by Sarah Steel
She cooked beans on toast. Not very much in the Yuletide tradition, but she was hungry and ate them greedily. They sat at the kitchen table side by side, almost touching. Still naked, with his wrists bound behind his back, Roy had to watch his supper grow cold as Santa finished hers, then turned to feed him. She peppered and salted his beans vigorously. He grimaced as the first forkful skimmed his lips. Santa was stern. Roy swallowed them obediently but refused to open his mouth for any more.
'You will eat them, my boy. Every last one of them. I've cooked them specially for you. Now open wide.'
Roy shook his head vehemently and twisted his face away. 'Bad boy,' she snarled. Dragging her chair away from the table, he hauled him across her fishnet-sheathed thighs. The spanking was brisk and quite brutal, her black latexed hand leaving his helpless cheeks crimson after a relentless flurry of crisp swipes. He squirmed and bucked across her lap but Santa was very firm, pinning him down and showing no mercy to his bare bottom. Twenty-six spanks later, she paused, fingering his hot cleft dominantly.
'Santa wants to know if her little man is hungry. Hm? Or does she have to make him really squeal for his supper?'
Broken, Roy sobbed his surrender. She guided the forkful to his lips and smiled as he swallowed obediently. She fed him until the plate was empty, then forced him to lick it clean. Still across her warm lap, he slumped in absolute submission.
'And don't you ever disobey Santa again,' she whispered, probing his sphincter with her index finger. 'I'm going to show you exactly what happens to naughty, disobedient little boys.'
Easing him down from her lap, she stood up, turned, then bent down to arrange him belly-down across the kitchen chair - making sure to trap his cock against the soft plastic seat. Dominating him - one gloved hand pinioning him down between his shoulder-blades - she spanked him again. The ringing blows echoed around the kitchen. She paused and stretched out for the condiments, then liberally sprinkled both black pepper and sea salt into his cleft. Writhing in renewed paroxysms of agony, Roy bellowed like a penned bull. The latex-gloved hand revisited his cheeks, swiftly delivering a final stinging salvo of a dozen harsh spanks.
With both buttocks blistered to her complete satisfaction, Santa mounted her weeping slave, kneeling on his back - a gloved hand taloning each shoulder - and trapping and squeezing his spanked cheeks between her leather boots. As the cool hide crushed his hot buttocks, she felt his naked body beneath her jerk and spasm across the kitchen chair. Riding him furiously, she pinned him ruthlessly until she sensed his body slacken, signalling the end of his agonisingly delicious ejaculation into the plastic seat. Dismounting, she grasped a handful of his hair and peeled him away from the chair, noting with satisfaction his wet belly and chest.
She watched late-night American football on Channel 5 while he slept. She wandered into his room and inspected him twice during the commercials as he lay naked and asleep. On her third visit, he stirred and gazed up at her, his eyes wide with servile adoration.
Santa raised her right leg up onto the bed, guiding the polished leather toe of her boot to his lips. Roy rose up eagerly to greet it, open-mouthed, but she trod his face down firmly into the pillow. 'Santa wants a little sleep,' she murmured.
Roy struggled free and pulled the duvet down, patting the sheet in a gesture of welcome.
'No,' she said sternly. 'I will take the bed; you can sleep on the floor.'
Moments later, she plumped the pillows and, sighing, peered down at her red-bottomed slave shivering on the carpet.
'Let me know if you are cold, won't you? Santa will soon find a way of warming you up.'
Roy shuddered - not from the cold, but from the promise of instant heat.
After he had brought her tea and toast, the following morning, she donned her red tunic, allowing him to finger it devotedly as he knelt down before her.
'Santa comes from Lapland,' she whispered, gently inching up the white fur-trimmed hem of her outfit. 'So lap.'
He shuffled forward on his knees and pressed his face into her exposed pubis, tonguing her nest and kiss-worshipping her pussy through the stretch of her black fishnet tights. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, snuffing up her feral scent.
'Lap,' she commanded, jerking her hips and smothering his face completely.
Roy whimpered, tormented by the sheen of the fishnets stretched across her hot sex. Maddened by the salty tang of her slit at his tongue tip, he longed to savour it raw. Devoting himself to the task of pleasing her - of pleasuring his strict Santa - he licked and sucked with increasing frenzy. Hampered by being bound by the wrists once more, he could not peel down the dark tights, or cup her soft buttocks and hug her to his face. Yearning to embrace her, and hold her tightly, his hands twisted in their tormenting bondage above his bare bottom. Soon, like a true slave, he found the suffering to be sweet - and thrilled to relish his desires being denied. Forced to kneel, naked and bound, he could only serve her with his lips and tongue.
Buckling slightly, Santa twisted her left boot inwards. Her polished leather boot grazed his cock. He spurted instantly, drenching her inner, upper thigh with his hot seed. The semen soaked into her fishnet mesh, causing it to glisten at her flesh.
'Naughty,' she whispered sternly, tapping his nose with her fingertip. 'Now look what you've done. I'm the one who's supposed to fill stockings. Not you mine.'
Pushing him aside disdainfully, she unzipped her boots, kicked them off and palmed down her sticky mesh tights. Presenting her hungry slit to his upturned face, she beckoned him dominantly with her curled index finger.
'Now get busy,' she ordered him, adding, 'there is a belt in the bedroom. If you need any encouragement, I will supply it.'
Two and a half minutes later, his chin was wet with her juice.
Lapping, sucking and tonguing her savagely, he served her with submissive adoration.
Soon Santa was snarling softly. Rising up on her toes, she repeatedly wiped her labia down over his upturned face. 'Santa's coming,' she hissed, gripping her latexed fingers into him with vicious tenderness. 'You've been a good little boy. Santa always comes to good little boys.'
Silken Manacles
Safira had slept fitfully. In the distant blue hills surrounding her desert city, the jackals had cried all night. A lone silk merchant must have strayed from the track and perished. The jackals had been yapping as they quarrelled over his bones. Safira gazed from her narrow window, shading her eyes against the fierce sun. Yes. There in the haze, up in the azure sky, black specks betrayed the arrival of vultures, circling slowly over their skeletal feast in the rocks below.
Reaching out for her little brass bell, Safira shook it impatiently. The shrill tinkling brought a scamper of naked feet up the marble stairs. A soft tap on the cedar wood door was followed by the entrance of Nubia, Safira's slave girl.
'I will bathe,' the golden-limbed beauty announced, stretching her nakedness luxuriously in the milk-warm air. 'Be ready to oil and perfume me and dress me for the day.'
Safira, only daughter of the high priest, lived a life of absolute selusion and was denied all companionship other than Nubia, her loyal slave. One day, soon, Safira would be anointed priestess to serve in the temple, alongside her father. The laws of the temple were strict. Safira must never know the company of men, or ever let her flesh be polluted by theirs.
In the secluded courtyard, behind the high walls which cast dark purple shadows even at noon, Safira bathed in the topaz waters of the small pool. Around the pool, green onyx frogs gazed unblinkingly through their diamond eyes. An ibis, the sacred bird, fashioned from beaten gold, kept evil spirits at bay.
Safira floated silently on the surface, her breasts proud and glistening. Her dark hair streamed out behind her. Between her parted thighs, her dark pubic nest spangled in the sunlight. Nubia knelt, head bowed, beside the pool while her mistress bathed. Only eighteen summers old, Nubia feared yet adored her older mistress - and felt a keen sorrow for Safira's exile from the teeming life b
eyond the high, imprisoning walls. Outside, in the bustling desert city, trade was brisk in slaves, silks, spices and gold. Whole oxen were roasted in the open market place, and bronzed men gambled and drank dark wine while beautiful girls baked fresh white bread. Lewd pipes and goatskin drums maddened the streets with sensual music - and the very air was delicious with perfume.
'The scent of sin,' Safira's father would warn his daughter solemnly. 'The stench of carnal pleasures. But you will never be sullied, Safira. You will remain pure and be fit to serve Aphrodite as her virgin priestess.'
Nubia recalled his many stern warnings and felt sad for her beautiful mistress, who was doomed to be forever denied all the pleasures of the flesh.
'Stop dreaming, girl. Night is the proper time for dreams,' Safira snapped, clapping her hands sharply. 'Bring me my towel.'
Nubia was at the edge of the topaz pool before her mistress, her golden nakedness gleaming, had risen from the dancing waters. The soft Egyptian towel embraced the dark-haired bather, clinging amorously to her ripely rounded breasts and heavy buttocks.
'Dry me, girl.'
Nubia patted the towel gently, drying the bather's breasts, belly and hips. Reaching out with encircling arms, she cupped Safira's swollen cheeks and dried them, parting the soft buttocks and driving the towel into the cleft with her fingertips. Safira grunted softly then parted her thighs.
'Dry me there,' she commanded. 'But be careful. I will be inspected by the elders in the temple before they anoint me. If that skein of silken skin that guards my maidenhead is damaged they will cast me out from Aphrodite's hallowed ground.'
Nubia - who had been deliciously deflowered by a camel driver - gazed into the green eyes of her mistress and nodded. 'I will be careful, mistress.'
Kneeling, she peeled the towel away from Safira's naked body and, pinching up a corner of the exquisitely soft Egyptian cotton, dabbed it gently up between Safira's parted thighs. The green eyes widened and then closed tightly. Safira hissed and rose up on tiptoe, then reached out blindly to talon Nubia's hair as the towel kissed her pouting labia.
'Be more careful, wretched girl.'
Nubia squealed and squirmed as her mistress's hand punished her hair. Twisting to escape, she jerked the soft cotton upwards, rasping the tiny pink clitoris.
Safira moaned sweetly - a soft note from a song of sorrow. 'If you are not more careful, girl, I will take the whip to you.'
Stretched face-down on her damask divan, Safira ordered her slave girl to commence oiling her. Nubia knelt down alongside her mistress, her fingertips glistening with rose-scented oil. Working the unction into Safira's thighs, Nubia became absorbed in her task.
'You were outside the walls yesterday, in the city, girl.'
'Yes, mistress.'
'You went to the silver merchants, did you not?'
'Yes, mistress. Your father sent me to purchase two silver rings.'
'Did you get the rings?'
'No, mistress. The Persians, knowing I bore your father's purse, asked too much. I will return and beat them down to forty oblats.'
'You are wise for your years. You know much of the world.'
Nubia suddenly remembered the fierce breath of the camel driver at her lips - and his hands at her buttocks - and smiled.
'What was the city like? Busy?'
Nubia knew she was Safira's eyes, nostrils, mouth and ears. All the sights, tastes, sounds - were forbidden to the mistress but not to her slave-girl.
'There was trouble in the slave market,' Nubia replied, slowly palming the oil into Safira's buttocks.
'Trouble?' the mistress echoed, her voice sharp with interest.
'Two young slaves, brought in from beyond the Blue Mountains, slipped their chains just as they were being auctioned. Money had been exchanged between the slave owner and their new mistress. The vizier was summoned to settle the dispute.'
'Who was found to be at fault?'
'The woman, the wife of the Sultan's bodyguard, petitioned the vizier, claiming that she should have her money returned.'
'And what did the vizier decide?' Safira murmured, offering her buttocks up to the firmly massaging hand.
'The slave owner kept her gold in his purse and said it was her misfortune that the two girls had escaped.'
'An interesting problem for the wise vizier,' Safira remarked.
'He ordered a search to be made. The runaways were quickly found and dragged back to the market place. As they were stripped naked, a wooden table from the wine house was brought out. The vizier ordered the naked slave girls to be forced across the table. The slave owner took his whip and gave them twenty lashes. They squealed and cried—'
'What kind of whip did he use to punish them with?' Safira demanded. 'A camel whip?'
'Yes, mistress. It snapped most cruelly across their buttocks, leaving its red mark across their dark flesh.'
'And?'
Nubia dragged her oiled fingertip slowly down Safira's cleft, thrilling to the touch of the silken buttocks as they tightened, trapping her finger between their swollen warmth. 'The vizier then took the camel whip and ordered the wife of the Sultan's bodyguard to flog the runaways. She was fierce, mistress,' Nubia whispered. 'The whipped girls squealed like suckling pigs under the sacrificial knife.'
Safira shivered and eased herself down into the divan. Her cheeks slackened, allowing Nubia's oiled fingertip to probe and enter her rosebud sphincter.
'All the music and laughter ceased. Even the jingling of the harnessed steeds fell silent. Only the brutal crack of the slicing whip and the squeals of the punished slaves could be heard throughout the market place.'
Nubia paused and slowly extracted her long finger. Dipping it into the pot of rose oil, she guided it back into Safira's sphincter, plunging it in deeply.
'Be careful, girl. Remember the whip.'
Nubia eased her finger out slowly and stroked Safira's cleft.
'And after the punishment of the slave girls, what was decided?' the mistress demanded.
'The vizier confiscated the money from the slave owner to pay to the city coffers and took the naked slave girls away with him.'
'For what purpose?'
'He led them away, red-bottomed and stumbling, proclaiming that he would enjoy them both before sunset.'
That night, the yapping of the jackals as they returned to their bleached bones drove sleep far from Safira's eyes. The air was warm and sticky. Restless, she tossed and twisted on her silken sheets, haunted by the memory of Nubia's account of the whipped slaves. Her yearning became like a hunger inside her. It was not the hunger of the belly that cold roasted fowls or sweet dates could assuage: it was a deeper craving, further down below her belly. An aching between her thighs.
She sipped some wine and nibbled at green grapes. But the thought of the whipping in the market place returned, causing her nipples to rise up and plague her with a pleasurable pain. Safira's wine-wet lips parted in a snarl. Inching her fingertips down to her dark pubic fringe, she gently strummed her outer labia, splaying the thick fleshy lips apart before raking her wet heat with a fingernail. Her hips jerked and her bottom pounded the silken sheets as her fingernail caught and rasped her exposed clitoris.
She knew she was on the very brink of danger. If she allowed her dabbling fingers to remain at her sex, she would tumble into the pit of shame - and exile from Aphrodite's temple. If her fingers probed her inner warmth, the badge of her honour would break, and her father's wrath would be extreme.
Scrambling across her silken bed, Safira snatched up the little brass bell and rattled it vigorously. Almost instantly, Nubia came to the bedchamber, her eyes wide with concern.
'Mistress?'
'I am lonely, girl. I would have company this night. Stay with me. Tell me more of the city. Talk to me of its delights until I fall asleep.'
'What of the city shall I speak?' Nubia murmured, sniffing the air of the bedchamber and shivering as her nostrils caught the odour of Safira's wet excitement. 'Mi
stress,' she whispered suddenly, 'you have not—'
'No, girl. But the temptation is almost too great. What is to be done?'
'Let me help, mistress,' the loyal slave girl replied. 'If I bind your hands together with manacles of silk, no harm can come to your maidenhead.'
'Wise words, girl. Let it be done.' Safira submitted her wrists up for their silken bondage, resting them together upon her naked bosom.
'No, mistress. Not there. Your fingers will stray to play with the buds of your breasts and be tempted - as the fingers of one walking through a ripening orchard are tempted to pluck the red cherry.'
'Can there be no relief for my torment tonight?' Safira wailed.
'Yes. Turn your face down into the silk, mistress.'
Safira obeyed, squashing her breasts into the stretched silk beneath. Nubia selected a length of raw silk, a cubit in width, six cubits long and, arranging Safira's hands above her buttocks, bound them tightly together at the wrists.
'Now, mistress,' she whispered, 'you are safe. And I will stay with you until you sleep. Perhaps I should tell of the men at their sport—'
'Yes,' her mistress hissed excitedly. 'Tell me of the young men at their lustful play.'
'Before sunset and the closure of the city gate, they race their steeds across the hot sands. Faster than the very wind—'
'No,' Safira barked. 'I do no wish to hear of their foolish acts of bravery. Tell me of their wanton sports. When they steal out at night, like cats do, to spill their seed.'
'I know little of that—'
'Liar. I'll whip you at sunrise, girl, if you deny me any more. Tell me at once of the House of Pleasures.'
'I cannot, dare not do so—'
'No? Remember my whip, girl, and how it burns to kiss your soft buttocks.'
'Yes, mistress,' Nubia murmured, sliding alongside Safira on the cool silk bed. 'I will tell you of the House of Pleasures. Your hands are bound tightly. There can be no harm.'