And, for that alone, I know I must invite my fate.
I duel with The Detective’s tongue. I press my body against his hand. I part my thighs, press my cunt against the chair and rock and wriggle lewdly.
The Detective laughs joyfully into my mouth as he grips the back of my head with one hand and lets the other slide from my breast down to my belly. His mighty form seems to weigh down on me as he thrusts hard and ruthlessly with his tongue and slips two fingers down between my legs – and then in between my sex lips.
A cry bubbles up from my chest, but he suppresses with his mouth and his sheer force of will. Down at my core, he rubs ferociously, working my clit. My body jerks like a fish on a line, thrashing against his caress and his presence, making the flimsy metal chair clatter and shake. I can’t break free of him, but I can’t see why I’d want to. All my struggling and writhing is a pure reflex action, more incitement than any kind of escape attempt.
When I come, I feel as if I’m going to choke for a moment, but still he won’t free me. He subjects me to more and more tongue, and more and more fingering, without an instant of respite. My head starts to swim and I smell my sweat and my foxy juices – and his cologne, sublime and expensive.
‘Naughty, naughty,’ he whispers when he finally releases me. He takes out a large monogrammed handkerchief, wipes his fingers, then refolds the white square meticulously and pushes it back into his pocket. ‘You just failed your endurance test, and now you really need a lesson.’
Suddenly on his feet again, he drags me to mine, then kicks away the chair. I sway precariously, my head like cotton wool from all the onslaughts on my senses. He holds me by my shoulders, his grip firm and unyielding, and I almost imagine that my feet have left the floor.
‘Over you go,’ he instructs me, manipulating me in space as if I were a doll made of papier-mâché or some other super-light material.
Before I can protest, I’m face down across the grimy metal table, its hard edge pressing sharply against my crotch. The room’s chilly air wafts like a breeze across my labia.
It’s very uncomfortable, pressed face down across the table like this, with my hands fastened so I can’t adjust my position. My warm cheek is squished sideways against the unfriendly grey surface and my breasts ache where they’re flattened by own weight.
I’m vulnerable. Exposed. Hugely excited. Silky fluid slides down the inside of my thigh.
I imagine The Detective’s eagle eyes watching its progress. I wait for a sardonic comment but he remains tantalisingly silent. The only sound is a slight rustle from his clothing.
What the hell is he doing? I twist and strain to see him, unconsciously aware that I must not lift my head. Across the desk, I see him drop his jacket neatly over the back of his chair, and then there are faint noises like fine fabric being folded.
The bastard’s rolling up his sleeves, ready for action!
It’s a shock when I feel his hand slide beneath my T-shirt and touch my bottom.
‘I could have you now, couldn’t I?’ he whispers, leaning right over me, fingertips skittering and flickering over the nervous surface of my buttocks.
I purse my lips, determined to resist him for the sheer devilment of testing our limits. I want him. I think … But it’s different now. Lusting from afar isn’t dangerous … and this is.
His fingers slip into the groove of my bottom, sliding downwards, delicately disturbing my slippery folds. I bite my lip, trying not to whine like a horny bitch.
‘I could have you … but I don’t think I will.’
I wait for my own wail of disappointment but it doesn’t materialise. Touch is enough, touch and something more assertive.
‘I know what you need, Vicky. I know what you want … I know what’s best for a naughty girl like you.’
Slowly, with what feels suspiciously like reverence, he raises my grungy T-shirt, tucks it beneath my cuffed hands and exposes the trembling cheeks of my naked backside. He steps to my right side and places the points of his fingers on first one buttock, then the other. The whine gets away from me this time and I lift my hips to meet his touch.
‘Patience, little girl, patience,’ he says steadily, then begins to slowly pat my cheeks, first one, then the other, as before.
It’s so measured, so detailed, so leisurely.
The pats become taps. The taps become more forceful. The forceful taps gain momentum, becoming slaps.
And they hurt!
They hurt like hell! Like fire! Like burning, biting flames!
A little bonfire that seeps and flows into my pussy.
I’m making all sorts of noise now. Grunts, whines, groans and whimpers … the sound of my own voice turns me on even more. There’s something thrilling about being reduced to a giant hormone. A drooling, needing creature of submissive lust …
The Detective laughs with delight.
‘Now you know,’ he announces exultantly. ‘Now you know what you really want and really need.’ His hand stills on my right bottom cheek, squeezing lightly and making it hard for me to breathe. ‘And now we need to resolve the situation.’ His voice is brisk. He’s still pleased with himself. And he’s smiling as he turns me over, sits me on the edge of the desk and induces another groan as my reddened bottom takes my weight.
But what he does next is a total surprise.
With a grace that belies his towering height and his muscular girth, he sinks to his knees, grabs me by the thighs … and gives me head.
I sway, I almost topple over, but I manage to rest myself awkwardly on my elbows and my shackled wrists.
The pleasure is exquisite. His tongue is nimble beyond imagining. I shout out loud, my bare thighs clamping round his head.
Within a few heartbeats, he laps me cleverly to my climax and, as I flail about, I feel myself begin to fall …
‘Wake up, love! You’re missing your favourite episode. It’s nearly finished.’
Someone’s gently shaking my arm and I lurch back into consciousness. It’s a bit like that horrible jolting ‘stepping into a lift shaft’ sensation that occasionally wakes you from a dream of suddenly falling. Flying bolt upright, I try and catch my breath.
The bedside lamp and the television are back on, and The Detective is just about to pull the old bait and switch on some crafty criminal who thinks he’s very clever, but is just a microbe compared to the intellect he’s up against.
He’s on the case, totally focused and playing out his role, just as normal.
He’s a million miles away from the demon sex fiend who just licked my cunt.
There’s a funny noise and I suddenly realise that it’s my teeth chattering.
A warm familiar arm comes around my shoulder and I turn to Sam, who’s looking rather worried with a slight side order of guiltiness.
‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’ He gives me a squeeze. ‘I’m sorry about not waking you up sooner, but I was dozing myself and when I opened my eyes I realised this one is nearly over.’ He nods to the screen, where The Detective is leaning against the wall of the interrogation room, his arms folded and an arch slightly pitying expression on his handsome face. The miserable perp has just this moment realised that he’s been tricked.
‘Don’t worry, love … I’ve seen it before. I know what happens,’ I find myself saying.
Sam is so sweet. I never realised that he knew what my favourite episodes were, and it was so thoughtful of him to actually worry that I was missing one.
I make a decision, reach for the remote and snap off the telly.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Sam demands, but he’s smiling. ‘You’ve been looking forwards to this for weeks. Aren’t you going to watch it all?’
‘Nah … I’ve seen enough for tonight.’ I wriggle out of his arms, touch his dear face and then push on his shoulders to encourage him to lie back on the bed. ‘I promised you a blow job, didn’t I?’ I tug down the covers and find a pleasing erection springing eagerly from his groin.
What o
n earth has he been dreaming about? It couldn’t be as vivid as mine, surely, but something’s got him up and at the ready.
‘Nice …’ I murmur, letting my fingers walk up his thigh until they reach the cradle of his groin. He lets out a gasp as I make a circle around his cockhead. ‘But what’s brought this on?’ I punctuate the question, by leaning forwards to give him a nice but naughty licking.
Sam puffs out his lips and starts to wriggle a little. He tosses his curly head on the pillow when I point my tongue and start to probe.
‘I had this dream … this weird dream …’ he pants. ‘It was about you and him …’
When I open my eyes and glance sideways at his face, he’s nodding towards the television.
A strange unease stirs in me, but it’s not fair to break off from my task now, so I continue.
‘You were in the interrogation room with him, and he had you handcuffed, and it all got a bit fruity.’
I pop up.
‘What happened?’
‘He was touching you … and he spanked you … and then he gave you head.’
The room starts to revolve a little, and I’m back there … cowering, ready and yearning, before my hero.
‘God, it was hot,’ goes on Sam, still moving uneasily against the pillows, his eyes closed, and licking his lips. ‘Really horny … we shall have to do that spanking thing one of these days, I think … Would you like that?’
‘Yeah, it’d be fun,’ I whisper, feeling wildly turned on again but, at the same time, slightly terrified.
‘Hey, don’t leave me high and dry, babe!’ Sam protests, reaching out towards me and pulling me back in the direction of his dick again.
I comply, and begin to suck him slowly and industriously in the lamplight, but the hairs on the back of my neck are prickling and crawling.
How can Sam have had the same dream as I did? How can he have seen what I dreamt he was seeing through the glass?
My mouth still full of my boyfriend, I can’t help glancing sideways towards the television, and I nearly do him a mischief when I see the screen all aglow again.
And there, bathed in the same blue-toned eldritch radiance as before, is The Detective. He’s sitting on the edge of his metal table, his suited arms crossed and a silky smirk on his broad handsome face.
What are you doing? You’re not real! You’re a dream! Sod off!
I close my eyes and apply myself to my delicious task, but, when I weaken a moment later, I sneak a sideways peek at the screen and find him still there and smirking …
And, as he reaches for his zip, his familiar eyes gleam red as coals.
All I Want for Christmas Mae Nixon
Frank Kapra had a lot to answer for. There was Jimmy Stewart, in his handsome wholesome prime, pumping out seasonal goodwill from every TV set in the nation while I was standing at the top of a rickety step-ladder, wiping the dust off DVD boxes.
No handsome hubby and cute kiddies waiting at home to trim the Christmas tree and no thoughtful and tastefully expensive gift waiting underneath it for me. Just the cats for company and a couple of old films to watch on DVD.
I should have known that volunteering to clean up after the shop closed on Christmas Eve would depress me. It had been a slow day and a long one – only sad lonely people wanted to rent films at Christmastime. I could spot them the minute they came into the shop – even before sometimes. The women were usually neat and organised. They talked too much and too loudly, like they weren’t used to the sound of their own voices. They rented musicals and sloppy romances, having no doubt popped into the chemist’s next door to buy a box of tissues especially for the occasion. They’d hand over the exact money in small change, which they dug out of their wallets a coin at a time, all the while smiling and anxious to please.
The men always seemed to need a good haircut and they wore unfashionable shirts, badly in need of ironing. They chose action movies with muscular heroes and violent endings. Sometimes they’d slip in something from our ‘adult selection’ and bring them to the counter red-faced and sheepish, hoping I wouldn’t comment. I never did, I felt far too much empathy for that. I expect they also found a use for some tissues at the end of their evening’s viewing.
When I closed the shop at eight, there hadn’t been a customer for an hour and a half. I locked the door, got out the step-ladder and cleaning stuff and went to work, having first put Kapra’s It’s a Wonderful Life in the shop’s player.
In the street outside, the night people slowly began to appear. Young lads loitering outside the offie, not really old enough to drink but laughing loudly and quaffing their illicit lager ostentatiously out of cans. In the doorway of the department store across the way, two down-and-outs hunched sullenly inside their cardboard boxes, hoping not to be moved on.
I worked methodically, emptying and cleaning each shelf in turn and putting the DVDs back in the right order. The Kapra movie was obviously a bad choice. The only Christmas spirit in me it appealed to was the kind the lager louts outside the off-licence were enjoying. When it came to the part when Clarence the trainee angel lets James Stewart see what the world would be like if he had never been born, I came down that ladder so fast I almost got my feet tangled in the rungs. I leant over the counter and thumped the eject button on the player as hard as I could. The disk plopped out and I resisted the urge to fling it through the plate glass of the shop’s front window.
That was typical of me. I’d been resisting temptation all my life. The temptation to say what I thought, share what I felt, have fun, have sex, be happy. It struck me that what I’d been resisting was the temptation to live and I picked up the disk and hurled it straight at the window like a gleaming silver frisbee.
It hit the window with a surprisingly loud metallic tinging noise, which made the lads outside the off-licence laugh and instantly sent my face as red as Santa’s hat. To make matters worse, it ricocheted off the glass and disappeared into a tiny gap between two display cases.
I got on my hands and knees to retrieve it but I couldn’t reach it. Still red-faced and now angrier than ever, I tried to squeeze a finger in behind the disk so that I could pull it out. But it was no good; my finger wasn’t long enough.
I was pissed off now and tired and hungry. The cats should have been fed two hours ago. But I said I’d clean up the shop and I was far too polite and eager to please to go back on my word. And now I’d somehow managed to get one of our valuable pieces of stock (and a classic of the modern cinema to boot) stuck between two display cases and I had to get it out. So, swearing quietly to myself and generally venting my anger in the most explicit terms against first my employer, then James Stewart, then Frank Kapra and finally Christianity for inventing Christmas, I went back to the counter to find a pen.
After pushing the pen down behind the far edge of the disk, I eventually managed to slide enough of it out of its hiding place to take hold of it and pull it out. It was pretty dusty and knocked about, probably unwatchable, but what did I care? Anyone who wanted to watch that sugar-coated unrealistic kitsch ought to have their head examined anyway.
I was just about to get up off my hands and knees when I noticed that a video-cassette, still in its box, was wedged much further back in the space between the two cases. I wiggled my biro into the gap and slowly and painstakingly edged it towards me. It was hard work because it’d been there a long time and it was wedged tight.
‘Come on, you bastard,’ I said aloud, grunting with the effort of trying to ease the trapped tape out of its hidey-hole. ‘Don’t fuck me about – come out of there!’ I swore a lot when I was alone, though you’d never have thought it to look at me. But a girl had to have some vices and that was mine.
I was hot and dusty, I had broken a nail and there was a hole in my tights. I was about as angry as it was possible to be and the only thing I had to vent my rage on was this little plastic box. I managed to manoeuvre it so that about an inch was sticking out between the two cases. I was squatting down, grippi
ng the slippery plastic box tight in both hands, struggling to keep a grip. I leant backwards and used all my strength to get it free. I felt like King Arthur trying to pull Excalibur out of the stone.
I grunted, gritting my teeth and straining with the exertion and the bloody thing didn’t budge. I decided to give it one last effort before calling it a day. If it wouldn’t come out, it could stay there. After all, it could have been there for years and hardly anyone rented videos these days, it was all DVDs.
Gripping the free corner of the box with all my strength, I pulled hard using my body weight as a lever. ‘Come out now!’ I shouted.
Without warning, the box came loose and slid out from between the cases and, because I wasn’t expecting it, I tumbled backwards and landed flat on the floor, my legs in the air and my skirt around my waist. I heard laughter and hooting from over the road. The dossers and drinkers were certainly getting a free cabaret tonight. I resolved to leave by the rear entrance to avoid any further embarrassment.
Brushing away the thick layer of dust and cobwebs from the box, I uncovered a gaudy photograph of a partially clad young woman with improbable breasts and buttocks so pert she could have balanced a tea tray on them. The title Succubus Sluts proclaimed itself proudly from the spine of the box. ‘A fuck flick,’ I said aloud, though the shop’s manager preferred to call that sort of thing ‘our adult selection’.
I’d had enough for the night. Every item of stock and surface was dust free and gleaming; I’d recatalogued the cartoon section and balanced the till. Time to go home and spend the next few days without having to worry about the shop. Just three days alone with the TV, the cats and as much Christmas chocolate as I could eat. Bliss.
I got my coat, scarf and gloves and picked up my shopping bag from behind the counter. On the spur of the moment, I stuffed Succubus Sluts into my bag. After all, it was Christmas and, if I couldn’t let myself go then, when could I?
As I let myself into my house, my two cats ran up the hall to greet me. ‘Cupboard love,’ I mumbled as they rubbed their sleek bodies against my legs, snaking in and out of my feet as I approached the kitchen. Having fed them, I started the bath running and headed for my bedroom where I undressed. Before long, I was languishing in a steaming hot bath, a glass of Australian champagne in hand, soft music on the CD player and relaxing, fragrant oils in the water.
Love on the Dark Side Page 22