Domination Inc. (12 page)

Distracted by the pleasurable sensations Consuela's oral ministrations were creating between her legs, Cindy had forgotten that Sheena was still holding the cat o'nine tails. She was suddenly, shockingly reminded of that fact as it fell hard against her back, striping the soft skin. Consuela kept licking, even as Cindy bucked and howled.

‘Nearly there, Cindy, nearly there,' Sheena crooned, and as Consuela's busy tongue attacked Cindy's clitoris, the underlying meaning in her words became evident. An orgasm was building, unstoppable, low down in Cindy's body, and when the cat landed again, scoring Cindy's back for a second time, the messages her brain was receiving from her nerve-endings fused in a mixture of pain and exquisite pleasure, and when Cindy cried out this time, it announced to the others in the room that she had reached her climax.

As her quim pulsed and contracted, Consuela's tongue was moving away. Something was replacing it; something hard and warm. As it slid into Cindy's sopping channel she realised it was the handle of the cat o'nine tails. Cindy hung in her bonds, grateful that she was securely held in place, as Sheena used the implement as a makeshift phallus, thrusting it in and out of Cindy's body.

The pumping motion pushed Cindy rapidly towards a second orgasm. Her inner muscles clasped the leather handle of the whip as greedily as they had embraced the cab driver's cock earlier in the evening. She wondered what the man would say if he could see her now, being brought to a climax in this fashion. She wanted him to be here, watching, stroking his thick shaft with his fist. He would time his orgasm so that he came at the same time as she did, his creamy seed splattering over the weals on her back and buttocks, violating her body and yet worshipping it. She could almost taste the thick salty fluid as he wiped it from her skin and pressed it to her lips, ordering her to lick her fingers clean...

But this was Sheena's night, she reminded herself, and no men were allowed to enter her Sapphic sanctum. As if to press this point home, she had pulled the cat from Cindy's shuddering body, and instead of seminal fluid, it was her own juices Cindy was ordered to lick from the handle of the whip.

Once the smooth leather had been cleaned to Sheena's satisfaction, Cindy was released from the cross and helped to stand upright. Sheena took Cindy in an embrace, fastening her bra top for her.

‘Thank you; you were everything the agency promised,' she said, kissing Cindy tenderly on the lips. ‘I think you deserve a drink after that. Come on, let's go upstairs. I want to introduce you to a few people.'

 

Two hours later Cindy was standing in the foyer, bidding Sheena goodnight. Half a dozen business cards had been stuffed into her little handbag, all bar one from women who, impressed by Sheena's enthusiastic account of Cindy's performance in the playroom, were eager to engage her professional services for themselves. The last card was Sheena's. ‘You've got just what it takes to be in a
Sappho
photo-set,' Sheena had told her. ‘I can just see you now, in nothing but high heels and a blindfold, sprawled on black satin sheets...'

I'm sure you can, Cindy had thought, but what are you going to want me to do for the photographs?

Sheena gave Cindy one last peck on the cheek. ‘Your taxi should be here any second. I'm sorry about the mix-up on the way here, but I'm sure I told them to put the fare on my account. Let me give you some money; I wouldn't want you to have the same problem going home.'

Cindy glanced across the foyer, and spotted a familiar blond figure standing by the door, his eyes widening at the sight of so much scantily-clad female flesh. She shook her head, remembering the feel of his thick cock, and guessing how he would react when he saw the stripes that marked her punished backside. ‘It's okay, Sheena. If you don't mind, I'd like to come to my own arrangement…'

 

 

 

‘He wants me to do
what
while he watches?' Warren asked incredulously.

Laurel slipped on her wire-framed glasses and looked at the notes she had taken in the course of her conversation with Alan Wesley. ‘It seems Mr Wesley and his wife have got this fantasy where he comes home from work unexpectedly and catches his wife in bed with some young stud. The wife and her lover make the guy strip off, tie him to a chair, laugh at the size of his cock, and then she lets this bloke do all the things to her that she's never let her husband do while the husband is forced to watch them at it.'

‘But I thought we were only catering for submissive women,' Warren said. ‘This guy sounds like the biggest wimp on the planet, if you ask me.'

‘Well, they've planned it as a fortieth birthday treat for the wife, Carol, and they'd be paying us for an overnight stay, so I don't really want to turn them down. Anyway, I don't see why we shouldn't cater for the odd couple now and again, if there's a demand. And I've never known you to have any qualms about performing in front of an audience before.' Her hazel eyes flashed with mischief behind the lenses of her glasses. ‘Or is it that you're worried you're not going to match up to Mr Wesley's idea of a stud?'

She rested her chin on her cupped hand, and slipped her little finger between her pink-painted lips as she did so. Warren realised her gesture was purely intentional in its symbolism, and fought not to rise to the bait, even as his cock twitched treacherously in his boxer shorts. The only thing he wanted to see sliding into Laurel Angell's mouth was his rigid erection, and he was sure she knew it as well as he did. And you didn't need to have a nine-inch monster lurking in your underwear to convince a woman you were the best lover she'd ever experienced, not if you were an expert in using what you actually had. If Laurel's wet little pussy or tight, unplundered arse were ever available to him, she'd learn that lesson remarkably quickly. One day he'd have her over that desk and give her backside the skelping she deserved for being such a blatant tease, boss or no boss…

He realised Laurel was staring at him, an amused expression on her face. He stared back, giving every impression of having been completely unruffled by her actions.

‘There'll be no complaints on that score, don't you worry,' he told her. ‘No point in just giving a woman a little something for her birthday, now is there?'

Warren was still grinning with self-satisfaction as Laurel reached for the phone to confirm the booking.

 

The Wesleys lived in an anonymous-looking tree-lined avenue in Ruislip. Strictly commuter country, Warren thought, walking down past identical houses where television sets flickered behind net curtains and front gardens were dotted with ornamental gnomes and miniature stone wishing wells. Just the sort of neighbourhood where dull suburban couples spiced up their lives with polite wife-swapping sessions at the weekends, passing their partners around like canapés at a cocktail party.

When Laurel had filled Warren in on Alan Wesley's background, it had not surprised him to learn that the man worked for a firm of accountants in the City; a dreary job for a dreary-sounding individual. The picture of middle-class respectability had been completed with the information that Wesley was high up in the local Round Table, and played golf off a low handicap on Sundays. No wonder his idea of sexual excitement involved ridicule and humiliation.

Warren pushed open the front gate of the Wesleys' semi and walked up the path to the white, double-glazed front door, conscious that in his battered leather jacket he probably looked more like a potential burglar than a houseguest. Carol Wesley opened the door on his knock, as though she'd been watching for his arrival, and ushered him quickly inside. She was a mousy-haired woman, visibly approaching middle age; Warren suspected that twenty years ago she would have been a stunner, but time and the monotony of being a housewife had given her a careworn look which made her seem older than her years. Her hair was piled on top of her head, ringlets framing her face, and she wore a plain black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps that emphasised a surprisingly good figure with small, high breasts and long, slim legs. She giggled, and Warren wondered whether she had fortified her resolve to go through this scenario with the aid of a little alcohol; his suspicion was confirmed when he followed her through to the lounge and spotted an almost empty glass of red wine standing on a fussy lace coaster on the coffee table.

He kissed her on the cheek, and handed her the bottle of champagne he had brought as a present. ‘Happy birthday, Carol. You're looking great tonight,' he said, slipping into the rôle of attentive lover.

‘Thank you,' she replied, blushing slightly at the compliment. ‘Should I put this in the fridge?' she asked, gesturing to the champagne. She sounded slightly nervous, and eager to please.

‘Sure,' Warren replied easily, ‘we can drink it after...'

Carol chattered on as she walked down the hall. ‘Look at the time. Typical of Alan, can't even leave the office early on my birthday.'

‘Gives us more time to spend together, though.' Warren dropped his jacket over the arm of the sofa and wandered into the kitchen. As Carol was busy finding a space in the overloaded refrigerator for the bottle, he came up behind her and began to nuzzle her neck. She smelt of a floral, slightly powdery perfume, and wriggled half-heartedly in his grasp.

‘Not here, Alan might be back at any minute.'

‘Ah, come on, Carol, wouldn't you like him to see you like this? In the arms of the man who makes you feel the way he's forgotten how to? Or would you prefer him to see you like this?'

As he spoke, Warren pushed the straps of the dress down over her shoulders. As he had guessed, she wore no bra beneath it, and he turned her to face the big picture window over the sink, so they could see their own reflections against the glass, the small brown aureoles of Carol's breasts already stiffening with excitement. Warren cupped the soft mounds and began to squeeze them roughly, summoning a moan from between Carol's lips. His cock had already begun to stir, and the feel of her firm breasts in his hands made it twitch with excitement and lengthen further.

‘Look at yourself, Carol,' he murmured, pinching harder at her nipples. ‘Really look at yourself. You've been with Alan so long all you see is the little drudge he's turned you into, but deep down inside is the sexy slip of a thing he married. Sex is a chore with him, now, isn't it? A couple of minutes of humping and heaving on a Sunday morning, and him not caring whether you come or not.' He caught her hair, pulling it loose from the clips that held it, so it spilled down onto her bare shoulders. ‘When was the last time your husband had you like this, half-naked in the kitchen and panting like a bitch on heat?'

He was rucking up the hem of her dress as Carol hung limp in his arms, lulled by the hypnotic tone of his voice and the images he was planting in her head. She made no protest as he took hold of her hand and guided it beneath the bunched-up fabric, to rest on her peach-coloured French panties. Her best underwear, saved for a special occasion, he suspected.

‘Go on, Carol, touch yourself,' he urged. ‘I want to watch you play with your pussy.'

Hesitantly at first, Carol began to comply, running her fingers lightly over the silky material. As she continued to stroke her mound Warren bit her throat, bruising her skin.

‘What are you doing?' Carol whispered, startled back to awareness by the sudden pain.

‘As soon as I saw the creamy skin on that neck of yours I wanted to mark it,' he replied. ‘It'll let that wimp of a husband know you've been with a real man.' Warren lowered his voice. ‘I'm going to mark those lovely tits of yours, too.'

He noticed that Carol's fingers moved lower as he spoke, cupping her fleshy labia where they were cradled in the gusset of the French panties.

‘Do you want that, Carol?' he asked. ‘Do you want me to bite your tits? Do you want me to do it while your husband watches?'

She moaned again, a noise he took as assent, and her fingers slipped below the leg of her panties as she widened her stance slightly. Warren fought the urge to rip the flimsy garment off her; that would come later, but he was working to his own internal script of how this scene should be played out.

‘You know I'm going to make him watch me fucking you, don't you?' Warren said, as Carol began to rub at her sex in earnest. ‘He's going to see my cock sliding up into you, and know that for the first time in your life you'll be really filled. Didn't you tell me he's got nothing between his legs that's worth writing home about?'

Carol Wesley had thrown her head back, and her eyes were half-closed as she masturbated herself. ‘Yes,' she muttered, ‘I want a big fat cock inside me. Warren, I want to feel it when you thrust into me...'

‘Come on, let's go upstairs,' Warren urged, anxious to undress and relieve the pressure of his penis as it pressed against his button fly. They made it as far as the bottom of the stairs before Warren was tugging her dress down off her hips, so that all she stood in was her panties, stockings and suspenders. Again, he took her in his arms, kissing her passionately and coaxing her to stroke the aching bulge in his jeans. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, the nipples hard points that he wanted to twist until she cried out in pleasurable pain.

Halfway up the stairs he finally tugged down her French knickers. He made a show of raising them to his nose and sniffing at the gusset before he tossed them away. ‘Gorgeous,' he said with approval, and the shocked look Carol gave him made him realise that her husband was probably no fan of the natural female aroma unless it was buried under the artificial scents of soap, deodorant and perfume.

Warren strode with assurance to what he took to be the master bedroom, and was rewarded with the sight of a double bed with a frilly floral counterpane, a pink night-dress lying neatly folded on one side, and a pair of striped pyjamas on the other. Contemptuously, he pushed the pyjamas off the bed to land in a crumpled heap on the floor, and threw Carol down on the bed. She lay looking up at him as he began to strip off. He took his time, pulling his T-shirt slowly over his head so that she could watch the play of muscles on his chest and arms as he stretched. He stooped to pull off his boots and socks, then turned his attention to his belt buckle. Once his jeans were unfastened, he pushed them down and off. Carol was watching him attentively, but he noticed that her eyes were increasingly drawn to his crotch. He had eschewed his usual boxers in favour of a pair of hip-hugging designer briefs which had been a present from an old girlfriend, and which clung to his cock and balls, presenting them in a way which was practically making Mrs Wesley salivate. Perhaps the game he was playing with the woman wasn't that far divorced from reality, he thought. Perhaps she really wasn't used to being screwed by a man with a decent-sized dick.

‘You want this, Carol, don't you?' he said, stroking his erection through the white cotton.

She nodded, helplessly. He noticed that her thighs had lolled open slightly as she lay on the bed, revealing the hairy lips of her pussy, and a hint of the glistening, salmon-pink flesh they usually concealed.

‘Well, you're going to have to beg for it,' Warren told her.

‘Please…' she whispered, her words barely audible. ‘Please, Warren, make love to me.'

‘Make love?' Warren sounded contemptuous. There was a pile of paperback romances on the bedside table, and he gestured towards them. ‘That might be what they call it in that sort of trash, but I want to hear it called what it really is. Come on, Carol, say it. Say what you really want me to do to you.'

‘I want you... I want to fuck me,' she said, finally.

‘Good girl,' Warren said, coming to lie on the bed beside her. He put her hand on the waistband of his briefs, and obediently she pulled them down. His cock bobbed slightly as it was released from the constricting pants, and Carol Wesley reached out a hand towards it.

She stroked a tentative finger along its veined length. ‘It's much bigger than my husband's,' she said. Those words alone were enough to make it twitch and extend even further.

‘It'll probably get even bigger if you suck it,' Warren told her.

‘Oh, I don't think I could do that,' she replied quickly.

‘Why ever not? I mean, just think how Alan will feel if he comes in and sees his wife with her lips wrapped around another man's cock, her mouth stretching to cope with something that's fatter than she's been used to.'

‘That's just it,' Carol said. ‘I'm not used to sucking Alan's. I don't lick him... and he doesn't lick me.' There was a sudden, regretful tone to her voice.

‘Doesn't he now? Well, it's about time you found out what you've been missing, then, isn't it?' As he spoke, Warren was positioning himself between Carol's legs. He lowered his face towards her moist sex.

‘You're not… You can't be… Oh…' Carol's protests faded and died as Warren's mouth settled on her vulva. His tongue laved the length of her swollen crease, moving slowly over the slippery flesh. He glanced up at the woman's face as his tongue reached the apex of its journey; her expression was one of mortification mixed with rapidly-dawning pleasure. How could Carol Wesley have reached the age of forty without ever having her pussy licked? he wondered, as he made the tip of his tongue into a hard point and used it to flick at her clitoris. She wriggled and writhed beneath him, pushing her hips up towards his face as she moved closer to her crisis.