скачать книгу бесплатно
Will had me by the hips, pushing only the crown of his hard cock into my pussy. He held me there, suspended as I felt eyes on me. Big Tom’s and his.
“How long has he been watching us?” I asked, gasping as he finally thrust.
“For a while now. He’s a big fan of yours, honey.”
I would have laughed, but Will was banging into me now. No gentle, lovely thrusts, but pure power and I thrilled at it. Two sets of eyes on me as I was trapped in the rough-and-tumble grip of my man. “I like fans.”
“I know you do, baby. You’re an attention whore.”
I hung my head as an orgasm sidled closer. Will reached around, thumbing my nipples until I got that tickle in my throat that means I’m done for. Very soon. “I am a whore. For you, for my craft.” This was no secret, really.
The air cracked, and I bit my tongue to muffle my cry. Will was spanking me, large whooping cracks of his palm on my ass. It was a real treat to have a spanking from him, it was something he saved for special occasions. Or if I begged—a lot.
“Now you’re a whore for Big Tom, too. And soon, your very own first actual audience.” He accented the last three words with firm blows. I shuddered under him, eating up the attention and the pain and the sound of flesh striking flesh.
This would certainly help my stage nerves. Every time I felt jittery I would feel the pinch of his fingers, the sting of his palm on my ass, the thought of a man jacking off watching us fuck. “I’m going to come again,” I admitted, hanging my head. My hair brushed the dresser top as I pushed back to take each thrust he gave me.
Another smack, and it came rushing at me. The air was too thin, the room too bright, the world turning too fast, for just an instant. And then it was all lost in that tumble of flickering spasms and pleasure that seemed to reach my toes.
Will banged into me one, two, three more times and then roared his own release. It was probably my imagination but I swore I heard Tom follow suit. Our windows really were very close.
“Now you’ll be fine,” Will said, kissing my shoulder, nibbling my neck.
“How so?”
“We’ll just count that as your dress rehearsal.”
My nerves were banished, my body seemed to hum. I didn’t feel any kind of fear. I sighed “I can do that. But in a few moments, I might need just one more. To make sure I have it right.”
Will chuckled. “Anything for your craft.” And then he kissed me.
Good Cop, Bad Cop (A Story)
By Kristina Lloyd
When Karen failed to get a Barbie doll for her eighth birthday, all the flowers in the family garden died. At the age of fifteen, Andy Edwards dumped her for Marnie Bell and Karen didn’t find out until Gemma Cosgrove passed the message on in double history class. The hummingbirds on the Chinese wallpaper in her parents’ dining room slid to the floor, lifeless.
Nobody put two and two together to make five. Why would they?
Ten years later, exactly 365 days after Karen had split with the man she’d imagined growing old with, she walked into Downtown, the contemporary art gallery where she worked, to discover the color had vanished from all the paintings. The images remained but the canvases were stained with a palette of grays—charcoal, dove, church mouse, pewter—and the blank extremes of soot black and ivory. Karen’s manager, Alicia Dean, was yammering on the phone to the police while their cleaner, a blond, dreadlocked art student called Stuart, picked through the contents of a rubbish sack. In the newly drab gallery, Stuart’s gloved hands were a flutter of garish pink.
“Man, this is well freaky,” he muttered.
Karen agreed, a sense of dread stealing over her.
Alicia snapped her phone shut. “Rozzers are on their way,” she said with plummy-voiced confidence.
A jolt of lechery charged Karen’s insides. Oh, for shame. She’d spent a year without cock, and now even the mention of men in uniform was enough to spark her lust. She was embarrassed but unsurprised. She currently couldn’t get through a single day without wanting to accost eligible young men in the supermarket, on the bus or in the street, and her definition of “eligible” was growing increasingly broad. At night, her dreams were orgiastic romps of flesh, chest hair and muscle, of deep voices, thick fingers, stubbled jaws and hot, salty skin. Oh, and of cock, too. Let’s not forget the cock.
Within a couple of minutes, two bobbies on the beat had arrived, a man and woman in high-visibility jackets, him in a traditional tit-shaped helmet. Five minutes later, a patrol car drew up, blue lights flashing, and two cops sauntered in, reassuringly mean in black combats, boots and bulky protective vests. They wore peaked caps with checkered bands, each with a black baton jutting by his hip. Karen grew moist at the sight of those batons.
The morning got really exciting when forensics came along and the gallery was cordoned off to the public. “Crime scene. Do not enter” read the yellow tape. Stuart left for college and Alicia began to cry. It fell to the female officer to comfort her and get busy with the kettle and the tissues. In the main gallery, crumpled white creatures in head-to-toe plastic swept dust into little pots, swabbed canvases and took measurements, photos and videos. If it hadn’t been for a minor royal due in town that day to open a new conference center, they’d have been ignored. But in a state of heightened security, anything suspicious required prompt investigation. The gallery bleeped and crackled with radio messages, there were mutterings about bioterrorism, and a general air of indecisiveness hung about the place, although the latter wasn’t, in itself, unusual.
Eventually, Karen approached the three male cops who were in the long gallery, clustered around a painting entitled “A Study in Blue.”
“Color’s this one meant to be, then?” asked Bryn, a freckle-faced man with barely visible eyelashes and pale, ginger brows. A copper copper, thought Karen.
Bryn’s colleagues laughed at his feeble joke.
Karen cleared her throat. “You should take me in for questioning. I know something about this.”
The policemen got suddenly serious. The sexiest of the bunch, Sol, a dark-eyed guy with a hard, straight nose, instinctively rested a hand on his baton and glared, his body tensed for action. Karen’s cunt tingled.
“What is it you want to tell us, eh?” asked the third cop, a barrel-chested man who looked ready to burst out of his protective vest. Karen hadn’t caught his first name and knew only that he was Sergeant Carter.
She chewed her lip, thinking, I want to tell you the colors have vanished because I’m desperately lonely and I’m not getting any cock. Instead, she said, “It’s private. If you don’t want to take me to the station, there’s a room in the basement we could use.”
The three men exchanged glances. Karen edged closer. She could practically smell the testosterone. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” she said. “I’m not dangerous.”
Sol narrowed his eyes at her. “Well, that’s lucky,” he said. “Because we are, ‘specially if you don’t cooperate.”
Sergeant Carter smiled. “But let’s start off with a friendly chat, eh?”
Ah, good cop, bad cop, thought Karen, pleased she had the measure of them.
“I’ll wait here,” said Bryn. “Radio if you need me.”
The Cellar Gallery downstairs, a room at the far end of a perfectly smart basement, was a poor exhibition space, prone to damp and rarely used. It housed the gas meters in a cupboard that was difficult to disguise, and its floor was cobbled. The gallery was a former bank built on the site of a workhouse, and rumor had it the cellar’s thick metal door with its small, prison-bar window was a remnant from an age of Victorian cruelty. A patina of verdigris mottled its surface, a sea-green wash in a basement leached of color. Karen pushed the door shut as Sol and Sergeant Carter entered, their boots heavy on the cobbles. Soft circles of halogen overlapped on the white walls, illuminating emptiness and picture hooks. Karen leaned seductively against the door.
The men were unmoved. “What’s this about then?” demanded Sol, his hand still on his baton.
Karen couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone with a fit, handsome stranger, and now she had two of them in uniform, all epaulettes and steely power. Their presence was intoxicating. Karen didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t thought this through. She glanced from Sol to Carter, bad cop, good cop, her heart soaring with so many wants. After a year alone, love, intimacy and warmth ranked high on her list of needs but right now, shut away in a cellar echoing with lost histories, Karen’s most pressing need was for a double dose of dick. She stumbled forward, half mad with hunger.
“It’s my fault,” she said. “The colors. Sometimes I make things happen. Weird things. I can’t help it. It’s because…”
She lunged for Sol’s crotch, fumbling for the bulk behind his flies.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed, then it was all stations go. Sergeant Carter leapt to Sol’s defense, wrestling Karen to the cobbles with a deft tackle. He acted as if she’d assaulted a police officer, which upon reflection, she probably had, and he made no concessions for her being a member of the fairer sex. He was rough, fierce and surprisingly fast for one so burly. Within seconds, Karen was pinned to the ground, Sergeant Carter’s knee wedged between her shoulder blades, the stone cobbles cold on her cheek. Ignoring her cries, Carter twisted Karen’s arms to draw her wrists together and lock them in a pair of rigid cuffs.
“Get up,” he huffed, yanking her into a kneeling position.
Karen gasped for breath, her mussed-up hair strewn across her face. So much for good cop, bad cop, she thought. Outraged, she tossed her head and spat dryly, trying to blow strands of hair from her lips. “I only wanted some cock,” she snarled. “Jeez, talk about police brutality!” She glowered at the two men, her breath fast and shallow. “Well, don’t stop now, will you?”
Sol unzipped with an angry tug. “Hold her,” he barked, shuffling closer.
Carter swept Karen’s hair into a tail, twisting and gripping to make a handle for her head. “Now do as we say,” he warned, giving her head a little shake.
Before her eyes, Sol’s big cock bounced, his swollen end a dark, furious flush. He butted at her lips, and Karen engulfed him in one greedy, sloppy take. Sol groaned, angling himself into her reach while Karen gobbled and slurped. She wanted to open up to him, to feel him driving into the depths of her throat. Again Sol groaned. In the dank basement, his noise, so rich with dirty pleasure, was music to Karen’s ears.
Carter waggled her head then forced her against Sol’s body, her lips wrapped around his root. “Go on, take it,” he jeered.
Karen couldn’t hold Sol for more than a few seconds. She sprang back, gasping for air. Her heart flared at the sight of two cocks in front of her, both eager for attention. Good cock, bad cock, she thought as she bobbed from Carter’s length to Sol’s then back again. But no, it was all bad—bad, nasty and rough—and it was all good, so wonderfully good.
It got better and badder when Sol decided he needed to check if Karen’s cunt was as greedy as her mouth. Sergeant Carter hooked his hands under her armpits, maneuvering Karen so they were both seated on the ground, Carter behind Karen, Karen in the gap of his thighs. Karen kicked and squealed as Sol reached beneath her skirt for her knickers. She squirmed as he tugged them down her legs, all three participants getting off on the fight.
“Tiger, ain’t she?” chuckled Carter. Behind her, Carter’s protective vest was as solid as a superhero’s chest, and his naked cock nosed insistently against her trapped hands. He tucked his ankles under her legs, and with a shift and a twist he spread her wide, her shins trapped under his big, shiny boots. Spots of halogen gleamed in the leather toes, each black boot holding a miniature moonlit night.
Sol withdrew his baton from his holster. “Perfect, Sarge,” he said. His baton was long, black and menacing, a short handle jutted at a right angle to the shaft. Karen’s groin throbbed in anticipation, moisture sliding inside her. Sol crouched between her splayed legs, giving the snout of his baton a spit and cursory rub. He pressed the tip to her folds, wiggled the baton past her lips then slid its hard length inside her. He drove as deep as the handle would allow then left the shaft lodged high. Karen gibbered and wailed as he began levering the baton up and down, rocking it against her G-spot and ensuring her clit got a nice, regular bumping.
“She like that?” asked Carter.
“I’ll say,” said Sol.
Karen was beyond words although she was far from silent. Sol kept pumping the baton, and in no time at all, she was coming in enormous, grateful waves. “More,” she cried. “More. I have a whole year to catch up on.”
Sol and Carter rose to the occasion, and then some. They fucked her in turn before fucking her at either end, and Karen, still in restraints, could do nothing but take it, which was all she wanted anyway.
They were interrupted when the copper copper, Bryn, burst into the room. “The color’s back,” he cried before pulling up short. He gawped at the three figures half-naked on the cobbles. His fluorescent-green jacket lit up the room, his reflector stripes gleaming like pearl.
“Help yourself, there’s plenty,” said Sergeant Carter.
Bryn removed his helmet. “I’m married, guv,” he said. “You mind if I just watch?”
Nobody minded at all, and fifteen minutes later, when the four of them were finished, they dusted themselves down and exchanged thanks. Upstairs, the people from forensics were rustling softly, packing away their gear in bafflement. The gallery was ablaze with all the suns of the world. From picture frames poured the blues and gingers of Persia, Moroccan afternoons in hot pink and cinnamon, Mexican slums in terracotta and turquoise, the warm, earthy golds of African safaris, every fiery spice in every Asian market and every silk and sequin in every Indian sari. And in the darker corners, for those who cared to look, were tones of cobalt, violet, emerald green and crimson, because there’s color in the shadows, too.
Karen went from room to room, swimming through rainbows, her cheeks flushed with the glorious pigments of sexual bliss.
Come at Six
By Portia Da Costa
“I knew it’d be you,” he says, eyeing the evidence.
That bloody magazine. I knew I shouldn’t have taken it when I snuck into his office to borrow his ruler. But I’d never seen one in anyone else’s possession before. I thought I was the only person I knew who got turned on by spanking magazines. But clearly my hot new boss, Nick, reads them, too.
“Mine, I believe?” He slides the incriminating item from my partly open drawer.
I hang my head, hiding my blushing face and my excitement.
I’ve been at Bray Associates for a month. It’s just a basic office job, but I’m glad of it—and even more so when Nick, the owner’s handsome son, is around. I’m just another face in the admin department, but somehow, when he passes by, his wicked sexy smile seems just for me.
Trembling, I watch him flip the pages, his fingers long and sensitive, his gray eyes twinkling in a narrow, unsettling way.
“So, what’re we going to do about this?” His voice is arch and deliciously knowing. “We can’t have people stealing things, can we? That’ll never do.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t help it. It looked, um, interesting.”
“Interesting, eh?” He eyes me up, like a blond angel-devil, all challenging and provocative in his sober business suit. He was on his way out, but I sense that he wishes he weren’t. Checking his watch, he gnaws his plush lower lip,and then slides the magazine into his briefcase. Next he takes out a business card,and scribbles on the back of it.
“This is my address, Emma.” He’s giving me his home address? “Come at six, tomorrow night. And we’ll discuss the repercussions of office theft.”
As he walks away, I could swear that he’s whistling in happy anticipation.
* * *
At six the following evening I’m shaking in my stilettos outside Nick’s front door, more aroused than I’ve ever been in my life. His flat is in a large old house, and when I ring for entry, he buzzes me in. I’m almost dizzy by the time he opens his door.
Oh hell, he looks…edible.
Soft, worn jeans cling to his lean thighs, and a white shirt makes his summer tan gleam. His flaxen hair is shower-wet and slicked back, vaguely severe looking.
Me, I’m dressed in a simple black dress, suggesting penitence, I hope.
Smiling slightly, he escorts me into a cozy, masculine study smelling of lavender polish and leather upholstery. There’s a large wing chair by the fireplace and a cluttered antique desk against the window.
“Please sit down, Emma.” Nick sinks into his imposing, high-backed throne and gestures to a plain wooden chair a little way distant. Linking his fingers in his lap, he observes me as I perch on the hard surface and arrange my knees as gracefully as I can.
“Well, Emma, we’ve got ourselves a situation, haven’t we?”
“You’re going to sack me, aren’t you?”
“No, nothing like that.” His voice is quiet, but his fingers twist a little as if he’s edgy beneath the calm veneer. He reaches for a glass of red wine from the small table beside his chair and takes a measured sip, all the time studying me, his eyes dark and assessing. “You’re an asset to Bray, Emma. We don’t want to lose you.” He set his glass aside, “But on the other hand—” He pauses again, his fingers fisted against his chin in a pensive attitude. “We can’t let this incident go unmarked, can we? You need to understand that you can’t get away with pilfering.”
I suspect this is almost a royal “we” rather than company-speak.
“And h…how can we do that?”
I’ve known since yesterday where this might be going, but it still makes me shake and stammer.
“A misdemeanor deserves discipline, Emma. Don’t you think so?”
“Er…yes.”
“Good, then we understand each other?” His blond eyebrows quirk in amusement, even though his face is otherwise solemn.
I nod. Indeed we do.
“Very well then, Emma, I’d like you to stand up, take off your panties and give them to me.”
My mouth opens but emits no sound. I feel myself blushing again.
“Emma?”
My juddering knees make me awkward and clumsy as I struggle to obey, and somehow my simple white knickers hook themselves around my ankles like a lasso. But just as I stumble, Nick’s there, supporting me, strong hand beneath my elbow. He steadies me and then resumes his position in the wing chair, gesturing with his long fingers for my panties.
My naked bottom trembling beneath my skirt, I watch him peruse my knickers with disturbing intensity. Turning them this way and that, he assesses my response to him from their state. Then, apparently satisfied, he folds them and places them on the smooth leather arm of his chair, an accusing talisman.
Reaching for his glass, he sips again, making me wait. “Now raise your skirt and turn around, very slowly.”
