He shook her hand and said, ‘You work in the college library, don’t you? I’ve just started a photography course.’
‘Really? I haven’t seen you in there.’
‘Ionly signed up last week. I popped my head in to check out the facilities and I saw you behind the counter.’ He smiled warmly at her. ‘Stevie recommended the course. She’s a mate of mine from way back.’
‘Wow, you’re starting at the college. That’s terrific news,’ said Greta.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ he said, looking into the dark cleft of her bosom. ‘So are you involved with this Onan thing?’
‘Well, erm,’ said Greta.
She was saved from finishing her sentence by a surge of people entering the room, at the front of which was the artist, dressed in a black rubber catsuit slit open up her back to reveal bare skin painted swirly blue. Stevie wore the creamy expression of a woman who knew she’d brought a great many of the people around her to orgasm. A few press photographers stepped forward to take pictures and she posed with a typically unsmiling, rather confrontational stance. She fielded a few questions from scribbling reporters. A middle-aged man with a ponytail came to stand next to the television and called for quiet.
‘Hang on to your seats,’ he said, even though everyone was standing. ‘I’m simply beside myself to introduce you all, without further ado, to the evocative, provocative tour de forcethat is Onan 252.’
He produced a remote control and clicked it at the television. The screen was filled with a confusion of reds and pinks, which revealed itself to be, as the camera slowly panned out, the gleaming entrance to a vagina. As if emerging from within it, the view widened until the whole cunt was shown. There was a vibrating movement around the top of the labia, the result of a fingertip engaged in vigorous stimulation of the engorged clit.
Greta didn’t remember frigging herself as briskly as that and sure enough the cunt wasn’t hers but belonged to Stevie herself, sprawled naked on the brown reclining chair and writhing with eyes tightly shut. Greta was surprised by the bushiness of her mousy-brown thatch. The camera panned out further and Stevie grew a frame around her, the frame of another television set. It took Greta a moment to work out what she was looking at, until the view had widened enough to show the television set and the brown recliner in the white studio. A punky-looking man was in the chair, tossing himself off while watching Stevie on the television. The view continued to widen until the punk was on the television and a stout older man was in the chair, wanking while watching the punk. Again and again the camera drew back to show different women and men masturbating on the recliner, each of them aroused by footage of the previous link in the masturbatory chain.
There was Onan Eleven, every bit as sexily tense as Greta remembered, his cock just as unruly. And then she saw her own body, surrounded by wobbly bubbles as she sank her digits into herself, and she was relieved to find she was quite pleased with how she looked. Yes, she was plump, but there was something glorious in the way her curves bobbed and flowed. Her shoulders were softly rounded, her upper arms jiggling as she made love to herself, large breasts moving as if floating on water. Her thighs were pale and fleshy, toes curling with pleasure, pubes nicely trimmed, vulva shining. In the corner of her eye she saw Onan Eleven look from the screen to her and back again. Now there was a compact young Oriental man in the chair, leaning forward as he frigged his cock to the image of Greta on the television.
Nobody else was accompanied by bubbles but there were other interesting little touches here and there: a slender brunette was surrounded by piles of handbags that toppled over as she began to peak; a swarthy man with curly black hair and a gold hoop earring had a Weimeraner puppy lying at his feet; a well-groomed older woman was wearing a showgirl’s headpiece made of peacock feathers. Stevie had filmed people of all colours, shapes and sizes, all in the advanced stages of arousal. There were fat bodies, skinny bodies, muscled bodies, wasted bodies, tanned flesh, dark flesh, porcelain flesh. Fake boobs, tiny tits, pendulous titties, an endless variety of nipples. Big cocks and skinny cocks with heads that were purple and scarlet and almost black, sometimes shining, sometimes spilling pre-come. Modest little clits and big fat clits that stuck out rudely like tongues.
After a while the incessant backward motion of the camera, the constant shrinking of image after erotic image, began to make Greta feel weirdly hypnotised. Because there was no soundtrack the gallery was deathly quiet, and she could hear heavy breathing all around. She looked away from the screen and saw uncomfortable expressions on everybody’s faces. Hands were straying across trouser fronts, knees were squeezing together. Lust lay heavily over the whole room. Greta glanced at Stevie. Surrounded by her awestruck entourage the artist’s eyes were fixed on the screen with mad intensity. Greta’s eyes strayed towards Onan Eleven and she saw that delicious pink flush again, and an unmistakeable bulge in his jeans.
The film came to an end with Stevie in the chair again, climaxing with a long shudder of limbs. She stood up and walked towards the camera until the image became nothing but blurred skin. The picture went black. The gallery erupted with applause.
Greta’s eyes met Onan Eleven’s. He raised his eyebrows tentatively.
‘Toilets,’ she said and the two of them scooted through the crowd.
They found the gents’ near the front of the gallery. Nobody was in there and they locked themselves into a cubicle, rushing to get under each other’s clothes. While Greta unclinked his belt and freed his thick cock he dived under her dress and peeled down her knickers, leaving a trail of moisture down her thighs. He sat on the toilet seat and pulled her on to him. Her wet cunt sucked up every inch of his dick and they began to fuck with brisk determination, his pubes tickling her clit, his hands pulling down the front of her dress, his mouth sucking on her nipples and biting her copious tit-flesh.
‘Beautiful tits,’ he said, voice muffled. ‘Beautiful, curvaceous tits, arse, neck.’ He looked up at her face, sank his hand into her hair. ‘You’re a work of art, Onan Twelve.’
She could hardly believe this man was inside her and she looked at him with incredulity, but it was him all right, she recognised the vein on his forehead, the way he gritted his teeth, the way his body shook ferociously as he threw himself into the moment of lust. The abandonment he’d displayed on the screen was in his fingers, digging into her flesh, and in the thrust of his cock and the smell of his body heat. Greta’s knees hammered against the cubicle walls and their groans echoed up through the air vents and along the water pipes.
‘I’m going to come,’ he growled.
‘Me too,’ Greta moaned, and she bounced on him crazily, chasing the feeling as hard as she could until she was right on top of it. She had no desire to hold herself on the edge and plunged straight into her climax with a shriek. Immediately after she’d come he pulled out of her and shot cum all over her silky dimpled thighs.
As they quietened down they heard shouting and looked worriedly at each other. A clamour of voices in the gallery, someone barking orders, someone else protesting. Quickly they straightened themselves and left the cubicle.
Greta poked her head round the door and saw that everyone was being herded out of the gallery by police. She tried to hear what people were saying and the odd phrase came to her: censorship; obscenity; poor old Stevie. With his hand on her arse they joined the flow and soon they were on the pavement with everyone else, the arty types and the Onans and the reporters and photographers. A television news crew had turned up.
Handcuffed and struggling, the pony-tailed gallery owner emerged into the street, dragged by two police officers.
‘Brutality!’ he shouted to the crowd as he was thrown into the back of the van.
Then came Stevie, also flanked by two officers but not in handcuffs. Evidently she had decided to co-operate with the police. Her face was shining with excitement, grinning from ear to ear. She saluted the crowd with a defiant fist in the air, and as she passed the television crew she beame
d into the camera.
‘She’s a smart girl, is our Stevie,’ said Onan Eleven as the police bundled the artist into the van.
In the Bakery
by Kristina Wright
Bernadette loved the mornings. As she walked the six blocks to Giovanni’s Bakery and Café in Old Town, she adjusted her blouse and straightened her skirt, her pace quickening in time to her pulse. She had been working at the bakery for six months now. Vincent Giovanni was her boss, and the baker.
He was also her lover, of sorts.
Vincent was an iron-fisted taskmaster of a boss – a whirling dervish who demanded nothing less than perfection. Bernadette thrilled to the sound of his voice barking orders. In fact, she was the only one of the bakery girls who worked with Vincent in the mornings because she was the only one who could meet his demanding nature. The other girls – Tammy and Darla, Pauline and Esther – called Vincent a beast. Bernadette did, too. What the others didn’t know was that Bernadette likedwhat a beast Vincent could be. It made her hot.
This particular morning, Bernadette was three minutes late getting to work. That required some doing on her part as she often left her apartment a full hour before she was due at work. Today, she dawdled around the corner from the bakery, looking a bit like a streetwalker, if whores wore white blouses and black skirts with sensible shoes.
When she finally slipped inside the unlocked back door of the bakery, a variety of scents assaulted her. Baking bread and pastries filled the air with a heavy, sweet aroma; the heat was nearly oppressive. Her mouth watered. She had gained a few pounds since she started working in the bakery. Her boyfriend Simon had noticed – and enthusiastically improved. He told her she looked like a Rubenesque goddess and smelled like sugared heaven. She giggled at his florid descriptions, but she loved it just the same.
She paused to admire Vincent as he pulled trays of baked bread from one of three massive ovens. He wore white pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his thick, muscular forearms. A white apron was streaked with red and purple – strawberry and blueberry from the morning pastries – and a dust of white flour adorned his thick, black hair.
“You’re late,” Vincent said, without looking at her. “A little morning screw for the poor boyfriend?”
Bernadette shook her head, realising that Vincent still hadn’t looked at her, and found her voice. “No. Not today.”
“Why not?” Vincent asked slyly. “Didn’t he want you?”
Heat flushed her already warm cheeks. “Of course.”
Vincent knew the intimate details of her relationship with Simon. She had told him. So he knew that Simon often awoke while she was getting ready for work and tried to initiate sex. Vincent didn’t like the idea of her having sex with Simon before she came to work for him. It shouldn’t matter whether he liked it or not since he was only her boss. And yet … it did matter.
Bernadette hadn’t indulged Simon’s advances that morning because she was in a rush to get to work. But at night, smelling like sweet dough and cinnamon, she would roll around in tangled sheets and tell Simon how mean Vincent was to her today. The thought made her shiver.
“Good girl,” Vincent said. “But you’re still late. Third time in two weeks.”
“Yes, sir,” she responded meekly, suddenly thinking perhaps she should have been on time today. “I’m sorry, Vincent.”
Vincent finally turned to look at her. His jaw was an unyielding hard line, and his dark eyes stared through her. “What happened the last time you were late?”
Her cheeks flushed hotly as she recalled, “I received five smacks with the oven peel.”
“Bare-bottomed smacks,” Vincent reminded her. “You squealed every time I struck that round little rump of yours.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I made you rub that wet little slit of yours until you came while I watched your ass redden. Remember?”
“Oh yes, I remember,” she breathed. What she didn’t tell him was that she remembered it every time she touched herself in the shower or in bed after Simon fell asleep.
“Whatever am I going to do with you, Bernadette?” The question was half exasperation, half fondness.
Bernadette lowered her eyes demurely to study the flour-dusted floor. “Whatever you like, Vincent.”
“Precisely.”
Vincent crossed the expanse between them. Before she had time to react, he grasped the front of her blouse and tore it, the buttons pinging off the steel stove fronts, one, two, three. She gasped, but kept her hands at her sides even as Vincent stared at her exposed bosom. Her white lacy bra barely covered her nipples, and she felt them harden under his scrutinising gaze.
“Oh yes, I think I know what needs to be done,” he murmured, more to himself than her.
He hooked his thumbs in the cups of her bra and pulled the fabric down until her plump breasts popped from the confines of the lace. She glanced down, seeing her breasts sitting atop the underwire of her bra, the lacy cups bunched beneath them. Her nipples were dark and puckered. Aroused. She bit her lip to keep from whimpering and closed her eyes.
“Are your nipples sensitive?”
She nodded, though he already knew the answer to the question. He had asked it before – and tested her. “Yes, sir.”
“Lovely.”
She opened her eyes and watched as he walked to the enormous butcher-block table where various utensils lay. They were innocuous on their own – spoons and spatulas of wood and metal – but in Vincent’s hands they could cause pain. He looked them over and then shook his head.
“These won’t do.” He walked back to her. “Go get two order clips.”
She blinked at him.
“Now!”
She scurried away at his barking demand, going to the front of the bakery where the order clips were stored. Her breasts were still exposed and, though the bakery was shrouded in darkness, her first inclination was to cover herself as she faced the broad expanse of glass windows facing the street. But it was still dark and no one was out. At least not yet. She quickly grabbed two clips from the bin by the register and went back to Vincent.
“Good girl,” he said, as he took the clips from her.
The bakery girls used order clips to hold the special orders to the wall for Vincent and the assistant bakers to see. Four neat rows of white orders for bread and cakes and pastries hung clipped to metal cords lining the far wall. The clips were sturdy metal fasteners meant to last for years through repeated use. This time, Vincent did not use them for bakery orders. He used them on Bernadette’s distended nipples.
The clips were cool against her fevered skin, but that pleasant feeling was quickly replaced by the bite of the clips closing around her nipples. She looked down to see the metal protruding from her breasts. The sight was embarrassing, humiliating and terribly exciting despite the slight twinge of pain.
Vincent admired his work with a smirk. “Do they hurt?”
She hesitated. If she told him the truth – that they hurt but were certainly bearable – he would find some way to make them hurt more. If she lied and told him the pain was excruciating, he would certainly realise she was lying and make them hurt more. Since she was already being punished for one indiscretion, she chose truth.
“Not worse than a pinch,” she said.
Vincent grabbed the clips and tugged them until her nipples were stretched from her breasts. She winced, but held her stance as he continued to tug, testing the limits of the clips. Almost simultaneously, they popped from her nipples with a sharp snap as their metal pieces met again.
“How about that?”
She resisted the urge to rub her sore nipples. “That hurt, sir.”
“Good.”
Once again, he clamped her breasts. “You are a bad girl, Bernadette.”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t like to punish you like this but I’m starting to suspect you rather enjoy it,” he said, as he tugged at the clips. “Do you?”
>
“Oh yes, sir!” She hadn’t meant to confess her masochistic pleasure, but Vincent was driving her stark raving mad with the tugging.
The clips popped free from her nipples and she whimpered.
“Poor girl, your nips are sore now, aren’t they?”
Again, she nodded. Hot tears pricked her eyelids and her bottom lip quivered. Yet her pussy – her naughty, betraying pussy – was wet.
“Perhaps you should kiss them and make them better.”
She stared at him. “Vincent?”
“Lift them to your mouth and give them a kiss.”
“I – I can’t,” she whispered.
Vincent went to the large buckets that lined the wall. Each contained a different fruit filling. He dipped a large ladle into the one labelled “Strawberry” and brought it back to her. With two fingers, he smeared strawberry filling on each of her tender nipples.
“You can’t run around with strawberry jam on your strawberry nipples, girl,” he said. “Better clean it off before it stains your blouse and I have to send you home to change.”
The scent of berries assaulted her senses. The cool filling soothed her sore breasts. She licked her lips. Strawberry was her favourite flavour. She cupped her left breast in her hands and raised the ample mound to her lips. She licked at the strawberry filling on her nipple, lashes lowered so she didn’t have to watch Vincent watching her. The jam was thick and sweet and she lapped at it like a hungry kitten after the cream.
“Good girl,” Vincent praised. “Now the other one.”
Bernadette didn’t hesitate this time. She licked and sucked the strawberry flavour from her right nipple, her tongue almost as soothing on her abused flesh as the cool filling. Her breasts were clean now, but still sticky and sweet smelling. She looked at Vincent, eager for his next order.
“Have you learned your lesson about being late?”
Her lips twitched. She longed to say ‘No’ just to see what his response might be, but the time was slipping by and the bakery would be opening soon. She nodded.
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