But Nakamura was not an ordinary client. His gift was not an attempt to win her favour – it was a courtesy. Inside the hand-painted paper was an ivory netsuke. That occasioned another pause. It was a gift out of proportion to the event. If genuine, and she felt sure it was, it carried a freight of expectation that made her uncomfortable.
She shook her head slowly, watching Nakamura in her peripheral vision. His face set in an impassive expression but his posture gave him away; the hunched shoulders of a supplicant and the taut, whitened knuckles of a man struggling to conceal disappointment.
She turned the figurine in her hands, admiring the lively detail of the carved monkey, watching the cool blue of the walls strike glacial highlights from the creamy surfaces.
‘I cannot accept this gift,’ she said. Nakamura dropped his gaze, shamed by her refusal.
‘However…’ she let the pause lengthen, watching a muscle in his jaw as it tensed and relaxed. ‘I could try to earn it.’
His eyes widened and shock pulled his mouth open. This was the language of submission. Valerie smiled at his confusion, delighted by the effect she’d created. It was a technique she’d used hundreds of times on her own clients to subvert their expectations and lower their resistance. A moment of role-reversal did more than hours of pain – it flattened thresholds, carving new channels for experience and understanding.
‘Let me see…’ she rubbed her thumb over the head of the netsuke. The apparently absent-minded gesture drew Nakamura’s eyes to her hands, making him concentrate on the flexibility and power of her grip. This focus would further disconcert him. She was blending business with obsession and she felt warm. Moving people like Nakamura to where she wanted them, making them do as she wished but allowing them to believe it was their choice gave her a rush that was better than drugs and more lasting than sex.
She turned and set the little figurine on the bare windowsill. The north light bounced over it like icy fingers. ‘I will set myself a task. To introduce you to three women who may make your time here more… demanding. If one of the three agrees to take you on, and you are able to serve her, I will keep the gift. If none of them does I shall leave it here.’ She watched him in the window glass as he calculated swiftly what this would cost him. In effect she’d removed his power of choice: if he wasn’t accepted by one of her three suggestions he’d find it hard to be taken by a top-class domme, but with her acting as matchmaker he would have to buy twice as many presents and pay higher introduction fees than he would have done on his own. She watched herself too, knowing that her long dark hair bound up in an intricate knot, her severe Armani suit and the crisp white shirt underneath with cufflinks like drops of blood, would all be carrying messages of arousal, pain and control to his subconscious. The tall boots with their shiny black surfaces and spike heels would be driving him into a passion – he would want to feel those boots digging into his spine. The longer she waited, the more intense his feelings would become – denying him any suffering today would make his suffering ten times as intense at their next meeting. This was why she was at the top of her profession – because she knew how to deliver pain.
She turned, smiling dazzlingly, and scooped up her package from the chaise. He bowed again as he accepted it, and then hissed in appreciation at the quality of the knots. When he’d untied the pouch, looping the cord over his hand with loving precision, he hissed again at the rope inside.
‘I am honoured by your attention.’ His English was superb, as she would have expected from a man who’d studied economics at Cambridge. ‘And more honoured, to be part of your task. I am sure any person selected by you will exceed my expectations.’
Valerie nodded. Once again she had a client where she wanted them – in the palm of her hand.
Teaching Derek
by Primula Bond
Christ, we’re bored.
It’s not supposed to rain in Devon. There’s a limit to how much decorating you can do to spruce up your idyllic country cottage for renting, before you’re yearning for the doorbell or the phone to ring. But the job has to be done, and fast, otherwise our investment will have been wasted. In the absence of glittering visitors from London to entertain us, and also any sensible overalls, Jane and I have taken to dressing each day in ludicrous, inappropriate fairy-tale clothes, just to make each other laugh.
Today I’m Mother Hubbard, wearing nothing but a flowery pinny. Jane is Goldilocks in a see-through baby-doll. We’ve tarted up nearly every room except the sitting room, which is full of paint pots, brushes and fabric swatches.
Just as we’re finishing our ham doorstep sandwiches and apple crumble, there’s a rapping on the front door. We both drop our spoons in surprise. Jane is up first, smoothing the silk negligee down and flicking her yellow hair. A flush of excitement mounts her cheeks. I follow close behind her. Perhaps at long last those rough tough locals have sniffed us out. It’s been bloody weeks since either of us had a man.
‘Oh no, you don’t,’ I growl, pushing past my mate. ‘It’s my turn. You shocked the postman yesterday.’
I dash through the sitting room, the pinafore flapping between my legs. My back is cold.
‘Sally Seaman? You called us last week. About the feature? We’re from Cute Cottages. But we seem to have come at a very bad time –’
A tense-looking peroxide blonde in a tight pink suit is on the doorstep, accompanied by a spindly young man in a striped jumper and clutching a camera. They are both staring openly at me, half-naked, and Janie, totally see-through. We’re both shivering as the wind nips past our visitors to get inside the warm house.
‘Sal?’ Jane glares at me. I shrug carelessly. ‘What’s this about a feature?’
‘Yeah, I forgot to tell you. But think about it. It’ll be brilliant publicity.’
‘And company. At last.’ A slow smile stretches across Jane’s face. ‘We’ve been starved, haven’t we?’
I nod, grinning. We turn back to face our visitors.
‘Come in, come in,’ we chorus, throwing the door open wide. ‘Now is a very good time.’
We prod the prim, unsuspecting magazine writer off the doorstep, and nudge the callow photographer, leading him into the cottage.
‘There’s so much to show you,’ says Jane, lifting her arms so the baby-doll rides right over her tanned thighs. She’s wearing no knickers. ‘We think we’ve made it contemporary, yet enticing. We want people flocking here to unwind, you know? Relax.’
The boy is bright red, pushing his dark hair off his face with long fingers and staring straight at Jane’s big red nipples poking through the flimsy material. She looks gorgeous. A wet dream on a wet day. I can see a bulge stretching his smart trousers. My stomach tightens.
‘This is the main sitting room, which of course we will be stripping to its bare essentials,’ Jane chatters, gesticulating about the room. She pushes the two of them onto the sofa, right on top of the little damp patch where I was lying this morning, watching telly and masturbating with one of the paintbrushes, using the soft bristles to fire me up, stroking them across my tender sex, tickling my clit, then using the long, blunt handle to push up me, take the place of a real, live, throbbing cock. Oh, yes. Not even my sweet Jane knows about that… yet.
But for now I’m standing meekly beside her while she twitters and twirls and absently re-ties the apron strings so that a big bow now covers my bottom.
‘Coffee?’ I suggest, turning to walk into the kitchen and displaying my naked backside.
‘As you can see, Sal’s very domesticated,’ laughs Jane, stroking my bottom as I pass her. ‘We’re a good pair, actually. I’m the creative designer, she’s the dog’s body.’
‘I heard that!’ I cough in protest and come back with two mugs of coffee. Jane drapes her arm across the mantelpiece, cocking her leg so that we can all see the red slice of her bare cunt.
‘Think I look like an art deco figurine?’ she asks, tilting her chin in profile.
‘More like a naff sheph
erdess you could buy in Woollies,’ I mock, reaching to tug her negligee down over her legs and deliberately brushing against her waxed snatch. She flinches and squeals, batting at my hand. I know it’s with pleasure, not embarrassment, but our guests won’t know that. The tip of her tongue pokes between her teeth. I come closer, put my hand on her hair, make as if to kiss her, then she tips her head towards our audience as if we’re forgetting.
‘Great coffee,’ croaks the photographer. The lady editor slowly crosses one plump thigh over the other with a swish of stocking and a flash of lace camisole and flips her notebook to a blank page. The photographer hasn’t even taken off his lens cap. He’s huddled next to her on the sofa, clutching his mug between his bony knees and rocking slightly.
‘Light the fire, would you Sal?’ Jane asks, smiling over my head at the visitors.
‘Of course, darling.’ I bend over the hearth like a parlour maid, fiddling with the kindling and displaying the shadow of my slightly parted bottom like it’s some kind of jungle mating ritual.
‘Lovely real fire, even in summer,’ remarks Jane, stroking her toe lazily up my leg. ‘It makes you want to just lie down on this rug, get some big hunky bloke to fuck you right here in front of the flames, you know? Especially when the weather is so shitty. We never close the curtains. No need for that kind of privacy, out here in the country. Open house, you see, for all gentleman callers.’
I laugh quietly, get down on my knees now. ‘We live in hope.’
The lady clears her throat.
‘So, if you love the cottage so much, why do you want to change it?’
‘Well, it needs updating to a proper love shack, doesn’t it? That’s what tenants expect these days. Somewhere they can come for a really dirty weekend. And the décor when we bought it was, well, more chintz than chutzpah, know what I mean?’
‘Sure.’ The lady is writing something down, crossing her legs again.
‘It’ll make a sexy love nest for someone,’ I pipe up, lighting the fire then sitting back to smooth my hands over my breasts, down over my hips, leaving sooty stripes all over my pinny. The photographer gulps his hot coffee down too fast.
‘Yes. So what we really want to create is a place where really hot people will want to come, you know, rut like goats all weekend in the soft beds, here on the rug, out under the cherry tree, down on the beach, then go back to work satisfied. Actually, from what we’ve heard, these hoary locals are hung like donkeys, if only we could entice them over the threshold, know what I mean?’
‘It’s dull as hell without a man. That’s another reason it doesn’t really suit us girls.’ I brush at the soot marks, making my breasts jump and bounce over the bib front. Absently I rub at my hidden nipples, biting my lip with pleasure at the sharp response. ‘I mean, Jane and I love each other like crazy and girl on girl action is hot, especially on a rainy afternoon, but you know, a red blooded woman needs a good hard cock occasionally, not just her best mate’s tongue and tits –’
‘That’s exactly it. A good hard cock.’ Jane echoes thoughtfully, swinging her leg about so that her slit visibly opens and closes like a little mouth. She cocks her head as if the idea is occurring to her for the first time. ‘That’s all we need, to make this place complete.’ She allows a pause. ‘Not shocking you, are we?’
Our guests shake their heads, hard, as if they’re trying to empty them. We both focus on the young photographer. Actually he has beautiful green eyes, spaced far apart, and jutting cheek bones like Rudolf Nureyev.
‘Good. So all we’re saying is, we need some fresh meat. Young, and tender,’ I muse, running my hands over the swelling tops of my breasts, pushing them together. ‘God, that would be good.’
‘You’re cute, aren’t you?’ Janie suddenly walks over to the boy, sits on the arm of the sofa, letting the negligee fall away from her pussy. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Derek,’ he croaks, licking his lips.
‘Time to get out your Hasselblad, don’t you think, Derek?’
The lady nods quickly, lifting her head to examine the old beams. I reach under the pinny, flipping it aside to scratch at my fanny and giving a little moan of pleasure as I do so. Jane keeps her face straight. The lady editor nibbles her biro and uncrosses her legs again, glancing from Jane to Derek, who’s gawping like a rabbit in headlights.
‘I’m sure you want to get to work,’ Jane says, catching the lady’s eye.
‘Perhaps a guided tour?’ The lady totters to her feet and holds the notebook in front of her like a shield. She titters. ‘Of your love shack?’
‘Absolutely Miss, er –’
‘Shona Shaw.’
‘Brilliant idea, Shona Shaw,’ beams Jane. ‘Ready, Derek?’
But Derek is looking past her, drooling across the room at me. I’ve flipped the pinafore right over to one side so that my pink slit is fully visible. Unlike Jane I have kept a neat line of hair curling over the crack. Two fingers separate the soft lips, and the pink flesh glistens as my other hand tiptoes up my thigh. Honestly, our guests are so shocked they can barely move, let alone protest.
I run my tongue over my mouth and moan again. My hand pauses as it reaches the first pubic curl, then I lift one finger and beckon to Derek. He sits up straight as if he’s been shot.
‘You’ll see we’ve completed the bedrooms and the bathroom. There’s a lovely attic, you can see right over the little harbour –’
Jane winks at me and leads the lady out of the room. I watch the cute twitching of her pert butt, the cute wet promise of what’s tucked in there for me later. Then I get up and come across to Derek. I stand in front of him and untie my pinafore, unhook it from over my head, hold it in front of me like a matador in front of a randy bull. His hair is very neatly combed into a side parting, and I ruffle it with my fingernails. He swipes one hand at me in an automatic tidying gesture, his sleeve far too short for his long arm, and quick as a flash I’ve grabbed his bony wrist and tied the apron strings round it.
‘Got to stop you running away!’ I breathe, grabbing his other hand, tying them together like manacles above his head. Then I hook the string round the leg of the heavy table behind the sofa. Derek is now sprawled on the sofa in front of me, hands tied, legs spread.
Out in the hall Jane is chivvying the lady into a pair of oversize wellies and out into the sopping wet garden.
‘More so that you can get a view of the cottage and its surroundings,’ she says, pushing Shona Shaw outside to high-step over the overgrown grass and duck under the dripping branches. ‘I don’t intend to do any gardening. Do take your time out here. I’ll just nip back inside, see what’s–‘
I see her watching me in the doorway, arms folded. The breeze from the front door shivers over me, naked as I am, hardening my nipples, pricking up my skin.
‘Want to taste a horny older woman, Derek?’ Keeping my eyes on my Janie, I kneel up on the sofa, straddling my captive, pushing my pussy into his face. Jane walks to the table above his head, leans over it, her juicy tits dangling down. I press nearer to her, Derek helpless under me, feel his quick hot breath on my cunt, the jut of his nose against my clit, and I push harder, burying his face in my sex as I strain for Jane’s mouth.
He starts to lick, what else can he do, his eager tongue sliding up my crack, and Jane kisses me, opening her mouth to suck at my lips and my tongue, Derek knocking me slightly with the urgent force of his lapping, and I lift myself very slightly away from him, push myself back, feel his tongue stretching to get at me, sending thrills up my crack already.
Jane pulls away. ‘Something going begging down here,’ she breathes coarsely, pointing at Derek’s trousers. ‘A great big porker just ripe for the taking if you shimmy round and take a look.’
I grin, my lips wet with Jane’s saliva. Shona Shaw passes the window. A burst of rain has started and her neat coiffure is all messed up. She’s pulling the collar of her jacket up, patting at her hair. She stops, right there in the rain, when she sees what we’
re doing to her assistant.
Janie climbs up on the table and leans right over, so that now I’ve pulled away her tits are dangling in Derek’s face where my pussy was. She swings them back and forth in front of his mouth. I know what that’s like. Those juicy nipples like raspberries, dangling just out of reach, so warm and hard when you get them between your teeth, the reward you get for pleasuring her. He’s licking his lips, swallowing frantically, trying to reach the nipples she’s offering him.
But it’s his cock I want. I can suck her nipples, she can suck mine, any time. I take hold of his trousers and yank them down. Christ, he’s huge, and totally hard. And all mine. Not going anywhere. The young ones are always the best. He jerks about, perhaps a little anxious, his cock flopping heavily against his stomach. The apron strings are biting into his lanky wrists, so I take pity and cup his balls for a moment, gasping with laughter as he flinches and groans with pleasure.
Jane is panting now, lowers her tits, squashes them into his face, and excitement shoots through me to see his wet mouth closing round one taut nipple and biting hard on it. I know how she likes that. I know how wet it makes her.
My pussy is twitching frantically, wet from his mouth and wet from excitement, and I can’t hold back any longer. Jane isn’t so bothered about being fucked, though she enjoys it when it happens. I’m the one who goes berserk without taking a good hard cock every once in a while. That’s why she’s letting me have Derek. She’ll do anything for me…
But I want her, too. We’ve been cocooned in this cottage for so long, I’m used to fondling her to really turn me on. Derek’s cock is so big that I can ease the swollen tip inside me and still be on a level with Jane’s little face as she leans to press her tits into his mouth. So I can still kiss her as our prisoner sucks at her, as his cock grows even bigger just for having me spinning on it. My knees are shaking with the effort of keeping myself above him, but kissing Jane is the cream on the cake for me, sucking on her tongue while I make a boy fuck me.
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