Placing it over the hard, distended flesh, he reaches under the beetle and twists. The legs start to close in. And then that white joy again. There is a sting, then a bite, then hot sensation coursing through me. And now it remains. It doesn’t subside or vanish like it does with his mouth or fingers. It is constant, burning me. The legs of the scarab clasp my nipple tight, digging in. It is glorious pain. I try to shake it off and cannot and the agony tears through me as I do so. He strokes my hair and bends to kiss me. The contrast soothes and staggers me. I worship him. And then he is at the other nipple and the second scarab beetle is attached and bites its sweet bite on me. I am held by them. My breasts are bound, jutting out obscenely, and my nipples pinched constantly in the gold legs. The scarabs dangle from my breasts as if they were feeding from me.
‘Well done, Amunnakht,’ murmurs the Pharaoh. ‘Bring her closer. I wish to see.’
Amunnakht guides me with remarkable gentleness closer to the throne. There is silence as my king simply studies me.
‘Exquisite. Now, take her.’
The High Priest leaves me there momentarily to fetch a large stool, crafted from wood and animal skin, which he places just behind me. Then he gathers cushions and scatters them. My nipples and breasts are aflame. Guiding me again, he makes me lie across the stool, my breasts extending off the edge, my aching arms still tied behind me. I am lying side-on to His Majesty. He has a perfect view of what is to come.
Amunnakht stands before me and strips off his cloth. He rises up so large and hard I am staggered. I have never before seen such a magnificent cock. Then he moves behind and I await him, biting my lip, pushing my rump out for him. And there it is. He takes my hips and pushes in, slowly at first, allowing me to enjoy and adjust to his enormous girth. His cock is vast, and I stretch and stretch, my walls heaving apart to accommodate him. Still he continues, pushing deeper and deeper, his breath held. When at last he is fully sheathed in me, nudging my cervix, he releases the breath in a long moan of intense satisfaction.
‘How is she, Amunnakht?’
‘Sweet, wet as the Nile, tight and hot, so hot around me.’ He pulls back a little and it feels as glorious as when he entered me. The pain in my breasts is now only complimenting pleasure. I want him to move. I want to feel him filling me, plunging into me, fucking me. And he does. He pushes hard back in this time in one go, and I jolt forward, gasping. He has rubbed along that place inside me, that place where I crave man. I am so wet his cock begins to glide through with less resistance. As he thrusts forward I clamp down and he moans again. ‘You fit me perfectly!’
‘You are not to come for him, girl,’ the Pharaoh states suddenly. I cry out in frustration. He laughs. ‘Not unless you plead with him and he permits you.’
Amunnakht is moving fast now. His own orgasm cannot be far off and neither is mine. And, when he reaches around and plucks my swollen bud, I wail, so close, so wanting it.
‘Please,’ I whimper.
He ignores me.
‘Please,’ I dare again, slightly louder. No response. Still he moves, still he fucks and fingers. I fear I cannot hold on.
‘Please!’ I cry out. He thrusts so hard, digging his fingers into my skin brutally.
‘Very well,’ he says at last. ‘Come for me, girl.’
And I do. With cataclysmic force, my pleasure rages through me, feeding off my constrained breasts, feeding off the cock hurtling through my flesh, feeding off the lust I have held inside for so long. I come spectacularly, crying out helplessly, thrashing my head from side to side. And then he joins me. With long, low groans, he releases into me, shooting his pleasure up time and again, filling me with so much that it is squeezed out around his cock even before he withdraws.
At length he pulls me up and, knowing how pain will reassert itself evilly once pleasure has faded, he gently releases the scarab beetles. It hurts. My breasts are sore and darkening now, but his timing is impeccable, releasing them before it becomes dangerous. As the rope is untied I hiss. This time it is not good pain. He knows it and guides me to lie on the cushions, placing the softest covering over me, stroking, soothing. I close my eyes, and despite my surroundings, I can do nothing but allow sleep to claim me.
When I awake, I wonder if I am alone. But looking to the throne I can see my king still there. And out of the shadows Amunnakht approaches again. I think I will be dismissed, but in his hands he is holding the many-tailed flogger I saw earlier. My eyes widen. But when I glance at the rigid cock rising up between the High Priest’s legs I know my body is ready for more.
‘Your punishment is not yet complete, Mayamenti,’ states the Pharaoh.
‘Bend over the stool again,’ Amunnakht says.
I do so immediately, waiting, expectant, my rump quivering. At first it is not what I expect. It is his hand. It smacks against the right cheek of my backside, spreading a stinging glow across it immediately. I yelp. The Pharaoh chuckles. Quickly, Amunnakht repeats it on the other. I cry out again, and soon get another. It stings, but once again, pain becomes pleasure, heat becomes desire.
He keeps the slaps coming with his hand until my rump is aglow, heated and red, longing for the next spank, craving touch. Tears form in my eyes, but I try to hold them back, simply revelling in sheer sensation.
And then, something else: sharper, focused, singing across my abused flesh with determination. It whistles through the air before cracking across my backside. It is the flogger. He has hurled it down. I scream and the tears plummet. Now my rump shies away and he is forced to pull me back toward him. ‘No. You will take it. You are red and ripe and striped, girl, and you are beautiful. Know your punishment. Know your pain and your pleasure.’
He throws it down again. I sob in agony. It falls again and again and again. And then, as before, pain shifts. If I am still lying on the stool I do not know it. I feel as if I have been lifted off, and each sting across me simply rips through like some desperate life force. I shy away no longer and he continues to flog me, grunting viciously each time, putting all his energy into it, sensing my need. He catches my sex occasionally and it is so wet that the hide strips spread my moisture over my rump. I need him there; I need to come.
‘Stop. Give to her.’ It is the Pharaoh again.
And the pain stops instantly and I feel instead wet, delicious licking and sucking and supping. His mouth is on me and I am coming. I am coming apart. I shake, my limbs useless, lost to the bliss of release.
After, I am again left to recover for a time. I close my eyes and feel a soothing of the burn; a cooling balm is being applied. I sigh with relief, but when at last my eyes open, my Pharaoh speaks. ‘Come here, girl.’
Forcing myself from the stool, barely able to walk, I crawl up the steps to the throne. He is sitting, and now I can see his cock. It is exposed, long, not thick like Amunnakht’s, but beautiful nonetheless.
‘Suck me.’ I will not refuse him; he is my king.
Leaning forward, I take him fully in my mouth. I move rapidly over him, plunging down low, then up, swirling over the head, running nimbly down the seam, taking his balls in my mouth one at a time then up to plunge over the head again, teasing the slit. He groans, long and loud. My Pharaoh is lost in me.
And then my cunt is full. Amunnakht is fucking me. Despite the pain he has inflicted, despite the relentless pleasure, I open again and take him. I adore him; I want him always. As I suck on my king’s cock, the High Priest strokes along me, slowly, gently, coaxing pleasure again. But now I want only to give. The Pharaoh is close.
‘Amunnakht. Here.’
The cock is out of my cunt and the king drags his distended flesh from my mouth, leaving a trail of saliva between us. They both hold their cocks hard before me, pumping the flesh.
‘Open,’ I am commanded. My mouth gapes.
The Pharaoh comes first, shooting his seed over my face. I try to catch some in my mouth but much falls on my cheeks and chin.
Then the High Priest. His come explodes three, four tim
es onto me, mingling with the essence the Pharaoh has already shot out. More falls in my mouth this time and my eyes close as the salty thickness swirls on my tongue.
‘Come closer. Wide,’ says the Pharaoh.
I move closer and open my mouth. He stares into it and I push the come forward on my tongue, gathering in the drips with my fingers. ‘Swallow.’
I do so, relishing their taste as it slips down my throat.
A rich silence enfolds us.
‘Your punishment is complete,’ His Majesty states. ‘Stand.’
I do so quickly and move back from the throne, keeping my head down. I am aware of Amunnakht’s lithe presence. He is dressed again.
‘Mayamenti. You will no longer serve in the Temple,’ declares the Pharaoh.
I stagger, horrified.
‘Tomorrow you will report to the Chief Scribe where you will receive instruction in his art.’
Stunned, my features break into an elated smile. But I turn to Amunnakht, not wanting to be parted from him.
‘Go now with Amunnakht. He will take you to his bed, where you will remain while the seasons of our Nile turn.’
My heart is so full I can barely contain myself. Prostrating myself before my king again, I cannot stop words of gratitude pouring from my mouth.
‘No, Mayamenti, it is I who must thank you. Go now. You will be a great scribe and Amunnakht a great lover.’
And, taking my hand in his, my body aching and tender and blissful, Amunnakht leads me to my new life.
Classifieds
by Darla White
The café was quiet, which was just how she liked it. Finding her favourite table was free, she carelessly threw her coat over the back of the chair and headed for the counter, desperate for her fix. The pretty blonde barista seemed rather underwhelmed by her order, but Jules had never bothered with the trendy caramel lattés, or any of the endless incarnations of frothy, sweet nonsense. All she ever wanted was a proper cup of coffee; strong, black and hot.
Picking up the local news rag off the bar she headed back to her table. Having a rare afternoon off Jules was looking forward to dwindling the day away, sat by the gas fireplace, drinking coffee and catching up with her city. It wasn’t long before she was up to date on books and bands, and had completely stopped caring about the editor’s opinion on the recent increase in property taxes. Her coffee was now at the perfect temperature, and she sipped it lovingly while flipping to the crossword. The café was still quiet. A few people had meandered in and out, most of whom she recognised; regulars like her. It was that kind of place. Looking up from her paper, Jules noticed a cute young couple standing outside smoking, and thought she could probably duck out and do the same, and still be done with her crossword before her coffee got cold. They never took her long anyway. If you do them often enough, you find that the clues are always repeating. One of these days she was going to pick up The New York Times and attempt the infamous undefeatable crossword, but she knew that she would probably just end up cheating by checking online for suitable answers. She stood up and reached for her smokes. Right! She didn’t have any. A conscious choice. She was in the process of quitting and, cold turkey nonetheless, it was an almost impossible feat after ... many years of smoking. But it would be fine. If she just took 90 seconds, closed her eyes and took some nice deep breaths, the craving would pass.
Coffee drained, and crossword complete, Jules hummed and hawed over how to continue her lazy afternoon. It was then, while deciding whether or not to order another coffee, that she noticed herself absentmindedly thumbing through the classified section; a rarity at this stage in her life, save perhaps for searching for a used bicycle or neighbourhood garage sale. It had been years since Jules had last rented an apartment, and she couldn’t remember ever actually looking for a job in the classifieds. But just as she was about to abandon the coffee-stained paper, she saw it: Personals. Jules smiled to herself, not really sure why, dropped the paper back on her table and headed to the counter. A second attempt to converse with the blonde barista was met with one-word answers, and the type of unimpressed glances that evolution has spent centuries perfecting in teenagers. So after finally receiving her refill, she abandoned the one-sided conversation and returned to her fireside nook.
With the personal ads open in front of her, Jules took a sip of her brew. It was much too hot, and the second cup was somehow never as satisfying as the first. At this point, Jules didn’t care. The coffee was just a cover. Within seconds she had become completely absorbed in the raunchy desires of a hundred strangers: one-night stands, threesomes, bi-curious couples, gold-star lesbians. Powerful CEOs seeking a strapped dominatrix, and stay-at-home mums looking for after-school visits from the naughty girl-next-door. It was impressive, outlandish and deliciously intriguing. Before she had even circled a single ad, Jules had decided to answer one of the mystery requests, and try to make the most of this rare afternoon off. Today she would take a chance; leap head first into an experience that would either enthral and excite her, or ruin her completely. Either way, it would be new. Jules thought about buying a pack of cigarettes, but the idea of smoking – even just one – began to overcrowd her senses. Just breathe, she thought ... 90 seconds ... it’ll pass. Jules licked her lips. They tasted of cold coffee. When she opened her eyes, the first ad she saw read: “Willing female wanted. Experience appreciated”, followed by the necessary contact information. At first it seemed so cold, and vague, but soon those five unassuming words had somehow managed to set a vivid scene.
She reached for her mobile phone, dialled the number and held her breath ... it was ringing. Her heart beat a little faster. The ringing sounded muffled somehow, like it was really far away, or maybe just an old phone – or maybe it was the sound of her own breathing echoing through the earpiece. Nearly seven seconds had passed before the anticipation became too much, but just as she was ready to hang up, a woman answered. Jules was slightly thrown. Truthfully, she had imagined a male voice at the other end, but before the mystery woman hung up, Jules managed to stutter out a reasonable ‘Hello’.
The arrangements were made quickly, and easily. The mystery woman spoke with authority, and made her directions very clear. She stressed repeatedly the importance of anonymity, and that Jules’s complete discretion would be necessary if they were both going to get what they wanted. They would meet that afternoon at the GoodNight Motel. It was out of town, just off the highway. Jules remembered driving past it now and then. It was cheap. It was dirty. It was perfect. Jules would arrive first, and rent a room under the name of Mrs Bartlett. She would then leave a note at the front desk for a Mr and Mrs Gray that would state the room number and nothing more. As Jules carefully copied down her instructions, so utterly aroused by this point that she was actually perspiring, she couldn’t help but think that although it was possible that Mrs Gray had meticulously rehearsed these lines in hopes that a stranger would someday answer the couple’s innocent little ad, it was much more likely that they had done this many times before, and had gotten very good at it. Jules was really counting on the latter.
They were to meet in two hours, plenty of time to head home for a seething hot shower. Jules considered the master bathroom her own personal sanctuary. She had put many hours of work into making it plush and perfect; luckily, the shower had always been overlooked by the energy police in the building. The head was old and powerful, and Jules liked the temperature set a fraction-of-a-degree below unbearable.
As the steam swirled and lingered around her, Jules began fantasising about her impending rendezvous. A twinge of fear gripped her stomach. Realistically, she had no idea what she was getting into. But she had made her decision and, brushing the unsettling feeling aside, she reached for her razor and focused on the task at hand. It had been at least two weeks since she had last shaved, and naturally, between the clouds of steam, her dull razor, and her absent-minded fantasising, she managed to nick her leg, just behind her knee, which is the worst. The skin is much thinner
there, and cuts take for ever to heal. As Jules turned off the shower, basking in the lingering steam, she secretly acknowledged that it was this evening’s shower that she was really looking forward to.
She took a cab, pondered stopping at the liquor store, but thought better of it, and arrived 30 minutes early. The GoodNight Motel parking lot was deserted save for a few choice cars. Colourful beaters that were easily 20 years old, with the dents and rust to prove it. Tipping the cabbie she headed for the front door. Renting a room and leaving the note with the front-desk attendant – an overly ripe, heavy-in-the-seat man, with greasy, slicked-back dark hair. He looked at her with a blank expression and coughed as he took the folded note – perhaps a practice he was well accustomed to; Jules didn’t stick around to ask.
The room was sparse, with a double bed, a single bedside table, a set of drawers with a bolted-down television, a desk and a lone chair that had seen better days. The bathroom, with chipped mouldy tiles lay behind a dented door that neither locked nor closed properly. The air smelt stagnant, a combination of old smoke and stale sex, and it lingered in the walls – walls that were bare, except for small spots of peeling paint and brown patches that reached up to the ceiling. Jules turned and locked the door. Quickly pulling away from the handle, she thought about the documentary she had recently seen about the state of hotels, the underpaid and under-caring cleaning staff, the hidden dirt, the stains and lurking bugs and parasites at every corner. Pushing the thought aside, Jules turned in a full circle, as if a dog preparing to lie down; she wondered where to sit. Remaining standing she began to take her stilettos off, looked at the carpet and reconsidered. Moving anxiously around, she stopped in her tracks and tilted her head slightly to the right as she stared into the lopsided mirror precariously hanging over the desk. Checking herself out, she thought of herself as Mrs Bartlett: an oversexed, over-confident woman, a stiletto-wearing, ripped-stocking, leather-mini-skirt-and-black-lace-bustier character that Jules was growing to like more and more. It may have been the way her ass looked in the skirt, it may have been the nicotine withdrawal, but she liked the way she looked and she liked the way she felt, and for once it was great to be someone else. She could make Bartlett whoever she wanted and right now she wanted to be fucked – and hard.
Xcite Delights--Book Two Page 6