by Fox, Lana
But I’ve adored her for so long that I want this to last.
So I say, ‘Am I domming you, Janey?’
And she says, ‘Of course you are, Mistress.’
‘Is that OK?’ I ask.
She laughs. ‘It’s more than OK. But if anything isn’t OK, I’ll use a safe word.’
That’s how we agree ‘red’ for stop and ‘green’ for keep going.
But once we’ve had that conversation, I don’t really know where to start. I watch her. She watches me. Then I say, ‘Um …’
She smiles. ‘I’ve been a very bad girl. How about some spanking?’
‘Oh,’ I say. Then I think about her delicious bottom. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘spanking. You have been a naughty girl, haven’t you?’
So I make her wait on all fours while I kneel on the carpet. ‘Crawl over my lap,’ I tell her, and she does so with such slowness, her glare fixed on mine, that I feel like she’s the predator and I’m the prey. And maybe that’s what makes it so deliciously hot when I suddenly pull her down into my lap, and she gasps like she wasn’t expecting it.
And oh, God, Kitten, there’s her beautiful bum, rising towards my touch, each cheek so pale and tight and round that I peel down her knickers with a rough desperation and spank her over and over again. My pussy burns more fiercely with every slap, especially when Janey whimpers, turning her head, gazing up with a look of wild delight. I must spank her at least a dozen times … and sometimes she begs for me to go harder; and sometimes she begs for me to fuck her; and sometimes I’m in such a frenzy that I feel as if I’m slapping my pussy – not her bum – the burn of a climax building in my own knickers. In fact, I honestly feel, with Janey’s bare skin against me, and the agony of pleasure in her heavy-lidded eyes, that I could come like an avalanche right now.
But with Janey I want to earn it.
Next, I sit in the leather chair with Janey astride my lap, and she is a schoolgirl and I am her stern teacher, and she teases me with her eyes and sucks her fingers tauntingly, saying, ‘I’m such bad news, Miss. What are you going to do with me, hmm?’ And she pulls her fingers from her mouth, till they are wet with saliva, which she then rubs over her hard pink nipples, so dirtily, so tauntingly, that I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
But what to do next, Kitten? Me being the domme and all? I need to say something rude, right? I need to do something humiliating, yes? So I tell her that I’m going to clean her out because she’s dirty, and I start with her mouth, pushing my own fingers in there, before moving to her sex. There’s something so hot about her wet satin knickers that reaching in and finding that slippery hole is simply the cherry on the cupcake, Kitten. Then, when I ease my fingers into her pussy, where she’s clenching me and writhing against my touch, she catches my wrist and I feel her shudder around it, her eyelids heavy, her breaths coming fast.
You know, she smells like cream in a saucepan, Kitten, warming up, all sweet and thick – and she shivers like she can’t contain herself, Kitten. She purrs and murmurs, ‘Dirty girl …’ And feeling her so slick, Kitten, watching her writhing body, and feeling her muscles clench me, Kitten, as if they want to trap me there … this does something to me – something more than arousal – it makes me a dominatrix, Kitten. It brings me to life.
Suddenly, I make her scrabble from my lap, while I rise, feeling taller than ever. ‘Kneel on the carpet,’ I tell her. ‘Put your fingers in your lap.’ Then I reach behind my back and unclip my bra. Janey gives a little gasp as I peel away the satin cups. I stand with a foot resting on her knee – a foot she isn’t allowed to touch – while I make a slow show of revealing my breasts. Janey’s fingers hover mid-air, as if she doesn’t know what to reach for – my nipples, my shoes, my stiletto heel or my scant little briefs, which aren’t far from her face.
‘I told you,’ I say, coolly, ‘keep your hands in your lap.’ And I fling my bra into her face. She gasps, pulling it from her eyes before fixating on my feet. ‘Oh, Christ,’ she says, softly. She bites her lip. ‘Please let me touch your shoes,’ she murmurs. ‘Please. And lick your toes. Please let me touch your stockings too. I’ll do anything. Anything!’
So I press the sole of my shoe between her breasts, and when she gives a little whimper of longing, I say, ‘All in good time.’
I tell her to lie down, and when she is there I stand astride her, my shoes close to her hands. ‘Still no touching,’ I tell her, as she watches my shoes. And even when I raise my left foot and push my stiletto heel right between her lips, making her suckle it as if she’s a child, I still won’t let her touch me. Oh, Kitten! Seeing her sucking and licking, as if my heel is some delicious candy, makes my pussy burn so deeply that I touch myself through my briefs. I fuck her mouth faster and faster, watching the excitement growing on her face, and I moan as I feel my clit growing harder. Her lips grow wetter, her eyes widen with amazement, but when I notice that she’s touching her pussy, I moan out loud, breaking my cool-headed role.
‘You’d touch yourself in front of me?’ I ask.
‘What are you going to do about it?’ she taunts.
So what I do is stand astride her hips with the sole of my stiletto shoe pressing onto her sex, and I press and circle, press and circle, against her clit. She groans and gasps and rolls her head, thumping her fists on the carpeted floor, crying out for me to keep going, pleading with me to never stop, telling me it’s good, so good, so very good. And even though I keep having to pause, rest my leg and start again, she doesn’t mind the pausing – just keeps begging for more. I get so, so damp with her writhing below me while seeing my shoe rubbing her – and she’s wet too, so much so that my sole feels like it’s moving on oil as I massage her. This is hot! Oh, so hot. I dip my fingers into my underwear as Janey thrusts against me, crying out, her hips bucking wildly, thumping on the floor – and every time I think she’s done with coming, she starts bucking again, madly, eyelids flickering as she howls.
All this is delectable. All this is exquisite. All this is hotter than anything I’ve known.
But the most surprising thing – the thing that takes the biscuit – is when Janey rises to her knees and tells me to lie down, her eyes fierce and catlike. When I’m prone, she kneels next to me and tells me to peel off my knickers. It’s my turn to take it, she tells me. She slides off one of my shoes before running her fingers inside it and biting her lip as she gives a sigh of pleasure. Then she turns it so my stiletto heel is pointing at my groin.
I’m so agonised by the sight of her that I try to touch myself – just for some release from this need – but she pushes my hand away and slides her own fingers inside me. I open my mouth and groan to feel her inside but, as I do so, she gives me a wicked smile, raises the shoe towards my face and presses the stiletto heel between my lips. Then she tells me to hold it there. ‘Suckle,’ she says, and, believe me, I do. I suck on the heel as she fucks me with her fingers and watches me with a burning stare – everything feeling so deliciously dirty that soon my hips are out of control, bucking madly as the climax burns through me, rising, then lulling for a moment, before sweeping me up again. I come and come and keep on coming, as I grit my teeth on the stiletto heel, while her gorgeous thrusting fingers get busy down below. And I’m high as a kite and wet as a river, while the pleasure keeps on surging.
Janey and I lie on the sofa in each other’s arms. She smiles and traces my lips, my jawline, my eyebrows. She lays soft kisses on my mouth and hair. It’s amazing how soft she is – I’d forgotten softness like this. I suppose I was soft like this when I was younger, but her skin seems particularly unsullied. Flawless, except for those black tattoos that are such a joy to kiss and lick.
‘What will you do now?’ she asks me. ‘Are you going to get your job back?’
‘Certainly not,’ I say. Although I’m lost for other ideas.
Janey says, ‘You’d never treat your staff like that if you owned a shoe business.’ Then she watches me, a sideways smile on her face, her eyebrows
on the rise.
‘What are you saying?’ I ask, propping myself up. I run my fingers through her supersoft hair.
‘Well, what if you opened your own store? What if you invested?’
‘I don’t have that kind of money, love.’
Janey raises her head and presses her lips on mine. ‘I, on the other hand, have thousands tucked away.’
‘But that’s your inheritance,’ I say. ‘You can’t use that!’
Janey lowers her eyes. She seems piqued for a moment, until she looks at me again. ‘What if I wasn’t just investing the money for you? What if it was for me? For a dream I have?’ She tells me that before her father died, he told her that he was leaving her a whole chunk of money and that she was to use it on her dream – whatever that happened to be.
‘You dream of opening a shoe store?’ I ask, amazed.
‘Does that shock you?’ she says. Her cheeks have flushed.
‘No!’ Then I think about it. ‘I mean, yes.’ I tell her that I’ve never met anyone more intelligent than her. She’s destined for great things. Not shop work.
‘I think owning a shoe store would be a great thing,’ says Janey, with a smile. ‘Besides, I think I deserve to have some fun with my passion.’
So I tell her I’ll think about it. And I do. I think about it all night as she lies with me in my bed, as I spoon her from behind, kissing the nape of her neck. I dream about our own shop filled with stilettos of peacock-blue, metallic sheens and black-and-white checks.
And I think about how Janey feels so alive in my arms, and how I recently stripped off in the middle of Pussyfoot, before walking butt-naked through the centre of town. And suddenly the world seems very much my oyster. When, finally, I fall asleep, Kitten, I dream that I am a giantess, with huge, red stilettos that are bigger than houses. I dream of gazing down at the people below, all so sad and troubled in their boring, soulless jobs, that they come for miles just to gaze up at me and press their palms on my high-heeled shoes. Some of them polish little circles with their hankies before watching themselves in the reflection. Young folks climb up my needle-heels and slide down the bridge of my foot, squealing and waving their arms as they fly towards my toes.
But sitting on my shoulder is Janey. And she whispers in my ear, ‘Stilettos are whatever you want them to be.’
And she’s right.
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Copyright
Shelley Matthews is married to her job. Which is just as well, as she hasn’t had sex for over a year. But when her editor decides a re-vamp of the magazine is needed, Shelley is forced to go undercover – as a sex addict.
This novella is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Mischief
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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Copyright © Lana Fox 2013
Lana Fox asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook Edition © 2013 ISBN: 9780007509027
Version 1
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