by Kojo Black
He paused for a second and raised his head.
“Stay,” he murmured.
Lisa wasn’t going anywhere.
Laurent dropped an arm over the side of the table. When he raised it back up Lisa caught a glimpse of berries and cream. A shock of cold on her labia caused her to gasp, then Laurent’s tongue was back, licking the mingled juices that ran freely from her pussy. She arched her back and pushed her hips forwards against his face, relishing the scraping of his stubble on her soft flesh. She could still taste the berries in her mouth, feel the texture of the spongy brioche on her tongue and, as she climaxed, she raised her head to see Laurent’s face, purple stained, smiling as he looked up to watch her come.
He slid along her body, not caring how much juice he got on his clothes, and Lisa lay back, slipping down the far side of her orgasm with the satisfaction of feeling his weight pressing against her. As he came within reach, she clawed at his shirt, desperate for her own taste of his flesh, needing to feel the heat of his skin against her own.
Temporarily sated by his first taste of her, he paused long enough to let her tug his shirt over his head, dropping it over the edge of the table into the fruity morass beneath.
Lisa could see a damp stain of pre-cum on the front of his trousers. Her mouth watered. She quickly undid them, dragging them down his thighs. Free of constraint, his cock surged and hardened.
“Let me taste you now,” said Lisa.
Laurent climbed off the table, letting his trousers and shorts fall to the floor.
“Here,” he said, gesturing. He moved to the far end of the table, beckoning her to follow. Still on her back, she slid up the flat surface until she was able to hang her head over the edge where he stood. Reaching up with her hand, she was able to guide Laurent’s cock into her mouth. He tasted as salty as the pudding had been sweet, equally delicious. She lapped at him with her tongue and then he took over. He placed his hands at either side of her head and she relaxed into the cradle they formed. He started to fuck her and she let him thrust deeper and deeper towards the back of her throat. The table beneath her creaked and shuddered as they moved in unison.
“My God … I want to come … But I need to fuck you.”
He stopped abruptly, withdrawing from her mouth, leaving a salty trail of pre-cum in his wake. Lisa savored the taste as he gently moved her back down the table and fetched a cushion from the window seat to put behind her head.
“Yes, fuck me, Laurent,” she whispered, as he climbed back up onto the table.
She spread her legs and he opened the path between her lips with eager fingers. His cock slid into her and a frisson of expectation took flight from her belly to settle at the back of her throat. He drew out and sank back in. Each time he did, the sensations which spiraled through her body intensified. He teased her nipple with his teeth and she hooked her legs up behind his back.
“Laurent …”
He pressed a hand down between their roiling hips. Fingers circled her clit. He kissed her. She bit his bottom lip, hard. It made him fuck her deeper, pinch her harder. She cried out and he stifled her noise with his tongue against hers.
Finally they soared, mouths grafted, bodies entwined, bursting like ripe fruit with juices and sweat mingling on their skin.
At one.
Exhausted.
Smiling.
“What will you say to Dexter Dixon about your triumph?” she said a little later, slumped back against his chest, still naked. They were comfortable now, resting on the soft upholstery of the window seat. Her body and his were stained pink and indigo with fruit juice, smeared with sweat and semen and her juices, sticky with spilled wine.
“Bah!” exclaimed Laurent. “Dexter Dixon is a fool. I’ll tell him nothing.”
“You’re not going to go back on his show with the story of my seduction?”
“It’s none of his business.”
Lisa closed her eyes.
Later still, Laurent Gillou offered Lisa Summer a job as nutritional consultant to Le Petit Pois.
Many kisses later, Lisa Summer said yes.
Summer Pudding Recipe
A sweet and juicy summertime treat!
2lbs 3oz (1kg) mixed berries – raspberries, strawberries, currants in the main
4oz (100g) sugar, plus extra to taste
14oz (400g) brioche loaf (or similar sweet white bread), sliced
1lb (450g) bag of frozen mixed berries
Double/heavy cream to serve
1 glass bowl, 4 pints (2 liters) capacity
(These quantities do not need to be hugely accurate—and particularly the amount of sugar required depends on how tart the berries are and your own taste)
Put the 1kg of fresh berries into a pan with 100g of sugar on a low heat, stirring occasionally, until the sugar has dissolved and the berries are releasing their juice. Continue cooking until the berries are soft, but still holding their form. Taste the juice and add more sugar if required.
Cut the crusts off the brioche, losing as little of the white bread as possible.
Line the bowl with plastic wrap/cling film.
Line the bowl with the slices of brioche, reserving approximately 1/3 of the slices for the lid.
Spoon the warm fruit into the brioche-lined bowl.
Use the remaining slices of brioche to create a lid.
Cover the lid first with a layer of plastic wrap/cling film, then a flat plate as close as possible in size.
Weigh the plate down with heavy objects (e.g. tin cans).
Refrigerate overnight.
A few of hours before serving, put the frozen berries into a pan and cook down vigorously until the berries disintegrate.
Push the berries and their juice through a sieve to make smooth, rich, juice. Leave it to cool.
Take the pudding out and remove the weights. Spoon the cooled juice onto any white patches of bread on the lid. If there are still patches of white bread showing at the sides, use a table knife to gently prise the pudding from the side of the bowl and spoon some juice into the space. Reapply the plastic wrap/cling film, plate and weights until ready to serve.
To serve, remove the plastic wrap/cling film, plate and weights & turn the pudding carefully out onto a plate. If any bread still looks pale, pour a little juice over it. Serve with the remainder of the juice and a plenty of fresh cream.
The Love Apple
Zak Jane Keir
Names have power, he knew that. His only previous girlfriend, Amanda, had a tendency to talk about the subject from time to time: the cultural significance of names and how many names a person might have and who could use them. She’d once talked to him about the meaning of names: hers meant “love” or “beloved” and his, Lee, meant “a clearing”, though apparently a lot of kids called Lee had been named after a US General on the side of the slave owners—at least that was how she’d put it to him. She’d been quick enough to say she didn’t think there were any intimations of racism or even revolutionary tendencies in him despite his name. Lee, as quite often happened when Amanda was off on one, had just smiled and shrugged and passed her another packet of cashew nuts.
She’d been into all these odds and ends of information: she had a degree in anthropology but worked in a bookshop, which was how he’d met her. Lee loved books, but fiction was what did it for him, rather than the various philosophical or theoretical or self-help books Amanda was so fascinated by. Sometimes she would talk about writing a book herself, but as far as he knew, she never actually made a beginning.
Very close to the end of that relationship, there had been another discussion about names, but this time it had been about nicknames and pet names. She had noticed, she said, that the two of them didn’t have any kind of special names for one another.
“You don’t like being called Mandy, though. You’ve alway
s said that,” Lee had protested, and she’d clutched at her hair in rather exaggerated exasperation and said, “That’s not what I mean, you’re not listening.” He’d apologized at once, reluctant to have an argument. It had crossed his mind to kiss her and suggest that he make it up to her for his inattention by paying her some more direct, erotic attention, as they were side by side in her big, brass-framed bed at the time. Somehow, though, he already knew that it wouldn’t work, and neither would cashew nuts. Amanda was going to have her say.
“Most couples call each other things like Big Bear, or—or Babycham or something. Special names that other people don’t understand. Think of all those ads they used to have in the papers on Valentine’s Day, all these really peculiar nicknames that meant an awful lot to people, they were fascinating. And even normal pet names, like whether you call someone babe or darling or sweetheart, which one you choose matters, it’s part of you and part of your relationship. And you and I don’t even do that.”
Lee had waited, silently, partly because he didn’t know what to say to reassure her and partly because the whole subject of nicknames made him uncomfortable. Eventually Amanda had dropped the subject, but had opted for sleep rather than sex, as had been happening more and more frequently. It had only been a week or two later that they had decided, without much discussion, to see less of each other, and then less and less until they just weren’t seeing each other at all.
Lee hadn’t been as badly upset as he expected he would. He’d known, probably from the second or third date, that it wasn’t going to be any kind of lifetime commitment, but at the time he’d been delighted enough that clever, pretty Amanda had been willing to spend time with him in the first place. He wasn’t clever, though he wasn’t stupid, either; he didn’t think anyone would describe him as pretty. Good manners and a fondness for books didn’t seem to be the greatest asset when it came to dating.
Now he was single again, though, he felt brave enough to take his first, tentative steps onto the fetish scene. He’d read just enough novels which depicted kinky sexualities to give him the idea that it might be something he would enjoy, but had always known that it wouldn’t be something he could share with Amanda. Her tastes tended towards the gentle and sensual with vague overtones of romantic mysticism, which had been alright by Lee but somehow not quite enough. Perhaps he would find out who he really was by exploring his slow-burning fascination with whips, handcuffs, spanking and high-heeled footwear. At least, he hoped, he would have fun trying.
It was fun, exciting fun, at the beginning, even if it wasn’t quite as exciting as he had dreamed it might be. The bulk of those he met were not unfriendly, but nor were they falling over themselves to make him welcome. He realized fairly quickly that unassuming, slightly plump young men with heads full of yearning dreams about the ultimate mistress were over-represented in these circles; and he might have retreated into a solitary life of fantasy if he had not been determined to at least be part of this—to him—endlessly tantalizing underground world.
After a while, he found his feet a little, made a few friends, even got as far as participating in a scene or two. He still had hopes. Though there were not very many unattached women to be found, there were plenty of people up for at least a play session within a club. The first time he bent over a padded whipping stool, his raised buttocks bared to the air, bared to anything, he thought he might come when the first spank landed on his quivering flesh. He hadn’t, then, been sure if it was against the rules to lose control of yourself to that extent and had been afraid to ask. As it was, the spanking was a sharper sensation than he expected and his cock, which had been urgently throbbing against the curved, vinyl-covered top of the whipping stool, softened in surprise. It wasn’t until he was back home, alone in his single bed, that he really obtained an erotic charge from the experience. He fucked his own hand, quickly and efficiently, re-imagining the scene in the club: groaning and writhing as the woman—he had forgotten her name but she was lithe and blonde and flamboyant—brought the palm of her leather-gloved hand down on his ass, again and again and again until the spunk burst out of him, a messy little explosion on the club’s nice dungeon furniture. He saw the surrounding club goers laughing or expressing distaste, even pictured himself being ordered to lick his own emission from the vinyl cover. His body seemed to burn with shame as he reached a genuine climax, rather than a fantasy one, but he fell asleep almost instantly.
He had reached what he felt was a kind of equilibrium by the time Martyn reappeared in his life. He hadn’t found a regular partner, not even someone to play with on a casual basis, but he remained optimistic and was happy to have made a group of new friends. Now and again, he would encounter a dominant woman who liked to have several submissives to play with in the course of an evening, and he began to discover more about his own likes and dislikes. He wasn’t particularly enthralled by elaborate rope bondage, either on him or on anyone else, but whether he preferred the slow build-up of a soft flogger or the intense, speedy sting of a cane seemed to vary depending on his mood, and the attitude of whoever was wielding the implements in question. He was also comfortable with various tones and styles: light-hearted oh-you-naughty-boy raucous roleplay, sessions that were all about sensation and skill and, very occasionally, the ones that involved more blatant sexual elements. He had never reached a climax during a club session, though from time to time he had seen others do so. Whether public orgasm and unmistakably sexual activity were acceptable seemed to vary from club to club: at one large-scale event held in a venue that usually catered to swingers, he had watched, enthralled and painfully aroused, as a stately and quite mature woman in a long skirt and corset bent a younger woman and a man over a waist-high bench, side by side, and thrashed the pair of them, using a variety of implements. When the buttocks of both naked submissives were well-warmed, their Mistress gave them some murmured instructions or advice, and the man got up onto the bench, lay down on his back and let everyone see that his cock was fully erect, the tip of it gleaming with moisture and the foreskin fully retracted. The naked girl stood beside him, with her hand between her legs, and Lee was close enough to see that she was sweating a little and quivering with unmistakable excitement. He wasn’t close enough to be one of the two men the Mistress called forward to help the girl climb up onto the bench and mount her naked partner, but he had a pretty good view of the couple’s ecstatic fucking. This scenario featured in his fantasies for several months afterwards, though he often recast the submissive girl as some other model or actress who had caught his eye. He sometimes liked to alter other details, such as the Mistress joining in with the fuck, and he began to contemplate the possibility of non-traditional relationship structures and opportunities for himself.
The night he ran into Martyn, he was cheerful and almost relaxed, and the last thing on his mind was the reappearance of someone who had bullied him unmercifully a decade or more ago.
It might not have been so bad had Martyn been another punter in the club. Martyn as an adult would surely have developed enough in the way of social skills to hide his own mean, patronizing character or at least to see the funny side of it rather than loading his barbs with something thermonuclear in terms of the damage done. There was also the matter of scene etiquette, which tended to disapprove of cruelty that wasn’t pre-negotiated and consensual. While banter was engaged in from time to time, it was cautious unless taking place between good friends: there seemed to be an unspoken but widespread understanding that there was a degree of fragility to the shared illusion that everyone within the sexual playground was desirable or potentially so, living out his/her fantasies in a place of acceptance. Open mockery of another’s appearance or failure to meet mainstream aesthetic standards of youth, beauty, fashion sense or slenderness was likely to mark you out as a tourist, a mundane, someone who didn’t have any manners.
Martyn was there as a photographer, representing one of the websites dedicated to cataloging and explo
ring various subcultures, and Lee would later discover that the club’s promoters had rapidly begun to regret allowing him to attend at all, despite their initial enthusiasm for the publicity the website might offer.
Lee hadn’t recognized the other man at first. He’d been aware there was a photographer present, but had stayed away from the corner by the cloakroom where a backdrop and a couple of lights had been set up. He knew his own looks were nowhere near striking enough to be of any particular interest, though he wasn’t particularly concerned that a picture of him in a fetish club would cause problems in his everyday life. Working in the payroll department of a large haulage firm didn’t mean your private life had to be beyond reproach, except with regard to your personal finances. As the evening progressed, he’d become aware of annoyance among various other clubbers, and overheard a few comments to the effect that the photographer was both clueless and a “rude prick”, but, again, it hadn’t seemed to have any relevance to Lee himself.
It was only when he went to the bar to get a round of drinks that his and Martyn’s paths had properly crossed.
The photographer was temporarily on his own, waiting to be served, and something about his profile jarred in Lee’s memory. He tried not to stare too blatantly, but it only took a few seconds before he’d placed the guy. Martyn Stock had been feared by at least half the school, but not because he was the biggest or could punch the hardest. It was his unfailing talent for spotting and announcing other people’s weaknesses that had made him so lethal. He’d been a scrawny runt in his late teens, with a pointed nose and chin and fair hair cut brutally, unfashionably short; and he was always badly dressed but no one had ever dared to comment. Now his hair was longer, with a slight tendency to curl, but his features were as sharp and ferrety as always. He wore black jeans with black DM boots, and a black T-shirt with the logo of another fetish club on the front: clearly this was as much effort as he was prepared to make to comply with the evening’s dress code. Lee himself was wearing what was then his usual attire of PVC shorts, his silver snake bracelet and unbranded black low-heeled boots. It was a warm night anyway, and the club was crowded enough for him to have worked up a slight sweat even though he had, as usual, steered clear of the dance floor. He didn’t think he’d gone particularly red in the face, but even as the thought crossed his mind, Martyn looked across at him, frowned and then grinned a joyous, shark-like grin.