by D. L. King
“A gentleman ought not talk about those things.” He said it with such primness that she broke into laughter.
“And what a gentleman you are, with such a thing in your hands!”
Mercer was holding a smaller phallus now. It was slender and only as long as her own small hand, but otherwise it was identical to the first. He fixed it to a second mechanical arm.
“I’m not a gentleman,” he admitted, “but I do try to do my best.”
He pulled the opening in the crotch of her drawers wider. He was polite, but she knew that he was looking, too, and that pleased her more than it should have.
She braced herself on all fours as his gloved fingers pushed at her rear hole. He had used oil and he had even warmed it in his hands, but she flinched as he eased one finger inside.
“Have a care,” she said, breathing deeply.
He murmured an apology, but he continued, drawing his finger in and out until she was softened enough that he could add another. She shifted her weight on the couch, easing back against him and forcing herself to relax.
Mercer was so slow and gentle that she felt her eyes drifting closed as she was rocked back and forth by the motion of his hand. Almost without noticing it, she fell forward on her elbows and arched her back. It put her ass up even higher and Mercer made a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a moan.
“So beautiful,” he said quietly, and she wanted to ask if he said that to all the commander’s whores.
He withdrew his fingers, and for a moment, she felt empty. Then she felt the oiled head of the second phallus pushing against her opening and Victoria wondered if it wasn’t too much after all.
“It feels larger than it looks,” she said, grunting as it started to push in.
“Yes,” he said agreeably. “That’s usually the way of it.”
The thought of the polite young secretary with his pants down around his ankles and his ass high in the air caused a rush of heat to come to her cheeks. The leather phallus was moving more slowly than the first one had, and even as she felt herself open to it, she glanced back at Mercer.
“Oh, aye?” she said softly. “Do you know, then?”
The change on his face was gorgeous. His lips parted and the color came up to his cheeks. It was all the answer that she needed, but he nodded.
Victoria smiled, rocking her hips gently. The head of the phallus popped past the tight ring of muscle and she groaned. His hands were parting the cheeks of her ass so that the mechanism could enter her more smoothly, but she reached back and grabbed his sleeve.
“Have you been where I am?” she asked huskily. “Bent over with a machine fucking you the way a man would?”
He licked his lips (oh, that lovely pink tongue, what she could do with that!) and he nodded again.
“The commander…the commander has varied tastes.”
“No wonder you’re so good with this—ahhh!”
The phallus entered her to the hilt. It was sunk deep, and her fingernails dug into the velvet cushions. It wasn’t wide, but it was long, and she had to fight the urge to pull away.
“Shh, shh, there, it’s all in,” he said, stroking her hair. He was still making fine adjustments to the machine, and it withdrew slightly. She squirmed, but Mercer put a gentle hand on her waist, keeping her still.
“Did you like it?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
“I screamed the house down,” he whispered back. “Yes.”
The machine whirred to life and she felt the vibrations of the pistons built into the chair just a second before the phallus started thrusting into her.
These strokes were long and smooth, with none of the increasingly quick movements that she had experienced before. It really was getting her ready, she thought. When a man came to fuck her, he would find her well prepared. She wondered what it was like to fuck someone who had been opened so precisely.
Victoria glanced at Mercer, who was watching the machine intently, and suddenly, she longed to see him bent over and taking a good fucking. She wanted to see that polite mouth open in a scream of pleasure and she wanted to see him bury his face in the cushions and submit to it no matter how embarrassed he was.
“You’re smiling,” he said quietly, and she laughed. Or at least, she started to, but it came out a moan instead. The machine’s tempo hadn’t changed, but she was rocking back on it. It was extraordinary to fall back on the thrust and fullness of the machine without feeling a man’s hands on her hips and his balls bouncing against her ass, and she groaned in surprise at the pleasure it brought her.
She knew she could depend on the steadiness of the rhythm, and she balanced her weight on one elbow, reaching between her thighs with her free hand. Victoria knew that Mercer saw what she was doing, because he drew breath suddenly and sharply. He couldn’t have seen much, with her drawers in the way, but he had to know what her hand disappearing between her legs meant.
Victoria focused on how full she felt as she played with her clit. It was sore, but deliciously so, and she thought about the machine, built for the enjoyment of a man she hadn’t even met yet, but built for her enjoyment too; oh, yes, because she was quickly falling in love with it.
Soon she was plunging two fingers in and out of her wet cunt, loving the ache of being so well used. Her mind was full with the hum of the machine, and the way the vibrations traveled throughout her whole body.
She suddenly thought of both of the pistoning arms arranged to fill her in both holes at once and she shrieked as she came, convulsing around her fingers and around the phallus that was still moving in and out of her with the beat of a dedicated military drummer.
Her own cries echoed in her ears and it felt like the bones in her body would no longer support her. Distantly, she was aware of the machine slowing and then stopping as Mercer flipped a few switches.
Victoria whimpered when it pulled out of her completely, and then she curled over on her side, watching as Mercer tended to the machine.
“When will the commander be seeing me?” she asked lazily. She had almost forgotten she was here for a job.
“He won’t be,” Mercer said, folding the mechanical arms away. “Or, well, he already has.”
Victoria sat up, ignoring a twinge in her nethers.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded, but she thought she might already know.
“As I mentioned before,” Mercer said, a rueful smile tugging at his lips, “the commander is a man of diverse tastes.”
“He’s been watching.”
“Yes. It’s what he does. Don’t worry, you’ll certainly get paid.”
Victoria bit her lip. As diverting as the machine had been, it wasn’t the kept position that she was looking for.
Mercer looked up at her. He had rolled up his sleeves to deal with the machinery, but the gloves, glossy with lubricant and smelling of her, were still on his hands.
“If I know anything about the commander’s tastes, and I think I do,” he murmured, “I think he’s quite enjoyed himself, and that he will be requesting you in the future.”
“Well, I certainly hope so,” she said. “Anything you think I could do to sweeten my chances?”
Mercer’s quick glance at the machine told her that there certainly was, and she smiled. A few moments before, she thought that she was done for at least an hour, and now she was looking at some of the other arms of the fainting couch speculatively.
“Tell me which one is your favorite,” she said, “and we’ll go from there.”
THE PERFECT GIRL
Jay Lawrence
We call her Crepe de Chine. There’s no point speaking to her. She doesn’t understand English.”
“Perfect. I find it spoils things when they talk.”
“As you wish, sir.”
I crouched on the vast mahogany bed on all fours like a dog. Warm air caressed my naked buttocks. My drawers were lowered, skirt and petticoat raised. The madam retreated, pausing in the doorway to swiftly count the p
rice of my humiliation, then the door closed with a soft click. We were alone, my Mr. Friday Night, his veiled lady friend and me.
“Are you obedient, I wonder, Crepe de Chine.”
The man voiced his question as a statement. In fact, I understood English perfectly well, having come from Peckham not Paris, but Mrs. James liked her girls exotic and mute. I bowed my head, auburn curls cascading over white shoulders. The man removed his jacket and took a turnip watch from his waistcoat pocket. Outside, a locomotive thundered past and I wondered if he was a railway enthusiast. The tall, slightly gimcrack house trembled and the solid bed vibrated in sympathy. A cloud of soot and steam stained the bedroom window. My nipples pressed against the stringent embrace of my chemise, stays laced extratight, hard enough to make my breathing fast and light as I panted in the heat of the blazing fire in the grate. I was indeed obedient. It paid very well.
“Touch the girl’s bottom.”
Mr. Friday gestured and his companion took a dainty, rather stiff step forward. It wasn’t very unusual for a gent to bring another girl along but usually it was another slut, a popular male fantasy being watch-two-girls-at-play or sometimes watchmy-slut-being-whipped-by-another-whore. I didn’t mind. I liked the satiny, cushiony feel of another naked girl. I liked their smell of musk and sweet scent and sweat. Gloved hands patted and appraised my rear. I arched my spine and moaned quietly, theatrically. The girl’s touch felt a little awkward, inexperienced but keen. Pat. Pat. Pat.
“Explore, Victoria. Find the wet place between the girl’s legs.”
I helpfully raised my behind and parted my thighs, anticipating the feel of buttery suede against my rapidly moistening quim. Sometimes clients get you going, often they don’t. This man and his rather well-behaved girl did. Surprisingly strong fingers stroked my wet cleft. I closed my eyes and ground my hips, using the girl like a toy, pleasuring myself. Suddenly, she slid two fingers deep inside me and I yelped, more from surprise than discomfort. She smelled a little odd. What was it? Mothballs. I opened my eyes and stole a glance at her. Good heavens, she had to be over six feet tall! She was rather angular, dressed in schoolmistressy navy blue, her black glossy hair swept back in ravenlike wings beneath a small veiled hat. I could not see her face for the heavy lace, just a hint of strong cheekbones and a wide voluptuous mouth. The jacket of her costume was primly buttoned right up to her chin.
“Good, Victoria.”
Mr. Friday sounded as if he was praising a small child for learning to tie her bootlaces. Victoria nodded almost imperceptibly then abruptly withdrew her fingers, sliding them out of my willing pussy with a satisfying plop. I pouted and wriggled so that my nipples pushed against the lacy trim of my chemise, creamy, full breasts threatening to spill. I thought about being spanked, not too hard, enough to turn my buttocks a lovely shade of rose like a cherub’s blush. Mr. Friday seemed to be consulting his pocket watch again. Perhaps he was one of those academic types—was I an experiment? Maybe the rather haughty girl in attendance was his laboratory assistant, ready to take down my particulars, each gasp and moan elicited by her long, firm fingers recorded in a special book.
“Touch the girl’s breasts, Victoria.”
The smell of camphor grew stronger. Poor girl—did the professor pay her so shabbily that she had to resort to secondhand clothes? She smelled like an old lady on a rare Sunday outing. I sat back and let her explore my ample bosom. Slowly, she undid the ribbons of my chemise and lifted the mounds of flesh free, holding them first with one hand, then with both hands, as if gauging their size and weight. I wondered if her old man had a portable set of scales with him. I could tell them the size all right. They were like melons. My nipples looked full, puffy and pink in the reddish light from the leaping flames. I wondered if Mr. Friday’s cock was hard and whether it strained against the front of his trousers, but I didn’t dare look. Miss Prim’s hands massaged my breasts, and I now moaned quite genuinely, no theatricals required. The girl had strong hands. I noticed how big they were, almost like a man’s but more delicately shaped.
“Good, Victoria,” repeated Mr. Friday. Victoria’s hands left my quivering, aching tits and I felt like crying. My thighs were wet, sweet musky juice dribbling from the source of my pleasure. I wondered if Victoria could wield a bamboo cane, imagined her stern, governessy figure switching a delicate pattern of scarlet welts onto my helpless behind.
“Now step back.”
The room was very quiet and rapidly becoming stiflingly hot. Victoria withdrew, stumbling slightly on the fringe of the thick Turkey rug. Mr. Friday caught her arm to steady her and again she nodded, a small, curt inclination of her head. I wondered what was next as he referred to his watch again. My breasts and pussy throbbed, fully aroused but painfully neglected. I needed release. Perhaps he was observing the effects of intense stimulus followed by deprivation on the common or garden bordello slut. I tossed my curls and moved my hands toward my quim. I could smell myself, an intoxicating mix of strong musk and lily of the valley scent. It wouldn’t take much to send me over the edge of pleasure…. I thought of the wide voluptuous mouth behind the modesty veil. I imagined full moist lips against my fat shiny bud, teasing, kissing, licking, sucking, bringing me to the climax of my twenty years. But no.
Sir and madam retreated to a corner of the red room, which resembled a velvety cell with its heavy brocade drapes, thick rugs and steadily blazing coals. I knew Mr. Friday would get annoyed if I frigged my nubbin, so I hung my head and let my curls swing in wanton abandon, a harlot, a hussy, a slut fit for spanking. It didn’t work. Mr. Friday rummaged in a carpetbag.
What was inside? A set of brass calipers to measure the width of my neglected arse? I watched him quizzically as he finally retrieved a large ball of string. Oh, lord! Did my roses need support? Sighing, I resumed my animal stance, ensuring my tits and bum were more on show than ever. If I’d had a sign reading TITS AND ARSE—PLEASE HELP YOURSELF, I’d have hung it over the bed.
Mr. Friday advanced with the string and began to wrap it round my wrists. Hmm, usually gents who liked that trick would do it with a length of cord or fine silk, not common garden twine. I hoped it wouldn’t slice into my skin. I had to work as a pretty thing, not a badly wrapped parcel.
The girl held back, silently observing her professor as he stooped and wrapped, tied and retied and generally turned me into a game of cat’s cradle. When he had finished, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I had had some odd things done to me since joining Mrs. James’s establishment, but this took the biscuit.
Another train passed and, again, the building shook to its crumbly foundations. My feeble bonds seemed to sing in response. I discovered that, flimsy as the string appeared, any attempt to move was rewarded with a sharp stab of pain. Hmm, I hadn’t taken Mr. Friday for a sadistic sort. I frowned in his direction, but he didn’t appear to notice. My eyes grew wide as he delved in his portmanteau and proudly retrieved a large oak paddle. Ouch! So, I was to have my poor unprotected arse slapped crimson with a polished implement straight from a home for wicked girls, was I?
Involuntarily, I clenched my buttocks tight and waited for prof to give Victoria the nod. I thought of her strong, almost manly grip. I wondered if her wrist matched her hand—powerful, measured strength. It would be a long, tear-inducing paddling of my humble rear… Mr. Friday’s voice changed.
“Victoria—bend over.”
Was I hearing things? So, I wasn’t to be the whipping girl? I watched with an odd mixture of relief and annoyance as my client guided his silent girl to the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Meekly she knelt on it, having flipped her skirt and petticoat up to reveal prim starched drawers. Her bottom looked firm and taut beneath the plain white linen. A paddling would surely leave painful welts on such a trim, lightly padded behind. I began to feel sorry for the girl and hoped she was being well rewarded for her trouble. Or maybe she was madly in love with her tormentor, eccentric as he seemed. I waited for him to unfasten and drop her drawers but he di
dn’t. Ha! So she wasn’t to take it on the bare. Was that for reasons of modesty or to avoid leaving marks that someone else might see?
I almost felt superior, my own bottom royally bared and bosoms on full display. I crouched, fully trussed, waiting with bated breath for the first stroke to fall. Mr. Friday carefully removed his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves. The action excited me, sent a stirring rush of fresh blood to my quim. He was stronger than he looked. I watched the sinews on his forearms as he flexed and made a few practice swings with the paddle. It resembled a small cricket bat. Miss Prim didn’t bat an eyelid beneath her lacy veil. I gave her that—she was a plucky one all right.
Mr. Friday moved to the foot of the bed. I could sense his excitement—he had left the starchy rigmarole of bossing Victoria behind and was ready for the main event of tanning her naughty little arse. I held my breath and realized that my heart was beating strong and fast. He raised the paddle and smartly brought it down against the back of Miss Haughty’s thighs with a satisfying thwack.
I braced for a howl but the room remained quiet. The only sound was the crackling and hissing of the fire in the grate. Thwack. She still maintained a stoic silence, and they were not gentle strokes. I found that each time he raised the paddle I braced myself and the string tightened about me like a twiney web. I winced yet could not help myself. I wanted her paddling for myself. Thwack, thwack, thwack. I jolted rhythmically with each sharp retort against the girl’s well-starched, no doubt throbbing behind. How could she bear it? I began to be mesmerized, trapped in the steady rhythm of wood meeting linen-clothed skin, imagining the fiery heat beneath, the burning, the terrible flaming pain. On and on, thwack and jolt, my Lilliputian bonds tightening and relaxing, rhythmically squeezing my helpless tender flesh. I was a fly trapped in a spider’s web. Thwack, silence, fire, jolt, squeeze. Heat, flesh, bonds, wood, soft sweet skin. Helpless, I realized I was reaching a monstrous climax. He hadn’t touched me. She hadn’t touched me. My eyes were transfixed on the final savage smack of oak on firm, unbending flesh. I cried out, cunt on fire, body crisscrossed with a maze of scarlet tracks. He had whipped his girl and I had scored my own flesh in my jolting, unrequited lust.