New Erotica 6

by Various

  Her feet rose from the floor and she slid her legs over his back. With the indent of her nipples in the palms of his hands, he gently and slowly massaged her breasts. When his hands and tongue found the rhythm that other lovers had liked, her breathing stuttered. And it seemed as if she were stuck for something to do with her arms; she raised them from across her face into the air and then dropped them back down so she could smother her moans with her forearms. Skating his tongue over the little bead between her legs, or flicking it left and right across this nucleus of nerves he associated with the very tip of his penis, all of her body gradually softened as if something had drained out from beneath her suit.

  ‘Bastard. Dirty, common bastard,’ she whispered, surprising him.

  Tongue replaced by the pads of his fingers, Angel tickled and then pushed her clit. Moving up her body, but leaving that one hand behind and busy in her wet fur, he dropped his sticky lips, odoriferous with the fragrance she knew to be her own, on to the doctor’s open, hot and blaspheming mouth. Alive to the kiss, with all reticence gone now, she licked her own brine from around his mouth. She took all of it away and then let her head drop back to the rug. She squeezed her eyes shut and then groaned as if the muscles of her womb were pushing something out. Fingernails, red and long and lacquered stronger, dug into his triceps and shoulders, leaving small half-moons of bruising on his brown skin. Angel clenched his teeth on the discomfort and watched her face as the intense feeling passed over it and through her body too; a momentary paralysis, mixed with a sweet pain. It seemed to rise through her and then last for so long, if her screwed-up features were any indication, until the peak then jolted through her muscles, little volts that made her shudder, until they died away too and left her face dreamy and lost.

  Angel kissed her neck, before disentangling himself from her arms, to sit back on his ankles and stroke her legs. Remembering his instructions, he reached for the cuffs on the desktop. He slipped his hands under her knees. Perspiration had dampened the stockings and made them cling to her ligaments. He raised her legs and drew her ankles together. After knocking her sling-back heels off, he then placed the heels of her feet on his chest. The doctor stared up at him, her eyes wide and intense now, the expectation in them almost unnerving. Around each ankle, he closed the curved steel bands of the cuffs. They felt so cold in his hands and the sudden embrace of something so hard and confining on her ankles prompted her to prop herself up on her elbows. The clasps in the bracelets locked and the chain between them shook loose.

  She snarled at him. He was surprised again. The shock must have been evident on his face, but she never relaxed the hard grimace from her beautiful features. To Angel, she looked like a savage. It pleased him.

  Smoothing his hands down her legs, from ankle to thigh, he felt her stockings ripple and tug around the contours of her legs. ‘Open your mouth,’ he whispered at her wild, staring face. She rocked her tousled head back and opened her jaws. He moved around her legs and took the blue, chiffon scarf from around her neck, hanging loose like a sling. A cloud of perfume dispersed from it. Angel put it under his nose and briefly inhaled. Then he stared hard into her eyes and slipped the scarf between her lips. There was no resistance. She even angled her head forwards so he could tie the scarf behind it. Cuffed and now gagged too, she closed those watchful eyes at last. Resting back on the rug, she placed both of her hands on her stomach and waited, wanting neither her frank stare nor raking hands to interfere with his work.

  Angel unbuttoned her blouse and helped himself to her breasts. Pinky-tipped but so soft, it was almost impossible to grasp them in the palm of his hand and to feel their shape. He put his face into them. Tweaking her nipples with his fingers he rubbed his face in her scented cleavage. With flicks of his tongue, he then tasted her nipples – hard now, the size of pebbles – with just a twist of soap and salt on the puckered skin. Squashing her breasts down into her body, before gently pulling them back out, with her nipples held lightly between the inside of his fingers, he moulded and adored her pliant breast-flesh. And as the action of his kneading hands became firmer, his desire to enter the doctor increased.

  ‘I’m going to have you,’ he said to her, in a voice that was low, but firm with intent. ‘I’m really going to take you now.’ She moved her bottom on the floor, in small rotary rubbings of anticipation. ‘Excuse me if I’m rough, Doctor. But I’ve had to wait for you for a long time.’

  She cried out. He heard the word, ‘Yes,’ muffled into her gag.

  He was more excited than he could ever remember now. The front of his underwear was wet with dew and the back of his head tingled cold. Up inside the ruffle of her skirt and creamy underskirt, his fingers rediscovered her now soiled panties, and drew them down her legs to leave them hanging by her cuffed ankles. Her breath suddenly quickened and sounded noisy in her thin nose. Hastily, Angel stroked his cock. It pulsed upwards in his hand, as if pulling back on invisible reins. He smiled. A flicker of something he thought cruel went cold in his mind, as if a shadow had fallen. ‘Watch it, Doctor. Watch it go inside you. Then you can see yourself being taken by a servant. By a common bastard.’ She was propped up on her elbows before he even finished speaking.

  With one hand, he held her legs before his body, and gripped the stem of his girth with the other. The doctor moved her head to the side of her knees so she could watch. Angel moved forwards into position between her raised thighs. When the tip of his cock touched her sex – a gentle skim – they moaned together in the most exquisite moment of all. And then an impatience showed on each face – a need to commence with the quenching of so many basic needs.

  Ready for the intrusion of a hired stranger’s cock, her sex produced so much moisture that a trickle of her fluid made the cleft of her buttocks sticky. Slowly, Angel pushed the head in, shivering as her floss tickled his purple and sensitised skin. A moment of resistance. More pressure. A stretching of her sex, that almost felt to each of them as if something had been gently torn, and then the smooth slide of his entire length inside her followed. Red in the face, teeth clamped on the chiffon gag, she rubbed the side of her face into the rug.

  Inching forwards on his knees, so his hips pressed into the bottom of her thighs, Angel squeezed another small measure of penetration into her womb. Leaning forwards, he snatched her wrists together and pulled her upper body a few inches off the rug and then pressed his face into her ankles. Squeezing her wrists tight, he stroked her silky legs with his free hand, and kept his cock still inside her until the desperate temptation to ejaculate passed. When his sex felt less sensitive in the wonderful flesh of its surround, he began to thrust into her, delivering long and deep strokes, never breaking his rhythm. The doctor bit into her scarf and her nose became all pinched up and her eyes screwy and wrinkled.

  ‘This is what you want?’ he asked her, breathless, his pounding relentless. She never replied; she seemed unable.

  ‘Maybe harder,’ he muttered, and then rearranged himself so they lay on the rugs, his body behind her, both curled into an S shape with tangled legs, his cock never relinquishing its deep foundation inside her body. The side of her face was hot and her eyes seemed darker to him. ‘Now it can be harder.’ He clenched his teeth. ‘Put your hands on your … On your tits, Doctor.’

  ‘Oh, you bastard.’ Her voice was louder, sibilating around the gag. Her hands stayed still.

  ‘Do it.’ He slapped her thigh, hard. She squealed. Her eyes went wild and she grabbed her breasts, hanging free inside her blouse, and began to twist them with her fingers. ‘That’s it, feel them,’ he whispered into her ear as he licked around its rim. Issuing a groan every time his groin slapped against her buttocks, she plucked and then rubbed at her nipples. He watched her fingers, delighted, but also keen to learn how she wanted them touched if she ever hired him again. ‘Go on, harder, Doctor,’ he said, and began to bang his pointy hips into her soft buttocks, increasing the speed of his thrusts.

  With her ankles locked together, her leg
s were closed at the thigh and her sex especially tight around his cock. The friction was wonderful. One week of desperation and fevered dreams, when even the sheets of his bed had felt like a woman’s hand, boiled inside him. Like an animal, he licked the side of her face, smearing and then eating the make-up off her skin.

  ‘I’m going to put you on your tummy and come in you,’ he said, his hands leaving her hips and joining her own fingers on her breasts.

  Her breathing was loud in the heat and madness around and inside his head. ‘Yes, yes. Anything you want, take it,’ she said quickly, in a thick voice that seeped around the gag, now a thin dark strap that pulled the sides of her mouth wide.

  Angel kissed her, his mouth aggressive, lingering. Right inside her ear, he whispered, ‘You dressed for me.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice urgent.

  ‘You dressed so this would happen right here in your office.’

  ‘Yes. I did. I did.’

  This confession made him thrust into her so hard he felt the first ominous pulse at the root of his cock. ‘To make me do this. To make me wild for you. To make me want you so much.’

  She closed her eyes and squeezed his fingers with her hands and then pressed them into her bosom. ‘Yes. You know I did.’

  ‘To make me fuck you on the floor.’

  ‘Yes!’

  He rolled her under his weight and began to ram his hips into her from behind. His hands were trapped inside hers now, under the weight of her jolting body, and he could feel the jelly of her breasts on his knuckles and wrists. He powered himself from his thighs and lower back. His exposed stomach and groin made a slapping sound so loudly against her naked buttocks and back, it began to sound like a hand was administering discipline in the doctor’s office.

  She was crying out, too; every time his sex packed and stuffed itself through her most intimate place, she yelled, ‘Oh!’ And then the doctor began to mutter to herself in between the deep groans that followed. He pulled the scarf from her smeared mouth so he could hear her say, ‘Handle me. Fuck me. Take me. Handle me.’ Her eyes had closed and her monologue remained continuous until she came. As she climaxed, she pushed her backside into the thrusts from his hips, grinding herself in tight to increase the friction of their coupling.

  He pulled the doctor’s hands out from beneath her, and then clutched them in the small of her back with one hand. ‘Hard in here,’ he said, his face wet with sweat. ‘And then much harder in the other place. To teach you what happens when you do this for me.’

  ‘No, no, you bastard!’ she shrieked.

  ‘Yes!’ he cried out. And with her squashed flat, cuffed and hand-held beneath him, on the rug in her fine office, Angel ground himself inside another of the beautiful creatures that never ceased to haunt his dreams. ‘Ready for me? Ready for my come? There is so much.’

  ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ she said into the rug, face-down, muffled again.

  Out it pulsed and shot; a stream, a gush, a continuous scalding of his pipes. ‘There. Oh, yes. There it is. All of it inside you.’ Flooded, spread, splayed, squashed, used by the degenerate needs of a savage, the doctor wept, lost in the ecstasy of being handled.

  THE LAST STRAW

  Christina Shelly

  About the Author

  Christina Shelly is a relatively new author to Nexus, and we hope she’s going to stick around for a while to come. Her stories of extreme male submission, featuring initiations into the worlds of transvestism, spanking, adult babies and mummification – in fact just about every possible way to humiliate the male – are drenched in a compelling sense of erotic arousal. It’s plain from the following extract just how much Christina enjoys her writing!

  Also by Christina Shelly

  SILKEN SLAVERY

  DENIS WATCHED HELEN, his beautiful, sad-eyed wife, prepare for work. Sitting nervously on the edge of the large bed that dominated their bedroom, he beheld her with a mixture of despair and desire. There had been yet another argument, this time during lunch, and the last fifteen minutes had passed in painful silence. The argument had been tediously familiar, tired ground worn down another few inches. An argument about money and work. An argument about him. Weak, pathetic Denis: unemployed for two years now following a nervous breakdown; a pale, frail, vaguely feminine man who, at thirty, was perhaps unemployable; an intense neurotic whose anxieties and fears had left him virtually housebound. Yet even in the closed environment of the house he was useless.

  ‘I can’t take much more of this,’ Helen said, her first words since the bitter exchange over vegetable soup and French bread.

  He nodded weakly, relieved that at least she was talking again. His sad, pale-blue eyes met her own dark-brown orbs of fierce contempt through the full-length wardrobe mirror she faced while combing her lovely coal-black hair.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

  She sighed wearily. ‘You’re always sorry. But nothing ever happens. You still just sit there all day, biting your fingernails and doing nothing. No cleaning, no cooking, no effort. Just worry, anxiety, inertia. I can’t take it any more. I can’t work and be the perfect housewife. Particularly with my job. You should understand that by now, Denis. You have to help!’

  He nodded again, knowing this would change nothing, knowing this was merely the prelude to another wasted day watching rubbish television and eating junk food. He nodded and felt the stark truth of his utter humiliation before the woman he loved, a humiliation he appeared powerless to overcome. He stared helplessly at Helen and realised he was on the verge of throwing his marriage away. But it seemed he could do nothing: he was frozen by a strange, dark fear and a remorseless self-pity.

  Helen, near to tears, threw down the hairbrush and moved to the large mahogany dressing table to fix her make-up. She was dressed in only a white silk bra, matching panties and black, seamed tights. He swallowed hard and tried somewhat hypocritically to resist the inevitable arousal this lovely spectacle inspired. Guilt and desire indulged in a brief tug of war that left guilt rolling in the mud and Denis with a violent erection.

  His wife, his wonderful wife, just two weeks past her twenty-fourth birthday. His junior by six years. A tall, slim, athletic brunette with a shapely and carefully trained figure, the highlights of which were a pair of exquisitely ample breasts and the longest, sexiest legs imaginable, legs now wrapped in the scented embrace of the sheer black nylon tights and beautifully accentuated by their impressively straight seams.

  He watched hungrily as she crossed her legs impatiently and began applying a little blusher to the golden flesh of her perfect cheeks. His eyes were drawn to the strips of darker nylon that covered her cherry-red toenails. Briefly, he recalled the sensual feel of this second skin against her warm thighs. Nylon on flesh: the interaction of artifice and nature. He also remembered clandestine trips to this room during so many bored, lacklustre afternoons, afternoons in which he had found himself exploring her private drawers, caressing the soft nylons, the electric silks, the tingling satins, to find in the tactile experience of her most intimate garments a substitute for her body, the body denied him for nearly six weeks.

  ‘No work, no sex,’ she had said to him, the first sign that his helpless laziness was a real threat to their marriage. A practical response from a practical woman from a particularly practical family. And so the terrible tension that had built up between them had been heightened by a deeper, more physical frustration. And his own response had been to withdraw deeper into the inert world of petty neurosis that now so completely dominated his life.

  He watched. He could only watch. Watch and remember, watch and indulge an increasingly fetishistic sexuality, a substitute sexuality. Yet he was vaguely aware that in this fetishism there was something more than the recent sting of sexual denial. In some way he felt that fetishism had always been in him, a part of his sexuality, but denied, repressed, sublimated in the joys of a superbly physical partner.

  ‘And it’s not just me, Denis,’ his wife continue
d. ‘It’s Mummy, too.’

  Denis felt himself physically shrink at the mention of Helen’s mother. Her terrible mother: a beautiful but grimly threatening sword that hung so eagerly over his head. The woman who seemed to have bought shares in their marriage and had tried to manage it ever since they stepped out of the register office. The woman whose considerable personal fortune, inherited from a long-dead, older husband, had purchased the house they lived in and paid the larger bills that Helen’s small National Health Service salary could not meet. The woman who had effectively replaced Denis as the breadwinner, who had taken over the role of financial manager with a disturbing enthusiasm, and who made no secret of her contempt for Denis.

  ‘She won’t put up with this much longer,’ Helen said, tears filling her beautiful eyes. ‘You know how she feels about you. You know she wants me to divorce you. Either that or –’

  ‘Or what?’ he snapped, gripped by a sudden, rare anger.

  Once again he found himself staring at her reflection as she faced his, her eyes glistening with a deep-rooted annoyance, her cherry lips quivering, her lovely face red with shame and bitterness. We are miles apart, he thought, unable to touch, unable to face each other except through the mediation of a mirror.