He couldn’t abide a white dress without a little irony.

“I’m so glad, but I must admit something to you, my love,” Jack said with a deep breath.

“My friends are dear to me, I’ve known most of them since I was a small boy, but they can be a rascally bunch. Good natured, indeed, and not a cruel bone in any of their bodies, but still, they are a playful lot, but sometimes they can be–well–a bit bawdy,” he said with an apologetic shrug.

She smiled, showing once more her unwavering empathy.

“Oh John, I have two brothers. I know the rambunctions of men. I’ll let the billiards room banter miss my ears,” she said with a laugh.

“But please, John, please, can you speak to them about their fox hunt,” she begged.

“I can say for certain that I would do anything to save these animals. You know how men are and my appeal to their mercy will probably gain only ribbing and jocularity, not salvation for the crimson critters you so honorably have take up cause for,” Jack said, his tongue deftly weaving his spider web.

“Perhaps I could speak to them?” she asked meekly, obviously her shyness warring with her compassion.

“You are a brave and admirably soul and I’m lucky to have future with you at my side. Indeed you will be the good angel on my shoulder,” Jack said with nothing but love in his eyes.

Though his eyes were, unbeknownst to Winifred, angled directly into her cleavage.

After supper the men laughed and brandied in the study and Winifred nervously tried to work up the courage to begin her defense of the foxes.

“Lord Dewhurst, it’s lovely to see you again by the way. I’m not sure you remember but my father had you over a few Summers ago when you were entertaining that dignitary for, where was it?” she asked, smiling demurely.

Dewy, as they all called him, took her fine hand in his and patted it.

“Yes, yes, how could I forget! But then you were a tiny thing, no higher than my waist! Indeed, indeed that was the Pasha of Tripoli. A strange man from a strange land,” Dewy said, his large belly jiggling as he laughed.

“He seemed so, but you hosted him admirably,” she said, making Jack chuckle as he eavesdropped.

The Pasha, Jack remembered, brought a small harem of dark skinned whores who had showed the whole club a weekend still whispered about in back alleys across Europe.

“Lord Dewhurst, I had a chance to take a look at the foxes John procured for your hunt,” she said, trying to sound casual but seemed obvious to the room full of duplicitous businessmen and lords.

“Oh? I never see the things. Bad luck! I’ll get a good look when I bag them!” he said with a loud laugh followed by a long coughing fit.

Dewy was nearly 60 and not exactly the picture of health. Jack shook his head as watched Lord Dewhurst’s yellow eyes groping at Winifred’s neckline.

“But Lord Dewhurst you should see them! They are the most darling things. It seems a shame to hurt such sweet little things. They have such character!” she pleaded.

Old Dewy took her hand and patted it.

“I know, I know, but it is our tradition! We’ve come from business and homes in different countries and put off meetings and other responsibilities to join our friends here and take up a sport that has a long and distinguished history, young lady,” Dewy explained to my young bride-to-be, who looked frustrated with the facts presented to her.

“But Lord Dewhurst there are any number of sports intelligent men such as yourselves can engage in, why participate in a bloody and violent tradition?” she pleaded.

Jack patted her on the shoulder and comforted her.

“Dear sweet Winifred. I’m sorry you have to be here on the weekend of our hunt. I assure you we will be kind. If we catch the little rascals it will be a quick end, I promise,” Jack said looking down her frilly frock and wondering what tricks he could teach such a bright girl.

The various older men played their parts and grumbled and were generally flabbergasted at the idea that a young woman would halt their sport and question their

*

The idea was, Jack admitted to himself, ridiculous. Still, in general, life was ridiculous and if one did not attempt to orchestrate the surreal, one would never manufacture the divine. And manufactured divinity was essential because waiting around for miracles was boring.

Thus, at breakfast and before the hunt, Jack bid young Winifred to meet him in his private library and with a deep sigh produced a complex and mostly false confession.

“My sweet, I must say, thinking of your feeling for the poor foxes and that today’s hunt might cause you a moment of unhappiness kept me up all night,” he said, indeed red eyed.

In actuality it was not the thought of Winifred’s despair that kept him up, but new maid that had been hired. Like Winifred she was red haired and buxom and indeed Jack had turned the girl on her belly and fucked her wildly imagining she was his bride-to-be and taking her several times until the sun rose and it’s sleepy yellow beams shone on the reddened buttock of said maid.

“Oh, John, I knew you’d understand,” Winifred said feeling that her fiancé was truly the caring man for her to give her heart to as well as her body, which she’d secretly been more than a little excited about.

“The trouble is the lads are set on some kind of sport. It was in the small hours that I thought it could be a hoot if we convinced them that instead of a ‘real’ fox hunt we could make a game of it and have some sort of, as the French would say ‘faux’ hunt,” he said with a laugh.

Her green eyes flashed.

“Oh, John, we could make a game of it! It could be fun! I mean, I’ve seen my father at the hunt and it’s all the dress up and pageantry that they are really looking for. Out with the hounds and so on. For what it’s worth they could be chasing…” she trailed off trying to think of something properly silly.

“You,” Jack added with a smooth chuckle.

“Yes!” she laughed brightly, “they could be chasing me for all they cared.”

From there the tale grows almost comical. Jack pacing in the garden half the day planning with the girl, expounding to her the love these worldly men had for their fox hunt and what eccentric heights they would have to go to replace their time honored tradition.

By the witching hour Jack realized he genuinely liked the lass. This had no real bearing on his desire to ruin her, in fact just the opposite. He would make her worthy of being the queen’s bridge partner in the light and at the same time have her a rutting little whore in his bed come dusk.

The girl, blushing, had fought as well as she could. Jack had given her wild instructions, but after hours of talking to him these unthinkable things came to seem more than reasonable. They were obvious and made perfect sense.

Thus the next morning at dawn, the girl became the prey and saved those tiny foxes.

*

In a clearing, after running full speed for a good ten minutes, Winifred started to wonder what the hell she was doing.

She stood in the dark green woods, the leaves and grass soaked with dew, and panted wildly. She looked down at her body, her alabaster skin now dusted with tiny cuts and a few early signs of bruises. She’d always marked easily.

Dew had indeed covered her naked body and now her skin was covered in goose pimples and her large rather puffy nipples were as hard and tight as she had ever seen them.

As the true absurdity of what she was doing started to dawn she heard a horn and the barking of dogs. There was no time for thought as she once more ran as fast as she could.

Jack, though certainly more than happy to share with his mates, was particularly interested in catching this more delectable prey. Luckily, this being his familial home, he knew the woods well and imagined the most likely route the girl would take.

The dogs as well had picked up on her scent, which Jack imagined was subtle and sweet and he imagined he too could just barely sense a trace of it in the air.

Sadly the chase did not take long and ended in Jack and two of the hounds coming to a large almost bare oak whose strong branches held the faux fox. Jack laughed to himself as he looked up at the frightened girl, who’d climbed higher than seemed possible, and also marveled at the unencumbered view of her crouching form which showed now the split peach he’s glanced at early.

“My love, I’ve caught you. Can you climb down and I shall give you my coat before the others arrive?” Jack said merrily.

She, with much dexterity but little grace, climbed down, giving her pink and white skin a few more little scratches and cuts.

As she hung from a low branch Jack plucked like a ripe fruit and held her over his lap. He directed his horse back to the house and fetched the horn that would let the others know he was the victor, but paused before blowing it and after a moment returned it to his saddlebag.

As Jack rode he took his riding gloves off and rested his hand on the girl’s round posterior, guiding the horse that had been his since he was a boy with his legs. Abigail moaned and mewed as the bumpy ride pressed her naked body against his and his hand bounced on her, landing with a few little smacks on her bottom.

“John!” she said, as one rather hearty gallop caused his hand to come down on her hard.

He smiled a wide and wicked grin.

“Now, now, I caught you far and square and if I want to give the prize a bit of a rough handling that’s in my right,” he said bring his hand down a few more times on her bottom until it was almost as red as her fox hat.

The first strike enraged her, but the next four or five seemed to somehow hypnotize her. When his hand moved down, between her legs. She bit her lip, but made no move to stop him. His hands were, as always, greedy. Exploring between her thin legs as he rode he could barely contain himself.

As his fingers met wetness not of dew or sweat he held in a groan.

“Oh, John,” she said more dreamily as he steered them into a roundabout and then behind a large grassy knoll.

*

Jack heard the barking of the hounds and the laughter of the other men nearby. He knew they were just beyond the hills to his left and so he slapped the horse and turned on to a small path to his right. This took him into a small ravine which led away from the hunters and soon he was at a familiar clearing he’d often camped at when he was a boy.

The erzats fox had been laid on his spread horse blanket and Jack let his finger follow the outline of her pert pink areola.

“John, you shouldn’t!” she said, her eyes wide and her smile difficult to hide.

“No? I suppose not. My dear, you’ll find you’ll need to learn two things before we marry. First, those close to me call me Jack. Second, I often do what I shouldn’t,” he said, his hand dipping down between her legs and slipping into the tight core he would fall in love with.

*

Dewhurst was the first to notice their return. The clubmen had dismounted and the dogs had been taken to the kennel.

“Well done, old man!” Dewy said with glee. Then gasping as he was struck by the sight before him he nearly fell over whispering, “my word!”

Norman Gordon-Stanton, a gentleman who had seen sights so wild and uncommon he seemed unflappable, smiled brightly, clapped his hands, and shouted, “good show!”

Helping the two of them down each man took turns clasping Jack’s hand.

“Jack, you have indeed made up for the lack of true foxes and came out the victor. You’ve even given yourself a classic blooding!” Dewy said with glee.

The men all clapped as Winifred hid her head under Jack cloak, blushing from head to toe.

Jack, sitting higher and prouder than any had seen him, wore a streak of his child-bride-to-be’s maiden blood across his face, just as a noble hunter would blood himself with a fox’s live blood. That image became the icon of what became one of the most interesting marriages in all of England.

The End

The room was large, low ceilinged, all black and red in some budget approximation of chinoiserie. Black lacquered chairs and overstuffed embroidered couches. Gold dragons on the walls and paper lantern hanging from the ceiling.

The crowd was riding the line between a kink party and sex party. As I walked around and eyed the pretty boy it struck me that we’d all become disconnected from the vanilla world. As I watched friends kiss and play kinky games and fuck out in the open, I thought how normal it all seemed to me and how shocking it might be to someone else.

I fell into a pile of five or six half naked people on a couch, which included the pretty boy. There was something of an excuse in our numbers. The legs and arms and lips all around us made it less threatening. Still my proximity to him felt forbidden. He sat with his arms draped around two women and his legs spread open. The bulge at his crotch made my throat tighten.

He smiled at me as I pressed into a buxom girl with huge lips and thickly made up eyes next to me, the one I’d seen get fucked a few minutes before. I met her gaze for a minute and her face was flush, her eyes flirting. She leaned in and kissed my neck, pulling me forward. My hand landed on his leg for support.

He was kissing a pretty blond with a pixie cut and bright blue eyes who then turned and kissed me, her mouth still wet from his. My eyes locked with his as her whiskey flavored tongue swirled in my mouth.

His hand touched mine and he moved it up and up his leg and I felt like I was hyperventilating into the blonde girl’s kiss. With one final nudge my hand was on his leather covered cock. I felt the outline, the familiar hardness.

I stopped kissing the blonde and she moved closer to me, her eyes on my hand and a low lusty groan escaping her lips.

“You should suck his cock,” she whispered in my ear and I was scared. My face felt hot and my heart was pounding. It was a fear that was ground deep into my being.

He laughed, a sweet boyish laugh.

“You should,” he agreed with a mischievous smile and a squeeze of my hand.

Then the blonde turned and started opening his pants. I was unsure, but I couldn’t turn away. Buttons and a zipper and squirming to pull down the tight black material and then there is was, thicker than I expected. It looked huge, actually.

He laughed again and then groaned as the blonde leaned over and slipped a pink tinged condom that seemed to appear from thin air. Then she slipped the fat cock between her lips, her eyes closing and his head going back.

I was forgotten as she took it into her mouth and her body started the smooth cycle of up and down.

I watched, unsure who I was more jealous of. I bit my lip wondering if I had the courage to ask for my turn. I thought about how it would feel against my lips.

The girl with the kohl rimmed eyes moved in and clawed her nails across my chest.

“You want to suck it, don’t you,” she growled into my ear.

I fell into her kiss and we watched the blonde girl suck the pretty boy off.

I promised myself, next time. Next time.

Opening my eyes some time later I found myself bathed in gray light coming through white linen curtains. Then I watched the naked legs of a woman in a towel walking back and forth in front of me as I laid on my side trying to decide whether I was awake or not. Occasionally those legs were followed by a nervous black cat who batted at the towel.

There were the distant smells of coffee, shampoo, perfume, and all those sweet feminine scents I associated with her.

For a few moments sleep took me again, like an undertow dragging me into the waves.

Seconds or minutes or hours later I awoke with a start and sensed her near. She was far less nervous than the cat.

There was something remarkable about the transformation she made when nude. In the street she put so much thought into her clothes, her glasses, her stompy boots and affectations. Buttons on her messenger bag proclaimed various affiliations; political, musical, sexual, and comic. Her layers spoke volumes, from sarcastic t-shirts to exposed garter belts. Her fishnets, her lipstick, her leather, all calculated to tell particular stories.

Naked she only had her charm and tattoos to explain herself. My eyes hunted for clues even though I knew her well. On one of her thighs that I saw the light purple bloom of a bruise that I didn’t give her. From some reason it made me hard.

I remembered slapping her ass the night before and the way she liked to wrestle with me teasing me until I was hard, then she shook her head “no” with a smile.

“You have to take it,” she whispered, breathy and playful.

I let myself fall into the memory, letting it turn into a little dream, before I awoke once more to her standing over me, naked, with a cup of coffee.

Her breasts were large and heavy and glorious. Her skin was somewhere around the shade of coffee with too much milk. Her nipples were Belgian chocolate. There was no hair between her legs, but there had been the night before. She was gut wrenchingly beautiful.

She was holding my coffee mug and she was holding it just a little too far for me to reach. She took a sip, sighed and put it on the nearby dresser. Her smile was both mischievous and knowing.

“Will you be good for me?” she asked sweetly, though her tone had more than a little demand in it.

“Probably,” I admitted.

She frowned for a moment, considered my answer, then leaned down as if she were going to kiss me and instead took my right hand in hers. She squeezed it once, then pulled it up. I let my arm go slack as she guided my hand to the corner of the mattress. She then leaned over me and I barely registered what she was doing as her breasts pressed softly against my chest.

The handcuffs were still latched on to the bedposts where I’d left them the night before when she’d been tied down and hurt, the way she’s explained she wanted to be. Then she was fucked, the way she begged to be.

When she clicked shut the first cuff on my wrist, I raised an eyebrow. She gave me innocent eyes; I yawned. She lazily walked around the bed and pulled my other hand into the other handcuff. Then she made her way to the foot of the bed and found the rope I’d left there. I looked down, straining my neck a bit as she tried to approximate the knot I’d made around her ankles a few hours before. I wasn’t sure how accurate it was, but I couldn’t pull my legs apart.

With my legs tied together, then bound to the foot of the bed and I laid there, testing all of my bonds, feeling a bit like Jesus reclining, arms stretched.

She pulled the blanket and the sheet off of me and I felt, suddenly, a bit out of my element. She looked down at me with her hands on her hips, naked, smiling, planning.

“Are you ready to earn your coffee?” she said with a challenging glint in her eye.

“It’ll be cold by then,” I answered calmly.

She rolled her eyes and knelt on the bed next to me.

The slap, to be honest, was a little too hard and a little too close to my ear. The world swam and spun for a moment.

Then she leaned down and kissed me hard and hungry. She slipped a hand into my hair and pulled me into her kiss. She sucked at my bottom lip, slipped her tongue deep into my mouth, bit my chin. Then she was suddenly off me and my gasped for air for a moment.

When she came back and put one knee down on my arm the pain was dull and and my body tensed with desire. She knew my secret want. Alright, it wasn’t very secret at all, but it wasn’t something I got very often. It wasn’t something I let myself sucumb to most of the time.

She swung her other leg over me and settled down so that she was straddling my chest, just below my neck. She put her hands in my hair again and looked down at me.

Her skin was cool and smooth from the various fancy soaps and creams I’d seen her apply the many mornings I’d slept over her place. She looked down on me with the look of someone inspecting a pet.

“You’ll be a good boy or I’ll only sit on your face and not your cock afterwards,” she said moving forward a little until her pussy was just inches away from my lips.

“I know you want to lick it, but just think of how nice it will feel when its dripping wet and sinks down on your cock,” she said a bit breathlessly, her own words getting her off.
Then she pushed herself up a little, the pain where her knees were on my arms intensified a bit, but then the pain and everything else was gone and it was just her pussy on my mouth and the taste of her.

There are things I’ve done that pull me in other worlds, but there under her I went to one of the most specific and interesting places I’ve gone. Time stopped and my ever wandering mind focused. All there was in life was her smooth pussy on my mouth and my tongue straining to slip into her. All there was in life was the need to please her, to find her clit and find the angle that would make her squirm and moan.

She took my hair in her hand again and guided me. For a second or two she let her weight press down on my face and cover my mouth completely, then it was all wetness and the building anxiety of suffocation. I squirmed and moaned into her and she held my hair harder, pressing down again and riding my mouth as my lungs burned from lack of air.

When she let me go I gasped for air, but just long enough to get enough oxygen so I could keep licking and sucking at her. Just enough air to keep going.

Looking up I saw her head fall back a bit, her white teeth biting her own full bottom lip. She held my hair with one hand and squeezed her right breast with the other.

I found the little cycle that seemed to make her moans go up an octave. I slipped my tongue around her clit as she pressed down on me, circled it around and around and then pushed my tongue deep inside of her. She sort of road my tongue a few times, then I moved back to her clit. We followed that recipe over and over until she groaned and leaned forward, putting both hands on my head.

“Don’t stop,” she said, then loud enough to echo through the room, “don’t you fucking stop.”

Then I was drowning in her again, her thighs tight on the sides of my head and my mouth and nose covered by her as she came on my face.
It went on and on until my hands were fists and my chest was on fire. An instinctive and biological fear too over me as my body begged for breath. When she finally pulled off of me my whole face was wet from her and my eyes stung for tears from trying to breath.

She slid down my body and kissed my lips and my face and whispered “good boy, good boy,” and I was in a heaven it is hard to explain. I felt used and aroused beyond believe and very much like a good toy for this beautiful woman.

She slid down further until she was straddling my waist. When my cock, which was so hard it hurt, came in contact with her body I jumped; as much as I could while being bound.

“You want me to fuck you now?” she said with a cocky happy grin.

“Yes,” I said, my voice sounding strange to my ears. It was full of desperation.

“Can you ask? Can you say please, or are you going to be a smartass again?”

The words came before I could even think about them.

“Please, please, fuck me, I need it so badly, please,” I begged.

There was no shame, only surprise at my need. She laughed and I felt her need just as strong as mine.

She pushed down and her wetness slipped against me and my cock was pushed right into the waiting heat of her. I felt like I was going to pass out.

There was still a newness in condomless sex. There was something forbidden in the slickness of her and the hypersensitivity of my cock. We’d been tested, we’d had conversations, she was on the pill, we were aware and secure in our risks.

Still two decades of commercials and fear and gossip made that moment of unencumbered penetration feel so taboo I thought I might come instantly.

She laid against me, her breasts on my chest, and pushed herself down on me hard. I felt, for a moment, so deep inside of her I couldn’t believe it. She ground down on me then, both of us gasping and crying out. The she rode me again, up and down, sitting up a bit on me and letting me watch the please wash over her face and her tits swing inches from my mouth.

She was lost in the rhythm and as much as I wanted to control myself I felt the slick heat enveloping me pulling the orgasm from me and soon the little panic came over me.

The fear was there, knowing even in our protection that coming in her was something bad. My mind wrestled with it even though I knew it wasn’t true. I wanted it to be true. I wanted it to be forbidden and wrong. I wanted to come inside of her and I wanted that to be bad.

The thought, along with the memories of her sitting on my face flashed in my head the way your life is supposed to before you die. Then my body took over.

My wrists burned as I pulled against the handcuffs. My muscles clenched as I thrust up again and again to meet her and then I was coming and coming and she knew it and bared down on me.

“Fill me up, come on, give it to me, give me your come, fuck me, do it,” she yelled into my ear, a barrage of dirty words.

It seemed to go on like that forever, but eventually I was gasping for breath and she was laying on top of me. My cock soft, but still inside of her.

She fumbled with something and I felt one hand freed, then the other. Then I held her and she kissed my neck.

“Tell me that was alright,” she whispered, sounding small and a little broken.

“It was perfect. It was more than perfect. You are amazing,” I said holding her tightly.

“Tell me you love me,” she demanded.

“I do, I love you,” I said and covered her face with kisses.

“I’m not bad?” she said, her voice cracking a little, the cruelty so far removed from her face that I could hardly remember it.

“You’re a good girl. I love you. You are mine. You are perfect,” I said, knowing what she needed and needing it too.

She cuddled into my and held me tightly.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly.

“Thank you,” I whispered back.

We ended up going out for coffee.

The world was blue gray at dusk. I went to the beach to dry out, to forget, to find some peace.

I’d been a reporter when the war started. Which war? One of them; they weren’t numbered anymore. Some reaction to some act of horror and we send a thousand boys to a desert somewhere. It wasn’t important anymore.

I was working for the AP, I’d traveled to Kuwait first, then Kutar. During one of the endless rides across the barren plains the world exploded into fire. I saw three kids melt in front of me. Three others were torn apart. I only lost my arm.

A few years later my parents died and left me enough money that I didn’t have to try and act whole enough to fit in with other reporters. I didn’t have to sit on planes and watch as the people next to me tried not to stare at my hook or my plastic hand.

I sold their houses and their cars and their stocks and even my father’s damn horses. I bought a place by the beach. I found solace in the sea. I found comfort in the silence. I found peace under the stars.

She came to me after I spent a whole year staring at the waves every night. Somehow I knew she was out there waiting. Somehow I knew she would come.

After a long late Spring day, after looking at the strange dot going across the sun with the special glasses I got in town, after wondering how much longer I could go on, she came.

Mermaid? Nereid? There were so many names. She didn’t really fit any of them. She was there though, walking out of the sea. Walking right into my arms.

She didn’t speak, at least not with words. I knew her name though. She was Sylphe. She had always been Sylphe and she had always lived in the sea. She saw me looking out at the sea every night. She saw my loneliness and she wanted to help me. She wanted to hold me.

We fell in love as Venus swam between the Earth and the sun. We made love as the waves crashed. She kissed me and I felt whole, if just for a few hours.

She slept in my arms and we were one.

The next day we swam and laughed. She dove down into the deep and brought back oysters for me. She knew which ones had pearls.

When the sun set I held her on the rocks and she cried. I didn’t understand really, but somehow I knew that all things had a price. She belonged to the sea and I knew that the all things return to the sea.

That night we made love one last time. Her body was slick and sinewy, she tasted like the deep ocean, like sea urchin, like wind from the river at night. When I came inside of her, her body sucked at my cock, pulling at me, savoring every drop of me.

Then the sea came to take her back.

In my dreams I saw the shadow of the thing. I saw it crawling out of the Mariana Trench. It screamed under the sea and sharks fled in fear. It screamed that a god would not be made a cuckold of. I saw it slipping through the water at unknowable speeds. It reached out. It grew and elongated. It was angry and jealous and aroused. In my dream I could see it get to the beach and its tentacles rose out of the water and smelled for her. It sensed our heat and read our pheromones. The whole story of our love, our fucking, spelled out in little chains of protein in the air, on the sheets, even in the water.

It was sending me these images, penetrating my dreams, showing me as it crept into my house, into my room.

There were thirteen tentacles. Some as thick as my leg, some as thin as three fingers. They slipped under the covers on the bed and pulled them off her. They were silent. They were hungry. They were angry and possessive and they wanted her back, but first they would show me. They would take her in ways I couldn’t imagine.

I tried to awaken as the thick ebony tendrils slipped around her legs. I could only watch, trapped inside of my dreaming body, as they pulled her legs apart. I could smell her seafoam scent, fresh and filled with memories. I could see the gleaming tip of the tentacle as it dragged itself along her inner thigh and then paused as it regarded the wet crease between her legs, still moist from our coupling, glossy where my seed dripped from her.

I laughed in my dream because it couldn’t take that from me. It would only be second tonight, only using what I had used first. It didn’t like that.

Other tentacles wrapped around her. When her eyes opened and her mouth parted to scream one of the tentacles slipped between her lips and swallowed the sound. Her eyes bulged as the thick tentacle tensed and pushed itself down her throat. Another wrapped around her naked waist, mocking me by wrapping around each of her breasts the way my hands once did. Her pale skin and its bluish tinge turned purple as her breasts were bound and make into taught spheres.

The thicker tentacle between her legs surged forward and she tried to scream but the one in her mouth just pushed down into her body again. I saw another snake its way under the one pushing into her cunt, I remembered how she felt, her slick tightness, as I watched it push further into her as another found its way into her ass.

I awoke to a sound of her pelvis cracking.

I tried to fight them back, but they were as strong as steel. More thick appendages entered my room and bound my hands and legs. I was on top of my love, watching the tears fall down her cheeks. I started to whisper that I loved her, but the thick rubbery skin of a tentacle was suddenly in my mouth. It tasted of moist dirt and salt and then I was filled with the fear of drowning.

It penetrated me from behind. I’d never felt that sort of pressure. There was pain, but it was so enormous it seemed distance. It wrapped around my penis as well, latching on and enveloping it in a little mouth at the end of one larger tentacle.

I saw Sylphe’s eyes roll back, her body shook and contorted with some new feeling. I saw the tentacles ungulate and pulsate as they pumped something into her.

Just before I passed out I felt the tentacle in my mouth, now down my throat, give me some air. It breathed into me and I felt tingling burning heat inside of my body. I felt it shooting something into my ass as well, even surrounding my penis with something. Then the pleasure started. It was no pleasure for my sake, but just some after effect of this unknowable creature’s dark work.

The pleasure started as a low buzz, but soon my cock was painfully hard, the muscles in my ass contracted as my prostate was suckled from the inside. Then the pleasure was so intense my mind short circuited. I saw Sylphe coming again and again under me as the tentacles were now everywhere, pain in my head as they pierced my ears, my nostrils, even covering and sucking at my eyes. All the world was the dark god of the sea.

*

I awoke days later on the beach.

Sylphe was nowhere to be seen. Looking down the surf I saw the debris that was now all that was left of my home.

My body felt raw, every step painful. My mouth and eyes burned, every other part of me felt stretched and swollen.

Looking down at sudden movement I saw that my stump, the lower part of my arm that had been taken in the war, was now a black tentacle. It slithered and coiled as my mind tried to understand how to make it work. I saw that it could split and become three tentacles and in the center of where they split there was a mouth filled with tiny teeth.

I never saw Sylphe again, nor did I ever see the dark god that lives beneath the waves. I was changed though, in more ways than my arm… but that is another story.

Monsieur Desrosiers was, frankly, a curmudgeon. Around fifty, salt and pepper hair, a strong jaw, nearly six feet tall and roguishly handsome I think he was getting fed up with America very quickly.

I could only imagine what he thought of me and my horrible pronunciation.

I wanted to speak French though, I truly did. All the Moliere and Guy de Maupassant, Zola, Proust! I could read them well enough, but my tongue fumbled out loud. I listened to Gainsbourg and tried to will my mouth to find all those nuanced touches. My lips just couldn’t do it.

In class he wouldn’t yell at me or even try to help me much. When called on he would simply shake his head and call on someone else.

“Répétez après moi; Tes yeux, j’en rêve jour et nuit,” he demanded.

I tried oh how I tried, but what came out was too soft, too vague for him. He brushed his hand in the air as if to brush me away.

One day I came to his office after class and holding my books in my lap and looking down I begged him for help. He sat back in his chair and measured me. He said nothing.

I tried again, in my stumbling French.
“Um, s’il vous plaît aidez-moi,” I said, shaking a bit.

“Fermer la porte,” he said and rose from his chair.

When I walked back to his desk he paces a bit, looking me up and down as he rubbed his chin. I stood near his desk and he walked up behind me, forcing me to lean against his desk.

There was something imposing about him. He was brilliant and intense and he made me feel small, stupid, and innocent.

“French is like a woman, a complicated woman. You must coax her, seduce her, but must be forceful, but can not force her, no?” He said looking down at me from behind me.

I looked forward, putting my books on the table.

“You go to her with no confidence. You stumble because you fear. What do you fear?” he says moving in, putting one strong hand on my hip.

“Are you this way in all things?” he whispered into my ear, “it is not good to think too much, to try too hard to force things, in language, in love, in bed, no?”

I swallowed.

“You come here for my help, but the wall you face is your own and I can not help you. I think you know that. I can not make your tongue behave. I can not make your fears go away. Then why do you come here?” he demanded into my ear.

He smelled of smoke and some fading cologne. It was all very real. I pressed back against him.

“Perhaps you come to me like in the movies to beg for a good grade despite your inability?” he said with a laugh.

I let out a sound of sorrow. I little meek whimper. He moved away from me.

“I came because I want to speak French. I want to so badly, but I just can’t-”

He cut her off, “you won’t! We can do anything. You have a mouth, you have a tongue, you stop yourself from this,” he said roughly, averting his eyes from me.

“I just need more time. Over the summer I can maybe sit with a coach-” she started.

“But again you want to pass. You want me to give you a grade so you can go on and try to learn in the summer? I should do this why?” he was angry now and my body awoke with fear.

“I-” I started, but my throat dried.

“You want a better grade than what you deserve,” he said, then walking to me he took my wrists in his hands.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“I…” I felt heat in my face, then in my eyes, then wetness down my cheek.

“I want a grade I don’t deserve,” I said, more because he told me to than it being true.

“And you’ve come here to beg for it,” he continued.

“Yes,” I hissed and I started to sob.

“Pathétique,” he spat in a whisper.

“You want to beg, then do it. I have no time to dawdle,” he said, the word seeming strange with his accent.

He let me go and I felt to my knees.

“P-p-please, Monsieur, can you-um-help me with my grade,” I begged, grovelling at his feet.

He folded your arms.

“Oh, help you with your grade? Why yes, I can help you by telling you now, it is an F. F for fail. In French perhaps E for échouer?” he said chuckling at his own joke.

“Monsieur, please!” I begged.

He smiled down at me, “Oh, doux ma petite fille, do you not see the cinema? Now that you beg you have to offer your sweet mouth. You have to offer me ‘anything I want’ and tell me you will ‘do anything’ for my help,” he said laughing cruelly.

I sobbed, but I knew then that he’s seen the desire in my eyes in class. I wanted to leave, to deny him but the thought of offering myself to him suddenly crept into my veins. The dirtiness of it, of him using my as I cried, was suddenly palpable and soon I was as wet between my legs as on my cheeks.

“I-I will do anything Monsieur,” I said looking up at him.

“Ah, oui précieuse mon oiseau,” he said holding out his hand to help me up.

I stood and he turned me around slowly and put his hand on my back.

“Now you pull up your pretty skirt and pull down your little culotte and maybe I will think about it, no?”

Then I was bending over. His pens and stapler and pack of Gitanes pressing up against my breasts and my face and I reached back and pulled up my pleated skirt. I pulled down my panties.

“Ah, oui,” he said to himself.

Then I felt his rough hands on my thighs. My toes curled in my shoes as I looked down at the dark wood of his desk and spread my fingers out on the desk and waited.

His hand left for a moment and came back wet and then his finger was slipping between my lips. Then he knew how wet I was, how much I wanted to be a dirty girl fucking my French teacher. Then his thick finger slipped inside of me and I gasped.

“Taisez,” he growled and then I felt him move and suddenly his mouth was on my sex.

He licked and groaned as he did. His tounge slipped over my clit and my back arched, then it slipped into me, then up and then just the tip of his tongue slid over my ass and I jumped.

He laughed and stood and slapped my ass once. My legs straightened at that and I raised my ass for him. He let out an approving laugh at that.

“Le chat likes that,” he said spanking me again, harder.

I did. I did I did.

He hit me again and I braced my body. He spanked me again and again and I was on my tippy toed and every strike went right to my clit. He hit me again and again and I covered my mouth.

Then I heard his belt buckle and I froze. I didn’t know if I wanted his belt or his cock more. I didn’t know which was coming.

Then I heard his zipper. His pants falling to the floor. His wet fingers pushed into me; one, two, three made me feel stretched and burning. Then I was empty for a moment, then his cock.

It was thick, it was so hot, my mind started reeling. Then he grabbed my hips and fucked me. He fucked me like someone playing with a rag doll. I was just a tooy for him to get off with. I was just another little slut who came into his office to fuck him for a better grade.
“S’agenouiller sur le sol,” he said roughly, turning me around, pushing me down.

Then his cock was in my mouth, salty and covered in my pussy. I sucked it. I sucked it and stroked it and rubbed it against my cheek and licked it up and down and pulled on it and licked and sucked his balls, wanting all of him. Then he pushed it back in my mouth. He fucked my mouth. He fucked my mouth until I heard him grunting and groaning and I knew in that moment he was mine.

Then that white hot moment, the dirtiest moment, my knees burned on the floor as he shot his come into my mouth. Again and again until I couldn’t breath.

Then I was on the floor.

I laid there on my side and watched as he pulled up his pants as he panted. He bucked his belt. He walked away, around the desk and I heard him sit down.

“You get a C,” he said calmly.

“Anything more and there might be questions,” he explained.

“I have work,” he said, and lit a cigarette.

I stood after a moment. I didn’t look back at him. I carefully slipped into the hall and ran to the restroom.

That summer I went to Paris.

Eventually I leaned back against a wall and wanted him to lean into me and he did. He was slightly unshaven and handsome in his glasses and he was very taken with me and it made me feel a little powerful and a little tipsy and I thought it would be nice to kiss him, but he didn’t work up the courage or maybe he just didn’t want to kiss me.

Anyhow, the coincidence was running into him on the train. It was a month after the party on the roof and he looked at me across the train car and his eyes first scrunched up as he tried to remember where he knew me, I suppose, and then his face lit up with a smile when he remembered.

He was clean shaven and in a suit and it he looked like a very different person, but still handsome and still containing those bright, curious, and sort of imposing eyes.

He made his way to me and I felt like a mess. It had rained on me and I had one of those little moments when I walked to the subway in the rain sort of in love with the city and the feeling of being rained on. Now my hair was a black mess pasted to my cheeks and my bare legs were cold and I very much didn’t want to be seen by the handsome boy from the rooftop.

He said hello and I smiled. It turned out we got off at the same stop. He offered me his umbrella, but I couldn’t take it. He then offered to hold it over both of us and I nodded. Then we were walking just a little too close and his hand was on the small of my back and I was suddenly aware of how much taller he was and how my cold wet legs felt against each other and how his hand was warm on my back.

He told me about his job in the few blocks we spoke and I told him about him. On the corner where we had to part he asked if I was sure I didn’t want the umbrella and I told him I liked the rain. He seemed charmed by that.

I stood in front of him getting rained on and swinging my pocketbook and waiting. I was always waiting for boys to get the point.

“Can I kiss you? I wanted to that night,” and I told him he shouldn’t ask.

He frowned and said that actually he should ask. It’s important to ask and I supposed he was correct. I nodded and told him he could kiss me if he put down the umbrella.

He kissed me and I wasn’t really prepared for how well he kissed, how full his lips were, how much it would affect my body.

The rain picked up and we kissed more, people passing by and his umbrella on the sidewalk next to us.

“I have to go home,” he said sadly.

“Don’t go, kiss me again,” I asked into his ear.

“Then what?” he asked into mine.

“What else do you want? You’re fond of asking,” I said, suddenly wondering if that sounded mean.

“Go somewhere and pull of our wet clothes and stumble into bed?” he said pulling me into another kiss.

“Would you?” I asked.

“I have plans, but I can break them. You’re beautiful you know, your lips are amazing,” he was hard under rain soaked gabardine.

“Would you hurt me, if I asked you to,” I said into his ear and he looked surprised.

“I would like that,” he said, reaching behind me and taking my wet hair in his hand and tugging slowly until I winced.

And so I pulled away and we walked hand in hand as the rain came down in thick sheets.

We eyed the subway signs as they passed the window. All the numbers going up. Our hands found each others, but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Somehow we didn’t stand when the stop that would take us to drinks came. Somehow we were back at my apartment again.

The kissing was furious, contagious, biting, hungry. My hands on her, noticing the changes, how she was thinner, how she was a little more aggressive now, like she was showing off. Trying to prove she wasn’t that little girl anymore.

I needed a lot of things all at once and sitting next to her on the couch I wasn’t getting any of them fast enough. I pushed her down, pulled at the buttons of her jeans and slapped her hands away, though I wasn’t sure if she was trying to stop me or help me. I pulled her denim, along with her panties, down to her knees and held her down as my mouth found her cunt.

She tasted the same. It made me hard the same way.

There was short coarse hair where there used to be smooth skin. It annoyed me. I wanted what I wanted and that meant I wanted a bare pussy. This wasn’t acceptable.

I took her by the hair and dragged her to the bed. I said nothing. I just stripped her and put her hands and feet in the nylon cuffs I always tucked just under the mattress. I remember the first time I put her in them, a long time ago. I pulled the straps through the buckles and her legs spread open for me.

I stood and looked at her. She was mine for a while. Her eyes were unfocused from want. She tried to hide her head behind her shoulder, suddenly embarrassed.

From my drawer I took my clippers. Little electric ones I used for my sideburns. I took off the guard so it was just bare metal against her. I turned it on and lifted it so she could see it. Time to say no. Time to bargain or stop me. She just gasped and watched me, wide eyed.

I held her down, made quick work of it. I couldn’t get exactly what I wanted, smooth bare skin, but it was close enough for the time being. I thought about getting my razor, but I was too wild to take my time.

I unstrapped her and pushed her off the bed, out into the hall, then the bathroom. Showered quickly with her. Soaped up the now almost hairless pussy as she pouted and eyed me.

Then I took her back to my bed and pushed her legs back up in the air and ate her out properly. Then I fucked her properly. I fucked her until she said the things she said she wouldn’t say and left a huge wet mess on my sheets.

In the end those huge eyes were watching me, unsure of exactly what happened. Then we slept, clinging to each other like we clung on to the past.

In the morning we were going to have to try and let both go.

Usually by 8:30, which my pocketwatch told me it had just struck, I’d be making coffee, but since my employer was “with guest” and the various grinding of beans and screaming of espresso making apparati would, I’m sure, be a less than ideal wake up call, I was out running the errands which I usually saved for later in the day.

The mornings when my employer had an overnight guest (or guests, as sometimes happens) were some of the most challenging in my professional life, I assure you. Still, in their own way, they were some of the most rewarding.

Most mornings my employer, Mr Leinhardt, and I would share some light banter on topics both political and scandalous while I gave him a shave, dressed him and attend to his breakfast. On mornings where Mr Leinhardt was entertaining I instead had to focus on the detailed movements and well thought out strategies of readying food, newspapers, clothing, and other essentials whilst not disturbing he nor his scantily clad (if that) visitor. I assure you this is no small feat and it takes all of my not unconsiderable skills.

After procuring the provisions for the day I made my way through the servants entrance and through the house, cleaning up a spilled cocktail and a pair of stockings in the hallway. I then entered the master bedroom silently and attempted to take the least amount of time possible picking up the scattered clothes and various detritus of my employer’s nocturnal activities, which by the look of things were both violent and sordid. It’s hard, I admit, not to steal glances at his guests. That morning specifically it was impossible not to notice the shapely legs of my employer’s acquaintance. The curve of her bottom, which seemed to my keen eyes to have earned a bruise or two, though one never knows if those bruises were collected in the scuffle and decadence of the evening before or, like so many objet d’art one picks up in one’s travels, she simply came that way.

There was a single breast exposed by the tangled limbs and wrinkled sheets of their morning tableau. It was pert, economic even, not the full hand heavy bosom I am fond of, but a perfect example of a flavor that is not my favorite, yet so lovely it gave me cause to question my preference.

I only paused a moment to take in the sight, feeling a bit foolish standing there holding a handful of her silk under things and a feather duster.

It was half past nine and by my employer’s orders he was to be up by ten even in the most extreme of cases. I started some bacon, I washed fruit. I did it all quietly, but banged and bumped around just enough to let them know someone was in the kitchen.

I had already steamed the young lady’s fetching silk dress (last season’s Givenchy?) and laid out her shoes (thankfully not Louboutin) and undergarments when I heard shower start. Mr Leinhardt did not like to dine until he was clean and fresh. As well, when having company, he often enjoyed entertaining his guest in his large, almost cavernous, shower. That, I’m sure, was a sight.

Since they were up I could grind the coffee beans, prep steamed milk and warm the cups. I had soy milk on hand in case his guest was vegan. One never knows these days. The table was laid out with plates and silverware, cloth napkins quickly twisted and folded into the shapes of roses, croissants, fruit, a variety of jams, all of the various the accoutrements.

Oranges and grapefruits were squeezed and the table looked opulent, laden with food and shining settings. This was all at Mr Leinhardt’s request. Most of it would not be eaten, in fact Mr Leinhardt usually only had a latte, an egg white omelet, a small shot of grapefruit juice, and was off to work. His female acquaintances usually had a half a croissant, a non-fat latte and picked at grapes. At eleven, when the two maid arrived, I usually made a long brunch of the leftovers with the small staff.

As I brought a crystal pitcher of juice to the table I saw my employer’s lady friend at the door of his boudoir. She was dressed in a pair of his fine high gray dress socks, which came almost to the knees of her skinny legs, and one of his dress shirts. It was one of the custom shirts from his London tailor. Split collar, a cool white, sadly she had buttoned three unmerciful buttons. I hardly looked though, just a millisecond but my eyes were greedy and my memory is photographic.

She was curious, as they often were. She padded around the large apartment marveling at the paintings, the grand piano, the statues. When she made her way over to the kitchen she leaned on the marble island and smiled at me.

“A tuxedo?” she asked. Her voice was high, feminine, girlish.

“Mr Leinhardt enjoys a traditional look for his staff, but to answer your question, no, this is not a tuxedo,” I say, trying not to make her feel foolish for thinking that my suit was a tuxedo, but all the same correcting her.

“So you’re an actual butler?” she asked with a wide and beautiful smile.

She was one of those women who exuded a warm, exhilaratingly sensual energy. Her face, which I had not seen during my brief foray into the bedroom, was gorgeous. Her skin was flawless, eyes bright and curious, hair, though mussed, was thick and chocolate brown.

“Really more of a valet, this apartment isn’t large enough to need a butler, per se. As well, at the moment I am also an ersatz fry cook. Is there anything in particular I can get for you this morning?”

She turned, looked at the food on the table, then around at the apartment and laughed.

“And I thought his car was something. Amazing. Hm, I suppose when in Rome. I want, Eggs Benedict!” she said with gusto, adding “and a waffle, and a cappuccino and champaign!”

Admittedly, it had been a while since I’d made a Hollandaise sauce. Mr Leinhardt had two regular cooks on staff, but he preferred as few people as possible in the morning and one of the reasons he hired me was my training as a chef and my work in the kitchen of a four star restaurant in Switzerland in my youth. Still the muscle memory was there and in moments the sauce was well on its way.

She watched me like a hawk. No, not a hawk, more like a bird of paradise. My back was straight and my eyes were forward and I did not look down the draping open collar of the shirt as she leaned across the island to snatch a handful of cherries. Not noticeably, at least.

Her eggs were plated as Mr Leindhart came into the kitchen in his fine blue robe.

“Eggs Benedict? I warn you Howards, this one is very picky and quite demanding,” he said to me while his eyes were on her.

I smiled and nodded at his words.

“Give her anything she wants,” he said in a tone that told me undeniably that he was taken with her and that I was to do just that.

He kissed her neck chastely, but she would have none of that. She looked up at him with a hunger that made my heart ache and she kissed him fully and deeply on the lips. She kissed him so that for a moment his jovial morning self disappeared and I turned my back to them so as not to see that wild side of my dear employer.

“You are decidedly bent on making me late,” he chided her half heartedly, then to me “give me the good omelet. You know the one.”

Working morning he had loose egg whites, avocado, goat cheese. The “good omelet” was my mother’s recipe. The eggs were mixed with a dash of cognac, heavy cream, cooked in goose fat and topped with caramelized onions and black truffles.

I nearly scorched the eggs when I turned and saw her shirt open. Mr Leinhardt’s hungry hands kneading her breasts. A glimpse of the bare smoothness between her legs, a preference of both my employer and mine, and I almost gasped.

As I plated his omelet I coughed a bit to give them a moment, but when I turned to serve I saw that he was not at all through.

“Howards, is this not the most lovely pussy you’ve ever seen?” he said, pushing her legs open and swatting at her hands as she went to cover herself.

I closed that door in my head. I turned off the circuit between body and mind and standing still, towel over my arm, holding the plate steady I look briefly down at the pink between her legs.

“I can truly say I’ve never seen its equal, sir,” and though I prefer not to rate works of art against each other, at that moment it was the complete truth.

Her eyes met mine as her fair white cheeks turned a deep red. Her eyes were glassy with want and she very obviously enjoyed the little humiliation of being shown off. His fingers toyed and teased her as his other hand pawed at her breasts.

“Shall I put of your breakfast until after you are finished entertaining, sir?” this sentence was edging towards our well defined line between dry humor and contempt.

Mr Leinhardt had made it clear that a certain amount of pushing was expected to get him off to work at a reasonable time, even when engaged with particularly interesting diversions.

“No-” he sighed and I placed his plate down on the table.

“Her name is Alma,” he said, balancing her on his knee, still exposed, as he folded his napkin on his other knee and started on his eggs.

“Alma, isn’t that lovely Howards?” he asked as I pour him his juice and brought him his coffee.

“Indeed, sir.”

She was drunk with lust, watching him eat, watching me serve. Ruddy cheeked, swollen nippled and her sex slpayed on the naked skin of his thigh, she looked so ready to be fucked I had to exile myself to dishwashing or else expose my desire in the breaking of the well ironed lines of my trousers.

“Say hello, Alma,” he said, very amused with himself as he continued to play with her body between bites of his breakfast.

“Hello, Alma,” she said flatly and then her breath caught and she let out a high perfect moan.

It went on like that, but eventually Alma was left to eat her Eggs Benedict (which thankfully somehow stayed intact after having sat there for a good ten minutes) and her waffle and her cappuccino (with two dashes of cinnamon) and a glass of ‘96 Clos d’Ambonnay Krud, while I shaved and dressed Mr Leinhardt.

Then he was off, after one long kiss from her. He was off and I was alone with her. It was a quarter past ten.

She sat at the table watching me clean up. She studied me and studied the apartment.

“Your boss is an interesting guy,” she said. I could see her debating whether she should close her shirt. I watched her decide not to. She leaned forward and bit her lip.

“Indeed, miss,” I said, taking a few plates to the skink.

“Alma,” she corrected.

“Miss,” I corrected.

She looked over the uneaten fruit and pastries and sighed.

“A man like that certainly does leave a lot of leftovers,” she said, a little sadly, pouring herself some more champagne and considered her place.

“No need to worry, miss, nothing will go to waste,” I said pouring the orange juice into a plastic jug for later.

She laughed at this, her charm was visceral.

“He doesn’t mind you taking the leftovers?” she asked, the question lingering in the air whether she meant the food or other things.

“I assure you, he often insists, miss” I said, gathering her glass and her coffee cup, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the heat of her body.

“Does he ever let you finish what he’s started?” she said, her voice lower.

I straightened.

“You’ll have to ask Mr Leinhardt about that, miss, I’m not really at liberty to talk about the goings on of the house,” and there was nothing in my voice. I squashed all feeling and simply busied myself with the cleaning up of breakfast and memorizing every blushing inch of her body.

“What if he told you to fuck me, Howard?”

I coughed a bit, mostly for her benefit. It’s unfair to have such a ravishing woman think she has no effect on a man. Even a man who is adept at swallowing his own desires.

“I’m afraid, as I said, you’ll have to take that up with Mr Leinhardt, miss. The particulars of my responsibilities are indeed up to him. And if I might, miss, my name is Howards.”

She was pouting now, downing her glass of champagne and standing up. She walked to her clothes, suddenly smiling at her dress, wrinkle free and beautiful, just like her.

She was unsatisfied, all worked up by Mr Leinhardt’s morning games.

“You can get me a taxi, Howards?” she said without looking up from examining her dress.

“If you’d like, miss, though we do have a car and driver who will be happy to take you anywhere you’d like,” I said, putting the last of the food away.

“I should have guessed that,” she said dreamily.

“And someone who can go pick up fresh undergarments for me?” she said testing me.

“Certainly, if you’d like. We could have someone pick up something less formal if you’d like as well. I believe I know a personal shopper at Bergdorf who could have something here in a half an hour,” I stood at attention, ready to attend to her needs.

She took off the shirt and stood in the middle of the living room in nothing but egyptian cotton socks, from a private label in Milan. The fine argyle stitch pattern barely visible.

“Come here, Howard,” she said putting her hands on her hips.

I walked over to her, averting my eyes.

“Howards, miss,” I corrected.

“What kind of name is Howards?” she said moving closer.

“It’s my last name, miss. Reginald Howards, the third,” I straightened my jacket and brushed a bit of lint off her dress.

She was perhaps five feet, four inches. Twenty four at the most. From her accent and clothes, an Upper East Side debutant who had seen money, but not the kind of money Mr Leinhardt had.

“Lay down on the floor,” she said with a steady voice.

“Miss?”

“The floor, Jeeves,”

“I’m not sure I understand-”

“‘This one is very picky and quite demanding,’ is what your boss said, ‘give her anything she wants.’ So I want you to lay down on the floor, on your back right now,” she was ordering, but her voice was girlish and she sounded more like a young girl complaining about the size of her birthday cake.

Still, what was one to do? I knelt, I looked up at her questioningly, then I settled down on the elaborately embroidered rug. I remembered the bazaar in Marrakesh where’d I purchased the rug for Mr Leinhardt a few years before while I followed in the wanderlust of his twenties.

Miss Alma stepped over me and stood, with one foot on either side of my head, looking down at me. The perspective was both lovely and jarring. The peeks of her nipples just obscured by the light of the chandelier above us. The pink of her sex, slightly open, wet from Mr Leinhardt’s teasing, her hair falling a bit in her face as she peered down.

She lowered herself until she was sitting on my chest, looking right into my eyes.

“Anything I want, right?” she was beautiful and demanding and correct.

“Indeed, miss,” I said trying hard to maintain my detachment, knowing what would follow might test the control I’d honed for most of my life.

She smacked me. In my opinion it was a bit too hard and bit too close to my ear. The world swam out of focus for a moment and my ear rang.

She was breathing hard. I guessed this game wasn’t wholly new, but it had been a while since she played it. It was a very different game than the one she played the night before but it seemed like a suitable sublimation.

She slapped me again and then pulled at my hair. She messed up my hair, which was combed neatly and parted precisely.

“You’re used to cleaning up his messes, aren’t you?” she said still girlish, but now heated.

“Indeed,” I said swallowing feeling my ears hot and red.

“Miss! ‘Indeed, miss.’ Do you always forgot your fucking manners when you’re under a pretty woman?” she said slapping me four more times and then grabbing my throat.

“I do apologize, miss. You are absolutely correct.”

My composure seemed to anger her and amuse her at the same time. She pushed herself back until she was straddling my hips. I tensed and she pressed herself down on my hardness. She rubbed against it purring.

“Don’t move,” said whispered and my body froze.

“Are you going to go wash these pants after I rub my pussy all over them? Are you good enough not to come?”

“I always keep a spare suit here, miss, and I wouldn’t think of doing anything you did not explicitly request.”

She laughed loud and grabbed me by my bow tie.

“He made a mess of me this morning and you’re going to clean it up, Jeeves,” she whispered into my face.

Then she pulled herself over me and kneeled so that her legs pinned my arms down and pushed her pussy into my face, covering my mouth and my nose and making a wave of fear and pleasure wash over me.

“Lick it, make me come, that’s what I want. You’d better do it, Reginald Howards the third. You’d better lick my pussy until I come.”

Her hand was in my hair, pulling it so tightly my scalp prickled and burned, but I was only aware of this as if it was in the distance. All I knew was her pussy. All I knew was the smoothness against my tongue and the taste of her and the wetness and the orders to make her come. Pain wasn’t an option. Breathing was secondary to the need to service her.

I licked at her clit and dipped my tongue into her, letting her move herself and position the bits she wanted me to focus on. She squirmed and moaned and rode my face. After a few minutes she lifted one leg and pulled at my arm.

“Fingers, use your fucking fingers too,” she ordered and I complied as fast as my muscles would move.

I put two fingers into my mouth, then when they were wet slipped them into her as I continued to lick, finding the rhythm she wanted. I turned and pushed my fingers into her, finding the spot that made her back arch and her moans burst into little yelps.

“Oh, fuck, you’re-you’re good at this–keep–keep going–don’t stop,” she said her legs tensing and her clit being pushed down against my tongue as I fingered her.

Her smooth pubis covering my nose again and her legs closing around my head so that I couldn’t hear anymore. All of my senses replaced by her body and its building need. All there was was her pussy and my fingers slipping slick into it and my tongue burning with fatigue but still going, still servicing her demands until finally she screamed and screamed and then pushed herself off me.

She sat on the floor panting, shaking, holding herself, glaring at me.

“Holy fuck,” she gasped between breaths.

I swallowed. I tried to slow my own breathing. I tried to slow my heart.

“Get up,” she said, her voice softer.

I stood, shaken. I straightened myself the best I could. I walked quickly to the bathroom. I found two soft small wash cloths. I wet one with lukewarm water. I brought them to her.

“May I, miss?” I asked softly.

She laid back on the floor with her knees up and let her legs fall open. I marveled at her wet vulva, pink and neat. I softly dabbed at it with the warm, wet cotton. She closed her eyes and let me pamper her and clean her. I ended with the dry cloth, patting her wet thighs until she was fresh and clean.

“Now dress me,” she said, sounding dreamy.

I slipped her panties on, her brassiere, her garter belt, her stockings. I held out my hand and she stood and I lifted her slip and she lifted her arms. She looked like a sleepy princess. Finally her lovely dress in its royal purple.

“Thank you, Howards,” she said, spinning in her dress and closing her eyes as the silk rose in the air.

“I love this dress,” she said to herself.

“You look magnificent in it, miss. If you don’t mind me saying,” I said, gathering her shoes and helping her into them.

When I stood up she leaned in and kissed me on the cheek.

“I’m glad you exist, Howards,” she said with a strange sparkle in her eye.

“Is there anything else, miss, or shall I have the car brought around?”

She took out a compact from her pocketbook and patted powder on her nose.

“That will be all, Howard, I actually think a walk might be nice,” she said, turning and making her way to the front door before I could rush to open it for her.

She turned and looked me in the eye, suddenly looking and sounding much older than she did earlier.

“Tell him to call me. Tell him I told you to tell him to call me,” she said before turning and slamming the door.

I breathed out the deep long breath I’d been holding in for hours.

A minute later the back door of the apartment opened and one of the maids came in. Clare was red headed, huge eyed, thick hipped and we were well acquainted. My face was still red and my lips were still wet and I turned on her with a fury that made her drop her bags.

“You’re going to get the fuck into the guest bedroom, pull up your skirt and pull of your fucking knickers right now, do you understand?”

“What?” she said, surprised, but not that surprised.

“Into the guest bedroom and make sure there is nothing between my cock and your cunt or it’s going to get cut off. Am I making myself clear?” my voice was steadily rising into a shout.

She put her hand to her chest, her eyes wide, but then a wicked grin crept over her lips.

“Yes, sir, right, right away, sir,”

I pulled off my jacket and threw it on the floor. Then I went into the guestroom and took off my belt and got to work.

It makes so little sense. I mean, it’s actually silly. I’m not touching her, I’m tired and sore and grumpy and she takes my hand and puts it on her breast which is a reasonable form of seduction. When I squeeze said breasts she pushes my hand away.

“No,” she says in that slightly too serious way.

It’s not even remotely plausible. She just put my hand on her breast! No?

She’s aware. She holds the magnet opposite disire. She may have even thought she came up with this game.

Still, I’m hard. Not from the breast, but from the “no.”

There are other words that with do that. Weighty words. A variety of them, actually. The common denominator is that they are all forbidden.

I write dirty stories here, but the stories in my head are far dirtier. The fetish I seem to have is that it doesn’t matter what we are doing, what I’m writing about, what plot or gimmick, it just has to be “bad.”

Now, I’m a forward thinking fellow. To say my friends and lovers are liberal is a serious understatement. We accept so much as long as it is consensual and safe (or at least all parties are aware of the risk.) Still this “wrongness” this “dirtiness” is like a drug. There doesn’t need to be any reality to this forbiddenness, in fact I don’t want anything that’s really wrong. Cheating repulses me, consent is paramount to my arousal in many ways, for all the little girl games I’ve played the idea of anyone underage is horrifying, hell I don’t even flirt with co-workers, still that need for the forbidden is so strong even the lightest hint of it is enough to drive me mad.

And so it goes.