Sex in the City--London

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Now he was easing her onto her knees with her bottom stuck high in the air.

  ‘If anyone could see you, little slut, do you know what they’d do?’

  His hands were now getting rougher, the pace more brisk.

  ‘Would they get turned on? Maybe?’

  ‘I think they’d want to give you a good hiding!’ He growled the last bit, and a little knot of fear began to form in her mind. His strokes got faster, more direct, but the tingling feeling seemed to be everywhere. Slowly, his hands began to increase their pressure. There was no sense of pain, just the physical feeling of solidity, of muscles being manoeuvred – not unlike the work she did in her day job. Her skin smarted, but not unpleasantly. The tempo increased and the sound of his spanking administrations rang out, until she was sure the other couples could hear them too. Faster, faster! She squirmed deliciously – it was better than she’d expected. All the blood was rushing to the area and her clit was now throbbing. She started to moan and rock herself on the sofa.

  ‘Good girl. You like that don’t you?’ Now the spanks were getting faster, drops of sweat from his shaved head fell down and rolled over her bare back.

  ‘That’s better bad girl, do you want me to make you come now?’

  One hand continued slapping, now the other was burrowing into the incredible slickness of her vagina. The restrictive rope only heightened the sense of frenzied action.

  ‘Mmm. Somebody’s excited. You want this don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Yes!’ Her cries jumped out of her mouth in little barks. His fingers now were reaching in, pushing her in the same rhythm as his hand on her ass. Frantically, she arched her back even further, forcing him to ream her harder. Perhaps the spanks got harder too, but she could no longer even detect their force as the room spun. Her buttocks were white-hot with energy and desire. She was beyond caring, this was it.

  ‘Agh! Yes! Yes!’ Still her pelvis was jerking against the sofa. Monster was now massaging her where his hands had just spanked and reamed her. They were both soaked in perspiration; the smell of sex and burning rubber screeched at her.

  Now he was untying her, stroking her, petting her. The outline of his cock stood out in a rigid hard-on under his PVC.

  ‘Kiss it,’ he said, and stroked her face when he accepted a pretty kiss on the outside of his trousers.

  ‘I think it’s time for you to go home now.’ The voice was soothing again.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ve got to save myself darlin’. I’m only going to give it to you when you really want it. Do you want to experience more?’

  She looked at the profile of his all-knowing face and smiled. ‘Yes, Monster.’

  He must have thought it sounded like ‘master’.

  ‘Give me a hug then for now, just a sweet hug.’

  They embraced and she felt dwarfed by his huge, massive bulk. But it was reassuring, and she could feel the girth of his hard-on.

  ‘Ah, that makes me feel better, to get a nice hug.’ He looked into her eyes and smiled. ‘I guess we’ll be doing that again. And I’ve got a lot tricks to show you. If you want to that is.’ His expression was comical, part nervous, but with a hint of lust. He wanted to show his interest, but not too much. This was a fetish club, there were rules.

  After the hardness of the pleasure play, now he was the soft one; underneath the PVC he was tender, raw. No doubt, he’d tell her that other girls didn’t understand him. She patted him. Monster, she said to herself. She wasn’t normally into spanking, but he was so interesting she felt she couldn’t resist him. This looked like the start of some interesting times.

  Yes, they’d meet again. She smiled into his eyes and planted a kiss on his cheek. Around her the room was reeling with the smell of sweat and excitement and spilled beer. It was different every time at the club; never dull. When her friends asked her why she went she always smiled. She didn’t have to give her reasons. She knew why she came here. Because she wanted to.

  About the Story

  IT TOOK ME AGES to get the courage to go to the fetish club The Torture Garden. And then after I’d been there once, I realised that every time they changed the venue so it was always a struggle to find the next location. London is full of side streets that seem to meander into nothing in the A-Z and the venue in Old Street was one of those where I got lost. That’s the amazing thing about the city, in the middle of a perfectly ordinary street there’s an amazing club or weird shop. That there’s all these possible worlds, but you need the know-how and the confidence to access it.

  It’s hard having the right dress code for the fetish scene to get in, as well as being able to travel by public transport without causing a riot. As a newbie, I was amazed at the diversity of what turned people on. It wasn’t actually wall-to-wall sex, but an incredible display of erotic desire, and not all of it turned me on. Monster is a story where there is no honest-to-god penetrative sex, but plenty of focus on spanking, transvestites and foot worship. The main character isn’t particularly into any of these themes, but nonetheless, tries them out ‘because she can’. The empowerment of going there for the first time alone, and experimenting is a liberating one. The story focuses very much on the politics of the various group dynamics inside and the etiquette of casual sexual touch. The alcohol and orgasm are just the flames that momentarily light the dimly lit interior of this London location.

  Shame Game

  by Valerie Grey

  HERE YOU ARE: NERVOUS, waiting for her to arrive, wearing the evening dress, thong and stockings that she has sent; crossing and re-crossing your legs. You have turned off most of the lights in your small flat, preferring darkness.

  All you know is that she has told you that the two of you will be going out tonight. You do not know where. She will pick you up at the appropriate time. You are trying not to think too hard about the night ahead; you recall the last time she picked you up and took you out in London at night. That was the time with the blindfold so you didn’t see much of where you were in the city or how you got there. But every time you remember a part of that night, your stomach clenches. She shamed you. Humiliated you terribly in front of me, but in the end it was worth it, when you pleased her, and she gave you the love and attention you need.

  Still, you also remember how nothing seemed to bother her, no matter how agonized you were. The best thing about that night was that you could not see anything: you could not see the faces of the others, or see their ages, or see their smiles.

  Why didn’t you just say no before tonight? You could have done, but then you might have lost her. She would have either punished you or abandoned you.

  So she called, had the clothes delivered, and told you to be ready by 7 p.m.

  You could have said no, but you didn’t.

  You wonder if there is something wrong with you because you know she is going to severely humiliate you again.

  No normal, no sane woman would let this happen to her – not after realising what could be done to her. But you know. You have lived through it once already.

  So why do it?

  Why do you enjoy it?

  Unable to be still anymore, you begin to pace your small living room. You walk from the armchair to the glass doors facing your small balcony and back.

  You touch your hair, making sure it is in place. You tug on the dress, trying to make it longer. It shows too much of your legs.

  Your hands won’t stay still. You glance at the clock over and over again. You were ready at 6.45, long before she said to be ready. Now it is 7.20.

  The waiting is making you uneasy, more nervous. And you imagine things: what will be done to you. Images of shame and lust and …

  Finally the intercom buzzes.

  You rush to the speaker and click the button.‘Yes?’

  That French accent: ‘Buzz me in, chérie.’

  You push the button that unlocks the front door to the building.

  There’s a funny and strange feeling in your stomach
.

  She knocks on the door to your flat.

  You open it and step back so she can enter.

  Her eyes flick around the flat, taking in the used furniture and worn fixtures. You blush, feeling that you are not good enough for her. She comes from old money, you come from nothing.

  She holds a white wrap in one arm. She tells you to face away from her.

  You do so, and she slips the wrap over your shoulders. It’s like a poncho, but instead of being complete, it is split so that the front is open. She reaches down and takes the chain that is hanging from one side. She clips it to the other side of the wrap, closing it. There is still a gap of maybe two inches down the middle of your body, but you are mostly covered.

  She says, ‘It isn’t cold out, but you may need this later tonight … depending on how you do.’

  Hearing those words, you tremble. She knows you well, knows what has just crossed your mind and she smiles. Smiles are usually comforting, but this smile makes you knotup inside.

  You have seen this smile before.

  You feel moistness between your legs.

  Again, you are afraid, not of her, but of what may happen to you. But you don’t resist, just as you did not resist the last time. She commands and leads you as no one ever has led you before. She is the true mistress for whom you have yearned, for all of your twenty-three years.

  She reaches out and touches your cheek, lightly, caressing, loving.

  She is forty. She is beautiful. She is rich.

  You are hers to command.

  ‘Come on now.’She walks out of the flat. You stop and lock the door, but she does not wait. She strides away down the hall.

  You scurry behind her, the wrap flowing behind you.

  You catch up with her.

  She glances at you.

  She says, ‘One step behind me, to my right.’

  This command, making you less than she, humiliates you and makes you angry.

  Your sudden rage forces you to speak out.‘Why must I be behind you? This is not fair.’

  The steel in her eyes makes you shrink inside. You look down, instantly humbled. She does not have to speak to make her displeasure known. A glare, you find, does just as well.

  She says, ‘Is there anything else you wish to complain about?’

  ‘No.’Your voice is soft and stuttering. She has a presence that makes you feel small, like a Lilliputian from Gulliver’s Travels.

  You ask, ‘Where are we going?’

  She says, ‘To dinner. Then, depending on you, perhaps we’ll go on and join a small gathering afterwards. And no, it is not going to be the same one we visited before. If we go, this one will be completely different.’

  You suck in a breath, remembering your last humiliation, the last time she took you to ‘a small gathering’.

  She says, ‘I must make sure that you are aware of your role, little one. If you wish to speak, you must first receive my permission. Whether we are alone or with others. Do you understand?’

  You nod and say, ‘Y-y-yes.’

  You hate it when you stutter like that.

  She says, ‘An appropriate way to ask permission would be “Madam, may I speak?” Would you please say that for me now?’

  ‘M-m-madam, may I s-s-s-speak?’

  ‘Very good. In no time you will not have that silly stutter. You will become accustomed to me and my ways, little one.’

  Little one. She stands five foot nine inches to your five foot one.

  Damn her Riviera-bred superiority. Is this the French way of getting back at the English for centuries of God-knows-what?

  You are in the parking lot. You hurry to keep up, glancing ahead to see what kind of car she will drive tonight. She always chooses flashy rental cars.

  She leads you to a long black limousine. A driver, a tall man with very white skin, waits. The driver opens a rear door. She climbs inside, with grace, as if she is accustomed to limos. You scramble in after her. You have never been in a limo and it shows: you are trash, you come from the poor.

  She points to where you are to sit. Without complaint, you settle into the leather seat and look at her timidly. She ignores you because she has the phone to the driver and is telling him that he may leave.

  She lowers the phone.‘You want to be a good girl for me, oui?’

  Your mouth is dry and you can only nod.

  ‘You must speak the word.’

  ‘Y-yes.’

  ‘Good, I am pleased that you wish to be a good girl. Show me one of your breasts now.’

  You are shocked at her demand but why should you be?You knew she would ask this, or something similar. You glance at the privacy window dividing the limousine. It is down and the driver is looking in the rear view mirror.

  Your hands shake as you lift them to the clasp holding the wrap. Your fingers are clumsy and it takes a while for you to loosen the clasp. The wrap slides off your shoulders when it is released. Your eyes fill with tears and you lift one shaking hand to the strap of your gown. Pushing it off your shoulder, you close your eyes, and then peel the top of the gown away from your left breast.

  As the air touches your bare skin, goose bumps appear and your nipple becomes erect. You struggle to contain the sobs that want to burst out of you.

  You slowly open your eyes and through your blurred vision you can see that she is smiling. She hands you a dainty handkerchief. You blot your eyes with it and sit with one breast bared. She nods to the front of the limousine and you cannot help but look there also. Your face flares bright red as you see the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. He grins at this unexpected show.

  The drive from your miserable flat in East Finchley into West London feels like an eternity. You don’t want to look at the driver, but your eyes are drawn to him. Each time you look, his eyes are in the mirror and you know that he is enjoying the sight of your bare bosom.

  Your hands have lifted and fallen so many times. You want to cover your skin, your nipple, but you know that you cannot. You cannot go against her wishes.

  You clasp your hands together in your lap. Your face is still red and your eyes are moist. You are trying to keep your face expressionless: stoic.

  You can feel moistness between your legs and wonder how you can be excited by this treatment. It seems so wrong to you, but your body is not responding in the same way as your mind. Your mind can feel humiliation, but your body experiences only sexual excitement.

  The limousine slows and you look through the window. It stops in front of one of the nicest restaurants in South Kensington. This is your reward for this evening, for your obedience. And at least as you are in public she might not do anything to you here, or so you hope.

  The limousine stops. You both wait until the driver opens the rear door. Your breast is still bare. She slips out of the limo, again with the grace of an aristocrat, and she turns to look at you. She nods her head once and you understand her completely. With her and the driver looking at you, you lift the dress to cover your bare teat and slide the strap up and back on to your shoulder. You lift the wrap and drape it over your shoulders and slowly alight from the limousine. She turns away from you as you step on to the sidewalk and she walks to the entrance. Again, you scurry behind her. Secure in her superiority, she walks through the glass door and goes to the maître d’s station. You are behind her. There is a quiet conversation between her and the maître d’ and then you both follow him to a secluded table.

  She, of course, is seated first, while you stand.

  Then you are seated across from her.

  A waiter hurries to the table. She orders wine, not asking if you want any wine, or anything else for that matter. She flicks one hand at you and you realise that you still have the wrap on. Self-consciously, you shrug it off and let it drape over the back of your chair.

  The wine is served and she raises her glass to you after tasting and approving it. You lift yours, smile shyly, and sip as she does.

  Now that you are in the rest
aurant, in public, you feel more secure and less threatened. She makes small conversation with you. You begin to relax. Others are seated nearby, mostly well-dressed couples. The alcove that you are seated in has room for six tables. She leans toward you and asks, ‘Are you a virgin?’

  What kind of question is that? Before you can respond she speaks once more. ‘I asked you a question. I expect an answer, a truthful answer.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘How many men have you had?’

  You lower your face.

  ‘If you do not answer, I will think that you would prefer a penalty.’

  You lift your eyes and see hers have that steely quality again that makes you afraid and nervous. Before you can choke out your answer she speaks once more.‘You have earned a penalty, which will be paid after I hear your answer.’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  ‘Y-y-you are humiliating me. You know very well my feelings about men. Those two times– I was forced.’

  ‘Such things are not unheard of.’

  You sit tensely, waiting. She smiles the smile of a crocodile. You now think of the penalty you will pay. You don’t want to know what it is, but you also want to get it over with. You watch her as she looks around the alcove. All the tables are full.

  She leans forward again and says, ‘What do you think your penalty should be? Name it.’

  ‘D-don’t kn-know.’

  ‘Then I must choose for you, yes?’

  You nod.

  She leans closer. She says, ‘Give me your panties.’