by Jay Lawrence
"I'll bet you're going to come quietly now, Mr. Frost."
The sinuous serpent-like voice barely broke through his consciousness as his straining cock erupted into his underpants, a seemingly impossible quantity of creamy hot semen swiftly soaking his trouser fly. He groaned, hunched-over as if she'd punched him in the gut.
"You bitch. You utter bitch!"
He gasped for breath. His heart pounded in his chest. A queer blend of emotions coursed through his inflamed body. Intractable, self-righteous hatred for the woman and all she represented, and something else – God help him – pure, rampant, unadulterated desire. So, it was round one to Miss Blow. As he regained his equilibrium, he had a clear mental image of chaining the spy to a cold blank wall and torturing her in a way MI5 hadn't trained him. After all, there was plenty of time. She wasn't going anywhere, her lily white wrist neatly cuffed to his. His heartbeat subsided, regulated itself. He smiled, wryly.
"Now, doesn't that feel better, Mr. Frost?"
Veronica Blow's lips were coated with a glistening layer of duck fat. Again, she ran the tip of her tongue over the plump red rim of flesh. Frost had an image of her kissing the shiny round head of his cock, sucking on the glans as if it were a lollipop. He knew by instinct she could deep-throat, take the length of him into her velvet wet heat and swallow, swallow, swallow...
I have to take control.
"Much better. Thank you. It beats paying a tart to suck my prick."
The spy raised one perfect painted eyebrow.
"I wouldn't have thought you were the type to consort with whores, Mr. Frost."
"I'm not."
Frost adjusted his trousers. He was horribly damp. Miss Blow had finished the duck and looked pointedly at her cigarette case. The detective shook his head.
"Nope. No more ciggies for you, my dear. If it's heat you desire, I'm sure I can oblige."
"Meaning?"
Frost fished for his wallet and counted some notes onto the scarlet tablecloth. It was time to go. He knew a nice cheap hotel around the corner, the type that rented rooms by the hour. One hour would do the trick. As he stood up, Miss Blow made a token show of resistance but soon realized that being dragged along the carpet was not an elegant way for a lady to make an exit. Frost tucked her cuffed wrist into his jacket pocket as they briskly left the restaurant and marched out into the cold damp street, seemingly two young lovers with but one thought.
The Wing Shing Hotel
The sign was lopsided, the paint faded. Perfect. Whatever had got into Frost, he didn't much care. He was beginning to enjoy himself. Miss Blow remained strangely silent as the detective rented a room from another inscrutable oriental who had doubtless witnessed the process a thousand times before. The 'honeymoon suite' overlooked a warehouse and a yard full of scrap metal. Frost hoped his girl was beginning to feel cheap. He locked the door behind them and then took off the cuffs.
"Are you going to rape me?"
Her eyes were devoid of emotion, calmly awaiting whatever news Frost chose to impart.
"Certainly not."
The spy sat in a hard chair and crossed her legs, disinterestedly expectant as a jaded schoolmarm waiting for a rather slow pupil to perform a reading.
"Then?"
"I'm going to tie you up and spank you. Very hard. On your bare bottom."
At that, Miss Blow threw her head back and laughed.
"Mais quel surprise..."
Frost looked at the expanse of silky stocking-clad thigh that crossing her legs had revealed. He took in her tiny high-heeled shoes. His cock stirred in its damp tweed lair. Poor Veronica. What she didn't realize was that he had omitted to mention that he held the trump card. Not in his trousers but in the reinforced concealed top left pocket of his stout wool jacket.
"I suppose you're armed, aren't you?"
The girl was a mind reader.
"In more ways than one, my dear."
It was quite a lark. Just for an hour, he would be the kind of detective one reads about in cheap paperbound thrillers. American style. So, it was against all the rules. Miss Blow was a one-off and Frost would make it a singularly individual coup.
"So, what are you waiting for? Strip."
He wondered if she would make him pull out his service revolver and force her to remove her clothes at gun-point. She didn't. Slowly, sensuously, she unbuttoned her jacket and laid it daintily on the floor beside her chair. She wore a short-sleeved lambswool sweater, pale pink and so close fitting that she barely seemed to be wearing anything at all. The twin peaks of her breasts pushed against the soft yielding fabric. Frost realized that she must possess a stunning figure. His heart was thumping again and his voice shook ever so slightly as he bade her stand up and continue undressing.
"Yes, sir."
Was she also enjoying the little charade? His cock hardened as he watched her unzip and wriggle out of her skirt. She had a slinky, practiced way of performing the act, as if she might have done it on stage. When she took off the sweater it was like peeling some luscious fully ripe fruit. She wore no underwear but a garter belt and stood before him on the threadbare rug in stockings, high-heels and the natty little hat with the feathers on top.
"Turn around to face the wall."
Frost watched a hint of emotion play across her lovely painted face. Did she really imagine he might execute her from behind? Slowly, unwillingly, she did as he instructed.
"Raise your arms above your head and spread your legs."
There was nothing to bind her to, so he decided to do an even more sadistic routine. Let the bitch hold her own position and be punished twice as hard for moving out of line. Every cell of his body was filled to bursting with the potent thrill of conquest as he approached the naked, vulnerable young woman and whispered into the nape of her neck.
"Having fun?"
"Oh, absolutely."
She was tense, every muscle on her trim back clearly defined. Her buttocks were scrunched up tight and he placed the palm of his right hand upon their glorious silky orbs. Almost instantly, she relaxed against the warmth of his flesh. She was beautiful. He traced a circular pattern over the satiny curves of her firm little buttocks and watched her shiver quite violently. Now, it was her turn to lose her edge through lust.
"Just do it, will you?"
The spy's voice was diminished, a little brittle. Frost grinned.
"Madam, I shall do this as and how I please."
"Very well."
Calmly, he removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Miss Blow remained very still, like a knife-thrower's assistant at a circus. What to spank her with? His mother had always used an old carpet slipper but there wasn't such an item to hand. Ah well, it would have to be – his hand. He had always been a traditionalist. Carefully, he stood sideways on to his prey and braced his left hand against the shabby peeling wall. He almost imagined her buttocks were quivering. Then he raised his right hand high and brought it down sharply on the sweet lily white flesh with a most satisfying smack.
"Aaaaahhhhh!"
Veronica Blow moaned deeply and clutched at the ancient wallpaper with her lacquered talons. Frost aimed a second hard swat at her vulnerable bottom. The second time, she gasped and seemed to convulse, her hips grinding against the cold hard wall as if to fuck some phantom lover. He sensed she was very wet between the legs. He could smell the sweet heavy musk of her arousal. The third spank began to elicit a delicious flush of scarlet in the trembling cheeks. The fourth caused the spy to call upon the Lord in vain. Helplessly, she writhed and squirmed against the bedroom wall, as lush and sinuous as the most exotic Eastern dancer Frost could imagine. God help him, he wanted to come inside her. Blind with desire, he unfastened his trousers and pulled her to the bed. In less than ten seconds, he had entered her incredible melting heat and pierced her hard as she raked her fingernails down his shirt-clad back.
Round two – to whom? Dixon Frost stared down at the lovely, wicked creature who lolled disheveled on the bed, sus
pecting that his victory was not as complete as he had hoped. There would be time for a third and final round before he led the fiendish Miss Blow to meet her Waterloo. Smiling broadly, he remembered the handcuffs...
COLLARED!
CHAPTER I
The interior of the tent was dark, a little claustrophobic, lit only by a few small candles in glass holders. Amber shivered. Although her head told her that she was being silly, instinct informed her that the tarot card lady channeled a powerful force. The strangely illustrated cards were briskly dealt onto the crimson tablecloth. Amber tried to follow what Madame Fortune was saying but it seemed rather vague and she almost wished she had saved her ten dollars to spend on something else at the Fair. Like one of those pretty turquoise bead bracelets. She shifted uneasily on the folding chair and tried to concentrate on what the reader was saying.
"The Knight of Swords. A determined young man. Do you have a boyfriend?"
Amber fidgeted with the silver ring on her right index finger.
"Not now. I did have until recently. We split up."
She felt slightly annoyed at having to disclose her personal life but, after all, that was why she was there. She had asked the cards what life held in store for her. Madame Fortune turned over a few more cards and looked triumphant.
"Aha! The Eight of Wands. Things will happen very swiftly, my dear. You may even be swept off your feet. I see romance and travel in your future. Have fun but try to keep your feet on the ground and your head out of the clouds."
Amber smiled. Travel? That seemed highly unlikely in her present financial situation. Thanking Madame Fortune, she left the tiny striped tent and continued wandering around the stalls, browsing the cheap and colorful clothes and assorted home-baked goodies. Travel. Well, she'd certainly jump at the chance if it was offered. It was a long time since she'd had a break. The split with Jake had left her poorer in many ways. Her job as a veterinary nurse was very satisfying but not well paid, alas. She was only twenty-five. The future loomed large and uncertain.
The Eight of Wands. Things will happen very swiftly.
Madame Fortune's words echoed in Amber's mind. She caught sight of herself in a clothes stall mirror. She was an attractive girl, quite tall with a curvy, womanly figure which she liked to clothe in feminine garments like swirling calf-length Indian skirts. Her black hair was thick and glossy, waving naturally to her shoulders. Amber smiled at her reflection.
Okay, Mr. Knight of Swords. I'm ready. Make your appearance!
* * * *
"Call for you, Amber. On line two."
Megan, the receptionist at the veterinary hospital, stood aside to let Amber take the call. Slightly irritated, as she was very busy, Amber almost snapped into the receiver.
"This is Amber Shaw."
There was a pause then a male voice came onto the line.
"Hi, Ms Shaw. This is Jon Fox from Foxtrotters Travel Agency."
Amber listened, astonished, as the man proceeded to tell her that her name had been drawn in a raffle and had won first prize. The prize was a return flight to anywhere in the continental United States, plus three nights hotel accommodation.
"Are you still there, Ms Shaw?"
Amber was speechless. She was always entering competitions and raffles but had never won anything other than trifles like mugs and hats.
"I'm here. What a shock! I don't know what to say."
"Well, congratulations. If you'd like to stop by the travel agency as soon as is convenient, we can look at the options with you. The world is your oyster. A big part of it, anyway."
"Thank you. I'll drop by as soon as I can."
Amber replaced the phone and stared at it as if she might have been hallucinating. Megan raised an eyebrow.
"Good news? Bad news?"
Amber smiled broadly.
"I won, Megan. I've won a trip to almost anywhere! Isn't that wonderful?!"
CHAPTER II
The plane banked over the city and began its descent. Amber watched nervously as the runway lights steadily approached. She hadn't counted on arriving in San Francisco after dark but an unfortunate series of delays had held up her flight by several hours. She should have been at her hotel by now.
Help!
Amber had not done a lot of traveling and the idea of arriving in a strange city where she knew no one was beginning to seem worrying rather than exciting. Yet it was the kind of adventure she had dreamed of...
The terminal was relatively quiet as Amber walked through the automatic doors and out into the damp night, trailing her case behind her. She looked around for a cab and spotted one immediately but a hurrying businessman beat her to it. It seemed to be the last one.
Typical.
Amber stood beneath the sign, regretting that she had worn high-heeled shoes to travel in. She was showing her inexperience. Her feet felt slightly swollen from hours of sitting on a plane and standing in airport line-ups. She also felt vulnerable. She had expected more people, more light, more comforting noise. She seemed to have arrived during a quiet time. Where was everyone? A small group of laughing youths lounged nearby and Amber began to feel paranoid, certain that they had to be mocking her and her unsuitable footwear. She began to feel very uncomfortable.
Thank goodness!
A yellow cab approached the curb and Amber waved at it in relief.
"Where to, miss?"
The driver was of East Indian heritage and wore a turban. Amber's heart lurched and she rummaged in her purse for the hotel confirmation she'd printed out from her computer. How silly of her not to remember the name. Lipstick, keys and her lucky pebble spilled out onto her lap as she searched.
"I'll find it in a moment! Sorry to keep you waiting."
"It's okay. The meter is running." answered the driver and Amber blushed in the darkness. Finally, she found the sheet of paper and held it up to the light from the terminal entrance.
"Hotel Raimonda, Hyde Street. Do you know where it is?"
For one moment, Amber thought she saw the driver give her an odd, searching look in his mirror, then he nodded and the cab pulled out from the curb.
I hope the hotel is in a good area.
The photos on the hotel website had certainly looked nice but then they always did, didn't they? Amber found that she was clutching her purse as the cab passed through a series of streets that looked less than glamorous. Every city had its poor, rundown areas, even San Francisco. Gradually, she watched the procession of graffiti-covered and derelict looking buildings give way to the taller blocks of the downtown core. A mist seemed to be blowing in from the bay. Well, it was autumn, not summer. The cab turned left then drove uphill and into a more residential area. Amber recognized the fine architecture and parks from her pre-trip reading. They were in the Nob Hill district. The hotel had to be close.
"Hotel Raimonda."
Amber stepped out of the cab, one high-heeled pump catching on the curb. She waited for the driver to retrieve her case from the trunk, paid him carefully, remembering to tip, and walked bravely into the hotel lobby. Again, she had the strange sensation that the driver had shot her an odd look as she counted out her fare. Was it so obvious she'd come from a small town? Anyway, the hotel was just as lovely as the pictures, a tall, narrow building dating back to the early twentieth century. Furnished in an opulent Victorian style, it gave the impression of a lush, sensual boudoir, all heavy velvety drapes and Persian rugs. Amber began to relax. She was definitely in the best part of town. Feeling more confident, she held her chin up and began to walk purposefully across the lobby to the front desk. It was at that moment that the same spiked heel which had caught the curb outside, snagged on the fringe of a thick rug. Crying out in surprise, Amber tripped and fell to her knees on the rug.
"Ow!"
"Oh dear."
Amber looked up, from her ungainly position on all fours, to see a very good-looking young man standing over her. Scarlet in the face, tears of humiliation threatening to roll out of her pretty haz
el eyes, she allowed the guy to help her to her feet.
"That was an impressive tumble. Are you okay?"
Amber looked at the offending shoe and grimaced.
"I think so. Nothing hurt but my pride. I shouldn't have worn these silly shoes."
The young man looked at Amber's feet, as if appraising her brown suede pumps.
"They're quite nice but nowhere near high enough. And suede, of course, lacks the visual impact of patent leather. Especially red patent."
Amber stared at the guy. Was he a rep for a shoe store? Not high enough? Why, they were four inch heels. Any higher and she'd look like a slut.
"I must check in. I'm tired."
The guy smiled. He was tall, taller than Amber in her heels. He looked strongly built, with very short light brown hair and extremely piercing blue eyes.
"Of course. I don't suppose you're with the group?"
"Which group?"
"No, I didn't think so. Never mind. I hope we'll meet again. My name is Antoine."
He walked out into the damp, misty night, leaving Amber feeling intrigued. Antoine. What a wonderful name.
* * * *
"You want a cup of coffee? Come in, come in. Have a nice cup of coffee."
Amber paused in front of the Italian restaurant, the exuberant owner of which seemed determined to ensnare her. She smiled politely. It had been a thirsty morning, exploring the fascinating area around the hotel. A little sit-down break would be nice.
"Oh, you talked me into it. Can I have a window seat, please?"
"But of course. And we have delicious chocolate croissants, freshly baked."
The man was hard to resist. Meekly, Amber allowed herself to be swept inside the restaurant and seated at a little table with a perfect view of the passing throng. It was so different from her rather staid Midwestern town. There were people of all nationalities and persuasions. Lots of same sex couples too. A steaming cappuccino arrived, served by a smiling waitress who slipped a divine-looking pastry onto Amber's plate with a lively "Belissima!"