The Collector (2 page)

It was his turn. He pointed to the arm of the sofa and watched, his state of arousal already returning, as she positioned herself so that her upper body lay across the arm, whilst her legs remained on the floor. Her fabric covered arse filled his vision. He adored it. Ripe, round and firm. His hands stroked the flimsy material. His finger tips teased beneath the leg holes, making her skin jump beneath his touch as he slithered the fragile knickers down to just below her buttocks before running a single finger down her butt-crack.

He couldn’t wait any longer. She was just too perfect. He looped the belt in half and wrapped it a little way around his wrist before aiming it against her skin, first with a gentle leather caress, then a smack, before building up a rhythm. Faster and faster; harder and harder. Each stroke of the belt hit an alternate cheek, quickly creating a striped effect across her pale flesh.

She’d cried out at first, but then began to stifle her reaction into a cushion. She bit down hard, effectively gagging herself and deflecting the beautiful pain.

He felt even more turned on than before; if only she would beg him to stop. He’d struck her three more times before something in her snapped and she cried out. ‘Please Sir’, she’d shouted, ‘Please stop. Fuck me Sir. Fuck me now.’

That was when it had really started.
He pulled on the condom, grabbed her hips, lifted her slightly, and thrust into her from behind. As he rocked in and out of her tight cunt, his hands digging into the recently spoilt flesh, her breathing had become shallow. She was close now, desperate perhaps. Swiftly he pulled out and tugged her to her feet. She swayed as the blood that had run to her head drained back through her body.
She watched him transfixed as, holding her upright with one hand, he licked one finger and placed it lightly onto her hard clit. The mewls that had been issuing from her lips became a groan of near satisfaction as she grabbed his hand and held it firmly over her pussy, rubbing herself off until, at last, she sank to her feet, shaking as her orgasm washed over her.
He knelt and unzipped her boots, tenderly kissing each inch of skin as it appeared, until he reached her tiny feet and then kissed them too.
She had begun to shiver, and for the first time he noticed that the flat wasn’t that warm. Scooping her slight body into his arms, he led her through the open bedroom door. Dropping her onto the coffee coloured duvet, he stood admiring her for a second before climbing astride her. Sitting with his cock resting on her stomach, he leant forward and took her right nipple between his lips and began to nibble it with his teeth.
He could feel her stomach tighten beneath him as a moan caught in her throat. He wanted to take his time; feast on the delicious tits in front of him, but he knew that he only had so long before he would break, before the feel of her velvet body enveloping him was again essential to his very existence.
He sucked, licked and bit her breasts until her sighs had turned to urgent growls. ‘Oh God, I can feel you. It’s as if every time you lick my tits you are licking my cunt.’
It was the longest sentence she had spoken since they’d met, and it had more effect on him than anything that had happened so far. He felt a strange surge of power that he had made this enigmatic woman feel that way. He sat on the edge of the bed and, silent once more, she climbed astride him, consuming his thick shaft between her legs. He forced a hand between them, rubbing her engorged clit as she came around him, her cries forcing him to spunk into her in a seemingly endless rush of relief.
After that she held him. He was vaguely aware that it felt good to be held. The usual stranglehold of post-coital suffocation wasn’t flooding through him. It was as if they both understood the situation for exactly what it was; so being held and holding was fine.
‘You’d like a shower?’ she asked, her head to one side.
‘Please.’ He followed her into a tiny room which contained nothing but a shower and a toilet. She reached into the glass cubicle and pressed a button, unleashing a steaming jet of hot water.
It seemed natural to shower together. As he soaped her breasts he saw that this was the end; that if he wanted to know what she tasted like then this was his last chance. He lowered himself to his knees, and in the confined space, eased her legs apart, before darting his tongue between them.
He lapped up her sweet juice as the water crashed around them. He was quickly rewarded by her bucking against his tongue, as she grabbed his sodden hair to steady herself.
Once back on her feet she looked at him as if assessing him once more. She kissed him twice, once on the mouth and once on the cheek. Then, without a word, she pointed to a plush white towel hanging on the rack.
He understood, and in a way he was grateful. No explanations, no excuses; it had just come to an end.
He tracked down his clothes and dressed without haste. In the kitchen he pulled on his jacket, and glanced at the article she’d lain out to read later. He might easily have missed it, but he didn’t.
As he sat back in the coffee shop, sipping a much needed black coffee, he opened the colour supplement from the newspaper he’d just purchased.
There she was. An article about the growing trend in woman’s erotica greeted him, alongside which was a small, slightly grainy photograph of a writer. It claimed her name was Jen. He suspected that was not the case. It simply didn’t suit her.
He smiled. So, he’d been screwed in the interests of research. Seemed like a good reason. He thought perhaps that would be one story he didn’t need to read though, for he knew he would remember it always. In fact he was going to remember later at home; vividly in the comfort of his own bedroom, or maybe even in the shower.

The majority of the stories I have collected are from total strangers. Find the right angle and they seem to relish telling their inner-most secrets. There is a piquant delight in sharing a lurid confidence with someone you don’t know, and are unlikely to see ever again, especially someone who might immortalise your adventure in print.

When I met Jay, on the bus from Five Mile Drive to St Giles in Oxford, and saw her blurred eyes looking into the distance, a tired but satisfied smile playing at the corner of her mouth, I instinctively knew she had a story to tell. I just hoped she wasn’t too hung over or too stoned to tell me about it.

She couldn’t back out now. This was it, the only chance she would ever have to live out the wild fantasy her mind continually replayed into the small hours of the night.

She nodded, her long black hair falling across her rounded face, hiding a nervous smile. A tall girl took her hand and led her into the ladies cloakroom, away from the buzz of the club. Jay caught her breath as she took in the scene. The action was already underway.

Pressed against the mirrored wall, arms placed high behind her spiky red hair, a fantastically curvaceous girl had her eyes tightly closed. Kneeling before her, an eager petite woman was licking between her spread legs, soft fingers teasing the skin above sheer silk hold-ups. Jay took in the round exposed globes squeezed out seductively above the willing captive’s startlingly bright green basque. She didn’t need telling what to do. Jay’s tongue was quickly lapping at the right nipple like a hungry cat, while her escort greedily attacked the left.

The pace quickened and the nameless girl let out a body racking cry as she bucked away from the mirror, leaving a smeared sweaty outline against the glass. She fell forwards, pulling her attendants down with her.

In the tangle of smooth arms and legs, Jay felt all the hands fall onto her. So, she was to be next. As she was positioned onto all fours, Jay prepared herself to dispel the myth that it is better to give rather than to receive…

It was in a small conservatory attached to a coffee shop near Carfax, that I overhead the makings of my next story. I had no need to earn the trust of the rather severe middle-aged gentleman who was sat at a table nearby. He was sat explaining to an equally stuffy looking blonde woman how his latest student (apparently a graduate of somewhere unpalatably red-brick), was responding to his particular brand of adult education. I simply had to listen.

Quickly picking up on the tone of their conversation, I knocked over my drink by “mistake”, apologised to the staff, and moved to a table closer to the conversation. Taking out my notebook, I pretended to be engrossed in what I was writing – which I was. They had no way of knowing I was recording their conversation in short hand. I doubt if they even noticed me at all.

‘Yes, I see that you have. You are well aware that you are not allowed to do that without my express permission.’
‘I’m sorry Sir. I couldn’t help myself.’ Blonde hair peaked out from under the cap. The blue hoodie was rucked up at the waist and a pair of jeans and stark white boxer shorts were positioned around the miscreant’s ankles. ‘I needed to so badly.’
The room was bare except for a small wooden chair and a desk set in its very centre. The floor boards creaked as Sir came towards the figure perched meekly on the edge of the chair. The cane snapped through the silence as it rapped hard against the corners of the desk. The boy jumped, but still didn’t look up.
‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the punishment you’re due.’ The lack of emotion in his voice belied the bulge which had become clearly visible through his trousers.
‘No Sir.’ The bowed head lifted slightly. Deep blue eyes watched the cane as it continually flicked against the side of the desk.
‘You will take up your position.’ Sir swallowed down the desire he felt rising within him at the prospect of punishing his beloved student. His voice remained steady as the young man rose shakily to his feet and turned across the chair, proffering his bare arse.
Sir pushed the hoodie up further, revealing the small of the boys back above the extraordinary pale, but obviously previously whipped buttocks. He traced the exposed crack with the end of his cane, making his target quiver beneath his touch.
The first stroke hit the right cheek, causing his willing victim to yell out in protest, as another harder stroke connected with the other cheek.
‘There is no point in screaming young man. You knew the penalty. Ten strokes on your bare bum.’
Tears shone on the pale face as the eighth lash met its goal. On the ninth stroke his head drooped further over the chair, causing his long blonde hair to cascade out from the fallen baseball cap.
Ten.
Sir stopped and laid his cane down. ‘Stay where you are.’ He quickly divested himself of his trousers and pants and slipped on a condom. He pulled the red bum sharply forwards and impaled himself inside the winking velvet hole, groaning as his pupil simultaneously pushed backwards onto the hard shaft.
Sobbing with pain and lust, the blonde’s tear streaked face bawled out. ‘Fuck me Sir, Fuck me harder!’
‘You are a dirty slut young man!’
‘Yes Sir. I am Sir. Fuck me harder Sir.’’
The master paused. ‘I didn’t hear you say please Bitch.’
‘Please Sir. Please fuck me harder Sir.’
‘You asked for it!’ Sir cried as he scraped the occupied chair against the floor, such was the violence of his thrusts. Sweat prickled across both their backs as Sir pushed himself to the limit before finally shuddering his release into his protégé’s arsehole.
Sir hastily withdrew. ‘You shouldn’t have made me do that you know.’ He wrapped the spent condom into his hanky and threw it into the corner of the room. ‘Let me see if you are obeying my other rules.’
The boy stood up slowly and, steadying himself on the chair, kicked away the clothing from around his ankles. Then he pulled off his hoodie to reveal what was beneath.
‘Good boy.’ The master walked around his pupil admiring the sight before him. The reddened arse; the tight abused anus; the fine slender back and shoulder blades; the stomach without an ounce of excess fat and neatly defined muscles.
The bindings around the pupil’s chest were tightly in place. They had begun to become camouflaged against his flesh now he’d worn them for so long.
The strap-on, again carefully selected to match the pale skin tone, hung, forever erect, just off centre, showing evidence of his weakness in continuing to masturbate as a woman despite his master’s strict orders to the contrary.
That was why the pupil visited this classroom. To learn. To learn how to behave as Sir would wish and, if he was honest, as he truly desired. And he desired it very much indeed.

Now and again it is refreshing to come across a story that has been fuelled by genuine affection, not just lust; although there seems to have been plenty of that too.

The clothes rack, bedecked with empty hangers had apparently always stood in the corner of the studio. It looked out of place amongst the half painted canvases that lined the walls, and had never had any clothes hanging on it to the best of my knowledge. ‘It comes in useful now and again’, he’d said when I asked the reason for its presence. As no more information was forth coming I carried on with my careful dusting of the flower pot covered window sills.

I had been cleaning for Max for almost four months. It wasn’t glamorous employment, but a much needed way to make extra cash whilst working on my degree. My friends had laughed when I took the job, but I didn’t care. It paid better than cleaning offices or working in a fast food shop and, apart from the mind-numbingly dull task of polishing the vast laminate floor every fortnight, it was neither time-consuming nor arduous.

Then of course, there was the scenery. The paintings were, even to my uneducated eye, fantastic. Strong, bold strokes, which seemed to show nothing until you studied them closely. As you stared, the muted hues would run together to make images which somehow always managed to suit my mood. If I’m honest though, even if I had hated every picture I would have stayed. Even if the wages were halved and the work involved sweeping the floor with a toothbrush, I would have stayed. Max’s giant athletic frame was worth watching anytime. Just looking at his calm face, which despite the intensity of some of his work, never seemed to show any flicker of emotion, kept me coming back. I was mesmerised by him, like a rabbit trapped in a car’s headlights.